The War of Immensities (38 page)

“I think he
just opened the opportunities and allowed each of us to flow into
them.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did he
take the trouble? Why bother to help us all along like this?”

“I have no
idea.”

“But do you
think Harley has a plan or does he just make it all up as he
goes.”

“Harley? He
doesn’t have a spontaneous bone in his body. He plans everything,
as meticulously as possible, as far ahead as possible.”

“So what’s his
real agenda?”

“You’ll have to
ask him that.”

“But he sure as
hell is up to something, ain’t he?”

“Harley wants
to be the greatest human being ever. Bigger than Buddha, Caesar,
Shakespeare, Einstein. He reckons exploiting Project Earthshaker
and us will get him there. He is a complete and utter
megalomaniac.”

“I thought I
had ego problems.”

“Not like
Harley.”

“I thought you
liked him.”

“I don’t care
about him or anybody,” Jami said adamantly.

All through the
night before, Chrissie remained in the convent chapel, deep in
prayer.

Tomorrow the
pilgrimage would begin and everything was ready, and even if she
knew it was something of a ploy entirely set up by Thyssen, still
she knew it was really the hand of God. For Harley was no
exception—God could work through him as readily as any other man,
and if it was a certainty that the pilgrims would follow her
tomorrow, was it impossible that from time to time, God rigged the
odds in his own favour?

But her prayers
did not concern such thoughts anymore. She could be realistic about
this when appropriate, even join in their jokes at her expense, but
now it was the serious time. These people would follow her rather
than make their own way to the focal point, and she needed to
cleanse her soul and make herself worthy of them. She now must rid
herself of all the cynicism that she had tolerated these past
weeks, even gone along with, even participated in.

Without the
skeptical jokes, they would never have assisted her on her course
whereas because they all believed in Harley rather more than they
believed in God, so they had co-operated. They took her seriously
because it was couched in terms they could accept—for them faith
and belief have to follow later.

In the end,
they had all helped her. Joe the Communist had happily provided the
funding; Lorna the great sinner had promoted her on television;
Wagner, the unbeliever in everything except his own superiority,
had trained guards from within the ranks of the pilgrims to protect
them along the way; as they journeyed they would sing songs made
popular by Andromeda the false goddess; they would ride in
transportation provided by Brian the atheist. Each of them had
risen above their lack of faith to help her. It was of them, too,
that she needed to be worthy.

When midday
passed, the expected linkage of the pilgrims was only hours away
and Chrissie went out and found Brian Carrick waiting by the truck.
It was a battered old Fiat tray truck, rusted and noisy, but she
had chosen it herself. Brian had offered to have a Popemobile built
for her, but she knew this was the appropriate way to go. Christ
had ridden to the Holy City on a donkey, and this wreck of a truck
was certainly the modern equivalent of that.

“We got her
running as well as she ever will,” Brian said kindly. She knew he
had been working on the engine himself, surrounded by a team of
Italian mechanics. “Dropped a new donk in her. All new brake
system. Reconditioned the transmission. She’ll get you there.”

“I have no
doubt of it, Brian,” Chrissie smiled thankfully.

“We also
installed a radio and the driver will be in direct contact with
Kevin who will be sitting over the top of you in a helicopter.”

“A daunting
thought, Brian.”

“Come and have
a gander at the chair.”

There was a
plain solid wooden chair that they had bolted to the floor of the
tray, facing backwards. All about, cushions were scattered for the
children, a group of orphans created by the disaster who would
travel gathered at her feet. There was a clear plastic tarpaulin
that could be pulled over the top of it all if it rained but the
sides and back of the tray remained open. Loudspeakers, also facing
backwards, had been installed on the roof of the cabin.

“Yer can see
the mike attached to the side of the chair. Okay.”

“All absolutely
wonderful, Brian. I’m so pleased.”

There was an
experienced driver, also a pilgrim, and another man who Kevin had
provided and was called Fabrini, with sorrowful eyes, a drooping
moustache and an automatic weapon constantly nestled in his
armpit.

“I’d be
thankful if you’d keep that out of sight, Mr. Fabrini.”

“Yes sister,”
Fabrini murmured reverently.

The route was
carefully planned. They would travel by road in a close convoy
across the Apennines to Potenza and then on to Massafra where
tracks would allow them to bypass Taranto and into Brindisi. There
Brian had arranged for a recently decommissioned ocean-going ferry
to convey them, vehicles and all, across the Adriatic Sea to
Greece, and into the Gulf of Corinth. They would briefly take to
the road again, into Athens after which it was tentatively planned
that they would pick up another steamer at Piraeus which would
complete the journey to Tel Aviv and inland to Jerusalem.

There were
difficulties. They might have flown, but the Israelis had denied
them permission to land. They had also prohibited the ship from
docking but that didn’t matter because the thirty-six hours would
have expired long before they reached the Middle East. The bit of
the pilgrimage that mattered most was the first stage anyway, and
when it was realised that it would be all over somewhere off the
coast of Greece, it was decided to land them in Corinth and allow
it all to continue into Athens, giving them someplace to arrive.
The Greek authorities had reached no opinion on the subject and
continued to argue and it was assumed would still be undecided when
it was over. Since the pilgrimage could never reach its
destination, it was decided that it was better to culminate in a
place where there could be local interest and media coverage,
rather than some obscure spot in the middle of the
Mediterranean.

All of this,
Chrissie absorbed stoically. She wasn’t about to believe that her
pilgrimage had nowhere to go. Something would happen to change
things, she was sure. There would be a point to it all—God would
see to that. And if not God then Harley, who had plainly gone to a
lot of trouble to organise it this way.

Brian had got
out his map of the world and showed it to her the night before.
There were three points on the globe—Italy where they were, Russia
where the still quarantined Buryats remained, and the control
group, presently in Melbourne. You drew a circle such that its
circumference passed through each point and the centre of that
circle was the focal point. Move any one of the groups before the
linkage and the focal point changed. A wildcard was Andromeda in
Las Vegas but during the night she had flown over them and landed
in Athens where she would meet them at the end of the pilgrimage.
So all they had to do was reposition the control group so that the
direct line from Italy to the focal point passed through
Jerusalem.

It wasn’t as
easy as it sounded. The control group needed to be repositioned far
out in the Indian Ocean, 1800 kilometres south of the island of
Mauritius, whereby the focal point was caused to be at Meshed, a
town in north east Iran. No one could get there, even if they
wanted to, but the line from the marshalling point in Italy to
Meshed ran straight through Athens and Jerusalem. Not only wouldn’t
the pilgrims arrive, the Holy City wasn’t really where they were
going anyway.

“I think I’m
asking more questions than I need to know the answers to,” Chrissie
smiled sadly.

Not far away
was a hill beside the road which could be seen from some distance
around. They positioned the truck there and waited as the sun rose
on the day. Chrissie continued in prayer. Throughout the region,
Brian and other men were positioned with buses and vans, ready to
pick up those pilgrims who would not be able to provide their own
transport, which, beyond a few bicycles and Vespas, was most of
them. The orphaned children were brought in and Chrissie led them
in prayer and song. The time drew nearer.

“We shoulda got
one of them brain monitors so we’d know when to start,” Kevin said.
He had landed his helicopter nearby.

“I’ll know
when,” Chrissie told him.

And she did.
She was deep in prayer and suddenly her mind flowed out into all
humanity—it was so intense a sensation that she reacted physically.
“It begins now,” she told them.

She climbed
onto the truck and stood on her chair and below her, everywhere,
the people came. Along the road, they formed into a convoy. Along
the flanks, helpers rushed with clipboards, checking off names.

“Only about 300
have gathered,” Fabrini informed her.

“That’s
enough,” Chrissie said. “We will begin slowly. The others will
follow.”

She took her
seat and fitted the safety belt Brian had thoughtfully provided and
they drove down onto the road, took the head of the convoy and
started at six kilometres an hour. As they went, people were
calling.

“Bless you,
sister. Bless you sister.”

Inside,
Chrissie could feel her heart swelling. The children looked up at
her with shining credulous eyes. The logistics and bureaucracy
slipped away and she knew only her faith and that the true journey
had begun.

Pierre Duclos
declared himself the boldest pilot in the world, both in person and
on the sign that advertised his profession—joy flights over the
islands at 530 Francs an hour. He had no idea that his claims were
about to be fully tested.

“How much per
day?” Jami had asked him—his English was better than her schoolgirl
French.

“Ten hours of
daylight. How many of them do you actually want to fly?”

“All of
them.”

“The plane must
land every four hours to refuel.”

“Sure. As long
as we go straight up again.”

“But where will
we be going?”

Jami, in reply,
drew circles in the air. The Frenchman gave a shrug and stated a
price. Jami immediately shook his hand in agreement. “You’ll fly
around the crest of Orohena, just below the height of the summit,
as close to the ground as you can get.”

“Just around
and around.”

“That’s
right.”

“When do we
start?”

“An hour before
sunset. Don’t be late.”

Duclos eyed her
bleakly.

“I will not.
Until when?”

“Believe me.
You’ll know when to stop.”

“I need to know
when. Other people wish to make bookings to fly with me.”

“There won’t be
any other bookings,” Jami told him.

Then she
invited him to have lunch with her, but he looked her over and
refused in such a blatant way that Jami decided not to explain any
further.

Instead she ate
with Felicity.

“Evacuated
anybody yet?” Jami asked.

Felicity pulled
a face and offered feeble gestures. “A few wimps have run away.
Some luxury cruisers have sought sheltered harbours. But really,
no. The French authorities refuse to co-operate. They won’t even
put it over the radio.”

“But everyone
knows.”

“And they all
think it a joke.”

Jami put on a
bad French accent. “Madame, none of the volcanoes here have erupted
for a thousand years.”

“Ignorant pigs.
In a sense, I’ll be glad when today is over and I won’t have to
argue with them anymore. I’ve given up already anyway.” Felicity
lifted her champagne in a toast. “Until tonight, huh?”

They drank
champagne and studied the menu, but it wasn’t time to order yet.
Jami eyed her companion thoughtfully. “Will you be staying,
Felicity?”

“Well, since
you gave up your seat in the Orion, I’ll grab it and go for a ride.
I’ll be up there somewhere between here and Raratonga. Unless you
want it back?”

Jami shook her
head—up in the Orion at 20,000 feet was the safest possible place
to be in the region but she had never really considered it a
possibility. “There won’t be anything to see out there over the
ocean. I’ll be taking joy flights around Orohena.”

Grave concern
crossed the face of her companion. “Truly. Is that safe?”

Jami could
laugh at her concern. “I think I’ll know when to make a run for
it.”

“Be careful you
don’t get yourself Shastri-ed.”

Jami laughed
all the more. “That would be ironic, wouldn’t it. But no chance.
The zone will be far out in the Pacific.”

“If Harley’s
right…”

“Yeah.”

“But what will
you see from up there?”

“I’ll see it
happen,” Jami said, sparking with enthusiasm again. “There’s
nothing else for me to do. My people and those from the Geo Survey
have put all the sensors and monitoring equipment all over the
volcanic islands, and they won’t tell us anything new anyway. I
want to actually see a volcano in the first moment of
eruption.”

“I hope it’s
not the last thing you see,” Felicity said grimly.

“I won’t mind
if it is,” Jami said harshly. Both women shivered at that
thought.

As she spoke,
she only had to turn in her chair and see the mountain in question.
In fact the entire island of Tahiti was the slopes of Orohena,
which was at the centre and towered 7000 feet. It was a gigantic,
sharp pinnacle of rock, as exotic in form as the Matterhorn, and
every river ran through gorges that were steep fissures in its
sides to the coral reefs around the island. Here, in this hotel
restaurant at Venus Point, Orohena’s sabre-point stood out plainly
against the red sky of sunset.