by Chris Angus
“Whereas you were going straight for the Holy Grail, right? Gave you a sense of superiority, I bet.”
Graham looked bleak. “Wait until you’re an old man,” he said. “You’ll see things differently. You’ll reach a point where you’ll do anything for a few more good years.”
“I don’t know,” Ryan said. “Every additional year I’m on this planet, I think I won’t miss it too much when the time comes. I think God may actually have a plan—to make us sick of it all just about the time our number is up. Perfect biological timing.”
“God has nothing to do with it,” Graham said forcefully. “If our life clocks were meant to be permanently set, what would be the point of science? We’ve doubled our life spans in just the last century as a result of science and medicine. There is no set limit. Only our own cognitive abilities will determine how far we can go.”
Ryan looked at Akbari. “What about you? You’re a Muslim. I thought you fellows believed that everything was preordained or written down somewhere.”
“So it is,” Akbari replied. “But we can’t know what is written. We can safely assume that whatever we do is part of God’s plan. Perhaps He intends for us to achieve immortality.”
There was a sudden, long, shuddering sound, as if the massive engines of an ocean liner were straining to comply with her captain’s call for more power. It was hard to know where the sound came from, though it seemed to be far beneath them.
“Jesus!” Graham said in a low voice. “Place sounds like it’s alive.” He looked at Akbari. “You think Rashid . . . ?”
“Relax, my friend,” Akbari said. “We’ll never know if Rashid sets off his device. We will rest in oblivion, and you will have no more concerns about longevity.”
***
Dagursson and Professor Hauptmann stared down from their helicopter at the ever more crowded Laki parking lot. The news of Rashid’s nuclear threat had been enough to convince the commissioner that he needed to be back on site. His men were here, still alive he hoped. Maybe he couldn’t stop this crazy Arab, but he was prepared to do anything necessary to try. Half of his nation, maybe more, could be rendered permanently uninhabitable if this lunatic succeeded in his plan.
The pilot pointed to an open area near where Carlisle’s buses stood. “Looks feasible—barely,” he said.
If possible, Dagursson thought, things had deteriorated even more since he was last here. There were now several lines of lava emerging from the volcano and wending their way lower. Two showed signs that they would soon merge, cutting off the parking lot from the highway.
Carlisle and several of his scientists emerged from one of the buses and stared up at them. Slowly, fighting the thermals, the pilot brought the aircraft to a rocky landing.
As the blades slowly wound down, the pilot suddenly said, “Christ, will you look at that?”
Across the valley floor, near the next volcano in the Laki chain, a vortex of motion had appeared.
“It’s a goddamned tornado,” the pilot said.
They watched as the windstorm grew in size, pulling up dust and dirt from the bleak Laki hills, taking on the color of its surroundings.
“You ever heard of a tornado in Iceland?” Dagursson asked Hauptmann.
“I think anything will be possible here,” the professor replied.
They got out of the helicopter and went over to stand beside Carlisle and his men, who were also staring at the tornado.
Dagursson said, “Mr. Carlisle, this is Ernst Hauptmann from the university. He’s been studying Laki for many years, its history as revealed in the sagas and that of the Vikings and Nazis who both lived and worked here.”
Carlisle nodded. “We’ll take all the help we can get.” He shook Hauptmann’s hand, then looked back at the tornado. “Look at that damned thing. We’ve already had marble-size hail and the most incredible display of northern lights I’ve ever seen. Now this.” He looked back at Hauptmann. “Maybe you can tell us if we’re in its path?”
Hauptmann shrugged. “The thermals here must be all over the map. Impossible to tell which way it will go.”
But even as he spoke, they could see the windstorm begin to die down and move away down the slope.
“Too many competing weather systems,” Hauptmann said. “You see? It’s breaking apart. The surrounding thermals are pulling it in different directions.”
Carlisle grunted. “Come inside,” he said.
It was Dagursson’s first excursion inside one of the buses. They were well insulated and as soon as the doors were closed behind them, the constant sounds of Laki under duress were replaced by the whir of computers and the sounds of men going about their duties. It was surprisingly spacious. Technicians sat at computer stations or watched readouts in comfortable swivel chairs. The walls were lined with equipment, the function of which Dagursson had no conception.
“Learned anything more about your magma chamber?” he asked.
“We’ve detected a lot of electrons and positrons, probably emanating from the chamber and probably spun out by Kaluza-Klein particles. At least that’s our working theory. No one really knows if the particles are real. If they are, they operate in another dimension.”
Dagursson stared at him. He felt as though he needed to go back to college and get a few advanced degrees. “Let me try to understand this,” he said. “If the electrons and . . . positrons? . . . are coming from the magma chamber and are spun out by these Kaluza-Klein particles . . . then, what? You’re saying the chamber could be another dimension?”
Carlisle spread his hands. “You said it as well as I could.”
“What the hell would be the consequences of that?” Dagursson asked.
The scientist looked at Hauptmann. “You got any thoughts about any of this, professor?”
Hauptmann had been staring at the banks of computers like a kid in a candy store. He turned his attention to Carlisle. “I believe my offerings will be less on the scientific side and have more of a . . . uh . . . supernatural slant.”
“Hell,” Carlisle said, “That would be a refreshing change from the sorts of far-out theories we’ve been batting around.”
“Very well. The sagas speak of something that I interpret as a hole at the center of the earth. A hole with stars.”
Carlisle’s mouth fell open. “You’re telling me there is a description of our magma chamber from a thousand years ago?”
The professor nodded. “It came from a holy woman, a sort of shaman, if you will, whose clan was engaged in some sort of fierce battle underground.”
“Battle? Battle with what?”
“That’s not clear.”
“Son of a bitch!” Carlisle said in a loud voice. For an instant, every scientist on the bus looked at him. “I could use some goddamned answers here!” he said, almost petulantly.
“Listen,” Dagursson said. “We’ve got another little problem.” He proceeded to relate what he’d learned about Rashid and his plans.
Carlisle’s face grew longer and longer as he realized that everyone on Laki was likely in even more danger than he had thought.
“And where is this lunatic?”
“We believe already below, placing his device . . . or possibly he has done so and has already left. He wouldn’t want to be anywhere nearby when it goes off, not if he hopes to collect on his oil futures.”
“What next?!” Carlisle exploded.
“Perhaps,” said Hauptmann, staring again at the incredible array of machines that surrounded them, “You have some way of detecting the presence of plutonium?”
Carlisle’s face lit up. “We can detect the hell out of just about anything with the equipment we have here. Maybe not another dimension . . . but just about anything else.”
He moved away and began to consult with several technicians.
Maybe, Dagursson thought, he’d soon have some idea where to go in the maelstrom that was Laki. He’d not forgotten about his men . . . or Sam.
***
A
bdul Rahman, selected by Rashid to help carry his device into the depths of Laki, was unhappy.
“We are deep enough,” he said. “Listen to this place. It is coming apart. You probably do not even need this thing. I say we get out of here while we still can.”
“Just a little farther,” Rashid coaxed. He needed Abdul. He couldn’t carry the device by himself. “The lower we place it, the more damage it will cause. And,” he said, “the more I will pay you.”
“It will do me no good if I am dead,” Abdul said, but he kept on. Mostly, he was worried that they wouldn’t be able to find their way out. But Rashid faithfully sprayed paint from a can at each new tunnel entrance.
Finally, they entered a venthole that seemed different from the others. From somewhere deep within, they felt a breeze blowing in their faces. A warm breeze, like something from the tropics.
“This is good,” said Rashid. “Warm air must be coming up from deep thermal energy, a magma chamber perhaps. The closer we get this thing to it, the more likely our blast will do the sort of damage we want.”
“By the Prophet, a nuclear bomb will blow this whole place to bits, evaporate it, turn magma into radioactive debris and fallout,” said Abdul. “No telling how far away we should be when that happens. It better be a long, long way.”
“It will be,” Rashid promised. “The timer can be set for as much as twelve hours. We’ll be back in Reykjavik. I already checked prevailing weather patterns. Any radiation will be blown away from the city, toward the British Isles, along with the sulfuric acid expelled by Laki.
“Let’s rest a moment,” he said. The device weighed more than a hundred pounds and though it had convenient handles, it was still a heavy burden. They halted and put it down.
Rashid shone his flashlight onto the tunnel walls. There was something on them, small, vein-like projections that seemed to pulsate slightly. He played the light down the passage and could see the veins or whatever they were growing larger.
He left his helper where he was and followed the strange tentacles. It was very curious. They seemed to almost glow. He turned his light off and could still see a phosphorescent shimmer coming from them. The farther he went, the larger they grew. Intrigued, he wanted to keep going but was afraid Abdul would scamper away if left alone. He went back and spoke to the man.
“Not much farther. I think we are close to something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, but I think we must be close to the heart of Laki. When we set off the device, the mountain will get a dose of what real power can do.”
They continued on for another ten minutes, the tunnel growing steadily warmer and the breeze stronger. Finally, Rashid ordered a halt.
“This will do,” he said, to the obvious relief of his companion. He knelt beside the device and began to go through a checklist.
“Hold the light closer.”
There were a number of steps that had to be taken to set the timer and activate the device. At last, everything was ready. Rashid engaged a final, digital command and they watched as the timer began to count down.
The moment the button was activated, there was no longer any way to stop the process. They were committed. Rashid stood up. “All right,” he said. “Time to leave, my friend.”
Abdul turned immediately, then stopped dead in his tracks. In front of them, filling the sides of the walls, the strange, tiny tentacles had suddenly grown much larger. Before their eyes, the things throbbed and pulsated, as they grew to the size of a man’s arm.
The tentacles were also now moving along the walls at greater speed. The two men gaped at the strange phenomenon as it pulsed forward to the last branching tunnel they’d come through and began to fill the opening that was to be their escape route.
“What’s happening?” Abdul cried in an anguished voice. “It . . . it’s blocking our escape.”
Rashid raced forward, only to stop and stare at the tunnel exit. It had been clearly marked with their spray paint. Now, it was completely filled by the tentacles.
The two men stared at the pulsating mass of tentacles that blocked their path. Then, almost comically timed, they turned and looked back at the device they had set in the tunnel.
“Mother of God,” said Abdul. “We’ll never find our way out of here.”
Rashid was inclined to agree with him. The tentacles had left them a tunnel to follow, but it wasn’t the one they’d come in with. They’d have to trust to random luck to get out now. And the clock behind them was ticking.
***
Prescott Carlisle stood on a small rise thirty yards from his two humming buses and stared at the strange landscape that surrounded him. To the west, a pair of lava flows slowly made their way down the slope. It seemed probable that at some point they would join, cutting the Laki road and stranding the vehicles in the parking lot. Off the north rim, two mini-tornadoes danced around one another, sucking debris into the lower atmosphere.
“Incredible,” said the young scientist who stood beside him. “We must be seeing phenomena that no one else has ever witnessed.”
“Don’t want to witness it,” Carlisle grunted. “Who the Christ knows what will be next.”
The tornadoes suddenly collided with one another, the competing forces breaking them apart. The debris from both collapsed to the ground in a pile of loose shale and volcanic dust.
Another scientist made his way up the slope to where they were standing.
“Call for you, sir,” the man said. “Priority One.”
Priority One was the President. Carlisle sighed and headed for the bus. Inside, the normal hum of conversation among the technicians died abruptly upon his entrance. He knew they were worried about conditions and had been discussing matters among themselves. These were not military personnel, and though they had signed on for potentially hazardous duty, Laki was turning out to be something more than they’d bargained for.
He ignored them and moved to the rear of the bus, where a small partition separated his tiny office from the rest of the space. He sat heavily and picked up the special phone that connected only with the leader of the free world.
“Yes, Mr. President,” he said.
“Prescott? What in the Sam Houston is going on over there? Our weather people say they’re seeing things never before recorded in the North Atlantic. Water temperatures have increased three degrees a hundred miles off Iceland’s shores. That is unprecedented.”
“Yes sir. It certainly is. Conditions here are unpredictable. We’ve had many unusual weather phenomena. I believe it’s at least partly caused by thermals from all the hot spots. There’s a huge magma chamber below us. It may connect somehow with ocean currents, causing the water to warm.” He lowered his voice. “My people may be in some danger. Lava flows are threatening to cut us off from the main road.”
There was a moment of silence from Thurman. “Can you relocate out of danger?” he asked.
“No place to go really,” said Carlisle. “Our equipment requires that the buses be on level ground. The parking lot here is the only available place.”
“Maybe you should get the hell out of there while you can,” the President said.
“I don’t really consider that an option, Mr. President. Whatever is happening here could affect all of Iceland. Maybe the entire world. We need to do our work.”
“Understood.” There was another pause on the line. Then the President cleared his throat. “Ah . . . reason I called, Prescott, is because of something else. We’ve been contacted by a number of religious leaders in the past twenty-four hours.”
“Sir?”
“Bunch of looney-tunes if you ask me, but they seem to have formed some sort of consensus . . . Christ, that’s got to be a first . . . that what is happening in Iceland has . . . religious implications.”
“Excuse me, Mr. President, but what the hell does that mean?”
“Not sure I understand it myself. But several have suggested that some sort of underground connection m
ay exist between what’s going on with your magma chamber and volcanoes in their own countries.”
Carlisle pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it. A collection of bible thumpers was all he needed. “Uh . . . could you expand on that for me, sir?”
“Seems that volcanoes across the globe have been experiencing events. Vesuvius, Etna, Damavand, Merapi in Indonesia, some in South America, the Aleutians and the Pacific—a trail of them really, right around the world. Increased lava flows, steam events. Even a number of volcanoes thought to be completely dormant are showing increased thermal activity. Yellowstone is acting up, for God’s sake. It hasn’t erupted violently in half a million years. You have any thoughts on this, Prescott?”
He was silent, considering it. Could it be possible that the huge magma chamber they’d detected was somehow connected deep beneath the earth’s surface with other hot spots? Yellowstone also had a deep magma chamber. It seemed nearly impossible, yet they were dealing with the unknown here.
“I’m afraid I simply don’t know, sir.”
“Well, I’m getting a lot of pressure on this end, Prescott. The world press has been eating this up. Iceland is front-page news in every city in the world. Hell, I had a call from the Pope, worried about Vesuvius.” Thurman laughed. “I told him things were under control but he could certainly pray on it.”
“Good you can take a light approach, Mr. President.”
“Don’t misunderstand me,” said Thurman. “I also had a call from some German Cardinal, a whack job by the name of Wormer. He said some secret council of theirs . . . wouldn’t specify . . . damned religious zealots . . . has been studying Laki for sixty years. Sixty years! Says there’s something evil down there. I nearly hung up on him. But no one can cause trouble quicker than a mess of Catholics. I don’t need the Vatican breathing down my neck.”
“Yes, sir. I imagine that would be trying.”
“Frankly, it would be helpful if you could think up a response for them. Something I can feed them . . . you know . . . calm them down.”
Carlisle breathed evenly. What next? “I’ll see if I can come up with something, Mr. President,” he said.
