Portent, Page 2

  'An Iraqi camel.' Gardenia clucked his tongue, as if embarrassed himself. 'Yeah, I know, bad taste. But the crazy bastards shouldna' messed with things they didn't understand,'specially after they got the crap beat outa them in the war. Jeez, take a look at that up ahead. Don't hold onta that coffee too long, Doc, or you'll end up with a hot pecker. We're in for a bumpy ride.'

  Rivers looked past Gardenia at the distant weather. The clouds were even blacker and more angry than a minute ago. They moved as though they were boiling.

  'You been through one before, Jim?'

  Rivers was glad that Gardenia had dropped the 'Doc'-doctors of physics weren't used to being addressed in that way-but the other man's sudden serious tone was hardly relaxing. Thom Gardenia, despite his crassness, pretended or otherwise, was chief scientist for Hurricane Research at the Miami-based National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), and certainly no fool. His manner might well have been his way of dealing with his own tenseness, a tenseness felt by all members of this particular mission. After the devastation Hurricane Zelda had left behind in Jamaica, everyone on board was aware that this storm was unprecedented. Its power was not just awesome-it was indescribable. Rivers' throat, to use an expression Gardenia himself might use, felt as dry as a mummy's jock-strap.

  'I've flown missions in our own C-130 Hercules, but never into anything like this.' He took a sip from the beaker, glad of the coffee's heat. For a moment there a chill had run through him that had nothing to do with altitude-most of the scientific team wore short sleeve shirts, and crew members were in light, blue uniform overalls.

  Gardenia's stubby hand clamped his shoulder. 'Don't worry, buddy, we've never lost a Brit yet. You may even enjoy it.'

  The NOAA aircraft momentarily dipped a wing and Gardenia's fingers dug hard. His other hand grabbed the edge of the fixed desk. 'Just a coaster ride, Doc.' He grinned, his porcelain-coated teeth rendered even whiter by the thick black moustache above.

  Keeping the coffee level, Rivers stared down into the deep waters below and wondered how this one had started. Over Africa? Winds colliding near the Equator, producing low pressure zones? Six out of a hundred might evolve into storms of something like this magnitude, air drawn in and spinning, the Earth's own rotation driving it faster, giving it power so that as it drifted it picked up moisture from the warm sea, eventually pulling up energy into the atmosphere from the ocean itself, feeding the storm, the clouds becoming ever more turbulent, forming an inner wall that would become the hurricane's core, its centre, the eye.

  'Jamaica and the tip of Cuba are wrecks,' Gardenia remarked as the aeroplane straightened again, 'and it's still only a category four. Let's hope it'll wear itself out soon.'

  'What was the last satellite eye measurement?'

  'Twenny-five, twenny-six miles across before it made landfall, about ten now it's back over the ocean. It appears to be reducing rapidly.' His forehead puckered. 'Let's see… we're around twelve miles away right now, so I figure it'll be more like seven or eight miles across when we reach it.'

  'It's shrinking that fast?'

  ''Pears to be.'

  'And we go straight through.'

  'Uh-huh. Our pilot doesn't like to manoeuvre too much in that kind of space, particularly when it's getting smaller all the time. There's some hard convection inside the eye, and it's pretty intense around those walls.'

  'Thunderstorm updraughts?'

  'You got it.'

  Rivers decided to risk a scalded throat and finish the coffee before the aeroplane took a beating.

  A figure in sweater and chinos came along the aisle towards them. He rested an arm against the bank of monitors where the British climatologist was seated.

  'Need to take over, Jim. Our skipper's playing it safe and going in at 10,000.'

  Rivers rose, taking the drained beaker with him, and Joe Pusey, the flight meteorologist, slipped into the seat. 'Strap yourselves in, guys, things are gonna get rough.'

  The climatologist took a seat opposite, placing the beaker by his feet. As an observer from the British division of the Intergovernmental Panel of Climate Change, he was not directly involved in this particular operation; he could only sit back while the American scientific officer and his team gathered data and relayed it back to the Hurricane Centre on the mainland. Their prime purpose was to pinpoint the storm's exact centre so that its progress and direction could be charted by the forecasters and warnings to coastal and inland areas could be issued. Probes and sensors mounted on the outside of the plane recorded air pressure, humidity, temperature and wind speeds, while radar showed wind and rain patterns, necessary for predicting the height of the storm surge and assessing potential damage when Hurricane Zelda struck land again.

  The message that a particularly severe storm was on its way across the Caribbean had reached Rivers at the Hadley Research Centre in Berkshire only yesterday and the hasty flight to New York and then another going south had left him a little travel-worn.

  But all tiredness had left him now: his mind was sharp, his senses heightened.

  Along the cabin the small team of researchers and crew members were busy at consoles or computer keyboards, the young meteorologist on Rivers' right now engrossed in the instruments before him, logging readings and conferring with the aircraft's pilot through the headphones he had donned. Everyone had been courteous enough and friendly in a distracted way-even Gardenia's frequent jibes were good-natured-but Rivers felt like an outsider, a 'dude' with no real field experience, a desk boffin who'd never 'ridden the wind', 'tagged the typhoon'. Well, the truth was slightly different, but there was little point in correcting their assumption. He was there as an observer, nothing more than that.

  The plane bucked and Gardenia hurriedly strapped himself into a desk-seat in front of the climatologist. He turned to give a thumbs-up. 'Hold tight, buddy. S'long as we don't have any altitude excursions this'll be no worse than a jeep ride over a rocky road.' Rivers nodded, but didn't return the grin. He was more concerned with the array of monitors before Joe Pusey. He leaned over as far as he could. The meteorologist noticed his interest and tapped the headphones he was wearing; then he pointed to a pocket at the side of Rivers' seat. 'Use the cans,' he called.

  The climatologist dipped into the pocket and drew out a pair of headphones; he adjusted the thin microphone arm when the set was comfortable over his ears.

  'We all keep in communication at this time,' he heard Pusey say.

  The aircraft lurched and another voice, the pilot's, came through. 'We're into the storm, gentlemen, as you may have noticed. Okaaay… we're taking her up to ten thou' and we have approximately eighteen miles to get to the eye wall itself. Once inside, I'll endeavour to orbit if that's any use to you.'

  'We'll locate the centre and drop a windsonde while you pass through.'

  'That suits me fine. I can make as many passes as you want.'

  Rivers opened a notebook he'd taken from his pocket; although he'd be provided with a copy of the mission's records later, he wanted to set down his own observations. The plane pitched again and this time his body strained against the seat-belt. A series of bumps followed.

  This baby's rough,' a crew member remarked calmly.

  'Yeah, a bad one,' said the pilot. 'We've got some 200-knot gusts here.'

  Rivers made a note beneath other information he'd already gathered. Minutes passed and the buffeting became harder, almost constant.

  'Making some corrections now so's we hit dead centre,' came the pilot's voice.

  'We need to find zero winds, so let's condition one.'

  'Check. Hang onta your sick bags, fellahs.'

  The aeroplane began to rock violently, fierce rain drumming against its fuselage and lashing the windows. Rivers glanced out on his side and saw only grey, driven clouds, a sombre fury moving at incredible speed. His hand clutched the seat's arm-rest when a particularly powerful updraught lifted the aircraft as if it were no more than flotsam on a wave. His pen fell to th
e floor and he stamped a foot on it before it could roll away. The plastic beaker he'd placed on the floor earlier had tipped over and was turning a semicircle. He reached down to pick up the pen and as he did so everything became blissfully calm.

  Muted cheers rang through the headphones and the cabin, itself, brightened. Rivers' tension eased when he straightened and looked back out the window: white-capped waves circled below, the sea a deep, almost peaceful, blue. The wall of the eye seemed pale and undisturbed in the sunlight from above.

  'Looks around twelve miles high,' someone said.

  'Yeah, and perfectly clear all the way down,' someone else replied.

  'Okay, let's locate the centre,' advised the pilot.

  'We're right over it,' Gardenia said.

  'I'll mark it.'

  'Jeez, we've hit a new low for aircraft surface pressure-892 millibars.'

  'No, it was close to that back in'69 with Hurricane Camille,' came in Gardenia's voice again. 'Gilbert in'88 was around the same if I remember correctly. It's unusual for tropical oceans, though.'

  'Wind's running on the south side at 138 knots, and, lemme see… 186 knots on the north.'

  'They weren't kidding when they said this one was a rogue. It's gonna do a lot of damage when it makes landfall again.'

  'Shit, it's gotta be a category five.'

  'Going on past experience, I'd say it'll cut a swathe of at least forty miles wide.'

  'Hey, we're already halfway across. The eye's shrunk considerably. What would you say-six or seven?'

  'Less,' said Gardenia. 'I figure five miles across.'

  'We're down 879 millibars. Can the pressure drop that fast?' No one spoke for a few seconds.

  Rivers listened to the drone of the aircraft's engines, his unease mounting. Moisture had made his thumb stick to the page of his notebook.

  Gardenia's voice came back on. 'Let's send down the windsonde.'

  A blue-uniformed crew member at a console just ahead of the scientific officer swivelled in his chair, the round, taped tube in his hands, ready for the drop. He opened a small raised flap in the aircraft's deck and pushed it through.

  Rivers leaned against the window to glimpse the windsonde as it fell.

  'This can't be right,' someone said.

  Rivers turned his head to see Joe Pusey staring at his monitors in bewilderment.

  'What is it, Joe?' asked Gardenia, and Rivers detected an edge to his question.

  'Air pressure's sunk even lower. I make it 878 millibars.'

  'Can't be correct, Joe, I've never known it that low.'

  'Come and take a look for yourself.'

  'You boys want me to stay inside for this?' It was the pilot who had spoken.

  'What?'

  'We're nearly through. I'm gonna have to bank fast if you want me to stay inside the eye. It's shrinking fast.'

  Rivers saw Gardenia whirl in his seat and look out at the huge wall of clouds looming up. He turned his head, left and right. 'It's shrinking.'

  'Like I said,' came the pilot's dry reply. 'Make up your mind quickly, Thom.'

  'Keep us in.'

  The wing on Rivers' side dipped sharply and he could just make out the tumbling windsonde as it caught the light on its way down to the sea. Then they were in cloud again, the greyness closing around them like thick fog. The aeroplane shook with the effort of turning and the winds that threw themselves at it.

  'Sorry, gentlemen, guess the eye has shrunk more than I figured. We'll be back inside in a minute or so.'

  'It's closed in to under five miles,' said Gardenia excitedly. 'Maybe four, Thom.'

  'Outstanding.'

  'Kinda scary.'

  They soon flew back into sunlight, the aircraft still banking hard.

  'I don't get it.' Gardenia's voice.

  'It's definitely smaller.' That was Pusey's, not a trace of tension in his tone. 'It's collapsing in on itself.'

  The plane began to level, but before it had completely, Rivers spotted something. His eyes narrowed.

  At first he thought it might be the windsonde still falling, but quickly realized that would be impossible-it would be in the sea by now. Besides, this thing was rising.

  'Does anyone else see what I do out there?'

  'I got all the interest I can handle right now, Doc,' Gardenia responded.

  'Wait, I think I see too,' a crew member came in. 'Over to the left. Lost it now. It's beneath the plane.'

  'What was it?'

  'A light.'

  'A reflection from the sea.'

  Rivers cut in. 'No, it was travelling upwards. It was quite small.' Others began looking out their windows. Apart from engine noise, there was silence again.

  'I see it!' someone shouted. 'There, coming up from the centre.' Rivers caught sight of it again, a round light, closer now, rising steadily against the eye's centre downdraught of warm air, no longer a pinpoint but a definite shape.

  'Hey, c'mon,' Gardenia chided. 'It's ball lightning, is all. We got exceptional meteorological conditions out there. It's interesting but it's not what we're here for. Joe, I'm coming over to take a look at your monitors.' He removed his headphones and unbuckled his safety belt.

  'It's level,' a crew member said. 'And rising.'

  Gardenia made his way to the meteorologist's position.

  Rivers' gaze followed the tiny ball of light; he was fascinated. It was pure white, with an undetermined edge.

  'Tinkerbell,' he said under his breath.

  The light passed on, heading towards the top of the hurricane's calm inner circle, to the lower stratosphere.

  Events suddenly moved very fast.

  'The eye's dosing in!'

  Without his headphones, Gardenia hadn't heard the warning from the pilot. He was leaning over Pusey, studying the bank of monitors. Everyone else immediately looked out their windows. 'It's three miles across.'

  'I'd say two-and getting smaller.'

  'We're nearly out.'

  'Oh shit-look up there, above us!'

  Rivers leaned hard against the clear plastic and peered upwards. His breath momentarily lodged in his chest.

  The smooth swirling clouds that formed the cylindrical shape of the storm's eye were turning inwards, looking black and angry, roaring from above to fill the calm space below.

  The aircraft rocked and Gardenia clutched the back of Pusey's seat, looking around in surprise.

  'Get back to your seat,' Rivers advised him.

  But it was too late. The windows filled with darkness and the plane suddenly dropped as though struck from overhead by a giant hammer or, as Rivers immediately thought of it, an avalanche of hostile weather.

  Gardenia hit the ceiling, his neck snapping with such sharpness that the sound could be heard over the storm's thunderous boom by anyone in close proximity. His instantly limp body did not fall on to the deck, for the cabin had tilted as the pilot battled to keep control: the dead man dropped over Rivers, pressing him against the wall. Anything that wasn't fixed-books, logs, keyboards and small instruments-flew across the cabin, while bigger machinery strained against their mountings.

  Rivers struggled to push Gardenia's body away from him and looked towards Pusey. The meteorologist was clinging to his desk with both hands, his safety belt holding him in his seat; he was staring frozenly at the instruments before him, at the dials and radar images as though it were they and not the raging storm outside that held all the horror of the crew's fate.

  Then the world turned over and Rivers found himself hanging from what had been the floor.

  Over the tumult of sound that came through the headphones and from outside them, the scream of the aircraft's straining engines, the shrieking rupturing of metal, he heard the pilot's shouts.

  'We're going down, were going down, we're…'

  ***

  Annie Devereux peeled away a section of spruce bark, taking care with the thick-bladed knife not to damage the tree itself. The distant buzz of chainsaws and mechanical tree shears intr
uded upon her peace, for to her they had become the sounds of encroachment rather than productivity; she hummed a tune to neutralize the noise.

  The old coastal Indians of British Columbia, the Kwakiutl, would chant a prayer as they stripped a cedar of its bark for dishes and buckets, or to cover their pit houses:

  Look at me, friend!

  I come to ask for your dress

  For you have come to take pity on us;

  For there is nothing for which you cannot be used…

  The day was coming, and sooner rather than later, when the scavengers would learn to feel that same gratitude.

  She examined the wood. 'No bugworm,' she said aloud, adding under her breath, 'thank God.'

  Tossing away the piece of bark, Annie tilted her head and looked through the high treetops at the sky, breathing in deeply, pleasurably, as she did so. The breath emerged again as a sigh.

  Fifteen years ago, when the Ministry of Forests had first employed her as a silviculturist, nearly half of British Columbia's ninety million hectares had been covered with forests, mainly softwoods but with hardwoods to the north-east; now those forests, most of them established after the Ice Age, were ailing, while the good growths were shrinking, being eaten away by the avaricious timber traders, despite so-called federal controls. Even the new growths were failing, mere shadows of their gloriously abundant predecessors. Yet still the ravagement continued.

  Competition from the consistently over-productive Brazilian market meant profits by excess, and even foreign currency fluctuations-the decline in value of the Swedish krona and the French franc, and worse, the dramatic fall of the Japanese yen-worked against Canada's competitiveness. In these times only quantity could guarantee viability.

  She touched the naked wood of the pine, the flesh beneath the hard skin, and its moistness was almost sensuous. Annie turned away, closing the knife and slipping it into her anorak pocket.

  Oh, to go back to the gangbuster days of cross-cut saws and steam donkeys, when teams of oxen were used to haul logs over skid roads greased with fish oil instead of yarded from the falling site by mobile steel spars, when log booms were sorted and steered downstream by men with stout poles and steady nerves instead of by boom boats and tugs. And now the trees-the hemlock, the spruce, the Douglas fir and the balsam fir, the pine, the cedar-were being genetically cloned. Also, scions from 'plus' trees, those of superior quality and disease-free, were crossbred under scientifically controlled conditions, and satellites watched over the timberlands like sky nannies, while computers judged merits and planned regrowths. Yet still the NSR-the 'not satisfactorily restocked'-areas were increasing, and the old growths were degenerating. More and more the seedlings were not taking, while the old established trees seemed to have wearied.