Читать книгу The Sons of Scarlatti - John McNally - Страница 13

“On day one the Scarlatti lays its eggs,” said King. “On day two the nymphs hatch and grow. On day three the nymphs develop distinct body sections and the wings separate – shedding their skin several times. By the start of day four – after their final moult – they can swarm.”

The danger was spelt out in a fan graph that showed a range of possible development outcomes if the Scarlatti had located a ‘host protein’ overnight. The blood-red line of development started tight on day one and by day four spread to cover the entire graph.

“Four days. We’re already halfway through day one and we daren’t risk day four,” said King.

He turned away from the graph and back to his guests.

“So far, so bad. What matters is what we do now,” he said.

There was an air of stunned disbelief in the control gallery and around the world.

Seated beside the US President, General Jackman – the grizzly bear Chairman of the US Joint Chiefs of Staff and the world’s most powerful soldier – punctured the silence:

“Create hell. Flood the area with chemicals. Go nuclear.”

“Thank you, General Jackman. The problem is – scale,” explained King.

On a projected map he drew a rough semicircle east of the village of Hazelbrook.

“Last night’s turbulent air could have taken it twenty miles north and east, which means an area that covers roughly a third of London.”

“Nuke London…?” said someone, appalled.

“Or,” King said before a hubbub could break out, “following on from discussions with the scientists this morning, there may be another way.”

With a quick glance at Al, King turned to the corner of the gallery.

“Entomologists, would you oblige us?”

Channing beckoned a pair of entomologists from Porton Down into camera view, part of the group that had been there since early morning. A grey, middle-aged man with a much younger, sharper colleague.

“Professor Lomax and Dr Spiro were colleagues of Dr Cooper-Hastings at Porton Down.”

Lomax wore a suit under his lab coat, Spiro a T-shirt and jeans.

“Professor Channing? The hypothesis, please.”

Finn remembered his mum explaining that hypothesis was a term scientists used to describe an idea so they didn’t sound common.

“Pheromones,” Channing began, pushing back his glasses as if addressing a learned symposium, “are tiny distinct chemical signals that all living things emit.”

“‘Phero’ from the Greek for ‘to carry’,” Professor Lomax helpfully explained, “‘mone’ from ‘hormone’ or—”

Dr Spiro cut across them with the urgency the occasion demanded.

“If we can trace the Scarlatti’s pheromones then we can catch it before its first swarm. We could locate it, find its nest and destroy a much, much smaller area.”

“Possibly,” interjected Lomax, glaring. But Spiro continued.

“The ’83 data is categorical. Scarlatti pheromones are very distinct – the result of atomic mutation almost certainly – and emitted in very large quantities, with receptor sensitivity heightened by a super-developed swarm instinct. These insects will do anything to be with their own kind. Anything.”

“Thank you, Dr Spiro, I did produce much of that data…” muttered Lomax.

But how? How would you trace the pheromones? Finn wanted to yell, wriggling in his hidey-hole and finding it difficult to keep his mouth shut. King sensed it and shot an eyebrow his way.

“How?” asked Al obligingly. “How would you begin to define and then detect the appropriate molecules, let alone—”

“With another member of the same species!” Professor Channing announced, striking a blow for the over-fifties by jumping in before young Dr Spiro.

Al looked across at Finn. He raised his eyebrows at him: “Plausible?”

Finn shrugged back a Why not?

“Non!” said the French Conseiller Scientifique. “You would have to replicate Scarlatti. If Scarlatti is a random atomic mutation, you could never replicate it exactement. Never. C’est impossible!”

“Unless, of course, there is still a second sample left in existence?” mused Commander King, letting the cynical words hang in the air.

“Ach, the American one?” said the German Chancellor. “Destroyed, nein?”

“Like we destroyed ours?” said the British Prime Minister.

All eyes turned to the US President.

“Retained for ‘Reasons of National Security’ you mean?” said Commander King, enjoying the moment. “Where would it be, I wonder? The Fort Detrick facility outside Washington? One might look in warehouse nine, aisle eight, section two S.”

“Find out,” the President snapped at someone off-screen, furious that King should so easily reel off a US state secret. General Jackman bristled.

“Forget it. Even if it is there,” said the US Chief Scientist, a silver-haired woman on the President’s other side, “you’d never be able to get a viable tracking device on to something that small.”

King smiled. Inside.

“Any thoughts? Dr Allenby?”

Al pushed himself out of his seat and walked over to the giant image of the Scarlatti, deep in thought. He turned back to Spiro. “You’re sure they’ll read each other’s pheromones over great distances?”

“Over miles, definitely,” said Spiro.

“More than ten?”

“Reasonable probability,” said Spiro.

“Really…” Lomax sighed. “More than ‘reasonable’ at ten, unlikely beyond twenty.”

“Can we anchor a tracking device on to that thorax?”

Spiro and Lomax looked puzzled.

Al changed tack.

“Theoretically, if we could drill into it, or glue it on to, say, this cross member here?” He pointed out a girder-like section of the armoured thorax that flattened at the centre.

“Theoretically? Yes,” said Spiro. “This is cellulose material without nerve endings.”

“You would have to ‘theoretically’ be extremely careful then,” said Lomax, attempting sarcasm. “The thorax plates move against each other to allow greater flexibility than in other wasp species. It’s a weak point so the joints between the plates are packed with nerve endings.”

Al checked his watch, a Rolex adapted to his own design to incorporate a Geiger counter, pressure gauge and half a dozen other tiny instruments (the secret gift from a grateful nation), and turned things over in his mind. Tick tick tick tick tick.

“Well, Allenby? Will you revisit Project Boldklub?” said the Prime Minister.

Most people in the meeting didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. The name Boldklub was obscure, being short for Akademisk Boldklub, the football club that Niels Bohr, the father of subatomic physics, once played for.

Al looked at King, suspicious. King studied his nails.

“We’ve faced down one chemical and two nuclear Armageddons in the recent past. I don’t see why we can’t pull together as a team to deal with this.”

King looked back up at Al.

The world waited. Al looked over at Finn.

And from his hiding place Finn studied the Scarlatti. The colours, the grotesque armour, the clutch of stings, the distorted feelers and proboscis… everything about it gave off a sense of anger and suffering. In a perverse way Finn felt sorry for it. Yet within a few months this thing could wipe out six billion people. Everyone he knew, as well as the four he loved (Grandma, Al, Yo-yo and sometimes Christabel), plus everyone that filled his day, from everyone he watched on telly to everyone he travelled to school with. All gone. Like his mum.

Finn was fascinated, locked on.

“Oh… go on then,” said Al at last.

“What? Go on what?” barked General Jackman from the US.

Al seemed to snap awake. “We haven’t got much time. I suppose I’d better explain.”

He picked up an iPad linked to an interactive whiteboard and started to draw.