At 65 meters (213 feet) in overall length, and with a beam in excess of 8 meters (26 feet), the Phoenix is a vehicle of formidable size. The Phoenix will out-perform smaller counterparts in surface speed, submerged speed and submerged endurance. The large pressure hull diameter allows for very large acrylic viewports, making the undersea viewing capability truly extraordinary.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“I like the shoes.”
Frank McGee frowned. He didn’t need to look down at his feet to know both were shod in Prada’s finest leather.
“Dame Marion Palfrey.” Marion introduced herself.
Frank McGee’s mouth was full. “Umm”
“Mr McGee I presume. Don’t get up.”
Marion had just entered Brett Hall’s fine dining room, which was east-facing, keeping it cool throughout the day. She didn’t extend her hand for Frank McGee to shake as he half rose from his place at the long, oak refectory table.
Only four places had been set, all nearest the door — Elsie Brill, Brett Hall’s near-invisible maid, had no intention of walking further than she needed to. Although on this occasion Andy Barlow who, in prison officer mode was standing guard over Frank McGee, would gladly have helped her.
Frank McGee cleared his throat. “Dame Marion, I protest at being held here against my wishes.”
“I was informed you had been offered bed and breakfast with the Wiltshire Constabulary. But for some reason you declined.” Marion raised an eyebrow and cocked an enquiring glance. No response, so she carried on.
“I thought that was a good decision as I suspect they’ve tightened their security since your friend Jean-Pierre Durand escaped, and breakfast there would be nothing like as good as ours.”
Frank McGee had been caught savouring a mouthful of warm buttermilk pancakes with warm berry compote.
“I agree with you. Never mix eating with small talk. Elsie, I’ll have the kedgeree please. You should try it Mr McGee.”
Marion had quickly gleaned that Frank McGee was a foodie with a wallet swollen with company credit cards, who found it easy to put on weight. His balding head and fondness for taxis and lifts, not pavements and stairs, did nothing to enhance his appearance. He appeared well over fifty whereas in fact he was comfortably under.
His one, albeit expensive, redeeming quality was his taste in clothes, which matched his discerning appetite. Prada shoes, Armani suit, shirt and tie screamed out money, money, money.
“Thank you,” he nodded to Elsie, as she poured him more coffee from a Georgian sterling silver coffee pot, his courtesy demonstrating to Marion that he had at least one other redeeming feature.
“Ah, here they come.” Marion craned round to welcome Tom and Benadir with upraised ‘at last’ eyebrows. Both looked remarkably fresh.
“Sleep well?”
“Yes. Very.” Tom Palfrey declared before nodding to Andy Barlow, who slipped out of the dining room, closing the door quietly behind him.
“Mr McGee has just been telling me how much he’s looking forward to returning home to Martha's Vineyard. That is where you live, isn’t it Mr McGee?”
“I was telling you how much I object to being under house arrest!”
Marion, in full provocative mood, was ready for that. “Enough of this. Tom, ask Inspector Ford if it would be convenient for him to come over.”
Frank McGee blushed. “I’m as anxious to discover more about Jean-Pierre Durand as you are, but involving the police and going public… this would be very unwise.”
“And that’s why you’re here, not in a police cell. Aren’t you comfortable?” Marion’s question created the impression she’d fire the staff had Frank McGee dared say he wasn’t.
Doc Palfrey considered Frank McGee. A shipping magnate and dollar billionaire. He owned at least two, possibly more, fleets of cargo ships and oil tankers. The best known, Green Funnel, operated under the American flag, and pioneered eco-friendly technology. Others, including Dusk Shipping, sailed under foreign flags and stayed clear of American waters. Z5 was investigating why.
The media knew Frank McGee as an astute businessman who realized early there was money to be made in going green. Many of his Green Funnel ships had towing kites, which saved up to thirty-five percent in fuel costs by using free wind power, just as the sailing ships of old.
He owned a string of houses around the world, but the one he visited most often was in Martha’s Vineyard, a Democrat enclave.
Green? Democrat? Why the hell was Frank McGee tangling with Jean-Pierre Durand? Why did he get off the train at Southampton surrounded by Durand’s henchmen?
Frank McGee’s raised voice brought Tom back to the table.
“I told you last night — why I went to Southampton is my business.”
Marion’s retort was sharp. “I didn’t ask why you went to Southampton, I asked why you met Jean-Pierre Durand there.” Frank McGee looked glumly at his empty plate, picked up his cup of coffee and sipped slowly.
“Again, my business.” McGee voice was slow, exasperated and deliberate.
Doc got up from the table, walked round it so he was behind McGee’s chair.
McGee didn’t look around. Just waited.
“Mr McGee. Your business is our business. So perhaps you should start by telling us how you know Durand, who is wanted for murder and kidnap?”
“Murder?” McGee turned around to face Tom.
“He murdered a man right in front of me in that field.” Doc glanced through the giant window.
“Who?”
“The victim is still unidentified in a police morgue.”
“How do you know Durand did it?”
Marian took over. “We know Durand was the killer. And we know you were travelling to see him, after he escaped from police custody.”
McGee remained stubbornly silent but his balding head was glistening with perspiration.
“To co-operate and take the consequences, or not to co-operate and end up in a police station, that’s your choice,” said Benadir.
“I came down to look at a ship, with a view to buying it.”
“Which ship?” Benadir asked the obvious question.
“I can’t say. I am bound by a confidentiality clause.”
“Was Durand going to advise you?” Marion’s tone carried the question’s scepticism.
“Durand is not a member of my shipping team.” McGee was abrupt, almost angry at the thought.
“Benadir, call Inspector Ford. Tell him to prepare his smelliest cell and get here as soon as he can.”
“No!” McGee pulled out a white, silk handkerchief and patted his head, so signalling his surrender.
And his story poured out.
Frank McGee’s shipping empire and the fortunes that flooded in from it had, for decades, shielded him from the jarring realities of life.
His Executive PAs — McGee had three — took the strain out of just about everything. No flights, hotels or rental cars to book. But there were some queues and the hassle of check-in and security.
Recently most of that changed. He’d bought a private jet and now the closest he got to airport security was the news.
His many houses spared him the need to queue at hotel reception desks. That was true for his family too, although mention of his family made his head shine with added guilt.
Marion, Benadir and Doc ignored the glistening sweat and pushed him on.
McGee could see no end to his good fortune until the 2008 credit crisis hit his company’s huge coffers. Not by any means enough to make him worry, even for a moment, but just enough to make McGee want to see beyond his present aspirations.
And then, during a flight down to Greece, it suddenly clicked that he could gain respectability and cut costs by going green.
Big green.
Solar power satellites green.
Beaming free solar energy wirelessly from a mile of connected umbrella shaped satellites directly to his ships via microwave. It would be costly to set up but just ab
out free to use. And it wasn’t rocket science; William Brown had developed it back in the 1950s, ironically, when oil was still cheap.
Doc and Benadir had researched this pollution-free, continuously renewable energy that, via simple computers, could be beamed directly to cities, villages, ships and planes. What they didn’t know was that this was a key focus of an organisation that styled itself the ‘League of Enlightenment’. McGee had recently become a member of this group.
Doc and Benadir locked eyes when McGee mentioned it.
The ‘League of Enlightenment’ McGee explained, was essentially an exclusive international group of billionaires investing their own money to help rid the world of poverty by providing cheap, clean electricity. That was the way McGee described it.
“Is Durand a member?” Benadir’s tone was disbelieving.
“No way. He’s...”
“Your Chief Executive?” Marion asked with mocked helpfulness.
“De facto CEO, just acting …” McGee’s eyes dropped to stare at the table.
“So where can we find a list of members?” enquired Tom.
“Nowhere. That is highly confidential.
“Mr McGee I’ll make it easier, we’ll provide one for every three you give us.” Marion’s temptation worked.
“Name one.” McGee puffed out his chest.
“François Édouard of France.”
It was as if McGee had agreed a deal. And the first three names were listed with a degree of pride. He added the countries they came from by way of demonstrating the true international flavour of his colleagues in the League.
Krzysztof Naiman — Kazakhstan.
Yori Narita — Japan.
Victor Pereira — Brazil.
“And your next one?” McGee was throwing down the gauntlet to see if their ‘next one’ was as big and powerful as his first three had certainly been.
“Victor Marcel Schobinger — Switzerland,” Marion took a leap into the possible.
McGee smiled thinly. Good leap.
“Fadeyka Semyonov — Russia.
Gagan Setty — India.
Ogbonna Okon — Nigeria.”
Silence ruled Marion, Benadir and Doc considered the implications
All had celebrity status in their chosen worlds.
All were well respected, upright citizens.
Why did they need a CEO who packed a vicious weapon and didn’t hesitate to use it?
“So what took you to Southampton?”
“I was expecting to sail to France to see François.”
“Sail in what?”
“My submarine.”
“I should have known.” Doc grimaced. “Which Durand used for his escape.” But no one was listening.
Instead Benadir had rushed to the window to peer up at the sky whence came the thunderous roar of jet engines.
Doc threw open the dining room door, charged across the hall into Marion’s study.
The roar became deafening.
Seeing the cause of it turned Doc’s blood cold.
A Harrier jump jet was hovering like a giant spider suspended over its prey.
Four AIM-9M Sidewinder rockets were slung from its stubby wings.
“Fish Tank!” Doc’s roar had no chance of being heard but was clearly understood by Benadir and Marion.
Marion ran after Doc, Benadir grabbed McGee’s tie and tugged him in their wake.
Doc slammed the red alarm and a siren screeched into life — warning everyone in the house to find cover. The glass Fish Tank door sprang open.
Doc held it for Benadir.
Benadir leapt through but McGee saw his chance, yanked his tie free and ran back towards the hall.
“Leave him!” yelled Benadir activating the lock as soon as Marion and Doc were inside.
Outside Doc got a clear view of the jump-jet’s pilot, Jean-Pierre Durand, staring in front of him, calculating his target.
Doc swung round to see it. Frank McGee. McGee froze.
A split second later two Sidewinder rockets shot from the Harrier. Both were precisely on target.
Frank McGee was burnt to cinders in a single flash.
An inferno, sun-hot flames and reeking smoke blocked everything from view.
Only the Fish Tank was standing, with Dame Marion, Benadir and Doc inside.
Hundreds of antique treasures were turning to ashes as the gracious, aged wood fed the flames. The portrait of the Marquis of Brett burned especially fiercely.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Powersat Corp
http://www.powersat.com/
Précis:
Space-based solar power is a method of collecting solar energy so that it can be distributed for use all over the earth. With this amazing technology, space-based solar power is the future of power generation.
PowerSat Corporation is a pioneer in generating safe, clean, reliable energy from space. Solar energy is captured via satellites (known as powersats) and transmitted wirelessly to receiving stations at various points around the globe. Thousands of megawatts can be harnessed and shifted between receiving stations thousands of miles from each other — all in a matter of seconds.
Wikipedia — Space-based solar power
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Space-based_solar_power
Précis:
The SBSP concept, originally known as Satellite Solar Power System (SSPS), was first described in November 1968. In 1973 Peter Glaser was granted U.S. patent number 3,781,647 for his method of transmitting power over long distances (e.g., from an SPS to Earth's surface) using microwaves from a very large antenna (up to one square kilometre) on the satellite to a much larger one, now known as a rectenna on the ground.
Glaser then was a vice president at Arthur D. Little, Inc. NASA signed a contract with ADL to lead four other companies in a broader study in 1974. They found that, while the concept had several major problems—chiefly the expense of putting the required materials in orbit and the lack of experience on projects of this scale in space, it showed enough promise to merit further investigation and research.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Lucille. We’ve been compromised.” It was just a whisper, but it woke me from a deep sleep.
“Shh.” Max’s forefinger stroked my lips. “Joy’s still asleep.”
I struggled to sit up but Max’s strong hand stopped me from banging my head on the container roof. I was tugged back, too, by the sleeping bag, which was frozen into place by the overnight permafrost, which had engulfed a porthole window by the side of my upper bunk.
“Why don’t you get ready first? Joy needs every minute of rest she can get.”
“Max… compromised? How?”
He shrugged.
I climbed down from my bunk and entered the compact toilet
I was sure I’d aged two years in the last two shocking days, but the reflection in the mirror didn’t scream that. In fact I looked pretty good, considering.
Something that had a lot to do with Max.
Joy looked a lot better too. She was sitting on the side of her bunk, when I emerged from the washroom, fumbling with a necklace.
“That’s beautiful.” My eyes wondered at the elegant round Onyx featuring three small diamonds all held by a silver chain.
“Max is sorting out the snowmobile. He wants us out of here in ten minutes. Ordered us to eat.” Joy pointed to some steaming coffee and a bowl of stodgy breakfast.
I ate the unappetising meal and went out, I watched Max emptying a can of fuel into the snow-white snowmobile. Hitched to it, a fibreglass sledge, groaning with kit.
The howling wind carried my shout from the open door to Max.
“What can I do?” He turned to me, wearing the smile I was beginning to need.
“Stuff your backpacks with everything you can’t wear, the sleeping bags, personal stuff and as much food as you can find. Please be quick.”
Joy and I emerged ten minutes later, both of us looking like the Michelin Man — backpacks over our should
ers.
“I’ll take those,” offered Max, who balanced mine on top of the overflowing sledge. I helped him lash it all down with a white canvas tarpaulin, while Joy stared nervously at the horizon and the huge ice desert in front of us, pulling her hood further down her face to protect it from the whistling wind.
Max glanced at her before strapping her backpack to the baggage rack of the snowmobile, which was where I was expecting to sit. A white, water-ski rope was attached to the snowmobile. My eyes followed it to a white snowboard.
“Do you want to drive or snow-ski?” My heart leapt, creasing my face into a delighted smile for the first time in two days. Being half Swiss, skiing and snowboarding were as natural to me as walking.
This would be fun.
Curving across the white desert behind a snowmobile is so much more enjoyable than water-skiing because of the deep-frozen, ice-covered rivers in the valleys. To get to them you drop down and climb up the snow covered hills.
As we dipped and ascended I threw away the tribulations of the last 48 hours and revelled in the moment.
We were well above the tree line, high above the Arctic Circle. No birds, no animals to see, just us negotiating the crusty snow that sparkled in the radiance of the sun.
The westerly wind metamorphosed from foe to friend, pushing us forward, as if we were a boat with full sails. The whistling wind covered our tracks, shifting the snow as if it was sand in the Sahara, leaving no sign of our whereabouts.
All the while Max took us higher and higher, signalling me in good time to warn of his fiercer swerves. I could sense him sharing in my enjoyment.
An hour after leaving Z5’s white container I could see our destination.
A flat-topped mountain. Over the decades miners, mostly prisoners, had chopped off its peak to give their masters gold. But the snow, which covered everything in sight wiped away the horrors of the past, replacing it with the romance of the present.
Eternity's Sunrise (A New Doc Palfrey Thriller) Page 8
