The Abacus Equation

By Peter Stremus

In a world unable to sustain ten billion people, Pieter Van Dyck's life is turned upside down. Against his will he gets caught in a race to expose plans to decimate the population to revive the economy and welfare. Entangled in a deadly plot constructed by political advisers who want to build an ideal state, he needs to solve quickly the unexplained accidents in a not so perfect Utopia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Stremus
• Release date: Jul 14, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452382418

Peter Stremus

I spend part of my life in international public transportation: airplanes, trains and cabs. Moving from one meeting to another, seeing customers, giving presentations for one person or two hundred souls. Internet, wireless networks, cyber security are my day to day business fields. For companies like Intel, IBM, Barco. And I love it. Technology offers so many solutions for the human race to become smarter. To become better beings. That is the core of my writing. Exploring the edges of technology and see where it leads to when used for the better or for the worse.I live in Belgium, near the medieval city of Ghent. Together with my wife and two children.

Book preview

Chapter 1

She hated the pictures showing an idyllic Indian Ocean. Although it seemed pitch-dark outside, Oona De la Fayetta could descry how the purple waves sprayed maliciously over the coral reef. The heavy overcast rushed in front of the dirty pale moon and did not predict any improvement. Of all nights, precisely now, she had to relieve the watch post on the other side of the atoll. With a careless gesture she arranged her tousled hair and bounced with her fist on the door – not causing any reaction on the other side. She sighed and flung the door open. In her bossiest voice the lieutenant summoned the sleeping men. By no means had she expected an immediate and energetic reaction of men jumping out of their beds, lining up, chest high, as often depicted in American movies. But opening one lazy eye and pulling a pillow over a head was even for her unacceptable. True enough the army had financed her studies in tropical medicine, but that same army had also deemed it necessary to station her for five years in the middle of nowhere. On these occasions she wished she radiated a bit more authority. With most of her fellow officers, male and female, the same men would indeed jump up like springs. She had comforted herself over the past three years with the thought that the army was not her ultimate career choice. However, at two o'clock in the morning it only made her lose her temper. Waspishly she threatened with a week's curfew if the gentlemen were not present in five minutes in the guard room, fully dressed and ready to go. She slammed the door with a bang.

Commander of the guard Jonathan Stratford greeted De la Fayette a bit too clamorous than appropriate – which made her suspect that one or another bottle would be equally empty. He tried to make it up by quickly pushing a cup of hot coffee in her hands.

After five minutes of silence the men came shuffling around and drew up their chairs to the table where some sorts of breakfast was served. The guard room did not differ from any other in the world. Pale green walls, cracks in the ceiling and peeled off paint. The three functioning neon-lamps, a fourth one irritatingly attempted to start in vain, threw an unromantic light on the scene of silent people. A strapping insect - everything seems to grow bigger in this climate, thought De la Fayette – scratched on the wall till a rolled up Penthouse slammed it to mash. The heavy army boot of Stratford finished the job. Nobody was interested in the incident. Out of the corner of her eye De la Fayette observed the six men. Some of their faces looked familiar. But there was only one where she could put a name on. She shrugged her shoulders, looked at her watch and decided it was time to get going. Stratford had arrived at the same conclusion and had in the meantime opened the armoury. One by one he started to lay the semi-automatic guns on the table. A package of cigarettes went around. At least some form of social behaviour, reflected De la Fayette, while she herself refused. The arms were distributed, the loaded magazines were checked and disappeared in different pockets. They lumbered out of the room into the corridor where the rain capes hung meticulously in a row. Stratford knew his remark would be scornful but he could not resist wishing the small platoon a nice watch. De la Fayette disappeared as the last one through the door after she had pushed the, for her hands far too big, gun into her hip-holster. While the double door clapped behind her, the first rain showers swept the island.

No one was in favour of an inspection – certainly not De la Fayette. But she knew that Stratford would be watching from behind the darkened window. And she knew that she would get a nasty remark or worse afterwards if she ignored this part. Much to her own surprise the men started to line up so she could finish the inspection quickly and superficially. The dark rain capes, slapping in the storm and pulled up to the ears of the men, were hiding the slovenliness anyway. Moments later they marched into the darkness to the beach. Stratford tried to follow them as long as possible, but the gales increased and the rain clattered so vigorously on the window that soon he had to give up. With a sigh he unscrewed his bottle of Southern Comfort – the brand was perfectly aligned with the setting – and concentrated on the LCD screen of his laptop. A long list of unopened e-mails gave evidence of his unfaltering efficiency. He hoped aloud that the night had already come to an end.

Bruno Castellini hoped aloud that the night had never started. He was the only one of the stumbling platoon who had not yet experienced the fun of marching around in a tropical storm and had difficulties guessing what was still to come. He muttered crookedly behind the figure before him, assuming it knew where they were heading to. Time and again gusts of wind tried to separate the small group. De la Fayette had already given up to yell against the wind in the hope to increase the pace of the men.

Castellini had come to this base about a year ago. Although he knew the feeling would not last forever, the tropical beauty of the atoll had given him the impression he was attending an all-inclusive club holiday. Admittedly, the entertainment on the base evolved around the good things in life. Beach volley, frisbee, water-ski, wind surfing, diving and also the female part of the camp had been generous in sharing their charms. Probably he was the only one who started this watch in good humour. But since De la Fayette had not bothered to return his friendly good morning, had refused silently the cigarette he presented to her and since his fellow soldiers were not keen on social contact, he decided wisely to display some echo behaviour. They would loosen up, probably. Imagining how De la Fayette would look like without the dirty brown uniform had been his mental occupation for most of the evening, till they stepped outside. Now he tried to imagine how this beach looked like without the deep mud en cutting lukewarm rain. It felt like an eternity, but they had been en route for only fifteen minutes and had not even covered a fourth of the distance. Castellini tried to get to the purpose of this old fashioned patrolling. Was each centimetre of this piece of the earth not monitored and guarded by sophisticated equipment? Had anyone in this damned army ever heard of satellites? Or the military grade Google Maps? Castellini's good humour was quickly flushed away.

Each meter De la Fayette felt more pitiful. She plodded behind her platoon and desperately attempted to keep up with the men. She cursed abysmally one of the many new rules dictating that relieving the guard on the other side of the island, had do be combined with a patrol on foot along the easterly beach. Previously they jumped on a truck from one side to the other, it took them ten minutes and everyone kept dry. They had just passed the second cove, which indicated that they were halfway, when De la Fayette noticed the swaying light. The oscillating glimmer could not be further than fifty meters, but still it disappeared from time to time in the heavy rain. She stopped to peer attentively in the darkness while the rest of the platoon continued to plough through the wet sand. For one moment she was tempted to ignore the light, catch up with her men, without looking back, and pretend nothing had happened. In vain she yelled that the group had to come. Gasping for breath she overtook the small party and ordered them to return. Defying a mix of angry and apathetic looks, she tried to get across that they needed to go back on their steps and investigate something more closely. Unmotivated and unorderly they made their way across the beach. Some of the soldiers switched on their torches and searched the waterline. The strong beams tried to penetrate the darkness but nothing could be found. After five minutes everyone, including Oona herself, was convinced she had imagined the whole light or had seen a ghost. The group made it clear they had enough of it when Castellini perceived a long shadow encircled by a weak corona. He pointed his flashlight to the shadow and drew the other's attention. Slightly curious they scudded towards their discovery.

Castellini was the first to reach the stranded boat that was already buried halfway in the sand and mud. The white navigation light in the mast tried desperately to produce a weak shimmer. But it would only be a matter of minutes for the battery to be exhausted and to black out the light completely. De la Fayette estimated that the ship was about ten meters long. It had a single cabin in the centre of the hull. She had often seen this type cruising between the many islands of the Chagos Archipelago. The small boats were used as multi-purpose freighters and fishing vessels. The boat appeared, as she had expected, to be deserted. They spent some time examining the wreck with their flashlights and concluded that they were looking at nothing more than some old barge. Cut adrift after it broke away from its mooring in the storm. Nothing was mysterious or exciting about it. They started to realize that without this great find of De la Fayette, they would have been already at least half an hour in the dry and warm shelter of the guard room at the other side of the island. Ostentatiously they switched off their torches and put them back in their pouches. A bit disappointed she ordered the group to continue their way. Starting a stiff pace, the platoon marched up the beach until a few moments later De la Fayette stumbled.

When Stratford finally understood from De la Fayette's confusing account that he should come along, it took another ten minutes before the Land Rover had made its way through the muddy beach to join the platoon. Arriving, he saw the small group of men who had lost all hope to be dry that night and a somewhat pale De la Fayette. He jumped out of the vehicle and thanks to the guaranteed watertight cape he was soaked to the bone in exactly fourteen seconds. He started to feel compassionate for the men who had been exposed to this weather for more than an hour.

When he aimed his strong torch at what De la Fayette was pointing at, he remarked redundantly: "that gentlemen, is a very dead man."

* * *

Chapter 2

Pieter Van Dyck stretched sluggishly. Although it was barely morning, all signs were present that it would turn into a long and hot day. The storm of last night had not succeeded to dissipate the sultry weather from the past weeks. On the contrary, the sun already scorched at this early hour the micro solar cells mounted on the flat roof of the house. Those cells ensured that the air conditioning spread an even but freezing air current through the room. Pieter did not feel like leaving his comfortable position, but the flashing icon on the computer's flatscreen alerted him there was an urgent message waiting.

Rise, said the one voice in his head.

Give yourself another quarter, that message will not go anywhere, said the other voice.

It will certainly not disappear, answered Pieter his two internal voices, that's what I am afraid of.

Dozing off for an hour, he awoke with a start as his two day old stubbles got entangled in the mosquito-net. With some bickering he got out of bed, he pushed the net aside en took a seat at the small table packed with computers and communication equipment. He opened his mail program and skimmed through a series of new messages preceded by a red exclamation mark.

Languidly he tapped the keyboard en watched the most recent video message. It came from John Freeman, the chief air traffic controller of Diego Garcia’s watchtower and head of the rescue service in the region. Van Dyck had expected the message. Not only would the few eccentrics who still inhabited the atolls of Chagos invariably be contacted after any tropical storm to be checked upon. But the owners of airplanes (all the eccentrics having one) would also be requested to make as soon as possible a reconnaissance flight within a hundred kilometre radius to search for castaways. This time a sailing boat got into trouble. John's message ended with the GPS coordinates and the radio frequency on which the unlucky crew could be reached. There was no time for a coffee. At least, if he accepted the urgency of the message.

He sighed deeply, checked his watch to estimate how old the message already was and strolled to the bathroom. In the mirror he looked at his rough stubby beard and his grooved tanned face. His special assignment on what probably could be considered the most deserted corner of the world had run to three years. That started to show. Although he had well passed his mid forties, the small wrinkles around his eyes and his short greying hair gave him the looks of a sharp but naughty boy. Not that there was someone on the island who would care. Van Dyck happened to be the only – human - inhabitant. But he had not lost completely some sense of vanity. He quickly jumped under the rain shower and minutes later he stepped outside.

Dressed in shabby Bermuda trousers and T-shirt, with short protecting surf boots and a reversed baseball cap, Pieter gasped for breath to cope with the sudden temperature and humidity difference. He turned around – after walking a couple of meters on the large grass square – to get a good view on the house.

It was built in the eighteenth century in the typical French colonial style. It continued to astonish Pieter that they, whomever they were, had been capable of building a small castle on a lost island situated at the other side of the world. The expected flourishing business from copra was the hype of that century and multiple investors poured money in that trade hoping for a manifold return on investment. As with all hypes, it disappeared quickly and the region was again quickly abandoned. The austere freestone stairs led to a wide double door which was on both sides symmetrically flanked by three large windows. The upper floor seemed to be a mirror image of the lower floor. But instead of a door there was a protruding round balcony bordered by short pillars. The flat roof housed, carefully hidden, the solar panels and two small satellite dishes. Although the climate had inevitably left its marks, the house was remarkably well conserved. It had clearly been constructed to defy the centuries.

At first sight there was no visible damage, except for a loose severed blind that squeaked slowly around its last remaining hinge. The sharp noise of the breaking blind had woken him up earlier that night, but he had been too lazy in his bed to go out and check it. He had ignored the noise and had fallen quickly asleep again.

Relieved he continued his tour. He passed through a worn out iron fence which gave passage to the beach. As always after a storm, the beach was polluted by driftwood, dissolving jelly-fish, rotten starfish and a lot of black seaweed. That predicted again hours of cleaning with a broad raker to restore the beach into its white postal card state. One of the overhanging palm trees had collapsed and wobbled torn with the swell of the waves.

Fortunately my hammock is still intact, he thought. But now I will need to find a new favourite tree.

Pieter lived on the most southern and largest part of the Egmont Islands, called Ile Sudest. A series of atolls belonging to the Chagos Archipelago which, administratively, resorted under the British Indian Ocean Territory. The largest and most important island was Diego Garcia. Important, because Diego Garcia hosted a prominent naval base of the American and British Navy. That base had its glory period during the second half of the twentieth century, spanning the years from the cold war to the different gulf wars. But over the past decades, the base had lost its strategic purpose and had been slowly sliding into oblivion. The past years, only a skeleton staff was kept at the base for maintenance and simple operations. The staff themselves the first to wonder why the base was not closed all together. The Egmont islands formed a characteristic atoll. A half circle of small land masses surrounded by a reef on which the waves burst endlessly. The reef surrounding Egmont was interrupted in some places with shallow channels. This brought the unique advantage that one did not have to circle the full island to reach the protecting north side and the internal calm waters. Pieter had not yet figured out whether those channels were a natural phenomenon or if man had assisted nature with dynamite.

The easy access made the island popular with world travellers and sailors keen to insert a break in their voyage to spend a couple of days at the isolated beaches and become Pieter's guest.

Fortunately even today the number of world sailors was rather limited. And Pieter did not feel like being known for running the most remote bed and breakfast on earth.

He followed the beach up north and reached a large wooden mooring adjoined by a massive boathouse. The centuries old pier ran for at least twenty meters into the protected waters of the lagoon. Pieter had to admire the craftsmanship by which this massive construction was put in place. The black pylons, made from rough tropical hardwood, disappeared deep in the clear blue water and were strongly anchored into the rocky bottom of the lagoon. Robust logs and planks were seamlessly joined through wooden pegs giving the whole an indestructible appearance. Cast iron bollards, ordered mathematically alongside the pier, ensured a secure anchorage for the large sea-plane that gently swayed on the few waves.

The plane was Pieter's pride. When he first arrived on the Chagos Islands, the local instances had put the plane from nineteen hundred fifty five at his disposal. The machine belonged in a museum, but apparently someone in the administration had decided in a burst of frugality that it should last another couple of years as cheap reconnaissance plane.

He clambered on the large over-wing and untied the carefully attached camouflage-net which served as a protective tarpaulin against the rain and wind gusts of the past days. He opened a couple of hatches and peeked through the holes to check the engines. A gush of lukewarm briny water spouted on him as he opened carelessly a valve. He was afraid this forebode that starting the old engines was going to be quite an endeavour. Grumpily he knocked randomly on the wing, listening to the different tones as if trying to find a rotten spot in a wall. He untied the rest of the wet knots. Carefully he coiled the ropes around his stretched arm and disappeared in the boat house where he threw them over some hooks on the ceiling so they could dry. Before he left the boat house, he quickly checked the large brand-new semi-rib which was securely moored against the roofed-in jetty. The black twelve meter boat was the modern sailing counterpart of the old plane.

Limberly Pieter crawled into the main cabin of the plane. He bumped his head against the low door-frame, cursed in Flemish and pushed himself into the cockpit. He shoved the worn pilot-seat forward till his knees edged against the instrument panel and made contact.

Only after several attempts the first engine sputtered and cautiously he revved up. With a fairly graceful turn he steered out of the lagoon while also the second engine got going irregularly. Although the swell of the open sea was still heavy, the plane gained speed and lifted off from the waves in a cloud of spraying droplets and foam. Van Dyck got ready to complete his reconnaissance flight around the island. He climbed to five hundred feet and headed towards the west to make a couple of complete turns. Attentively he looked down to the atoll screening for damage, but at first sight the storm had only uproot a handful of palm trees. The unkept coconut trees were the prime vegetation of the island and Pieter was glad that they had not been hit too much by the storm. He hated it when he had to cut the fallen trees blocking the paths on the island. The few animals living on the atoll had gathered collectively at the most northern part, where the protection was the highest because of the slight elevation. Now the storm was over, they started to spread into the bushes again. All in all not too bad, Pieter thought, when I am back I'll be chasing pigs for a change. Besides the green spots of the islands there was nothing to see on the endless blue surface. He put on his headphones and established contact with the traffic controller of Diego Garcia.

"Red Knight calling DG control tower."

Good morning, Pieter. This is John.

Not too many lost Volvo Cuppers this year.

Indeed, but there is always one. Did you receive my messages?

Afraid so. I am already on my way.

"Did you say already on your way? With you speed they probably have drowned by now."

You are so very funny. Are there new coordinates?

Yes, there is a lot of current in that area this time of year. You will receive them on your GPS receiver. However, the crew did contact me a couple of times in the meantime. Each time a bit more panicking. Not surprisingly since I told them that help would come momentarily.

My aircraft gives a completely new dimension to the notion fast. Do you have information about the crew?

"Yes, they are two retired tax controllers from Switzerland. They don't speak a word of English. As Belgian I suppose you speak some Swiss?"

"I will deploy my best Swiss and drop them linea recta at your place. Over and Out."

The white dot soon became a yacht listing heavily to starboard under the snapped mast. The main sail was scooping water, dragging the boat deeper and deeper in the water, making it impossible to straighten it back. Probably the crew had not been able to reef down the sails – or they had foolishly bet that their mast could withstand the powers of the storm.

Pieter descended a bit more and circled slowly around the ship. Based on their enthusiastic waving it was obvious that the two on board were happy and relieved to spot the plane. Again he made contact with Diego Garcia's control tower.

Pieter calling Diego Garcia control tower.

Please go ahead.

"A forty footer or so taking in water. I can distinguish two of the crew. Their long hair makes me suspect that the tax controllers have been travelling for a very long time. The name of the yacht is the Port of Call and they are sailing under the Australian flag."

That must be them. Thanks in advance for picking them up.

No problem, as long as I can dump them with you.

You're always welcome here, Pieter.

Pieter removed the pinching headphones and throttled down. The steady humming of the two large engines turned into an irregular murmur only to be interrupted by the clapping noise of the streamlined hull hitting the first wave. The plane bounced and lifted from the surface, finally hitting the waves once more with a loud smack tens of meters further. There it came to a halt, gently rolling on the waves.

He slowly increased the power of the left engine to make sufficient speed to navigate closer to the sinking yacht. He was cross with himself that he could not master a decent landing on the sea. The hard pounding given to the old plane could not always be a great contribution to the strength of the airframe.

Warily he manoeuvred the sea plane into the direction of the yacht. Coming closer he could see that the passengers had already gathered their personal belongings and had stowed it into the rubber dinghy fastened to the stern. Only now could he measure the damage caused by the storm. The snapped mast dragged the boat deep into the water and waves started to gush over the main deck into the cabin. Most likely the machine room had been flooded, breaking down the engine and possibly choking pumps and killing electricity mains. However, there was no acute danger. With some luck, the ship would stay afloat for hours till too much water would have entered the cabin and other parts of the boat. Then it would silently disappear into the deep.

He pushed the main switch and the engine silenced. The clicking and humming of the many systems and relays made place for the soft dashing of the water against the hull. He unlocked the five point safety belt, pushed the pilot's seat to the back and crawled via the small stairways out of the cockpit. When he opened the door, he saw that the two passengers had already boarded the small life boat. One of them made desperate attempts to crank up the miniature outboard motor. Apparently without a lot of success.

Pieter brought his hand above his eyes to observe the scene in more detail.

Just what we needed. Some rich dudes on a filthily expensive yacht, but none of them ever had the brains to check or try the dinghy's outboard.

After a while, and more futile attempts to get the engine going, the two started to beckon Pieter to come closer. Amused he gestured back that they should start rowing. One of them seemed to get the hint and grabbed clumsily an oar. Without being hampered by any sense of direction he started to row against the waves while the other kept on pulling stubbornly at the start cord. Pieter yawned. This was going to be a case of