The Rain Circle, page 16
‘Keep them separated from the other chooks,’ Brian advises, adding that the hatchling is a sign of a good result this afternoon. He suggests that in the afternoon they walk to the high ground on the westernmost paddock and witness the creation of rain by humankind. Three people of different ages and backgrounds are standing and looking at each other for several seconds knowing today may be a big day for the world. The only sounds are those of hens slowly clucking as they shuffle through the straw and the cheeping of a tiny chick. It seems almost inappropriate to break the silence and say it but Susanna wonders if a walk is a good idea if they are to get soaked. May differs, believing to be drenched in rain Christian and others have created will be great. A baptism for birth of technology that softens effects of global warming has true merit, Brian believes, but he reassures Susanna that from the time they see dark swirls of cloud on the horizon there will be nearly half an hour before rain tumbles down over Buckleboo. Plenty of time to walk back. Yet if May wants to soak it up she’s welcome to stay.
‘Digger will keep me company,’ May says.
‘If you’re lucky,’ Brian responds with a doubting tooth-clenched grin and shake of the head. ‘Since Christian and Patrick left in the wee hours he’s been curled up in the tractor shed, whimpering. Chased their vehicle down our road until he was puffed out and returned with his head down and tail between his legs. He knows something’s up and ain’t happy.’
Faces of Susanna and May are written with concern for Digger but any questions they may have are put on hold when Brian’s phone buzzes and Bernadette appears on the tiny screen. There is agitation in her appearance and voice.
‘Brian, I can’t get May. Can you ask her to call me very urgently? Please. Right now.’
‘She’s here, with me.’ Brian says, handing the phone quickly to May.
‘Sorry Mum, we’re at the hen house. I left my phone in my room.’
‘I want you to go back straight away and get all my computer buds, fit them one by one into your computer and find the pathway for getting alerts to Air Services Australia. The buds are in the bottom drawer, left hand side of the kitchen sink.’
‘Mum, I can find the buds but I’m not all that good at tech stuff. I’ll try though,’ she promises. ‘Maybe you get back on the phone and help me through. First though, look at this. Just a second. Hey don’t peck me Lady Sussex, show us your kid. Pretty isn’t it? Just hatched.’
‘Yes dear. Now please hurry. This is extremely important.’
Susanna and Brian go with her to the shearers’ kitchen and help as much as they can to assemble and input the buds and search for connection pathways to Air Services Australia. The right code and configuration are found yet there is a ‘connection failed’ message whatever they try. They explain to Bernadette what they’ve done and she says that is what has happened to her. This is supposed to be an easy connection she has often used to give Air Services Australia warning of sudden changes to weather so they can notify pilots. Something must have been changed by the IT people since she was last at the Bureau of Meteorology. A critical part of today’s plan is to issue a warning in time enough for airlines to divert to a safer course and not dive into the ocean with 400 passengers. The warning must come through the right channels to avoid being seen as a hacker’s mischievous hoax. It is now 1am in Helsinki and the project’s chief meteorologist, a serious Swedish man, has his hands on his head and is prancing around the operations centre set up in Professor Niemenen’s office. He is screaming that this was a little box to tick. Now they face the possibility of a disaster. It may be best in the interests of safety, he proclaims, to call the whole thing off. Bernadette is embarrassed and distressed.
‘Don’t you have IT people at the university who can help?’ Brian asks calmly. It is a reasonable question. Only problem is, apart from being in the middle of the night, their IT people are lecturers and their system is maintained by a private company. There is also a sense that this is Bernadette’s problem and if she does not have the solution there will be cancellation or delay of the project. Her face is flushed and her head is thumping.
Just when all seems lost a soft Finnish voice in the background says there may be a way around this.
‘Bernadette, this is Susanna from Finland and she’s staying with us,’ Brian says, handing over the phone. ‘’Mother of Christian’s friend Inka.’
‘My husband may be able to help,’ offers Susanna.
With relief Bernadette closes her eyes and utters ‘He’s a computer expert and he’s in Helsinki. Oh God thank you for this.’
‘No. My Miro is a heritage bricklayer,’ Susanna corrects. ‘And he’s in Lahti, about 100Km north of you. But he has friends who are very good at IT.’
It does not on the surface appear that a computer master is coming to the rescue but any hope is some hope Bernadette can hang onto. She is extremely tired but will stay as alert as she can be. She can expect a call from Lahti. No time can be promised and Bernadette holds back from applying pressure for fast action.
When Miro takes the call he does not complain. Susanna’s voice is nice to hear and he is pleased to help. She provides a short account of the situation, giving Bernadette’s number and stressing the urgency. Pulling on a tracksuit and sneakers he goes to Emilia’s room to apologise for waking her and to say not to worry. He just needs to slip out because he remembered he’d left power on at the old church. It is a lie but a story easier to tell at 2am than one about waking Suvi and Jaako to get them to help save the planet.
Tapping on the window of Suvi and Jaako’s room at the YMCA, repeated apologies are made for waking them. Suvi wakes first saying it sounds like Miro. Jaako, who takes longer to become functional, shakes his dark curly hair across a deep frown and mutters something about what the hell Miro might want at this hour of night. They grasp the unusual challenge presented, however, and call the number Miro has been provided by Bernadette via Susanna. Simplest solutions are considered first. Name people most likely to have taken the role of giving air traffic alerts in Bernadette’s absence and the common security access code formats used at the Bureau of Meteorology. They’ll conduct a sweep using access passwords they figure are possibilities. Forward data about the pathways she used in Adelaide and these will be analysed for possible default avenues. Bernadette furnishes them with all requests and sits back to wait, privately admonishing herself for knowing she can break into any forecasting reports and images yet has not thought about changes like security upgrades.
‘Flat white with one sugar isn’t it?’ Hanni Niemenen asks in a hushed tone as she places the cup and saucer in front of Bernadette, pulls up a seat and faces her with a gentle smile. ‘There are always hitches and you are not to feel terrible. Particularly since you have been cajoled into this, by me more than anyone I’m afraid. I’ve had a little chat with the team leaders and our triggering time of 5pm in South Australia today is too perfect to change. You’ve agreed with that in terms of speed and height of the mobilising air current.’
The professor is about to add more weight to the argument for not delaying the demonstration when Bernadette nervously puts her cup back into its saucer, causing a spill, and protests that there can be no terms for putting aircraft at risk.
‘The shroud of secrecy is being taken away in any event Bernadette,’ she responds. ‘We are about to get into that time when the more people who know about what we’re doing the better. So, my advice is we contact Air Services Australia directly and say that it is happening and back this up with a call to all airlines that may be crossing the risk zone after 3pm today.’
‘But Hanni, there must be a reason from the proper authorities for disruption of flights,’ Bernadette pleads. ‘We just don’t know if we’d get the right response. If warnings are from a weird source they may be ignored and Air Services will ask the Bureau of Meteorology directly if the alert is legitimate. Oh, I am worried. Really, really worried. And it is all my fault.’
‘You are right on one matter,’ the professor says with seriousness. ‘We are a weird source. This unimaginable concoction of scientists, investors and fishermen and farmers is a wonder in itself. People with a common goal. Different purposes for joining in. But a common, worthwhile goal.’
Bernadette looks into the professor’s eyes to see a determination that engineers a modicum of fear. Am I working with a mad scientist intent on managing the world, for good this time rather than evil as often portrayed in movies, yet putting casualties of her extremism aside? Checks and balances are needed for any higher activity affecting a population. Have I been caught up in madness? There must be zero risk for public safety. What can I do to stop this, right now? she privately asks herself.
‘There’s no stopping now,’ Hanni Niemenen’s authoritative voice interrupts, as if she has been reading Bernadette’s mind. ‘We will be going ahead as planned. Stop the demonstration now and we fail. Give notice about doing all this at a more convenient time and we also fail. Every bedwetting politician in Australia will call an end to it. And the fact we’ve used their backyard without permission will bring so much disdain we’ll be sent packing for decades. No, we can’t stop now. And even if we are seen as a weird lot I can’t see Air Services refraining from giving a warning in case it is well-founded.’
‘But we can’t be absolutely sure,’ Bernadette spells out, raising the level of her voice. ‘We can’t be sure. I want out. I’m sorry.’
As she stands to rush out somewhere, anywhere, her phone rings. Flustered, she picks it up and, without thinking, her annoyed persona rises and she abruptly asks as she heads to the door ‘Busy now. What do you want?’
‘I want to confirm you know a person named Alice Loxton? We have a secure route from her to Air Services Australia,’ is the calmly spoken answer in a Finnish accent. ‘I am Suvi and we have access to Air Services Australia for an Alice Loxton.’
‘Thank you. Thank you,’ Bernadette says with sweaty brow and tears trickling down her cheeks. ‘Yes, I know Alice Loxton. Bit of a climb-to-the-top whatever young woman but that’s beside the point. Oh, God, thank you. Thank you. What can I do to thank you?’
‘Perhaps put Jaako and me up for a holiday in Oz some time. But right now how about just telling me what I have to do. Just imagine me as Alice Loxton.’
‘Yes, yes yes,’ Bernadette says, squeezing the phone into her ear so hard it hurts and giving a thumbs up to Hanni Niemenen who, with hands clasped behind her back, is now pacing the room, tapping shoes into the polished timber floor like a person on edge. The thumbs up allays some fears she holds, yet the possibility of things going wrong haunts her inner self.
‘Okay, here I am. That wonderful Alice Loxton who has unfettered access to Air Services Australia,’ Bernadette pretends. ‘In my name will you please Suvi, who I’ve never met but dearly love along with Jaako and Miro and Susanna …’
‘Get on with it. It is now 4am.’
‘Of course. Of course,’ Bernadette says quickly then slowly gives instructions. ‘In two hours, please send these words: This is an urgent alert from the South Australian Branch of the Bureau of Meteorology. No flights should track across the Great Australian Bight and east over Eyre Peninsula today from 3pm to 9pm Central Australian time due to unusually sudden disturbances at normal flight altitude. Turbulence, rolling storms and lightning extremely likely.’
When Suvi has entered the message and confirms it has been received by Air Services Australia, Bernadette comments ‘Air travelers are now safe, thank God.’
Eight people involved in the direction of critical components of the rainmaking demonstration about to take place on the other side of the world are present in the professor’s office. All are exhausted and are requested to rest or sleep for a few short hours if they can on beds assembled in the corridor. Bernadette is considering the offer, aware 10.30am in Helsinki, the trigger time of 5pm in South Australia, is just far away enough for a chance to relax and re-energise. The window of opportunity to do this, however, shrinks when Wilma the public relations chief walks in wanting advice on how they select satellite imagery. A feature of media materials will be vision from space of creation of a rain-laden weather pattern. Of course Bernadette is keen to help capture an historic moment of change and promises to select the key shifts in meteorological dynamics. Further, she asks if some graphic modeling will be useful, showing what will have happened without intervention of the demonstration. In other words, normally expected compared with created weather. Wilma is delighted and so is Professor Niemenen who has been observing the collaboration between two of her senior team members. Sleep is now out of the question and there is sudden realisation that the people back at Buckleboo need to know the drama about communicating with Air Services Australia is over.
‘That problem’s been solved Brian,’ Bernadette says in a hushed voice as she slumps into a chair in the corner of the professor’s office. ‘Please thank Susanna for helping.’
‘Where’re you now?’
‘Slumped in a chair in a university office. What are you doing?’
‘I’m still with May and Susanna. We’re now walking across to monitors in one of the home paddocks to look at some readings. So quiet here now. Like the calm before the storm.’
‘Look up to the sky and tell me what you see.’
‘Sky’s clear blue with a few flicks of high cloud in the west. But guess you could have told me that anyway.’
‘Picture perfect Brian. Those clouds tell us we have a good air current at the right altitude moving eastwards. Too much bulky cloud around and people may not be convinced we’ve made a difference.’
Asking how others are getting along, Bernadette learns her daughter is still excited about the newborn chicken and has been trying to coax Digger out of the tractor shed. As for Christian and Patrick, they left early and should be in Ceduna.
Indeed, Christian and Patrick have already passed the Ceduna meeting point and are venturing beyond the tiny port in a cabin cruiser with prawn fisherman Ryan Crawford at the helm. In the boat’s wake a trail of low-flying seagulls is giving up on the chances of whitebait and other food being drawn to the surface. About 20Km beyond shore and halfway to the demonstration site Patrick and Christian are sitting at the stern to get some protection from the wind. The bump, bump, bump over the sea unsettles Christian, who sprays a rainbow of vomit over the rear of the vessel and across Patrick’s chest. An apology is made to the skipper who tells them to forget it and come to the front where they can look over the top of the cabin rather than at his backside. He says there’s less roll up front, contrary to common opinion, and looking at the open sea is better than hiding from your world by crippling up in misery. The move is effective and soon they’re appreciating the expanse and power of the open sea. Increasingly cold weather as they advance across the sea, combined with air that seems supercharged with oxygen, makes Patrick realise he’s been anchored on the land. It dawns on him that he’s not given enough thought for the other half of the world, a watery one with a character of its own. Christian is also in awe of the majesty of the open sea. Flying over it is one thing. Being on it is another. Chilling air whips over his face, prompting him to pull his woolen beanie down over his ears which he’s sure are now frost- bitten, like the end of his nose now running like a tap with clear liquid. There is a temptation to return to a protected section of the boat. A wide toothy grin from Patrick, with hair flowing in the wind, ends thoughts of retreat. This is an adventure from which there will be no going back. Be brave, and enjoy, Patrick’s expression is saying.
Although they have seen the fleet of project vessels by aircraft, the size of the maritime effort on the horizon from a cabin cruiser is breathtaking. It puts participants into closer, palpable, riskier, more responsible dominions of sense. Christian thinks of the difference between bomber pilots and those doing the hand to hand combat on the ground. Adrenalin is coursing through his body as he lurches over the side of the cabin cruiser for another yawning vomit. Ryan Crawford slows the vessel and points out his prawn boat Monet tethered to a firmly-anchored container ship whose name emblazoned on the stern is Kom Tilbake, which Christian interprets as meaning to come back. The sentiment of returning is something with which Patrick is familiar, like the naming of Japanese longline tuna vessels that frequent Port Lincoln. He knows Maru which partners Japanese vessel names means circle, an affirmation that you can start and end in the same place. He did not know it applied more widely. Perhaps a line of thought associated with seafaring that does not register on terra firma. The cabin cruiser is now rocking sideways as it slows pace across a mild swell. Abruptly, Patrick’s casual appraisal of differences between life on the land and life at sea ends when he looks up at the steel cliff face of the Kom Tilbake and realises he has to switch vessels.
‘Think you can climb it?’ Ryan Crawford asks without expecting an answer. ‘You’re going to jump onto the Monet, which is easy, then you have to climb up a rope ladder secured to the deck and release that basket I’m pointing to. It’ll drop down, then you bundle him in and help him up.’
‘Can we trial this a bit?’ Patrick asks.
‘Not a rehearsal mate,’ old Ryan screams from the helm, with his right hand pushing his boat into reverse gear to avoid smashing into the larger vessel’s hull. ‘Just do it. Now!’
The operation is conducted with fear yet determination and the clapping of hands on the deck of the Kom Tilbake suggests Patrick has undertaken more risk than expected after almost spilling his human cargo. He hides his small glow of heroism as if it is part of a day’s work for a graingrower. Looking down he sees the Monet powering away to join other vessels under command of Kris Pavic.
