Deep Time

by Rob Sangster

  “Sorry, Chief, you gave it a good shot.” He handed Jack a sandwich in a plastic bag. “Got this at a little place down the street. You won’t believe some of the things on the menu board. The special was some kind of fermented fish that had a God-awful putrid smell. They call them ‘stink heads.’”

  Jack looked at his sandwich suspiciously. “What’s this?”

  “Said it was caribou but I think they were pulling my leg. Not bad.” After swallowing another bite, he said, “So what will Georgiou do?”

  “After he finds out I told him the truth about their platform, he’ll believe Barbas is dead. Then he’ll think about what that means for the company. After he runs that past his accountants, he’ll be afraid to talk with the banks. That’s when he’ll open a bottle and lock the door.”

  “Sounds like you’re in his head pretty good.”

  “Maybe, but I needed to close that deal right now. At least I put him in the same squeeze I’m in. When he sobers up, he’ll shop my offer to see if he can get a better deal. I made that tough by not giving him a list of specific assets that might have a market value. If he can get a better offer fast enough, I’ll never hear from him again.”

  “You gonna tell Debra about this?”

  “I would have discussed it with her beforehand, but if I had any edge in making a deal with Odyssey Properties, it was before Georgiou could get on top of the situation. There was no time to bring Debra up to speed. Besides, this was such a long shot. I’ll tell her later. In the meantime, don’t say anything to her about it.”

  Gano pointed at the guard standing in the entrance waving at them. Jack waved back, and they headed over.

  “He’s in there,” the guard said, “and he’s not a happy camper.”

  The senator’s staffer was a lanky man wearing a wrinkled khaki shirt, black pants held in place by suspenders, and a broad tie bearing multiple grizzly bears.

  “I’m Trig Trail, the senator’s legislative assistant, and I’ll tell you straight out I don’t like you one bit.”

  Oh great. “Have we met before?”

  “No, and we’re not likely to meet again. You threatened my boss. I wouldn’t be standing here if she hadn’t sent me.” He led Jack into a small library. “Two things you need to know. First, the senator has to catch an Army chopper to Juneau to connect with the red-eye back to DC. She’s leaving here in”—he checked his watch—“thirty-seven minutes. Second, she gets approached by a lot of crackpots, so I want to hear your credentials. If they don’t cut it, you won’t be meeting her.”

  Very aware of how little time he had, Jack gave Trail a high-speed tour of his professional life, using buzz words and dropping names.

  After a couple of minutes, Trail held up his hand to stop him. “Okay, tell me your doomsday story.”

  After eight minutes, Jack finished. “That’s the case. Are you really going to keep Senator Fisher from hearing it?”

  “What you’re talking about is so far above my pay grade it makes my head ache. Wait here while I brief her.” Before he went through the door, he turned back and said, “I still don’t like the way you got this meeting.”

  After Trail left, Jack dropped into a slat-back chair. He felt sure Trail would try to poison the senator’s mind against him, but there was nothing he could do about that. Relieved to be away from the hectic scene outside, he tried to relax and thought again how grateful he was to Debra for bailing him out on the Armstrong case. He didn’t need a shrink to know why winning that case had been so important to him. But the number of people who would be injured or killed by the next tsunami wildly overshadowed Armstrong. So, against what his conscience cried out for him to do, he’d gone after Barbas. Now he had to stop anyone else from destabilizing methane hydrate without regulation. If that had meant losing the Armstrong case, he would never have gotten over it. Debra had saved him from that.

  WHEN TRAIL RETURNED, Jack asked him to swing by the main door to pick up Gano.

  “Nope, this is a closed meeting,” and he headed down the hallway to an area where disheveled constituents were seated at long tables talking intensely with young men and women, probably FEMA workers, who were taking notes. When Trail got a signal, he guided Jack into a dimly lighted office that smelled of sweat.

  Senator Fisher sat at the end of a small conference table, a stack of folders by her left hand, another stack toppled over on the floor. She was a sturdy woman with a square face, short iron-gray hair, and half-glasses. Her expression was forbidding, and she didn’t rise to meet him. He introduced himself and sat to her left.

  “For nine hours I’ve been helping people get food, shelter, medicine, and find lost relatives. Now, when I have to leave in twenty minutes to get back to the Senate for critical votes, you show up claiming the Alaskan coast is likely to be hit by a huge man-made tsunami. That sounds ludicrous. The only reason I’m going to listen is because Alaska has more than sixty-six hundred miles of coastline.”

  A woman in her mid-thirties, face gaunt from strain, entered the office.

  “Linda is my chief of staff and has a degree in biology. Trig was a chemical engineer before he got into politics. You have ten minutes to tell me your story. The moment I think you’re blowing smoke, you’re out of here.”

  That really was ludicrous. Ten minutes wasn’t enough time for a lawyer to order a beer.

  “All right, Senator, first the facts and the science, then the solution.” He raced through the litany of Petros Barbas, the mammoth platform located not far from Alaska, and the goals of the Chaos Project. When he got to methane hydrate, seabed tests, destabilization, earthquakes, and what he’d seen on the ocean floor, he focused on Linda as most likely to understand. He capped his argument by pointing out that Senator Fisher, in her statement on KTNL-TV had questioned why two tsunamis had hit the west coast within a few days of each other. “Now you understand why that happened.”

  “But why aren’t reporters all over this story?” Trig asked.

  “Because their cameras are focused on wreckage that used to be a fish plant and on a dog trapped in a half-submerged truck. Maybe someone may report that both of the earthquakes that caused those tsunamis had epicenters close together. But reporters know nothing about methane hydrate in the seabed and the role it might have in causing an earthquake. Virtually no one even knows those massive reservoirs are out there. And any wild speculation that these earthquakes were initiated by humans would never get past the editor. After the dog is rescued, the reporters will move on.”

  “You make it sound credible,” Fisher said, “but you have no real proof. In fact, you could be lying or just plain delusional. All we have to go on is your word.”

  “You have more than that. Dr. Steve Drake, the renowned marine scientist and explorer, will back me up. He saw the same things I did on the seabed. Dr. Renatus Roux, the man who designed the entire Chaos system, can also vouch for what I’ve said.” That was pure bluff. Even if Renatus was still alive, no one could find him in time. “Linda can verify with one phone call that the platform is a smoking ruin, and I guarantee that Barbas won’t be showing up anywhere. By the way, my word is plenty good in most circles.”

  “You understand why I might have had doubts,” Fisher said. “At least with Barbas dead, it’s over.” For the first time, her face relaxed a little, and her body language told him she was about to terminate the meeting.

  “No. The threat is even greater now. That’s why I’m here and why you are essential. As soon as the real goal of the Chaos Project platform leaks, multinational energy companies will descend on the site to dig into huge reservoirs of methane hydrate. None of their engineers and scientists knows as much as Barbas’s chief scientist did, and even he couldn’t figure out how to extract methane safely. If they are free to go ahead, there will be a catastrophe.”

  A young man opened the door and stuck h
is head into the office. “Senator, KSCT-TV, the NBC affiliate, is here.”

  “Tell them to get lost in a nice way.” She turned to her aides. “What do you think?”

  “You’re persuasive, Mr. Strider,” Linda said, “but I don’t see evidence of cause and effect with those tsunamis.”

  “The cause was Barbas’s chief scientist applying heat that destabilized the methane hydrate. I saw him do it. One effect was the methane burp that followed. I witnessed it tearing up that platform. And we’re all seeing the effects of the tsunami Barbas caused.”

  “I’m still not convinced,” she said. “And, Senator, you have to walk out that door in two minutes.”

  That was a shocker. He’d counted on Linda’s support to offset Trail. Then he saw Trail about to speak. He groaned inwardly.

  “I respectfully disagree with you, Linda,” Trail said. “From an engineering perspective, his description of how the system worked is logical. Even more important, before I briefed you, Senator, I researched what Mr. Strider told me about his credentials. It checked out one hundred percent. He even left out some impressive accomplishments. I say he’s neither lying nor delusional. So the real question is what he wants you to do.”

  “Thanks, Trig,” Jack said. “One more thing before I tell you what I want. Senator, since you’re on the Homeland Security committee, you understand that this could be a huge threat to national safety. Terrorists could blackmail the U.S. government just by threatening to destabilize methane hydrate. Or they could adapt some basic subsea mining gear and try to do it. Even more likely, a disaster will be caused by corporate crazies trying to get richer quick. There will be hell to pay if the government doesn’t stop it from happening again after it has been warned.”

  She looked down, thinking. “What are you asking me to do?”

  “The United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea, a treaty, defined rights and responsibilities in using the oceans. It also established the International Seabed Authority with power to grant or withhold mining leases and regulate seabed mining.”

  “I’ve heard of that treaty, but I don’t know much about it.”

  “One hundred and sixty-two nations have ratified it, but the U.S. Senate—along with Uzbekistan, South Sudan, Andorra and Israel—hasn’t. The treaty was signed by Bill Clinton in 1994, but no president since then has been willing to spend political capital to get it ratified. As you know, ratifying any treaty requires at least sixty-seven ‘yes’ votes. The last time it was about to be brought up, thirty-six senators indicated they would vote against it, so it was deferred again. The majority leader has put it on the Senate calendar three days from now, but he’ll pull it unless he has the votes to pass it.” He saw in her sharp look at him that she finally understood where this was going.

  “Barbas located his platform just outside U.S. territorial limits,” Jack pushed on, “so the U.S. couldn’t regulate what he did. If the Senate ratifies the treaty, the U.S. will become a member of the ISA and able to influence whether an applicant gets a license to exploit resources in international waters and on what terms. Ratification means we can protect our coastlines from the next Barbas. And you know as well as I do that five minutes after the next tsunami destroys hundreds of miles of the west coast, the media is going to investigate who opposed ratification of the treaty that could have prevented it.”

  “But I’m the wrong person, because I’m sure the majority leader has already counted me as a ‘yes’ vote.”

  “But you can twist arms and switch ‘no’ votes to ‘yes.’ That would get the majority leader to bring it to the floor for a vote.”

  Trail spoke up. “It’s hard to twist an arm when it’s holding hands with lobbyists. We don’t have enough time to explain this whole mess. Besides, why hasn’t President Gorton been twisting arms?”

  Jack had anticipated that question. “He’s from a state that hasn’t been hammered by tsunamis, so he doesn’t care as much.” He wasn’t about to tell them that the U.S. Chamber of Commerce opposed ratification and so did a lot of heavyweight donors to Gorton’s campaigns.

  She nodded in agreement and fixed her eyes on a ferociously ugly stuffed halibut mounted on the wall. She was probably running her own personal risk-versus-reward calculation.

  She sat up straighter. “I hope you come out of this as a hero, Mr. Strider, but the people who have blocked that treaty for so long play for keeps. If they have a chance, they’ll do whatever they can to discredit you, ruin your reputation.”

  She looked at Jack for several seconds. “I can’t do it by myself, but I can count on four other senators, all females, from the west coast. If they’re already ‘yes’ votes, they’ll help me convert others. Now I have to hightail it to my helo and back to DC. Because of you, this will be my highest priority.”

  Chapter 47

  August 3

  6:00 p.m.

  Sausalito, California

  JACK STEERED HIS racing sloop away from Pier 9 on the San Francisco waterfront and smiled as it leapt into action. He headed north across the Bay, passing Alcatraz to port, then Angel Island to starboard. This was the first time he’d been sailing since the morning aboard the schooner Excalibur when Petros Barbas had revealed parts of his Chaos Project and hired their firm to help with it. That had been three weeks ago—or a lifetime.

  Zipping across the water sparkling in the sun lifted his mood. He loved reading the wind and the surface of the water and listening to the sounds of the hull slicing through the waves. But even though he was a water guy, until a couple of weeks ago, he’d had no idea how little he knew about the oceans beyond a hundred feet down. He’d paid a high price for that ignorance.

  His heart had been lifted even more by the transformation of the Armstrong lawsuit from an albatross into a golden eagle.

  If Senator Fisher didn’t jump the tracks, and the Law of the Sea treaty was ratified, he’d be on the phone with her an hour later. A treaty was only as good as its enforcement, and special interests would try to pull the treaty’s teeth. The scenario that still scared the hell out of him was a rogue Barbas-clone setting off methane hydrate before the new law was implemented. Fisher and the Secretary of State would have to press the ISA to impose an immediate worldwide moratorium on exploiting methane hydrate. The specter of monster tsunamis could get that done.

  Leaving Angel Island behind, he glanced to port into Richardson Bay where his father had lived in luxury. His outrage still burned, but what he’d gone through in recent weeks had changed his perspective. Now his father’s crimes were just one of the waypoints on a much larger map. From now on, he’d chart his own course.

  He sailed into Belvedere Cove where, nearing the small town of Tiburon, he got a good omen. All the berths at the pier of Sam’s Anchor Café were usually occupied, but this time there was one open where he could tie up.

  Gano had gone to SFO to meet Debra and Molly after their flight back from Port Alberni. The last time he’d talked with Debra was before he’d flown to Sitka, so she’d extract details about that from Gano as they drove, at least about everything but the failed deal he’d offered Georgiou.

  He walked through the restaurant and onto Sam’s crowded deck where he discovered he’d beaten the others there. Almost as rare as a spot at the pier was a vacant table next to the railing, but it was waiting for him. Across the Bay, the high-rise skyline, Fisherman’s Wharf, and the mansions rising from the Marina up to Pacific Heights were glowing in clear summer sunlight.

  Pretty damn different from nearly dying of hypothermia in the North Pacific.

  The server appeared. “Ramos fizz? Grey Goose Cosmo? Bloody Mary?”—the standard trio offered tourists.

  “Glenora scotch. Double.”

  “Ahoy, Captain Nemo!” Gano’s shout came from the doorway leading onto the deck. Debra and Molly were right behind him.

  Jac
k jumped up, zigzagged around tables, and lifted Debra off her feet in a bear hug. Love swept through him and pushed out all the stress. They kissed and diners around them applauded.

  Seconds after they were seated, the drinks arrived that they’d ordered as they’d passed the bar inside the restaurant. After the server took their food orders and left, Debra pointed. “Look, a seaplane circling over Angel Island.”

  Gano snorted. “That’s about a million and a half bucks worth of de Havilland Turbo Boss Beaver. And it’s not a seaplane. It’s an amphibian, able to set down on land or water.”

  Debra gave him a “like I care” look and said, “Jack, Gano told me how well you handled the treaty. When it’s ratified, only one senator will know you made it happen, but at this table, we all know. It’s amazing you pulled it off right after coming out the other side of hell.” They touched glasses.

  They sat silent, letting waves of chatter from other diners wash over them. Jack wished he could make an announcement about the great business deal that would guarantee the future of the firm, but Georgiou’s rejection couldn’t have been more final. Without that deal as security for a loan, Strider & Vanderberg would have to find a new home for a scaled-down firm. Worse, they’d be forced to cut back on public interest work, the main reason for the existence of the firm. He had to bury that in the back of his mind so it wouldn’t spoil their celebration.

  “I saw Renatus in the Port Alberni hospital,” Debra finally said. “Lying asleep on a cot, he looked like a string doll. I had a lot to ask him, so I came back a couple of hours later. He’d disappeared. I checked the records. He wasn’t listed. I spotted Drake’s name and looked for him, but he’d vanished too. Not likely a coincidence.”

  “Steve called me just before I left the office to sail here,” Jack said. “He picked up Renatus’s shoulder holster holding his research from the hospital safe and sneaked Renatus out of there and all the way to Ironbound. Renatus is very weak, but beginning to recover. Steve said their shared love for the hydrothermal vent makes them allies instead of enemies, so they can work together. His daughter, Esperanza, and her nurse will reach Ironbound in a couple of days.”