24 Raj Kaleka

 

Montreal Quebec. Jul 26. 2033

45°30’16’ N, 73°33’36″W

 

The week-long “Global Climate Migration Summit” in Montreal was well underway. It was a much-anticipated and highly attended event, with government dignitary’s, multimillionaires and private organizations from all across the world in attendance. Symposiums ranged from “International Food Shortages,” “Mitigating Coastal Absorption,” and “Water for Life” to “Refugee Terror Threats”; “Global Defensive Strategies” and “Fixing our Porous Borders.” At first sight, the Palais des congrès de Montréal might have seemed like an inappropriate location to host such an event; its opulent façade of multicolored glass panels and priceless art installations were in stark contrast to the conference’s subject matter of refugees and displaced peoples. However, the facility and the city’s commitment to sustainable, green alternatives gave a nod to credibility as far as being part of the solution rather than the cause.

Due to the over-capacity attendance and the star-power of the summit’s presenters, security at the convention center was rigid. Admittance was impossible without credentials and scan-able identification. The top billed seminar on this day’s schedule was the billionaire entrepreneur and philanthropist Sir Raj Kaleka, president of the global non-profit foundation Applied Technologies in Healthcare, Energy and Natural Sciences, more commonly known simply as “ATHENS.” A populist figure, with a net worth of over 115-billion dollars, Raj possessed the financial and political clout to pursue any number of humanitarian and environmental agendas. His countenance was recognizable everywhere—from villages in remote Tanzania to digital billboards in Tokyo railways. Raj had his hand in a multitude of ventures, not the least of which was his initial investment project, the ITER light-water fusion reactor. Raj served for over two decades as the dynamic leader of the consortium known only as “The Elders”, an independently funded alliance of wealthy donors, who pooled their collective skills to resolve global conflicts and find new approaches to end human suffering. The combination of Raj’s charismatic personality, humanitarian work and innate gift for showmanship, resulted in consistently large crowds wherever he spoke.

Mr. Kaleka’s sold-out presentation, “Removing the Migrant Stigma” was scheduled to be held at one-o’clock in the Hall Riopelle—ironically coinciding with the HighTower seminar “Strengthening Borders—Preventing the Next Societal Breakdown” in the adjacent Hall Espace. HSA’s West Coast Director Richard Cross, was the featured speaker and registrations for that event were at capacity as well. It was a universally known fact that the HighTower and ATHENS organizations were long-time nemeses. They held opposing positions on most global matters—none more so than the issue of migrants and climate refugees. Perhaps it was an intentional gambit on the summit organizers part—scheduling the two titans simultaneously—an attempt to avoid accidental run-ins between the adversaries. Regardless, the summit coordinators were on tenterhooks all morning as they prepared for the dual showcase sessions. 30 minutes before the presentations were to begin, each hall hummed with activity. The sound and audio-visual technicians were scrambling to complete their final checks before the doors opened. Security personnel from the convention center organized check-points at all entrances while private agents for ATHENS and HighTower conducted their own safety inspections in the respective halls. Eager registrants cued along both ends of les Galeries du Palais for admission.

Inside the Hall Riopelle, Raj Kaleka held court with members of the international press. He positioned himself in the center of a comfortable settee in one of the antechambers surrounded by aides and journalists. The reporters sat patiently, waiting for their turn as Raj’s assistant briefed him on the revisions for his upcoming speech. After approving the changes, he looked up and smiled widely—pointing at a journalist from The Centrist. “You had a question for me earlier—please, fire away.”

The woman nodded and glanced at her tablet briefly before responding. “Yes—thank you, Mr. Kaleka. Concerning the rising tide of refugees who have engulfed the UK and are spreading elsewhere—how do you propose balancing aide and asylum without sacrificing economies?”

Raj crossed one leg over the other and leaned back into the leather sofa. “OK, first off, I’d like to get rid of this term ‘rising tide’—for good. We need to erase that phrase from our lexicon. A ‘tide’ refers to movement of the ocean. I’m hearing ‘waves of immigrants’ used too often by the media as well.” He gestured toward a reporter. “Globe Press is particularly guilty of this, Mitchell.”

The Globe Press journalist nodded, “I’ll be sure to pass this on to my editors.”

Raj gave Mitchell an affable wink and continued. “The thing is, we’re talking about actual human beings who are caught up in the true crisis of our age. Real people, real families … Many of whom are—or were, doctors, artists, engineers, students—and yes, some are from impoverished, rural villages, but all of them are simply trying to survive. They are not ‘epidemics’ or ‘crises’—these words only serve to remove the human element from the situation and make it easier to push the problem under the rug.” Raj paused for a moment to allow his words time to sink in. “As for your question about finding a balance: It is my belief that we can achieve both. For instance, here’s a fact: Our oceans cover 71% of the Earth's surface and contain over 97% of Earth's water. When land becomes scarce, we must look to our oceans for sanctuary—places that are unfettered from corporate and nationalist jurisdictions.

An Italian journalist shot his hand up; interrupting Raj. “Mr. Kaleka, when you say ‘certain corporations’… are you referring specifically to the HighTower Security Authority?”

Raj glanced at a note his personal assistant placed in front of him, nodded briefly and waved her away. He looked up, refocused and responded to the reporter’s question with a wry smile. “I’m going to resist naming any individual organizations at this time. On the other hand, if any of you would like to wander down the concourse and catch HSA’s presentation—I think it’s called something like, ‘Repelling the Epidemic of Refugees’… I imagine you can draw your own conclusions.” The press corps bent over their devices, scribbling furiously.

A voice from the middle of the media pack called out, “Sir, you’ve been a rather vocal critic of HighTower’s CEO, Nelson Bank’s practices regarding North America’s border security. Can you please speak to your recent accusations against HSA’s human rights violations?”

At that moment, a woman attired in black, leaned into the doorway and caught Raj’s attention. She held up five fingers and waited for acknowledgement. Raj nodded, slapped his hands on his thighs and said, “OK—I apologize that we didn’t get to everyone’s questions. I suppose that means you’ll just have to sit through my presentation in hopes that I’ll address them during the next hour or so.” The audience of journalists chuckled, collectively closing their recorders and tablets. Raj stretched as his assistant helped him on with his suit jacket. The media applauded as he headed toward the stage door, waving a casual salute. Almost as an afterthought, Raj paused and issued a farewell remark. “Hey, I want to thank you, folks—it’s up to responsible journalists to hold the governments’ feet to the fire in regards to our basic human rights. After all—who knows, it could be any one of us next. Keep it up.”

 

The auditoriums were filling quickly as the dual lines of attendees filed through check points. A young man dressed in an ill-fitting suit raced down the causeway, dodging convention goers and hawkers as he ran toward the Hall Espace. A security guard stepped into his path and said, “Whoa there—let’s see some credentials from you buddy… Otherwise, you’re not going anywhere.”

The aide bent over, placing his hands on his knees as he panted, “I have an urgent message for Director Cross—I have to reach him before he goes on stage.” Handing the guard his identification badge, he straightened, “Please—may I get in to see him?”

The guard scanned the HighTower badge and nodded. The young man sprinted into the hall, skirting the rows of chairs and bumping into technicians as he dashed backstage. Richard Cross stood in the wings offstage and skimmed his notes while a make-up artist brushed powder on his forehead. A somewhat fleshy man in his mid-50’s with an obvious comb-over, Director Cross resembled an appliance salesman more than a regional director for the world’s largest private security firm. This unfortunate circumstance may have been to blame for his notorious temper and chronic scowl. The aide ran up the stairs and stopped abruptly in front of the director. Cross took a step back, “Who the hell are you—how’d you get in here?”

“Sir… my apologies. I have a message from Deputy Director Terrance.”

“Well, spit it out you imbecile—and then get the hell away from me.”

“Sir… a moment.” The youth reached into his suit jacket and retrieved a mobile. He unlocked the device and handed it over to the director. “Deputy Terrance left a detailed message—for your eyes only, sir.”

The director read the message. “Have you seen this?”

“No sir. It came through as urgent and encrypted. This is a company mobile.”

Richard Cross frowned and waved him away. “Wait for me over there—somewhere where I can’t hear you breathing.” He turned his back toward the curtains and placed a call to Amanda.

Amanda’s voice came on the line. “Hello, this is Deputy Director Terrance.”

“Look here,” Cross muttered. “I’m less than two minutes from going on stage. What’s the meaning of dragging me into this?”

“I apologize Richard—I wouldn’t have bothered you, if it wasn’t for the fact that we’re in some ambiguous territory with this one.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Technically, we’ve exceeded our limits—the Galapagos still belong to Ecuador. We aren’t officially even supposed to have a craft this far south.”

“Fuck technicalities, Amanda. Do we or do we not have evidence of boats full of illegals inbound?”

“Yes sir—our eye in the sky pinpointed two vessels… 25 miles off Isla Fernandina. Each carrying about 150 to 200 refugees. It’s hard to get an accurate figure because they are so heavily overcrowded.”

A nervous stagehand ducked his head from behind the curtained proscenium and gestured toward the podium. Director Cross held up his finger and nodded. “I’m still not understanding your conundrum here, Amanda. Did or did not CEO Banks recently state that we are getting overrun with South Pacific Islanders coming up the coastline and transferring coyote vessels in the Galapagos?”

“Yes he definitely said that, Richard.”

“And did he or did he fucking not direct us to solve the South Pacific coyote problem?”

“Yes sir, he…”

“Then just fucking do it! I’ve got to get on stage right now.”

“I appreciate that Richard—but we risk violating at least one international treaty if we’re caught eliminating these targets, sir.”

“Well, are there any other gawddammed boats in the vicinity?”

The overhead PA system buzzed as the microphone was switched on. An announcer’s voice could be heard from the stage. As the applause died down, Cross overheard the speaker launch into his introduction. Placing his free hand over his ear, he strained to hear Amanda say, “Sir, our drone’s sensors haven’t picked up any other vessels…”

Richard spoke through his clenched jaw, “Deputy Director Terrance. I am giving you a direct order to prosecute those illegal vessels. Are you clear on this matter?”

“I am, Director Cross. Completely clear, sir.”

“Jesus F. Christ, show some initiative Terrance. Now if there is nothing else—you don’t need my permission to change a tampon or anything do you?”

“That’s everything I needed, Director Cross. Be assured that I will take care of this matter right away.”

With a sour look, Cross flung the mobile at the aide and shouted, “Get off the stage, shithead. I don’t want to see your sweaty face for the rest of this conference.” He strode past the stagehand, pushing through the curtains toward the podium and, with his right arm held aloft, gave a dramatic wave to the crowd and launched into his speech.

 

 

Galapagos Islands, Ecuador. Jul 26 2033

0°34'33.6"S 91°12'54.3"W

 

The Persephone sat at anchor in Elizabeth Bay, nearly 100 yards off the shore of Isla Isabela, tucked behind the cover of Fernandina’s peaks. The ATHENS research vessel had been stationed in the archipelago for the past three weeks as scientists monitored the bay’s coral reefs and populations of the Galapagos penguins and requiem sharks.

The islands were quiet, and the ATHENS marine biologists and geologists had the entire bay to themselves. Since 2027, when Ecuador bowed to pressure from the international scientific community and restricted tourism, the Galapagos chain had gradually fallen into a state of abandonment. Bereft of the lucrative tourist dollars and suffering from the depletion of its ecosystems, the islands had become a drain on Ecuador’s tenuous economy. The country’s resources and attention had shifted elsewhere years ago.

A bank of oxygen tanks and several bins of dive gear lined the starboard rail of Persephone’s aft deck. On her port rail, the ROV—a remote unmanned submarine, was secured next to its crane. Lengths of fiber-optic control cable sprawled across the railings in giant coils. In the center of the deck, a lopsided “X” served as a landing pad for the vessel’s quadcopter drone that currently hovered several miles east over a pod of humpbacks. Persephone’s rigid-inflatable tender was tethered to the transom while scientists examined the coral beds six fathoms below. A handful of sea turtles paddled lazily around the tender, chasing the escaping bubbles from the divers’ apparatus. Minutes before the lunch bell, the senior drone pilot summoned the first mate into the operations cabin. The mate entered the tight quarters, shutting the door behind him. “What’s up? See anything unusual?” he asked.

The drone pilot removed his headset and pointed toward the display. “Not as far as the whales are concerned… there’s three mothers and calves in the middle of the pod—right over there.” He brushed his fingers against the screen, enlarging the area where the whales moved. “It’s a good-sized pod of humpbacks.”

“Nice to know they’re still hanging in there… But what’s the deal? You didn’t really call me in here to show me baby whales, right?”

“True enough. I wanted to get some advice on what to do about this…” The pilot flicked the screen until the camera image showed two shabby boats, one in front of the other. As the camera zoomed in, they made out hundreds of people crammed onto the decks of the vessels. “It looks as if they’re headed right into this lagoon. What do you think?”

The first officer leaned both hands on the desk and looked closely at the image. “Jesus. Why does this have to happen on my shift? Just my luck….” He moved closer to the display and said, “Huh, is it just me, or does it look like that one boat is towing the other?” The pilot squinted at the screen, he placed his finger on the second boat and the image instantly became a still shot. He slid the picture to the top of the display and expanded the photo. A thin line—probably a wire cable—stretched over 200 feet between the boats. “Shit,” the mate mumbled. “I can’t see any way around having to call this one in. They’ve got to be coyotes—just look at the conditions on those boats, man. Shit, shit, shit… The amount of paperwork for all of this is going to ruin my whole week.”

The pilot flicked the still photo off his display and returned to the live image. “Yeah, I figured as much. I’ll let you handle it from here on out. I can archive all the footage in case they require you to transmit this as evidence.”

“Thanks. I’ll go wake the Cap’. He’s going to be thrilled about this, I can tell you.” The mate walked out of the cabin and before closing the door, called behind him, “Cook’s going to be ringing that bell any second—you want me to get somebody to bring a plate in?”

“Nah, I’m off in fifteen min… Holy fuck—look at that!” The pilot slid his chair back and gaped at the display screen. He shook his head in disbelief, reaching forward with shaky hands to enlarge the image in front of him. “Christ almighty—are we really seeing this?”

The mate stared at the screen, then darted out the doorway, running past the galley and above deck. The ship’s cook followed him up the companionway, full of questions. “Did you hear something? Was that us, man? Sounded like a far off canon or an explosion.”

The mate swore under his breath. “Son of a bitch.” He glanced over at the panicked cook and nodded. “It was a missile—right out of nowhere. I’ve got to wake up the captain.” With that, he ran back below deck. The cook stood alone, spoon in hand, watching the mushroom cloud of smoke rise from the other side of Isla Fernandina.

 

Within the hour, all divers were back aboard and the solo botanist had been retrieved from shore as deckhands lashed the quadcopter to its mounts. The engineer stood outside the wheelhouse, listening attentively to Persephone’s generator and main diesel warming up. At the captain’s command, the crew weighed anchor and the ship motored out of Elizabeth Bay, en route to the explosion site. The drone pilot transferred footage onto a backup drive and delivered it to the captain. “Here you go, sir.” I’ve made duplicate copies and uploaded them to ATHENS server. Is there anything else you need?”

The captain scratched his chin, pondering what might be in store for them once Persephone rounded the island’s point. He frowned and then tapped the mate on his shoulder. “Take the con. I need to have a talk with someone higher up on the food chain.” The mate reached for the GPS unit, plotting a course 40 yards from the island’s headland.

As the captain strode toward his cabin, he motioned for the drone pilot to follow him. They turned into the passageway and the captain asked, “Tell me, how quickly can you get your ‘copter back in the air if we need it?”

The drone pilot replied, “She’s recharged and ready to fly when you say so, sir. She could be airborne within five minutes. Should I locate my copilot?”

The captain reached his cabin door and paused. “I’ll let you know when I get off the horn with the home office. But listen here, once your bird’s in the air, I want you to record whatever we find—and I want it fed directly to the clouds—just in case…” The captain’s voice trailed off as he arched one of his brows. Turning the door handle, he inhaled briefly and continued, “…In case whoever fired that missile decides to eliminate witnesses. Do you follow me?

The pilot swallowed and nodded. “Yessir, I do.”

 

By the time Persephone had rounded Fernandina Island, the smoking wreckage from the two boats had almost vanished. Scientists and deckhands stood along the rails with binoculars held to their eyes—searching for any sign of survivors. The captain ordered to throttle back as the ship approached the debris field. Five-foot waves concealed many of the objects that floated in the targeted area. Persephone slowed to idle and her crew launched the rigid-inflatable off the ship’s leeward side. The drone pilots maneuvered the quadcopter to fly overhead in a grid pattern to record everything via live feed to ATHENS servers.

The mate and a crew member manned the small boat through the flotsam. Careful to avoid human remains, the sailors leaned well over the sides of the tender as they moved in and around the wreckage. A body floated face-down in the water—the mate swung the tiller to come alongside and they turned it over. They identified a young male, approximately 30 years of age. His hair and skin color resembled a Pacific Islander’s—however, as his corpse had rapidly cooled in the frigid water, it was difficult for them to gage the man’s original pigmentation. The crewmember looked at the first officer for direction. The mate sighed and said, “We can’t do anything for the dead ones… there are just too many. Let it go.”

“Shit, are there any live ones left? It’s been over an hour since they were hit,” the deckhand mumbled.

“I’m going to shut down for a few minutes—maybe we can hear something without the motor running.” With that, the mate pulled the kill-switch on the tender’s outboard and they drifted in quiet. The deckhand scanned the debris for any movement and pointed toward a patch of objects several hundred yards to the north. They used the paddles in place of the engine and made their way to the swath of wreckage. From somewhere in the mass of floating objects, the mate heard a man’s voice. “Hello,” he stood up in the tender and held the binoculars to his eyes. “Hello—Anybody out there? We’re from a research ship—we’ve come to help!”

A faint voice called out, “Kwo maron ke jiban!”

“Do we know where these people were from, sir? Should we try speaking in French…Spanish?”

“Shhh! Did you hear that?” The tender bobbed up and down on the ocean’s swells. Suddenly splashing sounds and voices could be heard nearby. The mate restarted the engine motored toward the debris. Turning to port, they spied 20 or 30 people huddled around a large ragged chunk of Styrofoam—remnants of a makeshift fish-hold. “Holy Christ—survivors!” He throttled down as they approached the desperate refugees. As the boat came to a stop, people flung themselves onto the tender causing it to heel precariously. “Stop! Please—you have to wait!” the mate screamed. To keep the small boat from capsizing, the mate shifted the throttle into reverse and moved away from the panicked crowd. Men and women began to scream and flail—several let go of the foam raft and swam toward the tender. “Kwo maron ke jiban!”

“What are they saying?” the deckhand shouted.

“How would I know—it’s probably something like ‘get us the hell out of here!’ Come on—let’s try and control this situation.” The mate faced the group and waved his hands back and forth in front of his chest. He shouted loudly, using simple words and distinctive pronunciation. “Everybody stop—arrêtez—detener! We must go slowly…mas despacio… one at a time—Claro?” The men pulled the terrified victims out of the water and the tender began to ride dangerously low. Eventually, the mate shook his head and called up to the crewmember. “This is no good. We can’t take any more—we’ll sink before we get back to the ship!”

“I know and these waves are getting higher,” replied the deckhand. “How the hell are we going to make the ones still in the water understand that we’ll come back for them?”

The mate tapped one of the women lying near his feet. “You—do you speak English?”

“Aet… a little” she whispered, her teeth chattering from the exposure.

“Tell ‘em we will be back to pick them up—that we can’t hold any more people right now. Can you do that?”

The woman translated but her voice was drowned out by protests from the remaining victims. The mate shook his head and said, “This shit is getting out of hand.” He backed the tender away and motored toward the ship. The waves had increased and a few of the refugees were nearly swept overboard as they plowed through the swells. The Persephone’s crew dropped a ladder as the tender came alongside. As the last survivor limped on deck, the mate called up, “Cap’, we’re heading back, there’s another full load in that wreckage.”

“Hang on! The captain called down, “The drone pilot spotted a couple of live ones over on the starboard side—a few hundred yards toward the island. They don’t have anything to cling to… Best try to rescue them first.”

“Aye, we’re on our way.” The tender roared around the ship’s aft quarter. The deckhand pointed to the where the refugees waited and the tender slowed to meet them. An exhausted father clung to his two young boys; the oldest child, perhaps three-years old, waved and shouted as the younger sibling—an 18-month-old baby—grasped at his father’s neck. The deckhand reached overboard to grab the baby first, but a giant wave threw the boat into the mounting seas. The mate and deckhand paddled over to the castaways and tried to reach for the child once again. “Can you throw one of them to us?” The mate yelled to the father. The man shook his head, not daring to let go of one son to save the other. Another mammoth swell separated the boat from the stranded family. “Swim!” yelled the mate. “You’ll have to swim!” The man tried to paddle toward the tender, but with both hands grasping hold of his children, his attempts were unsuccessful. “You’re going to have to throw the boy—that’s the only way we can get to him. Comprendes? Throw your boy!” The mate pantomimed his orders. “Ready? One… Two… Three—Now!”

The man kissed his son, touching the boy’s forehead to his own. Treading water, he pitched the boy with both hands as the baby clung to his neck. The deckhand leaned out—his arms extended fully and caught the little boy, dragging him into the boat seconds before a 12-foot swell carried them upward. As the boat crashed back into the trough, the mate looked for the father and baby. “Where are they?” he shouted.

“I don’t know!”

The mate spun the tender in a full circle, then reversed and repeated the maneuver. Another swell picked the tender up, carrying it for some ways. “There—over there!” the deckhand shouted. Holding onto the boy with one hand, the deckhand pointed toward the crest of an adjacent wave. The mate swung the tiller and accelerated. As they came upon the father, they saw that he swam alone. His face was a wretched mask of pain and sorrow. He screamed and cried in a language that neither sailor could understand, thrashing in the waves as he frantically searched for his infant son.

The boy clutched the sides of the inflatable. “Jema!” The father looked achingly at his son, then dove below the oncoming wave and was not seen again.

 

At the day’s end, only 43 out of 400 refugees had been rescued. Survivors stretched out on Persephone’s deck, sharing blankets and bottles of fresh water. The scientists did what they could to provide medical care, triaging the most urgent cases. The quadcopter and ROV were secured and ready for transport. Both unmanned vessels had retrieved numerous items that could be analyzed in the ship’s onboard lab for traces of explosive residue—clues as to who committed the murderous act. The captain placed his call to ATHENS on the ship’s satellite phone, confirming that the video feed was uploaded and on the web. Persephone’s crew resumed their regular shifts and set course for San Diego Bay. The orphaned three-year old boy sat on a tall stool near the helm, holding tightly to the first mate’s hand.