The O.D. (24 page)

Two crew spending their day off exploring the heights above Nillin were the first to see the balloons as they floated in low from the west. Their first thought was that they were witnessing some kind of bizarre invasion or primitive bombing mission. They watched slack-jawed as the three shining spheres, riding the Atlantic winds with terrifying speed, closed on the cliff-face on a direct collision course.

A quarter of a mile short of impact, first one balloon, then the other two, burst into flame. As their gas burners super-heated the air in the canopies above, they rose up and stepped gracefully over the headland. Immediately, the burners were shut off and the balloons began a feathery descent into the basin, their forward progress slowed by the lack of wind in the lee of the headland. Below them, figures scurried round trying to anticipate the balloons’ landing points.

Fifteen minutes later, all three were safely down just short of the base of the far cliff. Because of the prevailing westerly winds, Leon Bonappe, the Director of Stratospherix, had sailed to the Atlantic side of the island, inflated the balloons on the deck of their freighter, and flown in to Nillin from the west.

Four hours later, Pilot and Bonappe stood side by side at the quay watching the freighter approach the dock. “How long can you stay, Leon?” Pilot asked.

“We were planning to sail tonight,” Bonappe said in perfect English. “As soon as the gas canisters, fans, generators, fuel and other paraphernalia have been offloaded.” Pilot had other plans for the man, though, and it didn’t take him long to persuade Bonappe to stay on as their guest until the mail helicopter could drop him in Jersey. Pilot wanted information on air space legalities relating to hot air balloons and any other specialist knowledge that could be squeezed from the man. He also needed extra tuition in operating his new acquisitions, which were Rolls Royces in comparison with the mopeds he had flown during his course in Bath. The two other balloonists elected to go back with the ship, so a bed was found for Bonappe in one of the new geodesic domes that were gradually replacing the prefabs. Seventy of these ‘domehomes’ had been purchased from a company in Finland. Not only were they easy to construct, but they were light, airy, robust against the wind, warm in winter and cool in summer. They also looked good.

At dinner that evening, Bonappe acquainted Pilot with the mapping software for western Europe that had been part of the delivery, showing the prevailing winds at different altitudes and at different times of the year. “With direct links into the Comtrac V weather satellite and ground stations, we can program our flights with metre by metre accuracy,” Bonappe explained. “Me? I’d rather fly by eye and inner ear.”

The next few days passed quickly for Pilot and they managed to complete six half-mile practice flights. Bonappe was more than happy to impart his knowledge pro bono, as he considered the experience of being part of this ‘entreprise curieuse’ more than sufficient recompense. For Pilot, he preferred spending the time with his head in the clouds, rather than fretting about his looming confrontation with France.

XIV

It was the eve of Bosse’s visit. The night was cold and dry, with a needle-sharp wind whipping Nillin on its unprotected north side.

In spite of the cold – perhaps even in search of its numbing anesthetic – Pilot paced the quay in clouds of worry. What perplexed him most was finding a suitable spanner to throw into the mighty French Imperialist machine, seeing as his greatest ally, world opinion, was having no effect. He was also fretting about how France would react when he said no to all their proposed footholds. A dart of cold air pierced his clothing and sent chills across his body. What am I doing here? he wondered, tightening his collar.

He was awakened by Dr. Dahl at seven, and half an hour later was sitting down to breakfast with his three nominated aides. The French helicopters weren’t due until half past nine, so the four of them sipped coffee and watched the finishing touches being made to a twenty foot high pyre of wreckage donated by the storm.

“THEY’RE COMING,” someone shouted in response to the flags being waved from the lookout atop the basin rim. Minutes later, five mammoth helicopters crested the escarpment and hovered at an altitude of 300 metres. One of the machines detached itself from the herd and descended. Pilot felt his innards give way, but knew that if he betrayed any sign of nervousness to their guests, his job would be made more difficult. Just a few feet from touchdown, a lone French officer leapt out and strutted up to Pilot’s party. “I am Major Domaigne,” he announced without warmth. “If you would care to follow me ...”

He led them into the mouth of the whale, closed them in and pressed a button on the bulkhead to signal the pilot. The rotors increased their stroke, along with their decibel output, and within seconds the machine was back with the herd. Major Domaigne then ushered the party through another door and into the main cabin where Pilot counted two men in military uniform, a dozen or so in sober suits, a few women, a film crew and a rather self-possessed figure he took to be Victor Bosse. The man had an air of command about him, but of the kind won through foul means rather than fair. Between his sensible shoes and haircut he wore the plain grey uniform of government, but there was something in his eyes that gave away his true nature. Pilot’s dislike of the man was instant. Lost in thought, Pilot didn’t notice that he’d been introduced to the entourage by Major Domaigne and was now expected to say something.

Instead, Mara stepped forward as per Pilot’s earlier instructions. “Welcome to Eydos,” she said. “I’m Eydos Press Secretary, Macushla Mara and this is Deputy Leader, Henry Bradingbrooke. We are honoured to have you as our guests. Odile Bartoli is here to ensure the accuracy of your translations. And, of course, you know this man.” Pilot nodded presidentially, but remained silent.

A thin man with a pencil moustache translated into French, leaving out the reference to translation checking, and ushered them to their seats.

“Monsieur Bosse is delighted to meet you all,” Pencil-moustache said, “and conveys to you the paternal greetings of the French People. Our first stop will be the site of the proposed airfiel
d−
Site A on your map.” Mara was handed a map of the island on which all the locations mentioned in the French proposals had been marked. She held it up for Pilot, who stared hard at it, allowing his eye muscles to relax and his vision to fall out of focus. He sank into a kind of self-induced half trance, which allowed him the minimum conscious contact with his surroundings and the maximum concentration to rehearse his speech, co-penned by Mara, for later.

At the first stop, he was only vaguely aware of a slight bump as the helicopter set down; of stepping out on to the rock; of shaking hands with Bosse for the benefit of the many photographers and video cameramen; and of then setting off for the next halt.

“Cet homme est un imbécile,” Bosse remarked as an aside to one of his aides. The French Circus was proceeding like clockwork. The weather was fine, the filming going perfectly and there was triumph in the eyes of all present.

At half past one, the French helicopters appeared again over Nillin and were soon standing in company with a lone British machine, still warm after its flight from Dorset.

A distressed Major Domaigne came running up to Mara. “Qui sont ces gens? Who are they,” he demanded. “What are they doing here?”

“They’re a crew from the BBC’s
News
Briefing
programme,” Mara said. “We invited them to cover today’s ceremony. Do you have a problem with that?”

Major Domaigne wasn’t happy. He and the other members of the Delegation cursed at the intrusion into their private show and looked suspiciously at the cameras and other equipment being unloaded from the gatecrashers. Their attention was diverted by Aaron Serman, who began ushering everyone into the conference marquee.

The TF1 and BBC satellite dishes were positioned outside the tent and cables were run under the canvas walls to where their respective crews were setting up camera tripods and microphones in front of a makeshift podium. Austin Palmer, the
News
Briefing
presenter, nodded discreetly at Pilot and then began talking to camera. Ten metres away, the French presenter was doing the same. There was one important difference that would prove to be pivotal.
News
Briefing
was going out live, whereas the French broadcast was on a 16-second delay, so ordered by Major Domaigne in the event of any unforeseen problems occurring.

Eventually it came time for the official business to start. The envoy who had visited the island previously stood before the table and made a short, sycophantic speech similar to that a chat-show host would make introducing his Star Guest, in this instance, the man who had ‘conceived and secured the future of Ile de Bonne Fortune, Monsieur Victor Bosse of the Foreign Ministry’.

The man arose in mock humility, his eyes to the ground. He raised a hand and the orchestrated applause of every pair of Gallic hands not at that moment operating a camera or holding a directional microphone, stopped. He made a cursory bow towards Pilot and began speaking, without notes, straight from the heart of his ambition. Bartoli typed the English translation of his words into a software program which automatically ran them underneath the picture being transmitted live to the English speaking world beyond and to the monitor in front of Pilot.

Bosse spoke for two minutes without pause about the unexpected gift they had received from Nature and France’s duty to share it with the world. He outlined the island’s importance to Nato and its enormous potential as a safe burying ground for France’s prodigious nuclear waste.

“I think we’re superfluous to this part of the show,” Pilot whispered to Mara.

Towards the end of his oration, Bosse was all but levitating. “Au nom du Président et du Ministère des Affaires Etrangères et de moi-même, Victor Bosse, je vous présente le Protectorat Français l’Ile de Bonne Fortune.” Before Bosse had even finished speaking, his stooges were on their feet clapping. Pencil-moustache leaned across the table and informed Pilot that the signing of the agreements would be taking place next.

Anyone looking closely would have noticed the blood rise under the Cornishman’s tanned skin until his entire face was an angry crimson. He leapt out of his chair, cleared his throat, looked towards the BBC camera and began to speak, pausing after every sentence to allow Pencil-moustache time to interpret.

“Before I start,” Pilot said, “I want to thank the French Government for organising our tour of Eydos this morning.” He knew that the next few minutes would either make or break Eydos’ credibility and was a little surprised at feeling so calm and composed.

“I’m relieved you managed to visit our capital, Monsieur Bosse, because it gives me the chance to clear up the misconceptions you’ve brought with you.

“This island, Eydos, is part of the European continental shelf that extends off the west coast of France. We all agree on that point. International law rules that Eydos lies outside French territorial waters, whether you call it three, twelve or fifty miles. You claim that the continental shelf is a natural extension of mainland France and that Eydos is therefore French territory within your Exclusive Economic Zone. It follows that New Guinea is part of Australia… Sri Lanka belongs to India… Taiwan belongs to China… half of Japan could be claimed by Russia and the other half by Korea… and Trinidad is part of Venezuela. What else ... The British Isles. They’d be yours, too. International relations would hit meltdown. All politicians would be dismissed and replaced by geologists appointed to draw up the new borders.”

At these words, Major Domaigne, who understood English and didn’t have to wait for the translation, signaled a temporary halt to the TVI broadcast.

“Reprenez le tournage,” Bosse commanded, overriding Domaigne. At this stage he didn’t see Pilot as a threat, and still had on his side the advantage of what he felt to be superior intellect, education and standing.

Pilot ignored the commotion around him and looked consolingly towards his opponents. “I
am
prepared to concede one important point,” he said, brushing the ceiling of over-confidence with his head. “And that’s to admit that up until August fourth of this year, Eydos
was
French soil. For millions of years, this stretch of rock was covered by a vast blanket of sediment laid down over centuries as run-off from the rivers of mainland France. Unfortunately, when the shelf was surfacing, it shed the only real physical link it ever had with your country – the sediment I just mentioned.” He was distracted by a movement to his left and glimpsed Mara mouthing the word ‘no’ with a
what
the
fuck
are
you
saying
look in her eyes. He had deviated from the speech she had worked so hard to help craft and she was livid. Then it suddenly hit hi
m−
the sediment in the pits. French earth mixed with their own. He erased Mara’s concern with an infinitesimal shake of his head. He’d already stupidly opened himself up to be shot down and his only salvation now was that no Frenchman would connect the dots before he finished his day’s work.

The French delegation began to shift in their seats. So agitated had they become that the BBC sound recordist had to rebalance his microphones in order to pick up Pilot’s next words – words designed to deflect from the subject of sediment as quickly as possible.

“When this virgin island came out of its muddy cocoon and broke the surface, the human race defaced it immediately. Our rusting barges southeast of here aren’t a pretty sight, and this place isn’t much better. Nillin is ugly now, but our aim is to bring aesthetic values into our building works – as you can see, we’ve already made a star
t−
and to keep our human footprint as small as possible. Quite the opposite of what our neighbour here is suggesting. What France, among others, would like to see done to this island bears no comparison to the slight blemish we’ve made. Its scars would never heal.

“But we’re not here to burn Victor Bosse. He has made his desires known far more honestly and openly than my former homeland, Britain.”

Bosse had heard enough and stood quickly, shaking his head from side to side. Mistaking Pilot’s seeming fairness towards his own country’s intentions in relation to Britain’s as a sign of weakness, he made a faux pas of majestic proportions.

“My young friend is an idealist,” Bosse began. “Were he a realist, he would know that the survival of the human race depends upon the taming and training of the wild animal we would call Natur
e−
the subjugation of her natural resources to the service of Man. Ile de Bonne Fortune has been sent, not only to the people of France, but to the people of the entire European Union as a sign that our efforts over the past century have been rightly placed and totally justifiable – a reward for all our labours and those of our fathers and grandfathers.”

Bartoli was doing her best to keep up with Bosse’s monologue, the English translation of which Pilot was reading on the monitor before him. It was sufficient to give him the general course of the man’s drift.

“I can sympathise with the sensitivities of these people,” Bosse continued, “but in a hard world, with hard decisions and hard consequences, it’s the blacksmith, not the poet, who survives.”

My words exactly, Pilot thought.

“I will ask Monsieur Pilot once more...” Bosse raised an undulating hand towards Pencil-moustache like a conductor bringing in the horn section, denoting he wanted his words translated
fortissimo
. “I invite you, Monsieur Pilot, to sign the agreements before you without recourse to further vain protest. Before you answer, I make this promise that your signature will secure a much more lenient view by my government towards the matter of reparations, whic
h−
”

“Reparations?” Pilot interrupted, sensing a possible opening to Bosse’s glass jaw.

“Yes, reparations. Half a million Neuros to the families of
each
French citizen killed by the tidal waves you have openly admitted foreknowledge of, and two
billion
Neuros for the material damage they caused to our coastal towns and cities.”

Pilot read the translation, head bowed, hand on chin. Then, his smart phone signaled ‘message’. He read it quickly, positioned himself as near as possible to the microphone and said, “We would like to take a short recess to discuss this unexpected demand and will reconvene in an hour.” With that, he began walking towards the communications building, signaling Mara and Bradingbrooke to accompany him.