Ark Storm
Authors: Linda Davies
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This is for my late brother, Professor John Eric Davies. You lived so well, died too young.
It’s also for his wonderful daughter, Eleanor Beaton.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are many people to whom I owe many thanks for this book.
My husband, Rupert Wise, has supported me in every imaginable way. He has always believed in my writing and he knew that one day a big story would come along. Like a magician, he guides me to the stories and the stories to me. And he does so much more in helping me craft them. He is an insightful (and brave) critic. He is also an invaluable source of research information with his wide-ranging expertise.
Our children have my eternal thanks for giving it all meaning.
David Vigliano reached out through the ether, summoning my ideas and giving them the oxygen of his faith. The whole crew at Vigliano Associates—Matt Carlini, David Peak, Thomas Flannery, inter alios—have been wonderfully brilliant and supportive both on the business and on the creative side, giving me invaluable editorial input.
My brother Roy, via the website he set up many years ago for me before I even knew that such a thing existed, was the conduit that put David in touch with me. He also is a source of diverse information.
David took me to the fabulous Tor Books. Bob Gleason, editor and writer extraordinaire, you are a genius and I’m not saying that because you spotted me and my book! Tom Doherty, you have created a wonderful enterprise full of talent and energy and brightness. It is a pleasure to know you. Kelly Quinn, fellow Oxonian, you are always cheerful and upbeat, seamlessly professional and never wrong!
Huge thanks to the entire Tor team across sales and marketing and general administration. Without you guys I wouldn’t be out there.
I would also like to thank the lovely Hanca Leppink for all her support over the years. Thanks too to Marga de Boer and all the team at Luitingh-Sijthoff.
Yilin Press in China—thanks, guys! My first Chinese translation.
In the writing of this book, I have come across many brilliant and fascinating people who have helped me with research across a very wide range of subjects. I owe you all profound thanks.
Some of you I cannot publicly acknowledge here: the man with the murderous animals—glad you are on the side of the angels! The traveler and his son: I would not wish to bump into either of you on a dark night but your knowledge is impeccable. Mr. Electronica, love the live insights …
The scientists and their backers, thank you for sharing your brilliant creation.
Those whom I can thank publicly:
The U.S. Geological Survey, Multi-Hazards Demonstration Project—ARk Storm 1000 scenario, were extremely informative and helpful.
Professor Mark Saunders of University College London gave generously of his time and expertise many years ago when I first explored the idea of writing a novel around the weather.
The wonderful Rupert Allason is always forthcoming with his time and his extensive knowledge.
My brother Kenneth gave me detailed input on Singapore—clubs, restaurants, traffic, and other wonderful local detail.
Marcel Giacometti and Andrew Stuttaford were most helpful with all things financial. Marcel also gave freely of his considerable gastronomic and viticultural expertise.
Dirk Wray was a wonderful source of surfing stories. You big wave surfers are mad!
Doris, Jenie, Andrew, and Tony buy me time to write.
And I thank you, dear reader, for picking up this book.
CONTENTS
Introductory and Explanatory Note
P
ROLOGUE
What if you could control the weather?
“What if one man could control the weather?”
“Only Allah can control the weather.”
“Not true.”
Thousands of miles away, in Iran, the ayatollah snorted with derision.
“You think you have the power of Allah, now? You think your billions of dollars make you God? This is heresy.”
“Not heresy. Technology. I can make it rain. I can stop the rain. I can harness the power of the storm and I can magnify it. I can bring the Flood. I can wash away hillsides, destroy homes; I can take a swath of some of the most expensive real estate in the United States and I can rain down upon it the wrath of Allah at the infidel.”
“You would wage jihad by weather?”
“Does it not say in the holy Quran,
we helped him against those who rejected him. They were surely a wicked people, so we drowned them all
. Is it not a beautiful idea?”
“When will you do it?”
“When the right storm comes. Then I shall magnify it. I will give California the ARk Storm of their nightmares.”
1
Late Summer
HURRICANE POINT, CALIFORNIA, MONDAY, 6:00 A.M.
The wave came silently, like a killer in the pellucid light of dawn. Huge and beautiful and murderous.
Come and get me. C’mon, let’s see if you can.
She could see the swell, bigger than those that had gone before. Maybe a twelve- to fourteen-footer, with a likely twenty-five-foot face. Massive. At the outer limits of a wave that she could surf without a Jet Ski tow-in. Her heart began to race as she lay down on her board, reached out long, powerful arms, and paddled hard She could see the wave in front explode in a frenzy of white water. She could no longer see the monster behind her, gaining on her, rising up behind her, opening its maw, but she could feel it. It raised her up, terrifyingly high. No backing out now.
Paddle for your life, harder, faster
.
She grabbed the board, snapped to her feet as the wave took her, propelled her down its gnarly face. She balanced, knees bent low, arms outstretched, warrior pose, riding it, wild with glee, high on adrenaline. She skimmed down the face, muscling the board against the yank of hundreds of tons of water. She rode into the barrel, into the unearthly blue, into the moment when time stopped and the universe was just you and the barrel and the roaring in your ears. And then time started again and the barrel was closing, just one split second of escape remaining. She ducked right down, shot out of the barrel, flipped up over the back of the wave. Feet still planted on her board, she flew through air, over water, riding the two elements. Conquering them. This time. Her spirit sang and she yelled out loud. No one to hear her. She surfed alone, breaking the surfer’s code. Just the woman and the sea with the gulls screaming and soaring and bearing their wild witness.
* * *
The gulls watched her paddle round to the quiet water, where the waves did not form up to do battle. They watched her paddle in, walk from the water, sun-bleached hair falling down her back: golden skin, freckle-flecked over the patrician nose, which was a shade too long, saving her from mere prettiness. They watched her glance back at the sea, a look of reckoning, part gratitude, part triumph, part relief.