Taking the Heat

by Paul McDermott

  “Or mass, due to being less dense,” Rob corrected.

  “My point exactly, and yes, you’re right. Because we know that matter cannot be created or destroyed. It can only be exchanged.”

  “Your point, Joey?”

  Joey swirled the glass once more and watched the contents move sluggishly before letting it settle. He was certain now that he was on to something.

  “If the extra mass of the released water reaches a point at which it can be measured, it’s going to start flowing. With the constant spin of the Earth’s rotation, that’s inevitable.”

  “So it’s going to flow in a certain direction, and since it would be meaningless to talk of it flowing downhill, as a stream or river would above sea level, it has to be a lateral—sideways movement, right? And if it’s aligned itself somewhere close to the axis of the magnetic pole…”

  “It could have been going on for years and we wouldn’t have noticed anything untoward until now.”

  “It might even provide us with the data we need to link the quakes and storms we’ve been recently monitoring all around the world. It might even point us in the right direction to finding a way of dealing with them. Rob, if we’re right…”

  “This could be the breakthrough we need. I’ll get on to it from my end and leave you to do what you do best. Keep me in the loop, okay?”

  “Another tag line I don’t care for, but I’ll certainly keep in touch. Must be about bedtime for you Aussies, but I’ve got the full day ahead of me.”

  Joey broke the connection without giving his friend the chance to reply with a final withering insult and turned back to his research notes. Somewhere in the data he already had available at the stroke of a key on his laptop, he was convinced there was an answer to be found. All he had to do was find it.

  Chapter Ten

  The vast, immeasurable gargantuans had opposed each other for countless millennia. Like ring-weary bare-knuckle fighters, they had circled and feinted, leant on each other, dealing fearsome blows occasionally before easing back to assess from a safe distance what damage their handiwork might have caused the opponent.

  It was the perfect example of the irresistible force meeting an immovable object. The groans and grindings of the tectonic plates poised where they met beneath the deepest section of the South Pacific were like the snarling of the forwards in a surreal submarine rugby match played between rival teams of colossi, each eager to taste the other’s blood on their teeth, or the battle cry of their more carefully armoured counterparts, the line of scrimmage players in a game of American Football.

  It was inevitable; something had to give. Thanks to their sensitive aural faculties, the whales had long since given the area a wide berth. The creaks and crashings had developed far beyond being a mild inconvenience, becoming a loud, terrifying warning of impending doom. At such depths, the early warning systems deployed by nature were effectively muffled, silenced by the soundproofing blanket of the sea, and went unheard.

  As the pressures built, the screams and agonies of the opposing armies of stone became louder and more prolonged until even the totally deaf and least sensitive living organisms capable of independent movement had taken the hint and followed the savant whales, moving north and south, far from the region of the seabed where the fault lowered across the scrimmage and locked shoulders. A breath, a microsecond of eye contact representing at least one full generation of human life expectancy, and the gigantic shoulders of the scrum prop heaved forwards.

  The southern plate, emulating the superiority of the all-conquering rugby masters known as the New Zealand All Blacks, gained the upper hand and forced their opponents to give a begrudged half inch. The balance had shifted; the war was won. The stresses were resolved for at least the next few centuries, possibly even millennia. At a safe distance of several thousand miles, the whales would be the first to sense that, for them at least, the danger had passed, and they could begin their long, slow journey back to their preferred feeding grounds and the fresh supply of plankton which the underwater collision had made available.

  The line of scrimmage stretched for thousands of miles, roughly northwest and southeast of the point at which the source of the battle was centred. A microscopic few molecules of water shimmered and took on a degree of the kinetic energy released by the battling giants, energy which they swiftly and efficiently transferred to their immediate neighbours. The ripple spread in a geometric progression, doubling and redoubling, growing to an unimaginably powerful mass, until finally, it developed momentum. Mere centimetres in height, it had a leading edge of over seven thousand miles, and as it began to move, drawing more water along with it, the height and the speed of the ripple increased as more and more water was drawn into motion. Unseen and unheard, the ripple became a current and grew from moment to moment, a powerful, uncontrolled force too deep to register on even the most sensitive meteorological instruments but now with a definite directionality.

  A less powerful counterflow had been produced, the last gesture of defiance from the vanquished northern rugby giants, sending a weaker ripple back towards the Antipodes, a barely detectable current which would never achieve any dangerous proportions in the comparatively short distance it would cover before encountering landmasses upon which to cast itself. The northbound wave had time and open sea in its favour, with the potential to develop into a far more potent threat to anything it confronted before reaching the small fishing villages dotted along the eastern seaboard of Japan.

  ***

  “These bloody flood tides would be a lot more use out west.” Fire Chief Billy Randall muttered as he sculled another fortunate housetop refugee from the half-submerged property which had recently been a semi-detached house. An emergency centre had been established on the top seven floors of the local hospital. The access point was through a hole in the wall, which had once been a goods lift shaft, Jerry-rigged by the ingenuity of the local Queensland Territorials and transformed into a rough but serviceable dock.

  While the east coast of Australia was being pounded by a combination of torrential rain and extreme high tides, bush fires were raging out of control in the thinly populated and difficult to reach outback.

  “Billy, we’re getting reports of flooding affecting the north coast—could be we’ve seen the worst of it here.”

  “Pray that you’re right, Ged. It wouldn’t surprise me if it’s spreading rather than moving on.”

  Ged Hanlon had been on duty for the same thirty-six hours as his boss, and they had both long since passed the point of exhaustion. They were running on a mixture of adrenaline and caffeine. Relief crews were out of the question. Every man with a full set of limbs had been conscripted into the rescue efforts already.

  The latest casualty was a walking wounded and managed to disembark more or less unaided. Billy and Ged reversed from the makeshift jetty and turned to go in search of another flood victim.

  Billy glanced at the dark, lowering storm clouds overhead.

  “The wind’s still in the east, Ged. I reckon the floods in the north have to be a separate issue.”

  “Doesn’t sound good. We could be fighting on two separate fronts.”

  “Three, Ged—don’t forget the bush fires. If only there was a way to send ’em some of our excess. I could cope with the floods if we were free of the rain. It would be a godsend to them as well as us.”

  They were approaching another house where a survivor was standing waiting. As they got in close, Billy could see that the man was waving something over his head. When they pulled alongside, he discovered it was not a mobile phone but a small, working radio with enough battery power to transmit the news.

  “Thanks for pickin’ me up, mate. Have you heard the latest?”

  Billy and Ged both shook their heads, and Billy said, “The only news we’ve had time for these last two days is what we’ve been making ourselves.”

  “But we’ve heard a prelim about more storms affecting the north shore,” Ged added.

>   “There may be a link,” the homeowner said. He seemed better dressed against the elements and much better prepared than anyone else Billy and Ged had come across so far. As well as a radio, he was the first victim to have a well-stuffed tucker bag at his feet, which he swung into the rescue craft before stepping down himself.

  “I guess you need my name, for hospital records,” he said, “and I’m grateful to see you, by the by. Paul McCann, on a rare town visit. Most of my worldly goods are in that swag bag.”

  “What keeps you out of town, Mr. McCann? You a farmer, maybe?”

  “I draw maps. Do you have any idea how little of the Aussie outback has been properly surveyed at close quarters? Aerial photography is all very well, but there are some things you still have to get up close and personal to see.”

  “If you were thinking of heading back west…”

  McCann shrugged. A tired half-grin flickered and was gone. “Not much point right now. Even if I could persuade a duster or a sky-jock to take me most of the way, I doubt I’d find a reliable mount for the last stage. And the news I’ve just heard wasn’t from out west, anyway. The opposite, in fact.”

  He turned up the volume on his transistor. They heard the unmistakable received-pronunciation vowels of a seasoned BBC announcer’s voice.

  “Christchurch on the North Island of New Zealand was hit today by an earthquake which measured close to eight on the Richter scale. It struck at about five a.m. local time, and initial reports suggest that there was considerable structural damage but relatively few casualties. These figures, however, are expected to rise…”

  Paul turned down the volume again and looked up at his rescuers. “It’s not my specialist field, but you get to be a bit of a jack-of-all-trades when you spend most of the year on your own, living out of a bag. And basic geology tells me a shock wave that ripples off from a quake that size in New Zealand is likely to have some sort of aftershock effect down here before too many hours have passed. Here on the east coast—and also along the north coast—I’d say we were more or less right in the firing line.”

  “I’m no scientist, either,” Billy admitted, “but it certainly fits the facts as they stand. Listen, Paul, I hate to ask, but we could really do with every able-bodied man we can muster to keep the effort going. Are you carrying an injury? Have you been out there long? I know I’ve got a cheek to ask, but you’re just the type of assistance we could use.”

  “Happy to help, mate. As it happens, I wasn’t out in the weather a great deal. I saw this bloody great wave heading my way, and I ran for cover. The door was open, but there was no car on the drive. I can only think the family who lived there must have scarpered already. I just had time to slam the door and get to the upper floor before the waters burst in. Lucky for me, I could get into the attic and through a skylight. I’d guess I was on the rooftop twenty minutes, tops, before you turned up. I reckon I’m fit for the game, but I suppose I should get checked out to be on the safe side—especially as I don’t have what anyone’d call a fixed address most of the year. I’m not even sure when was the last time I had any medical treatment.”

  Paul swung his tucker bag over his shoulder as they pulled up to the hospital’s temporary emergency entrance and stepped onto the jetty with a confident, easy balance.

  “I’ll tell them I’ve arranged to help out here with the reception of patients. That way, I should be reasonably easy for you to find.”

  ***

  When Billy and Ged returned from yet another search-and-rescue mission, Paul was at the jetty, having been duly processed and declared fit for work.

  “News from New Zealand isn’t good,” was his first comment as he helped them negotiate an injured child onto a stretcher board. “There’s a lot of structural damage, and the casualty list is growing rapidly.”

  “How’s our own casualty tally going?” Billy asked.

  “We’re coping. The hospital’s not reached capacity yet, and there’s still room for admissions, but the doctors are working flat out.”

  “I’ve a mate in Christchurch,” Ged suddenly broke in with a worried scowl.

  “That’s where it’s hit hardest, I’m afraid,” Paul said.

  Ged grimaced. “I’d better give him a call, then. No point waiting until the morning.”

  “It is morning,” Billy said, glancing at the sky. “Not that you’d know it from that lot up there.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Joey, I’m sorry to get you out of bed…”

  “What makes you think I’ve been to bed, Rob?”

  “In that case, I’m twice as sorry. But there’s more bad news—another major quake in Christchurch, New Zealand, about four, five hours ago. Richter eight, they say. Plenty of structural damage, I guess casualties are inevitable. At the time it happened, most people would have been in bed.”

  Joey cursed fluently for several minutes before he began to repeat himself and paused for breath.

  “Rob, that might be our first hint of a clue. There’s a region of the South Pacific where two major tectonic plates meet. We’ve known about them for years, and we’ve also monitored stresses in the area. What we need right now is a set of photos—it doesn’t matter if they’re stills or a video recording—from the weather satellites which were nearest the South Pacific region from, let’s say two to eight hours before the first quake was felt in Christchurch. Can you get that data for me?”

  “Might be a bit tricky if it’s under NATO jurisdiction. They’re going to have kittens about compromising security and need-to-know. I can only try, I suppose, but I don’t have a lot of military clout.”

  “Call me if you get stonewalled by some officious uniformed jobsworth. I’ll get a result. See if I don’t.”

  Joey banged the phone back on its cradle and scribbled furiously on a notepad. Phones started ringing, but he managed to ignore all of them. The new data was from a direction he’d anticipated, and if his gut feeling was even close to what his figures suggested, the worst-case scenario was looming uncomfortably close.

  He checked his figures for a third time, with growing unease. There were no errors that he could see in the data. With great reluctance, he took a metre rule to a wall chart showing the South Pacific and plotted the information on the map with a water-soluble whiteboard marker. There was no possible doubt. He felt physically sick as he crossed to a locked cabinet and fumbled for a specific key on his fob, one which he had hoped he would never have to use.

  Amongst other documents and government publications, the cabinet contained a slim volume of emergency telephone numbers, which were updated regularly. The number he needed was close to the top of the very first page.

  The telephone was answered in the middle of its first double trill. Joey kept calm by following a reporting procedure he’d had to study and agree to before he was granted security clearance. Without preamble or introduction, he spoke two words, a rank and a name, and waited to be connected.

  “Brigadier Groth.

  “Meteorologist Hart, reporting Region Eight. This is not an exercise. Condition Red, I repeat, Condition Red. Affected area South Pacific. Weather front currently approaching Japan from southeast. ETA 1100 Zulu. Latest available data suggests combined earthquake Richter scale nine or greater accompanied by tsunami, heading directly for Fukushima, northeast Japan. Sending confirmation details by email.”

  “Region Eight, message received, including email confirmation. Evacuation will be recommended immediately to reduce fatalities.”

  “Sir, I estimate two hours maximum to impact.”

  “Thank you, Doctor Hart. Evacuation is not our main concern. There is a major nuclear power plant on the coast at Fukushima, which is likely to become the ground zero of a potential disaster zone. All we can do is advise the Japanese authorities, hope they can perform a damage-limitation exercise and have troops available to offer assistance as soon as we are asked.”

  Joey was left listening to a dial tone: Brigadier Groth had ended the call wit
hout signing off. The dial tone stopped ten seconds later, and Joey realised it had to be a secure line that cut off automatically when not in use.

  He had also signed the Official Secrets Act and knew what this entailed. He was alone in the observatory—a situation he’d taken some trouble to ‘arrange’ by encouraging all his staff to take time off, on the pretext of wanting to do some private research. It was an offence for him to speak to anyone other than his superior about the impending catastrophe, and technically, at least, the observatory itself was on lockdown. Nobody—especially not civilians—was allowed to enter or leave without a direct order from the Home Office or the Ministry of Defence.

  At least there were clear instructions to be followed in an emergency, and the present circumstances seemed to fit that description. He crossed to a wall safe and opened it, extracting the combination by accessing the orders of the day.

  Supplies of dried and preserved food were kept in store against the possibility of such an occasion, and there was direct access to an underground spring, which was supposed to guarantee pure, uncontaminated water. He had to trust this held true. He had no idea how long he would be isolated in the basement of the observatory, where standing orders insisted he should transfer daily operations until further notice. In truth, he had no idea of when, or even if, he might have someone else to work with, bounce ideas off. There was nothing in standing orders which covered the lifting of a lockdown. He consoled himself with the thought that the procedures had been formulated to combat a worst possible scenario of imminent disaster or warfare affecting the UK, rather than a climatic event on the opposite side of the globe. Surely, he could expect to have some assistants and staff allowed in within a day or two?

  Still, he could use this rare opportunity of total, unlimited access to the impressive range of instruments and other ‘big boys’ toys’ available at one of the UK’s best-equipped research facilities. There was nobody to share the workload, true, but at the same time, there was nobody to pull the plug and tell him it would be a good idea to take a break, eat, get some sleep or any one of a hundred other pointless, boring hindrances to pure research. Without consciously planning his movements he discovered he was in the galley area, and grinned. One thing he knew for certain: NATO and the NAAFI could be depended on to provide an endless supply of proper, strong coffee. Anticipating the taste was enough to send a jolt of adrenaline coursing through his veins. The tiredness which had begun to affect him dropped off like a discarded cape as he prepared a brew of Lava Java.