‘I read about that,’ said van Maarten. ‘The Canary Islands authorities say the theory is dubious.’
‘Dubious?’ Frost thundered, like the trumpets of Jericho. ‘If anything’s dubious, it’s their failure to address the problem in any of their statements. All they care about is not worrying the tourists. But this problem isn’t going to go away. The world’s already experienced similar disasters, albeit on a smaller scale. In 1741 Oshima-Oshima erupted in Japan, triggering thirty-metre-high waves. More waves were generated by the collapse of Ritter Island in 1888 in New Guinea, but the amount of falling rock was barely one per cent of the landslide that could take place here. A GPS network has been continuously monitoring Kilauea volcano in Hawaii, looking for any sign of movement, and it sure as hell is moving. The south-eastern flank is slipping seaward at an annual rate of ten centimetres, and God help us if it starts to gain momentum. The consequences are too dire to imagine. Volcanic islands have a tendency to get steeper with age. Eventually a section breaks off. The authorities on La Palma don’t want to face the truth. It’s not a question of if it will happen, it’s a question of when. In a hundred years? A thousand? The only thing we can’t be sure of is the timing. The volcanoes here don’t give much warning.’
‘So what would happen if half of the island fell into the sea?’ asked the executive.
‘The mass of rock would displace vast quantities of water,’ said Bohrmann. ‘A dome would form on the surface of the ocean. According to our estimates, we’d be looking at a speed of impact of three hundred and fifty kilometres per hour. The fallen debris would extend sixty kilometres over the seabed, stopping water flowing back over the landslide, and creating an air cavity that would displace far more water than the volume of the rock. There’s some debate about what happens next, but none of the scenarios are especially comforting. The landslide would create a mega-wave off the coast of La Palma, with a probable height of six to nine hundred metres. The wave would set off across the Atlantic at a thousand kilometres per hour. Unlike earthquakes, landslides and slope failures are point events, which means the wave’s energy dissipates as it radiates across the ocean. The further it travels from its source, the flatter it becomes.’
‘At least that’s something,’ said the technology specialist.
‘Not really. The Canary Islands would be wiped out in a flash, then an hour later, a hundred-metre-high tsunami would wash over the northwest African coast. Think of it this way: the European tsunami reached a height of forty metres in the fjords, and we all know what happened there. Six to eight hours after the eruption, a fifty-metre wave would sweep over the Caribbean, laying waste to the Antilles and flooding the east coast of America from New York to Miami. Soon afterwards the wave would hit Brazil with similar force. Smaller waves would travel as far as Spain, Portugal and the British Isles. The consequences would be devastating, even in central Europe. The European economy would collapse.’
The representatives from De Beers paled. Frost grinned at them. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen Deep Impact?’
‘You mean the movie? That wave was a lot higher,’ said the executive. ‘It measured hundreds of metres.’
‘Fifty would be enough to flatten New York. The impact of the wave would release more energy than the United States uses in a year. It doesn’t matter how tall a building is - it’s the base that takes the force of the tsunami. The rest of the building collapses, regardless of how many storeys there are. And we won’t have Bruce Willis to save us.’ He gestured towards the edge of the ridge. ‘There are two ways of destabilising the western flank of the island: either Cumbre Vieja erupts, or there’s an underwater avalanche. The worms are working on a landslide - a kind of miniature version of what they did in Europe, although the force will be enough to detach a segment of volcano. The rock will sink into the depths, and that in turn will prompt a minor earthquake and destabilise the Cumbre ridge. The earthquake might even trigger an eruption, but in any event the western flank will detach. It’s going to happen either way - and we’ll have a disaster on our hands. The worms off the coast of Norway took a few weeks to finish the job. Things could move even faster here.’
‘How long have we got?’
‘It’s almost too late already. Those worms are pretty cunning, and they’ve gone to work in spots that are hard for us to reach. The whole scheme depends on the power of mega-waves to propagate on open water. They’ve already scored one hit in the North Sea, but that was relatively minor by comparison. If this harmless-looking little island collapses into the ocean, human civilisation is going to see just how tough things can get.’
Van Maarten rubbed his chin. ‘We’ve already produced a prototype for the suction pipe. It’s operational at depths of up to three hundred metres. We haven’t tried it any deeper yet, but…’
‘We could extend the pipe,’ suggested the executive.
‘We’d have to figure something out pretty quick, but if we stopped work on everything else…What worries me is the support vessel.’
‘A vessel won’t be large enough,’ said Bohrmann. ‘A colony of a billion or so worms - that’s a huge biomass. You’d have to find somewhere to pump it.’
‘That’s not the real problem - we can always set up some kind of relay. No, I was thinking about a command ship with the control desk for the pipe. If we extend the length to four or five hundred metres, we’ll need a vessel big enough to transport it. That’s half a kilometre of pipe! It’ll weigh God knows how much, and it’s a damn sight thicker than deep-sea cable. We won’t be able to coil it up and stick it in the hold. Besides, we need the boat to stay stable while we’re steering the pipe. I don’t think we need to worry about an attack, but the hydrostatics are going to be tricky. A pipe of that length can’t be left dangling from the side of the vessel without affecting its balance in the water.’
‘How about a dredge?’
‘Wouldn’t be big enough.’ The man thought for a moment. ‘A drillship, maybe. No…We’d be better off with a floating platform. We’re familiar with those already. We need a kind of pontoon system, ideally a semi-submersible construction like the type they use in the offshore industry - except we wouldn’t want to anchor it in position. We’ll have it travelling across the water like a normal boat. It has to be manoeuvrable.’ He moved away from the others, muttering something about resonant frequencies and swell variations. Then he rejoined them. ‘A semi-submersible should do the trick. It’s stable, mobile, and provides an ideal base for the boom, which, let’s not forget, will have to take a lot of weight. There’s a semi-submersible in Namibia that would adapt quite easily. It’s got two propellers, each with a six-thousand-horse-power engine. We can get it fitted up with some additional thrusters, if we think we might need them.’
‘The Heerema?’ asked the executive.
‘Right.’
‘I thought we wanted to get rid of her.’
‘She’s not ready for the scrapyard yet. She has two main rudders, and the deck’s supported by six huge columns - it’s just what we need. OK, it was built in 1978, but it’ll do the job. It’s the simplest solution. We won’t need a derrick, we’ll have two cranes instead. We can use one to lower the pipe. Pumping up the worms won’t be a problem. And we’ll be able to moor the vessels before we fill them with worms.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Frost. ‘When will she be ready?’
‘Under normal circumstances it would take six months.’
‘And in these circumstances?’
‘I can’t promise anything. Six to eight weeks, if we start right away.’ The man looked at him. ‘We’ll do everything in our power to have it ready as soon as we can. We’re pretty good at that kind of thing. But if we get it done in time, you should see it as a miracle.’
Frost nodded. He looked out over the Atlantic. The blue surface shimmered beneath them. He tried to imagine the water rising up in a six-hundred-metre dome.
‘No problem,’ he said. ‘We could do with one.’
/> PART THREE
INDEPENDENCE
Just as there are fundamental principles underlying mathematics, I am convinced that a code of universal rights and values, most notably the right to life itself, exists independently of human ethics. The dilemma is where to find it. Who could establish it, if not humanity? Even if we accept that rights and values exist beyond the limits of our perception, we ourselves are limited to what we can perceive. It is as futile as asking a cat to decide whether the consumption of mice can be ethically justified.
Leon Anawak, ‘Self-Knowledge and Consciousness’
12 August
Independence, Greenland Sea
Samantha Crowe put down her notes and stared out of the window. The CH-53 Super Stallion was descending rapidly. A strong gust pummelled the heavy-lift helicopter. The thirty-metre craft seemed to be plummeting towards the light-grey surface stationed in the sea. Crowe was astonished that a vessel of such colossal proportions was capable of staying afloat, but at the same time she couldn’t help wondering if it was big enough to land on.
Nine hundred and fifty kilometres to the north-east of Iceland, the USS Independence LHD-8 was sailing over the deep-sea basin of the Arctic Ocean, a floating city in the Greenland Sea. Like the spaceship in Alien, its presence seemed dark and foreboding. Two hectares of freedom and 97,000 tonnes of diplomacy - as the US Navy liked to say. The amphibious-assault helicopter-carrier, the largest of its kind in the world, would be her home for the next few weeks. Samantha Crowe, c/o USS Independence LHD-8, latitude 75 degrees north, 3500 metres above the ocean floor.
Her mission: to conduct a conversation.
The helicopter banked. The Super Stallion rushed towards the landing point and touched down with a bounce. Through the side-window she saw a man in a yellow shirt directing the helicopter into its bay. One of the crew reached over and unfastened her seat-belt, then helped her out of her lifejacket, goggles, safety helmet and ear-protectors. The flight had been turbulent, and Crowe felt unsteady on her legs. She teetered down the ramp at the rear of the helicopter, crossed beneath the tail of the Super Stallion and looked around.
Only a few helicopters were visible on the flight deck. Her eyes roved over the endless expanse of asphalt, 257.25 metres long, 32.6 metres across, and dotted with bollards. Crowe knew the exact dimensions. She was a mathematician who loved precision, and she’d found out as much as she could about the Independence before she’d set out. At present,, the statistics were dwarfed by reality: the Independence was much greater than its technical specifications, schematics and plans. The air smelt strongly of kerosene and oil, mixed with a hint of salt and overheated rubber. A fierce wind swept the combination of odours over the flight deck and tugged at her overalls.
Not the kind of place you’d choose to visit.
Men in brightly coloured shirts and protective headphones ran back and forth. A white shirt headed towards her. Crowe racked her brains. White was the colour for safety personnel. The men in yellow directed the helicopters in to land, and the red shirts were responsible for fuel and ammunition. Weren’t there brown shirts too? And maybe purple. What were the brown shirts for?
‘Follow me,’ the man bellowed over the noise of the slowing rotor. He gestured towards the superstructure. It rose up on the starboard side of the deck like a high-rise apartment block, crowned with oversized antennae and sensors. Crowe’s right hand reached down automatically to her pocket. Then she remembered that her cigarettes were stashed beneath her overalls. She hadn’t been able to smoke in the helicopter either. Flying to the Arctic in high winds hadn’t bothered her, but holding out without nicotine for hours on end was no laughing matter.
The man opened a hatch and Crowe stepped into the superstructure, or the island, as the sailors called it. Once they’d passed through another door into the interior, they were greeted by a wave of clean air. In Crowe’s view, the island looked more like a cave. It was incredibly cramped inside. The white shirt delivered her into the care of a tall black man in uniform, who introduced himself as Major Salomon Peak. As they shook hands, Peak seemed rather formal, as though he had little experience of dealing with civilians. Crowe had spoken to him several times over the past few weeks, but only ever by phone. They strode along a winding corridor and clambered down a series of steep companionways deep into the bowels of the ship. The soldiers followed with her bags. On one of the bulkheads, a sign proclaimed, in big letters, ‘02 LEVEL’.
‘I expect you’ll want to freshen up,’ said Peak. He opened one among many identical doors lining both sides of the passageway. It led into a surprisingly spacious and pleasantly decorated cabin, more a suite than a room. Crowe had read somewhere that living space on helicopter-carriers was kept to a minimum and that the troops slept in dormitories. Peak raised his eyebrows when she commented.
‘We’d hardly make you sleep with the marines,’ he said. The hint of a smile played on his lips. ‘The navy knows how to look after its guests. This is flag accommodation.’
‘Flag?’
‘Our very own Hilton. Living-quarters for admirals and their staff. We’re not at full capacity, so we’ve got all the space in the world. We’ve given the flag accommodation to women and the men have been housed in officer berthing. May I?’ He walked ahead of her and opened another door. ‘Bathroom.’
‘I’m impressed.’
The soldiers brought in her bags.
‘There’s a minibar under the TV,’ said Peak. ‘Soft drinks only. I was thinking I’d come back in thirty minutes so we can start the tour. Will that be sufficient?’
‘Absolutely.’
Crowe waited until the door had closed behind him, then hunted for an ashtray. She found one in a sideboard, peeled off her overalls and rummaged through her jacket pockets. It wasn’t until she’d opened the crumpled packet, lit the cigarette and taken a drag that she started to feel properly alive.
She sat on the edge of her bed. Two packs a day. She couldn’t give up. She’d tried twice and failed.
Maybe her heart wasn’t in it.
After a second cigarette, she showered, then pulled on some jeans, sneakers and a sweater. She smoked a third cigarette, and opened all the cupboards and drawers. By the time she heard a knock at the door, she’d already inspected the inside of her cabin so thoroughly that she could have drawn up an inventory from memory. She liked to know how things stood.
It wasn’t Peak in the passageway, but Leon Anawak.
‘I told you we’d meet again,’ he grinned.
Crowe laughed. ‘And I told you that you’d find your whales. Good to see you, Leon. I hear you’re the one I need to thank for being here.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Li.’
‘Oh, I reckon you’d be here anyway. I had a dream about you.’
‘Oh, my.’
‘Don’t worry - you were a kind of friendly spirit. How was the flight?’
‘A bit bumpy. Am I the last to arrive?’
‘The rest of us boarded in Norfolk.’
‘I couldn’t get away from Arecibo. You wouldn’t believe how much effort it takes to stop working on a project. We had to close down SETI. No one’s got the cash to look for little green men at the moment.’
‘There’s a good chance you’ll find more of them than you bargained for,’ said Anawak. ‘Are you ready? Peak will be here in a moment. He’ll show you what the Independence has to offer and then it’s your turn. Everyone’s really excited. You’ve already got a nickname, by the way.’
‘A nickname? What are they calling me?’
‘Ms Alien.’
‘Oh, heavens. For a while everyone called me Miss Foster, after Jodie played me in that film.’ Crowe shook her head. ‘Well, why not? So long as I’ve got a pen for signing autographs. Let’s go.’
Peak showed her round 02 LEVEL. They’d started their tour in the bow and were making their way amidships. Crowe had admired the gym, crammed with treadmills and weight machines. It was practic
ally deserted. ‘Under normal circumstances you can’t move in here for people,’ said Peak. ‘The Independence can accommodate three thousand men. Right now there are barely two hundred of us aboard.’
They walked through the junior officers’ berths - dormitories for between four and six people with comfortable bunks, plenty of storage space and foldaway tables and chairs.
‘Cosy,’ said Crowe.
‘Depends on how you look at it. There’s not much chance of falling asleep when things get busy on the roof. Those helicopters and jump-jets are roaring up and down the flight deck, only metres above your head. It’s hardest on the new recruits. They’re exhausted at first.’
‘How long does it take to get used to it?’
‘You don’t. You get used to being woken up, though. I’ve served on flat-tops before, and you’re always away for months at a time. After a while it seems normal to be lying there on stand-by. You forget what it’s like to sleep soundly. The first night at home is hell. You’re listening out for the roar of engines, aircraft landing and helicopters docking, people running in the passageways, constant announcements - but instead there’s just the ticking of your clock.’
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