The first sign of their goal was a bank of solar panels, black and glossy against the endless white field. The panels were designed by NASA for use on distant worlds at a cost of a million dollars per square foot, but the automated station required an incredible amount of power, and acres of standard solar cells would have been needed to generate what these four small panels were able to provide.
From the solar array, they followed a power line toward a suspicious-looking dome of white. It rested in a slight depression on the otherwise flat landscape.
Clearing away the windblown snow revealed metal plating with NUMA stenciled on it in block letters.
“National Underwater and Marine Agency,” Vala said. “I’ll never understand the American obsession with labeling every last piece of equipment.”
Kurt laughed. “You never know when someone is going to come along and steal your hubcaps.”
“Up here?”
“Probably not,” he said. “But when ten million dollars of equipment suddenly stops transmitting . . . well, the thought crossed my mind.”
Kurt scraped more snow and ice from the automated modules. They hadn’t been stolen, but something had obviously gone wrong. They were tilted over at an angle when they should have been level. “Looks like some ice slid down from the first module and sheared off the antenna. No wonder it wasn’t sending any data.”
He unzipped one of the many pockets in his jacket and pulled out a handheld computer. It looked like a cell phone, but was more rugged and winterized. Using a cable, he plugged it into a data port on the central module.
“The CPU is undamaged,” he said. “But it’ll take a few minutes to download all this data.”
As he waited, Vala wandered to the front edge of the station. “The drill is still operating.”
The station used a heat probe to drill down into the glacier until it found flowing water. Then, by measuring the depth, temperature and speed of the water, it determined the amount of glacial melting that was occurring.
They needed the information to test a new theory, one that suggested the world’s glaciers had been hollowing out from the inside instead of just retreating from the southern ends.
Kurt watched as the progress bar on the computer inched toward completion. “What’s the depth on the heat probe?”
“Eleven hundred feet,” Vala said. “And it seems—”
The ice shifted beneath them and her voice was drowned out by a loud crack. As Kurt steadied himself, the module in front of him slid to the right and tilted twenty degrees. He instinctively jumped back and checked the ground around him. On the other side of the monitoring station, Vala screamed.
Kurt ran to her, cutting around the front of the module. A large gap had opened up beneath the monitoring station. A drop of two hundred feet loomed beneath it. The only thing keeping the unit—and the Nordic scientist clinging to it—in place were the outlying anchors.
Kurt stepped forward and the snow beneath him began sliding away.
“Crevasse!” she called out.
He could see that. He pulled an ice pick from his belt and swung hard. The tungsten point bit deeply and gave him something to anchor himself with. Gripping the pick, and then the strap at the end, he stepped dangerously toward Vala, grabbed her by the hood of her snowsuit and pulled.
She leapt toward him and grabbed onto his arm, climbing over him and onto solid ground. Once there, she did what any sane person would have done: she started running away from the widening crevasse.
Kurt was inclined to follow, but he hadn’t come all this way to leave the data behind. He pulled himself up, yanked the ice pick free and rushed back to the computer, which was now dangling from the data port by its cord.
The station shifted again as two of the anchors holding it in place broke loose and their tautly stretched cords snapped across the snow like whips.
Kurt ducked to avoid the flying anchors and jammed the ice pick into the ground once again. He leaned out over the crevasse and was able to touch the computer, but the padded fingers of his gloves were so puffy that it was impossible to grasp it and pull it free.
Using his teeth, Kurt pulled the glove off and tossed it away. The bitterly cold air bit into his skin instantly. Ignoring it, he plunged his bare hand into the snow, grabbed a small amount and squeezed it until it melted.
Tossing the rest, he extended his body, laid his fingers on the glass screen of the computer and held them there. At fifteen below zero, it took only seconds for the water on his skin to freeze to the surface.
With the compact device now bonded to his hand, he reared back, yanking it free from the data port and grabbing it tightly.
The ice cracked again and Kurt hauled himself up and dove to safety as the last anchor gave way and the entire station tumbled into the gap. He lay still in the snow until the thundering echoes of the station’s demise faded.
Vala came up to him and handed him the discarded glove. “You must be completely crazy,” she said. “Why would you risk your life like that?”
“I didn’t want you to end up at the bottom of the crevasse,” he said.
“Not me,” she said, “the computer. The data can’t possibly be worth it.”
“Depends what it tells me,” he said.
Kurt turned to the computer. Working his fingers free without losing too much skin, he was able to tap on the screen and bring up the first page of data. A hundred gigabytes of information were now stored on the device, but the main screen told him all he needed to know.
“What does it say?”
“That the glacier is melting no faster than it has been for years.”
“So nothing has changed,” she said, hands on her hips. “Just like at the other glaciers. There is no internal hollowing out and no rapid melt off. Isn’t that good news?”
“You’d think,” he said. “But it means something else has gone wrong. Drastically wrong. And at the moment, no one has any idea why.”
3
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THE NEW BRIEFING AREA in the West Hall of the Congressional Building was officially known as the Samuel B. Goodwin Media Room. Unofficially, those who worked there called it The Theatre. The elevated-seating arrangement had something to do with that, as did the endless political grandstanding that went on there.
On this rainy September day, the room was packed for a closed-door briefing. No cameras were present, as both the press and the public had been barred from attending.
Joe Zavala sat in the third row of the room, wondering how much arguing might occur today. There was serious science to be discussed and a diverse group of attendees here to do it.
Looking around the room, he saw four members of the National Academy of Sciences, five attendees wearing NASA badges, three more from the White House Advisory Staff. There were a total of eight from a smattering of other agencies, including NOAA, the agency charged with monitoring the world’s weather, atmospheric conditions and overall environment.
Many of these groups did overlapping work, often cooperating but also competing against one another for budget dollars. That held true for Joe’s organization as well: NUMA, the National Underwater and Marine Agency.
They were tasked with monitoring the world’s oceans and America’s lakes and rivers and waterways. They did historical work as well, finding sunken ships and other items of a bygone era. In addition—and far more often than Joe would have believed when he first joined—they got involved in international incidents. As such, NUMA had a reputation as a cowboy agency. That was good or bad, depending on how one felt about cowboys. Spending most of his childhood in New Mexico and Texas, Joe took the moniker as a badge of honor.
Joe wasn’t the only member of NUMA in the building. He was here with three others from the agency. Three others and a conspicuously empty chair.
To Joe’s right sat Paul Trout
, a geologist specializing in deep-sea studies and the tallest member of the team at nearly six foot eight. Paul was a gentle giant who rarely had a bad word for anyone. At the moment, he had dark circles under his eyes and Joe suspected he’d been up late, studying any data he might be asked to present.
Gamay Trout, Paul’s wife, sat next to him. She was hard to miss, with her wine-colored hair and a smile that revealed a slight gap between her front teeth. Gamay was a marine biologist, and though she wasn’t expected to speak, she’d spent as many hours burning the midnight oil as Paul. Gamay liked to be ready for anything.
Rudi Gunn, NUMA’s Assistant Director and the highest-ranking member of the organization available for the hearing, sat in the next seat. He looked none too pleased. Perhaps because of the empty chair.
“Where’s Kurt?” Gamay asked, leaning across her husband and addressing Joe. “It’s not like him to be two hours late for a briefing on Capitol Hill. For that matter, where has he been for the last three months? I haven’t seen him in the office at all.”
Joe knew where Kurt had been but not where he was at the moment. “All I can tell you is . . . he’s not missing much.”
With the endless droning coming from the speakers onstage, Joe was secretly envious of Kurt’s absence whatever the reason.
A stern glance from Rudi put an end to the conversation and Joe focused on the member of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric board who finally seemed to be reaching his conclusion.
“. . . And after updated measurements, collated this week in our Washington office, we’ve calculated the sea-level rise to be eight-point-three inches over the last six months.”
Talk about burying the lede, Joe thought.
Two different murmurs ran through the room. One of disdain and one of shock.
The science crowd took that number with a collective gasp. It was worse than anyone had expected. Far, far worse.
In stark contrast, the political members in the crowd seemed unimpressed. In a city where every discussion was peppered with billions and trillions, eight-point-three inches didn’t raise the pulse much.
At least not until one multiplied that number by the entire surface area of the world’s oceans.
“Are you sure of these numbers?” someone asked.
“We’ve double-checked the data with NUMA’s independent analysis,” the speaker said, gesturing toward the NUMA contingent.
Rudi stood. “We’ve come up with the same figure.”
Among the elected officials present there were several from each party. Like any group, they ran the gamut of intelligence and political beliefs.
“Is this really that big a problem?” one congressman asked. “I mean, come on, people, eight inches? I got more water in my basement from last night’s rain.”
A wave of snickers came from the senators’ row.
Rudi Gunn took it on himself to reply. “Actually, Congressman, an eight-inch rise in the sea level requires an addition of twenty-one quadrillion gallons to the oceanic basins. To put that in perspective, we’re talking about three times the amount of water contained in all the Great Lakes combined. In a matter of six months. It is a big problem. In fact, it’s unprecedented.”
Hearing it put like that, the congressman sat down.
The speaker from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric board took it from there. “Of greater concern is the rate of increase. The pace is accelerating, with half of the increase occurring in the last thirty days. At this rate, we could see a rise of several feet by the end of next year.”
“Where is the water coming from?” someone else asked in frustration.
Joe sighed. The can of worms was firmly in place and the speaker opened the top without hesitation. “We believe there’s been a sudden acceleration in the effects of global warming.”
That did it. The true believers rose up in arms, stating various different versions of “We warned you this would happen” and calling in unison for “crash programs” and “emergency measures.”
On the other side of the aisle, the global warming deniers shouted back about “political stunts,” questioning the data and demanding an explanation as to how such a thing could happen so suddenly after years of being told it would take centuries for the ice caps to melt and the oceans to rise.
Down on the floor, the senator from Florida, who was running the hearing, did his best to rein things in, but a few bangs of his gavel were useless against the animosity. The arguing continued until a deep boom echoed through the chamber as one of the heavy doors on the upper level swung open and banged against the wall.
Voices temporarily silenced, all eyes turned toward the sound.
A man with unruly platinum hair, a tangled beard and broad shoulders stood at the top of the stairs. He wore a dark coat, wet from the rain, and studied the crowd through intense blue eyes. If he’d carried a trident, he could have passed as Poseidon, the God of the Sea.
“The iceman cometh,” Joe whispered to Paul and Gamay. “The beard is new, though.”
“It’s not global warming,” the Poseidon-like figure called out.
The senator from Florida stood. “And who, exactly, are you?”
“Kurt Austin,” the man said. “Head of Special Projects at NUMA.”
The senator appeared both surprised and put out at the same time. “My apologies, Mr. Austin, I didn’t recognize you. On the other hand, where have you been?”
Austin walked down a few steps so everyone could see him. “For the last six months,” he began, “out on every glacier and ice sheet in the Northern Hemisphere.” He shed his heavy coat and placed it on a chair. “For the last six hours, fighting traffic on I-95, after my flight from Greenland diverted to Philadelphia. Trust me when I tell you the traffic was the worst part of the trip.”
A wave of laughter made its way around the room. Only the speaker from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric board seemed not amused. “Are you one of those who doesn’t believe in global warming?”
“I take no position on global warming in general,” Austin replied. “Whether it’s really happening or not, whether it’s man-made, naturally occurring or caused by aliens, is for other people to argue over. What I’m talking about is this particular rise in the sea level. And I can tell you, unequivocally, the seas are not rising due to glacial melting, fracturing ice sheets or even the incredible downpours the East Coast has been experiencing for the last few days.”
Another wave of laughter made the rounds. The irony of a hearing on sea-level rise taking place amid flash flood warnings had escaped no one.
The speaker was unmoved. “Our models suggest that given an increase in ground temperatures—”
“Your models have been tested on a computer,” Austin replied. “I’ve been out there checking and rechecking, digging under glaciers, walking on the ice sheets, taking core samples, with other members of NUMA’s science teams. We’ve spent months comparing satellite images with direct on-site observations of glacial retreat rates, snow depths and actual runoff data in the streams below the glaciers. We’ve been looking everywhere for signs of unprecedented melting and we just haven’t found it. I hate to burst your bubble but the glaciers and ice caps are vanishing no faster, and no slower, than they have been over the last ten years. Which means whatever is going on here, it’s not related to global warming.”
“Then what is the cause?”
“I wish I knew,” Kurt said. “But if your acceleration numbers are correct, we’d better find out in a hurry or start building large boats made of gopher wood.”
Only half the crowd got the reference to Noah’s Ark, but the senator from Florida was one of them.
“Two by two isn’t going to help us,” the senator said. “My apologies for reprimanding you, Mr. Austin. Your contributions have been invaluable. I ask you all to forward the data you’ve collected to all groups for st
udy. We’ll meet again in two weeks. But if we don’t have an answer soon, this information will have to be shared with the public. I don’t have to tell you what that means.”
Politics and spin doctors and public hysteria, Joe thought. All of which would make it near impossible to get anything done.
The meeting adjourned. Joe stood up and made his way to Kurt. “Nice entrance. I suggest a fog machine and lasers to make it more dramatic next time.”
“Been in fog all day,” Kurt said. “Seems like we all have. We need to find answers to this mystery and we need to find them fast.”
4
NUMA HEADQUARTERS
5:30 P.M.
KURT FLICKED ON the lights in the NUMA conference room. Joe, Paul and Gamay filed in behind him.
“Better get the coffee going,” Kurt said. “It’s going to be a long night.”
They’d left Capitol Hill at the end of the hearing, driven across town as everyone else was leaving Washington. By six p.m. on a Friday, D.C. was a ghost town. A wet, soggy ghost town.
Joe set up the coffeemaker while Paul and Gamay put their binderfuls of notes down on the table.
“I can’t believe we’re back to square one,” Gamay said. “Are you sure there’s no ice melt going on? Not even in the Southern Hemisphere?”
“It’s still winter in the Southern Hemisphere,” Kurt said. “Trust me, nothing is melting in Antarctica at negative fifty degrees. And before you say it, I checked with our friends at McMurdo Station just to be sure.”
“Well, I don’t see how we can work on a solution if we don’t know what’s causing the problem,” she replied.
“We can’t,” Kurt said. “Which is why we’re going to stay in this room until we come up with another possibility for the root cause.”
“Even if we find the cause, we might be unable to stop it,” Joe pointed out. “It might also stabilize on its own.”
“Agreed,” Kurt said. “But let’s not count on that.”
With this directive, a brainstorming session began that would have made any group of thriller authors proud. One after another, various methods of drowning the planet poured forth.