The O.D. (20 page)

“
I
thought
it
was
supposed
to
be
moving
away
from
us
,
Dan
,”
his
wife
said
softly
so
the
children
wouldn’t
hear
the
fear
in
her
voice
.

“
Is
that
a
tornado
,
Dad
?”
Johnny
asked
,
pointing
at
the
funnel
that
now
filled
45
degrees
of
the
horizon
.
His
father
,
a
ball
of
knotted
concentration
,
didn’t
respond
.
Dan
Heiberg’s
knuckles
gleamed
white
on
the
steering
wheel
as
he
tried
to
outrun
the
storm
.

“
Daddy
.
I’m
scared
.”
the
small
voice
behind
Jumble
said
again
after
a
gust
of
wind
had
nearly
blown
the
SUV
into
a
ditch
.
With
forward
visibility
all
but
gone
,
Heiberg
was
forced
to
stop
the
car
.

“
What
are
you
doing
,
Dan
?”

“
Come
up
here
with
Mom
and
Dad
,
QUICK
,”
he
said
to
the
children
.
He
reached
over
the
back
of
his
seat
and
lifted
their
youngest
into
his
lap
.
The
other
two
hoisted
themselves
over
and
were
immediately
enveloped
in
a
desperate
circle
of
love
and
fear
. “
Merciful
Lord
in
your
heavenly
−
“

Their
bodies
were
never
recovered
−
at
least
,
not
in
their
entirety
.
DNA
extracted
from
a
partial
human
foot
found
near
Emporia
,
83
miles
north
of
their
estimated
take
-
off
point
,
was
matched
to
a
sample
given
by
Dan
Heiberg’s
brother
.
It
was
sufficient
for
closure
.
The
family
were
just
five
souls
in
a
death
toll
in
excess
of
19
,
000
.
It
was
the
deadliest
tornado
in
America
since
695
people
lost
their
lives
in
the
Tri
-
State
Tornado
of
1925
.

In
this
part
of
the
Bible
Belt
,
more
people
than
not
were
calling
it
an
Act
of
God
.
Wiser
heads
were
calling
the
world’s
first
F6
tornado
,
with
wind
speeds
in
excess
of
320mph
,
an
Act
of
Man
.

“I’d like to put a motion to the vote,” Pilot said after breakfast the next day. “
Two
motions. One, that there be no populating of the island until we have a population policy. And two, that we wait five years before we even
discuss
a population policy. We have enough work ahead of us not to have it slowed down by offspring. We should wait.”

“I second both motions,” Mara said.

“As do I,” Bradingbrooke added.

One by one, every person in the mess room seconded Pilot’s motions.

“Unanimously seconded. No vote needed,” Serman said.

Early the following morning, the helicopter carrying the specialists arrived. Pilot and the rest of the crew welcomed each of them aboard
Ptolemy
with a handshake and the last of their Cornish pasties. By this time, news of Jeckyll’s shooting was worldwide and Pilot noticed some fearful glances being cast by the new arrivals towards the French soldiers encamped in the distance.

The first man Pilot spoke to was Harvey Giles, the 50-year-old arborist/forester from Montana. “Welcome to Eydos, Harvey,” Pilot said, recognizing the bolo tie from the man’s file picture. “It’s not Dubai, but I promise you it’ll be a lot more interesting.”

Giles looked out across the bleak, grey landscape through his thick glasses. “I thought planting trees in sand was going to be hard. But… bare rock?”

“Mr. Vaalon’s got it covered. After dinner I’ll hand out the briefing files.”

Before the newcomers sat down to a meal of pesto pasta and canned peas, Pilot apologized to them for the deception. “Although it may not look like it to you,” he assured them, “you’re now part of one of the most exciting experiments in human history.” He almost believed it himself. But one man in particular did not buy it.

“I don’t do experiments,” the Venetian marine engineer said. “Please arrange transport from this island as soon as possible.” Pilot took the man aside and began using every form of cajolery he could think of to change his mind, but he seemed dug in. In frustration, Pilot pulled the man’s contract from an attache case and threatened to tear it up. The loss of $30,000 a month was more than Sergio Carpecchio could entertain and he grudgingly acquiesced.

Within the steel walls of the city, Vaalon’s delayed plans were being put into operation. The priority was to select sites for a harbour and a farm. A general survey of their surroundings was required in order to bring potential harbour sites and possible cultivation areas as close to each other, and to the barges, as possible. Five parties were formed – two to explore the Atlantic coastline, two to survey the interior, and one to walk the mainland-side coast. The crews’ topographer and agronomist briefed the explorers on how to evaluate the terrain, determine drainage lines, measure tides and so on. Much of the island could be ruled out just by applying commonsense, they said. Each group was provisioned and equipped for two weeks on the rock and by one o’clock they were ready to move.

“There are two more things to look for,” Pilot said just before they left. “The French ship we saw just before our landfall,
Largesse
, sank with
Shenandoah
. We need to look out for both wrecks, but most importantly that of the
Largesse
. If it’s on the island, we have to find it before the French do. If they beat us to it, it’ll blow our sovereignty claim out of the water, especially if there are any dead French nationals aboard.” Pilot was hoping that the mass of moving water would have swept the French ship off the shelf and into the Bay to the east, but there was a possibility it might not have.

As the five teams trudged off in different directions over the sunlit, windswept landscap
e−
each followed by a detachment from the French encampmen
t−
Pilot headed for the communications room. Jim McConie was on duty and smiled when he entered. “We’re an internet sensation, Lonnie,” he said. “Our clip of the French invasion has had 700 million hits. ‘Lonnie Pilot’ is up to number three in search topics, ‘Eydos’ is at number seven, and half a million people have signed the online Book of Condolence for Ali on the Scholasticorps website.”

“If they find the
Largesse
it won’t matter how many people sign it, Jim.” Pilot thanked him and exited to observe proceedings outside. The component parts of the trolleys and wagons were being brought up from
Westcliff’s
hold and arranged on the rock in preparation for assembly. A crewman from Rome was orchestrating this little operation with Toscanini-like precision.

The cargoes of the three disemboweled barges had been removed for sorting, and work was in progress on the other side of the convoy, lifting out the prefabricated sections of the portable building systems from
King
Solomon’s belly. The sections of rubber barrage not shredded on landing were now being deflated.

Rather than pitch in with the others, Pilot felt a need to get away from the noise and activity of the convoy. Getting himself a notepad, pen and collapsible stool, he turned his back on the barges and strode southwest across the endless expanse of denuded rock, turning around every few minutes to wave at the two French soldiers shadowing him.

Thursday’s sun came up behind a dome of rain clouds half a mile thick and wasn’t seen for the entire day. The rain was relentless. Worried that it would wash away their spilled topsoil, Serman directed that the portable buildings be loosely assembled over the exposed piles, and this rain-drenched operation took most of the morning.

Everyone felt refreshed after having had a proper night’s rest in the comfort of their own beds and relieved not to have the French soldiers on their backs, although the legionnaires could still be seen less than a mile away, constructing the pre-fab barracks that had been airlifted in at first light.

McConie and his team of listeners were logging the exploration parties’ radio reports and keeping track of what was happening in the wider world beyond. The UN resolution, although ineffective, had given everyone heart. Britain’s attitude, gleaned from the news reports of government statements, Pilot translated as being, ‘If we can’t have it, no one can.’ They were more interested in getting the French off the shelf than in removing Lonnie Pilot and his cohorts, although they were not too happy about the settlers’ growing stature.

McConie opened a file on his kPad and handed the tablet to Pilot. “Coastal casualty and damage reports,” he said. Pilot sat down and began skim reading. The naval dockyards at Plymouth had taken a major hammering, as had those at Portsmouth. Several war ships had been swamped and sunk by the waves. A preemptive strike by Eydos, he thought. The tidal surge up the Thames had been less discriminating. Although the death toll had been in the tens, not hundreds, the cost of the damage was being expressed in figures he could barely comprehend. Similar devastation had visited the Low Countries, not surprisingly. Government ministers of all the affected nations were blaming the deceased for their own deaths, claiming that all necessary measures had been taken to remove them from harm’s way. That morning, Pilot had gone onto the
thisiscornwall
website for news. Although Penzance had received a severe soaking, no-one had died in the flooding.