BigBug
Chapter XI

Seamus and Moon were sitting on the deck on Moon’s old Westlander canal boat, the Albatross. They were drinking cans of Heineken and listening to The Pogues. Albatross was moored up across from Seamus’s house and berthed on the small canal the Marnixkade. It was midnight on a Friday night.

“Any idea who trashed your house this morning?” asked Moon.

“Fat Don’s handiwork,” replied Seamus, “but it’s not who turned over the house. It’s why.”

“Just as well there was no one there at the time. I say we go and confront him. Take him out. He is not bullet proof.”

“No, and neither is that hooked nose whore of a wife of his,” agreed Seamus lifting across his jacket and showing Moon his old, Colt Army model 1911, .45 automatic in its shoulder holster. He put his finger to his lips indicating Moon not talk about the pistol. “If they come back I am looking forward to meeting them.”

Moon rubbed his hands together. “When do we go and visit the asshole?” He wriggled his trigger finger at Seamus. “Relive him of his stash of opium. Loot the loot. Tax the thrashers.”

“I am not sure accosting him will accomplish anything except confrontation. What I am sure is that he must be working for someone. What does Fat Don know about meteorites? How did he replace out we had one? His information is so accurate. Too precise. They knew we were not at home.” Seamus poured himself a glass of Bush. He was puzzled. “But the government? Fat Don and Suzzi Pong working for the Dutch security services? The government? It’s weird and I cannot yet work it out but they will have protection.”

“They already have protection. The police and the taxman leave them alone. Let’s pay him a visit and make him talk.” Moon mimed he was holding his AK47.

“No. Never cause a confrontation Moon unless you are certain of the outcome.” Seamus sipped his Bush and Moon smoked his bush.

“Let’s watch the boats go by and just chill out. I need to think about all of this. I have no idea what the hell is going on but I am certain it has to do with your meteorite. I don’t know what type of rock it is but it is creating one hell of a fuss.” Seamus paused. Moon had a large transparent crystal, about the size of an egg, in his hand. He sniffed it then he held the crystal up and peered through it at the night sky. “What is that?”

“MDMA,” replied Moon, “Fat Don gave it to me. He just made a batch of 200 kilos. He’s looking four grand a kilo -”

“Shut the fuck up, Moon. I don’t want to listen to this. Its Class A shit. Fat Don” warned Seamus “does not give anyone anything for nothing. Don’t believe a word he says and stay away from him. He is working for the man.”

“Do you want a line?”

“Fuck off you idiot. I am better off talking to a letter box.”

“It’s totally pure,” enthused Moon. He grinds up some MDMA crystals, stirs them into his beer and drinks it. “This is amazing gear,” said Moon and then he was rolling a spliff of his Northern Lights. “Amazing.”

“I don’t need to be amazed. I need to be focused in on what is going on.”

“You need enlightenment. I have some mescaline below. Ok it’s synthetic but the guy who made it is a full blown natural born hippie.”

“Let’s watch the yachts pass by, Moon.”

Further down on the big canal running across them was the Kosterverloren Canal and the great railway bridge that fed Central Station was raised up to let the big sailboats and motor yachts pass through. These big boats waited until the railway bridge was up because they then didn’t have to lower their masts. Some motor yachts were just too big to pass under the railway bridge. The big yachts had been waiting patiently, some moored up all day and the crews shopping or having a meal ashore, but now they were free, and as they passed by ahead, port side on to the Albatross, their tall masts swayed in the breeze and the coloured navigation lights twinkled off the water.

Moon had his logbook out and his night binoculars slung around his neck. He was boat spotting, noting down the type of boat, her name and where she was registered. Moon smiled and waved at the boat people. Moon loved boats and you could see why.

Some of the boats that passed by were stunning.

A flotilla of Staverse Jollen, old Dutch, flat bottomed, oak built, fishing boats puttered past in line, all lovingly restored as pleasure craft. Shipwright art. Moon put his beer down on the teak table stood up and raised his treasured starlight night binoculars, which he looted from a dead Iraqi general’s field HQ.

“Look at that. Take a look at that!” He was talking to himself.

The big yacht passed through the railway bridge and not much room to spare. She motored towards our bridge which was up and waiting. A 30-meter modern motor yacht came up the canal, towering above them; sleek lines all stainless steel and teak. Quality afloat. The Beatrix sailing out of Den Haag and she was all lit up like a space ship on a goodwill visit. A wonderful ship. A rich man’s joy.

“How much do you think it cost to build that?” asked Moon.

“A lot,” replied Seamus.

“Maybe,” wished Moon, “we can get one when we sell the meteorite.”

“There is no change from five million Euros in that ship,” Seamus sighed, “and it all depends what way it has been fitted out inside. I have seen similar yachts with Picassos hanging on the walls. Art worth millions. An old girlfriend of mine was skipper of a yacht down in Marbella and just the piping in the owner’s bathrooms was made from a Platinum alloy. Cost millions. Solid gold ashtrays. I still have one somewhere. The Persian carpet in the master cabin was estimated to be worth more than a million pounds.”

“That’s a lot of money for a bedside mat. You can get a good one on E-Bay for five Euros.” Moon took a snapshot of the passing motor yacht.

“To billionaire’s money has a different value than to us. It’s meaningless to them. It’s like owning a desert. What value do you then put on the sand?”

“There is more than sand to a desert. A lot more. Ask any old desert rat.”

A more modest yacht puttered past. A twelve-meter sailboat in fine shipshape. The couple on deck were weather beaten and jovial. The man was drinking a mug of tea from a Union Jack mug, it had to be tea, the ship was the Cecelia, sailing out of Dartmouth, and his wife was at the wheel. They waved at Moon and Seamus. Seamus waved back at the couple and he hoped they enjoyed their retirement. The ship was kitted out for blue water sailing. They were probably on their way to Greece and then the Caribbean. Lucky devils.

“Maybe we can buy one like that. After we sell the meteorite,” repeated Moon.

“I wish. If you can get one. That’s a Colin Archer. Take you anywhere and look after you in a blow.”

“How much would that be worth then?”

“I’d say around 150 thousand pounds. Are you serious about buying a boat?”

“I am.”

“I have been trying for years to get the money together to buy a boat and sail around the world. It’s a big dream of mine.”

“Let’s do it. Let’s sell the meteorite.”

Seamus looked at Moon. “It is a serious undertaking. A man’s dream is not to be treated lightly, my good Moon. This is no frivolous fantasy.”

“Sell the meteorite and buy a boat, EFP your holiness, easy fucking peasey, as the nun said to her son the bishop’s wee boy. Sell the rock, buy a boat and we are off.”

“Just like that?”

“Do you have a problem with simplicity soldier?” says Moon in an American accent.

“I have a simple problem simply doing the simple things I simply want to do. We all do. Complications are a curse of common man. I simply want to sail down the coast of South America all the way from Mexico to Peru fishing for Marlin. It’s an amazing part of the world down there. And the fish are stupendous. What do you want to do? What is your dream Moon?”

“I’d like to sail to the Antarctic and feed the baby polar bears that have lost their mothers.”

“It’s a yacht I’m after not an ice breaker.”

“But what I’d really like to do,” Moon paused and drew in breath, “is buy a submarine.” He went into serious silent mode but only for a moment, a very short serious moment. The last of the yachts came sailing by, a most gracious ship. A twenty-meter, art deco, steel motor yacht, built in the late 1920s. Another beautifully restored ship. The skipper in blue blazer and white naval cap returned Moon’s salute.

“It’s not everyone gets saluted by Tony Curtis,” smiled Moon and wrote down the registration details. He took another picture. The motor yacht was the Serendipity sailing out of London. As she passed through the bridge began to close behind her. Moon was in two minds whether to discuss his plan with Seamus or no. It was an EWAB secret operation in the planning. His face was a pallet of indecision. He went for it.” You can pick up a good diesel electric hunter killer sub in East Europe or Russia, in good working order, for less than 100 thousand dollars. American dollars.”

“An ex- Soviet submarine! Are you mad?” Stupid question and Seamus thought he was joking.

“Don’t be freaking out there’s no torpedoes in them, or guns, or rockets. No armaments of any kind on them. We don’t need them. The torpedo tubes have, in fact, been welded shut and filled up with building foam. A new type of building foam developed by the Russians to withstand extreme heat,” he paused for dramatic effect, “and the cold. Ice.” he hissed just in case Seamus didn’t realise the connection. “Antarctic ice! It also provides extra buoyancy. We can surface and feed or rescue the baby polar bears when we are not on patrol.”

“Patrol?”

“Protest patrol by the EWAB’s. Underwater broadcasts. No nukes in the Irish Sea. All we need is a good sub.”

“Have you any idea what the Brits will do if they replace out two Paddies have bought an ex -Soviet submarine?”

“No Bloody Brit Business. NB.”

" It is their business and you would disappear without a trace. They would hunt you down and sink you.”

“No need to hunt us down. We would not be hiding. O no not at all. They would have no difficulty replaceing us. We paint the submarine yellow, with big green white and orange mushrooms decor. An IRA sub with Republican fungi.”

“We?”

“We are partners, right? Good. I knew I could count on you. Then we mount some good underwater speakers up on the bow the stern and the conning tower. Fill the Magic Mushroom…”

“Magic Mushroom?”

“That’s her name. Yes, the Magic Mushroom. A complete opposite, the people’s answer, to a poisonous nuclear mushroom cloud. We fill the Magic Mushroom up with party people activists and down we go. Dive dive dive - rave rave rave - its party time. Twenty thousand Es under the sea. The party goers have to pay an entrance fee of course.”

“Naturally. Keep out the sub-crashers.”

Moon was zooming. As he spoke he was dancing about the boat. He was raving. He was moonologuing. Seamus was tempted to take a wee bit of the MDMA.

“The fee includes food and the recreational essentials. Good strong acid punch and champagne glasses full of Es. Pudding bowls full of magic mushrooms. Space starters. Cosmic canapés. Hallucinogenic organic hors d’oeuvres.” He picked up the ships bullhorn and shouted out across the canal.

“Let the Rave Beneath the Wave begin.”

Moon whispered to Seamus through the bullhorn. Maybe it was stuck to his lips with THC. “I didn’t make that title up. It arrived, rhyming here before me, in its own right. It exists therefore it is.” He shouted up at the moon, “The Rave Beneath the Wave.” Seamus took the bullhorn of him. Ok they were tolerant people in Amsterdam but the neighbours might not want to go on a Rave Beneath the Wave and might prefer to sleep peacefully in their beds. It was almost one a.m. Seamus told Moon to calm down. Moon sat down smiling. Delighted with himself. Seamus does not know why but there you are. He continued raving. “We sail up and down the Irish coast where they have placed all these sneaky sonar spy devices and blast them out of it with Thin Lizzy music and The Pogues. I mean McGowan will freak out anyone on a good day. That will stop the nutters playing nuclear hide and seek off the shores of Ireland. The psychos will be deafened. Can’t hear myself plot comrade. If they can’t hear you they can’t see you. Commander DuPont told me their listening equipment is so sensitive they can hear an octopus fart at ten nautical miles. Well listen to this you creepy murderous bastards.” He blasted out Thin Lizzy performing Whiskey in The Jar from his on board CD player. The sound danced and reverberated across the canal. Seamus turned down the volume. “We have their attention I believe. We surface in the Magic Mushroom and unwrap our simple banner. No Nukes in The Irish Sea. No nukes in any sea.”

“It’s a piece of cake.”

“A piece of home-made cake created from the finest natural, unspoiled, uncontaminated, guaranteed pure Irish ingredients, and made for the discerning Celtic Tummy. None of this plutonium in our new potatoes or,” he added darkly, “Chernobyl Brussels sprouts that glow in the bleeding dark. The poor Christian peasants in Russia are using them as Christmas tree lights and not a peep out the Pope when the children are all born looking like the Broccoli Brothers.”

“You cannot,” said Seamus to this mysterious missionary on a mission “beat your own milk and eggs.”

“Scoff if you must,” said Moon shaking his head, “and deal with the precondition with your therapist but someone has to do something about these weapons of mass destruction and do something about it now! Inaction is inexcusable. Let’s look at it this way. Suppose from your house say five miles away there were creatures in a large steel tube whose only goal was to kill other creatures in a similar steel tube. Ask yourself why? And why? So they can then destroy what’s left of the planet? And every day you are going to work or out on the beach playing with your kids you can see these steel tubes all over the place. Nuclear submarines all floating bobbing about stalking each other in the waves off the coast of Ireland. Of the coast of what is soon to be Never-Never land, but you cannot normally see the psychos because they are always hiding beneath the sea. People would be terrified if they could see the nuclear submarines floating about in plain sight. They would go crazy. Mama what’s going on out there? Papa what are those things? What are they doing here? Well son they are here to vaporize us and destroy the planet, that’s all folks. We need to get rid of these psychos I say. Away with them, and who’s paying for all of this?” Moon pointed at Seamus. “Same old rip off. Same as it ever was. You are! I am! We are paying for our own destruction. When it sinks into people’s heads what these psychos are really up to, it’s a revolutionary scenario. People will tear these steel tubes to pieces with their bare hands, but they can’t, because we cannot see them. There could be a hundred of them not more than a few miles from your nearest beach. They think because we cannot see them we do not understand, or care, what they are up to. If these underwater monsters launch an attack its Earths End. Planetcide. Goodbye Paddy and Farewell Mother Earth. We humans need to let these alien types know we kind of disagree what they are up to. Let them hear the message loud and clear and what we need to do it is buy a nice wee, clamouring and clanking, Russian diesel electric job. A yellow sub infected with big green white and orange revolutionary IRA mushrooms blasting out the Heavy Metal. Long live Metallica,” he shouted up at the moon. “Heavy metal. DJ Ghandi that’s me. The psychos believe war war is better than jaw jaw. They think Churchill was an old naive idealist who actually believed in what he believed in and that when Jesus said Thou Shalt Not kill He didn’t have the responsibility of the practical day-to-day running, I should say ruining, of the planet. We have to give the paranoids something to listen to. They need something peaceful to think about besides how to devise the sneakiest way to bring about the obliteration of millions, no billions, of innocent creatures amongst whom, you,” he declared, pointing his trigger finger at Seamus, “and the Murphy, are the fucking one and one. We are ALL the one one.” He stopped hopping about popped a can of Heineken and put The Sound of Music on the sound system to give the old folk in the neighbourhood a treat, Moon began to glow from some inner fire. He was sparkling with excitement.

“Think about it. How could anyone possibly launch nuclear missiles while under bombardment with the Heavy Metal brigade screaming in their hi-tech headsets? And besides we have our secret weapon. Barry Manilow tracks. Ideal for repelling boarding parties” He cupped his hands together and shouted across the canal at some people cycling past. “Sell the rock and save the planet. Sell the rock and buy a sub.” They gave him the fingers. Moon turned to go below to get some more cold beer from the ice box. He turned to Seamus.

“ Have you ever been on a submarine?”

“ No,” lied Seamus, but this question produced such powerful imagery and recall it enabled Seamus to depart from the narrative and a performance was staged in the Mind Theatre. He went into the secret channels and tunnels of his mind and soon found what he was looking for. Cead Mile Failte, the green neon letters above the theatre door, beckoned to him. He bowed before the portal and was granted admittance.

I am not Seamus.

I am sitting at the table in the officers wardroom on board a Soviet Foxtrot Class, SSK, submarine. The submarine belongs to the Libyan navy. Sitting at the table with me are the Deputy Financial Director of the IRA, Mick Smullen, the Captain of the submarine, a Libyan intelligence officer, a horrible man, and his three Libyan agents we will drop ashore in Ireland and look after, together with twenty-five million American dollars and five hundred kilos of Semtex military grade high explosive with one thousand scarce, much needed, delayed action, electrical detonators. It is breakfast time.

Curtain up.

“How are you?” asks Smullen.

“Getting a bit better,” I lie. I am ashamed of my claustrophobia. It has made me unfit for duty. It is a psychological condition that also produces debilitating physical symptoms.

“We surface and drop you off in one hour,” says the Captain. He is a Ukrainian.

“If you can last that long,” snipes the Libyan intelligence officer. He is a rotten piece of work He does not like me and has taken my claustrophobia as a weakness. His three spies are forbidden to speak to us and they are afraid of him. He is only here because Gadhafi has ordered him on the mission.

“You get us there in one piece and I will do my job.”

We are more than twelve days late but this is defiance on my part. This is bravado. I never knew I was claustrophobic until the hatch on the submarine clanged shut off Bengasi and we dived below the Mediterranean. I cannot eat. The M.O gives me sleeping tablets and tranquillizers. There are no secrets on board a submarine. I am green faced and freaked out. I am totally unprepared for life in a submarine. I am held in contempt by the Libyans. The Foxtrot is an out-dated ex-Soviet navy boat. I am sure they were glad to get rid of it. Two of the three decks are filled with batteries. It is slow, cramped and uncomfortable. A journey that was supposed to have taken ten days had now turned into more than three weeks. As we passed through the straights of Gibraltar the crew of the Foxtrot picked up signals of an American hunter killer submarine. The captain shut down all engines and rested on the bottom. We were down there breathing in foul air, whispering and creeping about the place for more than two days. That’s when the claustrophobia really kicked in. When, eventually, the Captain decided to continue his mission he decided we had to stay submerged as much as possible. The Foxtrot was an old boat. The Captain decided to shut down two screws and run, as quietly as possible in such a rattling rust bucket, the main screw. At times when the underwater current was against us we were not doing more than three knots. At the beginning of the voyage it was not too bad. At night when we surfaced they let me spend most of my time up in the conning tower, looking at the stars and breathing in the fresh air. When I had to go back down into the sub and she dived I felt as if I were in a steel sarcophagus. Now at last we were cruising close to the coast of Donegal. Bigbug walked around inspecting the submarine. It was Bugsmacked. All this work, this design, this ingenuity, and to what avail? This construction was designed with only one purpose in human mind. To create an unnatural environment in which they could operate to kill their own kind. It would be no use pointing out to the humans that if they did not squander planetary bounty on senseless slaughter but used such energy and resources to enhance and perpurtrate the survival of their species the stars would be their limit. It was theoretically possible and a frightening thought. Bigbug checked to make sure the landing was ok. It could not have this idiot human Seamus killed in a police ambush or drowned by falling off the fishing boat at the rendezvous. This it could do because although this landing was in the future of now it was, nevertheless, a recorded past to which Bigbug and DATA had instant access but it was still a strange place to be in time and with the intriguing possibility of reverse formulae it could be possible to go into the future of now. Are humans travelling through time? Another even more frightening thought. Bigbug went through the data. Seamus, Smullen and the three spies, they were actually Iranians and that’s why they were forbidden to speak on board the sub, the arms and explosives were all safely transferred to the fishing boat the Mary Ann which successfully landed its cargo at a remote beach in Donegal. Bigbug listened to the Captain, a preying psychopath in sailors clothing.

“The coast is clear,” briefed the Captain. “ We are surfacing. Good luck, gentlemen.” He shook all our hands and we made our way to the forward deck hatch to launch and load the ribs. As I waited to climb the hatch the M.O shook my hand and said to me, “I say this to you as a doctor and a comrade and there is no shame involved. You are a liability in this environment. Stay on dry land, my friend. Submarines are not for you.”

The curtain falls and I exit the theatre.

After Seamus left the submarine Bigbug killed the crew, poisoned them with lethal gas, and then scuttled the boat. The human could no longer access anything further to this scene in the Mind Theatre because nothing further existed. Interesting to note the human Seamus was able to function and perform his duties while stricken with a debilitating condition.

Moon came up from below with the beers. He gave one to Seamus.

“Well?” he asked hopefully, “ the Magic Mushroom?”

“Submarines are not for me, Moon.”

He shrugged, a bodily motion that did not accept Seamus’s reply and he stood up in the bow of his boat the strong freezing wind rushing along the canal blowing his long, going gray, wiry hair behind him. A Billy Connolly bronze with a beer belly. There was a crackling coming off him. Static subversion. He raised his night binos and looked down the big canal. The railway bridge was closed. He was scouring the canal with his treasured binos, his looted Gulf War night glasses, but Seamus could see him in the conning tower of a U Boat surfaced off the West Coast of Ireland klaxons blaring and him shouting rave! rave! rave! as various navies desperately tried to ram him before Moon attacked them with the live and dangerous Thin Lizzie. If they attacked the Magic Mushroom Moon would go down tripping with his ship.

Thirty metres above the Albatross hovering in invisibility was Bigbug sitting in the solar space shuttle Turtle 1. Bigbug was listening in to every word spoken on the boat. It was astonished and enthralled by Moon’s performance. What an interesting and unusual human. Everything that Moon said had come out of him by bypassing his hyperactive brain. It did appear, Bigbug was not sure because it could not read it, that Moon had performed the way he did, without thinking. It was baffling. Moon had spoken and acted without thought. He had circumvented practical logic. This was clearly a scientific impossibility. It could also not read Seamus’s thoughts. Whatever force was coming out of Moon’s head was also blocking Bigbug reading Seamus’s mind. Bigbug could usually accurately predict, within a conversation, what a human was going to say next to within a 99.7 percent accuracy. Seamus brain patterns were normal and readable on its instruments but it could not read his mind. It was granted access to the Mind Theatre and its mysterious parameters. All humans thought before they spoke whether they liked it or not. It was just as much a compulsive human reaction as breathing. Bigbug knew what a human was thinking even before the thoughts were formulated but when Bigbug tried to scan Moon’s brain patterns, his brain functions, and his thoughts, Bigbug’s readings went wild. They went off the clock and malfunctioned. The instruments could not read Moon thinking. Bigbug and DATA were intrigued. They were very intrigued. What was going on in Moon’s head?

“Let’s go below Moon. I need to talk to you.”

It was neat and cozy below deck. Seamus closed the cabin door. This was the only place Moon kept tidy. The cabin was fitted out in teak and mahogany in an age when ordinary humans could afford such rare woods and craftsmen. Seamus popped a can of Heineken. Moon sat down across from him in his skipper’s chair. Seamus wrote in black block capital with a felt tip pen on an A4 sketch pad.

DON’T TALK. JUST READ AND WRITE BACK. OK? Moon nodded.

WE ARE DRIVING TO HUNGARY EARLY TOMORROW MORNING TO HAVE THE ROCK EXAMINED. Moon held up his thumb.

JUST GO ALONG WITH WHAT I SAY. OK? Thumbs up again.

WE CAN TALK BUT WE SAY WE ARE LEAVING FOR MOSCOW IN TWO DAYS. UNDERSTAND? Moon nodded. Seamus began to speak.

“I am in contact with a geologist in Moscow at the Verdansky Institute. Nazby is his name and he is an expert in determining if a rock has been impacted by a meteorite. We leave for Russia the day after tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“If the rock is extra-terrestrial it had to be blasted off a planet and really you have the choice of the Moon or Mars. An even more remote possibility it could be one of the moons of Mars or even from planet Venus but we will discount that for the present.”

“What’s this Great Gatsby got to do with it?”

“Nazby his name is Nazby. Professor Nazby. We need to take this one step at a time. If we try and get the rock classified, as a new type of Martian or Lunar meteorite, the establishment will band together and say we are cranks, etc., and the meteorite is a worthless piece of slag or worse.”

“I don’t understand this. Why would they do that?”

“Why do we threaten each other with nuclear warfare? Because they can. Because they are not in control of the meteorite. Madness assured, mutual or otherwise, carries its own momentum. This is a new type of meteorite, a unique specimen, and the engineers of God, the scientific elite, haven’t got it. They fuck you up because that’s what they do. They call it progress. Anyway look, if we get Nazby to confirm the rock, our meteorite, has indeed been impacted by a meteorite, and as far as I am can tell that’s the only explanation for the Iridium in the rock, then we have to figure out where the impact took place. The Earth, Moon or Mars, that’s the choice. I repeat all Martian and Lunar rocks were blasted off the Moon and Mars by meteoritic or comet impact and that’s a fact. Even the most sceptical scientist or the more rugged rock heads agree with this because there is no other way Martian or Lunar meteorites can escape their planets and end up in space.”

“I got it the first time,” Moon agreed,” you should remember I had geology beaten into me by the Christian Brothers and I found the meteorite. Remember me?” Moon was in a mood with Seamus because Seamus had not wildly embraced Moon and the EWAB’s plan to engage NATO and the Warsaw Pact in sonar warfare in an Irish Republican Submarine that has caught the giant revolutionary mushroom measles. “What makes this Gatsby such a great expert?”

“That’s his field, impact rocks and craters, and he has a state of the art hi-tech lab in the university to carry out his examinations. We only need to bring down one of the small pieces we have. But you can ask him yourself.”

“We are, at your insistence, maintaining radio silence, so how do we communicate? By satellite or drum?”

“We drive down to Moscow. We can stop by the Verdansky University and talk to Nazby.”

Seamus wrote on the sketchpad.

IN BUDAPEST AT THE MINERAL FAIR WIILL BE PROFESSOR GORBACHOV.

Moon wrote back.

AND WHO IS THIS RACHMANINOV WHEN HE IS NOT OUT HUNTING OFF PLANET PIANOS?

Seamus wrote.

HE IS THE WORLDS FOREMOST AUTHORITY ON LUNAR ROCKS HE EXAMINED ALL THE LUNAR ROCKS BROUGHT BACK BY THE APOLLO MISSIONS AND MOST OF THE LUNAR METEORITES. WE ARE TALKING NASA.

Moons eyes twinkled. Moon rocks? Apollo landings? Lunar meteorites? NASA? He smiled agreement at Seamus.

“I suppose it will do no harm to go down to Moscow and have a talk with Gorbachev and this Professor what his name – “

“Nazby. Professor Nazby.”

“When do we leave?”

Seamus wrote.

WE WILL DRIVE DOWN VERY EARLY THIS MORNING. THE MINERAL FAIR OPENS IN BUDAPEST IN THREE DAYS. NOT A BAD IDEA TO GET OUT OF AMSTERDAM UNTIL WE KNOW WHAT IS GOING ON.

Seamus said, “We will drive down, day after tomorrow. Early in the morning. A break will be good. I am still not happy about the apartment being broken into and trashed. Let’s split while the knights in shining armour slumber in their invincible illusions, snoring away, secure in the soft vulnerable underbelly of delusional democracy.” Moon nodded agreement. “And Moon?”

“What is it?”

“Not a word about going to Moscow to anyone. Not even the cat.”

“Murphy won’t say anything. He’s well trained. He wouldn’t say moo to a mouse. He’s a true legionnaire.”

“Not a word. Not even to Murphy.”

“And you think I am paranoid because I believe the Pentagon is a space ship from where the aliens run the planet but you think the cat is a spy. Which is more likely?”

“It’s a no brainer, Moon. Careless talk costs cats- not curiosity. I am going to crash on the boat.”

Seamus wrote.

PICK YOU UP AT SIX FROM THE HOUSE.

“Cool,” says Moon, “I have never been to Russia.”

Seamus previously organised Vikki to come over at short notice to look after Murphy and to water and feed Moons Northern Lights plants in the basement. Murphy liked Vikki coming over. Vikki spoiled him and she also brought across her sexy Persian, Wendy, to do the feline flirt. At six am next morning Murphy glared at us when we quietly slipped out the door of the apartment. The cat knew they were going off on a trip. Marnixstraat was empty and still. Seamus could not see any spooks lurking about the place. Seamus opened the boot of the Ford Focus and we put in their bags.

“Where’s the Mercy?” asked Moon as he sat into the Ford.

“This is a lease car. I borrowed it from Marcel from the Shamrock and left him with the 300D.” Moon was not impressed. This was a downgrade. “It’s a clean car,” Moon grunted, lowered back his seat, and went to sleep. Seamus pulled away. There was no one behind them. The roads were almost deserted. It was very difficult for anyone to tail them. Seamus turned onto the motorway and headed for Arnhem and then Germany where he had arranged for them to meet up with an old friend and ex-comrade of his, Tony. It would be good to see Tony again. After four hours driving and well into Germany Seamus pulled in at a service station to refuel. Moon woke up.

“Where are we?”

“We are about an hour and a half from Kaiserslautern. I need coffee.”

“I need a smoke,” says Moon. He was gray faced and awful looking. He hadn’t slept at all staying up the night smoking Northern Lights, dancing, drinking cans of MDMA laced Heineken, and Skyping and plotting with his eco warrior comrades from the illustrious EWAB.

“Go over and sit on one of the benches and make sure no one sees you smoking and don’t let anyone smell the weed. This is not Holland. The Germans will throw you in jail for having a bit of weed. They are full of zealous GITZ.”

“What’s that? Ersatz coffee?”

“Unfortunately not. It is Genetically Inspired Tolerance Zero. I will bring you over coffee.” Moon shuffled off to have a smoke and to take up position to see if any spooks pulled in behind them. It seemed they were in the clear as Seamus drove down but one can never tell with spooks. They are the sneakiest and most elusive of creatures and you wouldn’t know what they would be up to when they are awake. They live in a lawless, no rules for us, twilight, and march along regardless, to the beat of an unknown drum. The coffee was good and the hot chocolate croissants delicious. Seamus sat at the picnic bench finishing his breakfast. The traffic on the autobahn was very heavy in the early morning rush now the weather was, dull gray, misty and very cold. They would arrive in Kaiserslautern after the rush.

“Anything?”

“No Dutch or Brit cars. Nothing. Nix.” Moon was fully awake and reading the map.

“Why are we going by Kaiserslautern? It’s off the route.”

“It’s a surprise, Moon. One you are going to like.”

Bigbug didn’t like surprises. They were a form of anarchy and had no place in the universal laws of logic. Bigbug was furious. The two Irishmen were on the move. A pair of pests. Pretending they were off to Russia in 36 hours. And Bigbug had believed them. It had been duped. Fooled by a lower life form. It would be relatively easy to track them. It went out to where Turtle was moored up and went on board. The shuttle rose up into the air. Now, where are those idiots? Bigbug accessed the European motorway camera system. It talked to the relevant computers and told them what it wanted. In three minutes and eight seconds, Bigbug watched on the screen as Moon ditched the remains of his spliff at the service station. Moon stowed away his stash of Northern Lights in his secure, custom made, air sealed, crutch sporran, which nestled under his spiky balls. Tailor made by Leather John. It’s a living. Seamus didn’t want a German sniffer dog howling with joy in the back seat of the Ford while nuzzling Moon’s scrotum. Bigbug watched as the Ford pulled away into the commuter traffic heading for Kaiserslautern. Bigbug rose up in the shuttle and took off after them.

“This surprise,” said Moon, “give us a clue.”

“No chance.”

So Seamus let Moon stew a bit. He nodded off again and didn’t wake up until they pulled into the yard at the back of O’Connell’s Irish Pub in Kaiserslautern. Bigbug hovered overhead and watched. It was ten thirty in the morning and Seamus’s friend Tony, the owner, had just arrived at the pub. He was expecting them and opened the back door. He welcomed them into the pub and showed them around. It was a great pub located a few hundred metres from a US base which held more than 50 thousand NATO and US personnel. A great location and Tony’s pub had thrived from the day he opened the doors of O’Connell’s. The cleaner a very sweet shapely German girl called Gertie made them a great breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon served with fresh yummy dark delicious German bread. Moon was very impressed with the pub and Gerti. Seamus filled in Tony about the meteorite and why they were going to Budapest.

“Will you do something for me, Moon?” Said Tony.

“Sure what is it?”

“I want you to test out my Guinness. Tell me what you think.”

“I’ll give you my honest opinion.”

Tony poured Moon a nice pint of Guinness and sat it down in front of Moon. It looked lovely.” Are you not having one?” asked Moon to Seamus.

“Better not,” said Tony, “he’s looking after Margarita and the golden rule is no alcohol when you are with Margarita. You have to look after her. I am very, very, fond of her.”

“You have my word, Tony.”

“That’s a lovely pint,” said Moon licking the cream off his lips.

“Ok,” said Tony.” Let’s do this. I have a pub to run.” He stood up.

“We can have a few pints on your way back.”

Moon finished his pint. We walked towards the door. “You should have taken a pint,” said Moon. “You didn’t have to drink it sure I would have drunk it for you.”

“You are all heart, Moon.”

“Where are we going?”

“Off to see Margarita.” They went down into the cellar and then went into the underground garage. They sat in the front seats of Tony’s Hyundai van stuffed full of empty beer barrels and bottles and crates. The Hyundai exited in the adjacent street as Bigbug hovered above the Ford in the courtyard. A few minutes later they pulled into an old stables yard that was converted into garages.

“I’ll take her out for you.” Tony opened up the garage door and there was the beautiful Margarita staring out at them.

“I don’t believe it,” said Moon. “Are we?”

“Yes. Margarita is taking us all the way to Budapest and back.” Moon was thrilled.

The motor in the VW camper roared into life and Tony drove Margarita out onto the courtyard. A lovely restored VW camper fitted out with a Porsche engine, disc brakes, and all upgraded systems. Moon’s jaw was hanging open. The VW camper was gleaming.

“I have you on the insurance, Seamus.” He looked pointedly at Moon. “Seamus and only Seamus is allowed to drive her.”

Moon was out with their bags. He sat them down admiring the VW camper. Tony was smiling. Moon was like a small child at Christmas. Tony closed the garage door. He was in a rush.

“Bon voyage, gentlemen,” he said, took the keys of the Ford from Seamus, shook their hands and drove off to the pub.

Seamus sat in behind the wheel of the VW. Moon opened the sliding door and loaded in the luggage. He sat into the passenger seat and looked at Seamus. “This is some surprise.”

There was nothing to say. Margarita oozed an imperceptible character and quality.

“What way are we headed?” asked Moon settling into his comfortable seat.

“Austria.” Seamus typed in Vienna into the on board navigation system. “Spend a day or two in Vienna. It’s an amazing city. I want to visit the Observatory there and the military museum. Is that all right with you?”

“Cool. Very cool. In fact, it is ultra-cool. UC. Where are we staying?”

“About 15 kilometres outside Vienna at a Campsite. Campsite Edelweiss.”

Seamus started up the powerful Porsche engine and pulled away into what was turning out to be a fine day. The early morning mist and rain had faded and now bright winter sunshine bathed the autobahn and the well-tended fields.

“Maybe,” said Moon,” we could get someone in the Observatory to take a look at the rock.” He was sitting forward in his seat wide awake enjoying the trip. The Margarita was purring along the autobahn at a comfortable 140 kilometres per hour. She could go much faster but at a cost. There was a specially fitted long-range fuel tank in Margarita, which carried 120 litres, but it was gasoline, and if you put the boot down the needle went down with it, very quickly.

“I don’t know if there are any meteorites at the Observatory in Vienna but there are at the Vatican Observatory. I’d love to go there.”

“Pull in on the way back.”

“We can’t. We are on a budget. Driving not flying? Campsite, not hotel? Do you get me?”

“I like this,’ said Moon, “this is a great bus. It smells like it just came out the factory.”

“Yeah. Tony bought it in the States. It was fully restored by some VW geek. It's free and we are anonymous.”

“Maybe after we sell the rock we can go to Italy and stop off in East Germany on the way.”

“Why?”

“To take a look at the submarines there. They have some class subs there up for sale. Small fast silent. Diesel electric, hunter killer, submarines.”

“One owner from new. A little old lady who only used it to sail to church and back once a week.”

“If someone doesn’t buy them they will probably all end up in the breakers yard.”

“Where are you going to get a submarine crew?”

“The EWAB have a crew on standby. You can operate them with a crew of six.” He thought for a moment. “Plus a cook and two DJs. And before you throw cold water on it. The crew we have are all willing and able submariners, and I have the DJs. Picked them myself. Most important people on the boat.”

“And what role do you play in all this?”

“I am the Captain.”

“Of course.”

“And you are the cook. I mean you want to protect your investment don’t you?”

“What investment?”

“Well you are my partner so we buy the Magic Mushroom together and you being an ex-chef, and all that, and owning the Irish pubs and all that, you are the man. You’re a Man Ideal. MI.” Moon had it all worked out undoubtedly with the aid of his very odd online comrades of the EWAB.

“You need to change the name of the Eco Warriors to the Ecstasy Warriors. There is no way I am going down in a submarine with a conspiracy crew of nutters to take Es, LSD, magic mushrooms and harass nuclear submarines.” Seamus realised Moon was serious.

“You care as much about the planet as I do. Join us and I will hand over command of the EWAB to you. As I said you are a natural born anarchist.”

“And as I said, no! Let me rot away in peace.”

“You appreciate the surrealists. I know you do. What’s your favourite print? The Dali. Right?”

“That’s right. I love him.”

“What do you think of Rene Magritte?”

“His mind never expanded to where he could be, to where he wanted to see,” Moon grunted which was his polite way of saying bollox be talked now. “He never reached his true artistic potential.”

“Does any artist? But did you see Magritte’s; you know the work the one where the loaves of bread are floating in the sky outside the window?”

“I did.” Moon didn’t say anything for a while. He knew Seamus was curious.

“Well. I first saw a picture of that painting when I was in Shangan Castle. I was locked up there as a juvenile delinquent. Can you imagine that?”

“No,” Seamus lied. The VW was eating up the road effortlessly.

“They gave me a room of my own because of the snoring and a job working in the gardens. One job was mowing the lawns and what did I replace in the lawns? Magic mushrooms. Every morning there were thousands and thousands and thousands of them that had popped up overnight.” Moon started to laugh. “And the wankers had me locked up in there for having a small bag of shit weed. It was cut with parsley. It was so bad I felt like a stuffed chicken. The only way to get stoned with it was put a rock in the bag and hit yourself over the fucking head with it and they gave me a year in jail and then put me in a place that sprouted thousands, more, millions of magic mushrooms. Every day! I dried them out and they were great mushrooms. My sister used to come and visit me and I slipped her bags and bags of them. I made a fortune. I had enough money when I got out to go backpacking in India for two years. I was tripping most of the time I was in Shangan. I started painting. One day I was really off the head and I saw outside my window through the bars Magritte’s loaves of bread floating in the prison yard. I saw conning towers and fins on Magritte’s loaves of bread. They were not loaves of bread but nuclear submarines. Magritte was a visionary. I saw the crews lined up on deck in their best uniforms. I saw them as clearly as I can see you now or that car in front of us. I realised Magritte was trying to warn us about something. Something bad to come. The painting is an omen. He just didn’t know what it was but we do. Your right. He could not see it, but just suppose that the people of your town, any town, waking up and seeing nuclear submarines floating in the sky, hundreds, thousands of them, all silent, sinister, silhouettes that constantly circle the planet. Every day you wake up there they are in full view hovering waiting to strike. Just above us, circling, hovering, waiting for a nod and a wink from the madmen.” Moon started performing. In a little girls voice, he whined, “Mammy, mammy, mammy what are they doing up there? O they are just waiting for a signal from the prime ministers and presidents to kill us all. I don’t like them, Mammy, I’m afraid. Shut up and eat your propaganda.”

“It’s a striking image, Moon.”

“If Magritte were alive today that’s what he would have painted. His loaves of bread represented evil, dressed up as life, floating above us. Bread, something we love dearly, has been changed into an evil monster that will consume the planet. Why don’t you paint it?”

“I can’t. I am no good. I can visualize it but I cannot paint the intangible. I think only a great master can do that.”

“I painted it and I won first prize in the prisoner’s art competition. I called it Fear. Fear is not an intangible, it is a common tool, a fundamental, in the tyrant’s tool box.”

“Fuck off and go back to sleep. I am not buying a submarine and that’s that. Where is your painting? I’d like to take a look at it.”

“They were all destroyed in a fire. A fire set by the inmates. They burnt all their own stuff. Inmates idiocy to inmates.”

Seamus pulled into a service station, parked up and went to the toilet. He sat on the toilet and took out his notebook. He was quietly laughing as he jotted down in his unique shorthand much of what the Moon had just come out with. A submarine disrupting the superpowers at their pseudo slaughter by blasting out Heavy Metal, the Pogues, and Thin Lizzy, and the crew and planet saving soldiers of the EWAB all off their heads on magic mushrooms. It was a pure Moon scenario. There was something happening inside Moon’s brain, probably something to do with the epilepsy that was original, fascinating, interesting and intriguing. Seamus never wanted it to be lost. Moon’s latest crusade was a simple statement.

Sell the meteorite and save the world by launching The Rave Beneath the Wave.

Seamus went back out to Margarita. Moon was standing by the driver’s door waiting for him. He was excited.

“I have it,” he declared, “I have it,” Seamus said nothing. “The name of the movie.” He had a piece of paper in his hand.

“What movie?”

“The movie they will make about the Magic Mushroom. About us. About Captain Moon. The title is – The Braves Beneath the Waves. What do you think?”

“What do you think of The Hungry On Dry Land? Ok, ok, I am only joking. It’s not a bad title. Let’s go and eat. The restaurant here is good. We can talk about it over lunch.”

Moon was happy. He had the munchies. He began to sing – ‘It’s Got to Be Perfect.’

Does it?

Bigbug was miffed. It didn’t really get angry. It just got on with whatever it was up to in a miff way. It had lost the two Paddies’ life signatures. Where were they? It watched Tony drive back from the wholesalers in the Hyundai van. It was obvious this human had driven the two idiots someplace else. Bigbug initiated another search/scan for Moon and Seamus. Nothing. How could a species so stupid possess such slyness? Tony came up from the cellar into the bar. He let the cleaner out and closed the door behind her. A tall man with pale waxy skin smiled at him through the window. It rapped the pane of glass. Probably another brewery rep. Tony opened the front door. “Good morning. Come in. What can I do for you?” asked Tony in German. He turned and walked towards a table. Bigbug walked into the pub behind him.

“Ask not what your bug can do for you, ask what you can do for your bug.” It said this in perfect German. Bigbug gassed Tony just as he registered surprise and suspicion and caught him as he fell. It sat him on a chair then locked the door. Bigbug sent a long thin tendril running from its right index finger into Tony’s ear. Bigbug accessed Tony’s brain and downloaded all information and memories there into one of its cranial bug banks. Nine seconds. Bigbug squeezed a small drop of sticky bug juice out from its wasp-ringed cock and rubbed it into Tony’s nostrils. As Tony was coming too Bigbug unbolted the door and left the pub. Bigbug cloaked itself stood on its pancake of molecular modified compressed air and rose up to Turtle 1 hovering 20 metres above the pub. Once on board Bigbug processed and brought up on screen the relevant data it required. Ok, they were travelling to Budapest via Vienna in a restored green VW camper van. German licence plate number 05-LH- 6978. Let’s see where the pests were. Down below in the pub, Tony was shaking from head to foot. His mind was blank. He poured himself a shot of Paddy swallowed two painkillers and washed them down with the whiskey. He was so tired. He sat down by the kitchen table yawned and fell asleep. As he slept the bug juice crept up his nostrils and into his brain. The bug juice wiped out all memory of Bigbug’s visit.