by Barry Klemm
“We anticipate an earthquake at 11.1 on the scale—the greatest magnitude ever known. We cannot be sure what arbitrary effects will arise from it. The Zone we expect to be eight hundred kilometres in diameter, with the epicentre at the base we established in the Mato Grasso. Mato Grasso City is the only large town affected and it will be evacuated. Other smaller places like Frutuoso, Diamantino and Pouso Alegra are all expected to lie just outside the Zone. So, we believe, will the largest town in the region, Cuiaba. There are about nine small settlements inside the Zone that we can do nothing about. Local population figures are not well known but we think there are about 200,000 natives living in the Zone. It’s mostly open, sparsely treed country and the damage from the earthquake itself, despite his intensity, might not be very great.
“There was an earthquake in 1994 at 8.3 on the scale just west of the location and only ten people were killed. Mostly, the problem won’t be there. The population is too sparse. In the Andes, however, there will be a different problem. The area around La Paz and Lake Titicaca seems the most vulnerable spot. There are dozens of active volcanoes in the region, hundreds of dormant, and the whole range sits on the edge of the Peru-Chile Trench. It’s all hopelessly unstable and its possible that we could get a coastal catastrophe twenty or thirty times worse than California. But that’s just speculation. We have no idea of what will happen there.
“Between the Andes and the Mato Grasso, in Bolivia, are a series of severe fault lines, and we may get a lava flood similar to the one that occurred at Lake Baikal, only on a much larger scale. That would take the pressure off the Andes and the trench, and its overall effects might not be so great. But everything for a thousand square miles will be utterly destroyed. The faults are so numerous and complex that there is no way of telling which of them is likely to be affected.”
The countdown clock ran to zero and started counting backwards. If the migration of the pilgrims was going as slowly as Thyssen hoped and most of them were still within the anticipated Zone. The countdown clock ran to minus 33 minutes, and then the seismographs went off the scale.
“Give me a reading,” Thyssen demanded.
“8.9,” came the reply.
“That can’t be right.”
“We’re confirming.”
“Get me a fix on the Zone as quick as you can.”
“Professor, I’m having trouble raising the Orion.”
“Get them. We need their confirmation.”
“They’re on the air. I just can’t raise anybody...”
Thyssen stopped what he was doing, regarded the operator involved for a moment and then looked at the map. The green dot indicated the Orion, flying north-east of the Zone. Thyssen picked up his microphone and said calmly.
“Felicity, can you hear me?”
“They’re receiving. They just aren’t answering.”
Thyssen walk briskly and punched some keys. “Come on, come on. I want that epicentre.”
“We’re getting it. It’s coming... Shit !”
On the screen before him, as well as on the board behind, a blue dotted line indicated the anticipated Zone of Influence. Now more intense blue lines began to map the actually affected area. It was far to the north. At least three hundred kilometres. The epicentre was almost at the edge of the blue circle.
“Oh no,” Thyssen said, bowing his head in dismay.
“We still can’t raise the Orion, Professor.”
“I don’t think you will,” Thyssen said grimly.
Glen was standing behind him, intently watching the board, and seeing clearly the problem. The green dot was inside the Zone, almost in the middle of it in fact.
“They’ve been caught.”
“What do you mean?” Cornelius had to ask. His voice carried too loudly in the hush that had fallen over the room.
“They’re sleepers.”
“But the plane’s still flying...”
“Automatic pilot. The crew is asleep.”
“But isn’t Dr Campbell a pilgrim...?”
“No. She never was. No one on the plane was,” Thyssen said grimly, to no one in particular. “I’m so stupid. Why didn’t I think of that? We needed a pilot who was a pilgrim to keep them safe.”
Every eye in the room watched the languid movement of the green dot, as it tracked almost imperceptibly across the board.
“We must be able to do something,” Glen insisted in continuing disbelief.
“How much fuel does the Orion have?” Thyssen asked anyone in general.
“About eight hours. I’m confirming...”
“Plot me their exact course.”
But he could see the course. It was west, toward Peru.
“One moment... I’m hooked into the onboard computer. Here it comes...”
A red line slowly began to dot its way across the screen, across the vast forest of the headwaters of the Amazon.
“Show me the limit of their range,” Thyssen demanded.
A cross was indicated, far out in the Atlantic.
“If they ditch in the sea, we might be able to pick up survivors,” Cornelius supposed.
“They’ll never make the sea,” Thyssen said. “Give me their altitude.”
“3000 feet.”
“And they have to cross the Andes.”
“Jesus.”
“Can we tap into the computer and get the automatic pilot to raise the altitude?” Glen asked.
“We can try,” the operator said.
Thyssen knew it was hopeless. There were mountains ahead higher than the Orion could fly. And there was no known means of interfering with the automatic pilot of such a vintage aeroplane.
In his mind, he saw the upwardly curved edges of Felicity’s lips when she was amused by what she heard but refused to smile. He saw her habit of brushing her non-existent fringe from her eyes, that suggested she had once had much longer hair. He saw the tears glisten in her eyes as she had looked upon the succeeding tragedies about her.
With a physical thrust of his body, he forced her from his mind. “Take it off the board...” he ordered fiercely.
“But we need...”
“I don’t want to see it. Take it off.”
The green light disappeared. A shocked silence passed through the room. Thyssen turned and called loudly. “Right, we’ve got other lives to save. Let’s get to it.”
*
The Orion flew on through the night. It would not reach Peru and the Andes until dawn. Inside the computers and sensors would be humming out their data dutifully, and in the glow of their pale lights, the domed helmets of the crew would be reflecting their arrays. Each would be sleeping in their positions, their heads bowed forward.
Felicity’s helmet would probably take on a bright red glow through the window on the plane, away to the south as if the sun had set too late and in the wrong place. The mighty fires raged in the forest as the lava spewed out of great fissures in the Earth, all along the eastern boundary of the Andes. Some volcanoes near Lake Titicaca had erupted briefly, but the large centres like La Paz had been spared. And the Orion flew on through the fiery night…
Thyssen shook his head to clear the images of horror that continually pervaded his brain, threatening his need to think with any clarity. So far there were no reports of loss of life at all, unless you counted the riders on the Orion as already dead.
Despite the errors of both the focal point and the epicentre, still all of the pilgrims had been within the Zone at the time. There was silence too from them, for about twenty nerve-racking minutes before Brian came on the line.
“Sorry about that. My radio blew out. I had to find another one.”
“What’s happening there, Brian?”
“We all went down like a sack of spuds. Then we all stood up again. I’m told a few people have been hurt but I’ve got no reports of deaths at this stage.”
“Did you experience any tremors?”
“I was asleep at the time, remember? No, there’s no sign of dama
ge here. But it looks like there’s a hell of a fire to the south of us.”
“Yeah. We think its a lava flood around Santa Cruz in Bolivia. It might be closer than a hundred kilometres to you. Get them moving back toward the base, Brian. Every helicopter in Brazil, Bolivia and Peru is on its way into your area now to start picking up casualties and sleepers.”
“Still, it looks like it worked out just the way you said, Harley.”
“No, Brian. It didn’t.”
He explained to Brian what had happened, and then contacted Lorna, Andromeda, Wagner and Joe and told them in formal sober terms. That done, he did a complete round of the operators, discussing the situation with each and gathering as clear a picture of the effects as he could.
“I have to report to the President,” Cornelius said. “What will I tell him?”
“Tell him the truth.”
“What is the truth?”
“I got it wrong.”
“You were still,” Glen had to put in, “a damned lot closer than any other prediction.”
“But it was still wrong.”
“Any idea why?”
“A guess.”
“Give me your guess.”
“Grayson isn’t going to want to hear any guess of mine.”
“Give it to me anyway.”
“Look at this.” He pointed to the map on the board. “The position of the pilgrims. The predicted position of the epicentre. The actual position of the epicentre. Notice something?”
“A straight line.”
“Perfectly aligned. Which might just be a co-incidence, but there’s a more likely explanation.”
“Which is?”
“Consider too that the magnitude of the earthquake was far less than expected. The pattern has been continual increase and Drongo insists it should have continued to be so.”
“If it was right.”
“I think it was. But something—some force—diminished the impact and deflected its position.”
“What could do that?”
Thyssen allowed a long pause before he said it.
“The pilgrims.”
*
Through the night the Orion flew on and with the coming of the dawn, the unbroken green canopy of the Amazonian forest began to emerge out of the mist. And ahead the snowy peaks of the Cordillera de los Andes began to appear ahead. By then it had picked up a tail in the form of a Peruvian Air Force FA18, that sat just below the trail of mist from the four turbo prop engines.
Throughout the night, various schemes had emerged and been discarded of how the problem might be solved. Attempts to externally manipulate the automatic pilot had been utterly unsuccessful, and although the plane was climbing slightly, it had reached only four thousand feet. Directly ahead lay Mt Huascaran, at over 22,000 feet and all the surrounding terrain was 15,000 feet or more. The position at which the Orion would hit had been minutely calculated by then and a rescue helicopter dispatched from Lima to explore the location. There was a long forested ridge in the foothills that the plane might or might not get over, a broad river valley and then a sheer 10,000 foot rock face into which it would plough head on.
“Can we shoot it down?” Glen had asked. “Here, in the valley, make it ditch in the river. There’s plenty of open space.”
“It would drop like a stone,” Captain Munro said. He was a USAF officer brought in to advise on the problem.
They had a detailed map on the monitor by then and stood around it. They were getting video pictures from the rescue helicopter. Thyssen stood in the background, his arms folded. Captain Munro outlined the scenario.
“The best chance of an outcome with survivors is if it clears the body of the ridge but clips the trees, taking out the props. It will then ditch on this down-slope, which is relatively featureless. But it will still be travelling at 400 miles per hour. It will break up and the wreckage will be scattered over a long distance. And it will still be carrying half its fuel capacity. There will be fire. But, with a lot of luck, a miracle might save one or two of them.”
“And if it clears the trees?” Glen asked.
“Then the next best option would be for the pilot of the FA18 to shot it down. It will crash in the valley. Survivors, even as a miracle, would be unlikely. But that is better than allowing it to ram into the cliff, where nothing will be recovered whatever.”
“Does the pilot know this?” Harley asked.
“Yes. And he has agreed to shoot, on our orders.”
“Brave man.”
“He understands the realities. He will try to shoot out the props in the right order. Without engines, it may glide for a short distance before the nose goes down and it slips sideways. If it hits the ground when reasonably level, there is a slight chance of survivors.”
“Will the chopper be able to stay?” Cornelius asked.
“Oh yes. We ought to have pictures right up to the crash.”
“Beautiful,” Thyssen murmured, and turned away.
They waited. There was a lot to do and it was a busy time, but they sat and they waited. About the room, there were small areas of activity as other emergencies arose. But mostly they waited and watched. The nose camera of the FA18 provided a grainy but adequate picture of the big prop-jet as it thundered on into the morning. When the pilot dipped the nose, they could see the mountains and everyone gasped.
Thyssen sat far off in a back corner with his head in his hands, not watching, not doing anything, riding the final minutes in sheer silent agony. Then the helicopter reported visual on both aircraft, and he looked up, stood, and advanced toward the large video screen on which it was displayed. People said things, foolish babbling things, words without thought, without sense, without meaning. Over the tree line of the ridge, the two small spots grew bigger, until you to tell which was which. They seemed to be coming on forever, then suddenly they were there.
“Steady, steady,” Captain Munro was saying into the microphone, although it was unclear who he was talking to. Probably the fighter pilot.
Then suddenly, after all the anticipation, it happened almost too fast for the eye to see, certainly for the senses to comprehend. The Orion zoomed over the ridge, well above the treetops.
“Shoot out the props, now !” Munro yelled.
In jumpy video, they could see the FA18 seem to hover above the Orion—something flew from the wing and the plane immediately began to tilt sideways. The jet maneuvered deftly and shot out the propeller on the other side, but the Orion continued to slip sideways.
“Take the other starboard engine next!” Munro bellowed, but the pilot reacted so quickly, he had obviously perceived that for himself. This time when the cannon shells hit, there was flame and great chunks of the inner starboard engine could be seen to rip away. It worked, the plane began to level out but then it dipped to starboard. Hastily, the jet pilot was firing at the inner port engine when suddenly he pulled away. Then they saw why, as the ground came into view. At the stage, a full belly view of the banked aircraft was being offered the camera.
Instantly, the wingtip touched, it cart wheeled, and was gone. There was a huge burst of smoke or dust, and flame flashed amid it and everything was lost in the raging billows. Chucks of things, trailing smoke, went ever way, and the cameraman zoomed out to offer a broader view of the circumstances. There were eruptions and smoke and flame and dust everywhere, and absolutely nothing that in any way resembled any part of an aeroplane. Although he whispered, everyone in the room could distinctly hear what Captain Munro said next.
“Yes, we can see that, Lieutenant. Thank you for trying.”
18. ATLAS STUMBLES
The small group of people stood apart at all times, isolated from the other mourners, and although everyone was aware of them, no one approached. In the chapel, they had taken the very back row, at the graveside, they stood off a small distance, aloof and insular.
Wendell was able to recognise most of them. The stocky, rugged looking man in a military uniform he did not know
but the tall black woman in stately native robes and headband was unmistakably Andromeda Starlight, her arm linked through that of Harley Thyssen, who looked older and greyer than he seemed on television. His other arm was linked by the radiant red-head Lorna Simmons, and then there was Brian Carrick, whom he had met, wearing an ill-fitting black suit.
They lowered the coffin into the grave, but there was nothing of Felicity in there for no part of her had been found. They buried her old teddy-bear, her stethoscope and her favourite picture of herself and a personal gift from each member of the family. The coffin would have been empty anyway since she had promised her entire body to medical research, but that promise remained unkept.
When that was done, Wendell broke away from his weeping children, steering them into the arms of his sisters, moved away from the other mourners, and approached the isolated group. He looked directly into the eyes of Harley Thyssen.
“She always told us that what she was doing was safe.”
“There was always great danger,” Thyssen said. “She was the bravest woman I ever knew.”
“And she knew the risk she was taking?” Wendell had to ask. It was self-torture, but he needed to know.
“She simply ignored it, and trusted me to keep her safe, and I let her down,” Thyssen said without emotion. “I made a mistake and she paid the price.”
Wendell glanced sideways at the others, and each of them scowled in protest at Thyssen, but only Brian spoke.
“You couldn’t have known, Harley.”
Thyssen’s face remained unflinching. So did that of Wendell Campbell.
“She believed in you, Thyssen. To the exclusion of her family—and I know she loved us with everything she had. To the exclusion of her career, of herself. She never doubted you. And if you’re right and she paid the price of that devotion, I doubt that she would have complained about it.”
Thyssen bowed his head, no longer able to manage words.
“Her loss to us is immeasurable,” Lorna Simmons said. “No one will be able to replace her.”
