“As soon as you bring us the caterpillars and dredge barge,” Devon said. It was a long-standing joke between them.
Rachete laughed, then tasted his coffee and frowned. He never wore a full uniform, just a clean white shirt with epaulets, and always the captainly white calotte, resplendent with insignia and gold braids.
Devon’s eyes wandered to the narrow causeway where two people were climbing up onto mess deck. They introduced themselves as Dr. Michael Gleason, ocean geologist, and Dr. Alice Schiffer, formerly of the Ocean Drilling Consortium.
A Brit and an American? How odd. This was French federal government jurisdiction. Where was Dr. Arnaud? In all eight months here, Devon had always dealt with the Institute’s Director, Dr. Arnaud, who was also the U.N. official to whom Devon reported.
“Maurice has pneumonia,” Gleason said, anticipating the question.
Schiffer was busy booting up her laptop. “Dr. Gleason and I had just arrived back at Cape Town from our facility on Tristan de Cunha when we heard of your data stream blackout.” She looked up at Devon and shrugged. “So of course they sent us.”
“Pardon my caution,” Devon said, “but under the circumstances…”
“No need to explain,” Gleason said, sliding a sheet of paper across the table to Devon. “Our letter of introduction.”
Devon,
I’ll be along as soon as I’m feeling better. Gleason and Schiffer are two of the best CTBTO has to offer. Be sure and tell them about the similar events south of there.
The handwritten note was simply signed Maurice and looked genuine.
“Okay?” Schiffer asked.
“Okay,” Devon said.
Gleason cleared his throat. “As I’m sure you know, the French government is considering recent events here as an intentional disruption in the IMS. They’re proceeding as if they have a credible military threat here.”
“Until proven otherwise,” Schiffer added ominously.
“You’ve got a different theory?” Devon asked.
“That’s why we’re here,” Gleason interjected. “To figure this thing out, with your help.”
“What’s your gut on this,” the American asked, brushing back her short, brownish-gray hair with long, slender fingers.
Devon answered quickly: “I can’t say what it was, but I’ve got some ideas what it wasn’t. It wasn’t lightning because the MS buoys use radio transmitters - they are not physically connected to our base - yet the electronics in the three I’ve retrieved is completely melted. The likelihood of lightning strikes here and at each buoy…
“And it probably wasn’t terrorists because they would have used C-4 – or some other explosive - to destroy the buoys and the seismometer. But all the damage was internal only. I suspect the same is true for the deep water hydrophone.” As an afterthought, he added: “At least I hope they don’t have the technology to do this kind of attack…”
Gleason and Schiffer exchanged glances. “The French think they used a ‘Bear Can,”’ Gleason said abruptly.
Devon’s expression said he did not understand.
“A late Soviet-era E-weapon,” Schiffer said. “Currently available on the black market for about 150,000 U.S. dollars.”
Devon’s blue eyes got very big. E-weapons! He’d read something about that somewhere in the reams of CTBTO literature the U.N. sent him.
“A 10 gigawatt pulse from a briefcase-sized magnetic compression device,” she continued. “Enough to disrupt radar and radio for 20 kilometers. Enough to damage sensitive electronics…CPUs, chips...”
“They would have set it off up there,” Rachete said from the window, pointing up at the highest mountain peak, obscured now in a dark cloud.
“The Marines were up there,” Gleason said, shaking his head. “No trace of anything. Some of these weapons create short-lived gamma radiation. No trace of that either.”
Devon considered the two middle-aged scientists, like opposites, like Laurel and Hardy, the overweight Brit and the anorexic American. Usually it’s the Americans who are fat. “So what do you think?”
“The French military may be convinced terrorists initiated some kind of e-weapon around here,” Schiffer began, “but we’re not. That’s because we – the U.S. government, that is - lost NOAA 7, our geo-synchronous satellite, at the same time…it was wiped out, main and redundant systems, and it was 112 miles up! Way out of E-bomb range.”
“At least the types we know about,” Rachete cautioned.
A pause in the conversation gave way to a whistle of wind at a partially secured porthole. Rachete secured it.
“We have to consider the possibility that terrorists had nothing to do with this,” Gleason said, “that this may not be the work of men at all. Which brings us ‘round to the ‘similar events’ Maurice mentioned.” Both scientists turned to Devon expectantly.
“Similar events. Yes. It was when I first came out here, three years ago. I picked up a shortwave distress call one night…kind of a hobby of mine back then.” He squinted momentarily at the nerdishness of it.
“Anyway, around midnight I intercepted a ‘mayday’ from a New Zealander container ship, the captain saying he’s hit something not on the charts - rocks or a reef, maybe a rogue iceberg or another boat. I got a bearing on them, then lost the signal. So I reported it to Aussi Coast Guard. A cutter found the Kiwis two days later, adrift, without a single electronic system functioning. Everything was fried. Even battery operated devices…radios, flashlights, wristwatches.
“Course the Kiwi captain was very grateful I’d made that call ‘cause the Kerguelen current was pulling them south towards never-never land. He called to thank me, told me the whole story, which bears some similarities to what happened here on Sunday.
“What kind of similarities?” Gleason wanted to know
“Rushing water but no wind. Aurora sightings, bright flash of light…”
“Any other incidents like that?” Schiffer asked.
“I’ve heard these,” Rachete interjected. “In the South Africa to South Australia shipping lanes, yes? About 500 kilometers due south of here. They say it is a curse, a maelstrom that feeds on ships. Very few of the regular captains will come into the area now. They give it a wide berth.”
“I read about that, a connection to the missing Malaysian Airlines flight…MH370,” Schiffer said. “Superstitious bunk, it seemed to me…at the time”
When no one made a comment, the captain rationalized: “In the blackness of night out on an endless, black ocean, sometimes men allow fear of the unknown to get the best of them.
“It is like the Bermuda Triangle, but with a twist. These aren’t ancient legends as you might expect. No falling off the edge of the earth. No Dragons. These are all recent stories. They start about 15 years ago. Always at night. Maelstroms. Holes in the ocean. Very odd.
“Too odd to ignore,” Schiffer said.
“Well then, maybe these were underwater nuclear tests,” Devon suggested.
“Fifteen years ago?” Gleason considered. “Before the network was in place? Possibly Pakistan or India. Certainly nothing published…or ever admitted. But what about last week? An E-M pulse caused by a fission weapon powerful enough to take out your network sensors would have left this place so hot nothing could survive.”
Schiffer nodded. “The odds suggest all these events are related somehow…so what’s the connection? We’re missing something.”
“Perhaps we’ll learn more when your government declassifies the last minutes of data from the NOAA-7 satellite…” Gleason suggested.
“I’ll contact DOD again,” Schiffer promised.
Day 13
Monday
Austin, Texas
They checked in at the Mueller Airport Marriot with adjoining rooms, Sara paying with her Anatomic Mapping Technologies expense account. She’d also bought the plane tickets and rented the Mercedes with her AMT platinum card. As they settled into a booth in the hotel restaurant, Gill asked her about that.<
br />
“No, it’s not a legitimate expense,” she answered quickly. “And frankly I don’t give a damn. I won’t be with AMT much longer.”
“Really?”
“Mmmm,” she said dreamily. They ordered lunch.
Gill suddenly realized he didn’t know for sure what she did for AMT, didn’t know very much about Sara’s career, nothing about her personal life. As outgoing as she seemed, Sara was a very private person, a closed book, never volunteered anything, always sidestepped questions. No wonder she never got married. Sara knew everything about him; he, very little about her.
“So you’re in sales,” he offered.
“Since college. I’ve bounced from company to company – I don’t know how many – playing each one for more money than the last, looking for some kind of fulfillment, some…I don’t know what to call it, you know, something worth the effort, worth believing in. I’m really an actress, acting excited about sonographs or C-Ts or whatever, biding my time, telling myself that as soon as I buy this house, then I’ll be happy, or as soon as I get that raise, then I’ll be happy.” She was looking at her salad, stirring it around. “Always something in the way, something yet to do.”
Gill was startled by this sudden outpouring. She hadn’t opened up this much since the summer they lived together so many years ago.
She swung her big blue eyes up at him. “I used to think there was something wrong with me, that I’d never be just…content…just comfortable with where I was and who I was. Always a couple moves ahead of myself, playing an endless game, but somehow always losing ground.”
“Used to,” he stuttered. “Not anymore?”
She let out a relieved sigh. “No more, Gill. This is it. For the first time in my life I feel right. I’m out of the holding pattern. I’m there - exactly the right place at exactly the right time. Do…do you understand?” She reached across the table and took his hand gently in hers. Their eyes locked. “I know how hard it was for you to leave your family.” She smiled. “Your beautiful little girls…Jennifer and…Annabelle.” She wrinkled her brow: “Poor little thing.”
Gill nodded. Normal from the waist up, Annabelle had been born with severely deformed legs and pelvis. The physical therapists had all but given up on crutches and braces. Sara had deliberately not made mention of Marcy. Why?
“She’s so sweet. I envy you that part…the stability, sense of home and family. I’ve always wanted it. I guess since you I’ve never found anyone I could…be with…like that.”
He felt his heart chimneying up his throat and he tried hard to swallow it back down. Everything in the room began to blur, except her face, so lovely. He wanted to say ‘No Sara, I won’t do this again, I’m married now, a family, a good…’ But the words lodged in his throat, just below his heart.
“I’m so glad you came with me, Gill,” she cooed. Her expression turned introspective. “My whole life since Davis has been…senseless…directionless. Meaningless materialism. Then suddenly, Gill, it all makes sense, the planets aligned. This is our turn, Gill. Our shot. Yours and mine.” She squeezed his hand, then let go. “You know I can’t revive INFX without you. So let’s get out there and kick some ass!”
“Oh,” he sighed, his heart plunging abruptly back into his chest. “Sure.” He watched her saunter across the dining room to pay the check. “Same old Sara,” he whispered, feeling a 50-50 mix of relief and disappointment.
Sara’s strategy was to backdoor the nation’s second largest manufacturer of MRI machines. She’d scheduled a mid-afternoon meeting with Tony Chalmais, a Gyttings-Lindstrom board member and the senior vice-president of public relations. He was CEO James Gyttings’ right-hand man. Sara knew Chalmais from two prior meetings, once at convention and later in the field vying for a contract at Douglas County Hospital in Omaha. Sara had beat out Gyttings-Lindstrom for the contract, prompting Chalmais to offer Sara a position, which she had gracefully declined. Because of this connection, Sara was able to power past Chalmais’s secretaries, setting the appointment directly with Chalmais without revealing much about her subject matter.
The 60-year-old vice-president, a short man, overweight with unnaturally un-gray hair, greeted Sara at his office door with a gushing, two-armed handshake followed by a delayed, slightly awkward hug.
After the three settled into plush leather furniture, Sara passed several copies of her proposal to Chalmais’ and got right to the point. “You’ve always been straight with me, Tony. I want to return the favor by coming through you, make sure you get the credit.”
Chalmais finished reading the summary page, then fanned through the rest of it. “I don’t really need any brownie points with the boss,” he said in a manageable Texas drawl.
Sara redirected: “Doctor Vrynos and I can provide your company with proof to the satisfaction of the scientific community that your machine did not malfunction. In order to proceed I need a face-to face with Gyttings tomorrow morning.”
“I appreciate your directness, but I don’t know if he’s in town…”
“I do,” Sara said. “Talk to him. Tell him we’re available for tomorrow at ten a.m.”
After a working dinner of rehearsals for the morning’s presentation, Sara excused herself to visit an old girlfriend who lived in nearby Round Rock. Gill retired to his room and called home. Both kids got on the line at the same time, competing for daddy’s attention with stories about the school day. Marcy was thoroughly confused by Gill’s motives. She asked angrily what he hoped to gain from these meetings, to which he lamely replied that he was helping an old friend and, as a bonus, stood to make some hefty consultant fees in the process. But the depth and breadth of the thing was far greater than he let on. He was being sucked-in and he was no longer sure how he might pull himself out.
Gill got in bed and watched television for awhile, but he was not really watching. Several times he caught himself glaring at the adjoining door to Sara’s room, half hoping it would open, half afraid it might.
Gill’s phone rang at nine a.m. “Tony’s secretary called,” Sara announced. “The meeting’s on.”
They traveled north on the I-35, then west on Research Boulevard through Austin’s M1 industrial parks, technology sector companies sprawled out in low-slung campuses fronted with soaring concrete and glass facades. Gill and Sara had enjoyed a relaxed breakfast, arriving 20 minutes late to Gyttings-Lindstrom, and were hurriedly ushered into a large conference room by an anxious young executive whose forehead glistened with perspiration. The room’s décor, like so many Texas companies, was heavily cowboy; suede furniture replete with fringe, 8-foot-long cowhorns on the wall, an antique 20-foot map of Sam Houston’s Texas Republic. There were eleven people in the room, including Chalmais, who handled the introductions. The research and development vice president, department heads from public relations, sales, quality assurance and customer relations, the company’s legal counsel and several administrative assistants, every one of them dressed in conservative business suits. Gill was impressed. It was exactly as Sara had said it would be.
Sara, however, was disappointed. She looked askance at Chalmais and mouthed the words “Where is he?”
“Oh, Jim’s gonna be a little late. He told me to go ahead and get started without him.”
No good. This was Sara’s moment and she would not tolerate manipulation and subterfuge. “Let’s just reschedule then,” she said pleasantly, opening her calendar.
Several jaws dropped around the table. A female administrative assistant said tersely: “I don’t think you understand…”
“Oh, I think I do,” Sara interrupted.
The lawyer grinned.
James Gyttings then stepped through the door, a slender, distinguished man in a rugged sort of way, dark, piercing eyes, black hair and black, bushy eyebrows, mistakable for 35 were it not for the short, gray-tinged beard and sideburns. He wore blue jeans and a white polo shirt with a little red alligator embroidered on the pocket. “Sorry I’m late, folks,” he said, show
ing bright but imperfect teeth.
Sara waited for everyone’s full attention. “I thought I’d start with what we already know, perhaps all too well, that being in the medical imaging business means – and since the beginnings of X-ray always has meant - the potential for health risks associated with exposure to radiation of one kind or another. We’ve always believed that with appropriate precautions, short-term risk to both patients and medical technicians is acceptable. In fact, the diagnostic benefits doctors receive today from these precision images of living organs and tissues far outweigh the risks. And until now we’ve been left alone by the investigative reporters, the foundations, the non-profits who routinely hound aerospace companies, munitions makers, electric utilities, the DOE, and every one else who has anything to do with radiation of any kind. So why not us? Why are we immune? We fill the air with invisible waves more than most industries, intentionally exposing patients, not protecting or shielding them. The machines Gyttings-Lindstrom makes used to be called Nuclear Magnetic Resonance Imagers, but we took the Nuclear out of the name, didn’t we, because of the negative connotations. When the electric utilities tried a similar trick, a concerted national PR campaign to get the ‘radiation’ out of ‘electromagnetic radiation’ by calling it ‘electromagnetic field,’ the media didn’t bite, continued to refer to EMR like it was a compound noun.
“So why are we in the medical imaging industry spared? Why are we special? Because we work miracles. We’re the good guys. We save lives.”
Sara paused for effect. “But a week ago Sunday at 9:30 a.m., our fragile immunity was shattered, wiped out, blown away.”
Gyttings was on his feet, pacing, leafing through Sara’s report. “Oh, I don’t know if it’s all that serious,” he condescended.
Sara, incensed but hiding it well, snapped open the shutters and said: “Then what’s the TV news van doing out there?”
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