The Swarm: A Novel

by Frank Schätzing

  Mozart was nowhere to be heard.

  Though the notes from the piano had been lost in the spring air, Li’s conversation with the President had made the long voyage up to the satellites and back. At the peak of the phone call, the two had chatted in outer space, exchanging information that came courtesy of the skies. Without its army of satellites, America would never have been able to fight the Gulf War or the wars in Kosovo and Afghanistan. The air force’s campaigns of precision bombing had relied on help from outer space, and if it hadn’t been for the high-resolution images from Crystal, also known as KH-12, the US high command would have been blind to enemy movements in the mountains.

  KH stood for Keyhole. America’s most sensitive spy satellites were the optical counterpart to the radar system of Lacrosse. They could detect objects of just four to five centimetres across and could operate in infrared light, which allowed them to work through the night. Unlike satellites orbiting above the Earth’s atmosphere, they were equipped with a rocket engine, permitting them to travel in a very low orbit. They usually circled the planet at an altitude of 340 kilometres from pole to pole, which meant they could photograph the whole Earth within twenty-four hours. When the attacks had begun off the coast of Vancouver Island, some of the Keyhole satellites had been brought down to an altitude of 200 kilometres. In response to the 9/11 terrorist attacks, America had launched twenty-four new high-resolution optical spy satellites that orbited the Earth at a very low altitude, and with Keyhole and Lacrosse, they formed a formidable recon network whose capabilities exceeded even Germany’s famous SAR-Lupe system.

  At eight p.m. a call came through to two men in an underground bunker in Buckley Field, not far from Denver. The intelligence base was one of several secret ground stations belonging to America’s National Reconnaissance Office, the NRO, whose mission was to co-ordinate satellite espionage for the American air force. It had close ties with the NSA, an agency responsible for national security and cryptology. Its brief was to bug and intercept. The alliance of the two intelligence agencies gave the American administration an unprecedented power of surveillance. In addition to that, the entire planet was continually monitored by an almost fully automated reconnaissance network known as ECHELON, which used various technological systems to listen in to international communication, including satellite, radio and fibreoptic traffic.

  The two men were sitting below ground, beneath an enormous satellite dish. Working in a room full of monitors, they spent their time receiving real-time data from Keyhole, Lacrosse and other recon systems, analysing and evaluating the information, then forwarding it to the relevant authorities. According to their job titles, they were intelligence agents, though their outward appearance gave nothing away. Dressed in jeans and sneakers, they looked more like grunge rockers.

  The caller informed them that a fishing-boat had radioed for help from the north-east tip of Long Island. There seemed to have been an accident near Montauk, probably involving a sperm whale. In any case, there was no guarantee that the mayday would be genuine. Already the climate of hysteria was such that false alarms flooded in. A larger vessel was said to be on its way to help, but there was no way of knowing if that was true either. Contact with the crew had broken off only seconds into the exchange.

  KH-12-4, a Keyhole-class satellite, was approaching Long Island from the south-east. It was in a good position to begin the search. Buckley Field’s instructions were to focus the telescope on the relevant section of coast.

  One of the men typed in a string of commands.

  A hundred and ninety-five kilometres above the Atlantic coast, KH-12-4 was racing across the sky; a cylindrical telescope, 15 metres long and 4.5 metres in diameter, with a total weight of 20 tonnes including fuel. Large solar sails extended on either side. The command from Buckley Field activated the rotating mirror, through which the satellite could scan an area of a thousand kilometres in any direction. In this instance, it required only the smallest adjustment. Evening was drawing in, so the image intensifiers came on, brightening the picture as though it were midday. Every five seconds KH-12-4 took another photo and transmitted the data to a relay satellite, which beamed the information down to Buckley Field.

  The men stared at the screen.

  Montauk appeared in the distance, a picturesque old town with a world-famous lighthouse. But from a height of 195 kilometres, Montauk’s charms were no more evident than they would have been on a map. Thin lines representing roads wiggled through a landscape scattered with light dots, which was all that could be seen of the buildings. Even the lighthouse was just a faint white dot at the tip of the headland.

  Beyond that, the Atlantic stretched towards the horizon.

  The man guiding the satellite pinpointed the area where the boat had supposedly been attacked, punched in the co-ordinates and zoomed closer. The coast disappeared from view as the screen filled with water. There were no boats in sight.

  The other man watched. He reached into his paper bag of fish nuggets. ‘Well, get looking, then,’ he said.

  ‘Cool it, man.’

  ‘Cool it? They said they need that data now.’

  ‘Well, they can kiss my ass.’ The operator tilted the telescope’s mirror by another fraction of a degree. ‘Don’t you get it, Mike? It’s going to take for ever. This whole thing sucks. They always want everything yesterday, and this time they’re going to have to wait. Thanks to that shitty little boat, we’ll be searching the whole damn ocean.’

  ‘We don’t have to search the ocean: that boat can only be here. The distress call came via NOAA. It must’ve sunk, if we can’t see it.’

  ‘You’re making my day.’

  ‘Yep.’ The guy licked his fingers. ‘Poor bastards.’

  ‘Screw them. We’re the poor bastards. If that damn boat’s gone down, we’re going to have to look for debris.’

  ‘You’re just lazy, you know that, Cody?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Have some fish - Hey, what’s that?’ Mike jabbed a greasy finger towards the screen. There was a long dark smudge in the water.

  ‘We’ll soon find out.’

  The telescope zoomed in until the silhouette of a whale emerged among the waves. Still no sign of a boat, though. More whales appeared on the screen, with faint white spots above them - vapour clouds from the blow. Then they dived.

  ‘I guess that’s that, then,’ said Mike.

  Cody zoomed in again. Now the image was at maximum resolution. They saw a seagull riding on the waves. Technically, it was just a collection of two dozen quadratic pixels, but it looked like a bird.

  They scanned the area, but they couldn’t see the boat or any wreckage.

  ‘Maybe we’re in the wrong spot,’ said Cody.

  ‘We can’t be. According to the information, the boat must be here - unless they sailed on.’ Mike yawned, screwed the paper bag into a ball and aimed at the wastepaper basket. He missed. ‘Must be a false alarm. I’d sure like to be down there, though.’

  ‘Down where?’

  ‘In Montauk. It’s a neat town. Took a trip there last year with the buddies, right after me and Sandy broke up. We were mostly drunk or stoned or whatever, but it was cool just lying there on the bluff, watching the sunset. The third night I made out with the waitress from the bar. Man, that was some trip.’

  ‘Your wish is my command.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Cody grinned at him. ‘You want to visit Montauk? We’re in charge of this celestial fucking army. And seeing as we’re here and all…’

  Mike’s face lit up. ‘We’ll go to the lighthouse,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you where we screwed.’

  ‘Aye-aye, Cap’n.’

  ‘Uh, actually…maybe we shouldn’t. We could get in a lot of trouble for—’

  ‘For what? I figure we’re supposed to be here. We’re looking for debris, remember?’

  His fingers danced over the keyboard. The telescope zoomed out again. The headland appeared on the screen. Cody picke
d out the white dot and closed in on the lighthouse until it loomed up in front of them. The bluff was bathed in reddish light. The sun was going down on Montauk. A couple strolled past the lighthouse, arms round each other’s waist.

  ‘It’s the best time of day,’ Mike said. ‘Romantic as hell.’

  ‘Aw, you didn’t screw her in front of the lighthouse, did you?’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding. No, it was further down…Look, right there! Where those two are going. That place has a reputation, I’m telling you. Every evening it’s pants-down time on the beach.’

  ‘Hey, maybe we’ll get to see something.’

  Cody swung the telescope round so that it raced ahead of the couple. There didn’t seem to be anyone else on the black rocks. Seagulls soared overhead, swooping down to peck at scraps.

  Then something else appeared on the screen. Something flat. Cody frowned. Mike leaned forward. They waited for the next image.

  The picture had changed.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. Can you get any closer?’

  ‘Nope.’

  The next image arrived from KH-12-4. The scene had changed again.

  ‘Holy shit,’ whispered Cody.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ Mike screwed his eyes up. ‘It’s spreading. It’s crawling up the fucking cliff.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Cody again. This time he sounded scared.

  Montauk, USA

  Linda and Darryl Hooper had been married for three weeks, and were spending their honeymoon on Long Island. Ever since film stars had supplanted fishermen as the region’s main residents, Long Island had been a pricey place to stay. Now hundreds of classy fish restaurants looked out on to kilometres of sandy beaches. Fashionable New Yorkers holidayed there with all their customary style. In fact, with America’s seriously rich industrialists, they had colonised the exclusive neighbourhood of East Hampton, a pristine and picture-perfect town that was practically unaffordable for its working population. Southampton, further to the south-west, wasn’t cheap either, but Darryl Hooper had made a name for himself as an ambitious young attorney. It was no secret that he was being groomed for partnership at his downtown Manhattan law firm. The big bucks weren’t flowing yet, but Hooper was undoubtedly on the make. Besides, he’d married a cute chick. Linda had been the darling of law school, but in the end she’d chosen him, despite his thinning hair and thick-lensed glasses.

  Hooper was happy with his lot, and–in the knowledge that his star was rising - had decided to treat himself and Linda to a taste of things to come. On the face of it they couldn’t afford the hotel in Southampton, and eating out at fancy restaurants cost them a hundred bucks a night. But that was OK. They’d worked their butts off and they deserved a little luxury. Besides, it wouldn’t be long before the Hoopers could visit the most fashionable places as often as they liked.

  He drew his wife a little closer to him, and gazed out across the Atlantic. The sun was preparing to drop into the sea. The sky turned violet, wisps of cloud glowed pink on the horizon and little waves to lapped at the beach. Hooper thought about staying awhile. The highway would be busy right now, but in an hour or so they’d have a clear ride through to Southampton. It would only take twenty minutes to cover the fifty kilometres on the Harley. It seemed a shame to leave now.

  Especially since after sunset Montauk Point was the perfect place for lovers, or so everyone said.

  They picked their way slowly through the rocks. After a few paces they came to an area of flat ground, out of sight of the rest of the beach. Hooper was in love, and he liked the idea that no one could see them.

  Never in a million years would he have guessed that two men in an underground bunker in Buckley Field were watching him from an altitude of 195 kilometres, as he kissed his wife, sliding his hands under her T-shirt and slipping it off, while she unbuckled his belt. Eventually they lay clasped together on their clothes. He covered her with kisses and Linda rolled on to her back. His lips roamed over her breasts, towards her belly, and his hands were everywhere at once.

  She giggled. ‘Stop that. It tickles.’

  He took his right hand off the inside of her thigh and kissed her again.

  ‘Hey, what are you doing?’

  What was he doing? He was doing the things he always did - things he knew she liked. He kissed her lips but her eyes were fixed on something behind him. Hooper turned.

  There was a crab on Linda’s shin. With a little shriek, she shook it off. It landed on its back, then splayed its pincers and struggled to get up. ‘Ugh! It scared me.’

  ‘I guess it wanted part of the action.’ Hooper grinned. ‘Well, too bad, buddy, you’ll have to find a lady of your own.’

  Linda laughed and propped herself up on her elbows. ‘Funny little thing,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen a crab like that before.’

  Hooper inspected it more closely. The crab still hadn’t moved. It wasn’t especially big - no more than ten centimetres long - and it was white. Its carapace glowed against the darkness of the rock. Sure, it was an unusual colour, but there was something else about it. Linda was right.

  Then he realised. ‘It’s got no eyes,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ She rolled over and crawled towards the creature on her hands and knees. ‘Freaky. Do think something’s wrong with it?’

  ‘I’d say it never had eyes.’ Hooper ran his fingers down her spine. ‘Just ignore it - it’s not doing any harm.’

  Linda picked up a pebble and took aim. The crab didn’t flinch. She prodded its claws and pulled her hand back quickly, but nothing happened.

  He let out a sigh.

  ‘Come on, forget the stupid crab.’ Hooper crouched next to her and prodded it. ‘That’s one laid-back crab.’

  Smiling, she kissed him. Hooper felt her tongue wind round his. He closed his eyes, abandoning himself to…

  Linda flinched. ‘Darryl.’

  The crab was on her hand. There was another behind it, and a third next to that. His eyes darted up the wall of rock that separated their hideout from the beach.

  The black stone surface was covered with myriad armoured shells. White eyeless creatures with pincers, row after row, as far as the eye could see.

  There were millions of them.

  ‘Oh, God,’ Linda whispered.

  The sea of bodies started to move. Hooper had watched smaller crustaceans scuttle about on the sand, but he’d always pictured crabs walking slowly and majestically. These were fast - so fast it was frightening. Like a tidal wave they swept towards them, their armoured legs clattering softly on the rock.

  Stark naked, Linda leaped to her feet and backed away. Hooper tried to gather their things, but stumbled, dropping an armful of clothes. The crabs swarmed over them, and Hooper sprang back.

  The creatures followed him.

  ‘They won’t hurt you,’ he called out. But Linda was already scrambling over the rocks.

  ‘Linda!’

  She lost her balance, sprawling head-first on the rocks. Hooper rushed over, but the crabs were moving faster, surging past and clambering over them. Linda screamed, her voice high-pitched and panicky. With the flat of his hand he beat away the creatures as they marched over her back, scrabbling up his arms. She jumped up, panic-stricken, tugging at her hair. There were crabs on her scalp. Hooper grabbed her and pushed her forwards. He didn’t mean to hurt her; he just wanted to get them out of there, away from the avalanche of creatures swarming over the rocks. But Linda tripped again, clutching at him and pulling him with her. He crashed to the ground and felt a mass of crab shell shatter beneath him. Sharp fragments dug painfully into his flesh. He lashed out. Hundreds of sharp feet scurried over his body. He saw blood on his fingers, and hauled himself up, dragging Linda with him.

  Somehow they made it across the rocks and ran naked to the Harley. Hooper glanced back over his shoulder. From the raised ground around the lighthouse the entire beach was seething with crabs. They were rising out of the ocean, too
numerous to count. The first wave had already reached the parking lot and was picking up speed on the even terrain. Hooper was running, tugging Linda behind him. His soles prickled with splintered shell, and slime coated his feet. He had to be careful not to slip. At last they reached the motorbike, leaped on, and Hooper pulled back the throttle.

  They sped out of the parking lot and on to the open road, racing towards Southampton. The motorbike skidded dangerously on a slippery layer of mangled crab. Then they were out of the teeming mass and shooting along the tarmac. Linda clung to him. A van appeared from the opposite direction, an old man at the wheel, eyes wide in disbelief. It was like something out of a movie, thought Hooper - two people on a motorbike, without a stitch of clothing. He would have found it funny if it hadn’t been so awful.

  The houses on the edge of Montauk loomed into view. The eastern tip of Long Island was just a narrow strip of land, with the road running parallel to the coast. As Hooper made for the town he saw a sea of white crabs advancing from the left. They spilled over the bluff and marched towards the road.

  He accelerated.

  The white sea was faster.