The War of Immensities

by Barry Klemm

  Tamiko was pacing, warming to the task. Wagner watched her. Maybe they should just have sex and forget it.

  “Next time, he escapes from police during transfer from police station to here.”

  “He hid in the trunk of the police car.”

  “That’s right. They again search far and wide but he is right under their noses. Still in the car that he was supposed to have escaped from.”

  “Go on.”

  “He slips away later, and goes home to his family and is picked up with them. Brought here again, but then vanishes.”

  Wagner thought about it. He was beginning to get the point.

  “Go on.”

  “He escapes from here. This place is on top of a hill and heavily guarded. There is no way to escape from here. Yet he does...”

  “Or did he?”

  “Precisely.”

  “You mean he’s been here...”

  “Yesterday, the cook is very angry. He accuses us girls of stealing from his kitchen. As if we would...”

  Wagner smiled, picking up the telephone. “Captain. I want two dozen men here immediately with jemmies and picks and saws.”

  He winked at Tamiko while he listened to the usual protests concerning the shortage of available men.

  “We’re going to demolish this house. He is hiding here somewhere.”

  *

  In a room opposite the Project Earthshaker Control Room, as it had become called, Thyssen slept for fifteen hours and when he awoke the time for the link was drawing near. By then the control room was flooded with people, many of whom Thyssen recognised as former students, all of whom he treated that way. Four major scientists and three military officers, a senator and a number of bureaucratic figures, all bowed to Thyssen’s authority with varying degrees of reluctance, as he took them through the procedure before them.

  In fact the man in charge of the control room was not Glen Palenski, but a rather dour man named Cornelius, whom Joe Solomon would have immediately recognised. He was a long thin man, bald and white haired, bent in the middle and with a shuffling gait. But despite that there was an elegance about him, and his voice seemed to assume that he would always be obeyed instantly.

  He was appointed to command of the project directly by the President, but his actual credentials remained dubious. Certainly, he shut up and listened whenever Thyssen spoke, and if there was doubt, confirmed orders with a slight jerk of his head and silenced protests with a fractional lowering of his eyebrows.

  Brian watched all this with growing concern, but that he realised was possibly only because he knew the link was coming on.

  “That dude is going to get rid of you, Harley, as soon as he reckons he’s got everything he needs from you.”

  “Yeah, I know. But they’re listening to me now. I can’t ask more than that.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “Nobody knows who he is.”

  It was time for Brian to be elsewhere. A good testing time. He proposed to Cornelius that he ought to be given a jet and flown to the focal point since that was where he was going anyway. When Brian expected his request to be denied, Cornelius emphatically agreed. But he was reluctant to leave Harley alone here.

  “If they were going to dump me, they would have as soon as I gave them Drongo,” Harley assessed.

  “Maybe they don’t trust you still, Harley. Maybe they think you gave them the wrong data.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Brian,” Harley said. “It’s their problem to get it right from now on. It’s possible. I wanted no more than this.”

  17. THE MARGIN FOR ERROR

  On the huge global board, the course of the others was continually plotted. Andromeda’s pilgrims would turn west when the link came and they were excellently positioned for it, for before them in that direction was a broad lightly forested plain. A problem in The Congo Republic was the many tributaries of the Congo which had generally kept them to the road—now they would leave it for a time but calculations suggested that they would be able to reach another road before they encountered the next river.

  Meanwhile, a vast flood of Americans was flowing into Brazil from Bakersfield, as the Air Force stepped up it operations. Those who could not leave immediately or did not wish to had generally moved northward to Fresno for their journey would be another convoy, heading almost directly south.

  Of greater concern were the millions in Indonesia, where all available boats were being provided, under the direction of the US and Indonesia navies. The shortest route to the focal point for them was the south polar one, which was completely impracticable, but the plan was to transport all those that reached the south coast of Sulawesi under their own steam across the Timor Sea to the north coast of Western Australia where camps could be set up in more accessible circumstances than in their own ruined country.

  Iran had even greater problems, where little assistance could be offered the pilgrims and their path lay due west, toward Iraq, and Turkey, where they would be most unwelcome, and therefore the less distance they were able to cover, the better. Since their movement would be primarily on foot over rugged mountain terrain, it could be reasonably hoped that they could care for themselves. Information from the region remained slight, but although all three countries had made troop movements to control the pilgrimage, there had been no word of massacres at this stage.

  In Russia, the Buryats would do whatever they usually did, for still there was no information and in fact denial of their existence.

  The base in Brazil presented its own problems, were a vast tent city was growing up on a huge plain in the middle of nowhere. There were two great Ranchos that they had taken over and one of these possessed a reasonable airstrip, good enough for C-130s but not for jets. The nearest International Airport was Brasilia, over a thousand kilometres away and the pilgrims from America and elsewhere were transferred into smaller aircraft there to complete the trip. Fuel was a continual problem, as was food although there was abundant water, but the promise of a cure for their condition allowed the pilgrims to endure the temporary hardship with a minimum of complaint. The difficulty was getting enough of them to the focal point in time.

  But most of the agitation surrounded The Yellow Pimpernel, who had been discovered resident under the floorboards of the House of the Golden Carp with only hours to spare. Without him, the base camp in Brazil would have been more than a thousand kilometres from the focal point and outside the Zone and Harley’s plan would have completely unravelled. Tranquillised and strapped down to a stretcher, the little man was rushed to the airport and into the air. Time was by then so short that, although east was the shortest route to Brazil, they flew west and therefore into the circle formed by the extremities of the linkage, and therefore secured Harley’s predicted location.

  “Are you sure you got them all?” Harley asked Wagner by radio.

  “Yes. There was an old man who said he would die and he died—we don’t know how. So there’s just me and Katsumi and we passed over Lake Baykal a few minutes ago. So we’re inside the circle.”

  “Thanks Kevin.”

  “No problem, Harley.”

  Then the link occurred. At first it seemed as expected, but within half an hour, a message came through by telephone to one of the control room silent numbers.

  “Professor Thyssen, there’s a call for you... I think.”

  “You think?”

  “The line is terrible and he’s very hard to understand.”

  Thyssen hurried over to the girl who had taken the call and spoke into the receiver.

  “Thyssen.”

  “Ah, Professor. It is Fabrini.”

  “Yes. What is it?”

  “They all want to go. They want to pick up and leave here.”

  The line was bad and Fabrini’s state of agitation didn’t help, but Thyssen did not need to ask him to repeat this message, he simply turned and considered the board.

  “Which way, Fabrini. Which way are they going?”

&nbs
p; He spoke every word individually and clearly and a silence had fallen upon the room.

  “West. They want to go west. At least, this is what I think. You want a compass bearing?”

  “If you can do it.”

  “I think, maybe, 240 degree. Maybe more. Is west by south west, I think.”

  “Shit,” Thyssen said.

  He stood for a time with his hand over the mouthpiece and his head bowed, deep in thought. Even so, those near him could hear Fabrini chattering. The trance broke after fifteen almost unendurable seconds. Thyssen hit the conference phone button to allow everyone in the room to hear.

  “...and they are all here and they say to me, we must go. We must go.”

  “Okay, Fabrini, listen carefully. What’s out there?”

  “Many people. Everybody...”

  “No. I mean, how is the terrain in the direction they want to go?”

  “Ahh... Is flat. I think... I have not been there very far, but I think flat and open for as far as I have seen.”

  “Okay. Let them go. Tell them to walk. Tell them to take supplies for three days walk. Ask them to go as slowly as they can tolerate. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I think. As slow as they tolerate. I understand.”

  “It may be just a slight adjustment. But let’s be prepared. I want you to let me know if anything changes. Okay.”

  “Okay, okay. I understand.”

  The silence continued to hang over the room and the connection was broken, and Thyssen again considered the board. His eyes fell on a single location and he nodded imperceptibly.

  “Make contact with Brian, Joe, Andromeda and Wagner. I want to talk to each of them as soon as you raise them.

  *

  There was a highway under construction running south from Baltimore for about thirty miles and there Joe Solomon was road testing his new motorised wheelchair, escorted by two FBI agents on bicycles.

  “I do seem to be wandering off toward the left slightly, Harley,” he laughed. “I just thought it was the wheel alignment but maybe you’re right.”

  *

  Andromeda marched amid her flock, and when Harley made contact, she paused to discuss the direction with Captain Maynard. Maynard was able to use Omega navigational positioning to pinpoint their line of march exactly.

  “No. We don’t seem to have any deviation at all, Harley,” Andromeda said. “Why? What’s the problem?”

  *

  Lorna, of course, was no longer a sleeper, but all those about her were.

  “There seems to be a lot of uncertainty here, Harley. If there is a variation, it can’t be much.”

  “Not at that distance, maybe.”

  *

  In their respective aircraft, Wagner and Brian were able to consult their pilots and determine direction precisely. Wagner, in a JAL 747, was over Turkey by then, and reported there was no variation. But like Andromeda, they too were heading west.

  Brian was a different story, He was invited to the cockpit of his commercial flight and directed the pilot onto the exact course. Being over Mexico and heading south, the effect was far more measurable.

  “You’re right, Harley. We’re off to the left by a few degrees.”

  Harley was already leaning over a woman who could use the computer to plot the data accurately. The focal point had moved, about four hundred kilometres toward the Andes.

  “How could this happen, Harley?” Brian wanted to know.

  The new position provided its own answer.

  “The Buryats. They’re gone?”

  “How do you mean, gone?” Glen Palenski asked.

  “Don’t ask me. Ask the Russians.”

  “You sure they ever existed? They never admitted it.”

  “We used them to plot the focal point several times in the past. They had to have been there then. Now they aren’t.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “Maybe the Ruskies did some quarantine with extreme prejudice.”

  Cornelius now stepped in, as if finally assuming the command that was always obviously his. “They wouldn’t. They aren’t that barbaric.”

  Thyssen paused for a moment to glare at him. “Oh no. Remember that story you bastards spread about the contagion of the Shastri Effect.”

  “No one here spread any such story.”

  “No. Of course not. Whatever the reason, 190 Buryats have gone out of existence, and that screws us up completely.”

  “Maybe we can get Wagner’s plane to turn around and go back, and that will drag the focal point back with him,” Glen suggested.

  Thyssen was impressed. But when they checked, they discovered that by the time the plane landed, refuelled and returned far enough to outflank Andromeda’s pilgrims, there would be too little time left to make a significant difference.

  “Still, tell them to try,” Thyssen said.

  “And there’s a big storm on their tail that they’ll probably have to go around,” the operator added, to quell Thyssen’s last hopes.

  “Naturally,” Thyssen breathed.

  Cornelius and Glen Palenski exchanged a questioning glance and plainly neither of them was able to provide the other with the answer. Certainly, Thyssen’s annoyance was excessive, given the situation.

  Cornelius said warily. “I know this means that a lot of them will miss the chance to be cured but I don’t see how...”

  “No, you wouldn’t, would you,” Thyssen bit back at him.

  But even he could see he was being unreasonable about this. He caught himself, took a breath, and turned back to the board.

  “Is the link important for some other reason, Harley?” Glen asked with equal care.

  “No. No. I’m just tired, I suppose. And sending all those people all that way—for nothing...”

  “You couldn’t have known.”

  “I probably should have guessed.”

  “And perhaps your Mr. Fabrini will be able to slow them down enough to keep a good proportion of them in the Zone,” Glen added.

  “Perhaps,” Harley sighed.

  “Which reminds me,” Cornelius said slowly. “I’ve been wanting to have a word with you about Mr. Fabrini...”

  Thyssen turned then, his fury fully restored. The glare he directed at Cornelius was almost enough to strike him a physical blow. “Just who the hell are you, Cornelius?”

  “As it happens, I am a Special Adviser to the President on matters of national emergency.”

  “NCA.”

  “Classified. However, you can get verification of my credentials from the President any time you feel you need it.”

  “And what is your capacity here?”

  “I am instructed to protect the US tax-payer’s investment in Project Earthshaker.”

  “So you are in charge.”

  “Technically, in a bureaucratic sense, perhaps. But my orders are specific. I am to do what you tell me, and facilitate to the best of my ability any anything you need. I think that puts you in charge, Professor.”

  “I think that puts President Grayson in charge, Mr. Cornelius.”

  “Please, call me John.”

  “Might as well. Otherwise I’d have to call you Corny.”

  “You better get some sleep now, Professor. When you wake, we ought to have complete models of the likely effects in Brazil. I’d like you to be able to look them over and offer any suggestions.”

  Over the following hours, Thyssen considered the outcomes from the models. By that time, Brian had flown over the exact focal point, which proved to be 437 kilometres further away from the Andes from the original anticipated position. The pilgrims were proceeding that way, but there was still a reasonable chance that all of them would be inside the Zone when the event occurred—depending on how close the model was to the actual location. Brian had continued on to take charge of the scene, much to the apparent relief of Cornelius, who undoubtedly was somewhat uncomfortable with the idea of a fugitive from a murder charge being in control.

  Once due
allowance for error had been made, Thyssen pumped the flight plan into the Orion’s onboard computer, and advised Felicity that he had done so.

  “How are you bearing up to captivity, Harley?”

  “I’m a pretty tame beast, Fee. You know that. They’ve given me all these nice new toys to play with. That’ll keep me pacified.”

  “Yes. Brian told me all about it. Is it true we lost the Buryats?”

  “Looks that way. The western boundary of the link was on Wagner’s last Japanese, in midair over Turkey at the time and using that as a base, we’ve confirmed the position that Brian gave us.”

  “Bastards. How could they kill all those people?”

  “Maybe they all died of natural causes, Felicity. Maybe there were fewer of them than we were told. Or maybe they were all moved to some point further east...”

  “Beyond Turkey? Are you kidding?”

  “Yeah. I know. Listen, Fee. Once its safe, I want you to get in and sort out the affected pilgrims first, if we have any. If we can use Lorna’s experience as a guide, they should only be unconscious for a few minutes. They’ll need to be picked up first.”

  “Yes. I understand. Is the Brazilian Government doing anything about the Indians and peasants in the region?”

  “No. They’re too remote, and it’s too late to organise a proper evacuation.”

  “So I’m going to have the same sort of mess that I had in Sulawesi to puzzle my way through.”

  “Well, at least you’ll be experienced this time.”

  “Sure Harley. You take care now.”

  “You too Fee.”

  One by one, Thyssen spoke to each of his team, to ensure they were ready. There was plenty of time, and they were all under control, but he found the countdown that was now running was unnerving him. Then the leaders from the various teams in the control room gathered and aired their final concerns.

  “Explain, if you will, Professor, the likely effects we can expect in Brazil.”