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Authors: Stel Pavlou

BOOK: Decipher
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Other statistics showed the earth's sea level and climate historically oscillated in keeping with solar radiation. One peak of solar radiation, in 15,000 B.C., coincided directly with a rise of world sea levels of 350 feet. The final peak in the constant fluctuation was in 4,000 B.C.—fitting in with the same time that Babylonian, Egyptian and Hebrew cultures first spun their Flood stories. Sarah didn't know much about ancient scripture, but she did know the final upsurge was a sea-level rise of 9.5 meters in 250 years; 9.5 meters equaled 30 feet, and 30 feet, in ancient measurements, was 15 cubits. Exactly the same as the depth of Flood mentioned in
Genesis
when Noah boarded the Ark.
Indeed, other geological evidence had uncovered the fact that around 5,000 years ago, vast sections of the earth were flooded suddenly when the huge volcanic fracture down the center of the Atlantic gave way and blasted billions of tons of water into the atmosphere.
And in 1996, scientists at the Lamont-Doherty Earth Observatory in Palisades, New York, drilled cores of rock in the North Atlantic sea floor only to discover that the earth's climate changed abruptly every 1,000 to 3,000 years.
In short, Sarah had done her homework. And they knew it, or they wouldn't be here. But why were they interested? It was a novelty item. Interesting, but hardly useful.
Houghton eyed Bulger briefly and shrugged. “She'll do,” he said. “Let's get inside. Bring your equipment.” He headed for the temporary cabin on the far side of the construction site.
Bulger made a slight bow and indicated the way. “After you,” he said.
 
Inside the cabin there was a bottled gas fire and some lighting. Houghton flipped the whole lot on and rubbed his hands in the heat. There were maps and plans tacked to all the walls, and sets of papers spread out over the tables. It may have been the twenty-first century, but nothing much had changed. Rola Corp. was in the middle of building a new oil refinery and the mammoth had been directly in the
path of where the outflow pipe-line was due to go. The whole project so far had been one geological headache after another.
Sarah dumped her case on one of the desks and stood on the other side of the room. They might all work for the same happy company, but they were still two strange men, and she was still a lone female. Why the hell should she trust them?
“Sorry,” Sarah said now. “I can't quite remember what it is you said you do for the company?”
“I didn't say,” Houghton told her. “But, for your information, I'm a lawyer.”
“
Lawyer
? Then what the hell are you doing out here?”
Houghton glanced at Bulger, but inclined his head toward Sarah. Bulger dug into his pocket, pulled out a clear plastic bag and emptied a small crystal into his hand. He tossed it to Sarah. She caught it with one hand and turned it over in the light. There was writing on it.
“What is it?”
Houghton tutted and generally looked disappointed.
Sarah heaved a sigh and sat at the desk. “Okay,” she grumbled. She flipped her case open and went to work. There was a laptop computer built into the upper section, some small electronic probes that measured resistance and other properties, a set of electronic scales and the usual tools, like a small gem pick, a file and some tweezers. A microscope was packed away in its box. Opting for the age-old method, she picked up her eyepiece and took a good look.
The two men seemed more interested in other things, their minds elsewhere as they agitatedly conferred. More than likely, they already knew what it was. Which irritated her even more.
She turned the stone over and over, was about to announce her conclusion and then thought better of it. What kind of lattice structure
was
that? She switched the computer on and called up some files. She raced through every structure she thought it matched and drew a dead end. So she did a couple of quick tests with the other equipment, before calling up theoretical models. She'd seen this structure somewhere before.
“This is some kind of diamond,” she announced.
Houghton took in a deep breath. He straightened. “We know,” he replied flatly, as if to imply, “Is that all you can come up with?”
“But it's not like any diamond I've ever seen,” she went on. “It's not natural. This was manmade. Its molecular structure's a bucky-ball. You know what a bucky-ball is, right?” This was staggering news. Her eyes never wavered from the back of Houghton's head. Finally he turned to face her. Grim.
“Yes,” he said, “I know what a bucky-ball is. Our people at the research center back in Dallas were kind enough to explain it to me. It's a theoretical molecular arrangement of carbon atoms. We have three in nature—basic carbon, which gives us coal and to which we all owe our lives. The other two are graphite and diamond. Buckminster Fuller's Buckminsterfullerene, or bucky-ball, shouldn't exist. It's stronger, more resilient; if you could find any, you could build an elevator to the moon.”
“Right,” she said. “But it's just … well, Kroto and Smalley won a Nobel Prize for making enough to fit on a pinhead. Other than that it's supposed to be just a theory.”
“Not anymore.”
“I take it you didn't create it or you wouldn't be coming to me.” She glanced at Bulger. Asked pointedly: “Where did you find this?”
“Antarctica.”
That was not what she had expected to hear. She balked. “Excuse me?”
Houghton reached into his pocket and pulled out another stone. He tossed it to her. “Next surprise,” he said.
She compared it to the other one. Same writing. Same structure. “This from Antarctica too?” she asked.
Houghton shook his head. “No,” he said. “Another site. You have two hours to get packed.”
 
“Another site? A second site? What site? Where?”
“Somewhere warmer than here.”
Sarah was on her feet, closing her case. The men were already halfway out the door. She mulled it over. Warmer than here? This was good. Anywhere hot was better than here.
She looked at the stone. It was Carbon 60. And from what she could determine, it was integrated with another type of diamond that was even tougher, conceived of in the mid-1990s by some Harvard professors and christened Diamonite. It was a compound of carbon and nitrogen atoms. β-C
3
N
4
. The bucky-ball chunk of diamond was made up of molecules that consisted of sixty carbon atoms in a spherical geodesic formation. Known as C60, it was tough. And Diamonite was theoretically even tougher. Together, they made a formidable compound—ten, maybe a hundred times stronger than ordinary diamond. This definitely couldn't be naturally occurring. Since the mid-1950s, when General Electric had a stab at it, people had been trying to synthesize diamond. The best anyone had come up with was an inferior film that could be coated onto the tip of tools. This was evidence of a far more advanced technology.
“You'd need powerful lasers to cut this stuff,” Sarah said, shaking with excitement. Diamonite
and
C60? Not only was this the find of the century but it was her ticket out of here. Finally a shot at pure research, maybe even some exploration. “There need to be more tests,” she stated, handing the samples back.
“We're doing more tests,” Houghton replied. “In Geneva.”
“That's where you're going?”
Houghton simply nodded as he held the door open and let the wind whistle around the room as Bulger laid out the plan. “The most powerful lasers in the world are in Geneva. Ever since that thing in the Ross Sea, Rola Corp.'s been under scrutiny. Thorne's been in the White House more times this week than the Vice President. We have full government and military backing, provided the tests in Geneva are good. We'll wind up as the sole suppliers of C60 to the entire western world.”
Houghton pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck. “No need to remind you, Ms. Kelsey, the Chinese may already be ahead in the race. We want you to head up the geologic survey at the second site. Learn everything you can. When we're done in Geneva we'll pick you up on the way
through. You have days, not weeks, to complete your assignment.”
Sarah was stunned. She shivered with the bitter winds. “Through to where?” she asked apprehensively.
“We're going back to Antarctica,” he added.
But the door had already banged shut behind him.
The Universe may not only be queerer than we imagine; it may be queerer than we
can
imagine.
 
J.B.S. Haldane, Geneticist and Biometrician, 1892–1964
The storm below was ferocious. Heavy rain driving in squalls. Vast freezing sheets lit up brilliant white against a grim black sky as lightning coursed through thick angry cloud.
When the plane shuddered this time, it caught November Dryden, who had been staggering up the aisle, completely off-guard. She gripped the nearest head-rest, which forced Richard Scott to snatch his drink off the tray before it shot across the cabin.
He glanced up at the student. “Are you okay?” he asked gravely.
November wiped her mouth. Her face was pale; sweat beaded across her forehead. “Professor, do I look okay to you?” she mumbled.
“No. You look like shit.”
“Then stop asking stupid questions,” she growled, resuming her struggle for the nearest bathroom.
The man sitting next to Scott nodded his approval. “I like her.”
Scott smiled briefly by way of a polite response and returned to reading Sarah Kelsey's extraordinary geology report. It made for disturbing reading, and for a while Scott hadn't even figured out why he'd been sent it in the first place. But then he had remembered that the oldest known piece of literature was the Sumerian
Epic of Gilgamesh.
It was the story that formed the basis for the Bible's tale of Noah's Ark, and was written in cuneiform. Perhaps this Ralph Matheson person was anticipating that this new
pre-
cuneiform text was an even earlier version of that same story. Sarah's report may have been sent to get him in the mood. Now
that
would be something special …
“Tell me, Dr. Scott, how do you really feel about the possibility of doing archeology in Antarctica?”
Scott snapped his head up from reading. “Excuse me?”
The plane shuddered again as the guy indicated an identical
set of documents on his own tray, right down to Sarah's geology report. “It's all right here,” he replied.
Scott studied the man next to him with some suspicion. He had tanned Hispanic features, thick black hair, and was leaning against the window, looking bored, but he had an enigmatic hint of amusement tugging at his lips.
“I, uh, I didn't get to that part yet. I'm sorry. How do you know who I am?” Scott demanded.
The man held up a copy of the thesis he was reading.
Tales of the Deluge: A Global Report on Cultural Self-Replicating Genesis Myths
by Dr. Richard Scott. It even had his photo on the back.
“I pay attention to the details, don't you?” the man responded. “I'm reading yours; you're reading hers.” He sighed. “But no one seems to be reading mine … In any event,” he added, “I think this is all a crazy notion. Have you seen how cold it is down in Antarctica? First of all I'd have to ask who the hell lived there? And second of all I'd have to ask who has that kind of stamina that they could actually do archeology in those temperatures.” The guy smiled. Quietly punched a button on his arm rest, closed his eyes, and reclined.
“There must be some mistake. I didn't agree to go on any dig. Someone wanted my opinion on some texts, that's all. Who are you, anyway?” Scott insisted.
The
guy snapped his eyes open suddenly as the plane dipped wildly. He stuck his hand out but Scott was in no mood to shake it. “I'm sorry,” he said. “How rude of me. Here we are about to crash into the ocean and we haven't been properly introduced. I'm Jon Hackett. I believe we're going to be working together in Geneva.”
Scott was confused. “In what capacity? And what makes you think we're about to drop into the ocean?”
The main cabin lights suddenly dimmed. The whole plane shuddered as the lights flickered off, then on. There were screams from somewhere in the rear. Call bleeps rang out throughout the cabin. Seatbelt signs blazed.
 
Scott and Hackett squirmed in their chairs as they hurried to comply with the directive. Those who were standing had already dived for the nearest available seats. Hackett eyed his
own belt disdainfully as he buckled up. “Oh, this'll help,” he said dryly.
Scott eyed him warily, trying to ignore the fact that the buffeting was getting worse. “So tell me, how did you know this was about to happen? I don't believe in chance.”
Hackett did not respond immediately. Neither did he make eye-contact when he did. Instead his eyes were sharp, focused on the rest of the plane panicking around him. Still with that same curious smile attached to his mouth, he answered: “Educated guess.”
Scott knew that expression. It was the look of a pure academic: someone who had spotted a chance to observe his own work in action. Hackett was studying these people as though they were research for a thesis. It made Scott angry. “I hardly think this is time for experiment.”
“On the contrary, this is very much part of a grand experiment,” Hackett replied. “Y'know, I knew a girl who studied which way up a slice of buttered toast would land. Dropped it over and over for a month. Found it was pure chance. Fifty-fifty.” He sat back in his chair. “Of course, her methodology was flawed. She didn't take into account nearly enough variables. Dropping toast, I told her, is not a random event. Everybody knows it'll land buttered side down.”
“This is no time for statistics either!”
“I'm a physicist,” Hackett explained as if that excused everything. “I warned these people on the ground we shouldn't be flying in these conditions but they wouldn't listen. Practically accused me of aerophobia.”
“You're afraid of flying?”
Now Hackett opted for eye-contact. “Oh, dear me no. Flying's not a problem,” he said decidedly. “Falling …” He thought about it for another moment. “Now
that's
a problem.”
“Well, if you knew there'd be trouble, why did you take this flight?” Scott felt his stomach drop out from under him again. He tried to remain calm, but it was difficult to control the rush of adrenaline that came with every lurch.
Hackett turned to him. “It was the only connecting flight to Geneva. And I do have to get to Geneva.”
“What
is
in Geneva?” Scott demanded.
“The Swiss?” Hackett winked.
 
 
“It's called CERN,” Hackett explained. “Europe's biggest nuclear research facility. That's where they're sending us.”
“I don't get it,” Scott replied absently. Right now, he was more concerned for November's safety. He hoped she was okay in the bathroom.
“You don't have to ‘get it.' Come on, what are the odds? Two heavyweight professors in different fields sitting next to each other on a plane going to CERN. You just said so yourself, you don't believe in chance. We both know the world's far more complex than that. Complexity … It's the key to everything.
“We're the military's show boys, Dr. Scott. The government's excuse to go marching into that Chinese base in Antarctica and find out what's going on down there. Under the terms of the Antarctic Treaty, that has to be a scientific team. That's us. I used to work at CERN, so I called an old friend. The U.S. military are crawling all over. A Colonel personally booked both our tickets.”
“The military? I've heard nothing about the military. What are you talking about? I've been invited to Geneva to work on an ancient text. I did not—”
“Oh, what did they do? Appeal to your better nature? Cute. I don't happen to have a better nature so they paid me lots of money. Don't you watch the news? Haven't you been following what's going on? Chinese scientists are seen sunbathing in Antarctica. Now you don't light the touch paper to a power source as powerful as a mini-sun unless you invented it or found it. If you invented it—get the hell off Antarctica. If you found it, then we want it. At all costs. We're the excuse to start a war.”
Richard Scott suddenly had that dawning feeling that, in all the euphoria of putting one over on Fergus and the University, he had failed to consider just what kind of a situation he was putting himself into. How bad could it be?
The cabin lights flickered on and off disconcertingly.
 
“What's with this plane?” Scott exclaimed.
Hackett sketched out complex mathematics on a tatty page of his notebook. “Roughly every twenty-two years, the sun goes ballistic, with sunspot activity. Solar flares.” He
waved his hands melodramatically. “Radiation—
that's
what's wrong with this plane.”
Scott clamped his eyes shut as the plane shuddered furiously. “We're caught in a storm,” he said thinly.
“Yes, but what causes the storm?”
“I don't care,” Scott told him.
“The sun, Dr. Scott, causes the storm. The sun is causing all this. We're not actually in a storm, we're thousands of feet above it. But the sun is disrupting the computer that flies this plane. The earth's magnetosphere is dragging all these highly charged particles down into the atmosphere. You've seen pictures of the Aurora Borealis, the Northern Lights. All those colors moving in stripes across the sky are the earth's magnetic field-lines lit up because all this sun ‘stuff' is trapped in them, and is being burnt up.”
“And your point would be?”
“My
point
is, it all just hit the earth's atmosphere. And if my calculations are correct, it's a prelude to something bigger. Much bigger.”
Scott tried to keep his breathing shallow and steady.
“You don't seem to be taking in the enormity of the situation,” Hackett nagged.
Scott didn't answer.
“Want to know what sunspot cycles can do? When your TV goes nuts, it's because of the sun. When your radio won't tune into a station, it's because of the sun. In March 1989, sunspot activity was so violent, the voltage in Quebec's power-grid fluctuated. Lights went out. Microwaves refused to wave. Six
million
people were left without electricity for
nine
hours. NASA lost track of spacecraft. The Aurora was spotted in Key West. Telecommunications and computers went haywire. Sophisticated planes dropped from the sky. Sound familiar to you?”
Scott simply glared as
bang
! the bathroom door up the aisle was snapped back and November emerged with the most hateful look on her face.
“Nobody go in there,” she announced as she fell into her seat.
 
All stability collapsed around them at that point. They could hear the whine of the engines and feel them vibrate as they
struggled to provide enough power. Hackett grabbed his drink before it spilled all over his lap. The main intercom bleeped sporadically as the captain cut in to explain the situation. But it didn't take a genius to figure out: they were going down.
Prayer erupted in the cabin. There was a pounding noise in the background. A fat lady across the aisle had shut her eyes and was making a cross over her heart. There was a pounding noise in the background. She was doing it backward and Scott reasoned she must not have done that sort of thing in a long time, if at all, before now. Others had already started bracing themselves for impact. There was a pounding noise in the background.
Hackett edged forward in his seat. Curious. “Where's that noise coming from?”
A young guy was standing up, banging the overhead compartment, trying to get at his oxygen mask.
Hackett leaned in close. Pointed with his drink before taking another sip. “Now that's just plain silly.” A flight attendant rushed in and started forcing the passenger back into his seat. “I don't recall us losing air pressure, do you? Why on earth would he think he needs oxygen?”
“He's panicking,” Scott snapped. “He doesn't know what he's doing.”
Hackett glanced out the window, then back at his watch. “I'd say we've got about three, maybe four minutes.”
Finally Scott lost all patience. “Will you shut up!” he barked.
Hackett didn't seem willing to listen. “The problem with society today,” he went on placidly, “is its singular lack of communication. We live in the information age. We talk to each other all the time—on the net, on the phone. We have TV, HV, VR. But we're
not
communicating. We seem to be amassing so much garbage, but we're not conveying what's really important.”
Scott faced front and tried to ignore Hackett. He would have preferred to listen instead to some music or watch TV, but the equipment had been switched off and wasn't working anyway. His skull bounced off the head-rest as the plane took another pounding. He could sense their angle of descent getting steeper.
“And the problem's even more acute in academia.” Hackett finished his drink, wondered what to do with the empty glass before opting to hang onto it. “You're a Professor of something or other and I'm a Professor of Physics. How much are you willing to bet our two departments have never communicated with each other?” Hackett didn't seem to notice that Scott had other things on his mind.

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