Sun Dance (65 page)

Each eleven years is the ebb and flow of sunspot cycles, pulse of our miniscule cosmic presence. It slowed. Twelve years passed. The white hot surface of the sun remained almost free from the dark pock marks of cooler gas which block the coronal emissions. A maelstrom of particles in the blast furnace of plasma at the sun’s magnetic heart were churning, smashing, annihilating; energised beyond the strength of gravity.

A bubble swelled on the surface of the sun; swelling on a molten face which revolved towards the earth. Gigantic pressure built.

It burst; twenty billion tonnes of matter hurled in leaping fangs of glowing plasma, flicking tongues of energy whipping into space at near the speed of light.

Particles, highly charged, their destructive power a billion atom bombs surged earthwards. Unleashed energy smashed through the earth’s magnetic shield.

The skies blazed. An aurora of terrifying brilliance unseen before; a solar outburst of extreme violence enveloped the planet, a vast geomagnetic storm all powerful in its fury.

Satellites veered wildly out of orbit. Global navigation failed. Weapon systems crashed, computer networks crashed. Power cables criss crossing the globe became the giant storms antennae. Worldwide communication ceased. The arteries of civilisation were paralysed. Fires and multi explosions ripped through city and homestead alike. Ripples of panic spread, waves of chaos engulfed the masses at their phalanx screens, the herdsmen on his empty plains.

Terror turned to anarchy. Fear swept all before it!

People gazed towards the sun.

Was this the time to pray?

Sir Joshua Goldberg and his Chief Technician walk slowly along the steel gantry towards the end of the huge underground storage chamber. Beneath them is the line of installations which cover the actual bore holes. Down three hundred feet into the solid rock beneath the hill, are the stacks of containers. Massive lead caps seal their tops. Seemingly unending pipes carry the vital cooling liquid. Banks of lights indicate every aspect of the state of the nuclear waste, the various pressures involved and of paramount importance, the material’s critical temperature.

The couple stand at the end of the long steel gantry. Nuen’s Chairman looks proudly back along the chamber. Bright green lights shine from each control point, the plant was working extremely efficiently, all was as he’d planned it. Entirely satisfied Goldberg smiles, and waving his arm towards the dead end of the chamber he speaks expansively to his Chief Technician, “This is where I shall build my next phase of the expansion on this Goddamn island. This facility has solved the problem. My Company is the saving of the whole nuclear industry.”

Instantly they are in total blackness, primal, complete and without sound, a density of blackness without point of reference, an absence of all else but the sickness of claustrophobia. Such its suddenness neither speaks. Their shallow frightened breathing quickens. Goldberg moves. His foot strikes something soft. He reaches down. His hand contacts a prone body. “You bastard, you’ve fainted. You foul bastard, get up, get up, get me out of here, get me to the lift.” There is no move, no breathing. “You fool, you blithering fool, are you dead?” Goldberg kicks the inert form, finds its face and kicks again and again.

Horror- struck Goldberg stumbles, falls against the handrail. Which way, which way? This way? Inch by inch he shuffles. Both sweating hands slide along the rail. The lift, the lift, I must reach the lift. I must reach the… is this the main platform? Only blackness, the underground blackness is a creeping phantom, untouchable, yet a presence that moves with his every shuffling step. Another yard, another, another, the rail turns. He follows. Yes, the lift door. He runs trembling hands over the control buttons…. must find the control, his hand paws, his fingers feel.

These must be the buttons. They won’t press. No power, the lift is without power. A screaming Goldberg beats the unyielding door, “Get me out, get me out pleeese!!!” A hollow voice echoes out of the black silence. “Get me out, pleeeeese!” The scream fades, stretches into the void, the wail of torment entering the tunnel of dread.

He listens to the echo, is there someone? His bare hand has struck some object, he feels blood. His sagging legs give, he sinks down, leans his back against the closed door and stops the futile screams. There is nobody to hear, nobody.

His broken voice trails into sobbing. “Please, please God get me out of here,” he clasps beseeching hands. Now there is no echo. The trap of utter blackness swallows his whimpering voice.

How long passes? There is no telling, only darkness. His mind is emptied of rational thought. His heart pounds with fear. He leans to one side and vomits.

He closes his eyes, and prays.

Upstairs in the central control room the on duty team sitting before a bank of winking consoles relax. Goldberg and the boss are safely below inspecting the storage chamber. They swivel their chairs and chat. Ordinary, mundane comment, last night‘s dart match in the centre. No mention is made of the arrival of Sir Joshua. Their whole work area is under continuous surveillance by camera and microphone, every word and move is recorded and computer analysed. During the past month a number of alerts have been relayed to them, mostly unidentified aircraft. Unknown to Goldberg his helicopter pilot had checked in their flight to avoid another such incident. Since the Iran attack a completely revised set of security rules applies. Neither ship nor plane or any person allowed near Sandray without double verification. The terrorist threat is at red, its highest level.

The safety door’s light is flashing. “It’s Jim,” comes over the intercom. He’s in the outer vetting compartment. The foreman checks him on the screen and punches in a code. The door opens allowing an off duty colleague to hurry in. The door automatically closes behind him.

“Hell chaps! There’s something bloody funny happening in the sky, its turning green, great stabs of light are streaking across it.” The panic in the eyes is not lost on the group. They swivel off their seats and surround the man, “Back to your stations!” barks the foreman, equally alarmed. “This might be an attack.”

Suddenly complete darkness. Every screen, every panel light, cut out. The foreman technician is first to react. “Emergency, emergency drill,” he shouts, “switch to number one base generation.” The team leaves their seats. They fumble about feeling their way, bumping into each other. “No response, no response,” shouts the first back to his control web.

Frantically each man on reaching his desk presses buttons. Dead, the system is dead. The leading technician reaches the emergency door, “Hell’s teeth it won’t open!” Voices begin to babble, try this, try that, the first wave of panic is setting in. The air already feels sticky. No vents, no air conditioning.

“Christ boys, we’ll be cooked alive in here!” a shrill voice above the rest. “Shut your mouth!” the foreman barks out of the black dark. “Stay at your desks.”

Nobody yet dares mention the thoughts upper most in every mind. Has the cooling systems surrounding each waste filled bore hole has been cut off? Each man knows the consequence.

Meltdown. The prospect of death stalks through the control room.

Goldberg stirs, lifts his head, opens his eyes. The faintest green glow suffuses the chamber. Only too aware of what is happening he groans, on and on, the low groaning of total abandonment to abject terror. He screams again, “God of my people, please, please.” He slumps back exhausted.

The green radiance intensifies. He looks round the chamber, flickering light is playing a ghostly hand on its vaulted ceiling. His crazed mind flashes back to his treasured bathroom, the beauty of its mouldings. This can’t be happening; it’s a dream, a horror of a drug induced nightmare. I must waken, must waken.

The heat is making his breathing difficult. He stares down stupidly. The nearest lead cap is melting into a green fluid. Without warning his platform begins to tilt, slowly to buckle. “No, no, no!” his voice is broken from screaming. He grabs at stanchions, hangs on. The tilt increases in slow motion. His hands are burning; the stench of a sacrifice on the altar of mammon.

A plume of fluid spurts out of the bore hole. Blazing droplets fall on his legs. The pain is beyond feeling. He watches his flesh melting, running down the sloping platform. His legs are dripping. Tiny flames of tallow course down the ribbed steel. The heat is searing his lungs at every breath. Goldberg throws his head back.

In a cracked shrieking he pleads, “God, God, save me, I give you all my money, God of the ten talents, pleeeese, pleeese hear me, I’m your servant, I made it for you, all my money is yours, millions, milli……” To those that have shalt be given.

The heat cuts off his breath. His burning hands release their grip. The acrid fumes of his burning flesh choke his lungs. The green glare burns his eyelids.

Unable to close his eyes, Sir Joshua Goldberg slithers gradually, imperceptibly down the platform. His closing anthem approaches.

Radiation, a requiem for all mankind.

The white hot furnace waits.

White hot as the erupting sun.

The fact that my inheritance vanished during the banking crash into somebody else's pocket didn't give me the slightest cause to grieve, nor could I find any reason to envy the lifestyle enjoyed by financial tycoons afflicted by the disease of making money. Our needs were slender, the income from the croft paid the bills and healthy living filled the bank. Eachan stretched into a tall, strong boy, able both at school and on the croft. Cows and ewes by their yearly offspring supported our family unit, just as we fed and cared for them, a mutual arrangement with much affection on our part, and if I read the animals minds correctly they viewed us with friendliness, especially when hay appeared. Given the sorry state afflicting many of the world's poor we were fortunate. Not without a twinge of conscience- there seemed little missing in our lives, and yet….