The Swarm (65 page)

‘John Lilly,' muttered Anawak.

‘What?'

‘He was a scientist. Carried out brain experiments on dolphins in the sixties.'

‘Yeah, I remember they talked about it,' Greywolf said. ‘In any case, it was in San Diego that I saw them cracking open dolphins' skulls. That was in 1989. They used a hammer and chisel to make holes in the top of their heads. The animals were fully conscious, so it took a gang of strong guys to pin them down. They kept trying to leap off the table. It wasn't because of the pain, they kept telling me - the dolphins just didn't like the sound of hammering in their ears. The procedure was supposedly much less traumatic than it seemed. At any rate, they shoved electrodes through the holes to stimulate the brain using currents.'

‘That's exactly what Lilly did,' Anawak interrupted in excitement. ‘He was trying to create a map of the brain.'

‘The navy has plenty of those, believe you me,' Greywolf said bitterly. ‘It made me sick, but I kept my mouth shut. Next they showed me a dolphin. It was swimming in a tank with a kind of harness round its neck. The contraption was fitted with electrodes that pushed through the flesh. They'd found a way of steering the dolphin via electric signals. I mean, it was pretty amazing, to give them their due. They had it swimming left, right, then leaping clean out of the water. They could switch on its aggression and make it attack. They could even trigger its flight mechanism or induce calm. It didn't matter whether the animal would have wanted to participate. It was robbed of its will. It may as well have been a remote-controlled car or a wind-up toy. Well, they were excited, of course. It looked as though they'd made a breakthrough. So while the research team in San Diego continued to work on nuclear whales, we set off to the Gulf in 1991 with two dozen clockwork dolphins. I just went along with it. I'm not the quiet sort by nature, but for once I kept my mouth shut. It was none of my business, I kept telling myself. In the meantime, my dolphins looked for mines and were rewarded with food and attention. Then they started pressurising me to get actively involved in MKO. Somehow I managed to buy myself some thinking time - unpopular in the navy because you're not supposed to think. By that time we were in the Strait of Gibraltar, and we'd started to trial the
technology at sea. At first it all went smoothly, but then we ran into problems. The control harnesses had worked perfectly in the laboratories and tanks, but in the open water the dolphins were subject to all kinds of stimuli. We started to get more misses than hits. It was obvious that it didn't work in the wild - or not in the way they'd expected. By now the dolphins were compromising our safety, and it was too late to take them back to the States. On the other hand, no one liked the idea of them swimming around in the Gulf so in the end we stopped off in France. The idea was to consult a French institute where experts were working on MKO. We don't usually get too friendly with the French, but they know a lot about the oceans so an alliance had been formed. We thought maybe they could help us. A man called René Guy Busnel was introduced to us as the head of the venerable Laboratoire d'Acoustique Animale. He promised to look into the problem, and took us on a tour of his splendid facility. First stop was a mutilated dolphin wedged into a vice. There was a knife the size of my arm sticking out of its back. I never did ask why. They gave us a card from the institute with their names signed in dolphin blood. To them it was all a big joke.'

Greywolf sighed.

‘Busnel gave a long spiel about neural research and came to the conclusion that the procedure was flawed. There was evidently some critical factor that had been overlooked or misjudged. Back on board we held council and the decision was taken to get rid of the animals. We released them into the water. Then, when they were a few hundred metres away from the boat, someone pushed the button. The electrode-harness contained explosives to stop the technology falling into the wrong hands. The charge was only small, but it was enough to blast away the equipment. The animals died. We continued on our way.'

Greywolf chewed his lip. Then he looked up at Anawak. ‘So there you have it: your Earth Island dolphins. The animals that washed up in France.'

‘And after that you…'

‘I told them I'd had enough. They tried talking me round, but I'd made up my mind. Of course, they didn't like the idea of one of their best dolphin-handlers quitting for undisclosed reasons - that kind of thing always attracts the attention of the press. So we talked, and in the end we came to an agreement. I got some cash, and they discharged me on the grounds of ill-health. I was a combat diver, you see, and you can't do that
with a heart defect. No one asks awkward questions if they think there's something wrong with you. So they let me go.'

Anawak was gazing out across the bay.

‘I'm not a scientist like you,' Greywolf said softly, ‘I understand a bit about dolphins and how to handle them, but neurology means nothing to me. I can't stand to see anyone getting too interested in whales or dolphins. It winds me up just to see them taking photos. I can't help it.'

‘Shoemaker thinks you're still mad at us.'

Greywolf shook his head. ‘For a while I thought whale-watching was OK, but I couldn't handle it. I got myself thrown out - I made you guys do the hard part for me.'

Anawak rested his chin on his hands. It all looked so beautiful - the bay, the mountains, the island. ‘Jack,' he said, ‘you're going to have to revise your opinions. It's happening again. Those whales aren't taking revenge. They're under someone's control. Someone's busy with their very own MKO. Your navy stuff is nothing compared to this.'

In the end they left the jetty and walked in silence through the woods towards Tofino. Greywolf stopped outside Davie's Whaling Station. ‘Just before I quit, I heard the nuclear whale programme had taken a big leap forward. They mentioned a name. It was something to do with neurology and neural network computers. They said that to exercise full control over the animals you needed to know about Professor Kurzweil. Maybe it's nothing, but I just thought I'd tell you.'

Chateau Whistler, Canada

It was early evening when Weaver knocked on Johanson's door. She tried the handle, but the room was locked.

She knew that he was back from Nanaimo. So she took the elevator to the lobby and found him in the bar, bent over some diagrams with the Geomar scientist and Stanley Frost.

‘Hi.' Weaver walked over to them. ‘Any progress?'

‘We're stumped,' said Bohrmann. ‘Still too many unknowns.'

‘Hey, we'll get there in the end,' growled Frost. ‘God doesn't play dice.'

‘That's what Einstein said,' objected Johanson. ‘And he was wrong.'

‘I'm telling you,
God does not play dice!
'

She tapped Johanson on the shoulder. ‘Apologies for the interruption, but could we have a quick chat?'

Johanson hesitated. ‘Right now? We haven't finished with Stan's scenario yet. It's pretty strong stuff.'

‘Sorry.'

‘Why don't you join us?'

‘This'll only take a moment. Can't they do without you for a second?' She smiled at the others. ‘And then I'll join you, I promise. You can show me as many simulations as you like, and I'll bug you with comments.'

‘Sounds good to me,' grinned Frost.

‘Which way now?' asked Johanson, as they headed away from the table.

‘The lobby?'

‘Is it important?'

‘Important doesn't begin to cover it.'

‘OK.'

They went outside. The sun was low in the sky, and as it set, it bathed the Chateau and the snowy peaks of the Rockies in shades of red. A helicopter was perched on the forecourt, like an enormous gnat. They strolled in the direction of Whistler village. Suddenly Weaver felt embarrassed. The others were probably thinking that she and Johanson shared a secret, but in fact she just wanted his advice. It was up to him when he decided to share his theory with the committee but to make that decision he needed to hear her news.

‘How was it in Nanaimo?'

‘Pretty scary.'

‘I heard killer crabs have invaded Long Island.'

‘Crabs packed with killer algae,' said Johanson. ‘Like in Europe, only more toxic. Oliviera, Fenwick and Rubin have started to analyse the poison.' He cleared his throat. ‘I don't mean to be impatient, but I thought you had something to tell me.'

‘I've been studying satellite data all day - comparing radar scans to multispectral images. I would have liked to see more data from Bauer's drifting profilers, but they've stopped transmitting. In any case, there's no real doubt. I'm guessing you know about oceanic gyres?'

‘A little.'

‘The sea level rises along the perimeter of a gyre. That applies to the Gulf Stream too - it's a boundary current. Bauer was worried
that a change was taking place. He couldn't locate the North Atlantic chimneys, where the water normally plummets. He was sure that something was disturbing the flow of the currents, but he couldn't say what.'

‘And?'

She turned to him. ‘I've done all the calculations, compared the data, checked it, recalculated, compared it again, rechecked it and started from the beginning. The sea level has dropped in the Gulf Stream.'

Johanson frowned. ‘You mean…'

‘The gyre has altered its rotation. If you look at the multispectral scans, it's clear that the temperature is dropping as well. There's no doubt about it, Sigur. We're looking at another ice age. The Gulf Stream has stopped flowing. Something's stopped it.'

Security Council

‘It's a goddamn outrage. And someone's going to pay!'

The President was baying for blood. The first thing he'd done on arrival at Offutt Air Force Base was to convene a National Security Council meeting over a secure video link. The teleconference linked Washington, Offutt and the Chateau. The Vice-President was sitting in the White House Situation Room, together with the defense secretary, the defense secretary's deputy, the secretary of state, the assistant to the President for National Security Affairs, the head of the FBI and the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff. Across the Potomac River, deep in the windowless interior of the Counter-terrorist Center at CIA headquarters, the director of Central Intelligence, the deputy director for Operations, and the director of the CTC and head of Special Forces, were also on screen. Commander-in-chief of the United States Central Command General Judith Li and deputy director of the CIA Jack Vanderbilt completed the line-up. They were sitting in Chateau Whistler's makeshift war room, watching the other members of the council on the long row of monitors. Most wore expressions of grim determination, though some seemed at a loss.

The President didn't bother to disguise his wrath. That afternoon the Vice-President had suggested that the White House chief of staff should convene an emergency cabinet, but the President was determined to
chair plenary meetings of the Security Council himself. He had no intention of giving up the reins.

That suited Li perfectly.

Li's voice wasn't the most influential in the hierarchy of advisers. The highest-ranking military position was held by the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff, the President's principal military adviser. Next came his deputy. Every last idiot had a deputy. All the same, Li knew that the President appreciated her advice, which made her ecstatically proud. Her ambitions for the future were at the forefront of her mind. Even now, as she stared in concentration at the screens, she hadn't lost sight of her dream. For the moment she was only commander-in-chief, but soon she'd be chair of the joint chiefs of staff. The current chairman was on the brink of retirement, and it was no secret that his deputy was a dud. From there, she'd switch to politics and do a stint in the Pentagon or as secretary of state. And then she could run for President. If she got things right - which meant acting 100 per cent in the interests of America - her election was as good as guaranteed. The world was teetering on the abyss, but Li was on her way up.

‘Our adversary is faceless,' the President was saying. ‘Some of you are of the opinion that we should turn our attention to those parts of the world that could be the source of the threat. Others, I know, think there's nothing more to this business than a tragic build-up of natural disasters. For my part, I'm not interested in hearing any lectures. I want a consensus that will allow us to act. I want to see plans. I want to know how much it's going to cost and how long it's going to take.' His eyes narrowed. As always, the shrinking distance between his eyelids signalled growing fury and determination. ‘Personally, I don't believe all that hooey about nature gone crazy. This is a war we're fighting. America is at war. So, what are we going to do?'

The chairman of the joint chiefs of staff remarked that wars weren't won on the defensive and that it was time to go on the attack. He sounded resolute. The defense secretary frowned. ‘Attack
who?
' she asked.

‘All I'm saying is that we need to attack,' said the chairman, authoritatively. ‘Find the culprit and attack them.'

The Vice-President made it clear that he didn't believe any terrorist organisation had the resources to carry out such a large-scale offensive. ‘If anyone's attacking us,' he said, ‘it has to be a state. Or an alliance of
states. A political bloc or something. Jack Vanderbilt was the first to voice his suspicions, and he may well be right. We need to focus on those countries or regions capable of organising an attack of this kind.'

‘There are a number of countries with that capability,' said the director of the CIA.

The President nodded. Ever since the CIA chief had given him a long lecture on the eve of his presidency about the CIA's list of the good, the bad and the ugly, he had been convinced that the world was peopled with godless criminals planning the downfall of the USA. He wasn't entirely wrong. ‘But can we be sure that it's one of our traditional enemies?' he asked all the same. ‘After all, the whole free world is under attack, not just America.'