The dry hills around Richland were thinly covered with dun-colored grass. It was so sparse that the contours in the soil and rock beneath were clearly visible. The hills made Buzz think of huge animals sunning themselves, with their ribs showing through their light brown fur.
That image could be called surreal, he supposed, but the real reason for his sense of unreality was more directly tied to Vietnam. He was going to fly today, on a mission ordered by someone he didn't know, someone he suspected to be a lunatic. People would almost certainly die, people he had no argument with. He would most likely die himself. It felt just like Vietnam.
Buzz was slightly high, for the first time in fifteen years. As he remembered, marijuana made things so much easier. When he was high, the flame-throwers had been beautiful, all red and orange and burning yellow. The noises of groundfire and rocket launchers had been blunted. The pot had carried him up, higher than he was actually flying, far above the fighting, and he could look down at the danger as if it weren't even there.
It was strange that he had still needed drugs to get through the day, once he got back stateside. Pills had worked well. They got you out of bed when you couldn't do it for yourself. They put you to sleep when you needed to forget things.
Cocaine hadn't worked nearly so well, but that had been a good thing. One day he just decided that there was no point in being strung out, paranoid, and head over heels in debt. He had quit cocaine and, while he was at it, he had quit everything else.
Quitting hadn't been easy, but he'd made it because he loved flying. Random urine testing was coming into vogue, and he couldn't take the risk any longer. The drugs, the parties, the craziness had been so long ago.
He could hardly believe those days had come back to destroy him so completely.
The sun had cleared the hilltops. He wondered how the day would end.
* * *
Larabeth stood atop a levee overlooking an industrial canal. There was a crazy man calling her. He'd broken into her house. He'd left a dead thing in front of her door. She had no clue what he might do next. She could hide at home or she could go on about her life. She didn't care much for hiding, so here she was, taking care of her client and waiting for Guillaume to show up so they could play another round of cops-and-robbers.
The Mississippi River flowed past the canal's mouth and the New Orleans skyline rose in the distance. Behind her, the stacks, flares, and towers of Consolidated's flagship oil refinery reflected the sunrise. The silence was punctuated only by the explosive gasps of pressure relief valves and by thousands of lights.
Consolidated's plant was aging, as were most American manufacturing facilities, but it had been spared the neglect that many refineries suffered during the oil glut of the ‘Eighties. All the vessels and lines were neatly painted. Messy leaks were not tolerated. Flowers even bloomed in more visible areas of the refinery, although Larabeth always snickered at the thought of sprucing up smokestack industry by planting petunias.
Larabeth saw that Will Ellis, the facilities manager, was on his way to meet her. While she waited, she admired the sleekness of the plant. It looked alien, like a metal forest leaping from the ground. Taken out of context, ignoring the smoke plumes rising from its stacks and the hazardous wastes and the everpresent risk of an oil spill, the refinery could be seen as a twentieth-century work of art. She knew that was how Will saw it.
He ambled up, a hundred and sixty pounds of ebony man stretched over a six-foot frame. His long, loose strides gave the impression that his steel-toed boots were comfortable, but Larabeth knew different. She had been breaking hers in for five years with no success yet.
“This is not going to be a fun day, Will,” she said, adjusting her hardhat. It didn't fit right, either.
“It's starting out mighty pretty.” He gestured at the cloudless sky.
“I wish it were raining. Maybe that would dampen Guillaume's enthusiasm for his little spectacle.”
“Do you really think it's going to be that bad?”
“Based on everything I've heard, there will be a lot of TV people here, and not just local people. CNN, for sure.”
Will knitted his brows and said, “Why? We run a clean plant. Why don't they mess with the GPC plant, downriver? Everybody knows the shenanigans they pull.”
“Because it will make sensational TV. And because Guillaume thinks the end justifies the means. He thinks if he gets on TV, he can force a groundswell of people demanding that the river be cleaned up. If that happens, then the GPC plant and all the others will have to clean up their acts.”
Will spat into the canal. “Damndest thing I ever heard. Punishing the innocent to call attention to the guilty.”
“GPC dumps their waste at night. Way up their canal. Anybody that takes a sample and pays to have it analyzed can prove it, but I guarantee you that CNN won't give them coverage. There's nothing at GPC to photograph.”
She pointed down the levee at three large metal culverts pouring constantly into the canal below them. They were rusting and they protruded over the water at odd angles. What was worse, they were situated near the mouth of the canal, where the banks widened to form a small, man-made bay. Guillaume couldn't have designed a more photogenic venue for his “hullabaloo.”
Larabeth made a sweeping gesture, taking in the whole ugly scene. “Look at this mess, Will. Why didn't you do something about it when I told you to?”
Will shook his head. “I couldn't squeeze enough money out of management to do what you said.”
“But they'll pay for paint and petunias and marigolds?”
“Well, now, paint comes out of the maintenance budget. This place would rust down if it wasn't kept painted.” Will gave her a sidewise grin. “As for the petunias and marigolds, well, management has never actually made me account for the profit we take in on the Coke machines. We have eight hundred employees. Do you know how much we make on soda pop?”
Larabeth snickered in spite of herself. “Enough for a bunch of petunias and marigolds.”
“Yup. But it's peanuts compared to what it would take to move this discharge point. Management says they paid for the equipment to clean up our wastewater. They're not willing to cough up the money for cosmetic changes, too.”
“Well, they're going to pay for that decision today,” Larabeth said. She removed her hardhat, trying again to adjust it to fit her head.
Will stood up straight and intoned, “Please put that hat back on, ma'am. You are in violation of Consolidated's health and safety plan. Probably several subchapters of OSHA, too.”
Larabeth laughed, but she replaced her hardhat. There was no sense in violating a single regulation on a day when TV cameras could be lurking around any corner.
* * *
It was high noon. The sun was high, the humidity was higher, and Larabeth was sweltering in her hardhat and steel-toed boots. Guillaume was still nowhere to be seen. The Babykiller tapes festered in her pocket. Thanks to GAIA's overprotective goons, the FBI had lost fifteen valuable hours. She refused to think what Babykiller might have done with those same hours.
TV crews thronged the areas. Still photographers were perched on the steeply sloped levees, each trying to stake out a location that would guarantee them a good shot. One of them had already tumbled into the canal.
Her phone vibrated and she looked toward the rendezvous point. J.D. raised his hand and gave the signal. Guillaume and his entourage were on their way. She said, “Stay put, Will. I'm going to try one last time to head this thing off.”
Clapping a hand atop her hard hat to hold it on, she hustled down the river side of the levee.
* * *
“God. Damn." Agent Yancey had homesteaded a spot not forty feet from the McLeod woman where he could watch her every move without attracting attention. And now she was hoofing it away from the crowd just as fast as she could go. Exactly how was he going to keep her in view without giving his position away? Or without letting that Babykiller character see him, if he was arou
nd.
He stayed a few feet down the land side of the levee, letting just the top of his head peek over so he could see her. Intent on her own business, she never looked his way. Maybe Babykiller wasn't looking, either. Walking fast and trying to act casual, he followed her upriver and watched as she ran out a narrow spit of land yelling, “Guillaume! Guillaume!”
A god-awful-looking raft floated toward her and his hand moved to the holster under his windbreaker, but he recognized Langlois at the rudder. The Bureau considered the leader of GAIA to be half-nuts but, given his prompt delivery of Larabeth's tapes, he was not considered to be a security risk.
On second thought, half-nuts hardly described Langlois's get-up today. He was naked to the waist and, below that, he was draped in some kind of loincloth thing. His companions, a man and a woman who both looked to be in their twenties, had opted for more modest togas.
Yancey groaned. Dr. McLeod, the woman he had been assigned to protect, was precariously close to the mighty Mississippi River, frantically trying to attract the attention of three apparent lunatics, and he couldn't do anything about it without giving himself away. If anyone at the Bureau found out about this, his career would be over before it started.
On cue, Lefkoff came into sight, creeping downriver along the land side of the levee. Lefkoff met his eyes, pointed at the raft, and shrugged. He had asked Lefkoff to keep track of Guillaume Langlois. Lefkoff had been an agent for years, and here he was in the same pickle. Experience was evidently not everything.
The two highly trained G-men wrung their hands and watched as their quarries had a quick chat.
* * *
Guillaume shook his head at the sight of Larabeth standing by the water. The woman was hardheaded. She had scouted out the last possible spot to sidetrack Guillaume's plans before he and his crew came into camera range.
The river current made stopping his craft impossible, but he cared too much for Larabeth to go sweeping by without a word, so he threw the engine into reverse and slowed to a crawl.
She held out a small package and he reached for it. No luck. There was no way to steer the raft closer to the shore. He could see that she was apoplectic with frustration, but his friend Larabeth never gave up. She threw the package with an accurate underhand lob. He caught it.
There was no mistaking her firm nod. This package was her reason for wading into the mightiest river on the continent. When she launched into a tirade on his foolishness, he knew that it was a smokescreen for the benefit of his associates. Not that she didn't mean every word. Larabeth had always waxed eloquent on the subject of his foolishness.
“Don't do this,” she said. “My clients haven't broken the law. It isn't right make to make an example of them.”
“Your clients are insignificant cogs in a large wheel. If I can use them to call attention to real polluters, so be it.”
She pursed her lips with that familiar whistle of exasperation. He had heard it so many times before. His friend Larabeth was misguided, but she meant well and she accomplished things. They weren't working at cross-purposes. To his way of thinking, he and Larabeth were working in tandem to curb human excess and to save their world. On such a glorious day, he could make himself believe they would be ultimately successful.
“I can't believe you're saying that the end justifies the means,” she said. “I never thought I'd see your morals collapse so far.”
“Scold away, dear. If anyone could dissuade me, it would be you. I value your high opinion, but when billions of lives are at stake, the end does justify the means. I will sacrifice my personal ethics, if I must, to win this war.”
“Well, then, steer that thing slow. I've got to get back to my client, so I can protect him from your personal ethics.” She spread her empty hands in front of her. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Tolerate my frailties. And pray for my mission.” Guillaume put the motor in neutral and gunned it. “Hurry back to your client.” He tucked Larabeth's package under his seat as he watched her clamber back up the levee.
* * *
Larabeth was relieved to hand the cassettes over to Guillaume. She felt like a relay racer who had passed the baton to a fresh runner; she was still running, but the focus was now on someone else.
It would have felt good to simply walk to her car and leave her client alone to handle the embarrassment Guillaume was dealing out. She would feel considerably safer once she was away from this crowd. J.D. thought she should hand Guillaume the tape and slink away.
But Babykiller had said she should live her life “precisely as if she were unaware of his existence,” or he would blow up the Savannah River Plant. What would she be doing if she were “unaware” of Babykiller's existence? She would be right where she was, helping Will defend Consolidated's interests.
J.D. was livid over the security risk she was taking. She had agreed to let him stand guard on the levee separating her from the bulk of the crowd. She could see him there now, scanning the crowd for weapons and occasionally cupping his hand over the weapon concealed under his own jacket.
* * *
Yancey and Lefkoff worked their way back along the levee and into the crowd. They were still hampered in their efforts to be inconspicuous and to stay close to their quarries. Guillaume sat out of reach on a raft and Larabeth was headed back to the cordoned-off area reserved for Consolidated's corporate officials.
The crowd surged toward the top of the levee as the raft arrived and the “hullabaloo” began. Guillaume raised his bullhorn.
“Good day to you, friends,” he intoned. “No, not just friends. Kindred. Brothers and sisters. Children of our Mother Earth. Thank you for joining GAIA in our fight for the health and survival of our species and our planet.”
The crowd was remarkably quiet. Even with mechanical amplification and distortion, Guillaume's voice could dominate an audience. Yancey scanned the throng for the signature blue-and-green headbands of GAIA members. He estimated that the crowd was made up of roughly one-third GAIA people and wondered if Babykiller or any of his henchmen were there.
The size of the crowd was remarkable. GAIA had orchestrated a miracle with their prepublicity. They hadn't just attracted CNN, the networks, and the local media. Those people were desperate for news. They had to have it on a daily basis, because their jobs required it. To attract several hundred ordinary citizens on a weekday to an event like this was a bigger trick, but Guillaume and his followers had pulled it off. And tonight, the media would broadcast their message to several million more ordinary citizens.
Yancey kept on eye on Larabeth and tried to blend in with the crowd.
* * *
Babykiller had been enjoying CNN's live coverage of the GAIA demonstration all morning. The camera periodically panned across the throng while the anchorman gushed over GAIA's powerful grassroots support. Babykiller had seen Larabeth flash by more than once. It wasn't difficult to spot J.D. Hatten, her hired sentry atop the levee. She was also clearly being followed by two men he didn't recognize—probably Feds.
He chuckled. Every one of them—Larabeth, Hatten, and FBI agents—assumed that Larabeth was the target of the day.
* * *
The watchers roared in response as Guillaume steered closer to the levee and closer to his audience. His craft had been designed to attract attention and, though she'd already seen it up close, Larabeth found that it was best appreciated at a distance—if appreciated was the proper term.
From the levee, she could see that the raft itself was brown, with “GAIA” painted randomly over its surface in all the colors of the rainbow. The first sail bore a surprisingly good depiction of the earth as seen from space. The caption said, “She is a watery world.”
The second sail had been painted with a copy of Da Vinci's famous study of the human form. It was labeled, “We are more water than flesh, more earth than blood.”
The third sail bore a primitive drawing of a chemical plant, belching brown smoke into the air and pouring g
reen wastes into the water. The caption said simply, “Why?”
Guillaume's voice boomed over the bullhorn. “Thank you for joining us today in this struggle. Humankind is poisoning the very water we drink,” he said, gesturing at Consolidated's wastewater outfall. “This must stop, but it will only stop if we take our message to the people in power. Congress will vote tomorrow on legislation that will effectively gut the Clean Water Act. We will tie our craft to these wretched sewers and wait. If the legislation is passed, we will begin a hunger strike that will last until the President exercises his veto power.”
The Clean Water Amendments. So that's what Guillaume is up to, Larabeth mused. I suspected as much.
Guillaume waited until the crowd's excited hum died down.
“We prefer to assume that Congress will do the right thing. By attending in such large numbers, you have done your part in expressing the will of the people. To show our thanks, we have prepared a dramatic presentation. And when the presentation is done, we invite you to wait here with us until our elected representatives take action.”
Larabeth moved closer in order to see better. Guillaume hadn't told her about this part.
Her attention was diverted from the spectacle on the water when a newscaster thrust a microphone in her face, saying, “Dr. Larabeth McLeod is the spokesperson for Consolidated today.”
“Dr. McLeod,” he went on, “does Consolidated have plans to halt the wastewater flow today in order to avert a hunger strike?”
She met his eyes and worked at looking confident. “GAIA hasn't asked that the wastewater flow be diverted. Stopping the wastewater flow would require a full plant shutdown and there's no need for that. Consolidated is completely in compliance with its discharge permit.”
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