AN UNNATURAL DISASTER

The TV was on for the news. The news was not good. In fact, the more they heard, the more frightening it all became.

Tane held the remote and unconsciously kept turning the volume up, until it became painful, then would turn it back down to a reasonable level, only to start all over again.

They were watching a press conference. A room full of eager reporters. A thick bush of microphones sprouting from a wooden podium labeled with HYATT OREWA.

A tall, gaunt American entered and stepped up to the podium, closely followed by a woman, scarcely half his size.

“That’s him!” Rebecca caught her breath.

“Who?” Fatboy asked.

“The leader of the soldiers on the island.”

A graphic came up at the lower left corner of the screen identifying the speaker as Dr. Anthony Crowe of USABRF.

Just the sight of him was enough to make Tane’s heart race.

The woman stood next to Crowe. She would need a stool to reach the microphones, Tane thought, then wondered why he was thinking about such stupid details when the fate of the world was at stake. Her name was Dr. Lucy Southwell, according to the subtitles.

A large map of the upper north island was pinned to a board behind them.

Crowe wore a military uniform, but wore it casually, as if the uniform was not a symbol of pride for him, the way it was for many Americans. His face was as long and craggy as a cliff face and showed no expression; in fact, his face might as well be made of stone for all the emotion that showed on it.

Southwell pointed to the map. “The Horouta is a delivery boat. Operates out of Russell, here. She makes a regular weekly supply drop at Motukiekie. Just a small boat, with a skipper and one crewman. Four days ago, she was discovered, beached in Kaingahoa Bay, about forty miles east of Motukiekie. The throttle was wide open, and the engine was still running. There was no sign of the crew.”

“Odd,” murmured Fatboy.

Southwell continued, “A coast guard vessel was sent to investigate. Six-man crew. It didn’t return.”

“Odder still,” Tane said

Southwell drew a circle on the map. “An airforce Orion was dispatched to search for the missing coast guard cutter. It covered roughly this area here, which was as far as the cutter could have traveled in the time. It overflew Motukiekie but was unable to see anything due to a dense fog. By this time, the local police were involved and wisely decided that it was time to call in the experts.

“I work for the Biological Hazard Containment Unit, a part of our Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries. A team of three colleagues of mine—two men, one woman—was sent in, in full biohazard suits and in constant radio contact with a command unit based in Russell. Naturally, at this stage, our fear was of some…” She clearly didn’t want to say it. “…biological agent that had been released on the island. They…um…”

“They disappeared,” Crowe intervened. “Their biosuits were found on the island when we went there to investigate.”

“What about Whangarei?” a female reporter was asking. “Fifty thousand people. They can’t just have disappeared.”

“Actually, ma’am, that’s exactly what seems to have happened,” was Crowe’s reply.

Strange how Americans called women “ma’am.” It was such a British expression.

Another stupid thought!

“Disappeared to where?” the reporter persisted.

“We have no information on that at this time.”

“Do you anticipate finding them alive?”

Crowe replied without emotion, “No, ma’am, we do not.”

The room grew suddenly, unnaturally silent.

Southwell broke the silence. “Civil defense are evacuating everyone in the projected path of the fog and are preparing an evacuation plan for Auckland, should that become necessary. I must stress that there is no need for panic. Any evacuation will be completed in plenty of time; we are asking residents to remain calm and at home until we make an announcement.”

“Yeah, right,” Fatboy muttered. “Fifty thousand people missing, but don’t panic!”

Southwell wore a rather drab, olive blouse and a staid gray skirt. She dressed older than her years. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, held together with a butterfly band.

“Is there any chance that a breeze will push this toxic fog out to sea?” a man asked.

“Toxic fog.” Tane sounded the words out loud.

“The movement of the fog does not appear to be governed by the direction of the wind.” Crowe answered the question, and the room grew completely silent again for a second or two as people tried to work out how that could be.

“Toxic fog,” Tane said again, blankly. Rebecca was staring at him with a horrified expression, but he ignored her and concentrated on the television.

“If the toxic fog continues on its present course and at its present speed, when do you anticipate it will hit Auckland?” the same man asked.

Crowe answered, “It’s hard to be accurate. The fog does not seem to move at a constant speed. It did not move from Whangarei at all for two and a half days. I would say we have about a week.”

The questions were coming from all over the room now.

“Is it true that the fog is growing in size?”

“Yes. Substantially.”

“By how much exactly?”

Crowe looked as if he would rather avoid answering that one, Tane thought. He turned the television louder.

“On our satellite photos, the fog was roughly circular and only a few hundred yards across when it entered Whangarei. It now measures several miles across.”

Rebecca said, “Several miles! That means it has grown by a factor of twenty or thirty times since it rolled into Whangarei. Or even more!”

Someone asked, “How many survivors are there?”

“Currently three. The youngest is a boy of four.”

“And what about the reports of snowmen in the fog?”

“We believe these sightings to be of people wearing biohazard suits, like this one.” Crowe motioned to his side, and an assistant wheeled in an inflated silver suit on a trolley. It looked more than anything like a space suit, although the faceplate was narrower, not as spherical as a NASA space suit.

Southwell moved around the front of the suit and placed her hand on it.

She said, “This is a UN-issue biohazard suit. It is silver but reflective. Surrounded by white mist, this would appear white also.”

A tall reporter whom Tane recognized from the TV3 news stood up and raised a hand, asking, “So there are men or women, inside the toxic fog, wearing protective suits. Can we assume that these people are responsible for the fog?”

“That would be a reasonable assumption,” Crowe answered as coolly as before.

“Then it would be another reasonable assumption that these people are terrorists. Bioterrorists,” the TV3 man said.

“Yes. Possibly. Probably. Yes.”

“Has there been any kind of demand or ultimatum?” someone else asked.

“No.”

There was a strange, stunned silence from the pack of reporters. Crowe stood impassively, waiting for the next question.

“So it is terrorists,” Fatboy said calmly.

“Maybe,” Rebecca said noncommittally.

“Why?” Fatboy asked. “Why here in New Zealand? What have we ever done to deserve this? What have we done to offend anyone?”

“What if…” Tane started, then paused, thinking for a second. “What if it’s a demonstration? What if their plan is to choose a small isolated country, release their toxic fog, and wipe the country clean? Everybody, gone.”

“Why would they do that?” Fatboy asked.

“Think about it. What kind of ransom could you demand then? From Australia, Britain, or the USA. They’d say, ‘Remember New Zealand. Land of four million people. Now just feral sheep and possums. You’re next if you don’t pay up.’”

“How do you plan to stop the fog from reaching Auckland?” a reporter finally asked on the television.

Crowe answered slowly. “The answer to that is in two parts. Firstly, we have taken samples of the fog, and we are analyzing it to see what we are dealing with. We hope to find a way of neutralizing it before it gets to Auckland. Secondly is the matter of dealing with the terrorists, with the”—he almost smiled, Tane thought—“snowmen. We have set up a line of defense just north of Orewa. We have taken the high ground of the Waiwera hills and will be aiming to prevent either the fog or the terrorists from proceeding beyond that point.”

“Who will be manning that defensive line?” It was an anonymous voice from somewhere in the crowd of reporters.

“My own men, from the U.S. Army Bioterrorism Response Force, along with your Special Air Service and units of your regular army. All will be outfitted with biohazard suits like this one. Eighty of the New Zealand Army Light Armored Vehicles will be deployed along the line, leaving twenty-five in reserve. As you no doubt know, these vehicles are also protected against chemical and biological agents.”

“That’s a lot of firepower,” somebody said.

Crowe nodded. “In addition, we will have air-strike capability from FA18 Super Hornets flying off the USS Abraham Lincoln, which will be within striking distance within three days. Whatever, whoever, is causing this, we will stop them at the Waiwera hills.”

“What about the children?” the TV3 man asked. “The ones you have been looking for, from the island.”

“We’re still looking,” Crowe said noncommittally. “We think they may have some information that will help us.”

Someone shouted out, “What kind of information?” but Crowe ignored it.

When the press conference finished, Tane turned the sound down but left the television on, in case there were any more developments.

They all sat in silence for a while, until Tane finally spoke.

He said again, “Remember New Zealand, land of four million people….”