by Dave Edlund
“Forgive me, Professor, but you seem to know an awful lot about a topic you say is not your field of study.”
“I’m a scientist and an academic. My profession is seeking knowledge, whether from my own original research or reading the results of others. Obviously, I want to know as much as possible about terrestrial geochemistry to aid in my research of the geochemical processes that may be occurring on planetary moons.”
Peter was still trying to understand fully the obvious depth of Jim’s concern. “And what have others learned about conventional and unconventional oil formation theories that are relevant to your work?” Peter asked his father.
“Not much, really. You see, the fundamental problem with the biogenic theory of oil formation—the notion that organic life somehow decays under tons and tons of sediment to yield complex hydrocarbons—is, quite simply, that it is thermodynamically impossible. Unless, that is, you invoke pressures and temperatures that are far greater than can be achieved in the mantle. You’d have to go deep into the Earth, and that’s what we can’t explain—not yet.”
Peter was fascinated, and again he regretted the rift with his father.
The professor continued, “But there has to be more to it. I mean, how did the vast hydrocarbon reserves on Titan, one of Saturn’s moons, get there? I just don’t believe it had anything to do with biological origins. So Kenji—uh, Professor Sato—and I have been looking into geochemical processes. We think that under the right circumstances, hydrogen can be reduced from water, where it can then react with mineral carbonates, converting the carbon to hydrocarbon molecules.”
Peter leaned forward, “Dad, if you’re right, couldn’t the process be used to make oil?”
“Oh, don’t get too excited. We still haven’t worked it all out. There are a multitude of details that would have to be resolved. And the conditions on Saturn’s moons are thought to be completely different from conditions on Earth. We don’t even know that Earth has the required minerals that are present on Titan. My research could be a complete dead end.”
“Jim, I understand what Dad is saying, and it does sound like his work is only tenuously connected to petroleum science. Surely there are many other scientists whose work is far more relevant. Why are you focused on Dad’s research?”
“We’re not focused on just his work. I have already met with faculty at the University of Minnesota, Cal Tech, MIT, and UCLA. Next week I will be at several more universities in the mid-west.”
“And?” prompted Peter.
Jim sighed. “The reception has not been as universally positive as I had hoped. In general, members of the academic community seem reluctant to believe their lives may be in danger.”
“Do you blame them?” asked Peter.
Jim dismissed the comment. His team had pieced together a lot of circumstantial evidence that some group, maybe even a foreign government, was systematically eliminating researchers of abiogenic oil formation. But he had not been able to come up with a plausible motive. And without that he didn’t even know where to start looking—whom to begin to suspect. Each of his interviews only tended to make the whole thing more confusing—yet his gut feeling told him he was on the right path.
“So, you and Professor Sato are trying to develop a process to make oil from rock, correct?” Jim asked, not willing to give up—not yet. There was some clue, some piece of the puzzle there… just waiting to be recognized.
“Well, that’s simplified a bit, but… yes, I suppose it could be interpreted that way. But really, our interest is understanding how hydrocarbons came to be formed in such great quantities on Titan. Probability dictates that the galaxy contains tens of thousands of moons just like Titan.”
Jim pressed on, “But, if you succeed, it’s conceivable that with the right resources, someone could make petroleum—I mean hydrocarbons—by replicating the process. Is that right?”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but for the sake of argument, I concede that perhaps it could be done. However, as I’ve said, we don’t know yet with certainty what that process is.”
“Dad, you said you’re using conditions that replicate those on Titan, correct?”
Professor Savage nodded.
“Well, Titan is smaller than Earth, and colder. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Then your reaction conditions are probably not terribly extreme compared to conditions that could be encountered within the Earth’s mantle. And if that were true, then why not adapt the process to yield a synthetic route to petroleum?”
Professor Savage shook his head. “No. My work is not aimed at understanding novel ways that petroleum may—or may not—be formed on Earth. And it certainly has nothing to do with inventing synthetic routes to petroleum production. That’s the job of the oil companies.”
Jim stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the park-like setting—lush green lawn punctuated with trees and lined with rhododendrons and azaleas, some still sporting vivid pink and purple blossoms. A concrete ribbon funneled students between classes, and several groups were sprawled on the lawn, no doubt talking about matters far less grave than national security and murder. It was a picture of innocence—and it contrasted sharply with Jim’s line of business.
Suddenly, he turned and walked back to the table. “Okay. I’ve been trying to figure out the motive… the reason why someone would be systematically killing your colleagues, Professor.”
“I don’t really consider the people you mentioned to be my colleagues. I work in a different field entirely. I’m not even funded by an oil company.” Professor Savage wasn’t following Jim’s reasoning. For that matter, neither was Peter.
“What are you getting at, Jim?” Peter asked.
“It’s like your dad said. A select group already accepts that oil can be formed by non-biological mechanisms. And at least the Russians and Ukrainians have been exploiting that thinking to find new reserves. So why kill these researchers? But you just said it, Professor. You are not funded by an oil company. Why not?”
“Well, they aren’t interested in studying moons. That’s pretty clear.”
“I think that’s a bit too simplistic. With an understanding of extra-planetary geology and how hydrocarbons were formed on Titan, an enterprising company could very well invent a process to make oil.”
“There is no scientific basis to support your suggestion.” Professor Savage said, exasperated. “You must understand that any commercial process—most especially refining and petrochemical production—must be very economical in addition to being scientifically possible. Even if we discovered a chemical route to synthesize oil from minerals, that does not guarantee it is economical to practice.”
“Dad, I understand. But the first step is always the science. Once that is understood, then engineers will tackle the problem of process economics.”
Professor Savage slumped in his chair and sighed. “You are arguing hypotheticals as if they were fact. How does this result in a threat to my life?”
“If oil producers thought there was a synthetic route to compete with production from known reserves, that could be a big motive.” Peter concluded.
“Exactly,” said Jim.
Professor Savage stubbornly resisted. “Oh, come on. You don’t really think that an oil company has hired a bunch of hit men to knock off these researchers. That’s crazy!”
“Is it?” Jim paused to let the implications sink in.
“Who has more at stake than the big oil companies? Who owns more oil and gas reserves than Excelon, Trident, New Holland Oil, and British Energy combined?”
Peter hesitated, now that he knew what Jim was driving at. “State-owned oil companies.”
“That’s right. Of the twenty largest oil companies, sixteen are owned by governments.”
Peter took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “The cartel—OPEC.”
The room suddenly seemed cold, and Peter felt the hair standing on his arms.
“Yes, the cartel. The
y would have the motive, and even more importantly, the means.”
“Come now, conspiracy theories?” the Professor scoffed. “The OPEC countries have just as much to gain as we do. If Kenji and I are successful, and by some wild stretch of the imagination our work leads to a practical method to synthesize oil, which I think is highly unlikely, then all countries can enjoy energy independence.”
“Don’t you see, Dad? Sure, they may have as much to gain as we do with a possibly infinite supply of synthetic oil, but economically, they have so much more to lose.”
Before Professor Savage could argue further, Jim elaborated. “The OPEC countries live on the money made by selling oil to other countries. Saudi Arabia—one of the few OPEC countries that is, at least for now, publicly friendly to the U.S.—has stated that they feel oil should sell at, or above, a minimum price per barrel rather than trade at the relatively lower prices set by a truly open market. Western intelligence suggests that Venezuela and Iran need to sell their oil at twenty percent higher than the price advocated by the Saudis to continue to prop up their governments. If anyone could synthesize oil at a lower price—say half of the market price set by OPEC—the oil export market would collapse, along with the economies of those countries.
“Granted, this is conjecture, but with a collapse of the export market it’s likely that some of the OPEC governments would also collapse—not necessarily a bad thing for the U.S., mind you.”
Professor Savage was still unconvinced. “But if you are correct—and I don’t think you are—the world economy as we know it would change, perhaps in very unpredictable ways. This could also change the balance of power as well.”
“Professor, clearly I don’t know what may or may not happen to global politics and economics if you succeed in developing this process, as I believe you will. My concern is to protect the national security of this country. And right now, that means protecting you and your associates so you can complete your research.”
“I’m sorry. You haven’t presented one shred of evidence. This is all speculation that you concocted just now during our discussion.” His eyes flared, he shook his head in emphasis. “No, I don’t buy your theory and you still haven’t convinced me that my life is in imminent danger.”
“Dad, don’t be stubborn or foolish! What’s the harm in accepting protection for a while?”
“In eight days I’m leaving for Alaska with five of my colleagues. I need to collect specific rock specimens in order to continue my research through the winter. We’ve been planning this trip for almost a year, and I won’t postpone it. The location is uniquely positioned very near to the subduction zone at the northern edge of the Pacific plate.
“Peter, you know how bad the winters are up there. If we don’t go now, we lose at least eight months before we can go again.”
“Where are you going in Alaska?” asked Jim.
“Chernabura Island. It’s in the Aleutian chain just south of Sand Point and about 26 miles north of the subduction zone. Peter knows it well.” Professor Savage smiled. He knew how much Peter enjoyed spending time there. “We figured on staying at the cabin.”
“Well, that should be simple,” said Peter, turning his attention back to Jim. “Just send some of your men along on the trip to provide protection.”
“I wish it were that easy. My team is part of the Department of Defense, and we cannot deploy armed troops on U.S. soil without proper authorization from the state and federal authorities. It will take too long to get that.”
“What about the FBI or state police?”
Jim shook his head. “The FBI hasn’t taken a serious interest in this case since the murders so far have occurred on foreign soil. Professor, it would be better if you would postpone the trip—give us time to get to the bottom of this and clean it up.”
“No! I will not delay. Why do you think I’m any safer staying here? Besides, it is imperative that we complete the survey and get those samples. We cannot continue our planned experimental work and test the catalysts without accurate geological samples. No. My answer is firm.”
Jim looked at Peter, but Peter remained silent.
“All right,” said Jim. “I’ll do what I can. Maybe I can at least get a U.S. marshal to tag along with you. I trust that would be acceptable?”
“I’m all right with that… provided he stays out of my way and doesn’t interfere with my work.” The Professor was sounding rather defiant, something Peter was used to. Jim did not have a good feeling about it at all and his expression said as much.
“Dad, I really think Jim is right. Please, at least think about what he’s said. I don’t want to see you hurt—or worse.”
“Peter, I’m going to be fine. Don’t worry.”
Peter reluctantly accepted his father’s decision. He looked into his father’s eyes and said, “Actually, Dad, I’ve been planning to go to the cabin to do some hunting. I’ll go along with you. There’s plenty of room with the bunks.”
Jim frowned, not believing what he had just heard. It was bad enough he couldn’t deter Professor Savage from continuing with his expedition—but now Peter was going too?
A bit surprised, his father answered, “It’s too early for the black-tail deer rut, I think. Going after bear, I suppose?”
With a hard edge to his voice Peter replied, “Yeah, bear probably,” and he stopped short of voicing the rest of his thought—or something even more dangerous.
Chapter 5
September 13
Corvallis, Oregon
Although Jim and Peter were meeting with Professor Savage in his office behind a closed door, that didn’t mean their conversation was private. Unknown to the three men in the office, parked more than 300 yards from the professor’s window was a dark-gray sedan with two ordinary-looking men seated inside.
No one was likely to notice anything unusual about the car or the men. The man in the driver’s seat had a ball cap pulled over his eyes, and his head leaned back. The skinny guy in the front passenger’s seat was holding what looked to be an expensive camera mounted on a window tripod with a large telephoto lens.
But it wasn’t a camera at all—it was a laser listening device. It worked on the Doppler principle of frequency shift. A focused infrared laser beam was aimed at the window of Professor Savage’s office. The beam was partly reflected off the glass back to the receiver in the camera-like device. All sounds originating in the office—in this case, the detailed conversation between Jim, Peter, and the professor—caused tiny vibrations in the window glass. These vibrations then distorted the reflected infrared waves, resulting in a pattern of higher and lower frequencies. The receiver built into the camera body processed this frequency data, reconstructing them back into voices. Although the reconstructed voices were not recognizable as those of the original speakers, the words that they said were very distinct.
The entire conversation, from start to end, had been recorded on one digital micro-recorder and stored on a thumb-drive with terabyte capacity—complete and total portability. The skinny guy only had to aim the telephoto lens at the window, activate the system, and then place it in automatic mode. He listened to the conversation through a tiny ear bud that was virtually invisible to the casual observer.
If anyone walking past the car in the student parking lot thought it odd that someone would have a camera with a telephoto lens aimed at Gleason Hall, no one said anything. But Skinny was counting on that—after all, most people were averse to speaking up and questioning a strange situation.
The guy behind the wheel appeared to be sleeping—in fact, he was. Heavy-set and not too tall, he was the muscle and the driver. Not paid to think, just to do what he was told. And he had been told that he was only to drive wherever Skinny directed him.
“Good. They’ve finished,” Skinny remarked. “The door just opened and their voices have faded. Turn the engine on and be ready to drive. I’ll turn on the tracking device.”
Skinny opened the glove box and removed a sma
ll electronic gadget that looked a lot like a GPS unit. There was a color LCD screen on the front with a circular multi-select toggle button, like the four directional arrows on a keyboard, on the bottom of the front face of the gadget. Two push buttons on the front next to the multi-select toggle completed the controls.
Skinny turned on the tracking device by pressing the toggle switch closest to the top. The screen lit up, and the unit went through its boot-up routine. The logo of the U.S. software giant appeared momentarily, indicating the embedded code. Skinny laughed to himself. Americans are so arrogant and stupid. They built their world around systems that can be easily corrupted and used against them.
The tracking device flashed a green circle in the upper left portion of the LCD screen, indicating that it was operational and receiving a strong signal. Then a street map with topographic contours and waterways was projected on the screen. The scale was adjustable, and Skinny used the cursor and buttons to scroll quickly through the menu and adjust the scale down to one mile.
Now he saw two arrow points, representing two separate signals originating from different geographical locations. The blue arrow point was his sedan, the red was the target vehicle. At the moment, both vehicles were stationary and approximately a half-mile apart.
“Drive out of the parking lot and turn right,” he ordered the driver. They would start to close the distance with the parked target vehicle.
Once the sedan began to move, the blue arrow on the screen pointed in the direction the car headed. The GPS was very accurate—not only did it tell their location, but also the direction and speed they were traveling. He again thought what idiots Americans were to make such technology available to anyone other than the military. He was smarter than that—if it were up to him, he would never share powerful tools like GPS, computer chips, and operating systems with the masses. Skinny knew all too well that your most dangerous enemies arise from the masses. He had seen this first-hand in his homeland, as warlords rose from the populace to overthrow the Somali government.
