Worms, jellies, whales, sharks.
Fish that could plan. Alliances. Strategies.
Johanson thought of his flattened house in Trondheim. It was odd, but he didn’t feel too saddened by its loss. His real home was elsewhere, on the edge of a watery mirror that on clear nights contained the universe. He had caught sight of himself there, and created a haven for everything that was beautiful and true. The house was his creation, an embodiment of himself. It was a refuge, in the way that a rented town-house could never be a home.
He hadn’t been there since the weekend with Tina.
Would it have changed too?
The water in the lake was safe, but the thought of it made him uneasy. At the first opportunity he’d drive there and check up on it, no matter how much work the future held in store.
Peak called up another image. The remains of a lobster.
‘Hollywood would call it a messenger of doom or something,’ said Peak, with a wry grin. ‘And, in this case, the hype would be justified. Central Europe has been seized by an epidemic whose pathogens are hidden in creatures like these. Thanks to Dr Roche, we’ve now got the lowdown on the microscopic stowaways. The nearest taxonomical match is Pfiesteria piscicida, a single-cell alga. It’s one of around sixty species of dinoflagellate that are known to be toxic. Of all the killer algae, Pfiesteria is the worst. Some years ago we had a nasty brush with it along the east coast of America, mainly in North Carolina. Pfiesteria was responsible for killing billions of fish. For the local fishermen it was an economic disaster, but it also affected their health. Many developed lesions on their arms and legs, suffered memory loss and eventually had to give up their jobs. Scientists researching Pfiesteria also experienced long-term health problems.’ He paused. ‘In 1990 one of the scientists investigating the algae, Howard Glasgow, was cleaning a glass tank in a specially designed lab at the University of North Carolina, when he noticed something was wrong. His mind was whirring, but his body seemed to move in slow motion. His limbs refused to keep up. Glasgow’s illness was the first sign that the Pfiesteria toxins could get into the air, so the organisms were moved to a more secure facility. Unfortunately the building contractor had messed up, and the air vent pumped the toxins directly into Glasgow’s office. No one noticed the mistake, so for the next six months he breathed toxic air. His headaches got so bad that he could barely work. He lost his balance. His liver and kidneys were poisoned. He’d speak on the phone and five minutes later all memory of the conversation would be gone. He wandered around town and lost his way home. He forgot his phone number and even his name. Most people were convinced that he had a brain tumour or was suffering from Alzheimer’s, but Glasgow wouldn’t listen. In the end he agreed to undergo a series of tests at Duke University, which showed that the problem was of a different nature. Other researchers who had come into contact with Pfiesteria later succumbed to lung infections and chronic bronchitis. And, slowly but surely, they lost their memory to an organism that defies our understanding.’
Peak displayed a series of slides from an electron microscope. They showed different types of microbe. Some looked like star-shaped amoebas, others resembled scaly or bristly spheres, while the rest were hamburger-shaped, with twisted tentacles extending from between the two halves of the bun.
‘These are all pictures of Pfiesteria,’ said Peak. ‘It can change its appearance within minutes, growing to ten times its former size, encasing itself in a cyst or mutating from a harmless single-cell organism to a highly toxic zoospore. There are twenty-four different shapes that Pfiesteria can assume, and with each different shape comes different characteristics. We’ve now succeeded in isolating the toxin it produces, and Dr Roche and his team have been working flat out to pinpoint its chemical structure, but they face even greater difficulties than the scientists in the States. The organism contaminating Central Europe’s water supply isn’t Pfiesteria piscicida, but another, far more toxic strain. Pfiesteria piscicida means “fish-eating Pfiesteria.” Dr Roche has christened the new species Pfiesteria homicida. “Man-eating Pfiesteria”.’
Peak summarised the factors that made tackling the algae so difficult. The new organism seemed programmed to reproduce in cycles of explosive growth. Once it had entered the water supply, it was impossible to get rid of. It seeped into the soil and deposited its toxins, which resisted all efforts to filter them out. And that was the problem. It was bad enough that many of the algae’s victims were literally covered with Pfiesteria cells, which were eating them alive. Angry sores opened on their bodies, becoming infected, gangrenous and refusing to heal. But the poison given off by the algae was even more of a threat. No matter how determinedly the authorities tried to clean water-pipes and tanks, the organisms turned up elsewhere and spread their toxin. They had tried fighting them with heat and acid, clubbing them to death with chemical cudgels, but they had to be careful not to substitute one evil for another.
Pfiesteria homicida seemed unconcerned. Pfiesteria piscicida affected the nervous system, but the new strain attacked it with such aggression that it was paralysed within hours. The victims fell into a coma, then died. Only a few people seemed immune to it. Since Roche had been unable to unravel the structure of the toxin, he was hoping to decode the genetic basis for immunity, but time was running out. The epidemic had spread so fast it seemed impossible to stem.
‘The algae arrived in a Trojan horse,’ said Peak, ‘tucked away in crustaceans. Trojan lobsters, if you like - or, at least, they looked like lobsters. The creatures were clearly alive when they were caught, but their flesh had been replaced with a jelly-like substance, inside which the colonies of Pfiesteria were hiding. The European Union has now outlawed the catching and exporting of lobsters. At present, only France, Spain, Belgium, Holland and Germany have reported instances of sickness and death. The latest available figures listed fourteen thousand fatalities. American lobsters still seem to be the real McCoy, but the authorities are contemplating a ban on the sale of crustaceans.’
‘Dreadful,’ whispered Rubin. ‘Where did the algae come from?’
Roche turned round. ‘We created them,’ he said. ‘Liquefied pig faeces are flushed into the sea by the east coast hog farm industry. Pfiesteria flourishes in fertile waters. The cells feed on phosphates and nitrates from the animal dung that washes off fields and into the rivers. They like industrial outlets too. It’s obvious that they’ll feel perfectly happy in city sewers where there’s plenty of organic matter to go round. We’re responsible for creating the Pfiesteria of this world. We don’t invent them, but we allow them to turn into monsters.’ Roche paused and turned to Peak. ‘Take the Baltic, for example. If things get much worse, the fish will be wiped out, and it’s obvious who’s to blame - the Danish pig-rearing industry. Liquid manure prompts algae to bloom exponentially. The oxygen level of the water is depleted, and fish start to die. But these toxic algae are going to do a damn sight more than kill fish, and nowhere seems safe from them. We’ve got the deadliest strain of all in our midst.’
‘But why didn’t anyone do anything about it before?’ asked Rubin.
‘Before?’ Roche laughed. ‘Oh, they tried, my friend. They tried. Where have you been all this time? No, instead of being encouraged to continue their research, the scientists were laughed at. Their lives were threatened. There was a scandal a few years back when it turned out that the environmental authorities in North Carolina hushed up the cases of Pfiesteria to appease various influential politicians who also happened to be pig farmers. Of course, there’s always the question as to which lunatic is sending us Pfiesteria-contaminated lobsters in the first place, but the fact remains that we helped give birth to this catastrophe. Somewhere along the line, we’re always to blame.’
‘These mussels have all the characteristics of a zebra mussel, but they can do something that ordinary zebra mussels can’t. They navigate.’
Peak had progressed to shipping accidents. The delegates had only just ploughed their way through Pfiesteria gro
wth curves, and now they were being presented with another set of devastating statistics. Coloured lines criss-crossed the world.
‘Shipping routes for merchant vessels,’ Peak explained. ‘The key to the whole thing is the redistribution of transportable goods. As a rule, raw materials are shipped in a northerly direction. Bauxite is exported from Australia, oil from Kuwait, and iron ore from South America, travelling distances of up to eleven thousand nautical miles to either Europe, North America or Japan, where the raw material is taken inland to cities like Stuttgart, Detroit, Paris and Tokyo, and turned into cars, electrical equipment and machines. The commodities are then loaded into containers and shipped back to Australia, Kuwait and South America. Nearly a quarter of world trade passes through the Asian Pacific. That’s a total value of five hundred billion. US dollars. A similar amount is shipped through the Atlantic. The busiest routes are marked here in bold: the east coast of America, including, most importantly, New York, then northern Europe - the English Channel, the North Sea, the Baltic Sea and the Baltic states - and finally the Mediterranean, in particular the Riviera. European waters play a pivotal role in world trade. Besides, the Med provides the passage from the east coast of North America through the Suez Canal to South Asia. Then there’s Japan and the Persian Gulf, not to mention the China Seas, which rank just behind the North Sea as the busiest waters in the world. To get to grips with international seaborne trade, you have to understand the networks. You have to know what it’ll mean for one side of the world if a container ship sinks on the other - which production chains will be disrupted, whose jobs are at risk, whose livelihood, or maybe life, is endangered, and who, if anyone, might profit from the mess. Air travel brought an end to the age of passenger shipping, but world trade still relies on the seas. Our maritime routes are essential.’
Peak paused.
‘A few figures for you. Every day two thousand vessels pass through the Strait of Malacca and other nearby waters. Nearly twenty thousand ships of all shapes and sizes cross the Suez Canal every year. Each of those regions carries fifteen per cent of world trade. Three hundred ships a day make their way along the English Channel en route to the North Sea, the most congested sea in the world. Roughly forty-four thousand ships every year connect Hong Kong to the rest of the planet. Countless freighters, tankers and ferries circumnavigate the globe, to say nothing of the fishing flotillas, cutters, sailing-boats and sports boats. Millions of journeys are made through the oceans, marginal seas, channels and straits. Given all that, it probably seems unreasonable to suggest that an occasional supertanker accident could seriously threaten world trade. Surely a little thing like that wouldn’t stop anyone filling their ramshackle tankers with oil? You see, most of the seven thousand oil tankers in the world are in a god-awful state. More than half have been in service for over twenty years, and most aren’t worth the metal they’re made of. People in this business aren’t afraid to take risks. There’s always a chance that disaster could strike, but they’re used to that. So they do their sums and ask themselves, What if it all goes right? They calculate the odds, and the rest is a gamble. If a three-hundred-metre-long tanker sinks into the trough of a wave, its hull can be warped by up to a metre. That’s an enormous strain for any structure. But the tanker sets sail because, according to their calculations, things will be OK.’ Peak gave a thin smile. ‘But those calculations mean nothing when accidents start happening that can’t be explained. They can’t assess the risk. A different kind of mindset comes to the fore. We call it the shark-attack syndrome. No one knows where the predator’s lurking or who it might eat next, so a single shark is enough to stop thousands of tourists swimming in the sea. Theoretically, it’s impossible for one man-eating shark to have any real impact on tourism, but in practice the effect can be ruinous. So, imagine a shipping lane that’s seen four times as many accidents in the space of a few weeks than ever before, and with no discernible cause. Ships are being sunk by alarming phenomena for which there’s no explanation, and even those in tip-top condition aren’t safe. No one knows which might be next and what measures they could take to safeguard it. There’s no more talk of corrosion, storm damage or navigational errors. The word on the street is: don’t set sail.’
Now Peak showed them the mussels. He pointed to the tufts poking out from between the striped shells.
‘This is the byssus, a kind of foot. Zebra mussels use it to latch on to surfaces while they’re drifting on the current. Technically, it consists of adhesive proteinaceous threads. On this latest breed of mussel, the byssus has been turned into a propeller. It’s a swimming technique that’s not so very different from the forward propulsion of Pfiesteria piscicida. Of course, adaptations are known to occur through convergent evolution, but that takes thousands and millions of years. So either the new mussels have kept themselves well hidden; or they’ve acquired some startling new abilities overnight. If that’s the case, we’re dealing with a speedy mutation, since in many ways they’re still zebra mussels, only now they seem to know exactly where they’re going. For example, the sea-chests of the Barrier Queen were clear of mussels, but the rudder was covered with them.’
Peak described the circumstances of the accident and the attack of the whales on the tug. Although the Barrier Queen eventually pulled through, the strategy of co-operation between mussels and whales had proved as effective as the alliance between humpbacks and orcas.
‘That’s insane,’ said a German colonel.
‘Oh, no, it isn’t.’ Anawak turned to him. ‘There’s method behind it.’
‘What rubbish. Don’t tell me that whales made a pact with some molluscs!’
‘No, but they definitely joined forces. You’d be in no doubt about it if you saw it for yourself. In our opinion, the attack on the Barrier Queen was probably just a test.’
Peak activated the remote, and the screen showed a picture of an enormous vessel lying on her side. High seas pushed waves the size of houses over the hull. Driving rain made it hard to see the detail.
‘The Sansuo, one of Japan’s biggest car freighters,’ Peak explained. ‘On its final voyage it was carrying a consignment of trucks. The vessel hit a swarm of mussels off the coast of LA. In a replay of the Barrier Queen incident, the mussels clogged the rudder, only this time conditions were rough. An enormous wave hit the vessel portside, filling it with water. We can only guess what happened next. The force of the breaker must have shunted some of the trucks, which crashed through the ballast tanks and ruptured the side. This picture was taken less than fifteen minutes after the rudder had jammed. After another fifteen minutes, the Sansuo split open and sank.’ He paused. ‘Since then the list of similar incidents has been growing by the day. Tugs sent to help the vessels are coming under attack, and most rescue missions have to be aborted. The amount of damage caused in each incident is rising all the time. Dr Anawak’s right in saying that there’s method to this madness. And, recently, we’ve discovered that it comes in different forms.’
Peak showed a satellite image of a kilometre-long dark black cloud. It was drifting towards the shore from a point some distance out to sea, where it thickened in a grubby red plume. It looked as though a volcano had just erupted in the water.
‘Beneath that cloud are the remains of the Phoebos Apollon, a tanker carrying liquefied natural gas. She’s a Post-Panamax vessel - the biggest of her kind. But on the eleventh of April, fifty nautical miles off the coast of Tokyo, a fire broke out in her engine rooms, causing a series of explosions to rip through her four tanks. The Phoebos Apollon was a top-notch vessel, in perfect condition, and regularly serviced. The shipping line in Greece was determined to investigate, so a robot was sent down to check.’
Flashes of light flickered over the screen. Digits started ticking over, then a snowstorm filled the murky picture.
‘An exploding gas tanker isn’t likely to leave much intact. The Phoebos Apollon was torn into four separate pieces. The seabed near Honshu drops off to a depth of nine thousand met
res, and the debris lay scattered over several square kilometres. But in the end the robot found the aft-end of the boat.’
Through the snowstorm they could see some faint outlines - a rudder plate, then the twisted remains of the stern and sections of the superstructure. The robot swung past and dived down, following the line of the hull. A lonely fish appeared on the screen.
‘The bottom current carries all kinds of organic material - plankton, detritus, you name it, it’s there. It’s not easy to manoeuvre at that depth. I won’t make you watch the whole film, but this next bit’s intriguing.’
The camera was much closer to the hull now. A layer of something coated the metal, stacked in thick clumps. It shimmered in the beam of the floodlights, glowing like molten wax.
Rubin leaned forward in agitation. ‘What the hell are they doing there?’ he said.
‘What would you say they are?’ asked Peak.
‘Jellyfish.’ Rubin squinted at the screen. ‘Tiny jellyfish. There must be tonnes of them. But why are they sticking to the hull?’
‘When did zebra mussels learn to steer? Anyway,’ Peak continued, ‘somewhere beneath all that slime are the sea-chests. No prizes for guessing that they’re clogged.’
One of the diplomats raised a hand hesitantly. ‘Er…What exactly are the, er…’
‘Sea-chests?’ He had to explain every darned thing. ‘Rectangular recesses that draw in the water for the intake system. They’re protected by metal grating to keep out flora and ice. Inside the ship, the pipes branch off and take the seawater to where it’s needed - to be distilled, for use in case of fire or, most importantly, for cooling the engines. It’s hard to say when the jellyfish settled on the hull. Maybe not until the boat had sunk. On the other hand…Well, imagine the following scenario. The shoal of jellies drifts towards the tanker. They hit the hull in a mass of bodies and, within seconds, the sea-chests are blocked. Water can’t get in. More and more jellies pile on top of each other, causing organic mush to squeeze through the grating. Meanwhile, the engine drains the last drops of water, and the pipes run dry. The next thing you know, the cooling system’s broken. The engine overheats, lube oil bubbles over, the cylinder heads glow red, and one of the valves bursts open. Red-hot fuel shoots out and triggers a chain reaction - and there’s no way of extinguishing it because the system can’t draw water.’
The Swarm: A Novel Page 47