Calamity

by Gail McCormick

  CALAMITY

  Written by

  Gail McCormick

  This book is dedicated to my two children, Braydon and Sabrina who are making it a better world.

  Jim Hansen

  Director NASA Goddard Institute for Space Studies

  Statement at US Congressional Hearing

  June 1988

  Thirty-one years ago

  “The earth is warmer in 1988 than at any time in the history of instrumental measurements. The greenhouse effect…is changing our climate now. We can state with about 99% confidence that current temperatures represent a real trend rather than a chance fluctuation.”

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  YAMAL PENINSULA

  REMOTE REGION OF SIBERIA

  FAR NORTH RUSSIA

  JUNE 21, 2016

  SURVIVAL FOR MORE THAN A FEW MINUTES WASN’T LIKELY, BUT THE THREE SCIENTISTS DIDN’T KNOW THAT. They stood next to a mound of sodden grass about a foot-high and eight feet in diameter. Kyle Hardin’s parka hood was blown back by the fierce wind, exposing shoulder length hair, chiseled features, a broad forehead and blunt chin. A GO GREEN pin was attached to his collar. He and David Harrison, the grad student he’d brought along, were Americans. Anatoly Volkov, their Russian colleague, shifted the heavy backpack slung over his left shoulder and moved closer to the edge of the mound.

  The others watched as he took the long-handled shovel he carried and jabbed it into the mushy earth.

  Volkov was brawny and muscular, but the shovel didn’t budge. His knee-high rubber boots sank into the ground as he pushed. Nothing happened. Volkov leaned down and pushed harder. A plume of gas spat up from the hole he’d dug, followed immediately by an enormous explosion. Red and yellow elliptical flames shot into the air.

  The scientists were flung skyward with a billowing plume of thick black smoke. Chunks of dirt and rock flew out of the epicenter simultaneously. The accompanying boom was so loud that it startled reindeer herders in a nearby camp.

  A ferocious gust of wind swept across the plain, blowing the plume of smoke out over the marshy landscape. When the air cleared, the mound was gone. In its place there was a massive hole, about 35 feet deep and a dozen feet wide, surrounded by rocks and debris scattered mostly around the rim. Kyle and David lay sprawled on the ground, covered in dirt, bits of rock and mutilated blades of grass.

  Most of Voltov’s body was submerged in the hole. He hung onto the edge desperately, digging his fingers into the grass and dirt. Kyle dragged himself to his knees. Small nicks covered his face and left hand. He shook debris from his shoulders and wiped away blood using the torn sleeve of his parka. As he stood, he lost his balance, dizzy with ears ringing. He stumbled over and sized up Anatoly’s situation. He looked down. The hole was about three and a half stories deep. It was almost certain death if Voltov fell. David lifted his head, but he was too stunned to get up.

  Kyle lay down in the morass and grasped the Russian’s wrists. Voltov was heavy. Too heavy. His substantial bulk made it hard for Kyle to hang onto him. His grip slipped.

  “Let me go,” Anatoly rasped. “Or you fall with me.”

  “No way.” Kyle wasn’t about to give up even though it seemed like a lost cause. “See if you can let go of your backpack.”

  Anatoly lifted one hand, using it to shrug the bag off his shoulder. That reduced his grip on the grass, and he sank farther into the abyss. Kyle started to slide toward the hole. He jabbed his feet into the rubble, but continued to slip.

  Voltov looked up at him. “Let go,” he repeated.

  Kyle didn’t respond. He gripped Voltov’s wrist tighter as the Russian tried to pull it free.

  Suddenly Kyle stopped sliding as a large rock wedged in front of his left boot. With the backpack gone and a lighter load, he pulled the Russian over the edge inch by inch, through the debris and onto the grass.

  Anatoly was covered with fragments of stone, but unhurt apart from scratches on his face and singed hair. He lifted himself up and wiped bits of dirt off his ruined slicker. Kyle got to his feet, took a handkerchief from his pocket and swabbed the gash above his right eye. The two of them helped David stand up. He had even more cuts on his face than they did. His scorched parka had a ragged slit from top to bottom. He covered his ears with both hands, trying to stop the incessant buzzing. Since he was still shaky, they took his arms, and all three walked back to the edge of the massive hole. Beyond it a vast expanse of flat tundra extended to distant jagged mountains, their tops streaked with retreating glaciers. Around it the thawing permafrost was covered in marshes, lakes, swampy bogs and streams.

  They stood there, staring down into the chasm and shook their heads.

  “Must have been methane,” Kyle said. “If that ferocious wind hadn’t blown it away from us, we would all be dead.” And methane might end up wiping out civilization anyway, he thought.

  ONE MONTH LATER

  REMOTE REGION OF SIBERIA

  BURIAL SITE

  JULY 21, 2016

  PETRAKO AND EDEYNE SERAKONE CLUTCHED THE HANDS OF THEIR TWO REMAINING CHILDREN as the crudely-made wooden coffin was lowered partway into the mushy Siberian ground. Natena, their eldest son, had been only 12 years old when he died. He would never follow in his father’s footsteps as a reindeer herder.

  Edeyne couldn’t bear the sight of the brightly flowered scarves and hats trimmed in multi-colored braid, the hallmarks of their nomadic tribe, worn by neighbors who came to mourn with them. So much color amidst so much sadness. She stared at the ground.

  At her feet shaggy grasses mixed with occasional mo
unds of dirt. Other rough-hewn coffins lay half-buried in the soggy ground next to handmade wood crosses. Some were on stands above ground. Overhead a wan sky was lightly dusted with shifting clouds. It had turned colder, but the permafrost was still thawing.

  Her husband Petrako, his skin weather-beaten from a life outdoors, pushed the tilted cross next to the small grave farther into the ground. The sodden earth couldn’t hold it upright. With lingering glances, all but Petrako slowly trudged away.

  He looked down at the coffin and sighed. A week ago his son had awakened at midnight and vomited until his stomach hurt so much that he cried. Natena was a boy who never cried. Then he developed unrelenting fever and bloody diarrhea. The family rushed him to the nearest hospital. Helpless, they watched him slip away.

  Petrako had expected Natena to herd reindeer as his father and grandfather had, but he had begun to worry. Their animals were hungry since there wasn’t enough pasture now. The snow melted sooner and faster than ever. In spring the tired reindeer struggled to pull sledges. They couldn’t cross the frozen river in November to set up camp in the southern forests. The ice was too thin until late December. Petrako had noticed the glaciers looked smaller every year, and the ground was increasingly soggy. A month ago, he had heard a loud bang which he learned was from an explosion that left a gigantic hole in the ground. He was told that some American scientists had been involved. Seven days later he found that forecasters recorded an unprecedented temperature of 35 degrees (95 degrees Fahrenheit).

  That week the family ate cooked reindeer for dinner. They didn’t know the meat was contaminated most likely by a reindeer infected with anthrax 75 years ago. Bacteria in the corpse, preserved in the permafrost all those years, were still lethal when exposed today.

  A FEW YEARS LATER

  AUGUST 15th

  NEW YORK CITY

  NATIONAL INFORMATION PLATFORM (NIP) TV

  BREAKING NEWS: “Key politicians in Washington D.C. have been placed in intensive care,” the anchor announced.

  “The CDC confirmed today that a number of our national leaders and their principal donors have caught a lethal disease. Anyone exposed has been quarantined. The cause of the outbreak is being investigated, but early reports indicate the bacteria came from a carcass recently exposed in the Siberian thawing permafrost. The CDC is continuing to study the centuries old remains in hopes of finding a cure or vaccine for this exploding outbreak.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  TWO WEEKS EARLIER

  JULY 31st

  ANCHOR DESK

  NATIONAL INFORMATION PLATFORM (NIP) TV

  MANHATTAN

  NEW YORK CITY

  CAMELLIA KNIGHT WAS MAD ENOUGH TO SPIT NAILS. She shivered in a low-necked, sheer silk blouse and short skirt. One of her four-inch heels lay on the floor under the anchor desk. Her bare foot was cold too. She managed to keep her teeth from chattering as she delivered her signature wrap up with a barely noticeable Southern accent. “Good night friends. Back tomorrow. Count on it.”

  She removed her microphone, collected her cell phone, then bent behind the glossy mahogany desk to pick up her shoe and stood up with a curt toss of her long, vibrant blond hair. The wall behind her featured a scene showing lower Manhattan, with One World Trade Center prominently placed. Shoe in one hand and phone in the other, she stomped across the room to an area where a multitude of staffers was hard at work setting the stage for the next segment of NIP’s nightly news. Stacey Grover, her assistant, hurried over and handed her a jacket. Camellia slapped it around her shoulders. Stacey’s dark hair was cut so short it stood straight up from the top of her head, resembling an upturned toothbrush. With no makeup, the only adornment to feminize Stacey’s appearance was a pea sized pair of gold earrings.

  “It’s as cold in here as a frosted frog!” Camellia snapped, aiming her remarks at the surrounding production crew. “You men with your lined jackets! Who turned up the blasted a/c?” Her ire was really meant for the News Director who insisted that she wear revealing clothing since he was certain it accounted for her huge number of male fans. And that wasn’t something she could complain about if she wanted to keep her job.

  Frank Cho, another NIP associate, retrieved her laptop from her desk and brought it to her. “Here you go,” he said. He was barely five feet seven and as reedy as a willow tree. He set up a folding chair carefully.

  Camellia sat down and took off her other shoe. “Thanks, Frank, you’re the best.”

  Meanwhile, Stacey took orange sneakers out of a duffle bag and handed them to her.

  They were joined by a tall, lanky cameraman with dreadlocks reaching just above his collar. He had bulky equipment slung over broad shoulders and a newspaper under one arm. “Camellia, get a load of this,” he urged, pointing to a headline. “Senator Trotford is going to Siberia with a bunch of scientists.”

  Still tying her sneaker laces, Camellia responded without looking up. “Why would he want to do that, Owen?”

  “Who knows, maybe he’s interested in the thawing permafrost.”

  “Give me a break. That guy thinks the Earth is flat and that the ice isn’t melting.”

  “He says he wants to see it with his own eyes.”

  “Suddenly thinks climate change is a problem? No way.” Camellia stood up. “Could conceivably make a good story though. What do you think?”

  “Considering the Senator’s reputation as a philanderer, the story might be how he puts the move on you while we’re there.”

  Camellia ignored the comment, turning to Stacey. “We’re going to go with him. Set up an appointment with the scientists for tomorrow. They probably won’t want us, but insist.” Patience is a virtue I need to work on, she thought. I really do. Just not at the moment.

  “Sure thing.” Stacey made a note. “I’ll get hold of them first thing in the morning.”

  “Thanks.” Sneakers tied, Camellia got up, headed to the door then turned back to Owen. “If he makes a pass at me, get it on camera, will you? At least that would be newsworthy.” Pulling the jacket closer around her, she headed out of the studio.

  When she stepped outside, she had to take her jacket off. It had been 95 degrees Fahrenheit at noon for the fourth day in a row, and it was still 89 degrees at 8:00 p.m. If only I could peel my blouse off too, she thought.

  CHAPTER TWO

  NEXT DAY

  OFFICE

  CENTER FOR CLIMATE SYSTEMS RESEARCH

  COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY, EARTH INSTITUTE

  MANHATTAN

  KYLE HARDIN WASN’T READY TO SPIT NAILS, BUT HE CERTAINLY WAS IRATE. He shoved some books aside in order to prop his scruffy boots on his desk. The stack was already over a foot high. First one, then two more books slid from the top of the stack to the floor, landing next to a wastebasket overflowing with crumpled paper airplanes. He ignored them. He wore jeans with a hole in one knee and a gray T-shirt with “DRILLING = KILLING” in bright red letters printed across the front. Dark hair reaching almost to his shoulders, icy blue eyes and striking features added to the appearance of a nonconforming renegade. Wrinkles around his eyes attested to some of his 41 years having been spent studying disappearing coral reefs in the Caribbean. There was a small scar above his right eye. With his unorthodox attire people were frequently surprised to learn that he was not only a tenured professor, but a world-renowned scientist.

  He was shaping a paper airplane from recycled office paper when a knock on the door brought another book down to the floor. Without waiting for a response, Kyle’s colleague Barbara Logan opened the door and headed across the room.

  She paused behind the chair on the other side of his desk, facing a wall that held a framed photo of the “Wright Flyer I,” the original Wright Brothers airplane. There were maps of numerous countries on the wall behind her. A world map had push pins of assorted colors stuck into it, mostly in areas of extreme drought. Plants filled the window overlooking a small park in the middle of Broadway. The intense sc
ent from a potted Arabian jasmine drifted across the room. Several cardboard cartons were stacked haphazardly below the window sill.

  Kyle frowned as he ran a hand through his unruly hair. “They’re sending some superstar anchor over from NIP who’s demanding to go to Siberia with us. With their usual climate change denial, I can just imagine what kind of coverage we’ll get.”

  Barbara nodded. Her tailored long-sleeved beige shirt synchronized with tan pants and loafers. She had played down her attractive looks with a no-nonsense, business-like appearance. With her hair tied back and glasses slipping off her nose, she looked older than a woman in her mid-thirties.

  “NIP? That stands for ‘Never Inform the Public with Facts’ doesn’t it?” She removed a paper airplane from the chair, tossed it into the trash can, and sat down. “Better yet ‘Never Irritate the Public with Facts,’ I’d say.”

  Kyle laughed and sailed his airplane across the room, landing it gently on a baby spider plant on the window sill. “Bull’s eye,” he said. “But getting back to business, if we turn them down, they’ll insist we’re hiding something and start blasting us. Again. And again. Never ends. We’re not doing a good enough job with the kind of viewers NIP has. So we’ll just have to deal with the result.”

  As Barbara got up, retrieved the latest airplane, and dropped it in the trashcan, she said, “Senator Trotford doesn’t consider climate change a problem either. Wants to drill for oil and gas everywhere and anywhere. Wildlife preserves, ocean sanctuaries, the Arctic, you name it.”

  “And yet he wants to accompany us.”

  Barbara didn’t like the idea. “We should turn him down. Being seen with him will discredit us.”

  Kyle shook his head. “We have to take him.”

  “Why?”

  “Who knows why he wants to come. He might really believe that without oil and gas, our economy would collapse and that nothing else matters. But maybe what he sees will change his mind. Can’t say as I’m inclined to think it’ll happen, but we need to give it a chance. I’ll have to try my darndest to keep my opinion to myself. Guess I’m not very good at that, am I?”