Tim Fairchild
Zero Point
For my wife, Beverley
Acknowledgments
The science and theory surrounding Zero Point Energy is a topic highly debated within the scientific community. This story is based on that science, and the works of many scientists postulating the theory of free energy from the vacuum of space-time, and the potential threat of Electromagnetic Scalar Weapons. One particular book that was a helpful source of data in the writing of this novel was “Oblivion-America On The Brink” by Dr. Thomas Bearden.
The science and data surrounding the mega-thrust tsunami comes from the BBC Horizon documentary “Mega-Tsunami: Wave of Destruction.”
Special thanks to Bob Minichino for his naval technical advice. To Kimberly Sain for her proof and edit work. Her tireless efforts are very much appreciated by this author.
Finally, I want to thank my family and friends for their support, encouragement, and advice during the writing of this novel.
Epigraph
"Others [terrorists] are engaging even in an Eco-type of terrorism whereby they can alter the climate, set off earthquakes, volcanoes remotely through the use of electromagnetic waves… So there are plenty of ingenious minds out there that are at work finding ways in which they can wreak terror upon other nations…It's real, and that's the reason why we have to intensify [counter terrorism] efforts."
1
Josh Turner gazed upon the calm evening sea as the vintage cargo freighter Southern Star made her way along the rugged New Guinea coastline. The evening air was thick with humidity from the day's torturous heat as he watched the sun descend behind the deep green canopy of the receding mainland.
One of the few World War II Victory ships still in service, the four hundred fifty-five foot Southern Star had picked up Turner after off-loading supplies at the Port of Aitape earlier that afternoon. She was outward bound now, and after her next port of call, Turner would then return to Port Adelaide in Australia. There he would catch a puddle jumper flight to Sidney and then, at long last, home.
A mere mile away, Turner regarded the flickering lights from the small island of Tumleo, giving him the only hint of inhabitants along the sparsely populated northern coast of Papua.
He was exhausted from the arduous three-month archeology excursion with his young interns deep in the mountainous interior of Papua. His two ‘cub’ interns, as he dubbed them, Susan Hendrich and James Pond, were graduate students from the University of Melbourne.
The two students dove into the project with all the vigor of what Turner had termed a couple of bears merrily rummaging through a trash dumpster. Turner, on the other hand, had shown little interest from day one in excavating and cataloging the remains of a two hundred year old native village. Teetering on the verge of heat stroke during the day, then being devoured alive by insects at night was not on his bucket list. He had only done so at the insistence of his father, Eli Turner. It was just another favor to one of his father’s many fellow archaeologists worldwide.
Turner longed to be back on Tenerife in the Canary Islands with its dry, temperate days, cool nights, and many colorful festivals, all of which he enjoyed. He had just begun working on an ancient site once occupied by the island’s original inhabitants, the Guanche, before giving in to his father‘s wishes and coming to Papua.
I’m so glad this trip is over, he thought, tasting the thick salt air and feeling the warm, gentle sea breeze blowing through his coarse, slightly graying hair. He closed his deep, piercing blue eyes for a moment, relishing the completion of this mission as he felt the ship’s engines vibrating the gray, steel decking beneath his feet. He missed his longtime friend Samuel, and had discovered during this trip how much he really missed Maria.
Turner looked up at the bridge wheelhouse located amidships. In the fading light, he could make out the silhouette of the ship’s captain, Alfred Cleary, guiding his vessel through the narrow straights toward deeper waters.
Alfred Cleary had spent twenty-five years sailing these waters, and Turner felt a bit saddened at the prospect of the gruff captain’s ship being sent to the scrap yards at the completion of this voyage, and that Cleary would probably be forced into retirement.
He recalled listening to Cleary boast to the harbor master while unloading cargo at the pier in Aitape, saying, “The Southern Star is a fine ship and has never failed me through the long years. She’s sturdy and agile with her sixty-two foot beam and twenty-eight foot draft, making her ideal for these waters where many larger and newer vessels wouldn’t dare navigate.”
Turner made his way up the ladder to the bridge and entered the dimly lit wheelhouse. Thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and sweat, he stood by the doorway and received no acknowledgment from the captain who was intently focused on his task. Turner watched as Cleary skillfully guided his vessel through the dangerous Tumleo Straight.
“What is our current depth, Mr. Harkness?” Cleary asked his first officer.
“Seven point six fathoms, Captain, and falling away,” the younger officer replied. “We’re clear to navigate.”
“Thank you, Mr. Harkness; you have the bridge,” Cleary said, jotting down a few notes in his log. “Set a course for Wuvulu Island. That’ll be our final stop. We’ll take on a few passengers, then set course for home.”
“Aye, Captain,” the younger man replied, taking the wheel of the ship. Cleary simply grunted, causing Turner to smile. He turned, gave Turner a toothless grin, and then gestured with his hand toward the hatchway leading out to the deck.
Stepping out of the wheelhouse, the pair climbed down a flight of steps and began walking toward the bow of the ship. The gruff, unshaven captain lit a cigarette as they strolled. Reaching the bow, they looked landward to see the dim lights of Tumleo Island flickering in the darkness as the last vestiges of day faded into night. They felt the gentle, rumbling vibration of the six thousand horse power Allis Chalmers marine steam turbines turning the vessel’s eighteen-foot diameter propeller.
“Josh,” he asked after a long silence, “at my age, how in hell will I ever find another ship to master? I’m almost fifty-seven years old.”
“Maybe it’s time you start that charter fishing business in Adelaide. You once mentioned it to my father,” Turner responded, still eyeing the island lights in the distance. “I think you’d make a fortune from the tourists who vacation there. Some of the best sport fishing in the world, I’ve been told.”
“To tell you the truth, the more I think about it, the more I realize I couldn’t deal with those assholes, Josh. I know for damned sure I’d wind up in prison for tossing one of the sons-of-bitches overboard for telling me how to do my job,” he said, causing Turner to laugh. “But considering I still have to earn a living in order to keep beer in the fridge, I’ll keep your suggestion in mind, young Mr. Turner.” He then tossed his cigarette butt over the side, turned, and headed back toward the wheelhouse.
His eyes now adjusted to the evening, Turner noticed the form of Susan Hendrich, his intern, approaching him bathed in the soft glow of the old ship’s port running lights.
“Good evening, Dr. Turner,” she said happily, coming up to the rail beside him.
“Please don’t call me that, Susan,” he replied gruffly. “That’s my father’s title, not mine.”