This Green Hell

THIRTEEN

Aimee sat in her cabin staring at the mobile phone and computer on her desk. Both were useless as communication devices now that the uplink to the satellite had been destroyed.

Things were unravelling quickly and she wished Francisco and Alfraedo would return. She almost hoped they hadn’t managed to find the saboteurs; there was enough tension in the camp without having to look after prisoners as well.

She switched off the lantern in her cabin and peered through the thin curtains out to the clearing. A few shapes moved about, some ambling, some darting. In the dark, the jungle itself seemed closer, thicker, more menacing and malevolent. She shuddered and dropped the curtain.

She undressed, dragged a damp T-shirt over her head and lay down on the rumpled bed. Things will be better in the morning. They always look better in the morning, she thought. She closed her eyes. A bead of perspiration tickled her temple as it ran from her forehead, her feet itched, and the still air felt like warm syrup as she dragged it into her lungs. She put one arm behind her head and immediately smelled her own sour body odour. Nice, she thought as she exhaled noisily through compressed lips.

Dawn wasn’t far away, but sleep wouldn’t come. There was something nagging at her, whispering to her in the dark, just out of focus, refusing to become clear to her fatigued mind. Aimee groaned as she pulled herself up and swung her legs over the side of her bed. She rubbed her face, and sat in silence for a few minutes holding her head. She grabbed her canteen from the table top and sipped loudly — the water tasted like plastic. She wished she had a metal container — they always made the water seem cooler. But you couldn’t use metal in the jungle; it rusted, everything rusted. The germ of a thought bloomed in her tired mind.

She stood up and felt in the darkness for her computer. She hesitated a moment at the thought of using up its remaining battery power, then shrugged and switched it on, going immediately to her results for the bacterial DNA match. She had found close approximations to a number of microbial forms with many genus similarities, but her strange bug was stubbornly eluding that final step towards identification.

The effect the microbe had on living tissue was extraordinary and frightening. She had never heard of that level of biocorrosion in anything other than…Corrosion…Her fingers leapt across the keyboard as she pursued the thought. She dived into old research papers and mining notes — and found it. Her eyes flew over the notes as she read furiously. Just last decade, there had been a serious pipe failure on the North Slope of Alaska. It transpired that microscopic organisms were eating through the toughened pipes, leading to leakage and finally total failure. Could it be…?

She skimmed down the pages looking for clues. She knew that the microorganisms she had been looking for, responsible for converting carbon to natural gas, were anaerobes — they did their job without oxygen or light, which was how they could function so deep below the earth. The biochemistry of their metabolisms was extraordinary and, by their very nature, they were carbon hungry. In simple terms, they ate carbons — that was how they instigated methanogenesis.

Aimee sat back for a second, before switching her screen images to the sample data from the infected men. Holy shit. She sat back again, placing both hands on her slick forehead. Of course, of course, of course. The bacteria ate carbon, all carbon. It was just doing what it existed to do — and had turned out to be very good at it. Carbon was the fourth-most abundant element in the universe and was present in all known life forms — including the human body, where it was the second-most abundant element after oxygen.

‘Oh God, no.’ Aimee pushed her hair back wearily. ‘It’s fucking eating us.’

Clavicula occultus — her ‘hidden key’ to the world’s energy problem — wasn’t just converting prehistoric carbon into oil as she’d assumed; it was also consuming the carbon it found in the human body and literally converting it to something else. Maybe even something that may become petroleum in a few hundred thousand years.

Aimee looked up at the ceiling and the golden halo of light thrown by the lantern. She felt heavy, drained of all energy. The depth of the oil and gas chamber meant the microbes had been imprisoned, locked away from the upper world of light and air. The mile-thick barrier had been the human race’s first line of defence. Perhaps, while we’ve been looking for them, they’ve just been patiently waiting for us.

She crushed her eyes shut for a moment, then said softly, ‘What have I let loose upon the world?’

She needed to speak to someone but the phone on her desk was useless. Shit! Anger welled up inside her, then dissipated to leave a small knot of fear and frustration deep in her belly. She thought of Alex Hunter — he had once been her antidote to fear or loneliness. She needed him right now — his advice, and his strength.

Once again, her last days with him came back to her. She was the one who’d decided it would be best for both of them if he gave up being in the Special Forces; settled down, became more normal. At first she’d asked him, then, towards the end, she had demanded it, and had taken his refusal as him choosing the HAWCs over her. She hadn’t even had the courage to say her final farewell in person. She could still remember every detail: the floral notepaper, the blue ink, the words: You’ve made your choice, and it’s a bad one. I think it’s best if I don’t see you again…Goodbye forever, Alex.

She looked back up to the halo of light and spoke softly. ‘I wish I’d never said that.’

‘I can’t reach Aimee.’

Jack Hammerson took the call from Alfred Beadman just after four in the morning. The normally urbane and relaxed chairman of GBR was in a state of high agitation. Hammerson rubbed his face with his free hand, feeling the stubble on his chin, and let the man speak on, allowing himself time to ease into full wakefulness.

‘Now there’s a quarantine order. The Paraguayan government has issued a no-go directive over that whole area of the jungle and they won’t say why. Something’s wrong, Jack, Aimee needs help. Is Captain Hunter down there yet?’ Beadman was breathing like a marathon runner.

‘Yes, Alfred, we know about the Q-order.’ Hammerson kept his voice calm, hoping to influence the older man. ‘Surprised us a bit, and did slow us up by a day or so, but we’ve made secondary plans and expect to be there by first light tomorrow. Now, when did she go offline?’

‘I don’t know exactly. She was supposed to call me about 10 pm. When I didn’t hear from her, I tried her phone, then her voice over internet link, then email, then even the site manager’s number — nothing’s getting through. Seems their satellite link is broken; and then when I called the government official in charge of mining and energy, he told me about the quarantine order. Would the quarantine order necessitate a blackout? Why? Jack, do you think you can use one of your satellites to check on her? I know you can zoom right in these days.’

Hammerson sighed. Why did people think he had some sort of satellite joystick in his top drawer that he could use to swing around a multi-billion-dollar piece of orbiting telemetry at a moment’s notice? Still, he couldn’t get angry with Beadman for trying all avenues. He knew that Aimee was like a daughter to him.

‘Alfred, satellites are almost useless for vision down there — too much green for us to see anything clearly. But I know where the HAWCs are, and I think you know what Alex is like — he’ll find her, no matter where she is. He and his team are less than a day from making contact. We all just have to be patient. I’ll call you as soon as I get any further information. Now get some sleep. Good night, Alfred.’

Hammerson heard the chairman splutter a bit more, but hung up anyway. There wasn’t anything further he could share with him. He looked at the clock: 4:14 am. He’d give it a few hours then get another field update. Wouldn’t hurt to have Alex and the team punch it up another level.

Adira Senesh slowly pulled the tiny receiver from her ear. Her hand shook slightly and her eyes burned as she considered the implications of the conversation she’d just overheard between her superior officer and the chairman of the company that Aimee Weir worked for.

She spoke softly in Hebrew, cursing Jack Hammerson for holding her back from accompanying Alex Hunter on the mission, and for refusing to keep her informed of his operational status.

As a Mossad Kidon agent, Adira had believed she was the best in the world — until she had worked with Captain Alex Hunter on a recent mission in the Middle East. He had saved her life several times in the space of a few days; he had fought with her and for her, and he had kept her safe. She had vowed to do the same for him — and she would do the same for him. She always repaid her debts.

Her mind worked furiously on ways to join the mission — but each option was discarded as being impractical or seen as treason. She cursed again; someone would pay dearly if Alex was killed. She gritted her teeth and lifted her arm; a small dagger appeared in her hand and she brought it down on the desk top with enough force to embed it several inches into the hard wood.