Fast Ice

by Clive Cussler

  As the seconds passed, many of the red and blue indicators changed to gray.

  “Are we losing something?” Rudi asked.

  “No,” Hiram said. “The computer is normalizing the data. It’s determined that those marks are in tune with the surrounding landform, taking into account snowdrifts, hills and crevasses the way the Navy’s program accounts for waves, currents and tides.”

  By the five-minute mark, the search grid was ninety percent gray. Only a mountainous area devoid of snow and a series of thin blue lines, running in haphazard directions, remained colored. “Is that a signal or just noise?”

  Hiram leaned forward and studied the data on a laptop directly in front of him. “Hidden depressions in the snow,” Hiram said. “Fault lines in the ice and cracks in the glaciers. Basically, you’re looking at a map of fissures and crevasses. Most of which are probably covered with snow.”

  “Make sure you save that data,” Rudi said. “Might come in handy once Kurt and his team are on the ground.”

  Hiram nodded and typed an instruction into the computer.

  “If the blue dots indicate unaccounted-for microdepressions, what do the red dots tell us?” Rudi asked. “I notice there are fewer and fewer of them as the picture fills in.”

  “Red indicates a surface feature out of place with its surroundings,” Hiram said. “There are so few of them because the software blends the surface together and finds a consistent landform. When the Navy uses this, the red points indicate an inconsistent rise in the water level. That’s the signature of the submarine moving toward the sensor. Blue indicates it’s moving away.”

  Rudi nodded. If Ryland had built a steel pipeline and buried it under the snow, a long red line would soon appear on the screen. And if he’d used geothermal water to melt a tunnel through the glacier as Kurt suggested, the microscopic settling of the ice above it would become noticeable as a thin blue streak.

  The truth finally appeared. A long blue line that led directly to the sea. With only a single red area at its origination point.

  “Nothing in nature draws a perfectly straight line,” Rudi insisted.

  “There are two small detours,” Hiram pointed out, “but they’re consistent with a canal or a pipeline dodging around mountainous terrain.”

  “The line stops about twenty miles from the ocean,” Rudi said. “If it is Ryland, does that mean he’s not finished?”

  “Impossible to tell,” Hiram admitted. “The line terminates near a glacial fault zone. Might mean they ran into problems. Or they might have found a meltwater route directly to the bay.”

  “Meaning they could already be pumping the algae.”

  Yaeger nodded.

  “Worst-case scenario,” Rudi said. “Antarctic glaciers in the twilight of the southern summer would be at maximum melt-off.”

  “He’s thought this through,” Hiram said. “I’ll give him that.”

  “We’re going to stop him. Stop him at the source,” Rudi said. “Precisely as Kurt envisioned in the first place.”

  “Which source?”

  “That red spot. That’s got to be a control unit or a pumping station. If we take it out, the rest of the pipeline is irrelevant.”

  “You might be guessing here,” Yaeger warned.

  “Now that we know where to look, I can easily get confirmation.” Rudi picked up the phone and dialed an internal extension. A voice answered on the first ring.

  “Remote Sensing,” the voice said. “This is Lee.”

  Lee Garland oversaw NUMA’s remote sensing and communications wing. Garland called himself a satellite wrangler because he was constantly repositioning any number of NUMA’s satellites, most of which were designed to scan the oceans or to act as secure communication relays.

  “Lee, this is Rudi. How long would it take you to get a high-resolution pass of the Holtzman Glacier and the Fimbul Ice Shelf?”

  “Fimbul?” Lee said.

  “Correct,” Rudi said. “It’s a remote glacial area in Antarctica, not very well known. It’s on the opposite side of the continent from McMurdo and the Ross Ice Shelf.”

  “Yeah,” Garland said with a strange tone to his voice. “I know where it is. Shouldn’t take long at all. We have a weather sat transitioning to a south polar orbit right now.”

  “Weather sat?” Rudi repeated. “Why would you be moving one of those over the pole?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Garland replied. “There’s a huge storm brewing down there. They’re calling it Superstorm Jack. It’s going to sweep into the Southern Ocean tomorrow and bury half of Antarctica in a weeklong blizzard.”

  “Which half?” Rudi asked.

  “The half with the Holtzman Glacier and the Fimbul Ice Shelf on it.”

  “Of course,” Rudi said. “Get that satellite pass done before the storm hits. I know those weather sats aren’t designed to pick up small targets on the ground. I need you to remedy that. Fine-tune the optics. Change the software. Give the damn thing a pair of glasses, if you have to. I need a clear image.”

  “There are a few tricks I can use,” Garland told him.

  “Good. Hiram will be sending you the coordinates we need scanned.”

  “I’ll watch for them,” Garland said.

  Rudi acknowledged and hung up, then offered Yaeger a grim look. “If Ryland’s plan is operational, or close to it, a week is an awful long time for him to be pumping microbes into the sea.”

  Yaeger offered a counterpoint. “And if his plan isn’t up and running yet, the storm might delay him long enough for us to put more resources into play.”

  Rudi shook his head. “Ryland’s operation is mostly underground. That storm isn’t going to have much effect on his plans.”

  “Which makes this situation even more precarious,” Yaeger said.

  Rudi agreed. “After you get those coordinates over to Lee, I’ll need you to build me a computer model simulating Ryland’s plan, his chances of success and the effect of us getting there a week late. Put everything we’ve learned in it.”

  “To what end?”

  “Superstorm Jack just made putting boots on the ground a lot more dangerous,” Rudi said. “If I’m going to order Kurt and his team to take the risk, I need to be sure it’s worth it.”

  40

  CHINESE FISHING TRAWLER

  SEVEN HUNDRED MILES NORTH-NORTHWEST OF THE FIMBUL ICE SHELF

  Kurt stood on the aft deck of the Chinese trawler, squinting into the spitting rain. Overcast skies and mist had cut the visibility to less than five miles, while heavy swells rolled in one after another.

  Because of their size, the waves appeared to be moving in slow motion, building as they approached, lifting the trawler upward and then letting it down gently as they passed on by. Waves weren’t a concern at the moment. Kurt didn’t need a weather report to tell him things were going to get worse.

  Hearing an approaching helicopter and then spotting its landing lights through gloom, Kurt stepped from his sheltered spot and moved out into the rain. He had a radio in one hand and a powerful flashlight in the other. He wore yellow rain gear from head to toe.

  He called Joe on the radio. “Have you in sight, amigo. Hope you can see me. I’m waving a light and dressed up like the Gorton’s Fisherman.”

  A scratchy transmission delivered Joe’s response. “Don’t worry, Kurt, we’ve got you on the FLIR and the UV channel. I can see you plain as day. What I don’t see is a helipad to land on. I’m assuming you have something up your sleeve. But you might want to share it because I have a couple nervous passengers up here.”

  The Chinese trawler was a processing ship, which meant it was longer and larger than a standard trawler. But Joe was right, it didn’t come with a helipad.

  “I’ve taken a blowtorch to the midships booms,” Kurt said. “We tossed all that gear over the side so
you would have plenty of space to land. We’ve welded a few plates to the deck to keep things level.”

  The helicopter descended through the clouds, closing in on the trawler and then easing up beside it in formation.

  To the consternation of the Chinese captain, who remained aboard, Kurt, along with Zama and a few of his men, had cut away anything that might have interfered with the helicopter’s approach and landing. The result was a clean-looking ship, lighter and more stable, but with a few metal stumps sticking up here and there.

  Flat steel plates and several layers of plywood had been welded to and hammered into the deck where the Jayhawk was supposed to touch down.

  As Kurt stood by, waving the flashlight back and forth, the Jayhawk hovered beside the ship, riding the wind like a seagull.

  Joe’s voice returned over the radio. He sounded more irritated than pleased. “Under normal conditions, I’d say no problem. But these are far from normal conditions.”

  “I figured you might need a little help,” Kurt said. “I rigged up a bear trap for you. Drop the centerline down and I’ll reel you in.”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  In the pilot’s seat of the helicopter, Joe worked the controls like a virtuoso. His hands moved independently, seeming to do three or four things at once. He eased the helicopter sideways, fighting the swirling air currents and keeping the craft level as the trawler dropped and then rose back toward them.

  In position over the ship, he looked downward through the clear footwells.

  One moment the helicopter appeared to be steady and hovering eighty feet above the ship with its landing gear aligned evenly with the flat deck. Seconds later the trawler would be rolling into a trough, the deck tilting twenty degrees to horizon and the ship itself dropping away. Thirty seconds after that, the trawler would come rising back up, looking as if it were going to hit the Jayhawk and knock it out of the sky.

  And while Joe was cool and calm, his passengers—who had no control over the situation—were close to terrified.

  “I can’t watch,” Gamay said, looking around the cabin and then out into the distance.

  “We’ll be all right,” Paul said. “Though I’m going to need a field dressing if you keep digging your nails into my arm like that.”

  “Sorry,” she said, releasing him.

  With Kurt flashing the light at him, Joe flipped a switch and dropped the Jayhawk’s centerline cable. It was weighted at the end and reeled outward with the force of gravity.

  Down on the trawler, Kurt used a boat hook to grab the cable and then hauled it back toward the center of the landing zone. He threaded the cable underneath a steel bar and then dragged it toward a winch and hooked it in.

  Pulling the radio out of his pocket, he notified Joe. “I have you locked in. Maintain a hover and I’ll pull you down.”

  “Roger,” Joe said. “Get us close and I’ll cut the power when you come up to the top of the next swell.”

  Kurt activated the winch and the cable began to drag the helicopter downward. All Joe had to do was maintain side-to-side control and avoid a rotor strike if the ship tilted more than expected.

  They rode one swell down and then up. By the time they began dropping into the next trough, the helicopter was only thirty feet above the deck. Kurt paused the winch as they dropped down, engaging it again as they came up the face of the next wave.

  The helicopter moved closer . . . ten feet . . . five . . . three . . . Joe throttled back and the wheels of the Jayhawk touched down firmly, denting the temporary plating beneath them.

  Kurt immediately pulled up the slack, pinning the helicopter tight to the deck. With the bear trap locked, he ran to the Jayhawk. He slid the side door open as Joe shut down the engine. “Make sure you set the parking brake,” he shouted.

  “We’re going to need more than that if this storm gets worse,” Joe said.

  “I have some straps to tie it down with,” Kurt said.

  As Joe acknowledged Kurt with a wave, Paul and Gamay made for the exit. Gamay reached the door first. Kurt had never seen her look so green.

  “You arranged this,” she said to Kurt. “I ought to throw up all over you.”

  Kurt grinned and helped her step down. “I’m wearing rain gear that’s spent years being used in a fish processing bay. It couldn’t possibly smell any worse.”

  Gamay’s nose wrinkled. “Oh, God,” she said, picking up the aroma. “That’s awful.”

  She headed toward the bulkhead with a hand over her mouth.

  Paul came down next. “At least you’ve gotten her mind off the terrible flight,” he said. “That’s something.”

  With Paul and Gamay out of the aircraft, Joe flipped up the visor of his helmet. “You have no idea what I’ve been dealing with. While you’ve been out here on a pleasure cruise, I’ve been fighting against a passenger-led rebellion.”

  “That’s not going to be the last storm-tossed flight for any of us,” Kurt said.

  “How bad is it going to get?” Joe asked.

  “Let me put it to you this way,” Kurt said. “There’s never been a hurricane over Antarctica. You and I might get to see the first.”

  41

  NUMA HEADQUARTERS

  Rudi walked down a quiet hallway, passing empty offices and heading for the elevator. It was after midnight in Washington. Only a skeleton crew remained in the building, most of whom were camped out in the communications department, which ran twenty-four hours a day.

  Taking the elevator up several floors, Rudi found Hiram Yaeger sitting behind a computer terminal with three separate screens in front of him. The first displayed lines of code, the second showed a number of graphs, while the third displayed a live satellite view over the South Pole.

  “Glad to see I’m not the only one pulling an all-nighter,” Rudi said. “How’s it coming?”

  “Depends what you’re referring to,” Yaeger replied. He turned in his seat. “If you mean the storm, it’s going swimmingly.”

  “I have the forecast,” Rudi said, waving sheets of paper. “The storm is intensifying and continuing south. It’s being pushed by a ridge of high pressure right into Kurt’s lap.”

  Yaeger nodded. “They’re not exactly sailing in a Class 5 cutter. You sure that rust bucket of a trawler will hold together?”

  “I’m not sure at all,” Rudi said. “Which is why I need to make a go/no go decision rather soon. Is your ice age model ready to spit out a few answers?”

  “More answers than you’re going to want,” Yaeger said.

  Rudi got comfortable as Hiram checked through a few more lines of code and then initiated the program.

  “We’re guessing at some of the parameters,” Yaeger said. “But based on Yvonne’s Snowball Earth dissertation and the claims Ryland made to his associates—which were, basically, mirrors of the truth—this is what it looks like.”

  Hiram hit enter and the program started to run. On one screen a world map showed temperatures decreasing sequentially as sea ice increased and snow cover lingered. Hiram narrated the effects. “One year out, it’s nothing more than a harsh winter and a cool summer. But by year two the winter is bitter and months too long in both hemispheres and the summer heat never materializes. By year three, the summer ice pack stretches south of Greenland.”

  Rudi saw the visual representation on the screen. The planet turning whiter from both poles toward the middle.

  “By year five, a third of the world’s agriculture is being impacted by a shortened growing season. Hard frosts keep people from planting and seeds from germinating. All the fresh water locked up in snow and ice. That, along with less evaporation because of colder temperatures, makes for less rain and lower growth rates once the short growing season does arrive.”

  Rudi studied the graphic representation of what Yaeger was telling him. He noted the three lines
running close together through the first five years of the chart and then diverging at year five and widening substantially thereafter. “What are these lines?”

  “Best-, average- and worst-case scenarios.”

  “Give me the best case,” Rudi said.

  “Worldwide temperature drops averaging twenty-four to thirty-nine degrees,” Yaeger said. “Canada, the northern U.S. and half of Europe end up in a frozen state akin to Siberia today. Much of Russia and northern China will become uninhabitable. A one-third drop in land-based food production by year ten, accompanied by a staggering eighty percent drop in catch rates and tonnage for sea-based food sources, caused mostly by overfishing as countries around the world attempt to make up the food deficit.”

  “Mass starvation,” Rudi said. “That’s our best-case scenario?”

  Yaeger nodded. “Even if we all stay in our frozen homelands, pile on the insulation and turn up the heat.”

  As grim as that was, it was probably too good an outcome to hope for. “What’s the midline simulation looking like?”

  “See for yourself,” Yaeger said. He tapped a button on the keyboard and the simulation resumed following the central plotline.

  As Rudi watched, the permafrost crept down the map, slowly covering the United States until it reached south of Atlanta, Nashville and Dallas.

  “Only Florida, southern Arizona and a thin sliver along the coasts will remain ice-free,” Yaeger explained. “Europe looks even worse. Everything north of Rome will be frozen tundra year-round. Only Portugal, parts of Spain and the southeast corners of the British Isles will escape and that’s only while what’s left of the Gulf Stream remains intact. It could easily die out.”

  Rudi studied the map to see how other parts of the world would be affected. Most of China would be frozen solid, buried in rapidly accumulating snowfall and advancing glaciers. By year ten, Japan was connected to the mainland by ice sheets. By year twenty, those sheets extended halfway to the Aleutians.

  South America would fare no better. Everything below Rio would look like Norway in winter. Only Africa was largely spared, though the southern third of the continent would have to endure long, harsh winters more like the climate in Alberta.