Deep Ice (12 page)

Henry remembered bending to pat the dog’s head and asking the Marine handler, “Does he bite?”

“Yes he does, sir,” the Marine had said, still at attention.

Henry had never forgotten Sword, nor the way the hole in the dog’s snout whistled when he breathed. Of course, Shep wasn’t that kind of dog, and his place in Henry’s heart hadn’t been earned by fear or power, but by mutual respect. Earned on the big ice. But that meeting had convinced Henry that, if he ever went toe- to-toe with a polar bear, he wanted a German Shepherd for a friend.

Now he and Shep entered the meeting room. As expected, Hayes was already there, studying some papers, waiting for the briefing to begin.

He looked up as Henry entered.

“Enthusiastic, eh Henry? I like that.”

“Your earlier briefing was. . . interesting,” remarked Henry, trying to figure out how to begin his request that Sarah stay on the team.

“That bad?” said the general with a smile.

“No, really. You answered a lot of my questions.”

“Any ideas?”

The general’s question threw Henry off-balance.

“About what?”

“I thought you said you were listening to my talk.”

Henry remembered that the purpose of the general’s meeting had been to open up a forum for ideas. Suddenly he realized how ridiculous he sounded.

“I think Ms French should stay with us,” he said abruptly.

“Why?”

“I guess because she’s now. . . she’s gotten familiar with my story. I mean she’s interviewed me and tried to get me to remember. Heck, I may have remembered things or said things when I was drugged I might have forgotten. . . but I did tell her.”

He knew he was completely botching his request.

But Hayes smiled. “Okay. I’ll ask Ms French what she thinks.” He looked back at his papers.

Henry stood there for a moment, not sure how to respond. He didn’t want to seem too happy, nor did he think he should behave too casually. He was still trying to decide how a dispassionate Henry Gibbs would react when the general glanced up at him again.

“Good idea, in fact, Gibbs. I won’t forget. I’ll speak to her. Is there anything else on your mind?”

Henry shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Then grab a seat. The meeting’s about to begin.”

While the officers and staff gathered for the second time, Hayes received an ominous stack of literature from one of his aides. Poring over the first few pages, he didn’t look up for several minutes. When he finally did he seemed surprised to find the room full and everyone looking at him expectantly.

He straightened his back.

“Thank you all for coming. I’ve had our people prepare an analysis of a worst-case scenario. I commend them for having put this together in so short a time. You already know that, if the Ross Ice Shelf should break free due to two or more thermonuclear detonations, we’d have a rise in the world ocean of twenty feet or more, preceded by tsunami of up to. . . well, who knows? A hundred feet?” The general glanced down at the report. “This report I’m holding says a hundred feet.”

He turned to a large rectangular map of the world that hung on the wall. He used a cigar from his uniform jacket as a pointer. The tip landed squarely on the central United States.

“Goodbye Louisiana and Mississippi. If the shelf breaks free, they’re underwater. At least, according to our experts.” Hayes walked to the desk and picked up the report, a dark blue folder. Underneath was a stack of support material, maps and flow charts. He opened the folder and leafed through the first few pages, muttering to himself as he scanned the text. “I’ve seen most of this already. . . They gave me so much here. . . Where is that. . .? Ah, here we are: ‘Twenty-five feet and up’.”

He looked intently at his audience. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out what that would mean. The bottom line is that the United States would be cut in half, losing a third of its real estate to the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, almost overnight. The new inland sea would stretch clear up to Missouri.”

He paused a moment to let the gathering absorb what he’d said.

“Any questions, so far?”

No one raised a hand.

He walked back to the map and pointed his cigar again, this time tapping various light-green spots on the map. “This bilious pea-soup colour shows the areas that would be inundated.”

Henry squinted at the map. The green was widespread, covering much of the world’s coastlines.

Most of Europe and Russia were green.

The general started listing the affected areas, jabbing his cigar at different points on the map.

“Look at it all,” he said. “Florida – I was planning to retire there. Canada. Mexico. Much of South America. . . not Chile. Most of Europe, Siberia, Australia, Africa, Micronesia, Japan. It’s hard to find any landmass that isn’t affected. I mean, just look at Central America. It’s nearly
all
that colour. One-third of the habitable landmasses are threatened, not to mention almost all port cities. I’m sure each of you can imagine the chaos that would cause.

“So what does this mean? From the get-go, one-fifth of the world’s population would be displaced, forced inland. But the people living there already would, of course, be inclined to hold onto their territory. Sharing is nice when there’s lots to share, but not when it’s him or you depending on a single place to live and produce food. It’d take the world’s shorelines
time
to recover from the depth changes. A couple hundred years? Thousands? No one seems to know.”

He examined a few more pages, then went on. “The entire oceanic ecosystem would change. Inland waterways, spawning grounds – all altered drastically. That means no food from the oceans, the place that currently feeds a fifth or more of the world’s population. Forget about your Surf and Turf or Clams Casino, I guess.”

Listening, Henry closed his eyes for a moment. From the silence in the room, he’d have sworn, if he hadn’t known otherwise, that it was empty.

“That’s a worst-case scenario,” continued Hayes.

“The consensus among the scientists, however, is that the Ross Shelf would have large areas that’d not break free, even if as many as four well placed nuclear devices went off. We think about twenty per cent of it would remain. That reduces the displaced volume to ‘only’ about eighty-five thousand cubic miles – which translates to a ten- or fifteen-foot maximum sea-level rise. Not a big enough decrease, though, to save us.”

He paused again, then sighed. “Not a pleasant picture already.”

He pressed on, a general doing his job. “And if that’s not enough to worry about, you can add World War Three. You all know what that means.”

A spreading buzz of conversation began.

“Certainly food for thought there,” he said in a slightly louder voice. “But let’s save that discussion for later.”

Suddenly, from the back row, near the door, a hand shot up.

“Ah, someone brave enough to venture a question amid all this doom?” said Hayes with a slight smile.

“Yes? What’s your question?”

It was one of Grimes’s men, Rob Walters, the pilot.

“From where I sit, General, the Ross Shelf doesn’t look big enough to do the kind of damage you’re talking about.”

“Agreed, Walters. But unfortunately the landmasses, particularly Antarctica, are reduced in scale, distorted, on this map.”

“I know that, sir,” said Rob. “Took geography. Got an ‘A’. What I’m looking at is the polar projections. I have a copy. Even in those maps the Ross Shelf just doesn’t look that big.”

“If you’re asking if we checked our figures, then the answer is yes. Believe me, Walters, we
wanted
to be wrong. But if your question is rhetorical. . . well, I sympathize. It doesn’t look that big, does it? No. We checked. Our estimates are accurate. But thanks, anyway. Anyone else?”

Henry was surprised that, though the room was crowded, no one else raised a hand.

Hayes closed his folder and waited a moment. “I can’t add much to what I’ve already told you, but we’re always looking for ideas. So I’d like everyone to pick up a copy and to read it. I mean
read
it. That’s a presidential order.

“We meet again at 05:30.”

Henry stood up, but he was the only one in his section of the room to do so. He pushed his folding chair back to step behind the row, Shep following. Henry tried to put the chair careful y back in its place, but nearly tripped over his own feet.

When he looked up, Grimes was standing by the door staring at him.

“Nice. Steady there, Houdini. You’re minus one-third of your act, I see – the redhead.”

Henry ignored the dig. He was getting used to it by now. “Say, Kai,” he said, “did I mention I might have some beachfront property for sale?”

“I’m no clam-digger, friend,” said Grimes with a smile. Then he turned and left with his men. Henry noticed that, of the SEALs, only Walters carried a copy of the general’s report. It was rolled up and stuffed into a flap on his battle fatigues.

#

The hike down the mountain had been arduous for everyone but Rudolfo Suarez. The man seemed almost superhuman.

Remo, the former wrestler and Czech officer, had known Suarez the longest, and often referred to himself as “Numero Dos” – number two – in Suarez’s inner circle. But to merit that dubious honour he was required to keep pace with Rudy wherever they went. Remo hated the mountains because he hated heights. Rudy, on the other hand, was surefooted as a mountain sheep, and just as willing to take perilous shortcuts to save time. It never seemed to enter the boss’s mind that one mistake could be his last.

But now, as they approached the base of the mountain and the Moche village where they’d left their van, Remo could finally relax. Suarez seemed content that the master plan was unfolding like clockwork. They had placed the final radio relay unit in a snow field at 18,000 feet. Now Rudy could detonate the final nuke any time he wanted from any place in Chile. Just a simple ten digit code punched out from Suarez’s laptop would change the world forever.

Remo recal ed the spot where they’d put the relay unit. It had taken hours to anchor the electronics package in the rock to secure it from the wind, and then paint it and the surrounding rocks with white paint to blend with the snow. He had nearly blacked out from the exertion and lack of oxygen. Even with the help of the other men, the work had seemed to take forever. And he couldn’t decide which place was colder – the Ross Ice Shelf or the wind-blasted Chilean heights. But that was behind him now. The air was warm, unseasonably so, as they entered the village and a dozen or so children came running towards them.

“Give them candy,” said Suarez to Paco, the Andean guide who’d helped them climb to place the “weather station” as high on the mountain as possible. “There’s some in the van.”

#

Paco took the keys from Remo and opened the back of the vehicle. As he did so he was still wondering why this businessman was so interested in the weather and why he was referred to as “Rudy” by his men but had been introduced as “Ernesto”.

But Paco didn’t question these things. He was happy to have earned double his normal salary.

Opening the back hatch of the van, he found a brown paper bag filled with wrapped candies. He brought the bag to Suarez, who took it wordlessly and began tossing the candies onto the ground and laughing, while the children screamed and scrambled for them.

After waving goodbye to the three women who had been watching silently from the roadside, Rudy told the men to get into the van and asked Paco if he wanted to be dropped off in La Paz, where he’d been contracted.

“Sit behind me, next to him,” said Rudy, pointing to Remo. “We’ll let you out first when we get to La Paz.”

The guide followed the red-moustached Czech into the cab and sat down, putting his pack between his feet on the floor.

“When do I receive my money?” he asked.

Rudy got into the front passenger seat and directed Trevor, the driver, to head towards La Paz. Soon they were rolling down the bumpy road towards the main highway.

“Like I told you in La Paz,” said Suarez without looking back at Paco, directly behind him, “we’ll pay you when we get you home.”

Paco smiled and eased down in his seat. As with the rest of the men, his legs ached from the hike from the base camp to the village. He reached down and rubbed his thighs to get the blood circulating. When he looked up again they were on a narrow bridge that crossed a gorge. There was no guardrail, and the van was tracking precariously close to the edge. He looked down at the raging brown rapids hundreds of feet below.

Suarez looked round at Remo, and nodded.

Remo reached across Paco’s lap and pushed down on the door handle.

The door to the van flew open, and Remo gave Paco a two-handed push.

The guide’s rapidly fading screams blended with the sound of the rushing torrent as the van continued on its way.

Remo threw the guide’s pack after him into the canyon and pulled the door closed.

“That should give you more room back there,” said Suarez with a smile.

The van filled with laughter as it continued towards La Paz.

#

Where the road divided at the base of the mountain, Suarez ordered the driver to stop the van. He stared glumly at the road sign that showed the two possible destinations: La Paz and Arica. He looked at the sign blankly, but didn’t say anything. His men knew better than to ask Rudy questions, so they sat silently and waited for orders.

Trevor, the heavyset driver, took off his glasses and wiped off the red dust that had kicked up from the steep mountain road. He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out the window, then looked at the sky. “Shit, Remo, doesn’t it ever rain around this place?”

Remo waited a moment before answering; final y, seeing that Rudy was still lost in thought, he offered a response. “First time I heard a man complain about good weather.”

Suarez pointed to the road that led to the west.

“Trouble in La Paz,” he said softly. “Head west. . . to Arica.”

“Home base,” said Trevor. “I like that, Rudy.”

Suarez gazed at Trevor in silence, then cast his eyes to the front again. “Appreciate your opinion.”