A diagram showed a section of the Earth’s surface. A collection of satellites of varying sizes hovered above it, like oversized flies.
‘I recommend you don’t even try to get to grips with all the artificial stars up there,’ said Peak. ‘There are three and a half thousand, not counting space probes like Magellan or Hubble. Most of the stuff up there is junk. Only about six hundred satellites are fully functional, and you’ll have access to several of them. Military satellites included.’
Peak uttered that last sentence with regret. He shifted the laser pointer to a barrel-shaped object with solar sails. ‘An American KH-12 keyhole satellite, an optical satellite. In daylight the resolution is as good as five centimetres. That’s almost enough to identify individual faces. It also uses infrared and multispectral imaging to generate night-time data. Unfortunately it’s useless in cloud.’
He pointed to another satellite. ‘That’s why lots of recon satellites use radar instead - microwave radiation, to be precise. Clouds don’t get in the way of radar. These satellites don’t take pictures, they map the world by scanning the surface of the planet centimetre by centimetre and creating a 3-D model. But there’s an Achilles’ heel here too. Radar images need to be interpreted. Radar can’t see colour or look through glass. The world of radar consists solely of shapes.’
‘Can’t you combine the two technologies?’ asked Bohrmann.
‘You can, but it’s expensive, and no one bothers. And that ties right in with the central problem of satellite surveillance. To survey an entire country or a stretch of water, you need a number of systems working together, each capable of scanning a very large area. Anyone interested in obtaining detailed images of a defined area has to put up with snapshots in time. Satellites are in orbit, and in most cases it takes them ninety minutes to return to their original location.’
‘What about satellites that maintain their position in relation to the Earth?’ a Finnish diplomat demanded. ‘Can’t we post a few of those above the regions in question?’
‘They’re too high up. Geostationary satellites are only stable at an altitude of exactly 35, 888 kilometres. The smallest recognisable detail from that height is eight kilometres long. That means Heligoland could sink without you realising.’ Peak paused, then continued: ‘But once it dawned on us what we were looking for, we changed our systems accordingly.’
Next up was a picture of the water’s surface, taken from a moderate height. Rays of sunshine slanted across it, giving the sea the appearance of fluted glass. Dotted over it were small boats and tiny oblong shapes, which on closer inspection turned out to be reed craft, each with a single figure crouching on top.
‘A close-up from KH-12,’ said Peak. ‘The shelf region near Huanchaco. A bunch of fishermen disappeared from there that day. The footage was taken early in the morning so the glare isn’t too bad, which is fortunate, since it allows us to see this.’
The next picture showed a silvery patch spread over a considerable area. Two forlorn little reed boats sailed over it.
‘Fish. An enormous shoal. They’re swarming about three metres below the surface, which is why we can see them. The problem with the ocean is that it’s a very poor conductor of electromagnetic waves. Fortunately our optical systems can see a little way under, if the water’s sufficiently clear. Of course, using thermal imaging we can detect a whale at a depth of thirty metres. That’s why the military’s so fond of infrared, because it shows up the subs.’
‘What kind of fish are they?’ The question came from a dark-haired young woman. According to her name badge, she was an ecology expert from the Ministry for the Environment in Reykjavik. ‘Dorado?’
‘Maybe. Or they could be South American sardines.’
‘There must be millions. Incredible. I was under the impression that the South American waters had been seriously overfished.’
‘And so they have,’ said Peak, ‘which got us thinking. That, and the fact that the fish turn up wherever swimmers, divers and small boats have been reported missing. There’ve been a string of shoaling anomalies. Approximately three months ago a shoal of herring sank a nineteen-metre trawler off the coast of Norway.’
‘I heard about that,’ said the ecologist. ‘The Steinholm, right?’
Peak nodded. ‘The fish were caught in the net, but just as the crew were about to haul them on board, they turned and swam to the bottom. The boat capsized. The crew tried to cut the net loose, but it was too late. They had to abandon ship. It sank in ten minutes flat.’
‘Not long afterwards we had a similar incident off the coast of Iceland,’ the ecologist said thoughtfully. ‘Two sailors drowned.’
‘I know. Bizarre, and yet a freak occurrence - or so you might think. But if you add up all the freak occurrences on a global scale, it’s clear that shoals of fish have sunk more boats in the past few months than ever before. Some say it’s coincidence, that the fish were swimming for their lives. Others look at the same pattern of events and start to see a strategy. We can’t exclude the possibility that the fish are allowing themselves to be caught in order to capsize the vessels.’
‘That’s nonsense!’ The Russian diplomat was incredulous. ‘Since when have fish been able to plan?’
‘Since they started sinking boats,’ Peak said curtly. ‘They’re doing it in the Atlantic right now. In the Pacific, though, they seem to have learned how to dodge nets. We don’t have the slightest idea how, but we can only assume that they have made a cognitive leap and suddenly know about drag and seine nets, that they’ve figured out what nets do. But even supposing something has prompted their mental capacity to develop so quickly, their ability to gauge distance must have improved dramatically too.’
‘A net like that measures a hundred and ten by a hundred and forty metres at its mouth. There’s no way that a fish, or even a shoal, could detect it.’
‘Yet that’s precisely what seems to be happening. The fishing flotillas are complaining of drastically reduced catches. The whole food industry is suffering.’ Peak cleared his throat. ‘I’m sure you’ve all heard about the second factor in the disappearance of boats and people. It took a while, though, for KH-12 to document an incident.’
Anawak stared at the screen. He knew what was coming. He’d seen the images before - he’d even helped with the data - but his throat constricted every time.
He thought of Susan Stringer.
The pictures had been taken in such quick succession that the sequence unfolded like a film. A sailing yacht of about twelve metres in length was floating on the open water. The wind had dropped, the sea was perfectly smooth, and the sails had been lowered. Two men were sitting aft, while the women lay sunning themselves on the foredeck.
An enormous dark shape passed close to the boat, every detail on the colossal body clearly identifiable. It was an adult humpback. Two more whales followed. Their backs broke the surface of the water, and a man stood up and pointed. The women raised their heads.
‘Now,’ said Peak.
The whales made another pass, then something appeared in the deep blue water on the portside, rising swiftly to the surface. Another whale. It broke water vertically, shooting upwards, flippers splayed. The people on board turned their heads, transfixed.
The body tilted, then smashed diagonally on to the boat, splitting it in two. Debris whirled through the air and the people shot up like dolls. Anawak saw the mast break. A second whale hurled itself on to the wreck, and pieces of hull floated forlornly in an expanding ring of foaming wash. There was no sign of the people.
‘Only a handful of you will have witnessed an attack like this at first hand,’ said Peak, ‘which is why it was important for the rest to see it now. The danger zone is no longer confined to the American and Canadian coastlines. All but the largest ships have been banished from the waters worldwide.’
Anawak closed his eyes. How would it have looked from space when the DHC-2 collided with the whale? Was there a record of that too? He hadn’t dared
ask. The idea of a glass eye watching the scene impassively was too awful.
As though he’d heard his thoughts, Peak said, ‘This type of documentation may strike you as heartless, ladies and gentleman, but we’re not voyeurs. Whenever possible, we tried to help.’ He looked up from the screen of his laptop, his eyes expressionless. ‘Unfortunately, in cases like these, it’s always too late.’
Peak was aware that he was skating on thin ice. He’d hinted that they were on the lookout for accidents, which invited the question as to why they hadn’t done more to prevent them.
‘Suppose we think of the spread of the attacks as a kind of epidemic,’ he said, ‘then the epidemic must have started in the waters off Vancouver Island. The first reported incidents took place near Tofino. It sounds incredible, I know, but in many cases, strategic alliances were obviously at work. Grey whales, humpbacks and, in some instances, fin, sperm and other large whales attacked the boats, then smaller, faster whales - orcas - took care of the survivors.’
The Norwegian biologist raised his hand. ‘What reason do you have to assume that it’s an epidemic?’
‘I’m not saying it is an epidemic, Dr Johanson,’ said Peak. ‘I’m saying that it seemed to spread like one. First Tofino, then a few hours later the Baja California, then Alaska in the north.’
‘I’m not so sure it spread at all.’
‘Well, evidently, yes.’
Johanson shook his head. ‘Evidently. What I’m getting at is that appearances might lead us to draw the wrong conclusions.’
‘Dr Johanson,’ Peak said patiently, ‘if you could just give me a little more time to—’
‘Isn’t it conceivable,’ Johanson continued, undeterred, ‘that we’re dealing with a simultaneous outbreak that was imperfectly co-ordinated?’
Peak looked at him. ‘Yes,’ he said reluctantly.
She knew it. Johanson was advancing a theory of his own - much to the chagrin of Peak, who didn’t approve of civilians interrupting an officer in uniform.
She watched with amusement.
Crossing her legs, she settled back in her chair and noticed Vanderbilt looking at her questioningly. He obviously assumed that she’d spoken to Johanson in advance. She returned the glance and shook her head, then turned back to Peak.
‘We’ve already established,’ Peak was saying, ‘that the aggressors are all nonresidents. Resident whales are basically part of the scenery. Transients, on the other hand, either embark on extensive migrations - like the transient humpbacks or greys - or cruise around in the open water, like offshore orcas, for instance. On the basis of all this, we’re assuming - tentatively, of course - that the cause for the change in behaviour must lie further away, that is, far out to sea.’
A map of the world appeared, showing places where attacks had been reported. The red shading stretched from Alaska down to Cape Horn, the east and west coasts of Africa and the coastline of Australia. The screen cleared and a new map appeared. Once again, there was coloured hatching around the coastlines.
‘The number of sea-dwelling species actively attacking humans has risen across the board. Shark attacks have soared in Australia and South Africa. No one goes swimming or fishing any more. Shark nets usually suffice to keep the creatures out, but now they’re in tatters, and there’s no dependable evidence as to who or what’s to blame. Our electro-optical surveillance systems haven’t succeeded in solving the mystery, and we don’t have sufficient numbers of dive robots in the third world to be of much use.’
‘So you don’t think it’s just a cluster of coincidences?’ asked a German diplomat.
Peak shook his head. ‘One of the first things you learn in the navy, sir, is how to assess the danger posed by sharks. They’re dangerous, you see, but not always aggressive. And they don’t like our flavour. In most cases they’ll spit out an arm or a leg.’
‘That’s all right, then,’ muttered Johanson.
‘But various shark species have developed a sudden craving for human flesh. In the space of a few weeks, there’s been a tenfold rise in attacks. Thousands of blue sharks - an open-water species - have migrated to the shelf. Packs of mako sharks, great whites and hammerheads are hunting together like wolves, descending on coastal areas and inflicting serious damage.’
‘Damage?’ asked a diplomat, in a thick French accent. ‘I’m not sure I follow. Were people killed?’
Of course they were darned well killed, Peak seemed to be thinking.
‘Yes, people are being killed,’ he said. ‘The sharks are also attacking boats.’
‘Mon Dieu! What can a shark do to a boat?’
‘Don’t let them fool you.’ Peak gave a thin smile. ‘A fully grown great white is easily capable of sinking a boat by ramming it or tearing chunks out of it. Sharks are known to have attacked rafts carrying castaways. If several attack at once, there’s little chance of pulling through.’
He called up a picture of an octopus, whose skin was covered with iridescent blue rings.
‘Next up, Hapalochlaena maculosa, the blue-ringed octopus. Twenty centimetres in length, found in Australia, New Guinea and the Solomon Islands. One of the most poisonous animals in the world. Injects toxic enzymes with its bite. Its victims barely feel a thing, but in less than two hours they’re stone dead.’ Some of the organisms in the pictures were bizarre. ‘Stone fish, weever fish, scorpion fish, bearded fireworms, cone snails - the seas are full of poisonous creatures like these. Usually the toxins are used for defence, but the number of incidents involving poisoning has increased significantly. In the case of some animals the statistics have shot through the roof, and there’s a simple explanation: species that normally camouflage themselves and hide from humans have started to attack.’
Roche leaned towards Johanson. ‘The question is, could something that triggers a change in a shark trigger a change in a crustacean?’ Li heard him whisper. ‘Is that possible?’
‘I’d say it’s deadly certain,’ Johanson replied.
Peak had moved on to the jellyfish invasion of coastal areas, which was reaching crisis proportions in South America, Australia and Indonesia. Johanson listened, with half-closed eyes. Portuguese men-of-war had started to release a toxin that could kill within seconds.
‘For the sake of clarity we’ve split the phenomena into three different categories,’ Peak said. ‘Behavioural changes, mutations and environmental disasters. They’re all interlinked, of course. So far we’ve looked at abnormal behaviour, but in the case of the jellies, we’re dealing mainly with mutations. Box jellyfish have always been capable of navigation, but now they’re real experts. You get the sense that they’re patrolling. It’s as though they’re trying to clear the area of any human presence, even though we could never really harm them. The diving industry is on its last legs, but the fishermen are the real victims.’
The screen filled with a picture of factory trawler, a colossal vessel with an on-board facility that processed the catch.
‘This is the Anthanea. A fortnight ago its crew caught a load of Chironex fleckeri. Box jellies, in other words. Or at least we think they’re Chironex or something very similar. In any case, the fishermen made the mistake of not throwing them straight back into the water. Instead they opened the nets, and several tonnes of poison landed on the deck. Some fishermen were killed outright, others died later when the metre-long, practically invisible tentacles were scattered around the ship. It rained that day. The whole boat was awash with jellyfish remnants. No one knows how the toxin entered the drinking water, but the Anthanea became a ghost ship. Now people are warier, and the trawlers carry protective clothing, but the essential problem remains. Throughout much of the world, the fishing flotillas are catching poison, not fish.’
They’re not catching fish because there aren’t any left, thought Johanson. Come on, Peak, a detail like that deserves to be mentioned, even if it’s not the real cause.
Or was it?
Of course it was. It was one of countless causes.
All those mutant organisms that suddenly seemed to know what they were doing. Didn’t anyone see what was happening? They were experiencing the symptoms of a disease whose pathogens were everywhere, but always in hiding. It was an amazing piece of camouflage. Man had emptied the seas of fish, and now the few remaining shoals had learned to avoid the death traps, while armies of poison-toting soldiers took their place in the nets, holding the ailing fishing industry in a toxic embrace.
The sea was killing mankind.
And you killed Tina Lund, Johanson thought sombrely. You encouraged her not to give up on Kare Sverdrup. She listened to you, or she would never have driven to Sveggesundet.
Was it his fault?
How could he have known what would happen? Lund would probably have died in Stavanger too. What if he had told her to take the next plane to Hawaii or Florence? Would he be congratulating himself on having saved her?
They all had their personal demons to fight. Bohrmann was tormented by the notion that he should have warned the world earlier. Well, of course he should. But what would he have said? That he thought a catastrophe might happen? That one day, some time, disaster might strike? They’d pulled out all the stops to find a definitive answer. In the end they hadn’t been fast enough, but at least they’d tried. Was Bohrmann at fault?
And what about Statoil? Finn Skaugen was dead. He’d been called to Stavanger docks just before the wave rolled in. Johanson was starting to see the oil boss in a different light. Skaugen had been a manipulator. All that guff about being the good conscience of an evil industry, but what had he done? Clifford Stone had also died in the catastrophe. Maybe he hadn’t been the calculating monster that Skaugen had made him out to be.
The Swarm: A Novel Page 46