The Last Gasp, page 51
‘You’re telling me you knew of our WCD strategy before we divulged it?’ Malden’s eyes were narrowed, his tone sceptical.
‘If you are speaking of Operation Download, then of course.’
Malden smiled thinly. He had learned it was the best way to counter a thrust that had struck home. Also, it gave him time to think. ‘Do you wish to review our respective defence strategies, Colonel, or shall we get closer to the ball?’
‘Closer to the ball?’ Burdovsky repeated with a frown. He glanced right and left at the stolid faces on either side, and then at Malden across the table. ‘What is that?’
‘It means shall we get down to business.’ Malden turned his wrist to look at his watch. ‘We have two hours and forty-one minutes. I’d like to accomplish something in the time left to us.’
Colonel Burdovsky said something in Russian and clicked his blunt fingers. The captain got up and brought a japanned box of Davidoff No. 1 cigars to the table. He put down four large glass ashtrays and felt mats, which he went to some pains to space equidistantly.
Malden refused a cigar, but Burdovsky selected one for himself and accepted a light from the captain. He smoked the fat cigar through pursed lips, as a schoolboy might puff at his first cigarette. ‘Please,’ he waved, expansive now. ‘Let us get closer to the ball.’
Malden said, ‘Major Dukes is scientific liaison officer attached to Fut/COE. He has a doctorate in climatology. I take it you have a scientific officer present?’
Burdovsky gestured with the cigar to the two men on his left. ‘Major Ivolgin and Lieutenant-Colonel Salazkin. Both are members of the Academy of Sciences. I think that between us’ – he drew on the cigar and released a curling blue ball of smoke – ‘we shall understand whatever you have to say.’
Malden leaned forward, his nicely shaped hands clasped together on the blotter. He began to speak in a flat, clipped voice, having rehearsed until word-perfect.
4
Both their countries faced a new threat. In the last ten years an urgent factor had arisen. Even the most cautious scientists agreed that man’s activities had altered the natural dynamic forces that powered the biosphere.
Although the causes of this were complex, the principal effect was a substantial reduction in the amount of oxygen produced by photosynthesis in the oceans. The most up-to-date estimates showed that between sixty and seventy-five per cent of phytoplankton growth had been killed off. Taking the most conservative figure, this meant that the oceans were at present supplying only forty per cent of their previous oxygen yield. Added to that, the equatorial forests which had once supplied one quarter of the earth’s oxygen requirement were now virtually defunct.
The conclusions were inescapable: the remaining forty per cent supplied by the oceans was insufficient to meet current rates of consumption. Mankind was existing on the stock of oxygen presently in the atmosphere, which wasn’t being replenished quickly enough.
‘Our studies have shown that there isn’t an adequate supply to continue to support the present world population of 9.4 billion people,’ Malden concluded, his voice quiet and unemotional in the softly purring stateroom. ‘Someday the oxygen will run out, and that day is soon. It is also inevitable.’
Colonel Burdovsky had been leaning back in the chair and smoking his cigar like an aristocrat. Now he turned his head sideways so that the two Americans could see the fleshy pouch that sagged from his chin to where it was trapped by the high collar of his tunic. His jowls shook as he spoke for some time with the scientists. Malden’s Russian was scant and he only managed to pick out the odd word here and there: climate, oxygen, threat.
The rest passed him by; not that it mattered.
‘Can I get you a glass of water, sir?’ Major Dukes asked him, reaching out. Malden shook his head. Major Dukes took one of the tumblers and began to peel off the plastic wrapper.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Getting myself some water, sir.’
A muscle rippled in Malden’s lean cheek. ‘Not unless they drink first,’ he said through clenched teeth.
Major Dukes blinked and swallowed and replaced the partly unwrapped tumbler on the tray.
Colonel Burdovsky turned back. ‘Our findings are in accordance with yours,’ he said complacently.
Like hell they are, thought Malden.
‘But there is a question I should like to ask. You say in your study that DELFI predicts fifteen to twenty years before this effect takes place – before the oxygen is finished, yes?’
‘The most accurate forecast we’ve been able to obtain with existing data is 2045 to 2050. That’s assuming the deterioration in the climate doesn’t get any worse than what we’ve allowed for.’ Malden added deliberately, ‘If it does, the prediction could be ten years out – on the wrong side.’
‘Ten years!’ Colonel Burdovsky removed his cigar and stared. ‘You say a possible miscalculation of ten years?’
‘We’ve had to make certain assumptions as to the rate of decline, but there’s no guarantee that the rate will stay as plotted. It could become more acute – in other words speed up – or it could level out.’
Malden was enjoying the expressions on the faces of the Russians. They had to put on the paltry show of being abreast – or even one step ahead – of their great rival. Yet he doubted whether they had an inkling of the real situation. It was rather pathetic. Take Burdovsky, for instance. No matter how much he tried to hide his feelings, acting out the charade of the man of authority and decision, the tiny eyes under the puffy lids were restless, shifting, furtive. Human beings were so predictable, even more so than the climate. They could be manipulated with ease because they were at the mercy of the supreme traitor: emotion. Malden had proved it time and time again, to his own intense satisfaction.
He said glibly, ‘Major Dukes has the detailed projections if you’d care to see them, gentlemen.’ Amused at the alacrity with which Lieutenant-Colonel Salazkin leaned across to take the file.
‘We shall examine these later,’ said Burdovsky, nodding to himself. ‘No doubt they will be similar to the figures we have obtained.’
‘No doubt,’ Malden said without a flicker.
‘Good. Now we are nearer to the ball, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which is, Colonel . . . ?’
‘Which is, Colonel, our mutual problem: some of our major American cities, especially in the southern states, are already experiencing severe depletion problems, as are other cities around the world in the tropical regions.’
‘That is hardly our problem,’ Burdovsky contradicted him. ‘The vast proportion of the Soviet Union lies north of forty degrees latitude.’ He spread his hands and grinned fatly. ‘Our country is not affected.’
‘No?’ Malden said. ‘Major Dukes.’
‘In the region surrounding Lake Balkhash in Kazakhskaya you’ve had to evacuate two million people,’ said Major Dukes crisply. ‘In 2026 there were fifty thousand deaths attributed to atmospheric pollution. By spring of last year an area of forty-six thousand square miles had been designated as unfit for human habitation. Emergency plans were put in place for mass evacuation of the region.’
Burdovsky’s chins were quivering and the other Russians were sitting as if turned to salt.
‘. . . contamination in the Nizmennost region due to the indiscriminate use of chemicals reached crisis point in 2028. Evacuation was carried out over a three-month period beginning in September of that year; since then all freshwater lakes in the region have remained biologically dead. There has been total decimation of all flora and marine life. The atmospheric oxygen count is four per cent below normal and falling.’
‘It’s your problem too, Colonel,’ Malden said, studying his fingernails. ‘Even discounting these local and relatively minor effects, which in themselves are unimportant. But we know for a fact that oxygen depletion in the equatorial belt is widening, spreading north and south. In ten years, fifteen at the most, both our countries will be largely inside the depletion belt.’
Colonel Burdovsky sucked on his cigar and blew smoke down at the blotter. ‘This rests on the assumption that DELFI is correct, does it not?’ He raised his eyes to catch Malden’s nod. ‘So tell me, what precisely is our “mutual” problem, Colonel Malden?’
‘Too many people using up too much oxygen.’
Furrows appeared on Burdovsky’s broad forehead as his consternation transformed into a smirk. ‘So what are you proposing?’ he asked with droll humour, ‘that we exterminate half the world’s population?’
‘Not half,’ Malden softly corrected him. ‘Three-quarters.’
Burdovsky’s hand twitched and a neat cylinder of grey ash fell to the table and disintegrated in a powdery explosion on the glass surface.
‘Seven billion as a guesstimate,’ Malden went on, as if discussing a golf handicap. ‘We calculate that the biosphere can comfortably support about two and a half billion human beings. The combined population of the Russian Federation and the United States is around one billion – or a fraction over. So that leaves breathing space for another billion spread across the rest of the globe.’ As if stating a fact that was so obvious it hardly needed mentioning, he added, ‘Of course China will have to go. India too. Africa and most of Indonesia. But China is the major culprit driving oxygen depletion; already its population is nearly two billion and they’re breeding like lice. In ten years, at current rates of growth, China will constitute one third of all the human beings on the planet. We can’t permit that to happen, Colonel. It’s self-evident.’
Major Ivolgin was staring at Malden with bulging eyes. ‘Is this meant to be taken as a serious proposal by your government?’ he asked.
‘Serious, yes. But not from government; the plan has been formulated by the Secret Planning Group – of which Major Dukes is lead military liaison – which is part of Future Crisis Operations Executive, which is my creation within the Pentagon, and responsible solely to the Joint Chiefs of Staff.’
‘The Joint Chiefs know of this proposal?’ Burdovsky said incredulously.
‘Yes.’
‘But not your government?’
‘No.’
Burdovsky placed his cigar carefully in an ashtray and looked at it for several moments. ‘How can you be sure your government will grant approval of such a scheme?’ He raised his eyes. ‘Is it possible?’
‘As of now – this minute – the answer is no. Which is why we need your cooperation.’ Malden held his left hand, palm uppermost, in front of him and pressed back the forefinger. ‘The depletion problem is worsening year by year. Right now both our governments are unwilling to face up to the facts of the situation. But very soon they’ll have no choice.’ He pressed back the index finger. ‘When they have to face it they’re going to want a solution pretty desperately. One that’s quick and effective.’ He pressed back the ring finger. ‘That’s our moment to put forward this proposal. Speaking for my government I know they’ll react negatively to the idea – I can hear the whimpering of the bleeding-heart socialists and Holy-Rollers already.’
Malden pressed back the little finger. ‘Then we play our trump card. We tell our government that the Russian Federation is already in the process of implementing an identical or similar scheme. You tell your government the same thing about us.’
Malden curled his right hand into a fist, which he smacked firmly into his left palm. ‘That leaves both governments no way out, Colonel. The only feasible course left to them will be to reach a joint agreement, our two nations acting in unison to implement the plan. There will be no alternative if they wish to survive.’
‘A plan which already exists. Secretly,’ mused Burdovsky.
‘At the military level, yes. Politically off the radar.’
‘I understand now why you insisted that this meeting take place under such extreme circumstances, Colonel,’ said Burdovsky with a knowing smile. ‘The usual diplomatic channels would be out of the question.’
‘And with zero chance of success,’ Malden remarked.
Burdovsky thought for a moment. ’You realise, of course, that I can give no immediate response. Until I have reported to my superiors and the proposal has been discussed.’
‘I didn’t expect one,’ Malden said briskly, looking at his watch.
Lieutenant-Colonel Salazkin had a question. His voice was nasal and high-pitched. ‘You predict that climatic conditions will become very bad – much worse – in ten to fifteen years. If that is so, why not let depletion do the work of extermination? People will die in any case.’
‘True,’ Malden conceded, ‘but unfortunately not fast enough or in sufficient numbers. And there’s another factor to consider: in the meantime, while we’re waiting for their demise, these useless billions are using up the available stock of oxygen that the rest of us needs in order to survive. The equation is very simple: us or them.’
Colonel Burdovsky was gazing at Malden as if at a rare and dangerous species of jungle animal. He said, ‘I must tell you, Colonel Malden, that never in my lifetime have I heard of an idea so fantastic. To exterminate three-quarters of the human race?’ He breathed gustily. ‘Incredible.’
‘But entirely necessary,’ said Malden flatly, ‘as I’m sure you’ll agree.’
‘How is this plan to be implemented?’ asked Major Ivolgin. ‘You have a method?’
‘Several.’ A playfully sly expression came into Malden’s eyes. ‘One might be to utilise our laser-weapon and killer-beam space platforms. Used on a joint basis, we can put them to some practical purpose instead of floating around up there playing catch-as-catch-can. Finally, Colonel Burdovsky, a return on all those billions of dollars and roubles invested!’
‘Perhaps,’ Burdovsky said cautiously. ‘It requires further thought.’
‘The final solution will have to be decided at a senior scientific level,’ Malden went on, ‘and with the utmost secrecy. To this end, Major Dukes here has come up with a code name. He suggests “Longfellow”. The major is a student of poetry,’ Malden added drily.
‘I know of the poet Longfellow,’ Burdovsky said. ‘But I do not see—’
‘What’s the piece, Major?’ Malden prompted.
Major Dukes straightened up and recited solemnly:
‘Sail on, O Ship of State!
Sail on, O Union, strong and great!
Humanity with all its fears,
With all the hopes of future years
Is hanging breathless on thy fate!’
‘From a poem entitled “The Building of the Ship”,’ Dukes informed them.
4
1
WASHINGTON – CHICAGO – KANSAS CITY
Everywhere they went there were questions, the same questions, over and over again.
Why hadn’t Chase been more vocal about the government’s broken promises in enforcing environmental legislation?
What were the Russians up to in climate-tampering?
What about the Australian Big Drought situation?
When was Midnite-Net going to move into the political arena?
What was it really like in the Deep South? The state authorities had clammed up about the Official Devastated Areas; were conditions as bad as the rumours had it?
This last question was top of the list and uppermost in most people’s minds, and the mounting concern was brought home to Chase when their cab from the airport to the hotel was held up by a demonstration: a procession of several hundred people bearing placards with the slogans OKIES NOT OK HERE and KEEP KANSAS KLEAN – KILL A TEXAN TODAY.
It was in protest against the migration from the south, their cab-driver told them, which over the past fourteen months had swelled from a trickle to a flood. The Federal Resettlement Programme wasn’t able to cope with the problem, so citizen militia groups had set up roadblocks along the southern state line to stop the ‘illegals’ spreading north.
ACROSS THE PLAINS TO NEBRASKA
There was a Midnite-Net outpost of volunteers on the shores of Lake McConaughy. Since the shift in climatic patterns the temperature for late September was an appreciable 10° C warmer than usual. Many people were taking a late vacation – boating, fishing, water-skiing, and swimming along the banks of the North Platte.
Dan couldn’t get over it. Never before had he seen people bathing in inland ‘fresh’ water – and the fish being caught were edible!
They sat under a striped awning and watched him splash about, his body flashing in the sunlight. In pleasant contrast to the sultry south and muggy Washington, the climate was mild, the air clear and refreshing. Chase was wistful, seeing his son’s face losing its soft boyish roundness, his features hardening and becoming more defined as the genetic template moulded them into adulthood.
What went through Cheryl’s mind when she looked at the boy? Even had the miscarriage three years ago not made the possibility remote, the likelihood that she might have a child of her own as she approached forty was fast receding. She had been as good and as caring a mother to Dan since he came to live with them as it was possible to be. Leaning back in his chair and studying her profile against the glittering water, Chase still wondered if she yearned for a child of her own . . .
Cheryl turned her head, caught him watching her and stuck her tongue out.
He loved the woman.
EAST OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS
Over Wyoming the twelve-seater turbojet was twirled in the granddaddy of all thunderstorms and they had to make a forced landing near a spot in the wilderness called Muddy Gap.
They sat on the single runway gazing out as hailstones as big as golf balls clanged and bounced off the wings. The pilot told them that he was quite seriously thinking of quitting. Sure, the pay was good, but three forced landings in two months were one hell of a strain on the nervous system. Besides, he had a wife, two kids and a girlfriend to consider.
