The Swarm (34 page)

‘Bill? Jackie?' Ford called. His eyes were fixed on the screen. ‘Come and look at this.'

They crowded round the monitors.

‘She's diving.'

‘At a fair pace, too. She's three kilometres from the shore already. The whole pod's heading out to sea.'

‘Maybe it's time for them to get going again.'

‘But why would they dive so deep?'

‘Plankton sinks at night, doesn't it?

‘No.' Ford shook his head. ‘That makes sense for other species, but not for benthic feeders. They've got no reason to—'

‘Look! Three hundred metres.'

Ford leaned back. Grey whales weren't especially fast. If need be, they could put on a spurt, but ten kilometres an hour was as fast as they usually travelled, unless they were migrating or fleeing from a predator.

What had got into them?

He was sure now that he was observing anomalous behaviour. Grey whales fed almost exclusively on benthic organisms. When they migrated, they never strayed further than two kilometres from the coast. Ford wasn't sure how they'd cope at a depth of 300 metres. Ordinarily they never ventured below 120 metres.

Suddenly something lit up at the bottom edge of the grid: a green flash that shone for a moment before it was extinguished.

A spectrogram! The visual representation of a sound wave.

Then another.

‘What was that?'

‘Some kind of sound. The signal's pretty strong.'

Ford stopped the tape and rewound. They watched the sequence again. ‘It's an incredibly loud signal,' he said. ‘Like an explosion.'

‘But there haven't been any explosions near here. We'd hear an explosion. This is infrasound.'

‘I know. I only said it was
like
an explo—'

‘There it is again!'

The green dots on the screen had stopped. The loud noise appeared a third time, then vanished.

‘How deep are they?'

‘Three hundred and sixty metres.'

‘Unbelievable! What are they doing down there?'

Ford's gaze shifted to the left-hand screen, showing the footage from the camera. The black screen. His mouth dropped open. ‘Look at that,' he whispered.

The screen wasn't black any more.

Vancouver Island

Frank's company was just what Anawak had needed. They had strolled along the beach towards the Wickaninnish Inn, discussing the environmental project with which Frank was involved. He came from a long line of fishermen, and now ran a restaurant, but recently the Tla-o-qui-aht had begun an initiative to combat the damage caused by logging. ‘Salmon Coming Home' stood for their attempt to restore the complex ecosystem of Clayoquot Sound. The timber industry had devastated the area. No one was naïve enough to think that the forest could be restored, but plenty could be done. Clear-cut logging was to blame for the forest floor drying out in the sun and washing away in the rain. The topsoil flushed into lakes and rivers, adding to the congestion caused by stones and abandoned timber and depriving the salmon of their spawning grounds. With its disappearance, an important food source had been lost to other animals. The restoration project helped to train volunteers to clear the rivers and cut a path through disused roads where water used to flow. Protective walls of organic debris were constructed along drainage channels, while the banks were planted with fast-growing alder. Slowly the environmentalists were restoring some of the balance to the relationship between forest, humans and animals. It took constant energy and drive, and there was little prospect of speedy results.

‘You know, if you take up whaling you'll make a lot of enemies,' said Anawak, after a while.

‘And how do you see it?' asked Frank.

‘If you want my opinion, it's not wise.'

‘I expect you're right. They're a protected species, why hunt them? Not all of us are in favour of resuming whaling. For a start, does anyone
know how to hunt any more? And what about the spiritual preparation? It's hard to imagine people submitting to the
7uusimch
, these days. But, that said, our people haven't hunted whales for nearly a century, and in real terms we're talking five or six creatures per year - a truly insignificant number. There aren't many of us left, you know. Our forefathers lived off whales. The hunters observed rituals that lasted months and even years. Before they set out they purified their spirit in readiness for the gift of life that the whale would make to them. It wasn't a question of harpooning the first animal they set eyes on. They were drawn to a particular whale by unknowable forces, in a kind of vision uniting hunters and whale. It's that spirituality we want to preserve.'

‘Sure, but whales are worth a lot of money,' said Anawak. ‘A spokesman for the Makah set the value of a grey at half a million US dollars. Whale and whale oil sell at a premium overseas, he said. In practically the same breath he mentioned the Makah's economic problems and high unemployment. That wasn't very clever - and it's a far cry from spirituality.'

‘Oh, you're probably right there too. All the same whether you think it's greed or tradition that motivates the Makah, you can't ignore the fact that they refrained from whaling and set aside their right to do it at a time when whales were being hunted to extinction by whites. Commercial whaling isn't exactly spiritual either. It was whites who started to treat life as a commodity. They were quick to help themselves to whatever they wanted - but now if we mention money it causes such outrage that you'd think the survival of the planet was at stake. Funny, isn't it? The Aboriginal peoples take only what they need of the supplies that nature gives them, but the whites treat them wastefully. It's only when there's almost nothing left that they wake up and want to protect our resources - which means saving nature from those who never posed a threat. If whales are still endangered, then the Japanese and the Norwegians are to blame. We've never been guilty of wiping out a species, but we've been made to take the punishment.'

Anawak was silent.

‘Our people are trapped,' said Frank. ‘Things have got better, but I can't help thinking we're trapped in a conflict that we can't escape on our own. Have I ever told you that after every catch, every successful business deal, every celebration, I put something aside for the Raven?'

‘No.'

‘Do you know about Raven and his hunger?'

Anawak shook his head.

‘Raven isn't actually the main animal spirit here. For that you'd have to go further north, to the Haida or the Tlingit. On the island you'll hear stories about Kánekelak, the changer - but we like Raven too. The Tlingit say that he speaks for the poor, like Christ, so I always break off morsels of meat or fish to leave for him. He was born the son of a beast-man and put into a raven's skin by his father, who named him Wigyét. As he grew up, Wigyét ate his people out of house and home, and they sent him into the world. He was given a stone to take with him so he had a place to rest, and the stone became the land in which we live. He stole the sunshine and brought it back to Earth. I give to Raven what belongs to him. At the same time I know that he is the result of evolutionary processes that started out with proteins, amino acids and single-cell organisms. I love our creation myths, but I also watch TV, read, and know about the Big Bang. So do Christians though, but that doesn't stop them learning about the seven days of creation and Adam and Eve. They had centuries to adjust their thought, find a way to unite mythology and modern science. We were given barely any time at all. We were thrown into a world that wasn't ours and never could be. Now we're returning to our own world and discovering that we no longer know it. That's the curse of being uprooted, Leon. You don't belong anywhere, neither in the old nor the new. The Indians were uprooted. The whites are doing their best to make up for it, but what can they do when they're uprooted too? They're destroying the world that created them. They've gambled away their homeland. We all have, in one way or another.'

Frank gave Anawak a long look. Then his face creased into a smile. ‘Wasn't that a stirring Indian lecture, my friend? Come on, we should drink to it. Except you don't drink…'

Trondheim, Norway

Still no sign of Lund. They were supposed to meet in the canteen, then make their way to the conference hall upstairs. Johanson stared at the clock on the wall above the counter, watching the hands creep round the dial. Steadily, remorselessly, the worms crept with them, never flagging. With each passing second they burrowed deeper into the ice. And there was nothing he could do.

Johanson shivered. Time isn't just passing, it's running out, a voice whispered inside him.

This is the beginning.

The beginning of the plan.

Now, that was ridiculous. Locusts weren't planning anything when they ruined a harvest: they were hungry. Worms didn't plan and neither did jellyfish, nor algae.

Did Statoil have a plan?

Skaugen had flown over from Stavanger for the meeting. He'd asked for a detailed account of the findings. He seemed to have made some headway with his enquiries, and was keen to collate their results. Lund had wanted to meet Johanson beforehand so that they could agree on a strategy.

She must have been delayed, probably by Kare. They hadn't talked about her personal life since they'd left Trondheim for the
Sonne
. He'd avoided asking questions: he didn't like to press, and he hated indiscretion. Besides, he'd had the impression that she needed time to herself.

His mobile rang. It was Lund. ‘What's happened to you?' he asked. ‘I had to drink your coffee for you.'

‘Sorry.'

‘What's up?'

‘I'm in the conference hall. I meant to ring ages ago, but I haven't had a second.'

There was an edge to her voice. ‘Is everything all right?' he asked.

‘Sure. Are you coming up?'

‘I'll be there in a tick.'

So, she was upstairs already. Some business he wasn't supposed to know about, no doubt. Not that he minded. It was their bloody project.

He walked into the conference hall. Lund, Skaugen and Stone were standing in front of a large chart, which mapped the proposed location of the unit. Stone was talking in hushed tones to Lund, who seemed irritated. Skaugen didn't look too happy either. He turned as Johanson came in and gave a half-hearted smile. Hvistendahl was standing in the background, talking on the phone.

‘Shall I come back later?' Johanson asked.

‘No, you're just the man we need.' Skaugen gestured towards the table. ‘Take a seat.'

Now Lund seemed to see Johanson for the first time. Leaving Stone in mid-sentence, she walked over and kissed his cheek.

‘Skaugen wants to get rid of Stone,' she whispered. ‘We need you to help us.'

Johanson showed no outward reaction. She was asking him to stir things up for them. What the hell was she thinking, getting him involved?

They sat down. Hvistendahl flipped his phone shut. Johanson was tempted to leave them to it. ‘Right,' he said, sounding frostier than usual. ‘A quick explanation before we get going. I had to narrow my investigation from its original focus, which is to say I specifically targeted scientists and institutes with known connections to energy conglomerates.'

‘Was that wise?' asked Hvistendahl, in alarm. ‘I thought we wanted to be as discreet as possible about, uh, putting our ear to the ground.'

‘There was too much ground to cover. I had to set some boundaries.'

‘Well, I hope you didn't say anything about—'

‘I contacted them in my capacity as a biologist from the NTNU. A straightforward scientific enquiry.'

Skaugen pursed his lips. ‘I don't suppose they were especially forthcoming.'

‘That depends on how you look at it.' Johanson pointed to his file and the printouts. ‘You have to read between the lines. Scientists make bad liars. They don't like politics. Their statements are like a dossier of muffled testimony - at times you can practically hear them shouting
through their gags. I'm convinced that our worm has appeared elsewhere.'

‘Convinced?' said Stone.

‘So far no one's admitted it. But certain people became very curious.' Johanson looked at Stone. ‘And they all happen to work for institutes with close ties to the energy industry. One of them is specifically involved in the technology of methane extraction.'

‘Who?' Skaugen asked sharply.

‘A scientist in Tokyo. Ryo Matsumoto. I didn't speak to him directly, only to his institute.'

‘Who is he?' asked Hvistendahl.

‘Japan's leading expert on gas hydrates,' said Skaugen. ‘Worked on a methane-extraction project in Canada. He was testing drill sites in the permafrost.'

‘His team got very excited as soon as I described the worm,' Johanson continued. ‘They started asking questions. Was the worm capable of destabilising hydrates? How large were the colonies?'

‘That doesn't mean they knew about it,' said Stone.

‘Oh, yes, it does,' growled Skaugen. ‘Matsumoto works for the Japan National Oil Corporation.'

‘Are they interested in methane too?'

‘You bet. In 2000 Matsumoto was trialling extraction methods in the Nankai Trough. The test results have been kept under wraps, but if he's to be believed, there are imminent plans for commercial extraction. The methane age is all he ever talks about.'

‘Fine,' said Stone. ‘But there's still no proof that he'd come across the worm himself.'

Johanson shook his head. ‘Imagine our detective exercise in reverse. The enquiry comes to us. They ask my opinion as a so-called independent scientist. The person doing the asking is also a scientist and an adviser to the JNOC, but he claims he's writing out of scientific curiosity. Now, I don't want to tell him outright that we know about the worm. But I'm alarmed. I want to know what he knows. So I pump him for information, like Matsumoto's people did me. And that's the mistake. The questions I ask are too pointed, too targeted. If the scientist's got his wits about him, he'll know he's hit a nerve.'

‘If that's true,' said Lund, ‘then the Japanese continental slope has been affected as well.'

‘But you don't have any proof,' persisted Stone. ‘There's not a shred of evidence to suggest that anyone other than us has come across it.' He leaned forward and the light caught the frame of his glasses. ‘Dr Johanson, this type of information isn't any good to us. I'm sorry, but no one could have predicted the appearance of the worm because it's never been found elsewhere. I mean, for all we know, Matsumoto might just be curious to learn more about worms.'

‘My instinct says he isn't,' said Johanson, unperturbed.

‘Your instinct?'

‘My instinct tells me that we haven't heard the end of it. The South Americans have found it too.'

‘Let me guess. They asked leading questions too.'

‘Exactly.'

‘You disappoint me, Dr Johanson,' said Stone, scornfully. ‘I thought you were a scientist. I assume you don't always rely on instinct.'

‘Cliff,' said Lund, ‘maybe you should shut up.'

Stone's eyes widened. He stared at her, outraged. ‘I'm your boss,' he barked, ‘and if anyone here needs to shut up it's—'

‘That's enough,' said Skaugen. ‘Not another word.'

Johanson could see that Lund was having difficulty containing herself. He wondered how Stone had provoked her. ‘In any case', he went on, ‘I think Japan and South America know more than they'll let on. Just like us. Fortunately it's much easier to get reliable data on water than it is on deep-sea worms. There's hardly a stretch of water that isn't under analysis at any one time. I tapped a few people for information, and they confirmed the situation.'

‘Which is?'

‘Unusually high quantities of methane are entering the water column. It all fits.' Johanson hesitated. ‘I'm sorry to bring instinct into this again, Dr Stone, but when I was speaking to Matsumoto's people I had the impression that they were trying to let me guess the truth. No doubt they were sworn to secrecy, but no serious scientist or institute would play with information that people's lives depend on. It's indefensible. It only happens when—'

Skaugen frowned at him. ‘When economic interests are at stake,' he said. ‘Is that what you're saying?'

‘Yes. Indeed.'

‘Is there anything you'd like to add?'

Johanson pulled a printout from the pile. ‘High levels of methane are being recorded in three areas of the world: Norway, Japan and off the east coast of Latin America. Then there's Lukas Bauer's data.'

‘Who's he?' asked Skaugen.

‘He works on deep-water currents. He's in the Greenland Sea right now. He uses drifting profilers to track the currents, then maps the data. I emailed his vessel. Here's what he had to say.' Johanson started to read: ‘“Dear Colleague, I'm afraid I'm not acquainted with your worm, though we are recording exceptionally high levels of methane in the Greenland Sea. In fact, in certain areas, large quantities of gas are seeping into the water. It may have something to do with the discontinuities we're observing here - a nasty business, if I'm right. I'm sorry this is rather sketchy, but I'm awfully busy right now. I'm attaching a detailed report by Karen Weaver, a journalist who's here to help me and distract me with her questions. She's a smart girl, and she'll deal with any further queries. You can contact her on [email protected].”'

‘What kind of discontinuities does he mean?' asked Lund.

‘No idea. When I met him in Oslo, he seemed a little absent-minded - likeable, but the epitome of a scientist. He forgot to attach the report, so no surprises there. I emailed straight back, but he hasn't replied.'

‘We should probably find out exactly what he's working on,' said Lund. ‘Bohrmann'll know, won't he?'

‘I'm guessing the journalist does too,' said Johanson.

‘Karen…?'

‘Karen Weaver. I thought the name was familiar. Turns out I'd read some of her articles. Interesting woman. Studied biology, computer science and sport. She focuses on marine-related issues - always the big themes: charting the seas, plate tectonics, climate change. Her latest article was on deep-water currents. As for Bohrmann, I'll give him a call if he hasn't contacted me by the end of the week.'

‘So, where does that leave us?' Hvistendahl asked them.

Skaugen's blue eyes settled on Johanson. ‘Dr Johanson has told you what he thinks. It would be a disgrace for the oil industry to withhold information when people's lives may depend on it. Unquestionably he's right. That's why yesterday afternoon I had a meeting with the board, and made some clear recommendations - as a result of which the Norwegian government has now been informed.'

Stone's head jerked up. ‘Informed of what? We don't have any firm results. We don't even—'

‘Informed about the worms, Clifford. And about the dissociation of the methane deposits. About the risk of an impending methane disaster. And the danger that the slope could collapse. We even told them that our deep-sea robot filmed an unknown organism in the ocean. Isn't that enough?' Skaugen frowned at them all in turn. ‘Dr Johanson will be pleased to know that his instincts were right. This morning I had the pleasure of an hour-long conversation with the scientific board of the JNOC. Now, I'm sure you all realise that it's a reputable company, but suppose for a moment that the Japanese were so eager to lead the way in methane extraction that they were prepared to do anything to succeed before the rest. Unlikely as it sounds, it could result in a certain amount of risk-taking - or maybe in a tendency to overlook expert opinion.' Skaugen's gaze shifted to Stone. ‘Then imagine that there are people in this world whose ambition might tempt them to disregard warnings and suppress vital evidence. Oh, I know it's absurd but, hypothetically, if it were true…Well, think how dreadful it would be. We'd have to suspect the JNOC of masterminding a cover-up to hide the existence of a worm that had threatened the nation's dream of being first to get to the methane. We'd have to suspect that they'd been doing it for weeks.'

No one said anything. ‘But we shouldn't be so hard on them,' Skaugen went on. ‘What if Neil Armstrong had stayed in the shuttle just because of some worm! And, as I said, I was talking hypothetically. The JNOC
has
found a similar worm species off the coast of Japan, but the director assures me that they first came across it in the past three days. What an amazing coincidence.'

‘Oh, crap,' said Hvistendahl, softly.

‘And what does the JNOC intend to do?' asked Lund.

‘Well, I imagine they'll inform their government. They're a state-run company, like Statoil. They can't afford to keep quiet - not that they would ever have been tempted to do so. God forbid! I might call the South Americans later, to see if they can find the worm as well. Imagine their shock if they did! They'd call straight back and tell us right away. And just for the record, in case anyone thinks I'm pissing all over the others, we're no better.'

‘That's a bit—' said Hvistendahl.

‘You don't agree?'

‘We didn't know how serious it was until now.' Hvistendahl seemed put out. ‘And, besides, telling the government was my recommendation too.'

‘I'm not accusing
you
of anything,' Skaugen said pointedly.

Johanson felt as if he was in a play. Skaugen was stage-managing Stone's execution, that much was clear. A look of grim satisfaction was spreading over Lund's face. But hadn't Stone found the worm in the first place?

‘Clifford.' Lund broke the silence. ‘When did you come across the worm?'

Stone's face paled. ‘You should know,' he said. ‘You were there.'

‘You hadn't seen it before?'

‘Before?'

‘Like last year. When you decided to take matters into your own hands and build the Kongsberg prototype - a thousand metres under water.'