Deadly Lode (Trace Brandon Book 1)

by Randall Reneau

  “I shouldn’t think so. They wouldn’t waste something as valuable as VX on Rosenburg. They’d just cut his throat.”

  “Okay, thanks, David. We’ll check with RCMP, the military, and I’ll contact the FBI down in Washington.”

  “Good luck, sir. And be careful. This is one of the worst nerve agents on the planet.”

  Rand shook his head in disbelief. “Better living through chemistry, eh?”

  I arrived at the mine-site around noon and immediately checked the core. Red had moved the rig and was drilling down to the projected coring interval. He still had about seventy-five feet to go.

  “Well, you’re sure as hell right about the vein, Fish,” I said, looking at the last core runs. “The vein’s either pinched out in this area, or she’s been offset by faulting.”

  “Have you been to the working face at the end of level one?” Fish asked.

  “No, we’d need to bridge a winze to get all the way to the back.”

  “I think we should get a crew up here and get some planking across the winze. We need to get a look at the vein where they stopped mining. If it is faulted off, we may be able to tell the direction of offset.”

  “Agreed. I’ll get Bob Malott to put the timber together and get up here with a crew. In the meantime, we’ll see if Red intersects the vein from the new location.”

  I called Malott and explained what we needed. He said he’d have everything together and be on-site around ten in the morning. I hung up, and Fish and I went up the new drilling location.

  “How’s it look, Red?” I asked.

  “We’re in granite but should be at the projected vein intersection in another couple of feet.”

  Fish and I went over to the sample splitter where the driller’s helpers were catching samples. I grabbed a handful of the drill cuttings and showed it to fish.

  “Granodiorite,” Fish said, looking at the small cuttings with his ten-power hand lens.

  Red yelled down from the rig. “We should be in vein now, but it’s cutting like granite.”

  We drilled another twenty-five feet of granodiorite and then hit the footwall schist.

  “Damn, she’s not here,” Fish said.

  “No, she’s not,” I replied, in disgust.

  “What do you want to do, Trace?” Fish asked.

  “Only one thing to do, Fish. Have the rig stand by while we put together some cross sections and maps. Maybe we’ll be able to figure out what’s going on after we get to the working face on level one.”

  Fish nodded and waved his hand at Red. When he got Red’s attention, Fish drew his index finger across his throat.

  “Shut her down,” he yelled.

  Paying rig time while a drill stands idle is a worst-case scenario for a project geologist. But in this case, I could see no alternative.

  Fish and I went back to our storage warehouse at Malott’s yard in Winthrop. We cranked up a couple of space heaters and went to work. While Fish worked on cross sections, I made a call I didn’t want to make.

  “Malcolm, it’s Trace. Got a sec?”

  “Sure, Trace, what’s up?”

  “We’ve lost the vein. We drilled two holes along the projected strike of the vein. When we hit the vein interval, she wasn’t there. Tom Troutman, the IUC geologist, and I are working up cross sections of the drilling to see if we can figure out what’s going on.”

  “Any guesses?”

  “Well it’s either a pinch out, which could be just a local event, or not. Or a fault has cut the vein and displaced it in some manner. We’re going to do some work in the main adit in order to get back to the working face and see if the vein is still in sight. If it’s not, we may get some indications from fault striations as to the direction of movement.”

  “Okay, Trace, I know you’re on top of it. Thanks for calling me , and please keep me informed as work progresses.”

  Malcolm hung up and hit Cyrus’s number on speed dial.

  “This better be good, Malcolm. I’m in the Cayman’s and dead center in the middle of a piece of work.”

  Malcolm could hear a muffled female giggle in the background.

  “I just got off the phone with Trace. There’s a problem at the Sullivan Mine.”

  Cyrus focused immediately. “What kind of problem?”

  “The last two core holes did not intercept the vein.”

  “Who knows about this?”

  “Just the directors and the drillers.”

  “Okay, I’m going to make a few calls in the morning. We’re going to short the stock. When news of this gets out, the shares price will drop. We’ll take some profits now, and if they relocate the vein, we’ll know ahead of time, and we’ll cover our short position. And Malcolm, not a damn word to anyone, clear?”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Al Pantelli was on his second Bloody Mary of the morning. It’d been a hell of a party last night, and he was paying the price. His cell phone rang and he picked it up.

  “Al, Cyrus here. Are you in Vegas or New Orleans?”

  “I’m back in the Big Easy. What’s up?”

  “Listen, Al. There’s a problem at Montana Creek’s mine in Washington.”

  “What kind of problem?” Al asked, taking a healthy pull on his Bloody Mary.

  “I don’t know how much you know about drilling out an orebody.”

  “Not a hell of a lot, so educate me.”

  “Well, they’re drilling along the trend, called strike, of the vein, and the vein has disappeared.”

  “What the hell you mean, disappeared?”

  “It means it could have petered out, or it could have been cut by a fault and displaced, moved laterally or vertically, or both.”

  “Which means what the fuck to me?”

  “It means, Al, they are going to have to try and find it. And they may or may not. It also means, when word gets out, the share price is going south.”

  “How many people know about this?”

  “Only Montana Creek’s board, the drillers, me, and now you.”

  “So, your man on their board called you with the info?”

  “You got it.”

  “So we’re on the inside?” Al asked.

  “Totally, at least until Trace puts out an update to the shareholders and regulators.”

  “I assume you’ve got a plan to take advantage of this situation?”

  “I do, Al. I’m shorting the stock when the market opens tomorrow. I suggest you do likewise.”

  “How many shares do you think I should sell?”

  “Well, you’ve got half a million shares, Al. You could short against all of them.”

  “How many shares are you selling short?”

  “A million.”

  “Jesus! Are you god-damned sure about this, Cyrus?”

  “Look, the shares are going to tank when the news gets out. You sell short a half million shares at two bucks and buy it back at a lower price, and it could be a much lower price. You could make several hundred grand, and still have your half-million shares.”

  “Okay, Cyrus, I’m in. But you better keep me posted, and I mean up to the fucking minute posted.”

  “Don’t worry, Al. We’re partners.”

  Fish was pouring over cross sections and fence diagrams of the cores. “Trace, it has to be a fault. The damn vein was nearly thirty-feet thick in the drill hole before we lost it. It can’t have totally disappeared in a thousand feet. It’s offset somehow.”

  I looked at Fish’s sections and agreed. We needed to get to the working face on level one and see how it looked.

  Bob Malott’s crew was already on-site and hauling six-by- six mine timbers and military-surplus, perforated steel plate, commonly called PSP, into the mine adit.

  “Morning, Trace, Fish,” Bob said. “We’ll lay the six-by- six’s across the winze and then cover it with the PSP. It’s about a five-foot-wide span, but the timbers and PSP will be strong enough to take an underground drill across, if needed.”

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nbsp; “Perfect. Just let me know when we can get across,” I said, turning to Fish. “Let’s get geared up.”

  It took Bob’s crew only about an hour to bridge enough of the winze so Fish and I could cross. The working face was about a thousand feet past the winze.

  “Here it is, Trace,” Fish said, shining his mine lantern on the rock wall where the adit came to an end.

  “No sign of the vein, but look at these horsetail striations,” I said, pointing to the feathery lineations cut into the rock face. “A fault has cut the vein, and from the looks of the horsetails, I’d say she’s been displaced downward and to the southwest.”

  Fish examined the striations in the rock and checked his compass. “Agreed. It explains why the old-timers stopped advancing this adit. They ran into the same problem as us. They lost the vein.”

  Fish made a few calculations on his clipboard. “We need to either back the rig off to the southwest or drill a very steep hole from the current location. And we’ll have to go deeper.”

  “I vote for the steeper hole from Red’s current drill pad. If we move him farther to the southwest, we’ll need to revise our permits and build a new location.”

  “Agreed—it’s worth a shot. If we miss it, we’ll just have to re-permit and get after it.”

  Fish and I exited the mine adit and found Bob and Red waiting for us. I explained the plan of attack based on our findings in the mine.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Red said. “I’ll get the rig ready to start drilling. We’ll use the down-hole hammer and catch samples until we hit the vein.”

  “Okay, Red,” I replied, “angle the hole at seventy-five degrees and grab samples every ten feet until you get to three hundred feet. After that, I’ll need samples every five feet.”

  “You got it,” Red replied. “I’ll get the rig fired up, and we’ll be making hole in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Trace, if you don’t need us anymore,” Bob said, “I’ll send my crew back to town. We’ll leave the extra timbers and PSP by the mine entrance, in case it’s needed later.”

  “Perfect,” I replied, shaking hands with Bob. “We’ll make some hole and see if we can’t get back in ore.”

  Cyrus was on the phone to his broker, Nigel Cunningham, at Cayman Island Securities, as soon as the market opened.

  “Nigel, Cyrus McSweeny here.”

  “Cyrus, good to hear from you. Are you on-island?”

  “Yes, just flew in and will be leaving shortly. Listen, Nigel, I want to place a short-sell order against some shares held in Carib International and Twisp River Resources’ accounts.”

  “Okay, Cyrus, what’s the company name and symbol?”

  “It’s Montana Creek Mining Corp. Symbol is MCM.V, on the Vancouver Stock Exchange.”

  “We’ve been buying shares on MCM for both accounts. Now you want to go short?”

  “You got it. I’ve got a hunch they’re oversold and looking at a correction.”

  “Uh-huh. How many shares do you want to sell short?”

  “A million.”

  “Damn, Cyrus. My information shows they only have about eight million shares issued and outstanding. You’re talking about twelve and a half percent of the company.”

  “Your information is correct, Nigel. Place the order.”

  “Do you think I, that is, our firm, should short them as well?”

  “You mean a naked short?”

  “Naked shorts are illegal, Cyrus, at least in the U.S. But I reckon we could borrow some shares from a Canadian brokerage. If we thought the risk was worth taking.”

  “If they get hit with a lot of short selling, it’s sort of a self- fulfilling prophecy, is it not?”

  “Unless the company generates enough buying to squeeze the short sellers. Sometimes all it takes is a significant positive announcement. It can be a risky proposition, Cyrus.”

  “No balls, no bucks, Nigel. Listen, I think the company is way overpriced at two dollars Canadian. You make your own decision. You’ve got a bunch of analysts. Crunch the numbers.”

  “We’ll see, Cyrus. In any event, I’ll place your short-sell order.”

  Al Pantelli met his older brother, Crispino, at a small café, in the French Quarter.

  “What’s the occasion, little brother?” Crispino asked, running his fingers through his curly-black hair.

  “Whadda you know about short-selling?”

  “I know if you guess wrong, and the market moves against your short position, there’s no limit to how much money you can lose.”

  “You remember the old guy I was in the can with, up in Oregon?”

  “Cyrus, something or other?”

  “Yeah, Cyrus McSweeny. They call him Cyrus the Virus. He’s a major piece of work. Anyway, he was after the Montana Creek Mining shares we got from Rosenburg.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So, Cyrus calls me yesterday and says he’s going to short the stock. He thinks the company’s in trouble. Some bullshit about a vein pinch out at their mine. I’m not too clear on the whole situation. Bottom line, he says we should short the stock and cover it with the shares we got from Rosy.”

  “You remember what Pop used to tell us, ‘If you don’t understand the deal, either whack the promoter or get the fuck away from it.’ And from what I’ve heard about this Virus prick, maybe we should vaccinate him.”

  “Vaccinate him?” Al said, with a chuckle.

  “Yeah, inject a little humility in his ass. Look, just play along with the scam but don’t short the stock. When we got the shares from Rosy, I had our accountants dig into Montana Creek Mining. They think it’s the real deal. Cyrus is looking for an angle to tank the stock, make some dough, then buy back in on the cheap. There might be an opportunity to catch him in a short squeeze. Maybe bail his ass out at a steep discount, or take his shares.”

  Al laughed, and damned near choked on his beignet. “Perfezionare, I’amo, dead solid perfect, brother.”

  Fish and I hiked up to the rig. Red was at the controls and turned in our direction as we approached the drill.

  “She’s drilling like a damn gopher,” Red shouted, over the compressor noise. “How deep do you think we’ll have to go to intersect the offset vein?”

  Fish checked his calculations. “If she doesn’t flatten out any, we should hit it around seven hundred feet.”

  “It’ll be some time tomorrow morning,” Red replied. “Assuming Nick’s crew doesn’t have any problems on the night shift. You all may as well head to town and get some chow, and shut-eye. If there’s any problems, we’ll call your cell.”

  “Okay, Red, sounds like a plan,” I said. “See you in the morning.”

  Early the next morning Fish and I were just finishing breakfast at the W when my cell went off. Caller ID showed it was Wally.

  “Hey, Wally,” I said. “What has you up at the crack of dawn?”

  “The markets just opened, and someone has shorted our stock one million shares.”

  “Holy crap, Wally. Do you know who’s shorting us?” I said, looking over at Fish.

  “I’m working on it, but there’s only one shareholder I’m worried about.”

  “Cyrus?”

  “Yep, his companies own enough of our shares to cover the short position. And a move like this is pure Virus.”

  “How’s the share price holding up?” I asked.

  “Down ten percent.”

  “Damn.”

  “Exactly, Trace. How’s the drilling coming? We need to put out some major good news, ASAP.”

  “Fish and I think we’ve figured out the problem. It’s a fault. Red is drilling a steeper, deeper hole to see if our calculations are correct. We should know something later today.”

  “Okay, sounds good. Let me know if you re-locate the vein, and I’ll get a press release out to the market.”

  “You do realize, Wally, that nobody but the directors and the drillers know we ever lost the vein. We haven’t put out any drilling updates.”

>   “Yeah, sure makes you wonder who the hell leaked this info.”

  “If the seller is Cyrus, the leak came from Malcolm. Keep digging Wally and check with Dominic. She has great contacts in the Caymans. If it is Cyrus, Malcolm is history.”

  “It’s not easy to remove a director, Trace.”

  “Oh, I think he’ll go of his own volition once we threaten to turn him over to the securities regulators. They’re getting damned tough on insider trading. We’ll Gordon Gekko his miserable ass.”

  “I’m all over it, Trace. Let me know as soon as you confirm we’re back on the vein.”

  The Pantelli family worked out of a restored nineteenth-century mansion on Saint Louis Street, in the Quarter. Crispino Pantelli walked down the hall to his brother’s office.

  “Buon giorno, Al.”

  “Morning, Pino,” Al replied, using his brother’s nickname.

  “Listen, my broker just called and confirmed a large short position was posted this morning against Montana Creek Mining shares.”

  “One thing about the Virus, he doesn’t fuck around,” Al replied, shaking his head.

  “No, he doesn’t, and neither do we. Whatever info Cyrus thinks he has is not yet public. It may just be a scam he dreamed up to knock down the share price. My guys are telling me to buy. The shares are down ten percent on word of the short sale. But they know of no negative developments with the company.”

  “So, whadda ya think?”

  “I told them to start buying. Nothing too serious, just nibble a bit at these lower levels. See if we can make a few bucks when the stock recovers. By the way, I heard some sad news about Rosenburg. I understand he’s no longer with us.”

  “Yeah, I heard he had some kind of seizure?”

  Pino lowered his voice. “The Chemist?”

  Al nodded.

  “Well, we all gotta go sometime,” Pino said, with a chuckle. “I’ll keep you posted on Montana Creek. Maybe we’ll get lucky and catch the Virus in a short squeeze.”

  Chapter 16

  Between Red and Nick Wetzel they’d managed to drill down to 650 feet.