The O.D. Page 17

  Out on deck, Lonnie Pilot could hear the cheering and clapping below and wondered what on earth Drance had said to his motley crew to so enthuse them.

  Over the next two days, The Disciples of the Seraphic Prodigy worked like convicts in the sediment pits, helping to dig in soil and compost. They ate like horses, though, and after the third day, once they had been fattened at the expense of Eydos’larder, they began making adverse comments about the food− how there was no fresh fruit, for instance, and how all the vegetables came out of cans, apart from the Moringa leaves, which tasted awful.

  At the last supper on the eve of their departure, the Disciples sat down to plates of sediment burgers. Clarence was the only one to laugh at the joke. But then, he was the only one of the forty-seven with a grain of intelligence.

  When the antique helicopter carried away its heavy load the following afternoon, everyone on the ground breathed a sigh of relief, not least of all Josiah Billy, whose stormy affair with one of the Disciples was beginning to get out of hand.

  That night, a Force Ten gale hit Eydos and blew ten weeks’ hard work straight off the shelf.

  XIII

  The short, sharp shock given Nillin by the gales in the night had left very little of substance standing in the settlement. Most of the buildings had only one or two walls remaining, not always in the perpendicular. Ninety percent of Harvey Giles’s poplar and cottonwood cuttings had been uprooted, along with most of the three hundred saplings that had already been put in the earth.

  The communication system’s solar power mast had survived and the satellite dish had been found undamaged in the angle between a collapsed wall and the sunken roof. McConie had recovered and repositioned it in time for his eight o’clock watch. When Pilot appeared, the man gave him his seat in front of a laptop. All messages were sent and received in encrypted form and Vaalon’s decoded greeting was waiting at the top of the screen. ‘McConie has already reported no causalities of the human kind, but what of your other works?’ it read.

  Pilot typed a short damage report, as far as he and Serman had assessed it, then went out to help clean up. The sky was beginning to reappear behind the storm’s retreating skirts and the added light was imparting new energy to the work parties, which at that moment were trying to reassemble one of the less badly damaged buildings in which to store the settler’s personal effects. Digging through the rubble of the mess hall, someone managed to root out the tea urn, a camping gas burner that worked and a tea caddy that was still dry inside. The milk was only an hour out of the sheep, milking stopping for no man nor Act of God, and within half an hour the entire company was assembled for the morning tea break.

  As they sipped their Assam, rotor blades were heard shredding the air to the south. Over a hundred grimy faces turned and watched as the ponderous helicopter landed. It was the media. Eydos was news, the gales were news, and the two together were big news.

  Aaron Serman, assigned by Pilot to deal with them, led the reporters on a short inspection tour, feeding them the same damage report they’d given Vaalon. No casualties. Much damage. Everything under control. Thank you for coming, but please go now so we can get on with our clearing up.

  “I need to see Lonnie,” Austin Palmer said. Serman led him to a small tent on the far side of the settlement.

  “The Admiralty have issued a response to your open protest about Britain’s submarine incursions,” Palmer said, handing Pilot an envelope. “It’ll be appearing in all tomorrow’s news outlets. The gist of it is that they think you’d be better off back home on benefits than in the Bay of Biscay playing diplomacy.”

  In the cloudless, windless conditions that came in behind the storm, the Nillinites worked with humour, energy and resolve to put their city back together again. Half the uprooted poplars had been recovered, some from as far as a mile away, and replanted. They also redesigned the layout of the settlement, locating all the buildings in the lee of the western basin wall to provide an extra measure of protection from future storms. Most of Jane Lavery’s outdoor planting had been destroyed, so new seeds for winter crops were being sown. While her associates did this, Lavery applied herself to the problem of how to make Moringa leaves more palatable. All but one of her hydroponic grow tanks had miraculously survived the storm.

  Two weeks after the gale, the adjutant for the Admiral of the British Atlantic Fleet opened a letter, postmarked Stoke Newington, cast a seasoned eye over it and passed it to his superior, pretending he hadn’t read it, discretion being one of the prerequisites of his post.

  The Admiral was alone in his office when he unfolded the inoffensive-looking sheet of writing paper.

  There’s still time for you to save a most distinguished naval career from running aground on the shoals of scandal and dishonour by performing one last act of courage. Use your influence to withdraw the nuclear submarine, Gauntlet, from the territorial waters of Eydos immediately and to ensure that no such incursions take place in the future.

  * The Inverness Hotel. January 1999.

  * Timmy Vernon and Rocki Augenblau.

  * Account with Corporate Investors Trust Cayman Islands in the name of your deceased cousin.

  For your connections with the above-mentioned to be made public would be a personal tragedy. We will be watching the situation with interest.

  --EDE

  Englanders for the Defense of Eydos.

  EDE, a sub group of Law and Freedom without Violence, a 300-strong band of well-connected white collar anarchists based in North London, was the first of many secret supporters of Eydos that were to germinate within months of the island’s appearance and remain working in the shadows, unknown even to Forrest Vaalon and Lonnie Pilot.

  The Admiral stared at the letter for a long time, hoping the tiny writing carrying the huge threat would disappear.

  The argument put forward by the Admiral of the British Atlantic Fleet for the recall of Gauntlet from her current mission was that: 1) the climate of world opinion had shown itself to be strongly protective towards the settlers of Eydos against the major powers who made up her immediate neighbours; and 2) it was only a matter of time before the allegations and protests being made by the island about submarine incursions were substantiated by independent sources. How they knew the submarine was there in the first place was a greater worry and required immediate investigation.

  Two prominent officials at the Ministry of Defense, both of whom had received letters from EDE containing compromising information personal to themselves, gave the Admiral unreserved support in his argument. Indeed, without it he wouldn’t have carried the day.

  Thirty-eight year old Victor Bosse, considered by many to be a potential future French Foreign Minister, had been given the brief of devising the exploitation of Ile de Bonne Fortune back in September. At first he had considered the assignment an annoying detour from his one-way climb to the top and an obvious snub from the incumbent Foreign Minister, who made no secret of disliking him. But as media attention focused more and more on the island and its strange settlers, Bosse came to view it as a golden opportunity for self-elevation. His authorship of the demands being placed on Eydos in return for her ‘independence’ had won him great favour among the French old guard, who had never recovered from Waterloo, and members of France’s nationalist faction which grew stronger the harder world opinion fell on their country.

  Eydos’ invitation to the French Foreign Office to hold the talks on the island had been passed to Bosse, the Foreign Minister himself not wishing to get involved. Seeing the publicity potential, Bosse had accepted against the advice of the Ministry, which thought Pilot should prostrate himself in Paris instead. An aide was sent to Nillin to work out the details of the visit, while Bosse organized the PR army, whose job would be to package his first major international triumph for world consumption.

  The settlers couldn’t believe it when the envoy arrived with Bosse’s official acceptance, but were put out by its terms. Pilot listened intently as Odile Bart
oli translated.

  “Monsieur Bosse and his entourage of military, scientific and commercial advisers will arrive by helicopter on the morning of 21 October to collect Lonnie Pilot and his party (no more than three nominated aides will be accommodated on the flight) before taking off again to visit the sites listed in the itinerary. The helicopter will then return to your campsite for the official signing of agreements. The Independence Ceremony will take place six months after the completion of the naval base.”

  ‘Campsite?’ Pilot had a whispered consultation with Bradingbrooke and Mara before responding. “Tell Monsieur Bosse that we look forward to his visit to Eydos. As a sign of goodwill, we will waive visa requirements for him and his party on the day.” When Bartoli had finished translating, Pilot shook hands with the sour-faced envoy and accompanied him to his helicopter.

  Back in his room later, Pilot opened a letter he’d received from Stratospherix, the hot air balloon company he’d been in negotiations with since late July. Inside was the paperwork and invoice for the purchase of three hot air balloons.

  In Storeroom 12, Pilot counted out the cash, put it in a briefcase and walked it over to Odile’s cabin. She was to take the mail helicopter to St. Helier and from there, travel to France on a false passport to complete the deal. Delivery of the balloons to Eydos had already been organized.

  Seventy kilometers east of Paris is the town of Sezanne, home of ‘Stratospherix Entreprise de Fabrication de Montgolfière’. Within twenty-four hours of her touchdown, Bartoli was sitting in their offices concluding the paperwork with the Company’s Director, a member of the hippy-gentry with a Porsche and a slick black pony-tail down to his waist.

  A black Mercedes left the Adriatic highway and began climbing the narrow hair-pin road up to Bosanka. When it arrived at the derelict restaurant overlooking the walled city of Dubrovnik, three cars were already there. The driver of the Mercedes, a shaven-headed man in an expensive suit over an open shirt, got out of the car and entered the building, where seven men in similar tie-less attire greeted him with bearhugs and handshakes. Spread out on the table were open briefcases, a couple of laptops, various folders of different colours and the all important bottles and shot glasses. Cigarette smoke hung from the ceiling in blue undulating layers.

  Mercedes-man called the meeting to order, raised a glass of raki and threw it down his throat as the others did likewise. For thirty minutes, he enthralled the room with his inspiring monologue, occasionally calling on a cohort to pull a document from one of the files and pass it around the table. He then gave the floor to a large man with a Bluto beard, who placed a brushed aluminium photographer’s case on the table. He opened it with a flourish and withdrew a hand-drawn map and a laptop, which he powered up. There were twelve pie slice shapes randomly spaced on the map, each with a red letter at its apex, and twelve video files on the laptop. As he pointed to each pie slice, he clicked the corresponding video and began running his finger along the curved edge of the slice as if it were the camera panning the landscape. Every now and then he would pause the video and draw a small circle on the map, inside of which he wrote a number relating to a list each man had been given. When he had finished his virtual tour, he opened a photo file, clicked the first jpeg and selected ‘slideshow’… an attractive woman holding a shovel; four people pulling a heavily laden wagon; a self-portrait of Bluto-beard himself, standing at the water’s edge; pegs and rope delineating a large square area at the base of a cliff; six people sitting on the ground eating something rice-like with their fingers. He paused the slideshow on this image and stabbed the third man from the left with his heavily-calloused forefinger. “Da je Lonnie Pilot.”

  Two crew spending their day off exploring the heights above Nillin were the first to see the balloons as they floated in low from the west. Their first thought was that they were witnessing some kind of bizarre invasion or primitive bombing mission. They watched slack-jawed as the three shining spheres, riding the Atlantic winds with terrifying speed, closed on the cliff-face on a direct collision course.

  A quarter of a mile short of impact, first one balloon, then the other two, burst into flame. As their gas burners super-heated the air in the canopies above, they rose up and stepped gracefully over the headland. Immediately, the burners were shut off and the balloons began a feathery descent into the basin, their forward progress slowed by the lack of wind in the lee of the headland. Below them, figures scurried round trying to anticipate the balloons’ landing points.

  Fifteen minutes later, all three were safely down just short of the base of the far cliff. Because of the prevailing westerly winds, Leon Bonappe, the Director of Stratospherix, had sailed to the Atlantic side of the island, inflated the balloons on the deck of their freighter, and flown in to Nillin from the west.

  Four hours later, Pilot and Bonappe stood side by side at the quay watching the freighter approach the dock. “How long can you stay, Leon?” Pilot asked.

  “We were planning to sail tonight,” Bonappe said in perfect English. “As soon as the gas canisters, fans, generators, fuel and other paraphernalia have been offloaded.” Pilot had other plans for the man, though, and it didn’t take him long to persuade Bonappe to stay on as their guest until the mail helicopter could drop him in Jersey. Pilot wanted information on air space legalities relating to hot air balloons and any other specialist knowledge that could be squeezed from the man. He also needed extra tuition in operating his new acquisitions, which were Rolls Royces in comparison with the mopeds he had flown during his course in Bath. The two other balloonists elected to go back with the ship, so a bed was found for Bonappe in one of the new geodesic domes that were gradually replacing the prefabs. Seventy of these ‘domehomes’ had been purchased from a company in Finland. Not only were they easy to construct, but they were light, airy, robust against the wind, warm in winter and cool in summer. They also looked good.

  At dinner that evening, Bonappe acquainted Pilot with the mapping software for western Europe that had been part of the delivery, showing the prevailing winds at different altitudes and at different times of the year. “With direct links into the Comtrac V weather satellite and ground stations, we can program our flights with metre by metre accuracy,” Bonappe explained. “Me? I’d rather fly by eye and inner ear.”

  The next few days passed quickly for Pilot and they managed to complete six half-mile practice flights. Bonappe was more than happy to impart his knowledge pro bono, as he considered the experience of being part of this ‘entreprise curieuse’ more than sufficient recompense. For Pilot, he preferred spending the time with his head in the clouds, rather than fretting about his looming confrontation with France.

  XIV

  It was the eve of Bosse’s visit. The night was cold and dry, with a needle-sharp wind whipping Nillin on its unprotected north side.

  In spite of the cold – perhaps even in search of its numbing anesthetic – Pilot paced the quay in clouds of worry. What perplexed him most was finding a suitable spanner to throw into the mighty French Imperialist machine, seeing as his greatest ally, world opinion, was having no effect. He was also fretting about how France would react when he said no to all their proposed footholds. A dart of cold air pierced his clothing and sent chills across his body. What am I doing here? he wondered, tightening his collar.

  He was awakened by Dr. Dahl at seven, and half an hour later was sitting down to breakfast with his three nominated aides. The French helicopters weren’t due until half past nine, so the four of them sipped coffee and watched the finishing touches being made to a twenty foot high pyre of wreckage donated by the storm.

  “THEY’RE COMING,” someone shouted in response to the flags being waved from the lookout atop the basin rim. Minutes later, five mammoth helicopters crested the escarpment and hovered at an altitude of 300 metres. One of the machines detached itself from the herd and descended. Pilot felt his innards give way, but knew that if he betrayed any sign of nervousness to their guests, his job would be ma
de more difficult. Just a few feet from touchdown, a lone French officer leapt out and strutted up to Pilot’s party. “I am Major Domaigne,” he announced without warmth. “If you would care to follow me ...”

  He led them into the mouth of the whale, closed them in and pressed a button on the bulkhead to signal the pilot. The rotors increased their stroke, along with their decibel output, and within seconds the machine was back with the herd. Major Domaigne then ushered the party through another door and into the main cabin where Pilot counted two men in military uniform, a dozen or so in sober suits, a few women, a film crew and a rather self-possessed figure he took to be Victor Bosse. The man had an air of command about him, but of the kind won through foul means rather than fair. Between his sensible shoes and haircut he wore the plain grey uniform of government, but there was something in his eyes that gave away his true nature. Pilot’s dislike of the man was instant. Lost in thought, Pilot didn’t notice that he’d been introduced to the entourage by Major Domaigne and was now expected to say something.

  Instead, Mara stepped forward as per Pilot’s earlier instructions. “Welcome to Eydos,” she said. “I’m Eydos Press Secretary, Macushla Mara and this is Deputy Leader, Henry Bradingbrooke. We are honoured to have you as our guests. Odile Bartoli is here to ensure the accuracy of your translations. And, of course, you know this man.” Pilot nodded presidentially, but remained silent.