“Oh, yeah, they’re worried,” the governor shouted. “And they should be. The US pumps almost eight million gallons of oil a day, and the Saudis produce about nine million barrels a day. We’re catching up!”
The crowd shouted and cheered. Someone tried to start a chant of “USA!” but the governor waved him off so he could keep the momentum going.
“And what if I told you that right here, in California, we have the ability to pump even more oil than North Dakota? How would you feel about that?”
The chanter tried stirring up the crowd again, and this time the governor let him continue. The gathering picked up on his urging, and the governor surveyed them, waiting until the shouting naturally ebbed.
As he looked across the throng, he saw serious men in suits checking their phones, women in yoga clothes rubbing the heads of black labs, and soccer moms doling out juice boxes to fidgety kids.
These were his people. They cared about the poor, the environment, and personal privacy. But deep down, in their heart of hearts, what moved them most was the promise of prosperity. They wanted to do financially better tomorrow than today. For many of them, especially the farmers, teachers, and civil servants, becoming rich was never a real possibility unless they chose the right lottery ticket while picking up a six-pack on their way home from work. What was within their realm, they reckoned, was a state that offered them excellent schools, clean streets, low crime, and plentiful jobs.
Of course, they wanted all this without paying any taxes. In many ways, Rennert believed, voters were like children. They wanted what they wanted, but didn’t want to pay for it and didn’t know who would. They complained about how Washington wasted taxpayer dollars, and yet they continued to reelect the same spenders to Congress. They groused about how the government meddled in their personal business, but backed those who passed laws to spy on their phone calls and emails because they feared terrorists. They shouted about their rights to personal freedom and choice, but encouraged lawmakers to legislate how and under what circumstances a woman could abort a baby or a teenager could buy birth-control pills.
Such children.
Now, with the audience quieted and paying attention, Rennert started again.
“Underneath us is what’s known as the Monterey Shale, and it contains the largest oil-shale formation in America. It contains enough oil to create hundreds of thousands of jobs, lower your taxes—maybe even do away with your taxes—and halt oil imports from countries like Saudi Arabia to our state, our country, for half a century. It contains four times more oil than North Dakota’s Bakken Formation. If you think the Saudis are worried about North Dakota’s oil, wait until we start pumping!”
In truth, the pumping had already begun. Kern County was the center of “fracking” for California, with production rising every year. The governor motioned for a man in a brown khaki shirt to join him behind the podium. He looked like a college professor, complete with studious round glasses and a gray beard.
“This is Simon Sailors, the state’s chief geologist, who will explain some of the technical details.”
The scientist was more soft-spoken than the governor, and, with the gravitas befitting his position, he began.
“Good afternoon, everyone.” He cleared his throat. “Millions of years ago, organic matter—like animals and plants—was trapped in layers of rock, mainly shale. When these living things decomposed they produced crude oil. Until recently, we haven’t had a safe and very economical way of teasing the oil from these rock layers. With the advent of fracturing, sometimes called fracking, we can drill down, turn and go horizontally, inject water combined with chemicals to make the process go smoother, and actually crack or fracture the rocks, thus freeing the oil from the rock crevices. This oil then is pumped to the surface.”
He looked around, pleased that he’d kept the audience’s attention. “We estimate that the Monterey Formation contains about fifteen billion gallons of oil. It is the largest in the United States. You heard the governor discuss the shale-oil formation in North Dakota, known as the Bakken Formation. Despite the fact that Monterey is smaller, taking up less than a quarter of the land as Bakken, it contains more oil. That’s because the layer containing oil is nearly two thousand feet thick, compared to Bakken’s twenty-two-foot thickness. This means that there is more oil in a smaller area. That means fewer wells. The only downside is that we must drill over eleven thousand feet to get to the oil, compared to North Dakota’s field, which is about six thousand feet deep. All in all, though, we have a better deal here because the oil is in a more compact area.”
He looked hesitatingly at the governor. “May I take questions?”
The governor shook his head and nodded for his PR person to keep order. She stepped forward and pointed to a man in the audience who held up a hand.
“My daddy always said that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. This sounds too good to be true.”
The crowd laughed.
“I can assure you that the oil is there, it’s accessible, and we can retrieve it safely and economically. Fracking is not new; it has been used since the 1950s, and it has an excellent environmental track record. What’s changed is the technology. It’s not like the drilling in the Gulf of Mexico that produced the BP oil spill, or the Exxon Valdez, which leaked millions of gallons from its hull. Shale oil is pumped up and distributed through pipelines that have a superb safety and environmental history.”
“What about earthquakes? When you mess around down there, does it cause a problem?” another person asked.
The crowd murmured.
“There have been no reports of seismic activity due to fracking,” the geologist answered. “The shale is loose, but it still supports the earth around it, even if the oil is released. Think of a pile of pebbles with sand mixed in. If you removed the sand, the pebbles would still be in the same place. You’re just removing the sand from the crevices. Even when the pebbles are moved around, the ground above and below it doesn’t move.”
“One last question,” the PR flak announced.
“What about the water? We need our water for our crops and our cattle.”
“There have been some unsubstantiated reports of water pollution from fracking areas in Pennsylvania, but I must emphasize that these are unproven. I have read all of the studies and everything I see tells me that water pollution is not an issue. However, my department, along with the EPA, will keep a close watch on the drilling to make sure that our water supply and land are protected. Thank you.”
The governor stepped forward. “Over the coming months, you will be hearing more from me and my staff about our opportunities with fracking and what it can mean for our state and for you. Lower taxes, no more dependency on foreign oil, and the ability to chart our own future. Our state motto is ‘Eureka,’ which means ‘I found it.’ It refers to gold, the natural resource that brought many people to our land. They and others went on to make California the great state that it is now. Let me say again: ‘Eureka!’ But this time for the discovery of oil, some call it black gold. We have found it! We will be the nation’s number-one oil producer, and reap all the benefits that it brings. We are the new Forty-Niners!”
The crowd cheered as he left the stage and met up with his protection detail, who hustled him to his car. As he drove away, he thought about his Texas counterpart, and whispered to himself: “Think you got some pretty big oil wells in Texas, Rusty? Think again.”
Chapter 14
“Murdered,” Burke said. “Two surveyors from USGS were found dead.”
Mike rubbed his eyes, trying get himself together. He glanced at his watch—5:00 A.M. He put the phone back to his ear. “Where?”
“On the border between Maryland and Pennsylvania. Single bullet shots to the head. The crazy thing is that there’s no record of them having a job anywhere in that area. All we know is that both guys put in for a few days’ leave.”
“Freelance job?”
“Seems lik
e it,” Burke said. “They were right by the Mason–Dixon Line. Does that mean anything to you?
“No, but it might not mean anything.”
“It gets stranger. They were using basic equipment. No GPS, no digital, no laser. Old school.”
“It could be that they didn’t want to use government-issued gear, in case they got caught,” Mike said. “Do you think there’s a connection to Marilyn’s death? Three commerce people killed within a week. That can’t be a coincidence.”
Silence, then: “Head up there, Mike. By the way, Hearst called here looking for you. Says you don’t pick up your phone when he calls.”
“My battery is dead.”
“How are we talking now?”
Mike waited a beat. “It must be a miracle.”
Chapter 15
Mike was not going to the area where the surveyors had been killed. Between the local police and FBI, he was certain that every scrap of evidence had been scooped up. Whether either one of them knew what do with all that material was another story. For now, the tagged plastic baggies would hold.
“Why are we here?” Mike said as he looked around at the other patrons sipping complex coffee drinks and eating faux French pastries. Some wrote on laptops, others poked tablets, but most engaged with their smartphones, heads bowed as if praying. Bland reggae covers of Top 40 hits filled the café.
“This better be good, if I have to listen to this music,” Mike told his pal Al Appleton, who had requested the coffee conference at this particular location.
“The Wi-Fi is slow here, but it’s free, and for all intents anonymous. And we have even more protection.” Al pointed to the far corner, where a camera blinked red. “It can’t see us—just misses our table by a few inches. If someone were to try to match security video of patrons using the Wi-Fi network at this time of day, it would be a no-go.”
“How do you know that the camera can’t see us?” Mike asked, still scanning the room.
Al laughed. “I installed it.”
Al’s creativity always intrigued Mike. They’d met on a fishing trip organized by a mutual friend, and hit it off immediately when Al produced an electronic lure in the shape of a fish. It worked like gangbusters, and even the veteran boat captain was amazed at its ability to attract rockfish. Mostly likely, its use broke some state fishing regulation. Al worked for Verizon, but really saw himself as a serial entrepreneur. He hoped to hit it big and retire young. His latest idea was an app that offered easy-to-use voice encryption on smartphones. He didn’t know if the public was interested in such high-level protection, and he didn’t much care. His plan was to sell his encryption program and the trapdoor to the NSA. The feds could sell the encryption program through back channels to unfriendlies who didn’t know the US government could easily eavesdrop. Win–win.
His inspiration for such a scheme had come from a friend who churned out software for 3D printers that produced IED triggers on tiny chips. The Defense Department paid him a cool $1.2 million for information on how to thwart the device, then allowed him to turn around and sell the program to unsuspecting terrorist groups. By the time the bad guys figured out he was working both sides of the street, he was lounging on Lafayette Beach in Tahiti with a Mai Tai in his hand.
“What do we have?” Mike asked, looking over Al’s shoulder at the screen.
“Let’s see.” Al pecked at the keys with great confidence. “At 0817, we have the first ping of Marilyn’s phone off the Jersey shore, around Atlantic City.”
Mike understood that even when your phone wasn’t being used, cell towers continually contacted it so the phone company knew your location in case a call came in. This continual pinging left a record of your location.
Al continued, “The boat hugged the coast, going south, around Cape May, then northerly a bit, then south once again along the Delaware shoreline, and ending with multiple pings off Lewes. Yup. The phone kept in contact with that cell site for a long time.”
That’s where Marilyn had sent her last text to Mike. “Will anybody know that we were snooping?”
“Not unless they purposely look for it. There’s so much of this going on by local cops and the feds that we don’t even keep a running total. This one won’t stand out.”
Mike left Al studying his screen to walk outside, where he reflected on Marilyn’s last hours. She’d probably wondered why the Judy Bee had left Elephant Trunk and taken the long way home. Instead of heading straight for Ocean City, it made for the Jersey shore, then shadowed the coast on its way back home—which it never reached. As a monitor, Marilyn had been a guest, and was therefore not permitted to question the captain’s authority or routes, except in matters of danger or regulations. She must have been confused and scared.
Mike headed to the Dogfish. Inside, he saw Evelyn sitting at the bar.
“Becoming a regular?” he said as he sat down next to her.
He listened to the acoustic-guitar player on the small stage, covering what sounded like a Lucinda Williams tune, except a more depressing version of it. If that was possible. He motioned to the bartender and ordered an ale.
“There was no reason to take the long way home,” he said, turning to face Evelyn. “No reason at all. Not only that, but the captain lied to his fellow captains about it, saying that he had to pick up something in Lewes. Why would he do that? They all do side jobs. The money must have been good, because he risked the freshness of the catch.”
“And what about … what did you call them? The doors?” Evelyn asked.
“That’s the other mystery here. No captain in his right mind carries extra weight unless necessary. Weatherhill needed these doors, but I can’t figure out why. The boat didn’t have any trawling nets, only scallop dredges. All I can think of is that Weatherhill wanted to tow these doors along the bottom. For the life of me, I don’t know why.”
The singer played another gloomy song, this time about a lost love.
“Ugh. As if we all don’t have enough reasons to be depressed,” Mike said.
“I’m going to stay here until my sister’s killer is found,” Evelyn said. “I don’t care how long it takes. You’re stuck with me. Maybe I can even help.”
“This is where I have to give you the obligatory speech about how this is going to be dangerous,” he said with a grin.
“I’ve faced down kids with assault weapons at border crossings in Africa. I was even held captive for three days in a makeshift prison because I didn’t have the right papers, which didn’t even exist. You think a bunch of scallop fishermen scare me?”
“It’s not the fishermen that worry me.” He explained all of it—the surveyors who’d been murdered, his own director, who didn’t trust the Justice Department, the phantom ship in the area, and his growing suspicion that the surveyors and those on the Judy Bee had been killed by the same people. “I don’t believe in coincidences,” he said flatly.
Evelyn put her beer down. “I’m still in.”
“I knew that you would be.”
Mike walked Evelyn to her car. “I think I’ll take a short walk on the boardwalk before turning in,” he said. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Thanks for everything,” she said, and pecked him on the cheek. For the first time, Mike saw her smile.
He watched Evelyn drive away. A gentle ocean mist covered the streets, and a halo surrounded the full moon. That fine haze smeared the neon lights from the closed storefronts in the distance. Cool droplets touched his face as he walked toward the ocean. Mike could just hear the surf. The sound comforted him, as it had since he was a child.
He never saw the blow from the shadows. He dropped to the wet sidewalk.
Staring up, vision blurry, Mike could almost make out two figures, both in black, one much taller than the other. As he struggled to rise, a hard boot heel slammed into his chest, pushing his back flat against the concrete. Air exploded out of his lungs in one big whoosh.
Mike grabbed for his off-duty pistol in the ankle holster
. He squeezed off a round at his attacker and clipped his left arm. The attacker spun around, but remained standing. He took a second to compose himself and moved at Mike again, this time with a pistol in his other hand. Just then, his accomplice stepped in and raised a shotgun out of the darkness, aiming at Mike’s head.
“Freeze!” a voice yelled.
Mike used the distraction to squeeze off another shot, but it went wide as the second attacker turned toward the new voice. A car engine roared and sped into the fray, clipping the shotgun-toting man, whose weapon let off a loud blast that echoed off a nearby wall. He was stunned, but still upright as the car raced next to Mike.
“Get in!”
The passenger-side door swung open and Mike jumped in, letting the door close on its own as the car sped forward.
The rear window exploded, hit by another shotgun blast. The force propelled glass shards into the front seat, where they lodged in the back of Evelyn’s hair.
“Glad to see you,” Mike said, still clutching his .38 revolver. “What brings you here?”
“What about those guys?” she said, pointing her thumb in the direction of the ambush.
“They’re gone, I’m sure. I got one of them in the arm.”
“And I got one of them in the leg,” Evelyn said proudly. “Score two to nothing, the good guys. Are we going to report this?”
“Not a big fan of paperwork,” Mike said.
As they drove to the boardwalk, they heard sirens. Neither spoke, but both understood that these two men weren’t going to leave their task unfinished.
Chapter 16
Mike Wardman and Evelyn Montclair were now a team bound by a common purpose: find Marilyn’s killer. Mike wasn’t keen on having a partner—he did best on his own—but he also knew that it would be easier to protect Evelyn if she kept close. Hell, maybe he had it backward. She’d saved his bacon with the two hoods, so maybe it was she who was protecting him.
USA, Inc. (A Mike Wardman Novel: Book 1) Page 6
