We Float Upon a Painted Sea (2 page)

“I heard you were dancing through
that
one?”

“Was Lachlan telling tales again? Where is he anyway?” Donald MacNeil pointed below to the deck. “He’s sleeping off his hangover. I thought I was mad for the drink.”

The ceilidh had been in full swing when the tremor happened, not that they would have felt it over the sound stamping feet and live music playing at the village hall. When news came in of the wave hitting the west coast of the island, they were taken by surprise. There had been no warning. No siren. Lennox was on duty at the time and he came up to the hall to let him know what had happened. Even though it was getting dark, and he was worse for wear with the drink, he had wanted to take a cutter out to conduct search and rescue operations, but orders had come in from the Ministry of Defence and Surveillance (MoDs) that they were coordinating the response. Considering how drunk he was, it came as a relief.

McIntyre drew a critical eye across the lobster boat and said,

“I hope you’re not thinking of taking her out, particularly if you’re only just settling in a new set of eyes?”

“After the amount of Poitín I heard you drunk last night, my eyes will be in a better state than yours this fine morning. Anyway, we’re just picking up some crab pots close to the shore - not that we’re expecting anything.” McIntyre grimaced and then said,

“It wouldn’t be a new batch of Poitín from Barra wouldn’t it?” Donald MacNeil grinned playfully and replied,

“God no Mac. That type of activity would be highly illegal and what with all the Feds coming in on that helicopter this morning, only a fool would...”

“How do you know about Feds arriving?”

“English Pete told me.”

“All the same we don’t know the full extent of yesterday’s damage.”

McIntyre recalled an alcohol infected memory from the previous night when one of the locals called the office to say that, after the tremor, he could see attack drones in the night time sky. He wanted to know if the island was under threat of invasion. The village was awash with rumours that the wave may have been manufactured – induced somehow, but not on account of hydraulic fracturing. Donald MacNeil disturbed his train of thought. He pointed to the sea,

“I see some of the rigs took a battering and English Pete told me that a ship was wrecked at Loch a Ghlinne?” McIntyre responded,

“Aye, English Pete seems to know more about what’s going on this island than I do. Anyway, Jansen and Lennox are up there now taking a look. We’ll know more by the end of the day, when they get back. The west coast took the brunt of it. There’s a lot of debris floating out on the ocean. It’s not safe.”

“I’m heading to Boreray. How’s it looking down there?”

“The forecast is for a force 7 gale. I really shouldn’t let you…” Donald MacNeil swatted the air as if to dismiss his protests. He said,

“I’ll just turn the bow into any big waves and ride them. That’s what I always do. I might see you later, down the Puffin Bar?”

“Aye, you might but I would rather you wait…” Donald MacNeil put the engine in gear, cupped his hand to his ear, gesturing that he couldn’t hear McIntyre over the mechanical sound.

The lobster boat passed out of the floating harbour leaving acrid fumes dispersing in the air. McIntyre coughed. He waited and watched as the boat made its way out to open sea. The islanders were originally from the mainland, hand picked by all accounts for being adaptable, but they were also hardy people, he thought. Many of them were contracted to bioengineer the island and make it fertile; more arrived to work on the micro-climate control project, the biomes, but curiously they all decided to stay; most likely to escape the troubles back home. The island seemed to be on the periphery of the modern world: the pace of change was slower and they had never experienced the same problems with drugs, crime and pollution as they had on the mainland. Folk from the city fretted about their diet, credit card debt and not meeting work targets, but although island life wasn’t without its stresses, concerns revolved around a more palpable world - the sea, fishing, the weather and good Poitín were the main topics in the Island’s local pub.

City dwellers had generally cared little for nature, unless they were inconvenienced by the winter snows. They were surrounded by a sterile environment of concrete and tinted glass, thought McIntyre. They felt detached from the living planet and not part of it, but the floods had affected all, regardless of where they lived and the energy crisis of the late 21st Century had arrived at everyone’s front door. The military had returned and the search for methane hydrate and shale gas had brought more strangers to the shores of the island. The hydraulic fracturing companies had given promises of wealth and economic prosperity, but the islanders made it clear they weren’t interested. Changes were made to legislation and the industry came nevertheless. Democracy was an illusion, thought McIntyre.

When the tremors first occurred the natives would curse and mutter expletives under their breaths, but now they were part of everyday life, something they reluctantly accepted. There were some jobs but not as many as had been promised. A drilling accident had polluted the sea around the island with hydraulic fracturing fluid and the local marine life started to die back - the production company had denied responsibility. Later, the fishing industry collapsed and the local fish processing factory went into administration. Some locals found jobs eking out a living from the land or the black market, but those that could, took jobs on the rigs, rather than return to the mainland, where tales of flooding, food shortages and street rioting were rife.

McIntyre watched the lobster boat hurdle a large swell.  He held his breath and then gasped in relief when Donald MacNeil waved to him in the distance. Smiling, he returned to the Harbour Master’s office. He examined the Commandant’s face. He was expecting his skin to be tanned after his holiday, but it was a shade of grey only described on a painter's chart. Finally, McIntyre said,

“One of the local fishermen...

“Fishermen?” interrupted the Commandant, shifting his eyes to the ceiling, “I come from a long tradition of fishermen.”

“You mean your family own a salmon farming company in Harris – it hardly makes you the Old Man of the Sea does it? ”

“I know a fisherman when I see one, and they are not fishermen.”

“Anyway, the fishing industry collapsed since our new fracking friends moved into the area, so what else are they to do apart from picking up the odd crab?” The Commandant frowned and said,

“As long as that's all they are doing. I heard reports that some fishermen have been unloading the odd crate of Poitín with their catch of the day.” 

“I wouldn't know about that, but as I said, times are tough with subsistence fishing since aquaculture squeezed them out the market.”

“Ok Mac, if I wanted a lecture on the fishing industry, I’d call someone at the Marine Conservation Alliance.”

“The MCA got shut down years ago Saul, or didn’t you hear?” The Commandant looked at the antique clock hanging on the wall.

“I know, I was just saying. Can you get on with your updates?”

“Aye, if you like, but I keep getting the feeling I’m repeating myself here.” The Commandant sighed,

“I don’t like virtual presence technology. I don’t feel comfortable communicating with a collection of shape-shifting nano-bots. I like it face to face.”

“Well, that’s true. All digital data is analysed by someone these days, but as long as you have nothing to hide, then what’s the problem right?” said McIntyre sarcastically. The Commandant replied tartly,

“Let’s not revisit that old chestnut. I wanted to see you anyway.”

“Why?”

“You’re family. You’re married to my sister.”

“We’re divorced Saul, or have you forgotten?”

“We don’t recognise the concept of divorce, but we’ll talk about what you did to my sister another time. Continue with the updates.”

“As I said to your 3D projection, we were unable to shed any light onto why so many naval vessels were present in that area. Usually, we are given prior warning if there’s going to be any exercises, but not this time. The satellites are down and the Lidar surveillance system needs calibrated, but strangest of all, the MoDs have instated a
no-go zone
with a forty mile radius of St Kilda. I was put through to someone called Myron, a big MoDs cheese I believe. He was a cagey bastard, Saul.”

“Mac, I don’t mind you calling me by my first name in private, as we are here,” the Commandant waved his hand as if to introduce the room, “but for future reference, please address me as
Sir
when we are in company. You do understand the chain of command?”

“Aye, anyway, Saul, as I said earlier, Myron at the MoDs said there were a few technical hitches with the satellites thermal imaging capabilities and we should sit tight until they come back online. He said MoDs will be coordinating search and rescue operations for now. I told him he was full of shite and that there was no way this wave was a result of a fracking tremor, and if it was, the Coast Guard, and not the Military would be leading search and rescue. I asked him what he was hiding.”

“What did he say?”

“He said to follow orders or he would pull some strings and I would be cleaning out public toilets back in Glasgow.”

“And what did you say to that?”

“I might have called him a wee piss weasel, but I couldn’t confirm that.” The Commandant brought his fist down on the desk.

“This isn’t normal protocol Rob," he wailed, “this Myron boy is keeping the Coastguard out of the loop. Nothing ever happens out here in this backwater, and now we have a natural disaster, we’re treated like lepers and told to stay away.” McIntyre expanded the 3D map of St Kilda to display more of the British Isles and beyond. He pointed to the fault line in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean stretching north to Iceland and said,

“It’s obviously not a natural disaster Saul. I mean, there’s no history of natural seismic activity in the Outer Hebrides. There is a fault line running the mid-Atlantic ridge but no plate boundary subduction zones. It’s likely to be related to shale extraction on an existing stressed fault line, or possibly a military operation. If was a natural occurrence, then it wouldn't be subject to a news blackout.”

“Whatever it is, I smell bull ploppy.”

“Bull ploppy?” stated McIntyre, wrestling with a blossoming grin.

“Its something the wife says instead of saying shite. She even made me a frickin swear jar! I need to put a coin in the jar every time I frickin swear, can you frickin believe that?” The Commandant dropped a coin in a glass jar and looked up at McIntyre.

“Have I said something that amuses you Mac?” McIntyre shook his head. Fighting the urge to laugh, he said,

“I don’t even know if
frickin
is an actual swearword Saul?”

“Maybe its not a swear word in your house. Sorry, you don’t live in a house do you, you live in a caravan infested with earwigs.”

“Only since your sister threw me out – it’s not through choice. Anyway, its a pod, not a caravan and they’re not so bad once you get used to them, the pod that is, not the earwigs. They’re wee frickers as you would say.”

“As I said, we’ll talk about Morag later. What about the new lad? Wasn’t he due to start today?”

“As I told your virtual-self last night, he was getting the ferry from Ullapool yesterday, but he didn’t show. I hope he’s alright.”

“Was he on the new hydrogen cell boat?”

“It’s not hydrogen fuelled Saul, it’s a reactor that electrolyses sea water into…”  The Commandant frowned and said, 

“You think yourself so intellectually superior don't you? If I wanted a lecture on marine propulsion, I’d call the Royal Engineers. Well, whatever it does, the prototype ship has gone and taken the new technology to the bottom of the frickin Atlantic Ocean. Is there anything more I need to know?”

“There are a few other complications. According to one of my contacts in Norway, a Green Movement ship tried to disrupt a Russian drilling operation in the Arctic. A few Hedge Monkeys got arrested and one got shot, but the Earth Liberation Front captured several Russian security personnel and ransomed them in exchange for activist prisoners. The GM Catamaran fled here, to St Kilda, with a Russian surveillance ship picking up their trail. But get this; the Russian ship was hit by the wave when entering shallower waters.” The Commandant flushed with irritation. He reached inside his trouser pocket and took out a coin. He put it in the swear jar.

“What the frick have the ELF got to do with this?”

“They’ve upped their game. I
suppose
this is the fruits of their labour.” McIntyre emphasised his use of the word
suppose,
knowing it was one of several words the Commandant hated. He failed to take the bait this time. McIntyre continued,” They also sabotaged a Russian oil rig and destroyed a military surveillance base so they couldn't be followed. I
suppose
you need to admire their balls?”

“You sound as if you approve of what they did?”