In this case, the drop was 3.5 kilometres. The Juno was sailing over the Greenland abyssal plain, an expanse of seabed beneath the Fram Strait, from which the cold Arctic water flowed south. The basin between Iceland, Greenland, the north Norwegian coast and Svalbard was one of the planet’s two main water pumps. Bauer was interested in what was going on there - and so was Karen Weaver, on behalf of her readers.
Bauer beckoned for her to join him. With his bald head, huge glasses and pointed white beard, he resembled the cliché of an absent-minded professor more than any other scientist she’d met. He was sixty and already slightly hunched, but indefatigably energetic. Weaver respected people like Lukas Bauer. There was something almost superhuman about them. She admired them for their will.
‘Take a look at this, Karen,’ he called, in a clear voice. ‘Incredible, isn’t it? The water here is surging downwards at a rate of seventeen million cubic metres per second. Seventeen million!’ He beamed at her. ‘That’s twenty times the volume of all the rivers on Earth.’
‘Dr Bauer.’ Weaver placed a hand on his arm. ‘That’s the fourth time you’ve told me that.’
Bauer blinked. ‘Really?’
‘And you still haven’t got round to explaining how the floats work. You’re going to have to talk me through this, if you want me to do your PR.’
‘Yes…Well, the floats - that is to say, the autonomous drifting profilers - they…Oh, but you know all that already, don’t you? It’s why you’re here.’
‘I’m here to make computer simulations of the currents, so people can see where the floats are going, remember?’
‘Of course. Dear me, you can’t possibly know…You don’t even…Well, I’m a bit short of time, unfortunately. There’s so much to do. Why don’t you watch for a while and then—’
‘Dr Bauer! Not again. You promised to tell me how they work.’
‘Certainly. You see, in my articles, I—’
‘Dr Bauer, I’ve read your articles but I trained as a scientist and even I barely understood them. Popular science is supposed to be entertaining. You’ve got to write in a language that everyone can follow.’
Bauer looked hurt. ‘My articles are easy to follow.’
‘For you, maybe - and the two dozen others working in your field.’
‘Now, that’s not true. If you read the text carefully—’
‘No, Dr Bauer, I want you to explain it.’
Bauer frowned, then smiled indulgently. ‘If any of my students were to talk…But they wouldn’t dare. They’re not allowed to interrupt me - I leave that to myself.’ He raised his skinny shoulders in a shrug. ‘But that’s life, I suppose. I can’t refuse you anything. I like you, Karen. You’re a…Well…You remind me of…Oh, never mind. Let’s take a look at this float.’
‘And when we’ve done that, we’ll talk about your findings. I’m getting enquiries.’
‘Where from?’
‘Magazines, TV programmes, institutes.’
‘How interesting.’
‘It’s not interesting, it’s normal - publicity’s logical outcome. Do you even see the point of PR?’
Bauer grinned mischievously. ‘Perhaps you’d like to explain it?’
‘With pleasure - it’d only be the tenth time. But first, you’re going to talk to me.’
‘But that won’t do,’ said Bauer, in agitation. ‘We’ve got floats to lower, and then I mustn’t forget to—’
‘Keep your word and talk to me,’ Weaver said sternly.
‘But, Karen, my dear, you’re not the only one getting enquiries. I’m writing to scientists all over the world. They ask the most outlandish things. One just emailed to ask about a worm. Imagine that - a worm! He even wanted to know if the methane concentration was higher than usual, which, of course, it is…But how was he to know? I’ll have to—’
‘I can deal with all that. I’ll be your co-conspirator.’
‘As soon as I’ve—’
‘That’s if you really like me.’
Bauer’s eyes widened. ‘I see. So that’s how it is, is it?’ His drooping shoulders shook with muffled laughter. ‘That’s exactly why I never married. It’s constant blackmail. All right, then, I’ll try harder, I promise. Now, let’s get going. Come along!’
Weaver followed him. The drifting profiler was dangling from the boom above the grey surface of the water. It was several metres long and protected by a supporting frame. More than half of it was made up of a thin, shiny tube, with two spherical glass containers at the top.
Bauer rubbed his hands together. His down jacket was several sizes too big for him and made him look like an exotic Arctic bird. ‘We drop the float into the water,’ he said, ‘and it bobs along with the current. Think of it as an enormous particle of water. There’s a vertical drop beneath us - the water is sinking, as I said…Well, you can’t see it sinking, of course, but it’s sinking nonetheless. Now, how can I explain this?’
‘Try avoiding jargon.’
Right. It’s actually very simple. The point is, water doesn’t always weigh the same. Warm fresh water is light. Salt water is usually heavier than fresh water. The saltier, the heavier, in fact - there’s the added weight of the salt to consider. On the other hand, cold water is heavier than warm water because its density is higher. So water gets heavier as it cools.’
‘Which means the heaviest water is always cold and salty,’ Weaver put in.
‘Very good.’ Bauer seemed pleased with her. ‘So, water doesn’t just flow in currents: it moves up and down in layers. The coldest currents are on the seabed, warm currents are on the surface, and deep-water currents are somewhere in between. Of course, warm currents can travel thousands of kilometres on the surface before they reach colder regions where they start to cool down. And as the water cools—’
‘It gets heavier.’
‘Indeed. So, the water gets heavier, which makes it start to sink. Surface currents turn into deep-water currents, or even bottom-water currents, and the flow direction changes. It’s exactly the same the other way round, but the water goes upwards, from cold to warm. That way, all the major currents are continuously in motion. And because they’re all interconnected, there’s a constant process of exchange.’
The float was lowered to the surface of the water. Bauer hurried to the railings and leaned over, gesturing impatiently for Weaver to follow. ‘What are you waiting for? Come on, you’ll get a better view from here.’
She stood next to him. Eyes glowing, Bauer was gazing out to sea. ‘Imagine if there were floats in every single current!’ he said. ‘Just think how much we’d learn.’
‘What are the glass spheres for?’
‘They keep the float suspended in the current. There are weights at the other end too, but the key to the whole thing is the cylinder in the middle. All the equipment is in there. Electronic controls, microprocessor, power supply. And it’s neutrally buoyant. Isn’t that amazing? Neutrally buoyant!’
‘I’d find it even more amazing if you told me what that meant.’
‘Oh, yes. Of course…’ Bauer tugged as his beard. ‘Well, we had to think about how we could get the floats to—You see, it’s like this: fluids are practically incompressible. That is to say, you can’t compress them any further. Water is the key exception. You can’t, er, squish it much, but it’s possible. So that’s what we do. We compress the water in the cylinder so there’s always the same amount in there, but sometimes it’s heavier and sometimes it’s lighter. So the weight of the float can be varied without changing the volume.’
‘Ingenious.’
‘It certainly is! It can even be programmed to do it by itself - compressing, decompressing, compressing, decompressing, sinking down and rising up - without us lifting a finger. Clever, don’t you think?’
Weaver watched the tube sink into the sea.
‘It means the float can travel independently for months and even years, transmitting radio signals, while we track it and reconstruct the speed and t
he movement of the current. Off it goes.’
The drifting profiler had vanished.
‘And where’s it heading now?’
‘That’s the question.’
Weaver looked at him intently.
Bauer sighed resignedly. ‘I know, I know. You want to hear about my work. Goodness me, you’re tenacious…Very well, we can talk in the lab. But the findings are unsettling, to say the least.’
‘People love to be unsettled. Haven’t you heard? Jellyfish invasions, scientific anomalies, people going missing and sinking ships. You’ll be in good company.’
‘Do you think so?’ Bauer shook his head. ‘You’re probably right. I’ll never understand what publicity’s about. I’m only a scientist.’
Continental Margin, Norwegian Sea
‘Shit,’ Stone groaned. ‘It’s a blow-out.’
On board the Sonne, everyone in the control room stared at the screen. All hell seemed to have broken loose on the seabed.
Bohrmann spoke into the microphone: ‘We’ve got to get out of here. Full speed ahead. Tell the bridge.’
Lund ran out of the room, and Johanson chased after her. Suddenly everyone on board was running. Johanson skidded on to the working deck, where sailors and technicians were shifting cold storage tanks under Lund’s lead. The winch cable quivered as the Sonne accelerated.
Lund saw him and ran over.
‘What was that?’ he yelled.
‘We hit a gas pocket. Look!’
She pulled him across to the railings. Hvistendahl, Stone and Bohrmann joined them. Two Statoil technicians had gone to the far end of the stern and were standing under the A-frame, peering down.
Bohrmann was gazing at the taut cable. ‘What the hell is he playing at?’ he hissed. ‘Why hasn’t the idiot stopped the winch?’ He hurried back inside.
At that moment the sea started to bubble madly and white lumps shot to the surface. The Sonne had reached full speed. There was a clunking sound as the video-grab’s cable tightened. Someone raced across the deck towards the A-frame, waving wildly. ‘Get away from there!’ he yelled to the pair from Statoil. ‘Run!’
Johanson recognised him. It was the first officer, the Sheep-dog, as the seamen called him. Hvistendahl swivelled round, gesticulating. Then everything happened at once. A foaming, hissing geyser engulfed them. Johanson saw the outline of the video-grab rising through the surface of the water. An unbearable stench of sulphur filled their nostrils. The Sonne’s stern sank, then the metal jaws shot sideways and sped through the air like a gigantic swing towards the topside. The second of the two technicians saw it coming and flung himself down. The other man froze, then took a tentative step backwards and stumbled.
The Sheep-dog sprang forward to pull him to the ground, but the metal jaws crashed into the man and sent him flying into the air. He fell back to the deck, skidded along the planks and lay still.
‘Oh, God,’ Lund gasped. ‘Please, no.’
She and Johanson ran towards the motionless body. The first officer and other crew were kneeling beside him. The Sheep-dog glanced up. ‘Don’t touch him.’
‘But I—’ Lund began.
‘Call the doctor.’
Johanson knew that Lund couldn’t bear to be inactive. Sure enough, she walked towards the grab. It had nearly stopped swinging. Mud dripped from it on to the deck. ‘Open it!’ she shouted. ‘Get whatever’s left into the tanks.’
Johanson looked down at the sea. Bubbles of stinking methane were still fizzing up to the surface, but gradually subsiding. The Sonne was charging away from the scene. The last chunks of methane ice floated to the surface and disintegrated.
With a loud creak the grab opened its jaws, releasing hundreds of kilos of ice and sediment. Sailors and scientists crowded around it, trying to plunge the hydrate into tanks of liquid nitrogen. Johanson felt useless. He went over to Bohrmann to help collect the lumps. The deck was covered with small, bristly bodies. Some were twitching and writhing, but the majority hadn’t survived the rapid ascent. The sudden change of temperature and pressure had killed them.
Johanson picked up a clump and examined it closely. Dark channels criss-crossed the ice, strewn with the corpses of worms. He turned it back and forth until its crackling and cracking reminded him that it needed to be conserved. Some of the other chunks were even more riddled with holes, but the real work of destruction had clearly taken place beneath the tunnelling. Crater-like breaches gaped in the ice, covered with slimy trails.
Johanson forgot about the storage tanks. He rubbed the slime between his fingers. It looked like the remains of bacterial colonies. Bacterial mats were found on the surface of hydrates: what were they doing inside the ice?
A few seconds later the lump had disappeared. He looked round. A muddy puddle covered the working deck. The man who had been hit by the grab was gone. Lund, Hvistendahl and Stone had also left the deck, but Bohrmann was leaning on the rails. Johnson joined him. ‘What happened down there?’
Bohrmann ran his hand over his eyes. ‘We had a blow-out. The grab penetrated more than twenty metres through the hydrates and gas came up. Did you see the enormous bubble on the screen?’
‘Yes. How thick is the ice here?’
‘Seventy to eighty metres minimum - at least it was.’
‘So, the ice was cracked.’
‘That’s how it seems. We need to find out as soon as possible whether it’s an isolated case.’
‘You want to take more samples?’
‘Of course,’ said Bohrmann, testily. ‘That accident should never have happened. The guy at the winch raised the grab when we were going full-speed. He should have stopped it.’ He looked at Johanson. ‘Did you notice anything unusual when the gas shot up?’
‘It felt to me as though the boat dropped in the water.’
‘That’s what I thought. The methane lowered the surface tension.’
‘Do you mean we could have sunk?’
‘It’s hard to say. Have you heard of the Witch’s Hole?’
‘No.’
‘Ten years ago a fisherman set sail and never came back. His last radio transmission said he was going to make coffee. A research expedition found the wreck fifty nautical miles from the coast in an unusually deep pockmark on the North Sea floor. Sailors call the area the Witch’s Hole. The wreck showed no sign of damage and was sitting upright on the seabed. It seemed to have sunk like a stone - as though it had suddenly stopped floating.’
‘Sounds like the Bermuda Triangle.’
‘You’ve put your finger on it. That’s exactly the theory - the only one that stands up to scrutiny, anyway. Big blow-outs occur regularly in the area between Bermuda, Florida and Costa Rica. Sometimes there’s enough gas in the atmosphere to set fire to the turbines of a plane. All it takes is a methane blow-out several times bigger than the one we just experienced and the water density falls so low that a ship sinks to the bottom.’ Bohrmann pointed to the storage tanks. ‘We’ll get this stuff back to Kiel, run some tests and get answers about what’s going on - and we will get answers, I promise you. We’ve already lost one man because of this mess.’
‘Is he…?’
‘He was killed on impact. For the next sample we’ll use the autoclave corer instead of the grab. It’s safer that way. We have to find out what’s happening. I’m not prepared to stand by and watch as subsea units are constructed willy-nilly all over the seabed.’ Bohrmann moved away from the rails. ‘But we’re used to that, I guess. We’re always trying to explain what’s going on in the world but no one listens. And then what happens? Research is in the hands of big business. The only reason that you and I are on this boat is because Statoil found a worm. The state can’t pay for science, so the money comes from industry. There’s no science for the sake of enquiry, these days. This worm isn’t an object of scholarly interest. It’s a problem they want us to get rid of. Science always has to have an immediate application - and, preferably, one that gives industry free rein. But maybe those wor
ms aren’t really the problem. Has anyone stopped to consider that? The real problem could be elsewhere, and by solving the worm dilemma, we might make things worse.’
A few nautical miles to the north-east they excavated a dozen cores from the sediment without further incident. The autoclave corer, a five-metre-long tube clad in a plastic mantle with pipes round the outside, drew the sample from the seabed like a giant syringe. Before it was pulled back up, the tube was hermetically sealed by valves, preserving a perfect specimen of a different universe: sediment, ice, mud, an intact section of the top layer of hydrates, pore-water and even local organisms, unperturbed by the change, since temperature and pressure were maintained. Bohrmann had the sealed tubes stored upright in the walk-in freezer so as not to disturb the layers of life preserved within. The cores couldn’t be analysed on board: they needed the deep-sea simulation chamber to provide the right conditions. Until then they had to content themselves with analysing pore-water and staring at the screen.
Despite the drama of the past hours, even the unchanging view of the worm-covered hydrates seemed tedious. No one felt like talking. In the faint light of the monitors everyone looked pale - Bohrmann and his scientists, the Statoil team and the crew. The dead man had joined the core samples in the freezer. The rendezvous with the Thorvaldson at the site of the planned unit had been cancelled so that they could head straight for Kristiansund, where they would hand over the body and transport the samples to the nearby airport. Johanson moved between his cabin and the control room, sorting through the responses to his survey. The worm wasn’t described in any of the existing literature. No one had seen it. Some of his correspondents put forward the view that it was a Mexican ice worm, but that didn’t take him any closer to the truth.
Three nautical miles from Kristiansund, Johanson received a reply from Lukas Bauer. The first positive reply - though positive wasn’t really the word.
He read the message and chewed his lip thoughtfully.
Contacting the oil companies was Skaugen’s business. Johanson was only expected to approach institutes and scientists with no obvious link to oil. But Bohrmann had said something after the accident that showed things in a different light.