The Swarm: A Novel Page 5
‘Maybe,’ Lund said. ‘In fact, that’s not a bad idea - and there’s no reason why I shouldn’t go later too. What are you doing the day after?’
‘Nothing that can’t be postponed.’
‘Well, that’s settled. If we stay on board overnight, we’ll have plenty of time for observations and evaluating the results. We can get the helicopter to Gullfaks and take the transfer launch from there.’
‘Where shall we meet?’ asked Johanson.
‘Sveggesundet, at the Fiskehuset. Do you know it?’
‘The restaurant on the seafront, next to the timber church?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Shall we say three?’
‘Perfect. I’ll get the helicopter to pick us up from there.’ She paused. ‘Any news on the worms?’
‘Not yet, but I may have something tomorrow.’
He put down the phone and frowned. It was puzzling to see a new species within an ecosystem as well researched as this one. But it makes sense for them to be there, thought Johanson. If they’re related to the ice worm, they must depend indirectly on methane. And methane deposits were present on every continental slope, the Norwegian slope included.
But it was odd all the same.
The taxonomic and biochemical findings would resolve the matter. Until then there was no reason why he shouldn’t continue to research Hugel’s Gewürztraminers. Unlike worms, they couldn’t be found everywhere - not in that particular vintage, at least.
When he got to work the next morning he found two envelopes bearing his name. He glanced at the taxonomic reports, stuffed them into his briefcase and set off for his lecture.
Two hours later he was driving over the hilly terrain of Norway’s fjord landscape towards Kristiansund. The temperature had risen, melting large sections of snow to expose the earth beneath. In weather like this it was hard to know what to wear, so Johanson had packed as much as the weight restrictions on the helicopter allowed. He had no intention of catching cold on the Thorvaldson. Lund would tease him when she saw the size of his suitcase, but Johanson didn’t mind. In any case, he had put in a few things that two people might enjoy together. He and Lund were only friends, of course, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t share a cosy glass of wine.
Johanson drove slowly. He could have reached Kristiansund within an hour, but he didn’t believe in rushing. At Halsa he took the car ferry over the fjord and continued towards Kristiansund, driving over bridge after bridge across slate-grey water. Several little islands made up the town, which he drove through, then crossed to the island of Averoy, one of the first places to have been settled after the last ice age. Sveggesundet, a picturesque fishing village, lay at its furthest tip. In high season it was packed with tourists, and boats streamed out of the harbour, heading for the neighbouring islands. At this time of year, though, there were few visitors, and scarcely a soul was in sight as Johanson’s Jeep crunched over the gravel of the Fiskehuset’s car park. The restaurant had an outdoor seating area, overlooking the sea. It was closed, but Lund was sitting outside at one of the wooden tables, next to a young man Johanson didn’t know. He walked up to them. ‘Am I early?’
She looked up, eyes shining, and glanced at the man next to her. He was in his late twenties, with light brown hair, an athletic build and chiselled features.
‘Do you want me to come back later?’ Johanson asked.
‘Kare Sverdrup,’ she introduced them, ‘this is Sigur Johanson.’
The young man grinned and stretched out his hand. ‘Tina’s told me about you.’
‘Nothing too awful, I hope.’
Sverdrup laughed. ‘Actually, yes. She said you were an unusually attractive scientist.’
‘Attractive - and ancient,’ said Lund.
Johanson sat down opposite them, pulling up the collar of his parka. His briefcase lay beside him on the bench. ‘The taxonomic section’s arrived. It’s very detailed, but I can summarise it for you, if you like.’ He looked at Sverdrup. ‘I don’t want to bore you, Kare. Has Tina told you what this is about?’
‘Not really,’ he said.
Johanson opened the case and pulled out the envelopes. ‘I sent one of your worms to the Senckenberg Museum in Frankfurt and another to the Smithsonian Institute. The best taxonomists I know are attached to them. I also sent one to Kiel to be examined under the scanning electron microscope. I’m still waiting to hear the results on that and the isotope ratio mass spectrometry, but I can tell you now what the experts agree on.’
‘Go on then.’
Johanson settled back and crossed one leg over the other. ‘That there’s nothing to agree on. In essence, they’ve confirmed what I suspected - that we’re almost certainly dealing with the species Hesiocaeca methanicola, also known as the ice worm.’
‘The methane-eater.’
‘Wrong, but never mind. Anyway, that’s the first point. The second is that we’re baffled by its highly developed jaws and teeth, which usually indicate that the worm is a predator or that it gets its food by burrowing or grinding. Ice worms don’t need teeth like that, so their jaws are significantly smaller. They live symbiotically, grazing off the bacteria that live on gas hydrates…’
‘Hydrates? asked Sverdrup.
Johanson glanced at Lund. ‘You explain it,’ she said.
‘It’s quite simple, really,’ said Johanson. ‘You’ve probably heard that the sea is full of methane.’
‘So the papers keep telling us.’
‘Well, methane is a gas. It’s stored in vast quantities beneath the ocean floor and in the continental slopes. Some of it freezes on the surface of the seabed - it combines with water to form ice. It only happens in conditions of high pressure and low temperature, so you have to go pretty deep before you find it. The ice is called methane hydrate. Does that make sense?’
Sverdrup nodded.
‘Hordes of bacteria inhabit the oceans, and some live off methane. They take it in and give out hydrogen sulphide. They’re microscopically small, but they congregate in such large numbers that they cover the seabed like a vast mat - a “bacterial mat”. They’re often found in places where there are big deposits of methane hydrate.’
‘So far, so good,’ said Sverdrup. ‘I expect this is where the worm comes in.’
‘Precisely. Certain species of worm live off the chemicals expelled by bacteria. In some cases, they swallow the bacteria and carry them around inside them; in others, the bacteria live on their outer casing. Either way, that’s how the worms get their food. And it explains why they’re attracted to gas hydrates. They make themselves comfortable, help themselves to the bacteria, and relax. They don’t have to burrow because they’re not eating the ice, just the bacteria on it. The only effect they have on the ice is through their movement, which melts it, leaving a shallow depression, and that’s where they stay.’
‘I see,’ said Sverdrup, slowly. ‘So there’s no need for them to dig, whereas other worms have to?’
‘Some species eat sediment, or substances present in it, and others eat any detritus that sinks to the seabed - corpses, particles, remains of any kind. Worms that don’t live symbiotically with bacteria have powerful jaws for catching prey or burrowing.’
‘So ice worms don’t need jaws.’
‘Well, they might need them for grinding tiny quantities of hydrate or filtering out bacteria - and, like I said, they’ve got jaws. But not like the ones on Tina’s worms.’
Sverdrup seemed to be getting into the discussion. ‘But if Tina’s worms live symbiotically with bacteria…’
‘We need to figure out why they have such killer teeth and jaws.’ Johanson nodded. ‘And that’s where it gets interesting. The taxonomists have found a second worm with that jaw structure. It’s called Nereis and it’s a predator found in ocean depths all over the world. Tina’s worms have Nereis’s teeth and jaws but in other respects they resemble its prehistoric forebears - a kind of Tyran-nereis rex.’
‘Sounds ominous.’
‘There’s no end of methane hydrate on the continental slope…,’ said Lund, playing with her lip ‘…so that would fit.’
‘Let’s wait and see.’ Johanson cleared his throat. ‘What do you do, Kare? Are you in oil too?’
Sverdrup shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m a chef.’
‘He’s an amazing cook,’ said Lund.
That’s probably not the only thing he’s good at, thought Johanson ruefully. Sometimes he found Tina Lund hard to resist, but deep down, he knew she would be too demanding. Now she was off-limits.
‘How did you two meet?’ he asked, not that he cared.
‘I took over the Fiskehuset last year,’ said Sverdrup. ‘Tina was here a few times, but we only ever said hello.’ He put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Until last week, that is.’
‘A real coup de foudre,’ said Lund.
‘Yes,’ said Johanson, looking up at the sky. The helicopter was approaching. ‘I can tell.’
Half an hour later they were sitting in the aircraft with a dozen oil workers. The dull grey surface of the choppy sea stretched out beneath them, littered with gas and oil tankers, freighters and ferries as far as the eye could see. Then the platforms came into view. One stormy winter’s night in 1969 an American company had found oil in the North Sea, and since then the area had taken on the appearance of an industrial landscape. Factories on stilts extended all the way from Holland to Haltenbank off the coast of Trondheim.
Fierce gusts buffeted the helicopter, and Johanson straightened his headphones. They were all wearing ear-protectors and heavy clothing, and were packed in so tightly that their knees touched. The noise made talk impossible. Lund had closed her eyes.
The helicopter wheeled and proceeded south-west. They were heading for Gullfaks, a group of production platforms belonging to Statoil. Gullfaks C was one of the largest structures in the northern reaches of the North Sea. With 280 workers, it was practically a community in its own right and Johanson shouldn’t have been allowed to disembark there. It was years since he’d taken the compulsory safety course for visitors to the platforms. Since then, the regulations had been tightened, but Lund’s contacts had cleared the way. In any case, they were only landing in order to board the Thorvaldson, which was anchored off Gullfaks.
A sudden gust caused the helicopter to drop. Johanson clutched his armrests but nobody else stirred: the passengers were used to stronger gales than this. Lund opened her eyes and winked at him.
Kare Sverdrup was a lucky man, thought Johanson, but he’d need more than luck to keep up with Tina Lund.
After a while the helicopter dipped and started to bank. The sea tilted up towards Johanson, then a white building came into view. The pilot prepared to land. For a moment the helicopter’s side window showed the whole of Gullfaks C, a colossus supported by four steel-reinforced pillars, weighing 1.5 million tonnes altogether, and with a total height of nearly four hundred metres. Over half of the construction lay under water, its pillars extending from the seabed surrounded by a forest of storage tanks. The white tower block where the workers slept was only a small section of the platform. Bundles of pipes, each a metre or more in diameter, connected the layers of decks, which were flanked by cranes and crowned with the derrick - the cathedral of the oil world. A flame shot over the sea from the tip of an enormous steel boom, burning natural gas that had separated from the oil.
Touch-down was surprisingly gentle. Lund yawned and stretched as far as she could. ‘Well, that was pleasant,’ she said, and someone laughed.
The hatch opened and they clambered out. Johanson walked to the edge of the helipad and looked down. A hundred and fifty metres below, the waves rose and fell. A biting wind cut through his overalls. ‘Is anything capable of knocking this thing over?’
‘There’s nothing on earth that can’t be toppled. Get a move on, will you? We don’t have time to hang about.’ Lund grabbed him by the arm and pulled him after the other passengers, who were disappearing over the side of the helipad. A small, stocky man with a white moustache was standing at the top of the steel steps, waving at them.
‘Tina!’ he shouted. ‘Have you been missing the oil?’
‘That’s Lars Jörensen,’ said Lund. ‘He’s responsible for monitoring the helicopter and seagoing traffic on Gullfaks C. He’s an excellent chess player too.’
Jörensen was wearing a Statoil T-shirt and reminded Johanson of a petrol-pump attendant. He clasped Lund to his chest, then shook hands with Johanson. ‘You’ve picked an inhospitable day,’ he said. ‘In good weather you can see the full pride of the Norwegian oil industry from here, every last platform.’
‘Are you busy at the moment?’ asked Johanson, as they climbed down the spiral steps.
‘No more so than usual. Your first time on a platform, is it?’
‘It’s been a while. How much are you producing these days?’
‘Less and less. Production on Gullfaks has been stable for a while now, with two hundred thousand barrels coming from twenty-one wellheads. We should be pleased with that, but we’re not.’ He pointed to a tanker moored to a loading buoy a few hundred metres away. ‘We’re filling her up. There’ll be another along later, and that’s it for today. Soon we’ll start running out.’
The wellheads weren’t directly below the platform but were scattered a fair distance away. The oil was extracted, separated from the natural gas and water, then stored in the tanks on the seabed. From there it was pumped to the loading buoys. A safety zone stretched five hundred metres around the platform and only its maintenance vessels were allowed to cross it.
Johanson peered over the iron railings. ‘Hasn’t the Thorvaldson arrived?’ he asked.
‘She’s at the other loading buoy, just out of sight.’
‘So, you don’t even let research vessels come close?’
‘The Thorvaldson doesn’t belong to Gullfaks and she’s too big for our liking. It’s enough trouble trying to persuade the fishermen to steer clear.’
‘Do you have much trouble with them?’
‘Last week we had to chase away a couple of guys after they’d followed a shoal right under the platform, and at Gullfaks A recently a tanker drifted loose - engine problems. We sent a few people to help, but the crew got it sorted just in time.’
Jörensen spoke casually, but he had described the catastrophe that everyone prayed would never happen: a loaded tanker heading straight for a platform. The impact would send shudders through some of the smaller structures, but, worse still, the tanker might explode. Every platform was equipped with sprinklers that would release several tonnes of water at the least sign of fire, but an exploding tanker could tear a platform to pieces. Such accidents were rare, and usually happened in South America where safety regulations weren’t as strictly observed.
‘You’re looking slim,’ said Lund, as Jörensen held the door open for her. They went into the accommodation module and walked down a corridor lined with identical doors that led into the living quarters. ‘Don’t they feed you well enough?’
‘Too well,’ laughed Jörensen. ‘The chef’s amazing. You should see our dining room,’ he added quickly to Johanson. ‘It makes the Ritz look like a roadside café. No, the platform boss doesn’t like North Sea bellies. He’s told us to get rid of any extra kilos, or else he’ll ban us from the platform.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Directive from Statoil. I don’t know if they’d really go that far. In any case the threat was effective. No one wants to lose their job.’
They reached a narrow staircase and walked down, passing a group of oil workers whom Jörensen greeted. Their footsteps echoed in the steel stairwell.
‘Right, this is the end of the line. You’ve got a choice. Either we go left, grab a coffee and chat for half an hour, or right, to the boat.’
‘Coffee sounds good,’ said Joha
nson.
‘We haven’t time.’ Lund told him.
‘The Thorvaldson won’t leave without you,’ said Jörensen. ‘You could easily—’
‘I don’t want to have to race there. Next time I’ll stay longer, I promise. And I’ll bring Sigur too. It’s about time someone played you into a corner.’
Jörensen laughed, and Lund and Johanson followed him outside. Wind blasted their faces. They were at the bottom edge of the accommodation module, standing on a thick steel grating, through which they caught glimpses of billowing waves. A constant hissing and droning filled the air. Jörensen led them towards another short gangway. An orange launch was suspended from a crane. ‘What are you doing on the Thorvaldson?’ he asked casually. ‘I heard Statoil might be building further out.’
‘It’s possible,’ said Lund.
‘A new platform?’
‘Not necessarily. Maybe a SWOP.’
Single Well Offshore Production Systems were enormous vessels similar to tankers with their own oil-recovery facility, used in depths of more than three hundred and fifty metres. A flexible flowline kept the vessel in position over the well while the oil was pumped into the hold, which served as a temporary storage tank.
They got into the launch. It was spacious inside, with several rows of benches. Apart from the helmsman they were the only ones on board. The boat jerked as the crane lowered them into the sea. Cracked grey concrete flashed past the side windows, then they were bobbing on the waves. The crane detached itself from the boat and they motored away from the platform.
The Thorvaldson was now in view, recognizable, like most research vessels, by its boom, used for manoeuvring submersibles and other equipment into the water. The launch drew up alongside it and docked. Johanson and Lund climbed up a steel ladder, fixed securely to the vessel. As he struggled with his suitcase, it occurred to Johanson that maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to pack half of his wardrobe. Lund, who was ahead, glanced round. ‘You thought you were here for a holiday, did you?’ she asked.
Johanson sighed. ‘I was beginning to think you hadn’t noticed.’