The Swarm (44 page)

It struck fear into the most rational mind. Rising up from the sea to sweep over the land, it brought with it death and destruction. It owed its name to the Japanese fishermen who had been spared its horrors out at sea, but had returned to their villages to find their homes devastated, their families dead. The word they used to describe it meant ‘wave in the harbour'.
Tsu
for harbour;
nami
for wave.

Tsunami.

Alban's decision to plot a course for deep water showed that he knew
the monster and its habits. Seeking the supposed protection of the harbour would be fatal.

While the
Thorvaldson
was battling its way through the choppy seas, the continental shelf and slope slid further into the depths. The downward pull lowered the sea level over a vast area. The water around the plummeting mass rose up, surging outwards in a wave that radiated across the ocean. Near the site of the slide, covering an area of several thousand square kilometres, the wave was so flat that its presence went undetected amid the raging storm. Its height above water reached scarcely a metre.

Then it hit the shallow water of the shelf.

Over the years Alban had learned what distinguished a tsunami from a normal surface wave. Ocean swells were usually the result of movement in the air: solar radiation warmed the atmosphere, but the warmth wasn't distributed equally across the surface of the planet so the heat was transferred by winds, which swept over the ocean, ruffling the water and creating waves. The water rose barely fifteen metres, even in a hurricane. Giant waves were the only exception. Normal surface waves reached a maximum speed of ninety miles an hour, and the effect of the wind stayed on the surface. Just two hundred metres lower, the water would be calm.

But tsunamis didn't form on the surface: they originated in the depths. They weren't the result of high winds: they were created by a seismic shock - and seismic shock waves travelled at entirely different speeds. Worst of all, the energy of the tsunami was transmitted throughout the water column all the way to the seabed. No matter how deep the ocean was, the wave was always in contact with the seabed. The entire mass of water was in motion.

The best demonstration that Alban had ever seen of a tsunami wasn't a computer simulation but something much more basic. Someone had filled a pail with water and rapped the bottom. Concentric rings had rippled through the water. To picture a tsunami, he had merely to imagine it several million times bigger.

Merely.

Triggered by the landslide, the tsunami propagated outwards at a speed of 700 kilometres per hour. The crest of the wave was long and flat. It carried a million tonnes of water and was laden with energy. Within a few minutes, it had reached the spot where the shelf had
snapped. The water became shallower, acting as a brake. The wave front slowed, but lost little energy. The mass of water pushed onwards, but because it was slowing, it began to stack up. The shallower the water became, the higher the tsunami towered, while its length shrank dramatically. Normal surface waves joined in, riding on its crest. By the time it reached the platforms on the North Sea shelf it had decelerated to 400 kilometres per hour, but it was already fifteen metres high.

Fifteen metres was nothing to an oil platform - providing the wave was just normal surface swell.

A seismic wave that stretched from the seabed to the surface, carrying a fifteen-metre mound of water and travelling at four hundred kilometres per hour, had the momentum of a speeding jumbo jet.

Gullfaks C. Norwegian Shelf

For a second Lars Jörensen thought he was too old to endure the final months on Gullfaks. He was trembling so much that the platform seemed to be vibrating with him. In all other respects he wasn't feeling too bad. A little depressed, maybe, but not ill.

Then it dawned on him that the platform was shaking, not him.

He stared at the derrick, then back out to sea. The sea was raging, but he'd seen worse and it had never affected the platform. Jörensen had heard of platforms shaking: it happened when a drilling operation triggered a blow-out, causing oil or gas to shoot up at high pressure. The whole platform could shudder back and forth. But that was impossible on Gullfaks, where the reserves were half empty, and the oil was pumped into sub-surface tanks. Besides, extraction took place at a distance, not under the platform.

The offshore industry had its own top ten of greatest risks. Struts within the steel framework that supported the platforms might collapse. Freak waves, massive surges of water caused by a combination of current and wind, were the industry's equivalent of a maximum credible accident. Pontoons that broke free or tankers with engine failure were dangerous too. But near the top of the hit parade of horror was the gas leak. Escaping gas was almost impossible to detect. In most cases it was only noticed when it was too late and fire had broken out. In incidents
like that the platform exploded: more than 160 people had died on the British Piper Alpha, the biggest disaster in the history of the industry.

But a seaquake was the ultimate nightmare.

And this, Jörensen realised, was a quake.

Anything could happen now. When the ground shook, events spun out of control. Metal warped and snapped. Leaks sprang up and fires broke out. If the tremor was enough to rattle the platform, they could only hope that things wouldn't get worse, that the seabed wouldn't cave in or slump, and that the rig's foundations would withstand the shock. But in addition to all that, another problem was associated with quakes, which no one could do anything about.

And it was about to hit the platform.

Jörensen saw it coming and knew that his chances were nil. He turned and made for the steel steps, trying to escape his lofty perch.

It happened quickly.

He lost his footing and fell. Instinctively his fingers clutched the metal grating beneath him. An infernal noise broke out, a roaring and cracking as though the platform were breaking apart. There was screaming, a deafening bang, and Jörensen was tossed against the railings. Pain seized him. As he hung there in the metalwork, the sea reared up out of nowhere. He could hear the shriek of tearing metal and realised that the whole platform was tilting. His mind shut down. Now he was just a panic-stricken body, making futile attempts to crawl away from the approaching water. He dragged himself up the slope that, seconds before, had been a floor, but the incline was getting steeper.

His strength was running out. The fingers of his right hand let go of the metal. There was a sickening jerk and he was hanging by one arm. The derrick was toppling and the gas flame on the boom was no longer shooting out across the water but rising vertically into the dark sky.

Then everything exploded in a fiery, incandescent cloud, and Jörensen was cast into the sea. He didn't feel the pain in his lower arm, where the blast had severed his hand, leaving it hanging in the metal. Before the spiral of flames could engulf him, the tsunami hit the sinking platform. Gullfaks C was blasted to pieces, the concrete pillars plunging into the sea.

Granddad, tell us a story…

Oslo, Norway

The woman frowned as she listened to him. ‘What do you mean?' she asked. ‘A kind of chain reaction, did you say?'

She was on the Ministry of Environment's Disaster Management Committee, and she was used to being confronted with the most outrageous theories. But she knew of the Geomar Centre, which didn't usually make ludicrous claims. She focused on understanding what the German scientist on the telephone was trying to say.

‘Not exactly,' said Bohrmann. ‘It's
simultaneous
. The damage is occurring all along the slope. It's taking place everywhere at exactly the same time.'

The woman swallowed. ‘And…which areas will be hit?'

‘That depends on the location of the break and how far it extends. Still, a large proportion of the coast, I'd say. Tsunamis stretch thousands of kilometres. We're informing anyone in the vicinity - Iceland, the UK, Germany, everyone.'

The woman stared out of her office window. She was thinking of the oil platforms, stranded in the sea. Hundreds of them, as far north as Trondheim.

‘What will happen to the coastal regions?' she asked dully.

‘You should make plans to evacuate.'

‘And the offshore industry?'

‘As I said, it's hard to predict. If we're fortunate, there'll be a series of small-scale landslides. In that case, the platforms might wobble, but basically they'll be fine. On the other hand, if…'

The door opened and a man rushed in. His face was white. He thrust a sheet of paper in front of her and signalled to her to end her conversation. She picked up the printout and scanned the short text. It was the transcript of a radio message from a ship. The
Thorvaldson
.

As she read on, she felt as though the ground were slipping away from her.

‘The warning signs are already there,' Bohrmann was saying. ‘In the event of it happening, anyone living on the coast should know what to expect. Tsunamis make their presence known before they strike. When the wave is approaching, the sea level rises and falls. It's rapid, and it happens several times, so you'd notice if you knew what to look for. After ten to twenty minutes the water retreats from the shore. Reefs and rocks
become visible. You start to see parts of the seabed that are usually covered. That's the last warning. Then you must head for higher ground.'

The woman didn't speak. She'd almost stopped listening. A few minutes earlier she'd been trying to imagine what would happen if the man was telling the truth. Now she was picturing what was taking place that second.

Sveggesundet, Norway

Lund was dying of boredom. The kitchen assistant had switched on the espresso machine for her benefit and the coffee had been delicious. And despite the stormy weather and poor visibility, the view of the sea through the panoramic windows while she drank it had been amazing. But Lund found the wait unbearable.

A blast of cold air hit the room.

‘Hello, Tina.'

It was a friend of Kare's, Åke. He ran a successful boat-hire business in Kristiansund that made a lot of money in the summer.

They talked a bit about the weather. Then Åke asked, ‘So what are you doing here? Visiting Kare?'

‘That was the plan.' She smiled wryly.

Åke looked at her in surprise. ‘So where is he?'

‘It's my fault. I'm early.'

‘Give him a call, then.'

‘I've tried. Voicemail.'

‘Of course.' Åke slapped his forehead. ‘I'd forgotten. He won't have any reception.'

Lund sat up. ‘You know where he is?'

‘Sure, I was with him. We took a trip to Hauffen.'

‘The distillery?'

‘That's right. He's buying spirits. We sampled one or two, but you know Kare - he drinks less than a monk during Lent.'

‘Is he still there?'

I left him chatting with them in the cellars. You should head over. Do you know where Hauffen is?'

Lund did. The little distillery produced an excellent aquavit reserved for the Norwegian market. It was on a low plateau to the south, about ten
minutes away on foot. She could be there in two minutes by car, if she took the inland road. But somehow the thought of a short walk appealed to her. Besides, she'd sat in the jeep long enough already. ‘I'll walk,' she said.

‘In this weather?' Åke pulled a face. ‘Well, it's up to you. Don't blame me if you get webbed feet.'

‘Better than putting down roots.' She stood up. ‘See you later. I'll bring him back here.'

Outside she pulled up her jacket collar, walked down to the beach and set off. On good days the distillery was clearly visible. Right now, it was just a faint grey outline through the slanting rain.

As she left the Fiskehuset behind her, she gazed out to sea. She must have been mistaken earlier. She'd thought the stony beach seemed longer than usual, but now it looked the same. No…it might be a bit smaller.

She shrugged and carried on.

When she arrived at the distillery, soaking wet, there was no one in the foyer. On the far side a wooden door stood open. Light shone up from the cellars. She went straight down the stairs. There she found two men, leaning against the barrels, chatting, each with a glass in his hand. They were the two brothers who owned the distillery - friendly old men with weatherbeaten faces. Kare was nowhere to be seen.

‘Sorry,' said one. ‘You've just missed him. He left a few minutes ago.'

‘Did he come on foot?' she asked. Maybe she could catch up with him.

‘In the van. He bought a few bottles. Too many to carry.'

‘Was he going back to the restaurant?'

‘That's where he said he was heading.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Hey, hang on a minute. You can't visit a distillery and leave before you've had a drink.'

‘It's very kind of you, but—'

‘He's right, you know,' his brother said eagerly.

‘I—'

‘Come on, you'll catch your death out there. Let's get a drop of something warm inside you first.'

‘OK' she said. Just one.

The brothers grinned triumphantly. The war of attrition had been won.

Shetland Islands, Great Britain

The helicopter was preparing to land. Johanson looked out of the window. They'd just flown over the cliffs, following the coastline in the direction of the little landing-field where Karen Weaver would be waiting. Towards the east of the island the cliffs sloped downwards to end in a sweeping bay. From there the landscape was flat. An endless succession of sand and pebble beaches separated the water from barren moorland and long rolling hills with roads etched between them like scars.

The helipad, which was rather a grand term for the rough circle of gravel surrounded by grey-green moorland, belonged to a marine research station whose crooked, windswept huts housed half a dozen scientists. A narrow road led down from the hills and stopped at a jetty. Johanson couldn't see any boats. Two jeeps and a rusty VW bus were parked next to the buildings. Weaver was working on an article on seals, which was why she'd chosen the spot. She lived in one of the huts, accompanied the scientists on their expeditions and joined in on their research dives.