Pi Day Doomsday

THE BOATHOUSE

The old boathouse groaned in distress, as wave after wave pounded through its barnacled timbers, awaiting the perfect moment to succumb to the advancing tide. The aging structure’s weatherworn siding and mottled tin roof sparkled with sea spray in the evening sunlight, creating a fleeting seascape that begged for an artist’s brush.

Inside, the time was now. With a measured twist of the calibrated dial, Simon Fogner, Ph.D., Nobel laureate, nuclear physicist and once-highly-acclaimed global warming scientist, set the apparatus on his unkempt workbench to awaken 528.88 milliseconds after 3:55:35 p.m. on March 14,2016. He smiled at the strange but meaningful combination of numbers that soothed his irrational mind, lessened his nausea, and pacified his throbbing headache for a moment. “My dear Adam, welcome to your world,” he said with a derisive chuckle, then looked aside to Eve. He could see her waiting, unknowing her fate.

Sidestepping, he shifted his short, frail middle-aged frame to Eve, the next tapered cylinder on the workbench. A spitting image of a thinner Anthony Hopkins, he bent over her, and repeated his movements with the same exacting precision. Within seconds, he had fused both units; there was no turning back. Both would detonate simultaneously, miles apart, forming a perfect mushroom-capped pi symbol in the sky; their internal fail-safe circuitry ensured the perfect synchronization.

He felt weak but he continued on, mustering all his might to stagger to the side of his sleek blue-on-white Sea Ray, extend the horizontal arm of the boat’s massive cargo crane and swing it over the workbench. Trembling, he reached up, caught, and attached the crane’s swinging drop claw to the first unit. The winch rope tightened, the boat tilted in its moorings, as he pulled it with shaking hand over hand, raising the nine-hundred pound warhead enough to clear the boat’s hull. Heaving with exertion, he swiveled it over the boat then lowered it onto the deck behind the captain’s seat.

As it inched downwards, his arms buckled in pain. He screamed, faltering, and released the rope early. Free of its restraint, Adam fell the last six inches with a resounding crash he feared would crack the fiberglass floor. It did not; instead, the heavy impact left a deep circular dent and rocked the boat violently with bangs and screeches rising from the slip’s styrofoam side bumpers. He covered his ears and grimaced as the chaotic noise echoed in the boathouse: the screams of a hundred fingernails scraping across a blackboard. Seconds later the boat settled, lower in the water, bringing him peace once again.

He bent over, hands on his knees, looking around trying to remember his plan. He knew his memory was going; years working with ionizing radiation assured that, so he had planned and rehearsed the day’s tasks in detail many times. He had to get it right.

Refocused on his mission, he lifted the mooring lines from the stern and bow cleats, climbed, struggling, into the boat and turned the ignition key. The two-hundred-sixty horsepower Mercruiser roared to life, bubbling noxious fumes from the submerged aft exhaust port, quickly filling the small boathouse with acrid smoke. The engine slowed to an idle as he coughed and sputtered, released the throttle, then yanked the protective lead-lined hood from his head and hefted it with both hands onto the passenger seat. How ironic to be killed by my safety gear. His protection was of no use to him if he suffocated while wearing it.

He looked at his watch, estimated two hours until sunset, then thrust his hand deep into his pants pocket, withdrawing a small marine map dotted with GPS coordinates. Switching on the boat’s GPS, he keyed in the target coordinates and watched the trip data flash on the screen.

His drop target lay eight miles out, quarter way to Avalon on Santa Catalina Island, directly over a deep chasm in the Gulf of Santa Catalina canyon. He had strategically selected the point to devastate the L.A. basin area coupled with a backward punch to San Diego by way of the San Diego Trough feeding the La Jolla Fan. Undersea canyons, fans, and troughs intrigued him immensely with their hidden complexities. He had studied them in detail as he planned his mission.

Originating with movements of the lithosphere from plate tectonics theory, they described the undulations of the ocean floor only an oceanographer could understand, but to him these features became the avenues for mass destruction, leveraging shock waves into huge avenging tsunamis as they approached the shallow California shorelines. He suspected his apparatus might even tickle the San Andreas Fault into action, creating more damage and chaos than he could ever imagine.

The twenty-eight foot Sea Ray jumped free of the dock as he shifted the transmission into reverse. Panicking at the sudden motion, he studied the controls and their labels, trying to recall the boat’s operation. He backed out of the slip and, once he had cleared the moorings, shifted to forward, gunned the throttle and adjusted the trim to fight the incoming tide. It was all coming back. Minutes later, the Sea Ray pitched and rolled as it sped through rough Pacific waters, heading toward Adam’s target.

A ten-knot average speed brought the boat to the drop spot with plenty of time to return before sunset. As the GPS unit beeped target arrival, he activated the GPS’s Skyhook function, an autopilot designed to keep the boat hovering around the GPS waypoint through automatic steering and throttling. It was by all standards a new “electronic” anchor hailed as one of the most important developments in boating technology in decades.

The boat rocked in the waves, maneuvering autonomously, while he squinted into the depth gauge: the ocean floor was three-hundred-fifty meters below. In his mind he reckoned, Over a thousand feet down. Impossible to find by scuba and the half-megaton yield will create quite a bubble. Goodbye, my foes.

Satisfied that the drop parameters were perfect, he stood, swaying with the waves, inspecting his destructive friend. Quickly, he turned and removed the arming key, setting the internal timer into irrevocable action, closed the watertight cover after carefully seating the large o-ring into place, and secured it with eight locking levers surrounding the perimeter. A quiet beeping from the timer confirmed its activation. “You’re locked and loaded, Adam,” he murmured, smiling at his achievement.

Backing off several feet, he paused for a moment to admire his creation then grabbed the winch rope and pulled it one hand after the other, grunting in pain, until the unit slowly lifted from the deck and inched upward. Adam’s base rose above the side just as his arms gave out.

He fell back into his seat to rest for a moment as the unit began to swing from port to starboard and back with the waves, then struggled to his feet, reached up as it swung through center and locked the swivel arm. With Adam stabilized for the moment, he surveyed the ocean to the horizon in all directions and saw nothing but a flat blue line separating ocean from sky. The isolation pleased him as never before. Nothing could stop his plan now.

Waiting for the Sea Ray to turn into the waves and reduce the dangerous side-to-side rocking, he released and swiveled the unit toward port, then dropped it a few inches to rest on the side hull. Because of his actions, the Sea Ray listed severely to portside allowing waves to wash over the sidewall. Each wave brought more water onboard, increasing the boat’s list at an alarming rate. This is not going to work. I will surely capsize if I swivel it further out. He searched his mind, wondering how he could have overlooked such a crucial detail. Shit! I forgot the counterweight. Suddenly he realized he had foreseen the unbalance problem, but had forgotten that step in his delivery procedure.

Stepping awkwardly, resolutely, in the rocking, listing boat he climbed uphill to the starboard side, released the makeshift outrigger from its seating and swung the ten-foot aluminum I-beam out over the water. At its tip hung an empty fifty-five gallon plastic drum with a large hose running the length of the beam back into the boat and ultimately, to the bilge pump. Concerned, he looked down at the water pooling in the boat. It was eight inches at its deepest point and quickly rising.

As he scrambled back to the bow of the boat, the fog in his mind lifted once again revealing to him his forgotten genius plan. He must allow the water to rise ten inches before activating the bilge pump. That amount, roughly fifty gallons, pumped through the hose should fill the counterweight barrel with over four-hundred pounds of water, and empty and right the boat at the same time. The four-hundred pound counterweight with the extra length of the outrigger arm, according to his calculations, should offset the greater weight of the warhead on the shorter crane arm. He had solved far more complex lever problems daily in his previous life at the National Nuclear Research Consortium.

Two more inches of water and he tested his plan with the flip of the bilge switch, engaging the clutch to the powerful belt-driven pump. Motor straining, water flowing, his brainchild awakened, performed as expected and began to level the boat in the water. It was only a ten-minute wait until the Sea Ray leveled and then listed slightly to starboard.

He smiled at the correction, switched off the pump, and grabbed the opportunity to launch his sweet revenge. Releasing the lock on the crane’s swivel arm, he raised the unit a few inches and pushed it away from the boat out over the water. His brief eulogy, “Do me proud Adam, farewell dear friend,” preceded his tug on the claw-release line, sending the apparatus into a four-foot free-fall toward the waves. Adam hit with a giant belly flop splashing salt spray everywhere as the starboard counterweight dipped into the water, then rose back to the surface: the sea water in the barrel exhibited neutral buoyancy in the ocean’s waves, balancing the two arms.

He looked around the boat somewhat surprised that everything had worked so well, exhaled a deep breath, then set about preparing for the return trip. First, he swiveled the crane boom back to center, locked it, scrambled back to starboard, and released the thick pin holding the counterweight arm in its swivel. Groaning in pain, he hefted the disconnected I-beam away from the boat. Almost hypnotized, grinning, he watched as it sank slowly out of sight, dragging the hose and plastic barrel behind it.

In the distance, an approaching Coast Guard Cutter jerked him back to reality with its short trilling siren chirps. A megaphone blared as the sixty-five foot vessel neared and began to circle the Sea Ray, dwarfing it. “Ahoy! Are you all right Sea Ray? Do you need a tow?”

He took his megaphone from the helm’s floorboard, and answered, “Everything is ten-four here. Just taking a sunset cruise. Heading back now.”

“Beautiful evening for it. Don’t forget your running lights; it’s nearing sunset. Have a safe trip back in.”

Sighing relief, he disabled the Skyhook, illuminated the boat, and headed toward land, not looking back.

As the sun dropped below the flat horizon, with clouds flaring red and orange rays across the sky, the Sea Ray crept into the boathouse slip. Weary from his day, he killed the engine, moored the boat, and struggled to climb out. He moved cautiously, his forty-pound coat impeding his efforts, pulling him down. It was hard enough for him to step up to the dock, but his weakened state and the added weight caused his knees to buckle on his first two attempts, almost sending him into a watery grave.

Finally, after a determined battle, he stepped beside the boat and back to the workbench. There he stood, resting, admiring Eve. “Sorry, Eve. Your mate is gone. But, not to worry. Soon you will be reunited,” he spoke, gently stroking the cold metallic warhead.

Without warning, the dosimeter clipped to his coat shrieked with ear-splitting volume signaling a lethal accumulation of radiation. Startled by the alarm he flinched and felt the nausea rip from his gut, forcing an uncontrollable ejection of yellow mucous to spew from his lips. He jerked his hand to his mouth and aimed the bile through a large gap in the rickety wooden flooring into the churning water below. Gagging from the putrid reflux, he wiped his mouth against the sleeve of his thick coat and moaned in pain.

He stood erect, faltering and stumbled to the opposite side of the boathouse, then removed the double-leaded coat and dosimeter he wore in vain, knowing that they had failed him, and heaved them over the side of the Sea Ray. Exhausted and gasping for breath, he inhaled the salty sea air in huge gulps; it satisfied his need for oxygen but burned his lungs with its intrusion into his failing body.

Reeling from exertion, he reached out to gain stability from a nearby vertical timber. The absence of the protective coat exposed his arms, revealing large red-blistered splotches he once associated with severe sunburns, and flesh peeling off in delicate but profuse ribbons of pink skin. He knew his condition was not related to the Sun, but rather from the massive doses of radiation he received creating Adam and Eve. He stared, cringing at the sight; it made him sick.

Damn, it’s getting worse. How much time do I have left? Weeks? Months? He rubbed his thinning arms, bursting the blisters to loosen more flesh and then, grimacing at the pain, pulled the tabs until they separated into long tendrils, membrane by translucent membrane. As each ribbon broke free from his inflamed skin, he licked the tab end, reached up, squeezing it between his thumb and forefinger, and added it to the ragtag collection of dead skin strips dangling from the overhead rafter.

He smiled as he stared up and admired his artwork swaying in the ocean breeze. He was losing it as he expected he would, but it was happening far too soon for his plan. He still had much work to do and pi day--his day of final retribution--was just around the corner.

With his arms cleared of the bothersome dangling skin, he sighed aloud, sat on a nearby fuel drum, and lit a cigarette. His mind was beginning to lose the concept of causal connections so it seemed like a perfectly reasonable place to rest, particularly since he must avoid the killing radiation on the other side of the boathouse at all costs.

After a long first drag, he coughed and spewed forth more yellow bile now mixed with blood from his lungs that landed on the graying boards near his feet. He tried to look away but became transfixed by the bubbling yellow and red slime oozing in random streams on the floor.

Oh, now that’s going to make me ill. I have to clean that shit up. He rose, almost falling backward, took several tentative steps, and then reached out for the coiled yellow garden hose hanging from a nearby wall.

A single turn of the spigot handle caused the cleansing water he needed to erase the reminder of his illness to flow fourth from the hose. Flooding the floor with the ample stream, he watched with delight as the bubbling yellow, red and blended orange pools of phlegm floated around his feet and slipped effortlessly through the cracks in the rotting wood floor.

Now satisfied that he had washed away all traces of his sickness, he attempted to drag on the cigarette again but failed. Crappy cheap cigarette, he thought, not realizing that the back spray from the flooring had extinguished it. Angrily he reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out the cigarette pack, and crushed it in his hand. Such an unhealthy habit, anyway. Why did I start this crap again? I can only die once and I don’t need any help. He tossed the crumpled pack into the slip surrounding the boat and watched it bobble in the waves until it disappeared under the decking.

Stumbling toward the doorway, he glanced around the cobwebbed decaying boathouse, now consumed in dark shadows from the dwindling light, and muttered, “That will be quite enough for today. Now I must rest.”

As he reached the doorjamb, the water-wrinkled calendar hanging by the door caught his attention. He paused to read it. St. Valentine’s Day! What a wretched day my valentine left for me. In twenty-eight days plus one, they’ll all pay the piper. Damn leap year! Another day to wait. He clasped his fingers over his wrist searching for a pulse. Good. Ninety-eight beats per minute. A little weak but fast enough to keep going for that long. I must be there for their apology.

He swayed, trying to retain his balance and continued through the boathouse doorway onto the pier, turned and closed the weathered wooden doors behind him, then fumbled the open padlock into the rusting hasp and locked it.

The first few steps between the boathouse and the pier were always treacherous since several boards had rotted and fallen away a few years earlier, but he had become adept at stepping over them. It took a short-long-short-long step pattern. He could do it blindfolded, if need be, but he still had his vision.

In the fading light, he struggled off the pier, across a short stretch of sand, and into the beach elevator, closed the cage door and watched the ocean fall away below his feet as the lift carried him upward to the cliff’s edge. He loved the ride up as the world grew smaller, but the trip had become jerky and labored with the salt-air corrosion of the elevator’s shaft, motor, and gears. Its safety worried him. At the top, it took his full strength to open the binding rusty gate and continue forward onto the mansion’s lush lawn.

Stopping as he always did, he glanced up the hill to his prized Victorian home, modernized but replete with the original widow’s walk, dark green hurricane-shuttered windows, and turreted tower. The vision from below renewed his energy so he continued upward without stopping to rest.

Though its whitewashed exterior had faded to a matte gray over the years, he cherished his home on the Dana Point coast more than the day he bought it ten years before, just after receiving the Nobel Prize in Physics for “Reducing safety risks in the purification of aerogels including FOGBANK.”

His novel discovery, although highly classified, made significant inroads into the reprocessing of nuclear materials recovered from outdated W76, W78 and W88 thermonuclear weapons. In addition to selecting him for the Nobel Prize, his peers dubbed his research the work of a mad genius; he was in his heyday. If only he had refused the bribes offered him four years later. Using his newfound celebrity to promote the global warming alarmists’ agenda he had amassed over two million dollars in dirty money. He hated his greed, but hated more the conspirators who discovered his payoffs and deceptive data. It was merely one degree high, yet it ruined his life.

He remembered past that time, back to the Nobel award, one of the most esteemed moments in his fifty-two year life, and thought of the two mementos he saved from his research, one of which he had just dropped into the Pacific Ocean; the other on his workbench still awaited delivery. He smiled and increased his gait as he passed the courtyard’s elaborate topiary, tennis court, and maze, then neared the massive beveled-glass inset rear doors. They had always provided him with safe haven against approaching storms, and they were continuing their protection through this, his final tempest.