***
With instantaneous internet news connections, the impending disaster sweeping towards Japan’s east coast was common knowledge before it hit. Mercifully, warnings had reached a majority of shipping in time for tankers, cruise liners and other larger vessels to escape the direct line of the building wave.
The hundreds, possibly thousands, of fishermen who carved out a precarious existence in small fishing craft based in tiny villages along the coastline were generally too poor to afford radios. They had no warning that the tsunami was coming until it darkened the horizon, bearing down on them before they had an opportunity to save themselves.
The speed at which the waters gathered was terrifying, inexorable, but the earthquake outstripped it, striking the coastline at Fukushima, where the country’s first nuclear power plant, now thirty years old, took a direct hit.
Though none of the buildings collapsed, the damage was devastating. The tsunami swept an estimated thirty kilometres inland before losing its momentum, carrying cars, lorries, railway locomotives and even ocean-going ships with it, depositing some of the latter on the roofs of tall office blocks. Many buildings had been constructed to survive earthquakes, which Japanese architects had known about and phlegmatically accepted as a fact of life when designing them. Nonetheless, it seemed amazing to the rest of the world that a surprisingly high number of buildings shown on TV news reports during rescue operations had remained more or less intact, a tribute to Japanese design, technology and workmanship.
“Although access to the centre of Fukushima is limited to the emergency services, we do know that at least some people living in the immediate vicinity of the nuclear plant received a warning of sorts, and many of them managed to flee before the earthquake and tsunami struck. There is no indication yet of how many reached relative safety on higher ground, but all employees at the nuclear plant were evacuated. Fires have started in at least two of the plant’s four reactors, and emergency services are unable to get close enough to combat them. There will inevitably be some radiation leakage, but at the present time, there is no way of inspecting the extent of the damage, or of making any assessment of how serious the leakage might be.”
Chapter Twelve
“Damn.”
Dave slung the phone back in its cradle.
Brenda came through from the kitchen with a mug of coffee.
“What’s the matter, love?”
“I’ve been trying Joey Hart’s number—thought I’d ask a pro if he’s got any inside info on this freaky weather which they aren’t telling us in the news, but all I get is a recorded message and a click to voicemail.”
“Perhaps he went away for the weekend. It’s still the holidays as far as lectures at Liverpool Uni are concerned. He might even have taken a long weekend away to do some research.”
“I somehow got the impression he’s a bit of a workaholic, though. I can’t imagine him sagging off work. He doesn’t strike me as a Monday-morning-blues type.”
“I’ll agree with you on that.” Brenda nodded. “Have you tried his mobile number? I’m pretty sure I added it to my list at the pub that first night, just in case…yes. Here it is.”
She punched the speed-dial button and handed the phone across the table.
Dave sat and waited while the phone rang. He was about to give up and pass it back when it was answered.
“Hello?” It sounded like Joey Hart, but there was something in his voice, an element of…tension? Perhaps even a hint of suspicion?
“I hope that’s you, Joey. Dave here. Dave and Brenda Whelan?”
“Yes, Dave, it’s me. Sorry if I sound a bit…I’ve been busy.”
“That’s all right. But I could only get your voicemail on the landline.”
“I’ve been…away over the weekend. Working, unfortunately.”
“I was wondering if you had any inside-track weather gen—anything the news media aren’t telling us?”
“Dave, before we continue this conversation, I’m working on a government issue, and it’s classified. I assume you know what that means.”
“Enough to respect the fact that you may not be able to—”
“Answer all your questions. It’s as well you had this number, but I’ll have to ask you to let me call you in future.”
“That’s okay, Joey. Is there anything your conscience will allow you to say?”
“I can’t even tell you where I am, and I don’t know how long I’m going to be here. I can tell you I’m on my own and under a lockdown order. Nobody’s allowed in or out until further notice.”
“Understood. Can I assume it’s connected with the weather conditions?”
“You can assume that much. I can’t stop you doing that, but I can’t comment.”
“I won’t put you on the spot, Joey. I’ll leave it at that, but remember we’re here if there’s anything at all you need.”
“I’ll remember, Dave. I may need your help, and I’ll keep in touch if I can.”
Brenda looked at Dave with concern in her eyes. She clasped the phone as he handed it back to her.
“Cloak-and-dagger stuff? Joey Hart?”
“Uh-huh. Sometimes it’s the quiet, unremarkable guy nobody notices who makes the most effective secret agent.”
“Still, if he was serious about ‘I may need your help’, he can’t be too far from home, can he?”
“Like a certain observatory we visited recently, you mean?”
Dave nodded. “My thoughts exactly. But we have to let him call us when he feels he can.”
***
“Juliet Bravo. Weather update for Central Command.”
“Brigadier Groth. Go ahead, Juliet Bravo.”
“No significant seismic activity recorded at the sites in Cumbria and Cornwall. Initial assessment suggests the forces giving rise to these events, originating mid-France in the south and somewhere north of the Scottish Highlands, have effectively cancelled each other out. The accompanying storm from the south has also blown itself out. Wind direction veered west overnight and dispersed over open sea.”
“Prognosis? Weather window for tomorrow?”
“Settled. No further storms expected. Mean temperatures will continue at around twenty-eight degrees Celsius, possibly more. No rain imminent.”
“Received and understood, Juliet Bravo. Lockdown is now lifted. You can make arrangements for your staff to resume work, but until further notice, only those with highest security clearance are to enter the observatory. Please acknowledge.”
“Acknowledged and understood, Command. Over.”
“Over and out.”
Joey replaced the phone receiver and rubbed a hand over his unshaven jaws. Coming down off his caffeine high, he realised how long it had been since he last slept, and he had to force himself to remain on his feet. If he sat down now, just as the tension which had kept him going was released, he’d keel over and sleep wherever he collapsed. He picked up an unfinished cup of cold coffee and wandered into the office to start ringing around the few staff with the required level of security clearance. Fortunately, the first-choice team he wanted all had this.
By midday, the Bidston Hill Observatory was running on a skeleton crew. Joey had managed to snatch some time from his desk and was back comparing and correlating notes which dealt with different aspects of current and expected weather conditions.
“We’ve had no further tremors in the past twenty-four hours,” he reported. The relief in his voice was clear, especially after several days spent recording aftershocks that followed no discernible pattern.
“Noon temperature’s up again,” an assistant called. “Local, too. The station on Crosby beach has just posted thirty degrees.”
“Same from Cardiff,” another chimed in, quickly followed by readings of between 28°C and 29.5°C from other desks.
“One extreme to the other,” Joey growled, frustrated both by the fickleness of the weather and the fact that there was no obvious course of action he could take to com
bat the extreme conditions nature seemed determined to inflict on humanity in general.
His heart felt heavy. He was convinced there was a pattern developing, something which ought to be blindingly obvious. Why couldn’t he see it?
A flicker of bright colour on one of the TV monitors caught his eye, and he glanced upwards to discover it was an outside broadcast on the BBC News Channel. The scene was vaguely familiar; he looked more closely and read the text at the bottom of the screen. It was identified as Red Moss Nature Reserve, near Horwich. He pointed a remote towards the screen and toggled the mute button.
“…available fire tender in North Manchester has already been deployed. More have been requested from adjoining regions.”
Thick, oily smoke hung over the moor. Joey made the connection at once.
“Peat. Dammit, that’ll burn forever.”
He reached for the nearest phone. It rang before he touched it.
“Juliet Bravo. Are you following the BBC News?”
“Yes, Sir. I was about to contact you. I assume you’re referring to the fires?”
“Correct.”
“We’re dealing with a peat base, Sir. Putting it out is going to be difficult. It’s generally deep-seated, perhaps ten metres or more when it’s close to the surface. The main problem is likely to be reignition. You think you’ve put it out and move on to the next blaze, and…”
“Understood. Can we assume this is most likely due to the exceptionally hot and dry weather?”
“More than likely, Sir, unless it’s due to deliberate fire-setting or arson?”
“That’s always a possibility, of course. Unfortunately, we can’t do a great deal about the morons and the antisocial elements of society.”
“We have to go deep when we tackle each blaze, Sir, and each incident is going to need monitoring after the fire has—apparently—been extinguished.”
“That’s going to need extra manpower. Perhaps I should include a general call for the TA to support the Regulars and the Fire Brigade…”
“It would certainly help, Sir.”
“Leave that with me. Keep me informed of any developments.”
As before, Joey was left listening to the dial tone. Brigadier Groth didn’t waste his breath on lengthy goodbyes.
***
“Got another hotspot, Joey.”
“Go ahead, Brian. Cumbria again, I suppose?”
“Closer to home. The fire’s breaking through again in Darwen and near Ormskirk—that’s your neck of the woods, too.”
“Not good. But I’ve just been told that the TA Reserves are being mobilised, manning the Green Goddess pumps. They’ll be working in tandem with the regular Fire Service. I assume they’ll try to put an experienced pro on each tender to help the volunteer crews.”
“Anything that helps will be appreciated. Where’d you get that news?”
“Reliable source, but I’ve got to be cagey. It comes under need-to-know, and the fact that I’ve signed the Official Secrets Act…”
“Understood. But you know what? I’m not convinced this last rash of hotspots is all down to the weather. Some of these peat beds are incredibly deep. Is it possible there could be a subterranean cause? Strata damage, following the tremors we’ve been recording in the area?”
“Don’t even go there. D’you really want me to lie awake worrying all night, every night?”
“Don’t think for one minute I’m not scared shitless myself.” Brian snorted. “But you boffins seem to get most of the funding and all the latest, cutest toys to play with. Can’t you at least set up some sort of simulation programme, find out if it’s possible, at least in theory?”
“Mmm, yeah, probably.” Joey wasn’t trying to discourage his colleague, but he was already scratching a few figures on a convenient scribble-pad and wasn’t giving the conversation his full attention. “Listen, Brian, thanks for the update. I’m already sketching the bones of a possible programme. I promise you’ll be top of the list if I get a result from it.”
As Joey worked through page after page of notes and calculations, Brian’s reference to strata damage kept returning to distract his thought processes. Every time he factored in another set of variables relating to either of the known sources of disturbances north or south of Bidston Hill, the overall picture which was developing became bleaker. At last, he gathered his scattered notes into some semblance of order and tried to summarise the overall trends they suggested. He gazed at the TV monitors around the room, giving up-to-the-minute data from weather stations all over the world, and was suddenly distracted by a ‘breaking news’ item on the twenty-four-hour BBC News Channel.
“We’re getting reports of two serious earthquakes affecting Lorca in southern Spain. Each measured about five on the Richter scale. They have caused extensive damage, and a significant number of fatalities can be expected.”
Joey looked once more at the file relating to information from all points south. Even without using a calculator, the timing of this latest disaster spoke volumes to anyone who had even a minimal understanding of climate conditions. The alarm bells were ringing louder and more discordantly with every report he read.
If we assume the incident in Spain continues the pattern of sending shock waves north and south, as has happened with everything else we’ve been picking up, the first reports should be arriving soon.
As he thought this, a phone trilled. Instinctively, he reached out but hesitated as he realised it wasn’t the landline; it was a Skype call coming through the computer. It had to be a personal call from a friend, but the number on the screen wasn’t immediately familiar. Perhaps someone he didn’t call very often? Or a relatively recent addition?
“Hello?”
“Joey, it’s Dave. Dave and Brenda, remember? Is this a bad time for you?”
“No worse than any other, and I’m glad you called. I’m still under security restrictions, meaning I can’t make outgoing calls. I’m not breaking any rules if I say it’s been a very lonely weekend, and nothing’s changed on that score. At least not yet. But I need a break, and I need someone to talk to—talk about anything which isn’t climate or earthquake related, that is.”
A thought struck him.
“As a matter of fact, I’m still under orders not to contact the outside world. However, you called me, and I need something to prevent me going round the bend.”
“Is there anything practical we can do for you from this end? People we could contact? Anything you’re short of or need?”
“I’ve told my superior the names of a few specialists whose brains I need to pick. He said he’ll have to vet them first, but I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. For the moment, if we can agree that you phone me on this number at the same time each day—nine o’clock, for example—I can have some outside contact without breaking the rules by making a call myself. Is that okay by you?”
“Fine, Joey. Hang on a moment.”
Joey could hear a swift, muffled discussion and had to assume Brenda was telling Dave something.
Dave came back on the line. “A friend of ours who had his hols in the South of France ruined by the weather has been in touch. He’s back in England, and he decided to use the rest of his vacation time to do a whistle-stop drive home, stopping wherever he happens to be. He says he’s being dogged by the weather. He hasn’t had a single dry day yet, and he’s feeling a bit picked on, if you know what I mean.”
“Sounds like he’s been really unlucky, but it can only be coincidence. I never heard of anyone being a bad-weather magnet. Did he say how far he’s got, or where he’s been so far?”
“He said he went from Dover west to Cornwall, and from there to Stonehenge and across into South Wales. He was literally about to toss a coin to decide whether to drive through central Wales or make for Aberystwyth and drive along the coast.”
There was nothing in Dave’s casual, chatty tone to suggest any hidden agenda or hints of anything with a possible connection to the alarming
scenario Joey could see developing all around him. Nonetheless, he felt as if a mule had planted a vicious double heel drop in his stomach.
“Dave. Did you say your friend is still somewhere in South Wales? Can you reach him before he moves off?”
“Probably, if I do it straight away.”
“Give him a bell while I check a few figures. It might sound crazy, but he just might be our man on the spot and can do me an enormous favour.”
Joey’s fingers danced over the computer keyboard, rearranging data. The results pointed to an entirely different prognosis.
The signs were there. Across the country, earth tremors and unseasonal weather at both ends of the scale were being reported and recorded, with strong tides and powerful currents threatening to launch a further assault on the ravaged coastline of Great Britain. Worryingly, the shoreline, especially along most of the south coast, was already showing signs of weakening and crumbling away into the surrounding, relentless sea.
“Still there, Dave?”
“Yeah. Brenda’s got him on her mobile. He’s a good egg. If there’s anything he can do to help, he can be trusted to do it.”
“Right. This might sound a bit off the wall, but hear me out. Ask him to take the inland route and stay close to the mountain range. He should keep an eye out for any signs of structural or other damage—fallen trees, maybe evidence of recent shale falls, earth movements, drystone walls which have had a couple of stones dislodged. Tell him I’m looking for signs of any ripple effect heading this way from an earthquake reported in Spain a couple of hours ago. If we can pinpoint time and distance, we can make an educated guess at where and when we might have a situation to deal with.”
Taking the Heat Page 7
