The War of Immensities (45 page)

“The pilgrims
are in grave danger,” he said adamantly. “Without you at their
head, they have gone the wrong way.”

“The Hand of
God guides them. It cannot be the wrong way.”

“They have
taken the road to the north and we cannot turn them from it,”
Fabrini said desperately. “We tried everything. We pleaded. We
prayed. We put false road signs. We lied. We made many threats.
Nothing will turn them to the right road.”

“The road they
follow is the right road, Mr. Fabrini,” Chrissie said, shaking her
head at his naivety.

“But they are
going to the north, and there are no boats there.”

It was plain
the time of her peace was over. The daylight poured in through the
newly opened doors. Without Harley to organise the movement of the
pilgrims, who knew where the focal point might be. North was as
likely as any other way.

“They must go
as they go, Mr. Fabrini.”

“But that way
is very dangerous.”

“You and your
guards must do what you can to protect them.”

“There is no
order without you at the head of the convoy, Sister. They stray and
straggle like sheep. They get lost. They get bogged. There have
been many accidents. Please believe me. I would have proudly led
them, had it proven possible. It hurts my pride deeply to come here
and plead with you like this.”

“Yes, I see
that, Mr. Fabrini. I’m sorry to have put you through such an
ordeal.”

She rose then,
brushing her robes straight, bowing deeply to the alter, clasping
her hands before her. “Anyway,” she continued. “Now that my
meditation is broken, I also must go the way that they’ve gone, or
else I’ll go mad and you’ll have to shoot me.”

“Never,
Sister!”

“Oh, please,
Mr. Fabrini. Lighten up.”

They walked out
into the chill of a beautiful Autumn evening. She was less than
half his size and felt odd in her pristine robes beside this big
rough-looking gangster with his huge drooping moustache. At least
he was keeping his weapons out of sight. The sisters had gathered
by a smart red BMW. They clasped their hands and bowed to her and
she responded.

They regarded
her as if she was one of them now, and it struck Chrissie as
peculiar that no one ever commented on nor seemed to notice her
distinctly Asiatic appearance. Most of the time, she felt as
Italian as Fabrini.

“I have
obtained the best car to be had locally. We must hurry to catch
them.”

“And where is
Mr. Wagner and his helicopter?”

“No one knows.
He has not been here. The Carabinieri have a helicopter but they
are busy rescuing our people from frozen rivers and snow-filled
ravines.”

Chrissie took
time to thank the sisters before settling herself into the BMW, and
with a blast of tyres on gravel, they were away.

“It would be
best if we got there late, Mr. Fabrini, rather than not at
all.”

As he drove,
Fabrini offered her a map to spread on her lap, at which he pointed
between bends. Added to his expressive hand gestures, there was far
too little handling of the steering wheel for her liking. But
Fabrini was anxious to explain.

“They set off
along the side roads, many different roads were used and it was
night and no one knew what was happening. But all of them went
north or as near to it as they could manage. Next morning, they
began to come out on the coast road, at Termoli, most of them, but
some as far up as Pescara. You see. Most of them turned along the
coast road, but some tried to go into the sea. Some walked into the
sea, some drove. There were many rescues. But no one died.”

“For which we
must be thankful, Mr. Fabrini.”

“The water is
very cold at this time of the year, Sister. I assure you. But now
they carried on, all strung out along the road, but all pushing up
the coast through Ancona, where I tried to hold up the leaders and
allow the rest to gather behind but they broke through and four of
my people were injured and one of my women shot a man. It was
chaos. But they went on.”

“Yes, they must
go on.”

“They went
through Rimini and Ravenna and then toward Padua and suddenly I
realised what lay before us. By nightfall, they would reach the
foothills of the Dolomites, and the first blizzard of the season is
filling the valleys with snow. And they will go into these valleys
and be lost.”

“And at what
time does the pilgrimage come to an end.”

“Not until nine
tomorrow morning, according to the news reports. That is when the
eruption is expected, translated to local time.”

“So they will
spend the night trapped in the snow.”

“These are
southern people. They are inexperienced with snow.”

“And how long
is it before darkness falls?”

“Sunset is just
over two hours from now, but the bad weather in the north means
darkness will come early.”

“Then what can
we do?”

“The
authorities have arranged an aeroplane. We can fly to Padua and
then try and make our way to the head of the line and turn them
back.”

“They cannot be
turned back, Mr. Fabrini.”

“Still we must
try.”

The two men
from the US Embassy came shortly after Wendell left home for work
next morning. The evening had been tense, but that was because it
was also the time for the linkage. It was odd how she felt it, as
if in sympathy for the others. Wendell had been attentive and
sympathetic, but she knew the pilgrims were on the move out there
and fretted at the lack of information.

The two
gentlemen from the American Embassy could not have looked more
uncomfortable. After a month with the media camped on her front
lawn, Felicity had no reason to be friendly, but she invited them
in and offered them tea. They looked sheepishly at each other
as they took up seats on the couch.

“I’ll make it,”
said Melissa said, hoping that if she played a role she would not
be left out, as had happened on the occasions of previous
discussions between her mother and officialdom. This troubled time,
Felicity reflected, had not been completely wasted.

“We need your
assistance, Dr Campbell,” the taller American official said.

“I’ll do
anything to help, if I’m able to believe it really will help.”

They promptly
destroyed any possibility of trust by informing her (yet again) of
her obligations under the Official Secrets Act.

“I promise
nothing,” she responded coldly.

The two men
looked at each other, plainly each hoped the other might do the
talking. By sheer intimidation, the short one lost out. “Last
night, the crew of USS Barton mutinied.”

Felicity stared
at them incredulously. “You kept the crew together?”

“There was no
reason not to. They seemed perfectly normal.”

“But you were
warned of what to expect.”

The two men
gazed at each other with accusative expressions. “You expected
this, Doctor?”

“They are
Pilgrims, gentlemen. The link has occurred. They have no choice but
to proceed to the focal point by whatever means are expedient or
available.”

“They did that,
all right, Doctor. They hi-jacked the ship...”

“You left them
all on the same ship?”

“The Barton.
Yes.”

“Then, yes, if
they had control of the ship at the time of the link, they could
hardly have been expected to do otherwise.”

“USS Barton is
a nuclear armed destroyer, Doctor.”

“You can only
blame yourselves for that. The Shastri Effect is well documented. I
personally issued warnings to American government officials.”

“The best
medical experts advised us that there was no indication of any such
effect.”

“The best
medical experts, gentlemen, are those best paid by the biggest
vested interests. Did anyone trouble to ask any of the medical
experts who were involved in Project Earthshaker and therefore knew
what they were talking about?”

“Eventually.
They each referred us to you.”

“Did they
really?”

“The Joint
Chiefs need an assessment fairly immediately.”

The Joint
Chiefs of Staff might have been a bunch of pre-school children,
gathered about her ankles with expectant eyes. “No doubt they do.
Tell me. Are the crew of the Barton handling the ship
competently?”

“From a
seamanship point of view, I guess so. They sailed the ship out of
Pearl without hitting anything. Why?”

“Some pilgrims
have exhibited a zombie like effect. But most behave perfectly
capably, as long as they are headed in the right direction. If
impeded, disorientation may occur, after which anything might
happen.”

“But what
dangers can we expect?”

“There is no
danger, gentlemen. The pilgrims will head directly for the focal
point for thirty six hours after the linkage occurred and then
stop. Cessation coincides with the next volcanic event.”

“Thirty six
hours from when they took the ship?”

“Presumably.
After which, I would expect them to give your ship back with all
due apology for their behaviour.”

“And
meanwhile.”

“I should
imagine they will proceed, full steam ahead, toward the focal
point.”

There was more
hesitation, and then the taller one offered. “They are headed
north. Toward the Bering Strait.”

“North?”

“That’s
right.”

Felicity felt
again the sweep of nausea as she realised what it meant.

“My god. That
means the focal point is leading them over the pole.”

In Tokyo, it
hit with intensity 6.3 on the old Richter scale but that wasn’t
enough to stop the traffic. The walls shook back and forth and the
pavement bounced up and down but the pedestrians hardly paused as
they bustled about their business, hurrying from commerce to
relaxation venues. The buildings rolled on their foundations
designed to withstand such earthquakes and shelves arranged to
prevent the crockery from falling did their job. The lights blinked
but the shockproof power stations withstood the tremors. Some
people, tourists probably, looked out windows and grabbed parking
meters for stability but for the locals in Tokyo it was just
another day and another quake and they took it in their stride.

Some wondered
though. It seemed a rather strong shake for one with an epicentre a
thousand kilometres out to sea. For this, they knew, was the one
that had been predicted by some American crackpot. There was,
officials had warned, some danger of tsunami, but the city was
prepared for that as well.

Mt Fuji, that
most perfect of mountains, a shrine in itself in a land of shrines,
with its gleaming snowcap and symmetrical sides, suddenly
disappeared in a dense black cloud. Five other volcanoes roared to
life at the same time in the mountains of central Honshu and three
more out to sea off Cape Omae, but all of these were to be numbered
amongst Japan’s fifty active volcanoes. Mt Fuji was supposed to be
dormant, but it slept no more.

In the towns
and villages and the farms along the south-east coast and inland
almost to Kofu—where the population density was 500 persons per
square kilometre—there was no one to see the last perfect moments
of Fujiyama. In the seconds before the mountain awoke from its long
sleep, the people fell to earth in a slumber of their own. Some
died, some were injured, but most simply slept where they fell.

Somewhere north
and east of Midway Island, USS Barton turned its bows to face the
oncoming tsunami, its bewildered crew individually fretting regrets
regarding their recent actions and wondering why they had come
here, nowhere really, for no reason at all. The captain had already
spoken to the crew and they had agreed with his intentions. He
advised Naval Headquarters that once the tsunami danger was past,
they would put about and return to Pearl where they wished to
surrender their ship and themselves.

Kevin Wagner
had placed himself in Paris and bought a pushbike, racing style,
the very model that won the last Tour de France. In fact he was
there because he heard that the French Government had two Hercules
C-130 aircraft for sale and wanted to open negotiations. He also
knew that the French would not bother to comply with the UN order
for his arrest. When the link came, he went with the flow. He got
on the bike and rode and was a little startled at first to discover
he was heading north, toward Brussels although of course he never
got that far. He was just short of St Quentin when the link ceased
a day and a half later. He ordered breakfast in the small hotel
where he had spent the night and asked about nearby car hire
places, and did they know anyone who might like to buy his
bike.

Andromeda
Starlight also went with the flow, but she did it once again in
chauffeur driven style. She easily charmed her two police guards
into allowing her to hire the car and they went along too, sharing
her chicken and champagne. They drove out of London heading north
heading for Nottingham and Sheffield and into Scotland, the
officers interchanging at the wheel. They were all the way to
Inverness when at midnight she declared the journey ended.

“Where now,
Miss Starlight?”

“Back again, I
guess.”

“Just as well,
luv. Not a good time for swimming in the North Sea.”

“Is there
ever?”

Lorna Simmons
was escorted to the airport by a squad of US Marines and put on a
plane that she discovered to be the old Project Earthshaker 707.
The pilot introduced her to the team of technicians and then
directed her to a seat in the cramped body of the aircraft, for it
was filled with computers and other monitoring equipment. The
navigator sat beside her and awaited her instructions.

“That way,”
Lorna said with an indicatory hand.