Frozen Fire (49 page)

The Southern Hemisphere’s summer would be hot; the Northern Hemisphere’s winter would be warmer than any other in recorded history. What Arctic sea ice formed would be thin and patchy. The vast Greenland and Antarctic ice sheets would continue to melt, and do so at a rate faster than anyone could have predicted.

A few months from now, the northern spring would arrive weeks sooner than anticipated. What glaciers and snowpack remained would melt faster and earlier, causing catastrophic avalanches. Rivers would run wilder, tides would be higher than expected, and the rains would be harder, each bringing more flooding to places unprepared for it.

After the rain, the temperature would begin to soar in the northern part
of the planet. Droughts would threaten harvests and livestock, heat would claim the lives of those not able to tolerate it, and severe weather would destroy property at random. Civil society would recede as water shortages everywhere primed local, regional, and national tempers for harsh and even violent resolutions. Vain and wasteful cities would learn how precarious their existence is, and idyllic suburbs and rural areas would grow desperate to protect and maintain their ways of life. Coastal areas would learn the futility of trying to hold back inevitably rising waters.

The next winter would never arrive.

Eventually, within a matter of years, there would be no change of seasons anywhere on the globe; there would be no autumn, no rainy or cool season to bring relief, no growing season. Deserts would evolve on once verdant land. Lake beds and reservoirs would shrink, revealing their macabre histories. Islands would disappear beneath waves the world over. Wars would begin and have no end.

Eventually the oceans would achieve a critical warmth. Then the tens, perhaps hundreds of gigatons of methane hydrate beneath the ocean floors would begin to melt, releasing catastrophic amounts of lethal gas into the atmosphere.

And then life,
all
life, would end.

These thoughts had repeated endlessly in Dennis’s mind during the long wakeful hours he’d spent under a night sky irreparably altered at his hands. The experience had made one thing become unutterably clear to Dennis.

It was his responsibility to rectify what had gone wrong. The fate of the earth had to come before the agonizing fate of few thousand, or even a few million, people.

There was only one way, one ancient way, he could do it.

He had to burn off the methane before it could leave the vicinity.

He had to build a fire in the sky.

4:10
A.M.,
Monday, October 27, Bolling Air Force Base, Washington, D.C.

“You
think
it will work, or you
know
it will work, Dr. Briscoe?”

Lucy Denton had been bristly and abrupt ever since the “Hole in the Water Gang,” as Sam had started calling them, had come together in the conference room half an hour ago to discuss options. Right now, he was the one under the microscope. He’d have been more comfortable with it if he’d gotten some sleep.

“Well, ma’am, considering nothing like this has ever been attempted as far as I know, or as far as Lieutenant Commander Cartwright over there knows,” he said, pointing to the demolitions expert he’d been working with for the last twelve hours, “we’re pretty sure it will work but we’re not going to know for sure until it either does or doesn’t.”

“Walk us through it again. Without all the math, this time. Just the action.”

Hiding his exasperation, Sam turned to the whiteboard behind him and started diagramming as he spoke. “The underwater phase will happen in two stages. We launch torpedoes—what did you call them? Deadheads?—anyway, ones with no explosives in them toward the area where the rupture
is. They’ll come in from three angles and strike the seafloor near the pipeline but outside of the degraded water column. When they hit the sediment, which is a few hundred feet thick in that region, they’ll cause minilandslides, creating significant dislodgement of the surrounding substrate. We hope they’ll dislodge enough to plug the fissure, at least temporarily. Then we’ll send in the torpedoes carrying the anaerobic methanotrophs. The tubes will explode and release the microbes. At least some ought to survive to set up shop near the point of the methane release.” He stopped writing on the whiteboard and turned back to face the group. “If we can stop the majority of the flow, or even diminish it, we’ll be in good shape. The downside is that we don’t know how damaged the subsurface structure is down there.”

“Is that correct, Dr. Collins?”

Sam looked at Marty, who was looking back at him with naked fear in his eyes. Sam sent him a tight smile, which Marty didn’t return.

“Yes, Director Denton, it is,” Marty replied. “The last set of pictures from the satellites with ground-penetrating radar and magnetic imaging indicated some changes had occurred in the substrate, but the images were inconclusive as to determining the extent of the damage.”

“What are the risks?”

“We could end up widening the gap or even opening a new fissure. There’s also the possibility of triggering another landslide—not the small ones Sam mentioned, but a big one—or even an earthquake. With all the instability that’s been introduced in the immediate region, I wouldn’t rule out a tsunami if either of the latter scenarios occurred. The damage to the Keys and other Caribbean islands would be catastrophic. We’re very close to the edge of the continental shelf and there would be no time to issue warnings.”

Lucy looked grim.

“Dr. Collins, I appreciate your candor, but what are the odds that attempting to block the pipeline will make the situation worse?” Victoria asked.

“About ten to one, Ms. Clark,” he said flatly. “Maybe worse.”

Victoria turned to Lucy. “Perhaps—”

“No. If there were a better idea, it would have been brought up before now,” Lucy replied. “We’re committed to this. Dr. Briscoe, please continue with your briefing.”

Sam hesitated, and considered making one last pitch for not releasing the microbes, but realized immediately that Lucy would probably have him thrown in jail if he did that. She was on the edge.

Hell
, I’m
on the edge. This had damned well better work
.

He took a breath and continued. “Irrespective of whether the attempt to block the flow is successful, we’ll immediately shift our focus to the atmosphere.” He paused. “Actually, if the underwater attempt doesn’t work, it will be even more important to deploy the atmospheric microbes. We’ll do that by shooting missiles into the plume. Their payloads will contain several varieties of microbes instead of warheads.”

“Several varieties?” Victoria asked.

“I’d like to say that that decision is based on careful thought, Ms. Clark, but the truth is, we’re goin’ with the spaghetti theory. You know how you throw a piece of spaghetti at the wall and if it sticks, it’s done? Well, we’re goin’ to throw everything we’ve got at that gas and see what sticks. We’re doin’ the same thing down below. It’s very likely that a lot of the bugs won’t embrace the environment. We’re just hopin’ some will.”

He turned back to the whiteboard.

“With regard to the missiles, we’ve got the degraded air column and the plume to consider. The plan is to deploy the missiles so they enter the tainted airspace at staggered intervals of several minutes and about nine miles from each other. Lieutenant Commander Cartwright suggested a total of five missiles, with the one nearest to the coast bursting a few miles offshore.” He shook his head and pointed to the other edge of the whiteboard. “The missile tubes will start to break up as soon as they pass through the plume due to the change in air pressure. We’ll have backup devices in them, too. The explosions will release the microbes and they’ll scatter. If they survive, they’ll start munching on methane.”

The room was silent when Sam finished. He put the markers he’d been using in the tray and sat down, looking expectantly at Lucy.

“I just need to remind you, ma’am, that if this all works, we’ll only be taking care of the methane. We’ve got phyrruluxine forming inside that plume, and that is a whole other big-ass world of hurt. It’s highly explosive, and it’s toxic.”

“So is the methane,” Lucy replied. “Why is this a problem?”

“The methane isn’t toxic, ma’am. Too much of it just pushes the oxygen out of the way so there’s none left to breathe until the concentration returns to normal. The phyrruluxine is highly toxic, and it doesn’t behave like methane. Very small amounts can be lethal.” He paused. “I don’t know what gets rid of that. We may just have to pray that stuff disperses.”

“Thank you for the update, Dr. Briscoe.” Clearly furious, Lucy held
his gaze briefly, then looked down the table to the cluster of navy officers at the other end. “Well?”

“Director Denton, we’ll give it a shot,” the highest-ranking one replied.

“Good.” She glanced down at her watch and then back at Sam. “The cruiser
Eutaw Springs
is anchored off Taino and the secretary of the navy has ID’d that ship as the base of this operation. The personnel transporting the microbes should be arriving there in a few hours. There will be an assembly and staging area set up when you get there.”

It took Sam’s sleep-deprived brain a few seconds to register what she’d just said.

“When
I
get there?” he asked, not enjoying the unexpected blood pressure spike her words had provoked.

“You’ll be on board for the duration of the operation, Dr. Briscoe. Dr. Collins and Ms. Clark will be there, too.”

“Wait a damned minute, Ms. Denton. I’m not—” Her look stopped him mid-sentence.

“You won’t see this through?” she asked quietly.

The look in her eyes, in the eyes of the four navy officers at the end of the table, in Marty’s and Victoria Clark’s eyes shamed him, made him feel like the skunk at a garden party. No, worse than that. They made him feel like a traitor.

He shook his head and looked down, rubbing a hand over the back of his stiff neck. “Just surprised me, is all. Of course I’ll go,” he muttered.
And spend every minute on that boat pukin’ my guts up. Damn it
.

“Thank you, Dr. Briscoe.” Lucy was about to continue when Sam saw her look down at the open laptop in front of her, and immediately touch a few keys. The occupants of the room remained silent as she read something on the screen, then looked up.

“Something’s happening on Taino,” she explained. “We’ve been monitoring the island via satellite since before the crash occurred. Its communications went dark approximately twenty-four hours ago, but there was an encrypted signal sent from it yesterday afternoon. There’s been indiscriminate pinging going on for the last eight or so hours, but no contact has been made with any transponder.”

“You didn’t tell me—” Victoria blurted, and Lucy gave her a look.

“I’m telling you now. Three persons made it onto the island yesterday afternoon at a small beach on the north end. They disappeared into the
brush almost immediately and have not been seen again. However, someone emerged from a higher point on the island’s north end approximately twenty minutes after the three figures landed on the beach. That person, presumably one of the group, sent an encrypted message that was picked up by a leased transponder on a low-earth orbit satellite owned by a Europe an telecommunications consortium. So it appears that at least one person is alive and active on the northeastern end of the island.”

Sam looked at Victoria, who had gone very still, anger etched onto her face.

“Ms. Clark,” Lucy continued, “do you have any idea who is on that island? Where did the people who landed on the beach go?”

“They would have been heading for the bunker.” Victoria’s voice was cold and quiet.

“What bunker?” Lucy asked sharply.

Sam could have sworn he saw the hint of a smile on Victoria’s face as she turned to face Lucy. “President Cavendish had an emergency shelter built into the side of Mount Taino. It was completed several years ago.”

Lucy was clearly not pleased at just learning this. “How many people could be in there?”

“The bunker was constructed to house the entire population of Taino, around seventy people, or even more if it had to,” Victoria replied. “It wouldn’t be comfortable, though.”

“Ms. Clark, please stay on point,” Lucy replied with an edge to her voice. “How many people do you think could have survived and might be in that bunker?”

“Realistically, there can’t be more than a few people in there. Everyone in the
Atlantis
habitat was presumed dead within minutes of the first detonation. Based on the earlier footage you showed me, a dozen or so bodies were scattered near the beachside compound. Captain Broadhurst was directing the sea-based recovery operation. Once he learned about the clipper and deaths on the beach, he ordered all land-based security personnel offshore,” Victoria explained.

“Why?” Lucy demanded, interrupting.

“If the people outside the bungalows were dead, the people inside them would be, too,” Victoria said simply. “They weren’t airtight. None of the windows even had screens, just shutters. So anyone who is still alive on the island is in that bunker. There can’t be many. There weren’t many people
on the island to begin with, and all the security personnel have been accounted for. So I can only surmise that President Cavendish and Deputy-Secretary Crenshaw and perhaps a very few others made it to the bunker.”

“Do you think it’s likely that President Cavendish survived?”

“If Micki Crenshaw is Garner Blaylock’s mole, then I think it’s likely both Micki and Dennis survived,” Victoria said flatly. “Micki doesn’t have all of the information needed to make things run. Dennis liked to keep some things secret.”

“Well, Ms. Clark, if President Cavendish and Micki Crenshaw are still alive, why haven’t they tried to contact anyone? The only communications coming off that island in the last twenty-four hours are the ones I just described.”