Taking the Heat

by Paul McDermott

  As he toggled the end-call button, Groth’s name flashed across his monitor. Joey thanked his stars he’d ended the previous call and could answer immediately. He didn’t like to think of the consequences of keeping the brigadier waiting.

  “Bidston Hill. I have an update for you, Sir, and I’m forwarding a file of fresh data from a listening post in Region Six which I believe is relevant to the present situation.”

  Brigadier Groth’s voice sounded calm and relaxed as he responded. “Doctor Hart, if you have some new data already, you’ve made good progress. But I must ask you to follow protocol. Confirm the ID of any caller who contacts you before you give out any information. And I mean, any information—anything at all. This is a military matter, with the highest possible peacetime security classification. You’ve never had any involvement with the armed forces, have you?”

  “That’s correct, Sir.”

  “As I thought. You’ll have to get into the habit of thinking of the security aspect of everything you say and do every day.”

  “Understood, Sir. Now, I’m sending you the files I received a few minutes ago. They may need some technical interpretation, but the situation is this…”

  Joey muted the call while he forwarded the data to the brigadier and gave him time to read the files. Several minutes passed in silence before the brigadier spoke again.

  “Any suggestions, Doctor Hart?”

  “We haven’t had a great deal of time to go through the figures in detail yet, but if we could change one factor—say, by stopping the pumping process at an agreed time and date—we’d have something to set the present figures against. If we see an immediate change in the readings, we can prove the connection.”

  “And you’re asking me to step outside my remit of authority, give orders to a company whose principal interest is to make profit for their shareholders and tell them to close down operations for an indefinite period so you can take some readings?”

  “Without that data, Sir, I can’t give you an informed opinion. But if you want evidence you can use to persuade others rather than relying on my gut feelings, I need those figures.”

  “You don’t ask for much, do you? I’ll see what I can do.”

  This time, Joey felt the anger and frustration in Brigadier Groth as the line went dead.

  Within ten minutes, the phone rang once more. Brigadier Groth had recovered his composure and identified himself. Joey envisaged it was the brigadier’s way of reminding them to observe protocol in all future phone calls but kept his opinions to himself, as in the space of those ten minutes, the brigadier had called in some heavy-duty favours.

  “All activity at the drill site will cease at exactly 1000 hours. Can you have your monitoring equipment online by then?”

  Dave had Carlisle on a second line and repeated the information. He listened for a moment, then nodded rather than interrupt.

  “Region Six confirm that, Sir. The equipment is already monitoring what’s happening at present, and there’s no change from the readings you have in hand. They’re steady.”

  “I’ll assume that’s a good sign. Keep me informed of any change in the patterns.”

  “Understood—”

  It was probably because the brigadier only needed confirmation that they were ready to proceed, but for the first time, Joey had managed to get the final word in before the connection was broken.

  “Right, it’s over to you, Carlisle.”

  “Acknowledged. All I have to do is keep a close eye on a couple of screens and charts, watch for any differences before and after ten o’clock, allowing for the time it takes to reach us, of course, but the time lag’s simple schoolboy maths. We’re almost exactly a hundred miles from the drill site, and the tremors are registering maybe twenty minutes after they’re generated.”

  “You make it sound so easy. Let’s hope pausing operations will provide the effects you’re looking for.”

  Joey pored over his copy of the first email, which showed the details collated from the original tremors. The clockwork regularity of the graphs was unmistakable. There was no question of them being the result of a manmade occurrence.

  “Errol. The pumping out of the waste you mentioned as part of the fracturing operation. Is it a lengthy process?”

  “Depends, Joey. The depth of the hole, the pressures involved, several other things all come into the picture. Generally, the pressure comes off straight away, and you get the main blow at once. How long it continues depends on how much gas you’ve found, I suppose. Like I said, I only picked up a few basic principles.”

  “Still, you know more than us, and if I can ask you—” Joey was interrupted by the callback from Carlisle.

  “Go ahead, Region Six.”

  “The graph readings changed a few minutes after ten o’clock. I’m emailing you the first pages now, but there’s no doubt about it. Is that what you expected?”

  “Yes—and thanks. It won’t solve the problem, but at least we know what we’re dealing with. Stay close to the phone. We’re going to be busy. I need to forward this Upstairs. If I can wrangle you a security clearance, it might save us some time to have you brought into the loop from now on.”

  Groth listened without comment to Joey’s explanation of what the changes in the graph readings implied but sounded dubious when he asked for security clearance.

  “There’s no time to consult rules and regs on this. I’ll have to take the responsibility myself. Doctor Hart, your colleague in Carlisle. I’ve read his CV, and he’s well qualified for the job. How well do you know him? And for how long? Can he handle pressure?”

  “We grew up together, Sir. He’s a Scouser, same as me, and he’s always come up with the goods. He won’t crack, I’m sure of it.”

  “This is what we’ll do, then. I’ll contact him now with a quick reply to this email and inform him he has limited security clearance. I’ll keep him abreast of future developments by phone or email, but my details will be withheld. It means he won’t be able to contact me unless I start the conversation, but that way, I’m only bending protocol rather than directly breaching it. My ass is—theoretically, at least—covered. That will have to do for now. Stand by.”

  Typically, the line went dead.

  “Stand by?” Dave repeated. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means stay by the phone. I can only think he intends to call us again, Dave, and very soon.”

  ***

  Less than ten minutes later, the phone on Joey’s desk rang, eerily at the same time a piece of equipment in the far corner of the lab emitted a series of hums and whirrs. Running over to inspect it, Brenda saw lights flashing beneath its translucent dustsheet. A roll of continuous paper began to issue from one end, reviving ancient memories of her first job. Now she could identify it as a fax machine, possibly vintage mid-fifties and no doubt standard issue whenever Bidston Hill had last been given a makeover.

  The chatter of the keys was deafeningly loud compared with the near-silent PSC used to print emails and other documents, although it ceased its racket as Brenda removed the protective cover. She tore off the printed section and looked over at Joey, who was already talking quietly into the receiver, presumably receiving further information and/or orders from Brigadier Groth. An expressive pair of eyebrows and a vague hand gesture indicated a vacant spot on his cluttered desk. Brenda dropped the note unread, face down, and withdrew a few steps, just in case there were security issues at stake.

  Joey flashed her a smile and ended the call as swiftly as he could without seeming to question his senior officer’s authority. “It’s time for an update. Let’s grab a coffee while we can.”

  Once they were all armed with cups of the strong, bitter brew and decamped to a comfortable group of armchairs set aside from the work area, he relayed what the brigadier had told him.

  “It seems Groth has a degree of clout I never suspected. He’s only gone straight to the top and scrambled three Seahawks from a carrier on manoeuvre
s in the region to overfly a sector of the South Pacific and get as much footage as possible—stills and video. Both can be useful for different purposes, and we need all the data we can collect.

  “The fax was sent by our bucolic cousins in NZ, most of whom are relying on hand-me-down equipment. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out it’s stuff we cashiered from here last time we had a refit. Oh, and Brenda, while I think on, you don’t need to worry. The brig has cleared all of us for however long we’re here, but if something really sensitive comes in, it will arrive encrypted and read like gibberish until the correct code for the day is applied.”

  “Thanks for that, Joey. Can you tell us what was in the fax?”

  “Well, the fact that they decided to send it over the wire, not in a phone call, is a hint of it being important and confidential.”

  He had quite deliberately folded the sheet without reading it. Now he opened it and read it through without comment. He managed to keep his face expressionless, but Dave suspected it had not been easy.

  Joey raised his eyes, looked at each of them in turn and cleared his throat. “Okay, this is straight from the horse’s mouth—though maybe the front line would be a better description. Anyway, here’s what it says.”

  DTG: 1010110910z

  From: Christchurch, South Island, New Zealand

  For: Joey Hart, Bidston Hill, UK

  Cc: Senior Officer ?? Ops Centre

  Security: Condition Red

  Seismic event indicated by readings taken @ 0700, 0730, 0800 d.d.

  Point of origin northern extremity of the Pacific Fault running roughly N/S from c.200m North of Tonga, through Samoa. Associated shock waves on direct course for landfall north/northwestern coastline New Zealand.

  Severe damage unavoidable. Timescale: 8<10 hours. Evacuation impractical. Curfew imposed, all non-military transport/movement curtailed.

  Awaiting advice/instructions. Message ends.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “It’s a biggie, Rob. We’ll get the full force of it smack on the nose, but it’s going to hit Oz too, my guess about five to six hours after it rips through North Island.”

  “Thanks, Pete. We can’t do a lot from here to help, but we can keep our monitors focused on the region and record what happens.”

  Pete Whelan’s mobile lost its signal yet again. When he attempted to redial, the complete deadness of the line suggested this time it was terminal. Or maybe someone’s commandeered the networks, he thought. He didn’t approve of such nanny-state tactics, and he wasn’t a Big Brother conspiracy theorist either, but in the exceptional circumstances of a national emergency, it would be understandable if someone had decided to clear the airlines for essential calls only.

  The authorities in New Zealand had reacted swiftly to the minimal warning received of a potential tidal surge heading their way. Information had been posted on all available radio and TV channels for people to ‘go home and stay there’, and military law had been invoked, with immediate effect. The streets were rapidly clearing of people who had been caught further from home than their luckier neighbours. Pete suddenly found something to be grateful for. He couldn’t imagine the scale of the carnage which would have ensued if the threatening wall of water had arrived in the middle of the New Zealand night with most of the country’s population asleep in the beds.

  ***

  Rob looked around the Met Office which had become the operations centre from which he and whatever staff he could muster would have to plan to safeguard Australia, first and foremost, along the eastern seaboard, where the worst effects of the tidal surge were expected to strike, and then prepare the rest of the country for mopping-up operations once the danger was past. It wasn’t promising. Normally, he could count on about two dozen assistants at any one time, but security clearance and holiday arrangements had reduced that number to eight, including himself, and the room seemed cavernous and almost empty. He hoped for a few more bodies to ease the workload at the next shift change, when those currently on duty would discover that they would have to crash on day beds or recliners in a side room, as Condition Red meant that they couldn’t leave the facility. He wondered if anyone had taken the trouble to point out that clause in their contracts. It wasn’t a task he’d volunteer for.

  If I can’t use the phone, how do I know what’s happening out there? he thought irritably. He’d been on duty for over twelve hours straight, and he was coming down from the last adrenaline high his glands could juice up. For the moment, however, there was nobody else to lead the team. Another night fuelled by strong coffee and willpower seemed inevitable.

  His head was starting to pound, a combination of stress, responsibility and the feeling that every breath he drew had already been through his lungs and everyone else’s half a dozen times—one of the disadvantages of living in a hermetically sealed environment. After a while, recycled air, however clean it is, tastes stale and dead.

  He grabbed a couple of co-codamol tablets from his drawer to dull the worst effects of the headache that would disable him as soon as he let it and glared at the innocent bottled water on the corner of the desk. The last mouthful he’d sipped twenty minutes ago had tasted as if it, too, had been recycled—more than once, and quite possibly via a donkey’s kidneys.

  I need a break, was his next thought. Coffee, he decided, would at least have a taste. Anything had to be an improvement on the anodyne non-taste of bottled water.

  The first gulp of coffee washed the tablets down. It should have scalded the roof of his mouth, but he was now on autopilot and had reached the stage of being able to ignore such mundane matters. Tired or not, he was determined to enjoy the rest of the cup and forced himself to concentrate on experiencing the radiant heat transmitted to his fingertips through the walls of the polystyrene cup.

  The exercise of crossing the room to the urn also made a pleasant change from sitting tensed up next to a useless phone. He performed an impromptu jig designed to encourage the returning circulation before leaving the rest area. A TV monitor was showing the latest headlines.

  Of course. If he couldn’t actively seek updates, he could still surf the news channels. He just had to hope the information he was looking for would prove easy to spot. He was as near as made no difference out on his feet. Dear God, I could sleep for a week.

  Two TV monitors on a side wall were transmitting different programmes. One was tuned to the Sky channel for Australian and Southern Hemisphere news, while the other reported what was happening in the rest of the world through the BBC News Channel. The sound had been muted, replaced by subtitles. The text unrolled across the screen several seconds behind the live events depicted and, to add insult to injury, were frequently inaccurate, garbled travesties of what was being said on-screen, although Rob noted that the spellings were better than usual. Probably because the news clip was being repeated for the hundredth time, and someone had had the opportunity to proofread it, put it into readable English.

  “A second earthquake has hit Christchurch overnight. On this occasion, the local authorities had plenty of time to prepare and react, and as a result, there were few injuries and no fatalities. The tremor was measured at just over two on the Richter scale, and property damage was minimal.

  “Breaking news: reports of further tidal surges approaching New Zealand from the north, ETA ten to twelve hours. North Island residents are advised to secure any loose property outdoors, remain indoors and listen to the radio for further instructions. South Island residents may opt to follow the same precautions, but the level of threat is not as serious.”

  Rob glanced across to the BBC News 24 screen. It was approaching the hour, and a brief outline of weather reports throughout Europe was about to give way to the latest international headlines. He grabbed a remote and toggled the mute button.

  “…news headlines at seven o’clock. A storm of unprecedented proportions is heading through the South Pacific region. All the countries of Australasia are at risk, especially New Zealand.”r />
  Rob’s tiredness fell from his shoulders like a discarded garment as a jolt of adrenaline hit home. A warning voice at the edge of his logic taunted him that he’d regret it later if he kicked into another period of intense activity without a rest. He ignored it and concentrated on the news report.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “We could really use some up-to-the-minute details of what’s going on—especially around the UK,” Joey groused as he drained another coffee cup without recording the fact that it was stone cold. The action was almost automatic. The hit of caffeine had long since ceased to have any significant effect.

  “Surely, we should be trying to understand the bigger picture, worldwide?” Dave queried.

  “He’s got a point,” Errol drawled in support. “Things are happening everywhere you care to look, so if there’s a link, a common denominator, there has to be some sort of programme we can use to get ahead of the game, maybe predict where the next problem’s likely to show up?”

  “If only it were that simple, Errol,” Joey said with a tired grin. “Weather forecasting’s still not an exact science, despite all the improved equipment we have to assist us and all the stats recorded over the years. Did you know, statistics prove that fifty-two per cent of all UK weather reports are wrong?”

  “I hadn’t heard that one, but it doesn’t surprise me,” Dave remarked.

  Joey rubbed at his temples. The long hours of unbroken concentration on the fine details of graphs, charts and reports were rapidly catching up with him.

  “All the same, we have to learn to walk before we can run, and maybe it’s not a bad idea to simplify the task by looking more closely at what’s happening locally in a much smaller region. It’s quite possible it will give us some pointers to help us understand what’s happening elsewhere in the world—always assuming there’s something to connect all these worldwide weather anomalies and it isn’t just coincidence.