The discussions had been unpleasant, but Helena had not been persuaded by his arguments.
“What else?” she asked tightly. “What about the elections?”
She heard murmurings on the other end of the call, as if he were speaking to someone not on the line. “Ms. President, President Wardak just announced that he has postponed the elections until the situation in the Wakhan is stabilized.”
“And how long will that be?” she snapped.
“He’s suggesting two months at the earliest, ma’am. Most likely it will take longer than that. The area is very remote, as I said, and earthquake-prone.”
Helena felt her temper rise and tamped it down before it shot to her tipping point. Two months would put the date of the elections right about at the time the military—her military commanders—had wanted them to take place.
How convenient. But how in the name of the Mother of God did he make it happen?
The thought startled her with its vehemence. She snapped abruptly upright in her chair.
Staring at Atlas, hard, Helena felt a cold finger of dread skitter across the back of her neck. Like people everywhere in the country—in the world—she’d heard the rumors about weather machines and rogue weather events after Hurricane Simone devastated the Eastern Seaboard and Katrina battered the Gulf Coast within months of each other.
The following year she’d gotten onto the House Intelligence Committee and had learned which of the scary, way-out-there stories were rumors and which were only called that to hide the eerie truth. In closed-door hearings, the committee had heard testimony that yes, Russia had had moderate success keeping rain from falling on their flamboyant May Day parades and that China, too, had been able to keep rain at bay to some degree during the Olympics. But the committee members had been assured by everyone who appeared before them that, despite small triumphs in line with what their Communist counterparts could do, the prospect of any nation using weather as a weapon was a far-off goal. Even the HAARP installation in Alaska, they’d been told, hadn’t been able to accomplish that.
However, those assurances had been made years ago, when the other side of the aisle controlled the White House—and the flow of information on the topic was controlled by none other than then-admiral Frederick Bonner, who had risen through the ranks of the Navy as an atmospheric scientist before setting his sights on the Pentagon’s E-ring. And since Helena had become president, there hadn’t been a reason to broach the subject of weather manipulation.
Until now.
“Secretary Bonner, you described this as a ‘freak storm,’” she said, scratching the words onto the memo pad.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And the region shares a border with China? I believe you called it ‘porous.’”
“Yes.”
“Could those things be connected in any way?”
His hesitation was slight, almost undetectable. Helena could picture the look of wary shock on his craggy, treacherous face. “Ma’am?”
“Would the Chinese stand to benefit from the destruction in this valley? Or from the elections being postponed?”
“Not that I’m aware of, ma’am.”
It was coldly gratifying to hear such caution in a voice that, moments ago, had to conceal its jubilation. “Check into it and report back to me.”
“You want me to— You think China did this? Made the storm?” he blustered.
Helena let a cold smile shape her mouth. “You sound incredulous. That I find disingenuous at best, considering your former job, Secretary Bonner.” She paused. “I don’t believe in coincidences. I would imagine you don’t, either. Weather manipulation has been discussed for decades, and the Chinese have been playing with the idea as long as we have. I want to know what your experts think about my question.”
“But—”
“I’ll look forward to receiving your report as soon as you can get it to me.”
* * *
Tess Beauchamp struggled to keep a pleasant expression on her face as she listened to her ostensibly worthy opponent spout war-mongering drivel.
Sitting under hot lights in an otherwise darkened auditorium wasn’t the way she would have chosen to spend a gorgeous late afternoon in early spring on the quaint Mediterranean island of Malta, but she didn’t have much choice in the matter. It was the last day of the invitation-only biannual NATO conference on advances in military weaponry. Tess was the main attraction for the conference’s final and much-anticipated presentation: a face-off between two of the leading experts in the field of ionospheric manipulation. The topic was the latest advances in the use of weather as a weapon.
Tess and her opponent sat in comfortable chairs several feet apart from each other on the stage, separated by an Oriental rug and a pair of small tables bearing live plants and sweating carafes of iced water. The moderator of the debate sat center stage, looking as neutral and bobble-headed as a line judge at a tennis match.
While the chairs might have been comfortable, Tess was not and tried to subtly shift her position yet again, cursing whatever mental demon had possessed her to wear a skirt to this dog-and-pony show. Especially a skirt that came to a halt well above her knees.
The common-sense demon that assumed I’d be standing behind a lectern when facing a room full of men wearing brass baubles and campaign ribbons, not sitting with my ass at their eye level.
The organizer of the event, a charming, if slightly doddery elder of the weather-science community, had told her right before she went onstage that her opponent, a short, wiry, generally snide Austrian, had refused to stand next to her, insisting that they both be seated. Tess didn’t need to be told the reason. She was six-foot-one in her bare feet, and Herr Twerp was a mere five-foot-four. He could make Nicolas Sarkozy feel tall.
So here she was, with her ass paralyzed from sitting in one position too long and with no hope of relief unless she wanted to give an auditorium full of NATO generals a crotch shot they’d never forget.
The worst part was that she was sorely tempted to do it.
“Dr. Beauchamp? Your final comment, please. One minute.”
She nodded to the moderator, then made eye contact with Napoléon Lite. “If you’ll allow me to be candid—” Tess ignored the smattering of laughter from the audience. “I don’t take issue with your position because I’m a peacenik, as you so charmingly called me. I take issue with your position because it’s based on a convoluted premise. You talk about the benefits of using weather as an offensive weapon, but if we use weather as a deterrent to conflict instead of as a weapon, the world at large will be better off.
“Poverty, as we’ve already discussed, is frequently a significant factor in the escalation of regional and even international conflict, and can be a clear precursor to declared war. And let’s face it: wars aren’t generally started over politics. That’s just the hair spray and high heels. Wars are begun over borders, land, or natural resources; take one government in the mood to acquire, add a population made restive by basic needs not being met, throw in a natural disaster or two, or a few months of suboptimal weather, and you have a classic recipe for war.”
Tess paused, gracefully pushing a long lock of blond hair behind one ear, and smiled at the man opposite her on the stage before continuing. “By regulating the weather for peaceful purposes in countries on the brink of an escalation of conflict, by operating in concert with ongoing humanitarian efforts, poverty could be radically diminished, which means wars could be averted. This approach does not have to be limited to places that are already in trouble. We have the technology to effect real change, positive change. And it can be applied everywhere. Anywhere,” she said, leaning forward in her seat and only just refraining from pointing an accusing finger at him.
“Populations that are prosperous and happy have little incentive to disrupt their lives and civic structure and decimate their populations to support the high risks and no-to-low rewards associated with turning their surroundings into a war zone. To
the contrary, prosperous societies are highly motivated to maintain the status quo. For the sake of a sound bite, I call my approach ‘mutually assured prosperity,’” she finished as she saw the small red light blink on. She leaned back in her seat and folded her hands in her lap.
The moderator turned to allow Tess’s opponent the last word. The little Austrian was already shaking his head vigorously. “I fear you are naïve, Dr. Beauchamp, and I know you are deliberately skewing my position. I am not speaking of war, I am speaking of technology. It is indisputable that we have the technology. It should be used,” he said in his heavily accented voice, his finger stabbing the air for emphasis. “Call its use ‘preemptive’ or ‘proactive’ or ‘offensive.’ The words matter little. What matters is that the atmosphere, the weather, should be used as both a strategic and a tactical weapon to guard against rogue elements achieving any sort of critical mass in conflicts.
“We have seen, in Afghanistan and Pakistan, in Madrid and London and your own New York City, what these well-funded miscreants can do if left unchecked.” He shrugged impatiently. “I agree that poverty can be used effectively to start wars, certainly. But it can be used to end them, too, because the hand that feeds a starving, war-weary population will be the hand of the victor.”
You can’t be serious. Bomb them, starve them, then save them? Tess bit her lip to keep from saying it out loud.
“And so I say,” he continued, stabbing the air again with a stubby index finger, “that weather must be used strategically in terms of keeping enemies off balance. Even in happy, prosperous nations, there is always a segment of the population that gets greedy while the rest remain content, or at least complacent. As a tactical measure, using weather events—disruptions—to keep the populations focused on domestic concerns is critical. Droughts, flooding, cyclonic storms—they will keep governments’ and populations’ minds and money away from troublesome external issues they can’t afford to support.”
Like economic growth? You nasty little worm.
“And we will have to leave it there. Thank you both,” the moderator interjected smoothly, and led the audience in a round of polite applause.
Tess turned off her microphone and unclipped it from the lapel of her suit jacket, then pushed herself to her feet as gracefully as she could, hiding a grimace as blood rushed painfully into her numb feet. She crossed the short distance between them and shook her opponent’s hand with an outward show of professionalism, while secretly delighting in the small barrage of flashes from the approved press pool gathered at the foot of the stage. It was neither coincidence nor fashion sense that had driven her to wear three-inch heels today; it had been pure deviltry.
The thought of those pictures kept a genuine smile on Tess’s face as she moved through the elegant but obligatory meet-and-greet reception that followed. She liked stepping out of the chaos of academic research and back into the knife-creased world of the military every now and then. She’d grown up on the grand poobah of Cold War military installations—the White Sands Missile Range—as the child of civilian employees, so she understood the mind-set. Not that she liked it. Both sets of her grandparents had worked on the Manhattan Project, her parents on Cold War “peacekeeper” technology of the nuclear variety. Despite the immersion and the indoctrination, Tess had never been able to buy into the idea that aggressor nations fought for peace. She’d always wanted to know what the side that was attacked was fighting for, but the people she asked generally sidestepped the question.
It wasn’t a coincidence that she’d been drawn to what she’d initially thought—perhaps dreamed—would be a career in a gentle, incorruptible science: weather. But by the time she was finishing her second doctorate, her eyes had been opened. Lucrative job offers had started to materialize. The interest governments and corporations had in weather manipulation had nothing to do with small farms or hardworking, sunburned farm families. No, corporations wanted to control the weather to keep their economic interests protected while knocking around those of their competitors. Governments’ interests were even less defensible.
By then, though, Tess had big loans to pay off and a reputation that was beginning to shine, so she’d locked away her doubts, compromised a few values, and swore to herself that she would always direct her research toward good, peaceful ends.
But all too often she landed in situations like this one, where she was one of a few civilians in a room full of decorated, war-hardened military lifers, the only dove in a room full of hawks. Then she’d get congratulated on her latest theories—and told how they’d been applied. It wasn’t always her idea of a good time.
As unobtrusively as possible, Tess made her escape from the party. It wasn’t that she minded being challenged on her positions: she’d tell anyone who would listen that she firmly believed peace would inevitably trump war every time. She’d just been indoors too long and needed some fresh air.
She was staying in a boutique hotel only a few blocks from the conference center, so she walked, enjoying the warm Mediterranean sunshine and salt air. As she crossed the cozy, old-fashioned lobby, one of the clerks emerged from behind the ornate reception desk and hurried to her, pressing an envelope into her hand.
Inside it was a business card sporting the Flint AgroChemical logo above the name GIANNI BARONE, VICE PRESIDENT AND DIRECTOR OF STRATEGIC RESEARCH. She flipped it over, not surprised to see a few lines of strong, slanted script running across it.
I’ll be at the Crown and Prince, three blocks from your hotel. Get directions from the concierge. Wear something comfortable.
Tess grinned, slid the card into the pocket of her jacket, and stepped into the single old-fashioned brass-grilled elevator. Fifteen minutes later, much more comfortable in a long, loose skirt, silk T-shirt, and low-heeled sandals, she left the hotel without talking to the concierge. She’d find the place on her own, and enjoy the chaos of the streets on the way.
Like so many modern cities with ancient roots, Valletta had become a colorful mishmash of crumbling stucco walls painted the hot colors of the sunset and bland office towers wearing concrete sheaths of mid-century gray. The few main roads were broad and lined with palms, but choked with cars, bikes and scooters, delivery vans, and the occasional eye-popping yellow tourist bus. And pedestrians, lots of pedestrians. Tess preferred to walk along the smaller streets and alleyways, where high walls and narrow lanes conspired to create their own shade. Parked cars slouched along the skinny sidewalks, two wheels resting well up onto the curb. Clay pots crammed with herbs and climbing roses hugged vividly painted doors peering out from intermittent niches.
* * *
As soon as her eyes adjusted to the pub’s dim interior, Tess spied Gianni sitting at a small table against the wall, nursing an almost full beer. She slid onto the low stool next to him.
“That was some message. I think you reached new heights in brevity,” she said, pushing her sunglasses up into her messy pouf of blond hair.
“I didn’t think you’d mind,” he said with an answering smile. “Can I get you something?”
She shook her head. “I had a glass of wine at the reception. That’s enough for now. So, I’m dressed for comfort. What did you have in mind? A harbor tour by water taxi? A spin around the island on mopeds?”
“How about just a little walk so we can talk and take in the flavor of the city?” he asked, still smiling, and stood up.
“Sounds good. Aren’t you going to finish your beer?”
Shaking his head, he replied, “It’s warm. I forgot how hard this place tries to be authentic.”
Out in the softening early-evening sunshine, they began to stroll along the thoroughfare, the sky just starting to go pastel and smudgy ahead of them.
“So, have you thought more about my offer?” Gianni asked, not looking at her.
“Of course,” Tess replied, just as casually.
“Have you come to a conclusion? Are you ready to come stateside?”
She sent him a sidelong gla
nce. “You mean ‘to the dark side,’ don’t you? Antarctica is hardly stateside. The facility isn’t even in American territory.”
“The ‘dark side’? That’s a bit melodramatic. Even if that were the truth, it would be immaterial. Our facility has redefined the term ‘state of the art.’ You’re going to love it.”
“Oooh, I like it when you go all psychological on me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m ‘going to’ love it?”
“A slip of the tongue.”
“Uh-huh.”
They stopped talking while they waited at a corner. When the light changed and they were back in the flow of foot traffic, Tess resumed speaking. “Okay, to be honest, I’m still thinking about it. But I like living in Europe. The pace of life is easy, the buildings are old, and Paris has been good to me. My apartment is great, my wardrobe is fabulous, my colleagues have finally accepted my accent, and I’ve learned to cook things I never imagined I’d ever want to eat.”
“Sounds like heaven,” Gianni said drily. “Come on. I fund half your research. It’s time for some reciprocity.”
His comment was true, but it still flicked at her ego like the tip of a knife. “You might fund me, but I’m still independent,” she shot back a little too quickly.
Gianni said nothing, just laughed quietly. Tess rewarded him with a dirty look.
“Tess, none of us has ever been independent. Not when we were in school, not when we were at HAARP,” he said, referring to the military research facility in Alaska where they’d met sixteen years ago. “And certainly not now. Since I’ve been at Flint, we’ve funded every grant you’ve ever proposed, even the green-weenie ones and the ones that went flat. All we’d like now is a little bit of your time. Exclusively.”
Dry Ice Page 3
