Simon Rosser's Blog - Posts Tagged "asteroid"
Asteroid Impact!
Asteroid Threat to Earth – Impact Point
With news that an asteroid as big as the Statue of Liberty could hit Earth on or around the 9th of September this year, we are reminded of how fragile our existence on planet Earth and all life upon it is as we travel around the Milky Way Galaxy.
An asteroid called 2006QV89 will come perilously close to our planet and could even smash into us. At 40 metres wide, the object is not big enough to cause too much damage however as It’s only about twice as large as the 20 metres object which exploded in the skies over the Russian city of Chelyabinsk in 2013.
Having said that, The ‘airburst’ caused by this detonating meteorite left about 400 people injured, with most wounds caused by shards of flying glass from windows smashed by the shockwave. The energy from the resulting explosion exceeded 470 kilotons of TNT.
If 2006QV89 exploded over a major city like London or New York, the damage could be much greater, but still only minor in comparison to what an Earth impacting meteorite could do!
Thankfully Nasa calculations reveal it has a 99.988% probability of missing Earth.
The threat from Earth impacting asteroids and comets will unfortunately never recede, you only have to be a dinosaur to know that! In more recent times we can consider the huge air burst that occurred over Siberia in 1908 - the Tunguska Event - levelling trees in the remote forest for miles around.
If that event occurred now over a major city, the effects would be cataclysmic.
Check out the incredible, ‘Daylight fireball’ footage taken in 1972 of an Earth-grazing meteorite that passed just 35 miles above the Earth before skimming the atmosphere and continuing its journey through the solar system - https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=vBu-yUz...
Such events can happen without warning, despite NASA and Earth’s scientists trying to track these things. A sobering thought however is that the number of scientists worldwide hunting for these things is about the amount of people who work at a McDonalds restaurant!
For Anyone who enjoys a good science fiction mystery thriller on this very theme and who is interested in learning more about this worrying threat, can jump in to my exciting thriller, Impact Point, available on kindle at all Amazon stores. Alternatively, please visit the author’s website for further information and similar books.
https://www.amazon.com/Impact-Point-G...
With news that an asteroid as big as the Statue of Liberty could hit Earth on or around the 9th of September this year, we are reminded of how fragile our existence on planet Earth and all life upon it is as we travel around the Milky Way Galaxy.
An asteroid called 2006QV89 will come perilously close to our planet and could even smash into us. At 40 metres wide, the object is not big enough to cause too much damage however as It’s only about twice as large as the 20 metres object which exploded in the skies over the Russian city of Chelyabinsk in 2013.
Having said that, The ‘airburst’ caused by this detonating meteorite left about 400 people injured, with most wounds caused by shards of flying glass from windows smashed by the shockwave. The energy from the resulting explosion exceeded 470 kilotons of TNT.
If 2006QV89 exploded over a major city like London or New York, the damage could be much greater, but still only minor in comparison to what an Earth impacting meteorite could do!
Thankfully Nasa calculations reveal it has a 99.988% probability of missing Earth.
The threat from Earth impacting asteroids and comets will unfortunately never recede, you only have to be a dinosaur to know that! In more recent times we can consider the huge air burst that occurred over Siberia in 1908 - the Tunguska Event - levelling trees in the remote forest for miles around.
If that event occurred now over a major city, the effects would be cataclysmic.
Check out the incredible, ‘Daylight fireball’ footage taken in 1972 of an Earth-grazing meteorite that passed just 35 miles above the Earth before skimming the atmosphere and continuing its journey through the solar system - https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=vBu-yUz...
Such events can happen without warning, despite NASA and Earth’s scientists trying to track these things. A sobering thought however is that the number of scientists worldwide hunting for these things is about the amount of people who work at a McDonalds restaurant!
For Anyone who enjoys a good science fiction mystery thriller on this very theme and who is interested in learning more about this worrying threat, can jump in to my exciting thriller, Impact Point, available on kindle at all Amazon stores. Alternatively, please visit the author’s website for further information and similar books.
https://www.amazon.com/Impact-Point-G...
Crypto - Spire 5
CryptoCryptoCrypto - Spire 5, is now available pre-order for only $2.99 - out January 25th 2020.
Malacca Strait, 1947: A Dutch Merchant Vessel Mysteriously Sinks…
Wales, U.K, 2019: A Message in a Bottle Washes Ashore…
Nassau, Bahamas: A Potentially Lethal Discovery Awaits…
Malacca Strait, 1947...
A sinister Morse code message, purportedly from a Dutch Merchant Vessel, the S.S. Ourang Medan, sailing somewhere near the Marshall Islands, is intercepted. The message is chilling; All officers including the captain are dead - lying in chartroom and bridge - Possibly whole crew are dead - I die. Nothing further is ever heard…
Wales, U.K, 2019...
GLENCOM agent and former environmental lawyer, Robert Spire, is heading across the damp, cold, sand of his local beach, having just visited the grave of his dead wife. As he reminisces and looks out into the surf, a spec of sunlight glinting off an object catches his eye. The object turns out to be a bottle, and he wades into the surf to retrieve it. Inside Spire discovers an old, rolled up parchment, a genuine fifty-year old message in a bottle…
Nassau, Bahamas...
Dubious cryptocurrency billionaire, Emilio Drax is overseeing a salvage operation, on his own sunken vessel, The Ocean Odyssey. After returning from the Malacca Strait, the ship mysteriously disappears under the blue Caribbean Sea, coming to rest on a reef just offshore of New Providence. There is no apparent explanation for the sinking, and the islanders talk of the ship’s cargo being cursed…
Time is Ticking…to a Global Disaster.
The Odyssey is lying in shallow waters, the nesting home of the island’s endangered Greenback Turtle. To monitor the situation, GLENCOM send Spire to the Bahamas to investigate. Spire takes a scuba dive down to inspect the sunken vessel, where he makes a startling discovery.
As the ramifications of the discovery become understood, Spire is tasked to stop Drax, no matter what the cost…
CRYPTO is a fast-paced, unputdownable sci-fi action thriller, with a financial / heist theme that will keep you turning the pages until the very end. If you like James Rollins, Brett Battles, Clive Cussler, and the action and adventure of a James Bond movie then you will love the entire Robert Spire Action Thriller series.
Download your pre-order copy of CRYPTO today!
Praise for Tipping Point (Spire 1)
"Simon Rosser's scientific and psychological thriller "Tipping Point" is one of the best I have read in the past decade. He has a gift for fluent narrative, realistic characterization and for creating settings that come vividly to life for the reader. He blends tension and suspense very successfully against the contemporary background of global warming and its sinister implications.
--Author, TV presenter and Priest Lionel Fanthorpe -
Spire Action Thriller Series;
Tipping Point
Impact Point
Melt Zone
Cataclysm of the Ancients
And now, Spire 5, Crypto - out 25th January 2020.
Malacca Strait, 1947: A Dutch Merchant Vessel Mysteriously Sinks…
Wales, U.K, 2019: A Message in a Bottle Washes Ashore…
Nassau, Bahamas: A Potentially Lethal Discovery Awaits…
Malacca Strait, 1947...
A sinister Morse code message, purportedly from a Dutch Merchant Vessel, the S.S. Ourang Medan, sailing somewhere near the Marshall Islands, is intercepted. The message is chilling; All officers including the captain are dead - lying in chartroom and bridge - Possibly whole crew are dead - I die. Nothing further is ever heard…
Wales, U.K, 2019...
GLENCOM agent and former environmental lawyer, Robert Spire, is heading across the damp, cold, sand of his local beach, having just visited the grave of his dead wife. As he reminisces and looks out into the surf, a spec of sunlight glinting off an object catches his eye. The object turns out to be a bottle, and he wades into the surf to retrieve it. Inside Spire discovers an old, rolled up parchment, a genuine fifty-year old message in a bottle…
Nassau, Bahamas...
Dubious cryptocurrency billionaire, Emilio Drax is overseeing a salvage operation, on his own sunken vessel, The Ocean Odyssey. After returning from the Malacca Strait, the ship mysteriously disappears under the blue Caribbean Sea, coming to rest on a reef just offshore of New Providence. There is no apparent explanation for the sinking, and the islanders talk of the ship’s cargo being cursed…
Time is Ticking…to a Global Disaster.
The Odyssey is lying in shallow waters, the nesting home of the island’s endangered Greenback Turtle. To monitor the situation, GLENCOM send Spire to the Bahamas to investigate. Spire takes a scuba dive down to inspect the sunken vessel, where he makes a startling discovery.
As the ramifications of the discovery become understood, Spire is tasked to stop Drax, no matter what the cost…
CRYPTO is a fast-paced, unputdownable sci-fi action thriller, with a financial / heist theme that will keep you turning the pages until the very end. If you like James Rollins, Brett Battles, Clive Cussler, and the action and adventure of a James Bond movie then you will love the entire Robert Spire Action Thriller series.
Download your pre-order copy of CRYPTO today!
Praise for Tipping Point (Spire 1)
"Simon Rosser's scientific and psychological thriller "Tipping Point" is one of the best I have read in the past decade. He has a gift for fluent narrative, realistic characterization and for creating settings that come vividly to life for the reader. He blends tension and suspense very successfully against the contemporary background of global warming and its sinister implications.
--Author, TV presenter and Priest Lionel Fanthorpe -
Spire Action Thriller Series;
Tipping Point
Impact Point
Melt Zone
Cataclysm of the Ancients
And now, Spire 5, Crypto - out 25th January 2020.
Crypto - SciFI Mystery Thriller - Spire 5
Extract from new Spire thriller CRYPTO below... Order now on AMAZON! CRYPTO: Sci-Fi Mystery Thriller Simon Rosser
CRYPTO
PROLOGUE
Pacific Ocean - 400 nautical miles south-east of the Marshall Islands. 10.06.1948
THE DUTCH REGISTERED freighter ship, S.S. Ourang Medan, listed to port as she was hit broadside by an unexpectedly large wave, sending foaming and freezing Pacific Ocean seawater cascading over her forward deck.
The ship had left the Chinese port of Xiamen two weeks earlier and was on route to Costa Rica. Stored beneath the decks in her hold was a cargo of coffee, raw sugar cane, twenty-five gold bars and a single large steel container, encased in a wooden crate, which had taken ten men the best part of three hours to haul on board.
On the bridge, Captain Jacobus raised his forearm, wiping sweat from his brow as he stood at the helm, his other oil-covered hand gripping the large wooden wheel as he wrestled to keep the ship on course. He reached down and yanked the wheel lock up from the pedestal, left the helm and opened the bridge door which headed out onto the deck to get some fresh air. A strong, wet, wind hit him full on in the face as he looked up at the night sky which was beautifully clear; billions of stars, pinpricks of light, twinkled in the heavens. A good sign at least, the ocean should calm down soon, he thought.
He realised he was still sweating profusely, as salty sweat trickled into his eyes, and he wiped his brow once again. He’d been feeling unwell for the last two days, and he was now developing a sore throat and stomach cramps, which had worsened in the last few hours. He put it down to the sleepless nights he’d had since leaving port, but was now wondering if it had anything to do with the hooker he’d spent his last night with, two weeks earlier. He hoped he’d not caught anything from her, and cursed under his breath at the thought.
The ship listed again, the hull creaking ominously as the vessel’s steel panels and rivets responded to the relentless pounding of the ocean. He took one last look at the heavens and staggered back inside, unlocked the wheel and adjusting it slightly to bring the ship back on course.
“Anders, can you take over for a while. I’m going back to my cabin to lie down for half an hour,” he shouted.
Anders, who was operating the vessel’s bilge pumps, stood up and grabbed the wheel. “Yes sir,” he said, nodding at the captain in response.
Captain Jacobus left the bridge, grabbing the stair rails to steady himself as he descended towards his quarters. He made his way along the corridor on the lower deck, feeling increasingly sick as he went. He reached his cabin and hurried in, closing and locking the door behind him. He staggered to the bathroom, and projectile vomited into the basin as he entered.
“Jesus!” he groaned, running the tap to wash away the vomit. He splashed cold water onto his face, dabbing it dry with a towel, before closing the bathroom door and falling onto his bed. He shook his head to try and expel the feeling of nausea and fog now engulfing him. Was it something I’ve eaten? Surely it couldn’t have been the hooker? No sexually transmitted disease could cause such rapid illness, he reasoned.
He thought back to when they left port, the cargo that had been loaded on board, and reached over to grab the ship’s Freight Itinerary Log from his bedside table to remind himself exactly what was in the hold.
Jacobus flipped through the pages looking for the 08 June entry. He hadn’t forgotten the gold bars of course, but there was something else, in bulkhead five; the large steel container. It had taken ten men to haul it on board, the stamp on the lid had read, ‘Fragile: Restricted Access.’ The object, he knew had arrived at the Chinese port all the way from McMurdo, a U.S. base in Antarctica, some weeks earlier.
He pushed the logbook back into his bedside draw and stood up with the intention of going down to the hold to check out the container, but immediately collapsed onto the floor, vomiting again before he could reach the bathroom.
Jacobus felt his body convulse, go into spasm, like something was crawling inside his veins and invading his body. He felt excruciating pain, and then his eyes rolled back until the wooden slatted ceiling of his cabin came into view, momentarily, before blurring quickly, and then fading to black as he lost consciousness.
Up on the bridge Anders was starting to feel as sick as a dog. He wiped his brow, now soaked in sweat, and checked the control panel in front of him; course and speed all looked okay. Where the hell had the captain gone?
The ship lurched to starboard as another wave struck, and Anders clung onto the wheel in response. He wasn’t feeling right. He had tremors in his hands and his legs were suddenly growing weak as if his body was now too heavy for them, and he felt his knees starting to buckle. The tremors in his hands started to extend along his arms and he collapsed onto the bridge, losing consciousness momentarily, a terrible pain gripping his body.
In the ship’s Communications Room, Second Officer, Frans Erik, the vessel’s telegraphist could hear the men in the dining area shouting at each other. Erik left his desk and stumbled along the corridor towards the Mess Hall to find out what was going on.
He opened the Mess Hall door. What the hell? was his first thought upon entering, as he saw the state of the men inside. A fight had broken out between at least three of the crew. One man, who Anders recognised as Eddie McNamara, a tough-looking Scottish chap from Troon, near Glasgow, was being restrained by two other seamen. McNamara was foaming at the mouth, blood trickling down his temple from an open wound. At least fifteen other seamen were gathered around; watching as McNamara frantically struggled to break free from the men restraining him. His eyes were bloodshot and darting around the room like a rabid, wild animal.
“What the hell is going on here?” Second Officer Erik shouted.
One of the seamen turned around, a short stocky sailor by the name of Smith. “The Scot has gone crazy sir. He went down to check the hold about two hours ago and then suddenly went fucking nuts. He’s bitten poor Eddie Daniels in the neck. He’s in a bad way at the back of the mess,” Smith said, tilting his head towards the end of the mess hall.
Erik moved towards the Scot and the men restraining him. “What the hell is going on sailor?” he shouted, attempting to make sense of the situation.
McNamara was staring at him through bloodshot, crazed eyes. Erik studied him, realising something was seriously wrong. He’d never seen a man looking so frenzied and intent on violence.
Before Erik could ask another question, McNamara appeared to suddenly take on superhuman strength and broke free from the men restraining him. He lunged at Erik, immediately sinking his teeth into his left shoulder, before thrashing his neck back and fore like a crazed rabid dog.
Second Officer Erik felt his flesh tear, and lightning bolts of pain radiated from his shoulder area as all eighteen stone of the powerful Scot, with his stinking breath, pinned him to the floor.
“Get him off! Get him the hell off!” Erik shrieked.
It took five crew men to finally wrench McNamara free. As soon as the Scot was pulled off, Erik staggered to his feet, blood pumping from the wound on his shoulder. He placed his left hand on the torn flesh, turned and fled the mess, leaving the crew to deal with the Scot as they saw fit. He didn’t care, he just wanted to escape the carnage and craziness of what had just happened.
He felt his way back along the corridor and back into the Communications Room, the wound on his shoulder throbbing with pain, blood oozing through his fingers. Am I going to bleed to death? Get an infection?
He reached for the bottle of rum he had in the small cabinet by the desk, pulled the cork out with his teeth and poured the amber liquid onto his bare shoulder, gritting his teeth in pain as the liquor penetrated the wound.
He took a large gulp of rum but quickly started feeling dizzy, and his head started to fog up and spin. What the hell was going on? He sat at the desk and reached for the key of the telegraph machine and started frantically tapping out a message.
Dash…dash…dash…dot…dash…dot…dot – We need help. This is the S.S. Ourang Medan, location, approximately 400 nautical miles south-east of the Marshall Islands. The crew are going crazy…fighting has broken out in the Mess…Captain is sick and crew members are dying…I die.
Second Officer Erik felt his arms shaking, and with his last ounce of strength, he reached for some paper and scrawled a note – a last message, securing it with string. He grabbed the empty rum bottle, shoved the note inside and replaced the cork, sealing it tight by melting some wax he had on his desk. He turned and tossed the bottle through the open porthole into the ocean.
With all his strength gone, he fell off his chair and collapsed onto the floor, the pain from his shoulder wound radiating into his head and upper body. His eyes then rolled up to the ceiling, his face contorting in pain as an inky blackness enveloped him.
CHAPTER 1
Oakdale
West Wales, U.K.
ROBERT SPIRE STRETCHED as he got up off his lounge sofa, the old brown leather squeaking as he stood, and he looked out through the French doors into the garden beyond. It was St David’s Day, the first of March, the first day of spring, but you’d never have believed it. There was almost two foot of snow on the ground, and above, grey ominous-looking clouds threated to dump even more of the white stuff at any moment.
He sighed and took a gulp of freshly-brewed Costa Rican filter coffee, letting the hot dark liquid warm his chest as it went down. He wasn’t able to properly start the day without a fresh coffee, and certainly not on a day like today. The unusually cold weather snap was being blamed on a depression sitting over the Arctic, and causing freezing Siberian air to spill over the U.K. The press had named it, The Beast from the East, and as was usual when half a foot of snow fell over Britain, most of the country appeared to be at a standstill.
The treacherous weather wasn’t going to stop Spire from his weekly visit to his wife’s gravestone however. He’d recently bought a Range Rover to deal with the harsh Atlantic weather that often hit this small corner of Wales and the vehicle’s thick winter tyres should make light work of the steep hill down to Manorbier Bay.
After a five minute drive though the country lanes, Spire negotiated the steep route down to the coast, passed the grey, buttress walls of Manorbier’s, ancient Norman castle that overlooked the bay, and pulled to a stop on the cliff road. He killed the engine and looked out over the grey Celtic Sea for a few moments, the islands of Caldey and Lundy barely visible through the grey mist which seemed to merge with the steel blue-grey ocean, creating a panoramic scene which made it difficult to tell where the sky ended and ocean began.
He left the warmth of the Range Rover and carefully picked his way down the narrow snow-covered path to the beach and headed across the sand to the dunes at the back. He then proceeded up another path which led up to the small chapel that sat atop the hill opposite the castle, where his wife’s gravestone was located.
He looked down upon his wife’s simple stone grave, now protruding at an unruly angle from the hard white ground, crouched down and brushed away the snow to reveal the epitaph;
RIP Angela Spire, My Angel. 1972 – 2013.
His wife’s untimely death at the hands of ruthless, Saudi terrorists, some eight years earlier, still filled him with rage. He’d not forgotten that day and would never forgive either. He still had a small feeling of satisfaction as he recalled the moment he took revenge, but it was a cold comfort now, as he looked down on Angela’s gravestone.
“I love you honey,” he said, continuing to mention a few improvements he’d made in the cottage, before placing a kiss on her headstone. He then quickly hurried back down the hillside path, towards the bitterly cold beach.
As he made his way back across the beach, something in the surf caught his eye, something glinting in the light swell of the incoming tide. As he closed in on the object he could see it was a glass jar or bottle, bobbing about in the surf. It didn’t look like any ordinary bottle however. The glass was thick and it appeared to be sealed with a cork or stopper.
Spire removed his boots and socks, rolled his jeans up and waded into the freezing ocean to retrieve the object. Jeez, he cursed, as the ice-cold waves washed over him. He reached the bottle and grabbed it. Unusual, he thought, as he examined the old bottle and, through the fogged glass, what appeared to be a piece of yellowing paper inside. He quickly waded out of the water, pulled his socks and walking boots back on and headed across to the cliff top, bottle in hand. The coastal road back home was deserted, save for an elderly lady out walking her equally elderly dachshund.
As he drove back, memories of his hectic life in London as an environmental lawyer flashed through his mind; the clients, the trials and the stress of working a ten hour, office-based, treadmill routine. He counted himself lucky he’d been able to escape the drudgery of that tiring life. A thankless task, he’d realised.
His passed the castle, missing the scent of wild garlic that would normally be present, but for the snow. Since he’d been employed by the Global Environmental Command Unit or GLENCOM, as it was known, his life had taken a huge U-turn. He’d gone from working an office-based sedentary lawyer’s job to basically what amounted to an environmental secret agent, tasked with investigating potential global threats to the planet, and its population. It was a challenging and dangerous vocation, but he found it addictive and incredibly rewarding; especially now his beloved wife was dead. At least it helped take his mind off that fact. He had nothing much to lose.
He constantly wondered for how much longer he could do the job however. Over a period of eight years he’d been sent to the Arctic, Antarctic and the deserts of Syria, not to mention the USA and Europe. The physical nature of the role – apart from anything else – was taking its toll. Another year or two at the most and he’d be telling Oliver he was done, no matter how much he enjoyed the remuneration. The pay was no good if he wasn’t alive to spend it.
He pulled onto his driveway a few minutes later, the Range Rover’s tyres crunching satisfyingly over the gravel as he pulled to a stop. He jumped out, feeling a nervous energy as he headed towards the house, realising it was probably because he’d not done his usual exercise upon waking this morning. The bottle of Malbec he’d consumed the night before hadn’t been compatible with an energetic half-hour’s exercise first thing. He’d train a little later; it was the contents of the old bottle he’d retrieved from the sea that was grabbing his interest for now.
Spire headed into the kitchen and placed the mystery bottle on the table. As he did, Charlie, his Himalayan Persian cat jumped up and proceeded to rub his neck against the top of the bottle.
“Hey Charlie, careful boy, I just pulled this out of the sea, it’s a genuine message in a bottle,” Spire said, patting Charlie on his lower back near the tail, before placing him back on the kitchen floor. “Go munch on your catnip’s.”
Spire turned his focus back to the bottle and, gripping it tightly in his left hand, he grasped the old cork and tried to pull it out. It didn’t budge, so he tried again, without any luck. He inspected the lid and could see that it had been sealed with what appeared to be wax. “Hmm, okay Charlie, before smashing this thing I have an idea,” he said, glancing over at the hob.
Two minutes later, after placing the top of the bottle over a low flame, the old, hard, wax that had been used to seal the top had now melted away, enabling him to pull the old cork out with ease. A musty smell of old air wafted out as he tipped the rolled up piece of paper onto the table.
Charlie purred loudly as he brushed himself against Spire’s bare ankles. “Let’s see what we have here Charlie,” Spire muttered as he pulled off the cord that was tied around the paper.
He spread the paper out onto the table, its delicate edges desperate to spring back into the position they’d been rolled in for what could have been decades.
We need help. This is the S.S. Ourang Medan, Location, 400 nautical miles off the Marshall Islands. The crew are going crazy…fighting has broken out in the Mess…Captain is sick and crew members are, are dying…I die.
Hmm, a little creepy, Spire thought, as he read the note for a second time. He wondered how old the paper and message written on it was? Judging by the appearance of the bottle, it had to be fifty years old at least.
Spire pulled his laptop towards him and powered it up. As soon as the screen came to life, he clicked onto Chrome browser and typed into the search bar; Message in a bottle.
He hit the return key. A number of results popped up. Skipping over the excellent song of the same title by The Police, he found an article entitled Oldest message in a bottle found on Western Australia beach, and clicked on it.
“A Perth family has found the world's oldest known message in a bottle, almost 132 years after it was thrown into the sea, Australian experts say. Tonya Illman picked up the bottle while going for a walk around sand dunes on a remote beach in West Australia. Her husband Kym Illman told the BBC they found some paper in the bottle but had "no idea" what it was until they took it home and dried it in the oven. Experts have confirmed it is an authentic message from a German ship.
The note in the bottle, which was dated 12 June 1886, was jettisoned from the German ship, Paula, as part of an experiment into ocean and shipping routes by the German Naval Observatory. The bottle was jettisoned in the south-eastern Indian Ocean while the ship was travelling from Cardiff in Wales to Indonesia, and probably washed up on the Australian coast within 12 months, where it was buried under the sand, he wrote in his report.
Thousands of bottles were thrown overboard during the 69-year German experiment but to date only 662 messages – and no bottles - had been returned. The last actual bottle with a note to be found was in Denmark in 1934.”
Remarkable, Spire thought, and an incredible coincidence, bearing in mind Cardiff was only a hundred miles east of his cottage along the M4 motorway. He wondered whether this message had come from the same experiment. It was something worth bringing to Oliver’s attention at his weekly GLENCOM meeting tomorrow. His boss, Oliver, was a sucker for historical mysteries and this mystery message in a bottle was a perfect mix of both.
Spire carefully placed the old piece of paper in an envelope, wrapped the old bottle in a towel and placed them both safely away from the cat. He’d pack them in his bag later for the trip to London first thing in the morning.
Spire headed back out onto the drive to fill the washer fluid in his Range Rover for the journey in the morning. He turned the ignition on. The dashboard warning light had gone out. With the weather appearing to be getting worse, he shivered, and headed back into the house to settle in for the afternoon.
Charlie was now fast asleep on the sofa. Spire poured himself a shot of Hennessy XO and lit up a Cuban cigar. What the hell, he thought. It was almost 4 p.m. after all, and with his exercise done he had no other plans for the day. He sat back into his lounge chair and wondered what tomorrow would bring at his monthly GLENCOM meeting. Things had been fairly quiet for a while. Whilst news of global warming and melting Arctic ice had been constantly in the news, the furore appeared to have died down a bit. President Trump’s withdrawal from the Paris Climate Agreement had raised a good few eyebrows, but Trump was managing to do that on a daily basis since he’d gotten into power. News flashes relating to his Presidency, from his involvement with high class escorts, to threatening to nuke North Korea were coming out on an almost daily basis. Trump’s methods appeared to be working however; two meetings with the reclusive North Korean leader to discuss denuclearization of the Korean Peninsula had already taken place, and appeared to have calmed things down. Only time will tell if Trump’s seemingly crazy way of doing political business would work long term. It wasn’t a surprise therefore that climate change, the melting Arctic, and ongoing human warming of the planet had taken a back seat, in the news at least, for the time being.
CRYPTO
PROLOGUE
Pacific Ocean - 400 nautical miles south-east of the Marshall Islands. 10.06.1948
THE DUTCH REGISTERED freighter ship, S.S. Ourang Medan, listed to port as she was hit broadside by an unexpectedly large wave, sending foaming and freezing Pacific Ocean seawater cascading over her forward deck.
The ship had left the Chinese port of Xiamen two weeks earlier and was on route to Costa Rica. Stored beneath the decks in her hold was a cargo of coffee, raw sugar cane, twenty-five gold bars and a single large steel container, encased in a wooden crate, which had taken ten men the best part of three hours to haul on board.
On the bridge, Captain Jacobus raised his forearm, wiping sweat from his brow as he stood at the helm, his other oil-covered hand gripping the large wooden wheel as he wrestled to keep the ship on course. He reached down and yanked the wheel lock up from the pedestal, left the helm and opened the bridge door which headed out onto the deck to get some fresh air. A strong, wet, wind hit him full on in the face as he looked up at the night sky which was beautifully clear; billions of stars, pinpricks of light, twinkled in the heavens. A good sign at least, the ocean should calm down soon, he thought.
He realised he was still sweating profusely, as salty sweat trickled into his eyes, and he wiped his brow once again. He’d been feeling unwell for the last two days, and he was now developing a sore throat and stomach cramps, which had worsened in the last few hours. He put it down to the sleepless nights he’d had since leaving port, but was now wondering if it had anything to do with the hooker he’d spent his last night with, two weeks earlier. He hoped he’d not caught anything from her, and cursed under his breath at the thought.
The ship listed again, the hull creaking ominously as the vessel’s steel panels and rivets responded to the relentless pounding of the ocean. He took one last look at the heavens and staggered back inside, unlocked the wheel and adjusting it slightly to bring the ship back on course.
“Anders, can you take over for a while. I’m going back to my cabin to lie down for half an hour,” he shouted.
Anders, who was operating the vessel’s bilge pumps, stood up and grabbed the wheel. “Yes sir,” he said, nodding at the captain in response.
Captain Jacobus left the bridge, grabbing the stair rails to steady himself as he descended towards his quarters. He made his way along the corridor on the lower deck, feeling increasingly sick as he went. He reached his cabin and hurried in, closing and locking the door behind him. He staggered to the bathroom, and projectile vomited into the basin as he entered.
“Jesus!” he groaned, running the tap to wash away the vomit. He splashed cold water onto his face, dabbing it dry with a towel, before closing the bathroom door and falling onto his bed. He shook his head to try and expel the feeling of nausea and fog now engulfing him. Was it something I’ve eaten? Surely it couldn’t have been the hooker? No sexually transmitted disease could cause such rapid illness, he reasoned.
He thought back to when they left port, the cargo that had been loaded on board, and reached over to grab the ship’s Freight Itinerary Log from his bedside table to remind himself exactly what was in the hold.
Jacobus flipped through the pages looking for the 08 June entry. He hadn’t forgotten the gold bars of course, but there was something else, in bulkhead five; the large steel container. It had taken ten men to haul it on board, the stamp on the lid had read, ‘Fragile: Restricted Access.’ The object, he knew had arrived at the Chinese port all the way from McMurdo, a U.S. base in Antarctica, some weeks earlier.
He pushed the logbook back into his bedside draw and stood up with the intention of going down to the hold to check out the container, but immediately collapsed onto the floor, vomiting again before he could reach the bathroom.
Jacobus felt his body convulse, go into spasm, like something was crawling inside his veins and invading his body. He felt excruciating pain, and then his eyes rolled back until the wooden slatted ceiling of his cabin came into view, momentarily, before blurring quickly, and then fading to black as he lost consciousness.
Up on the bridge Anders was starting to feel as sick as a dog. He wiped his brow, now soaked in sweat, and checked the control panel in front of him; course and speed all looked okay. Where the hell had the captain gone?
The ship lurched to starboard as another wave struck, and Anders clung onto the wheel in response. He wasn’t feeling right. He had tremors in his hands and his legs were suddenly growing weak as if his body was now too heavy for them, and he felt his knees starting to buckle. The tremors in his hands started to extend along his arms and he collapsed onto the bridge, losing consciousness momentarily, a terrible pain gripping his body.
In the ship’s Communications Room, Second Officer, Frans Erik, the vessel’s telegraphist could hear the men in the dining area shouting at each other. Erik left his desk and stumbled along the corridor towards the Mess Hall to find out what was going on.
He opened the Mess Hall door. What the hell? was his first thought upon entering, as he saw the state of the men inside. A fight had broken out between at least three of the crew. One man, who Anders recognised as Eddie McNamara, a tough-looking Scottish chap from Troon, near Glasgow, was being restrained by two other seamen. McNamara was foaming at the mouth, blood trickling down his temple from an open wound. At least fifteen other seamen were gathered around; watching as McNamara frantically struggled to break free from the men restraining him. His eyes were bloodshot and darting around the room like a rabid, wild animal.
“What the hell is going on here?” Second Officer Erik shouted.
One of the seamen turned around, a short stocky sailor by the name of Smith. “The Scot has gone crazy sir. He went down to check the hold about two hours ago and then suddenly went fucking nuts. He’s bitten poor Eddie Daniels in the neck. He’s in a bad way at the back of the mess,” Smith said, tilting his head towards the end of the mess hall.
Erik moved towards the Scot and the men restraining him. “What the hell is going on sailor?” he shouted, attempting to make sense of the situation.
McNamara was staring at him through bloodshot, crazed eyes. Erik studied him, realising something was seriously wrong. He’d never seen a man looking so frenzied and intent on violence.
Before Erik could ask another question, McNamara appeared to suddenly take on superhuman strength and broke free from the men restraining him. He lunged at Erik, immediately sinking his teeth into his left shoulder, before thrashing his neck back and fore like a crazed rabid dog.
Second Officer Erik felt his flesh tear, and lightning bolts of pain radiated from his shoulder area as all eighteen stone of the powerful Scot, with his stinking breath, pinned him to the floor.
“Get him off! Get him the hell off!” Erik shrieked.
It took five crew men to finally wrench McNamara free. As soon as the Scot was pulled off, Erik staggered to his feet, blood pumping from the wound on his shoulder. He placed his left hand on the torn flesh, turned and fled the mess, leaving the crew to deal with the Scot as they saw fit. He didn’t care, he just wanted to escape the carnage and craziness of what had just happened.
He felt his way back along the corridor and back into the Communications Room, the wound on his shoulder throbbing with pain, blood oozing through his fingers. Am I going to bleed to death? Get an infection?
He reached for the bottle of rum he had in the small cabinet by the desk, pulled the cork out with his teeth and poured the amber liquid onto his bare shoulder, gritting his teeth in pain as the liquor penetrated the wound.
He took a large gulp of rum but quickly started feeling dizzy, and his head started to fog up and spin. What the hell was going on? He sat at the desk and reached for the key of the telegraph machine and started frantically tapping out a message.
Dash…dash…dash…dot…dash…dot…dot – We need help. This is the S.S. Ourang Medan, location, approximately 400 nautical miles south-east of the Marshall Islands. The crew are going crazy…fighting has broken out in the Mess…Captain is sick and crew members are dying…I die.
Second Officer Erik felt his arms shaking, and with his last ounce of strength, he reached for some paper and scrawled a note – a last message, securing it with string. He grabbed the empty rum bottle, shoved the note inside and replaced the cork, sealing it tight by melting some wax he had on his desk. He turned and tossed the bottle through the open porthole into the ocean.
With all his strength gone, he fell off his chair and collapsed onto the floor, the pain from his shoulder wound radiating into his head and upper body. His eyes then rolled up to the ceiling, his face contorting in pain as an inky blackness enveloped him.
CHAPTER 1
Oakdale
West Wales, U.K.
ROBERT SPIRE STRETCHED as he got up off his lounge sofa, the old brown leather squeaking as he stood, and he looked out through the French doors into the garden beyond. It was St David’s Day, the first of March, the first day of spring, but you’d never have believed it. There was almost two foot of snow on the ground, and above, grey ominous-looking clouds threated to dump even more of the white stuff at any moment.
He sighed and took a gulp of freshly-brewed Costa Rican filter coffee, letting the hot dark liquid warm his chest as it went down. He wasn’t able to properly start the day without a fresh coffee, and certainly not on a day like today. The unusually cold weather snap was being blamed on a depression sitting over the Arctic, and causing freezing Siberian air to spill over the U.K. The press had named it, The Beast from the East, and as was usual when half a foot of snow fell over Britain, most of the country appeared to be at a standstill.
The treacherous weather wasn’t going to stop Spire from his weekly visit to his wife’s gravestone however. He’d recently bought a Range Rover to deal with the harsh Atlantic weather that often hit this small corner of Wales and the vehicle’s thick winter tyres should make light work of the steep hill down to Manorbier Bay.
After a five minute drive though the country lanes, Spire negotiated the steep route down to the coast, passed the grey, buttress walls of Manorbier’s, ancient Norman castle that overlooked the bay, and pulled to a stop on the cliff road. He killed the engine and looked out over the grey Celtic Sea for a few moments, the islands of Caldey and Lundy barely visible through the grey mist which seemed to merge with the steel blue-grey ocean, creating a panoramic scene which made it difficult to tell where the sky ended and ocean began.
He left the warmth of the Range Rover and carefully picked his way down the narrow snow-covered path to the beach and headed across the sand to the dunes at the back. He then proceeded up another path which led up to the small chapel that sat atop the hill opposite the castle, where his wife’s gravestone was located.
He looked down upon his wife’s simple stone grave, now protruding at an unruly angle from the hard white ground, crouched down and brushed away the snow to reveal the epitaph;
RIP Angela Spire, My Angel. 1972 – 2013.
His wife’s untimely death at the hands of ruthless, Saudi terrorists, some eight years earlier, still filled him with rage. He’d not forgotten that day and would never forgive either. He still had a small feeling of satisfaction as he recalled the moment he took revenge, but it was a cold comfort now, as he looked down on Angela’s gravestone.
“I love you honey,” he said, continuing to mention a few improvements he’d made in the cottage, before placing a kiss on her headstone. He then quickly hurried back down the hillside path, towards the bitterly cold beach.
As he made his way back across the beach, something in the surf caught his eye, something glinting in the light swell of the incoming tide. As he closed in on the object he could see it was a glass jar or bottle, bobbing about in the surf. It didn’t look like any ordinary bottle however. The glass was thick and it appeared to be sealed with a cork or stopper.
Spire removed his boots and socks, rolled his jeans up and waded into the freezing ocean to retrieve the object. Jeez, he cursed, as the ice-cold waves washed over him. He reached the bottle and grabbed it. Unusual, he thought, as he examined the old bottle and, through the fogged glass, what appeared to be a piece of yellowing paper inside. He quickly waded out of the water, pulled his socks and walking boots back on and headed across to the cliff top, bottle in hand. The coastal road back home was deserted, save for an elderly lady out walking her equally elderly dachshund.
As he drove back, memories of his hectic life in London as an environmental lawyer flashed through his mind; the clients, the trials and the stress of working a ten hour, office-based, treadmill routine. He counted himself lucky he’d been able to escape the drudgery of that tiring life. A thankless task, he’d realised.
His passed the castle, missing the scent of wild garlic that would normally be present, but for the snow. Since he’d been employed by the Global Environmental Command Unit or GLENCOM, as it was known, his life had taken a huge U-turn. He’d gone from working an office-based sedentary lawyer’s job to basically what amounted to an environmental secret agent, tasked with investigating potential global threats to the planet, and its population. It was a challenging and dangerous vocation, but he found it addictive and incredibly rewarding; especially now his beloved wife was dead. At least it helped take his mind off that fact. He had nothing much to lose.
He constantly wondered for how much longer he could do the job however. Over a period of eight years he’d been sent to the Arctic, Antarctic and the deserts of Syria, not to mention the USA and Europe. The physical nature of the role – apart from anything else – was taking its toll. Another year or two at the most and he’d be telling Oliver he was done, no matter how much he enjoyed the remuneration. The pay was no good if he wasn’t alive to spend it.
He pulled onto his driveway a few minutes later, the Range Rover’s tyres crunching satisfyingly over the gravel as he pulled to a stop. He jumped out, feeling a nervous energy as he headed towards the house, realising it was probably because he’d not done his usual exercise upon waking this morning. The bottle of Malbec he’d consumed the night before hadn’t been compatible with an energetic half-hour’s exercise first thing. He’d train a little later; it was the contents of the old bottle he’d retrieved from the sea that was grabbing his interest for now.
Spire headed into the kitchen and placed the mystery bottle on the table. As he did, Charlie, his Himalayan Persian cat jumped up and proceeded to rub his neck against the top of the bottle.
“Hey Charlie, careful boy, I just pulled this out of the sea, it’s a genuine message in a bottle,” Spire said, patting Charlie on his lower back near the tail, before placing him back on the kitchen floor. “Go munch on your catnip’s.”
Spire turned his focus back to the bottle and, gripping it tightly in his left hand, he grasped the old cork and tried to pull it out. It didn’t budge, so he tried again, without any luck. He inspected the lid and could see that it had been sealed with what appeared to be wax. “Hmm, okay Charlie, before smashing this thing I have an idea,” he said, glancing over at the hob.
Two minutes later, after placing the top of the bottle over a low flame, the old, hard, wax that had been used to seal the top had now melted away, enabling him to pull the old cork out with ease. A musty smell of old air wafted out as he tipped the rolled up piece of paper onto the table.
Charlie purred loudly as he brushed himself against Spire’s bare ankles. “Let’s see what we have here Charlie,” Spire muttered as he pulled off the cord that was tied around the paper.
He spread the paper out onto the table, its delicate edges desperate to spring back into the position they’d been rolled in for what could have been decades.
We need help. This is the S.S. Ourang Medan, Location, 400 nautical miles off the Marshall Islands. The crew are going crazy…fighting has broken out in the Mess…Captain is sick and crew members are, are dying…I die.
Hmm, a little creepy, Spire thought, as he read the note for a second time. He wondered how old the paper and message written on it was? Judging by the appearance of the bottle, it had to be fifty years old at least.
Spire pulled his laptop towards him and powered it up. As soon as the screen came to life, he clicked onto Chrome browser and typed into the search bar; Message in a bottle.
He hit the return key. A number of results popped up. Skipping over the excellent song of the same title by The Police, he found an article entitled Oldest message in a bottle found on Western Australia beach, and clicked on it.
“A Perth family has found the world's oldest known message in a bottle, almost 132 years after it was thrown into the sea, Australian experts say. Tonya Illman picked up the bottle while going for a walk around sand dunes on a remote beach in West Australia. Her husband Kym Illman told the BBC they found some paper in the bottle but had "no idea" what it was until they took it home and dried it in the oven. Experts have confirmed it is an authentic message from a German ship.
The note in the bottle, which was dated 12 June 1886, was jettisoned from the German ship, Paula, as part of an experiment into ocean and shipping routes by the German Naval Observatory. The bottle was jettisoned in the south-eastern Indian Ocean while the ship was travelling from Cardiff in Wales to Indonesia, and probably washed up on the Australian coast within 12 months, where it was buried under the sand, he wrote in his report.
Thousands of bottles were thrown overboard during the 69-year German experiment but to date only 662 messages – and no bottles - had been returned. The last actual bottle with a note to be found was in Denmark in 1934.”
Remarkable, Spire thought, and an incredible coincidence, bearing in mind Cardiff was only a hundred miles east of his cottage along the M4 motorway. He wondered whether this message had come from the same experiment. It was something worth bringing to Oliver’s attention at his weekly GLENCOM meeting tomorrow. His boss, Oliver, was a sucker for historical mysteries and this mystery message in a bottle was a perfect mix of both.
Spire carefully placed the old piece of paper in an envelope, wrapped the old bottle in a towel and placed them both safely away from the cat. He’d pack them in his bag later for the trip to London first thing in the morning.
Spire headed back out onto the drive to fill the washer fluid in his Range Rover for the journey in the morning. He turned the ignition on. The dashboard warning light had gone out. With the weather appearing to be getting worse, he shivered, and headed back into the house to settle in for the afternoon.
Charlie was now fast asleep on the sofa. Spire poured himself a shot of Hennessy XO and lit up a Cuban cigar. What the hell, he thought. It was almost 4 p.m. after all, and with his exercise done he had no other plans for the day. He sat back into his lounge chair and wondered what tomorrow would bring at his monthly GLENCOM meeting. Things had been fairly quiet for a while. Whilst news of global warming and melting Arctic ice had been constantly in the news, the furore appeared to have died down a bit. President Trump’s withdrawal from the Paris Climate Agreement had raised a good few eyebrows, but Trump was managing to do that on a daily basis since he’d gotten into power. News flashes relating to his Presidency, from his involvement with high class escorts, to threatening to nuke North Korea were coming out on an almost daily basis. Trump’s methods appeared to be working however; two meetings with the reclusive North Korean leader to discuss denuclearization of the Korean Peninsula had already taken place, and appeared to have calmed things down. Only time will tell if Trump’s seemingly crazy way of doing political business would work long term. It wasn’t a surprise therefore that climate change, the melting Arctic, and ongoing human warming of the planet had taken a back seat, in the news at least, for the time being.
