“It might not be that unusual,” Summer said. “There was a mystery several years ago when a high number of drowning deaths began plaguing houseboat vacationers on Lake Powell. They finally discovered that exhaust fumes were accumulating off the stern of the houseboats and incapacitating swimmers in the water.”
“Steve was such a cautious man,” Miller noted.
“It’s not difficult to be overcome by an unseen killer,” Dirk said.
The discussion was taking a toll on Trevor, and he paled from the strain. Summer poured him a cup of coffee and tried to move the conversation elsewhere.
“If there is anything we can do to help, please ask,” she said, her soft gray eyes showing genuine concern.
“Thank you for trying to help my brother and his crew, and for saving the Ventura. My family is grateful.” Trevor hesitated, then added, “There is one favor I would like to ask you. I wonder if you would consider taking me to the site where you found them.”
“It’s over fifty miles from here,” Dirk said.
“We can take my boat. She cruises at twenty-five knots. I’d just like to see where he was at the time.”
Summer glanced at a clock mounted beneath a sneering mountain lion. “We don’t have to meet with the police inspector until three o’clock,” she said to her brother. “We might be able to make a quick run out and back.”
“I need to check out the ROV and see if we get anything back from the Seattle lab,” Dirk replied. “How about you go with Mr. Miller, and I’ll handle the inspector in case you’re late getting back.”
“Call me Trevor. And I’ll have her back on time,” Trevor said, smiling at Summer as if he were asking her father’s permission to take her out. She was surprised to feel a slight blush cross her cheeks.
“Save me a seat under the hot interrogation light,” she said to Dirk, rising from her chair. “I’ll see you at three.”
7
Trevor helped Summer aboard his boat, then quickly cast off the lines. As the workboat edged away from the dock, she leaned over the side and noted a NATURAL RESOURCES CANADA logo painted on the hull. When the boat had safely slipped past the port dockage and was speeding down Douglas Channel, Summer walked into the cabin and sat on a bench near the pilot’s seat.
“What do you do for the Natural Resources Department?” she asked.
“Coastal ecologist for the department’s Forestry Service,” he replied, steering around a logging ship chugging down the center of the channel. “I work mostly with industrial concerns in the northern British Columbia coastal region. I have been fortunate to base out of Kitimat, since the ongoing port expansion provides plenty of activity.” He turned to Summer and smiled. “Tame stuff compared to what you and your brother do for NUMA, I’m sure.”
“Collecting plankton samples along the Inside Passage isn’t too wild and crazy,” she replied.
“I would be interested in seeing your results. We’ve had reports of concentrated marine mortality in a few areas around here, though I’ve never been able to successfully document the occurrences.”
“Be only too happy to work with a fellow disciple of the deep,” she laughed.
The boat snaked through the winding channel at high speed, gliding easily over the calm water. Green fingers of land laden with thick pines jutted into the sound, a series of scenic obstacles. Following their progress on a navigation chart, Summer instructed Trevor to slow as they entered the main cross channel of Hecate Strait. A brief rain shower pelted them for a few minutes, leaving them in a gray gloom. As they approached Gil Island, the rain lifted, increasing visibility to a mile or two. Looking from the radar to the horizon, Summer could see that there were no other vessels around them.
“Here, let me steer,” Summer said, standing and putting a hand on the wheel. Trevor gave her a reluctant look, then stood and stepped aside. Summer angled the boat toward the island, then slowed and swung north.
“We were situated about here when we noticed the Ventura running from the northwest, a mile or so off. She made a lazy turn, gradually coming up on our beam. Would have struck us if we hadn’t jumped off her path.”
Trevor stared out the window, trying to visualize the scene.
“I had just taken a water sample. We saw no one at the helm, and a radio call went unanswered. I brought us alongside, and Dirk was able to jump aboard. That’s when he found your brother,” she said, her voice trailing off.
Trevor nodded, then walked to the stern deck and gazed across the water. A light drizzle began to fall, streaming his face with moisture. Summer left him alone with his thoughts for several minutes, then approached quietly and grabbed his hand.
“I’m sorry about your brother,” she said softly.
He squeezed her hand but continued staring off in the distance. His eyes suddenly sharpened as he focused on something nearby. A white cloud had materialized on the water a few dozen yards off the bow. The vapor grew rapidly until it encroached upon the boat.
“Awfully white for a fogbank,” Summer said with a curious look. She noted that the air took on a pungent odor as the mist drew closer.
The cloud had billowed to the tip of the bow when the light drizzle overhead suddenly thickened into a downpour. Trevor and Summer ducked into the wheelhouse as a deluge of rainwater pelted the boat. Through the window, they watched the approaching white cloud disappear under the gray canopy of falling water.
“That was odd,” Summer remarked as Trevor fired up the motor. He aimed the boat toward Kitimat, applying a heavy throttle, as he noticed a scattering of dead fish whir by in the water.
“Devil’s Breath,” he said quietly.
“Devil’s what?”
“Devil’s Breath,” he repeated, turning a troubled eye toward Summer. “A local native Haisla was fishing in this area a few weeks ago and washed up dead on one of the islands. The authorities said he drowned, possibly run over by a vessel that didn’t see him in the fog. Maybe he had a heart attack, I don’t really know.” The rain outside had let up, but Trevor kept his eyes on the boat’s path ahead.
“Go on,” Summer prodded after a lengthy pause.
“I never thought much about it. But a few days ago, my brother recovered the man’s skiff while fishing out here and asked me to return it to the family. The man had lived in Kitamaat Village, a Haisla settlement. I had done some water studies for the village, so I was friendly with a number of residents. When I met with the family, the deceased man’s uncle kept crying that Devil’s Breath had killed him.”
“What did he mean?”
“He said that the devil had decided his time had come and cast down a cold white breath of death that killed him and everything around him.”
“The reported fish and marine life kills?”
Trevor turned and gave Summer a half grin. “I’m pretty sure the old guy was drunk when he told me that. The Haisla have no shortage of supernatural deeds in their storytelling.”
“It does sound like an old wives’ tale,” Summer agreed.
But her words didn’t stop a sudden chill from tingling up her spine. The rest of the journey was made in silence, as they both contemplated the strange words of the Haisla native and how it fit with the things they had seen.
* * *
They were within a few miles of Kitimat when an executive helicopter whisked across their bow low overhead. The chopper angled toward a protruding chunk of land on the north bank, where an industrial facility was nestled in the trees. A wooden pier stretched into the sound, berthing several small boats and a large luxury yacht. On an adjacent grass clearing was pitched a large white party tent.
“Private hunting lodge for the rich and famous?” Summer asked with a tilt of her head.
“Nothing that glamorous. It’s actually a prototype carbon sequestration plant, built by Terra Green Industries. I was involved in some of the site approval and inspection work as it was being built.”
“I’m familiar with the concept of carbon sequestrat
ion. Collecting and liquefying industrial carbon dioxide gases and pumping them deep into the earth or beneath the ocean floor. Seems like an expensive way to keep pollutants out of the atmosphere.”
“The new greenhouse gas emission limits make it a hot technology. The clampdown on industrial carbon dioxide releases in Canada is especially stringent. Companies can now trade carbon credits, but the cost is much higher than many had anticipated. Mining and power companies are particularly desperate to find lower-cost alternatives. Goyette expects to make a lot of money from his sequestration technology if he is allowed to expand the process.”
“Mitchell Goyette, the environmental magnate?”
“Yes, he’s the owner of Terra Green. Goyette is something of a cultural hero to many Canadians. He’s built dams, wind farms, and solar panel fields all over the country while touting hydrogen fuel technologies.”
“I’m familiar with his call for offshore wind farms along the Atlantic seaboard to produce clean energy. I have to tell you, that doesn’t exactly look like a hydrogen-powered yacht,” Summer said, pointing toward the Italian-built luxury vessel.
“No, he doesn’t live the self-deprived life of a true greenie. He’s become a billionaire off the environmental movement, yet nobody holds it against him. Some people say that he doesn’t even believe in the movement, that it’s just a means for him to make money.”
“Apparently he has succeeded,” she said, still eyeing the yacht. “Why did he build a sequestration facility here?”
“In a word, Athabasca. The oil sands of Athabasca, Alberta, require a tremendous amount of energy to refine into crude oil. A by-product of the process is carbon dioxide, apparently in large quantities. The new greenhouse gas agreement will shut down the refinery operations unless they can find a way around their CO2 problem. Enter Mitchell Goyette. The oil companies were already building a small pipeline from the oil fields to Kitimat. Goyette convinced them to build an extra pipeline to run liquefied carbon dioxide.”
“We noticed a pair of small oil tankers in the channel,” Summer said.
“We fought the pipelines hard for fear of oil spills, but the commerce powers won out. Goyette, meanwhile, convinced the government that a coastal location was key for his facility, and even received a land grant from the Natural Resources Department.”
“A shame it ended up in such a pristine location.”
“There was a lot of dissent in the department, but the natural resources minister ultimately signed off on it. In fact, I’m told he is one of the guests visiting the official grand opening today.”
“And you didn’t make the cut?” Summer asked.
“My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail. No, wait, the dog ate it.” He laughed. It was the first time Summer had caught Trevor in a light moment, and she observed a sudden warmth in his eyes.
They sped on into Kitimat, Trevor easing the boat to berth behind the docked NUMA vessel. Dirk could be seen inside the research vessel’s cabin, typing on a laptop computer. He closed the computer and stepped out with a morose look on his face as Summer and Trevor tied up the other vessel, then walked alongside.
“Back before three, with room to spare,” Summer greeted, eyeing her wristwatch.
“I think the police chief’s visit is the least of our worries,” Dirk replied. “I just downloaded the lab results from the water samples we sent to Seattle yesterday.”
“Why so glum?”
Dirk handed the printout to Summer, then gazed across the waters of the sound. “The pristine-looking waters lying off Kitimat are threatening to kill anything that swims through them.”
8
Mitchell Goyette drained the glass of Krug Clos du Mesnil champagne with a smug look of satisfaction. He placed the empty crystal flute on a cocktail table just as the wash from the helicopter’s rotor rippled the tent overhead.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said in a deep voice. “That would be the Prime Minister.” Extricating himself from a small group of province politicians, Goyette exited the tent and strode toward a nearby landing pad.
A large and imposing man, Goyette had a polished demeanor that bordered on slick. With wide eyes, greased-back hair, and a permanent grin, he had the look of a wild boar. Yet he moved in a fluid, almost graceful manner that belied his simmering arrogance. It was the conceit of a man who had amassed his wealth through shrewdness, deceit, and intimidation.
Though not the product of a rags-to-riches story, Goyette had parlayed a family land inheritance into a small fortune when a power company solicited a portion of the site for a proposed hydroelectric project. Goyette astutely negotiated a percentage of the power revenues for use of the land, correctly predicting the insatiable power demands of a booming Vancouver. He leveraged one investment after another, acquiring mineral and logging rights, thermal power resources, and his own hydroelectric plants. A powerful publicity campaign carefully focused on his alternative energy holdings and painted him as a man of the people in order to increase his negotiating strength with the government powers. With his assets privately held, few knew of his major holdings in gas, coal, and oil properties, and the complete hypocrisy of his carefully cultivated image.
Goyette watched as the Sikorsky S-76 hovered briefly, then touched its wheels down onto a wide circular landing pad. The twin engines were shut down, then the copilot climbed out and opened the side passenger door. A short man with shiny silver hair stepped out and held his head low under the swirling rotor blades, as two aides followed him close behind.
“Mr. Prime Minister, welcome to Kitimat and our new Terra Green facility,” Goyette greeted with an extrawide smile. “How was your flight?”
“That’s one plush bird. I’m just glad the rain let up so we could enjoy the view.” The Canadian Prime Minister, a polished man in his own right named Barrett, reached over and shook Goyette’s hand. “Good to see you again, Mitch. And thanks for the lift. I didn’t realize that you were also abducting one of my own cabinet members.”
He motioned toward a droopy-eyed man with a receding hairline who stepped off the chopper and approached the group.
“Natural Resources Minister Jameson was instrumental in approving our facility here,” Goyette beamed. “Welcome to the finished product,” he added, turning to Jameson.
The resources minister didn’t return the exuberance. With a forced grin, he replied, “I’m happy to see the facility operational.”
“The first of many, with your help,” Goyette said, winking at the Prime Minister.
“Yes, your firm’s capital planning director tells us that you already have a site under development in New Brunswick.” Barrett pointed back toward the helicopter.
“My capital planning director?” Goyette asked in a confused tone. He followed the Prime Minister’s gaze and turned toward the helicopter. Another man exited the side door and stretched his arms skyward. He crinkled his dark eyes at a fleeting burst of sunlight, then ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. The tailored blue suit he wore failed to hide his muscular build but passed the mark for corporate executive attire. Goyette had to fight to keep his jaw from dropping as the man approached.
“Mr. Goyette”—he grinned with a self-confident smile—“I have the papers on our Vancouver property divestiture for your signature.” He tapped a leather satchel held under one arm for effect.
“Excellent,” Goyette snorted, regaining his composure at the sight of his hired hit man strolling off his private helicopter. “Why don’t you wait in the plant manager’s office, and we’ll attend to it shortly.”
Goyette turned and hurriedly escorted the Prime Minister into the white tent. Wine and hors d’oeuvres were served to the accompaniment of a string quartet before Goyette led the dignitaries to the entrance of the sequestration facility. A droll-faced engineer identified as the plant manager took charge of the group and led them on a short tour. They walked through two large pump stations, then moved outside, where the plant manager pointed out several m
ammoth holding tanks that were partially concealed in the surrounding pines.
“The carbon dioxide is pumped as a liquid from Alberta and received into the holding tanks,” the manager explained. “It is then pumped under pressure into the ground beneath us. An eight-hundred-meter well was dug here, driving through a thick layer of caprock until reaching a porous sedimentary formation filled with brine. It is the ideal geology to hold CO2 and virtually impervious to surface leakage.”
“What would happen if an earthquake should strike here?” the Prime Minister asked.
“We are at least thirty miles from the nearest known fault line, so the odds of a large quake occurring here are quite remote. And at the depths we are storing the product, there is virtually no chance of an accidental release from a geological event.”
“And exactly how much of the Athabasca refineries’ carbon dioxide output are we sequestering here?”
“Just a fraction, I’m afraid. We’ll need many more facilities to absorb the full output from the oil sand fields and allow them to operate at peak production again.”
Goyette capitalized on the line of questioning to insert a sales pitch. “As you know, Alberta oil production has had to face serious cutbacks because of the tighter carbon emission mandate. The situation is equally dire for the coal-fired power plants back east. The economic impact to the country will be enormous. But you are standing at the heart of the solution. We’ve already scouted more locations in the region that are suitable for sequestration facilities. All we need is your help to move forward.”
“Perhaps, but I’m not sure I like the idea of British Columbia’s coastline being a receptacle for Alberta’s industrial pollution,” the Prime Minister said drily. A product of Vancouver, he still had a homegrown pride in his native province.
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