Ill Wind (11 page)

Harris let the bird drop on the wooden table. A pelican. Its long, rapier beak gaped, as the bird slowly drew its dangling wing back toward its body. It was still alive, but not for long.

“What is this!
”
An outraged councilman from Sausolito slid his chair back.

“
This
is what’s really going down out there, man. This bird is one of thousands,” Harris said. “If you’d get off your fat political
asses
and get your hands dirty, you might understand why we’re so worked up!” He raised his voice to a shout directed at all of them. “Stop fucking around and
do
something!”

He turned toward Alex hiding behind the podium. “You’re not talking any germ warfare or genetic-engineering shit are you, Mr. Big Oil Company?”

Alex barely shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “These are natural bacteria.” Though not exactly naturally
occurring
bacteria, he left unfinished.

 
Harris turned to the audience. “Oilstar got us into this mess, and we can sue their
asses
later—but right now, if they got a solution, how can you
not
try it?” He crossed his arms over his slicker. “I’ll do it myself, right now, if Oilstar gives me some of their magic oil-eating shit. You red-tape lovers can arrest me, but at least something’ll get done!”

Branson returned to the podium. Alex stepped aside to yield the microphone. The Oilstar CEO seemed determined to show some progress, as if that would be enough to quench the outrage directed against her.

“Thank you, sir, but it’s our responsibility,” Branson said. “I appreciate the urgency of your concern—we have been forgetting the real effects of this disaster.” She took a deep breath. “Oilstar will take the risk . . . and accept the legal consequences. On my authority, Oilstar
will
deploy the Prometheus option, using our helicopters, our pilots,
our
equipment. And we will do it at the earliest possible moment.”

Branson frowned at the dying pelican on the table and at the representatives. “If we encounter any interference from the government in trying to clean up this mess, I personally guarantee you will find the biggest lawsuit in California history right in your lap.” Accompanied by her guards, Emma Branson walked with self-assured dignity off the stage and out the rear exit.

Before attention could return to him, Alex climbed down from the stage. Mitch clapped him on the back. “We got it!”

Alex felt the world growing fuzzy. Branson had set the wheels in motion, but he had fooled her as thoroughly as everyone else. He closed his eyes to shut out the hubbub in the room— but he was left with only the emptiness inside him.

It’ll never happen again.
That was certain.

Chapter 12

Oilman Todd Severyn crushed a blob of dried
seagull-dropping
under his work boot, then paced up and down the Oilstar pier that extended into the deep channel in the north Bay. Tankers such as the
Zoroaster
would hook up to transfer pipes and offload cargo into storage tanks that dotted the hills around the refinery.

The early morning was calm, perfect flying weather. The fog seemed to dissolve in front of Todd’s eyes, but he could smell the sour stench of oil on the water long before he could see it.

The Oilstar corporate helicopter, specially outfitted for spraying a fertilizer solution swarming with the Prometheus microbe, waited on the weathered dock. The copter pilot sat in her seat with legs dangling out of the cockpit. She looked bored behind mirrored sunglasses; she was getting paid by the hour, even on the ground.

Todd had orders to spray the oil-eating microbe this morning—but if the darned state inspector didn’t arrive before the court injunction did, they’d all be hung out to dry.
Probably attending a seance or checking the stars to see if the karma is right
, Todd thought.
Prissy California sprout-eaters!

The “suits” were locked in a push-and-shove legal battle over the Prometheus bug. Oilstar insisted on using an observer from the state office of Environmental Policy and Inspection; the EPI in turn had retained a microbiology expert from Stanford University. Getting EPI approval for the fiasco seemed like covering their butt with a postage stamp, but Todd wasn’t paid to make Oilstar’s decisions—just to implement them.

At the land end of the long pier, Dr. Alex Kramer sat inside a metal control shack, which now served as a field command post for the spraying operation. The scientist didn’t talk much; with his glasses, neat gray beard, and thinning gray hair, Alex reminded Todd of his father back at the ranch.

Todd looked at his wristwatch again and ambled back to the helicopter. His down vest and new jeans felt hot and stiff and uncomfortable. “Jeez, I wish we could get this show on the road!”

Oilstar had leaked false locations for the spraying operations, which would temporarily fool the reporters, environmental nuts, and regulatory agencies—but they would soon figure it out. Todd wanted to be long gone before then. Never ask permission, as his dad always said
;
easier to apologize later.

Sometimes he wished he had never left Wyoming, where he could see snow-capped mountains in the distance,
blue sky
overhead; where he could drive a pickup down endless dirt roads and not see another person for days. He could have made a decent living running his parents’ ranch, but he had chosen to go into petroleum engineering instead.

His work for Oilstar took him places no sane person wanted to go: the wasteland of Kuwait, its featureless sand broken only by smoking fires and war wreckage; the cold North Sea, with biting winds and battleship-gray clouds, the ocean whipped into a rabid froth; or the jungles of Indonesia, with bugs the size of rats and humidity thicker than the oil pumped out of the ground.

For some reason the skewed oddness of California bothered him more than any of those places. At first Todd thought his leg was being pulled when somebody told him to wait until the “phase of the Moon” was right for spraying Kramer’s microbes. Todd talked around in circles until he finally discovered the official simply meant that the
tide
needed to be in. What a bunch of wackos.

It made no sense that Branson would thumb her nose at the law by going ahead with the Prometheus spraying . . . and then force Todd to wait for a single inspector and some Stanford observer. Why couldn’t they just spray Kramer’s little buggies and be done with it? Why make things worse by further delay? People had no common sense in the granola land of “fruits, nuts, and flakes.”

At least Todd saw the light at the end of the tunnel, knowing his Oilstar contract would end soon. That was the nice thing about being a consultant. You came in, did the job, raked in the bucks, and got the heck out of Dodge. There might be a lot of crap to put up with in the meantime, but he could always go back to Wyoming to clear his head.

In the crisp morning air, the crunching sound of wheels on gravel made him turn to see an old mid-sized sedan toiling up the narrow patchwork road along the water’s edge. He saw with relief the poop-brown color of all State cars,
then
spotted a round, intricate seal on the side door. Environmental Policy and Inspection. Shock absorbers creaked as the sedan jounced in potholes, pulled up to the open gate in the chain-link fence, then edged slowly over the bump onto the Oilstar pier. The driver seemed overly cautious. Todd strode out to meet the car.

The passenger door popped open, and a petite young woman stepped out. With long jet-black hair and soft,
strikingly attractive Asian features, the inspector was
not at all what Todd had expected. He had been prepared for a dumpy business-suited bureaucrat; instead, the woman wore white tennis shoes, jeans, and a comfortable sweatshirt. At least she hadn’t arrived in a dress-for-success dark skirt and blouse.

He had the state inspector pegged before she even noticed him: recent liberal arts graduate from some eastern college—Mary Washington, Amherst, Bryn Mawr . .
. .
She probably wanted to make her mark by uncovering some toxic waste scandal, then she’d move to Washington, D.C. Being Asian, and a woman, this one would keep the Equal Opportunity clowns in ecstasy for years.

She probably hated country & western music, too.

But Todd forced a neutral expression onto his face, ready to do the necessary duty dance, and determined to get the helicopter off the ground. He tipped his cowboy hat. “Excuse me, Ma’am. I’m Todd Severyn, test director for Dr. Kramer. We’ve got everything prepped here, and we’ve been waiting for you. As soon as the State inspects the equipment, we can get going.” He tried to sound gruff, no nonsense.

Her back to him, the young woman pulled a briefcase out of the car. She straightened and took one long appraising look at his cotton shirt, down vest, his cowboy boots and hat. She seemed to form an assessment of Todd as quickly as he had made up his mind about her. “You’ve got the wrong person, Tex.”

Tex?
Todd frowned. “Excuse me?”

“You’re looking for Mr. Plerry.”

The driver emerged, straightened his suit, and stepped forward. “Ah, Mr. Severyn?” he said with a faint lisp, extending his hand. The man was paper-thin, mustached, and had immaculately slicked-back hair. “Glad to meet you. I’m Francis Plerry, director for environmental policy. Emma Branson asked me to come here personally—she’s an old acquaintance of mine.” Plerry cleared his throat and turned to the helicopter for the first time. Todd wanted to wring his neck—this wasn’t a tea party.

“Sorry we’re late, but I had to swing by Stanford to pick up Dr. Shikozu. She has graciously volunteered to accompany you when the microbes are released. Iris, have you introduced yourself?”

Shikozu cut off more conversation with a quick, impatient gesture. “We don’t have time, Mr. Plerry. Judge Steinberg already signed a restraining order, and we need to get up in the air before somebody can get here to deliver it. Let’s go, Tex.”

Todd narrowed his eyes at the sharp-tongued woman. It wasn’t
his
fault they were still sitting on the ground. “Well, we’ve been waiting for
you,
Ma’am.” He drew out the “ma’am,” knowing it would annoy her.

“Pleased to meet you, too, Tex,” she said, taking him aback. The glint in her eye made him wonder if she was intentionally jerking his chain . . . and enjoying it.

Plerry smiled thinly and continued. “Dr. Shikozu is an assistant professor at Stanford, specializing in microbiology and polymer chemistry. Her expertise will be invaluable in reassuring the public that this is a safe and well-considered action.” Shikozu and Todd both looked at him, wondering
who
Plerry thought he was kidding.

“But getting down to business—?” Shikozu said, crossing her arms over her sweatshirt. Plerry looked flustered at being rushed.

Todd had a difficult time hiding his reflexive grin. “My feelings exactly,” he said. “The microbes are in a canister under the cockpit. We’ll start spraying once you give the word. We estimate it’ll take a few hours to cover the entire spill.” He directed them to the helicopter. The pilot sat up and climbed back into her cockpit.

Shikozu looked Todd in the eye as they stood by the helicopter. “I’ve tested a frozen sample of Alex Kramer’s original microbes as a control back at Stanford. Not having second thoughts, are you?”

Todd felt suddenly warm. “No second thoughts, Ma’am. I just work here, and it’s my job to get the spraying done.”

“All right.” Shikozu bent under the helicopter. “Let’s check out the dispersion equipment. Then we can start our work.” They squatted under the helicopter’s belly as Shikozu studied the apparatus. Todd had no idea what she was looking for.

He glanced up quickly when he heard a pandemonium of cars approaching. A convoy of vehicles honked their horns, winding along the narrow shoreline road. A gravel truck from the nearby quarry rumbled to a halt, momentarily blocking the stream of cars.

“Start the rotors!” Todd yelled to the copter pilot. She scrambled with the controls, but he saw nothing happening. Todd threw a glance behind him. The gravel truck ground its gears, but the cars wouldn’t stay stopped for long. “What’s the problem?”

The pilot kept her head down, running through a checklist. “Give me two minutes and I’ll have you in the air.”

“Can’t you get us up any quicker?”

She reached up and to her left, flicking a switch. “I’ll burn out the units if I go faster.” A low whine came from the engines.

Todd turned back to Iris. “You’ll have to make a decision mighty quick, Ma’am.”

“I think all the dispersal systems look adequate.” Shikozu straightened. Todd grudgingly gave her credit for sensing the emergency. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Plerry?” Her almond eyes widened, and she looked back to the road as the cars drove across the loose gravel outside the chain-link gate. Car doors slammed.

“Uh, yes,” Plerry said, stepping back from the helicopter. “It looks fine.” He nodded again as if to reassure
himself
. The helicopter blades began to rotate slowly.

The vehicles in the convoy were old and battered, Volkswagen beetles, Chevy Novas, Ford vans, many covered with bumper stickers: EARTH FIRST!
and
SPLIT WOOD, NOT ATOMS!