The Swarm: A Novel

by Frank Schätzing

  ‘Dr Anawak?’

  He stopped staring into space and turned to Roberts. Yes, he thought. It must have been a squid. It had been too quick for a jellyfish and too strong. Like a single elastic muscle, it had burst through the shells. Then he remembered something else: the creature had appeared as soon as he reached into the chink. He must have cut it with his knife. Had he hurt it? Either way the thrust of the knife had triggered a reflex.

  No need to get carried away, he told himself. It was too murky to see down there.

  ‘I recommend you have the dock checked over,’ he said to Roberts, ‘but first you need to send these samples’ - he pointed to the sealed containers - ‘to the laboratory in Nanaimo. Have them taken by helicopter. I’ll come too - I know exactly who should look at them.’

  Roberts drew Anawak aside.

  ‘Leon, what do you really make of all this?’ he asked quietly. ‘There’s no way that tonnes of mussels could have accumulated in such a short time. It’s not as though the ship had been neglected for weeks.’

  ‘Those mussels are a pest, Mr Roberts.’

  ‘Call me Clive.’

  ‘Well…Clive…zebra mussels don’t show up in small groups. When they find somewhere new to settle, they march in like an army. That much is known.’

  ‘But not as fast as that, surely?’

  ‘Every single one of those damned things can produce a thousand young every year. The larvae drift with the currents or stow away on the fins of fish or feathers of birds. In some lakes in America there are nine hundred thousand of them in a single square metre. And they appeared there overnight. They colonise waterworks and irrigation plants, and get into the cooling systems of factories built near rivers. Entire pipes are blocked and ruined by them. And from what we see here, salt water suits them just as well as fresh.’

  ‘I get the picture - but you’re talking about larvae.’

  ‘Millions of larvae.’

  ‘There could be billions of them, all over Osaka harbour and across the ocean seabed, but you can’t seriously be suggesting that in just a few days they all turned into adult mussels, complete with shells? Can you even be sure that they’re zebra mussels?’

  Anawak glanced back at the truck. The divers were packing their equipment. The containers, sealed as well as he could manage it, were on the ground in front of them in a plastic crate.

  ‘We’re looking at an equation with several unknowns,’ he said. ‘Suppose the whales were trying to ward off the tugboats. Why? Because something was happening to the freighter and they didn’t want it interrupted? Because it was supposed to sink once the mussels had immobilised it? Then there’s the matter of the mysterious thing that took flight when I intruded on its den. How does that sound?’

  ‘Like the sequel to Independence Day but without the aliens. Do you seriously think—’

  ‘Hang on. Let’s look at it again. A herd of jumpy grey whales or humpbacks feels threatened by the Barrier Queen. To make matters worse, two tugs turn up and ram them by accident. They retaliate. Coincidentally, the freighter is simultaneously afflicted by a biological plague it picked up abroad. Then, while it was at sea, a squid strayed into the mussels.’

  Roberts stared at him.

  ‘I don’t believe in science fiction,’ Anawak continued. ‘It’s all a question of interpretation. Send a few of your people down there. Have them scrape off the mussels and keep an eye open for other surprise guests. If they see any, they should catch them.’

  ‘How soon will we hear from the lab in Nanaimo?’

  ‘Within a few days, I guess. It would help if I could have a copy of Inglewood’s report.’

  ‘A confidential copy,’ Roberts reminded him.

  ‘Naturally. And I’d like to have a word with the crew - confidentially, of course.’

  Roberts nodded. ‘It’s not up to me, but I’ll see what I can do.’

  They walked over to the truck and Anawak pulled on his jacket. ‘Do you normally call in scientists in cases like this?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s nothing normal about this business,’ Roberts said. ‘It was my idea. I’d read your book and I knew you were based on the island. The board of inquiry wasn’t too happy about it, but I think it was the right thing to do. Whales aren’t our strong point.’

  ‘Well, I’ll do my best. Let’s get the samples into the helicopter. The sooner we get to Nanaimo the better. I’ll hand them straight to Sue Oliviera. She’s head of the lab, a molecular biologist.’

  Anawak’s mobile rang. It was Stringer. ‘We need you back here,’ she said.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘The Blue Shark radioed to say there’s trouble.’

  Anawak had a sense of foreboding. ‘With the whales?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Why would whales cause trouble? No, it’s that asshole Jack Greywolf again. He’s such a jerk.’

  6 April

  Kiel, Germany

  Two weeks after he’d given Tina Lund the final reports on the worms, Sigur Johanson was sitting in a taxi on his way to the Geomar Centre, Europe’s leading research centre for marine geosciences. For anyone interested in the structure, development or history of the seabed, it was the first port of call. James Cameron, no less, had made regular trips there to get its seal of approval for films like Titanic and The Abyss. But trying to convince the public of the value of its research was more difficult. On the face of it, poking about in sediment or measuring seawater salinity was unlikely to solve the world’s problems. Besides, few had any understanding of what the seabed was like. After all, it had taken scientists until the early 1990s to discover the truth. Although it was cut off from the warmth and light of the sun, the bottom of the ocean was not a barren wasteland. Rather, it teemed with life.

  It was no secret that deep-sea hydrothermal vents were occupied by numerous exotic species, but when geochemist Erwin Suess arrived at the Geomar Centre from Oregon State University in 1989, he told of stranger things - cold seeps surrounded by oases of life, mysterious sources of chemical energy rising from inside the Earth, and vast deposits of a substance that until then had been dismissed as an intriguing but insignificant by-product of natural processes: methane hydrate.

  It was time for the geosciences to break out of the seclusion in which they, like most other scientific disciplines, had worked. Now they tried to make themselves heard. They hoped to develop methods for predicting and averting natural disasters and long-term changes to the environment and climate. Methane seemed the answer to the energy problem of the future. The media sensed a story, and the geoscientists learned gradually how to make use of the new-found interest in their work.

  None of this seemed to have come to the attention of the man steering Johanson’s taxi towards the Firth of Kiel. For the past twenty minutes he had been venting his frustration at the idea of a research centre that had cost millions of euros being entrusted to a team of scientists who took off on cruises round the world while he could barely make ends meet. Johanson spoke excellent German, but felt no desire to set the record straight. Besides, he couldn’t get a word in edgeways - the driver was talking and gesticulating wildly as the taxi veered from side to side. ‘God knows what they get up to in there,’ he grumbled. ‘Are you a reporter?’ he asked, when Johanson failed to respond.

  ‘A biologist.’

  The driver took that as a signal to launch into a tirade about food-safety scandals, for which he seemed to hold Johanson personally responsible.

  ‘A biologist? So what, in your expert opinion, is safe for us to eat? Because I’m damned if I know! We must be mad to eat the stuff they sell us.’

  ‘You’d starve if you didn’t,’ said Johanson.

  ‘If I don’t eat, I’ll starve, and if I do, the food’ll finish me off.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, I’d rather die from a toxic steak than be crushed to death on the bonnet of that tanker.’

  Without a flicker of concern the driver spun the wheel and crossed three lane
s to take the next exit. The tanker thundered past. Now they were speeding along the eastern shore of the firth. On the opposite bank, giant cranes reached into the sky.

  The driver had evidently taken offence at Johanson’s last comment: he didn’t say another word. They drove in silence along suburban streets past tall, gabled houses until a long row of linked buildings appeared ahead. The complex of steel, brick and glass looked out of place in its domestic surroundings. The driver took a sharp right and screeched to a halt in front of the Geomar Centre. The engine juddered and stopped. Johanson took a deep breath, paid, and got out. The ride in the Statoil helicopter had been a breeze compared to the last fifteen minutes.

  ‘God knows what they’re doing in there,’ said the driver, apparently to his steering-wheel.

  Johanson bent down to the open passenger door. ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘They’re trying to save the taxi-driving industry.’

  The driver gazed at him blankly. ‘It’s not as though we get many fares out here,’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘No, but when you do, you need your vehicle. Which means that when the world runs out of petrol, you’ll either have to scrap it - or use another fuel. And that fuel, methane, is at the bottom of the ocean. They’re looking for a way to convert it.’

  The driver frowned. Then he said, ‘You know what the problem is? They never bother to tell you.’

  ‘It’s all over the papers.’

  ‘Not the ones I read, mate.’

  Johanson nodded and closed the door.

  ‘Dr Johanson.’ A tanned young man had emerged from a round glass building and was heading towards him.

  Johanson shook his outstretched hand. ‘Gerhard Bohrmann?’

  ‘Heiko Sahling, marine biologist. Dr Bohrmann’s giving a lecture. We could listen, if you like, or grab a coffee in the canteen.’

  ‘Which would you rather?’

  ‘Entirely up to you. Interesting worms you sent us, by the way.’

  ‘You’ve been working on them?’

  ‘We’ve all been working on them. Tell you what, why don’t you come this way? We’ll save the coffee for later. Gerhard will be finished in a moment, and he won’t mind if we eavesdrop.’

  They entered a spacious foyer with an air of sophisticated functionality about it. Sahling led him up some stairs and across a steel suspension bridge. For a serious research institute, thought Johanson, the Geomar Centre was suspiciously trendy.

  ‘We usually use the auditorium for lectures,’ explained Sahling, ‘but today we’ve got a class of schoolkids.’

  ‘How terribly worthy.’

  Sahling grinned. ‘To a bunch of fifteen-year-olds, an auditorium is just another classroom, which is why we do a tour with them instead. They can look at whatever they want - and touch nearly everything too. We saved the lithothek until last. It’s where we keep our samples. Now Gerhard is telling them their bedtime story.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Methane hydrates.’

  Sahling slid open the metal door. The raised platform continued on the other side. They took a few steps along it. The storeroom was at least as big as a medium-sized aircraft hangar and led out on to the quay, where Johanson caught a glimpse of a relatively large boat. Crates and equipment were piled against the walls.

  ‘We mostly collect sediment cores and pore-water,’ explained Sahling. ‘It’s an archive of geological history and we’re proud of it.’

  He raised his hand briefly. Below, a tall man returned the greeting, then focused on the group of teenagers clustered around him.

  ‘It was one of the most exciting things we’ve ever seen,’ Gerhard Bohrmann was saying. ‘The grab sampler returned from a depth of nearly eight hundred metres, carrying several hundred pounds of sediment, interspersed with white lumps. We watched as it emptied them on to the deck. Not all of the substance survived the journey.’

  ‘That was in the Pacific,’ murmured Sahling, ‘in 1996 on the RV Sonne, a hundred or so kilometres off the coast of Oregon.’

  ‘There wasn’t a moment to lose. Methane hydrate is highly unstable,’ continued Bohrmann. ‘I don’t suppose any of you will have heard much about it, so I’ll try to explain without boring you senseless. Let’s imagine the ocean seabed. There’s a lot going on down there, but we’re going to focus on gas. Biogenic methane, for example, forms over millions of years when plants and animals decay. Large amounts of carbon are released as algae, fish and plankton decompose. Bacteria play a central role in that. One of the key things to remember, though, is that the temperature on the ocean floor is very low, but the pressure’s very high. For every ten metres you descend through the water, you gain another bar of pressure. With breathing apparatus you can get to fifty metres, or maybe even seventy, but that’s about the limit. The record is a hundred and forty, but I wouldn’t recommend it - almost everyone who tries it ends up dead. In any case, we’re talking about depths in excess of five hundred metres, and that changes the physics completely. So, when high concentrations of methane seep through the seabed something extraordinary happens: the gas combines with cold water and forms ice. They call it “methane ice” in the papers, but that’s not entirely accurate. It’s not the methane that freezes, but the seawater around it. Groups of water molecules solidify, forming cage-like structures around each methane molecule. Vast amounts of gas are compressed within the tiniest spaces.’

  A schoolkid stuck up his hand. ‘Five hundred metres isn’t exactly deep, is it?’ he said. ‘Jacques Piccard went down eleven thousand metres in his bathyscaphe. Now, that’s really deep. Why didn’t he see ice down there?’

  ‘So you know the story of the deepest manned dive. Very good. But how would you explain it?’

  The teenager thought for a moment, then shrugged.

  ‘Well, it’s obvious, really,’ said one of the girls. ‘There’s not enough life down there. Once you get below a thousand metres not much decays, so there’s hardly any methane.’

  ‘I knew it,’ muttered Johanson from his vantage-point on the bridge. ‘Women are simply more intelligent.’

  Bohrmann smiled at her. ‘That’s right. Although, as always, there are exceptions. Methane hydrates can also be found in deeper water, even at depths of three thousand metres, if enough sediment containing organic matter is washed down there. It sometimes happens in marginal seas. As a matter of fact, we’ve also found methane hydrates in very shallow water, where there isn’t much pressure. But as long as the temperature is low enough, hydrates will form - on the polar shelf, for example.’ He turned back to the rest of the group. ‘The main deposits of methane hydrates - compressed methane - are on the continental slopes at depths of between five hundred and a thousand metres. One of our recent expeditions took us to an underwater ridge just off the American coast. It was five hundred metres high and twenty-five kilometres long, and made mainly of hydrates. Some was buried deep within the rock, but the rest lay exposed on the seabed. Since then we’ve found out that the oceans are full of it, but another important discovery’s been made: methane hydrates are the only thing holding the continental slopes together. They act like cement. If you took away the hydrates, the slopes would look like Swiss cheese. Without the hydrates, there’d be landslides.’ Bohrmann paused to let his words sink in. ‘But there’s more to it than that. Like I said, methane hydrates are only stable in conditions of low temperature and high pressure. So, you see, not all the gas compresses, just the top layer. Under the Earth’s crust the temperature increases, leaving pockets of methane deep in the sediment that never freeze. The methane stays in a gaseous state, with the frozen layer of hydrate acting like a lid to trap it.’

  ‘I read about that,’ said the girl. ‘Aren’t the Japanese trying to extract the methane?’

  Johanson smiled. There was always one kid in every class who was exceptionally well prepared and knew most of the lesson before it had begun. He guessed she wasn’t too popular with her peer
s.

  ‘Oh, it’s not just the Japanese,’ said Bohrmann. ‘The whole world would like to extract it. But it’s not that simple. When we were collecting our samples from a depth of eight hundred metres, the hydrates started to dissociate when they were half-way to the surface. By the time we had them on board, there was only a fraction of what we’d extracted. Methane hydrates are incredibly unstable. A temperature increase of just one degree at a depth of five hundred metres might be enough to destabilise the entire stock stored at that level. We knew we had to act quickly. We grabbed the lumps of hydrate and plunged them into liquid nitrogen to stop them dissociating. Come and have a look over here.’

  ‘He’s got a knack for this,’ said Johanson, as Bohrmann led the class to a shelving unit made of stainless-steel frames. Containers of various sizes were stacked inside, with four tank-like, silvery barrels at the bottom. Bohrmann dragged one out, slipped on a pair of gloves and opened the lid. There was a hissing noise and vapour rose from inside. A few kids shrank away.

  ‘It’s only nitrogen.’ Bohrmann reached down into the container and pulled out a fist-sized lump of something that looked like muddy ice. Within a few seconds it was fizzing and cracking. He beckoned to the girl, then broke off a chunk and held it out to her. ‘It’s pretty cold, but it won’t hurt you,’ he said.

  ‘It stinks,’ she exclaimed.

  Some of the others laughed.

  ‘Yep, like rotten eggs. It’s the smell of gas dispersing.’ He broke off more chunks and handed them round. ‘The dark threads in the ice are seams of sediment. In a few seconds there’ll be nothing left but a few specks of dirt and a puddle of water. The ice melts and the molecules of methane are released from their cages to escape into the air. Or, to put that in context, an apparently stable piece of seabed disintegrates, leaving almost nothing behind. That was what I wanted to show you.’

  The kids’ attention was on the fizzing ice. Bohrmann waited until it had melted, then continued: ‘Now, while you were watching, something else happened invisibly. It’s why we respect hydrates as much as we do. Remember I said that the methane was compressed by the ice crystals? Well, from every cubic centimetre of the hydrate that you were clutching, a hundred and sixty-four cubic centimetres of methane escaped into the air. During dissociation, the volume of methane increases by a factor of a hundred and sixty-four in the blink of an eye - leaving you with just a puddle in your hand. Taste it, if you like,’ he said to the girl, ‘and tell us what you think.’