The Rising Sea

31

The howling grind of a large engine cut off all conversation as the double-decker bus, with its top removed, accelerated along a crowded road in Shanghai.

Modern buildings passed by on either side, while sharply dressed shoppers walked the streets with bags of brand-name merchandise in their hands. Up ahead, a construction crew worked on the outside lane, slowing traffic to a crawl.

Paul Trout stood on the lower level of the bus, his arm raised high, his hand gripping a strap that hung from the ceiling. Gamay sat in the window seat next to him. After making their way out of the warehouse, they’d bought new shoes and new clothes while formulating a plan to get themselves to the Consulate unseen.

The answer came to Paul in a brochure for Shanghai Tours Ltd. Two hours later, he and Gamay boarded the brightly painted bus and began a slow jaunt around the city.

They rode in relative comfort, surrounded by other tourists, many of whom were European or American. It helped them to blend in instead of sticking out like a sore thumb.

The route took them past historic temples, palatial government structures and even a sprawling concrete building that had once housed the largest slaughterhouse in the world. It was now renovated and filled with upscale shops and restaurants, including several that offered vegan or vegetarian fare.

They stopped briefly at the Oriental Pearl Tower, the most famous landmark in Shanghai. A bundle of spheres and huge tubular supports that rose fifteen hundred feet into the sky.

“It looks like a science experiment gone awry,” someone on the bus said.

“A Buck Rogers rocket ship,” someone else suggested.

Paul and Gamay pretended to be impressed with everything they saw, but all they really cared about was the last leg of the journey, when the bus would drive through downtown Shanghai and right past the building that contained the American Consulate.

They were closing in on that block now, the traffic slowdown giving them a chance to study the surroundings. The view was less than enticing.

“So much for the Consulate,” Gamay whispered.

Paul nodded grimly. Scores of Chinese police and soldiers had been stationed around the building and at every intersection leading up to it. Barricades had been erected and Chinese officials could be seen checking the passports of anyone seeking to be let through. “All in the name of safety, no doubt.”

The bus came to another traffic light and stopped. As it idled there, Paul noticed another couple pointing out the security teams. He leaned toward them. “Any idea why all the soldiers are down here?”

The couple turned his way. Based on the maple leaf pins they wore, he figured they were Canadian. “I heard something about terrorist threats on the news,” the woman said. “It’s just horrible, really. The police were at our hotel this morning and I’m told they’ve surrounded the Canadian and British consulates as well. We’re thinking we’d rather have gone somewhere else for our vacation. But now we can’t even get home or meet our friends in Beijing because they’ve closed the airport and the train station.”

“I hadn’t heard that,” Paul admitted. “We’re due to fly out tomorrow.”

She offered a kindly smile. “You’d better check with the airline, sonny. I was told we might be stuck here for a week.”

Paul sighed as if it were a mere delay in the travel plans. “I guess I should,” he said. “Might I use your phone? I’m afraid ours was stolen.”

Paul’s overall impression of Canadian citizens was that they were always willing to help out. By far the most polite people he’d encountered in his travels.

“Won’t do you any good,” the husband said. “They’ve shut down the cell phone networks citywide.”

“And the internet as well,” the woman said. “It’s like we’re living in the Stone Age.”

“Or 1993,” her husband said.

Paul had to laugh at that. The Stone Age was not that far back, apparently. “Are the landlines still working?”

“That’s what we used,” the Canadian woman said. “Called from the hotel.”

He thanked them for the information and sat down beside Gamay. “Guess what?”

“I heard,” she said. “Someone’s pulling out all the stops. Think all this is for us?”

“Seems that way,” he said. “With the whole city in an electronic deep freeze, we’re going to have a problem getting this information out. We can’t even use an internet café like we did in Cajamarca.”

Gamay didn’t answer right away. She was staring straight ahead. “Not everything is frozen.”

She pointed to a small TV screen in the back of the seat. It was tuned to the international feed of CNN. A reporter was conducting a live broadcast, referencing the internet blackout and the terrorist danger.

“The networks are still up,” she said. “They have their own satellites. Direct links to Washington and New York bureaus. If we could borrow one for just a minute…”

She didn’t need to finish. Paul knew what she was getting at. “It’ll be risky, but I’ve never known a reporter who didn’t want a world-class scoop. If we made enough big promises, we might find someone willing to help.”

“And if we could find a mobile truck,” she added, “we wouldn’t even have to set foot in a big, easy-to-surround building.”

Paul turned his eyes back to the reporter on the screen. “That shouldn’t be too hard. Recognize the location?”

“Should I?”

“We were just there two hours ago,” Paul said. “That’s the Oriental Pearl Tower in the background. Let’s get off this bus and double back.”

They left the tour group at the next stop and took a cab directly to the tower. Arriving in the parking lot felt like hitting the jackpot. There were seven different networks with trucks parked outside the soaring building, all using the famous backdrop for their shots.

Paul and Gamay walked nonchalantly past the first two mobile trucks, eyeing the satellite dishes on the roofs with a type of excitement usually reserved for the arrival of a gourmet meal.

“These trucks are local networks,” Gamay said, noting the logos painted on the sides of the various vans. “We need an American network. CNN or Fox or…” Her voice trailed off. They’d come to a reporter, setting up for another shot. “INN,” she said. “Indie Network News. This is perfect. The whole network lives for conspiracy theories.”

Paul smiled. “Since when do you watch that stuff?”

“It’s my late-night guilty pleasure,” she admitted. “That and rocky road ice cream.”

“Explains all the empty cartons I find in the trash,” he said. “Let’s grab that reporter as soon as she finishes.”

They walked toward the reporter and her cameraman, careful to remain out of the shot. Gawking like tourists, they waited for the portable spotlight to shut off and the reporter to disconnect herself from the earpiece.

“Intercut the voice-over with the shot of those military helicopters that flew by earlier,” she told him. “That’ll make it more interesting.”

“Sure thing,” the cameraman said.

As he got busy packing up equipment, the reporter moved toward the back of the mobile truck. Gamay intercepted her before she could climb inside. “Ms. Anderson,” she called out. “Sorry to interrupt you, but I’m a huge fan. The documentary you did about what’s really buried under the Hoover Dam was fascinating.”

Melanie Anderson flashed a smile that almost hid the annoyance she felt. “Thanks,” she said. “Though, I hate to tell you, I’ve never been to Nevada. We used B-roll for the entire thing. But I’m glad you enjoyed it. It means we did our job.” There was a happy cynicism to her voice. “Can I sign something, or pose for a selfie?”

“A signature would be great,” Gamay said, holding out a small pad of paper and a pen. The reporter took both items, raised the pen to the ready position and then paused as if she was thinking about what to write.

Gamay had drafted a note on the pad, explaining who they were and that they needed help.

The reporter looked up. “Is this a joke? Did the guys at the network put you up to this?”

“I promise you,” Gamay said, “it’s anything but a joke. Can we please talk inside your truck?”

The reporter held her ground for a moment and then opened the door while calling out to the cameraman. “Charley, give me a minute, okay?”

The cameraman nodded. And Paul and Gamay followed the reporter inside.

The back of the mobile broadcast van was designed much like the interior of an ambulance except, instead of medical equipment, the bay was filled with computers and production gear.

It was cramped, but there were two small seats. The reporter took one and Gamay the other. Paul leaned against a cabinet, crouching to give himself just enough headroom.

“Let me get this straight,” the reporter said. “You two are employees of a secret U.S. government agency and you’re being hunted by the Chinese. And this whole internet and phone blackout is to prevent you from contacting your bureau chief in Washington. Is that it?”

“Actually,” Gamay said, “NUMA isn’t a secret agency. It’s very public.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” she said.

“We don’t exactly advertise,” Paul said.

“Okay, fine,” the reporter said. “But the Chinese government wants you stopped at all costs, bringing Shanghai to a screeching halt if necessary.”

“I know it sounds crazy,” Gamay said.

“Explains why you came to me,” Ms. Anderson replied. “Crazy is my business. Fortunately, my producers come up with enough batty ideas to run three networks at least. We don’t need any help from the public.”

“This isn’t a stunt or a game,” Gamay reiterated. “We’re not secret agents; we’re not spies. I’m a marine biologist and Paul is a geologist. We recorded video and sonar readings in Chinese waters that indicate a man-made — most likely, Chinese-made — ecological disaster is under way. The Chinese government became aware of our actions after we arrived in Shanghai. They’re looking for us and doing everything they can to keep us from getting this information back to Washington.”

“That’s all well and good,” the reporter said, “but, as I recall, the Chinese do whatever they want in their territorial waters, just like we do in ours. Why would they care if you found out about some industrial accident? What difference does it make? They could point to Exxon Valdez and the Deepwater Horizon and tell us to worry about our own yard before complaining about what’s going on in theirs.”

“Normally, I’d agree with you,” Gamay said. “But whatever they were trying to accomplish down there, they’ve caused a problem that’s not just affecting the East China Sea, or the Chinese coastline, or even the western Pacific. It’s affecting the oceans all around the planet, raising sea levels in a very rapid manner. Forget global warming and its inch or two per decade predictions, we’re talking ten feet per year — and the rate is accelerating. Low-lying islands are dealing with inundation from seawater already. Certain coastal areas will begin experiencing permanent flooding within six months.”

As Gamay spoke, Melanie Anderson seemed to perk up. “Worldwide Flooding,” she said, as if imagining a headline. “How bad will it get?”

“We can’t be certain,” Gamay said. “Especially if the Chinese prevent an investigation. But if you have any concept of how important the oceans are to food production, weather patterns and even national stability, you’ll understand that this could be the opening phase in a catastrophe of unrivaled proportions.”

“‘Unrivaled proportions,’” she said. “Not bad. You could have a future in the copy game.”

“Ms. Anderson,” Gamay said.

“Call me Mel.”

“I’m telling the truth,” Gamay said. “Think about it. They’ve shut off the internet, shut off the phones and surrounded every Western consulate in Shanghai with soldiers and police. They’ve even closed the train stations and airports. This isn’t about keeping something out; it’s about keeping something in. And that something is the information we have. At this point, you and your satellite dish are the only hope we have for getting this information back to America.”

Gamay was appealing to the hero. Paul took another tactic. “It’s the story of a lifetime,” he said. “Pulitzer Prize — winning material. And, more importantly, a direct route to the big networks. You’ll be hosting 20/20 next year, not reporting on Bigfoot or alien abductions. You might even get your own show.”

She laughed. “Maybe. Assuming you two aren’t a couple of lunatics.”

“We have video and sonar data,” Gamay said, taking the laptop from Paul and handing it over. “Judge for yourself.”