Hunter's Moon (5 page)

I said, “Apocalyptic, as in ‘catastrophe'? Or the Bible story?”

“That's the first time I've heard someone refer to Revelations as a Bible story.” He was still having fun. “You've read it?”

Yes, and I thought it a bizarre mix of myth and wistful psychosis—it was disappointing that a man of his accomplishments considered it worthy of discussion.

“You don't take it seriously?”

“I wouldn't want to impose on someone's religious beliefs, sir—”

“Speak freely, Dr. Ford. I've got big shoulders, and so does God, I suspect, if there is one.”

“All right. I put Revelations in the same category as astrology and palm readers. Nostradamus, conspiracy theories, and visitors from outer space—the same. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. You're a realist.”

“I'd like to think so.”

“In that case, you should take Revelations
very
seriously. Because it doesn't matter what you think or what I think. There are powerful people who believe—really believe—that the Apocalypse is divine prophesy. Leaders who not only welcome the end of the world, they're determined to make it happen. The scary thing is, these people are gaining political clout in both hemispheres.

“Their followers are devoted, educated, and absolutely secure in their righteousness—the most dangerous of all human trinities. Destabilize the United States, lure us and our allies into Armageddon, and the doors to heaven will open. That's what they believe. That's their goal. And we're making it easy for them.”

The man had a speech on the subject. It had to do with a connection he perceived between prophecy and technology. He was worried about the country's reliance on fragile essentials, or “blind horses,” as he called them—an old horse trader's term for unreliable equipment. Internet. Cell phones. Satellites and oil.

He was an articulate speaker, but I was more interested in his intent. It was no accident I'd been invited to this party. The same might be true of Tomlinson.
Why?

“The First World has created a techno-environment that's unrelated to the natural world. It's a manufactured reality. But it has become America's
national
reality.

“What happens if zealots scramble the Internet? Or interrupt the oil supply? The impact would be similar to environmental cataclysm on a primitive community—volcanic eruption, a meteor strike. Disrupt a society's
perceived
reality and you've destabilized its foundation. Panic would roll across this country like a wave. The perfect setup for World War Three.”

His fervor reminded me of the driven men you sometimes hear preaching doom on busy street corners. I commented that he spoke of panic as if it were a weapon.

“In terms of bang for the buck, panic's the most lethal weapon around because we're not prepared. Think about what's going on right now in Central America. I understand you're currently doing work there?”

I nodded, surprised he knew. I'd made several trips in the last few months. An international consortium was proposing to build a canal across Nicaragua. Unlike the nearby Panama Canal, it wouldn't use locks to raise and lower sea level. Two oceans would, for the first time in many millions of years, be connected. What would be the impact when sea creatures from the Pacific Ocean, Caribbean, and Atlantic Ocean intermingled? I was one of several biologists hired as a consultant.

“I assume you've been following the conflict there?”

I nodded. “Along with the rest of the world.”

The conflict had to do with the Panama Canal. In 1979, after the U.S. transferred control to Panama, Panama leased the canal's operational rights to a Hong Kong company. When the Hong Kong company's multidecade lease expired, Panama awarded the contract to an Indonesian firm, Indonesia Shipping & Petroleum Ltd (IS&P).

Indonesia is the world's most populous Muslim country.

The CEO of Indonesia Shipping & Petroleum was Dr. Thomas Bashir Farrish, heir to an oil fortune, who lived a playboy life as “Tommy Raker” in Europe and the United States until he became a follower of Ustaz Abu Bakar Bashir.

Farrish's mentor was sent to prison after a café bombing in Bali that killed 202 people, but Bashir continued to preach that “the Western world will crumble when Indonesia joins in Jihad.”

Awarding operational control of the Panama Canal to a company owned by Thomas Farrish was controversial—and critics were soon proven right.

Within months, owners of Western-owned vessels were complaining of a lack of security and unfair treatment while in the Canal Zone. Three crewmen on a Canadian containership had been beaten to death. The captain and cook of a Texas oil freighter were abducted and beheaded.

Recently, when the U.S., in protest, imposed economic sanctions on the countries of Panama and Indonesia, IS&P announced it would turn away all U.S.-owned ships until the conflict was resolved.

So far, the Panamanian government and the League of Latin Nations had refused to intercede.

“Dangerous,” I said.

“Worse than dangerous. I think Thomas Farrish is the most dangerous man on earth. Panama is like Noah's Ark, the population's so varied. You've
been
there, you know. It could potentially signal Arma—” He almost used the term again but caught himself. “It could start global war. That's why I'm trying to get the message out. Dependency equals vulnerability. Fragility invites attack. Hook your wagon to a blind horse and sooner or later it'll pull you off a cliff.

“Mr. Tomlinson was telling me your paper has to do with plants and animals that go extinct because of overspecialization. Our country has become too specialized. Do you see the connection?”

I nodded. Our paper's working title was “Fatal Tracks of Adaptive Specialization.”

But I didn't believe for a minute that he contrived this meeting because of a research paper. What did the man want? If it had something to do with the assassination attempt in Colombia, why was he lecturing me on the dangers of technology?

He continued talking about parallel dynamics, biological and social, but he was suddenly more formal. I realized that people were gravitating toward him, drinks in hand, munching hors d'oeuvres, as they eavesdropped. Private conversation over. Local power brokers present. Their courteous attention told me they didn't take the man seriously.

I stole a glance at Tomlinson. He smiled, sleepy-eyed, already pleasantly stoned, and flashed me the peace sign. Apparently, he'd forgotten our argument and the chilly civility that had followed. I'd heard he'd been living alone on a barrier island. Staying on his sailboat some nights, but also beach-camping. “Spiritual Bootcamp,” he told one of the fishing guides. I was glad to see him.

I listened to the famous man say, “Reporters treat me like a circus act.
Humoring
me. Know why? Because I've called for mandatory drills—a couple of days a year, ban all but emergency use of cell phones and the Internet. Make citizens learn how to communicate by mail or, God forbid, face-to-face, like human beings. Same with personal transportation. Our people should know what to do during a gas crunch so they don't panic when the inevitable happens. ‘The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.' Everyone knows the quote but no one
thinks
about what FDR meant.”

Anticipate the fear, that was his point. The economic depression of the 1930s, he said, wasn't caused by the stock market collapse. It was caused by a
panic
sparked by the stock market collapse.

“Schools have fire drills, ships have lifeboat drills. Is that crazy? But my colleagues in D.C., and the press, react like I've gone off my rocker. Tell me, do I look old enough to be senile?”

He had the politician's gift for self-deprecation. He chuckled as he combed fingers through his silver hair. I watched the power brokers mirror his smile, but their cheery condescension said yes, they thought he was irrational.

Half an hour later, as the man left the party, he motioned me to a private corner. “I'll be in Florida awhile. Would you mind if I came to Sanibel some night to discuss your research? Maybe get Vue to help me slip away.” He indicated his bodyguard. “I'll bring a bottle of wine or a six-pack—or give you a signed picture for your son. It's the least I can do for a man who maybe saved my life.”

Later, when Tomlinson and I compared notes, I didn't mention the incident in Colombia, but I told him the man wanted to visit the lab.

Tomlinson already knew.

I said, “You saw him after I left the party?”

“Yeah. And we talked earlier, too. He's entered what he calls his ‘redemption phase.' He told me he spent a month at a Franciscan monastery studying the Bible and the Quran. Now he's interested in meditation. Wanted to know if I could take him through the basics, ‘Zen Beginner's Mind.' ”

“Why you?”

Some of the chilliness of the previous weeks returned. “I'm sure that surprises you—me being such a
flake
and all. Isn't that what you called me? No, wait . . . you said I was a ‘weirdo flake.' ”

He was mistaken. During the argument, I'd called him a “flaky weirdo,” but I now shrugged as if I couldn't remember. “
How
did he know you're an ordained Buddhist monk? That's what I'm asking.”

“Oh. He's read my book.”

Tomlinson has published several books, but his little volume
One Fathom Above Sea Level
is considered a classic on spirituality by New Age mystic types. It's the man's own guide to life and the universe as seen through his eyes, six feet—or one fathom—above the water's surface.

“He sounded serious about studying Zen. But I think he's got a secret agenda.”

I said, “You don't trust him?”

“How can I tell? Politicians aren't real. They're not even actors. They're characters in an opera. I voted for him the first election. Second time, no way. But I was still disappointed when he didn't run.

“When his wife was killed, though, he dropped all the partyline bullshit. Some things he says, he rages like a spiritual warrior. But then he'll spout crap so outrageous, so offensive, it triggers my gag reflex. Which makes him . . . human, I guess.”

I've never heard Tomlinson, a spiritual warrior himself, sound starstruck. He did now, adding, “Even so, he's one of those rare, rare beings. A true un-shallow dude, man.
Very
heavy. How can you say no to a guy like Kal Wilson? The man was
president of the United States.
”

I knew the location of the president's cabin. Did his assassins . . . ?

I thought about dragging the canoe into the bushes and charging cross-country to his quarters. But the direct route was through swamp and it's impossible to charge through mangroves. Or even walk. They are rubbery, salt-tolerant trees elevated above water on interlaced roots. The roots resemble fingers of a creeping hand or hoops in an obstacle course. You have to climb, duck, hurdle, and shimmy your way through mangroves.

Maybe the assault team was discovering that now. Or maybe they were bound for the island's northern point, where, according to aerial photos, there was a shell ridge—an easier place to go ashore.

I hoped not. The shell ridge was where the president said he'd be waiting for me. Midnight sharp.

I checked my watch. 11:32 p.m.

The man had probably already left his cabin. If the hit team landed on the ridge, he'd walk into their arms. The president might even mistake one of his killers for me. I pictured him approaching with his hand outstretched. An easy target. I imagined his transitioning facial expressions—confusion, surprise, realization . . . then anger. The man was a fighter.

Would his last thought be that I'd betrayed him? Yes, the logical conclusion. His brain might spend its final microseconds, racing a bullet's furrow, trying to make sense of my treachery.

I paddled harder.

I've known patriots and I am no patriot, but communal allegiance is deep-wired; dates to the Paleolithic. We are predisposed to sacrifice for the greater good. The greater good for what—a nation, a sports team, a street gang, a religion, a murderous cult, a pal—varies with our backgrounds.

The possibility that an American president might die believing I'd betrayed him was repugnant. But how could I stop four guys with automatic weapons?

I had no idea. Maybe catch them in the swamp. Slip up from behind, and . . . then what?

Not a clue.

I'd have to manufacture opportunities. Not unfamiliar. Before restarting life in Florida, I'd spent years in small, vulnerable countries gathering data, ingratiating myself to locals, dealing with dangerous men, impossible situations, making up the moves as I went.

I'd think of something.

I went through my list of makeshift weapons: emergency gear, mosquito spray, pocketknife, flashlights, a shaving kit, fire starter, lighter, flares, and a half-empty fifth of vodka—a prop to convince Secret Service I was drunk. There were also two wooden paddles, and a third made of aluminum and plastic.

I pictured myself swinging a paddle like a broadsword. Attach a burning flare and I had . . . nothing. They'd shoot me the moment I was in range.

I had flashlights that might be useful. Not the Maglite junk commonly carried. Some guys buy expensive golf clubs. I buy serious flashlights, and the best lab equipment I can afford. It's a reaction to dealing with hurricanes and small wars.

I had three, palm-sized LEDs. One, a high-tech marvel made by Blackhawk, was powerful enough to cause retina damage. It also had a strobe that caused blinding dizziness, according to the literature. Useful, if true.