Black Horizon (8 page)

“Commercial fishing has already been impacted,” said Freddy. “Tourism is tanking as we speak. As we saw in Deepwater Horizon, if people even think there’s oil in the water, they won’t eat your fish or stay at your beachfront hotel.”

“People need to get their fears under control,” the judge said. “Until there is actual damage, any effort to freeze the defendants’ assets is premature.”

“I respectfully disagree,” said Freddy. “But if the question of prematurity is foremost in the court’s mind, I would point out that there is one case before this court in which the injury has undeniably occurred.”

Jack froze.
Freddy is going to drag me into this.

“My colleague from Miami, Jack Swyteck, has filed a wrongful death suit on behalf of a widow of one of the workers on the rig. I would be more than willing to yield my time to Mr. Swyteck. I believe it would be beneficial for the court to hear from him.”

Jack could hardly believe his ears. To his dismay, the judge took the bait.

“Yes, my law clerk brought that case to my attention this morning,” said the judge. “Mr. Swyteck, are you in the courtroom?”

Reluctantly, Jack rose. Heads turned toward the back of the courtroom.

“Yes, Your Honor,” said Jack.

“Sadly, your client has already lost her husband, which would seem to put you in a different circumstance. So let me ask you this: If I rule for the oil consortium with respect to the property claims, should my ruling also prevent your client from attempting to seize any of the defendants’ assets before trial?”

Jack wasn’t fully prepared to explain his position, but there was only one answer he could give. “My client should not be affected.”

The judge waved him forward. “Come to the microphone, please. The court would like to hear more from you before ruling.”

Jack hesitated. “If the court would indulge me, I would like to have a little time to prepare—”

“Mr. Swyteck,
come forward
. The court is being asked to decide whether Venezuelan supertankers can or cannot sail into U.S. ports without threat of being subject to seizure. I am not about to defer ruling so you can go back to Miami and think about it.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” As Jack squeezed out from the bench seat toward the aisle, the new lawyer for the Big Palm Island Resort handed him a Post-it.

“My legal gem,” he said softly. “Use it.”

Jack read it quickly to himself:
Mr. Candela is as slimy as the sludge in our ocean.
A bolt of courtroom brilliance worthy of a law-school dropout.

“I’ll pass it on to Freddy,” Jack whispered. He walked down the center aisle, pushed through the swinging gate at the rail, and went to the podium.

“Jack Swyteck, counsel for Bianca Lopez,” he said, adding the case number.

It could have been Jack’s imagination, but reporters in the media section seemed to take even greater interest with Bianca’s wrongful death suit front and center. The judge, too, seemed more energized, twisting her long strand of white pearls as she spoke.

“Mr. Swyteck, what is your response to Mr. Candela’s point that anyone suing the oil consortium must come forward with affirmative proof that the consortium was at fault? That strikes me as a pretty tough row to hoe, given that this spill took place in Cuban waters.”

Jack had two possible strategies: He could be brief and simply distance himself from Freddy and the others, or he could go on the offensive and try to score points. Choosing the latter, he laid his iPad atop the podium and opened his research file.

“Proving fault will not be a serious obstacle for Bianca Lopez,” said Jack. “Already I’ve uncovered a damning report from the Center for Democracy in America, a Washington-based organization that sent a team of specialists to Cuba on an offshore drilling investigation. I would note that the CDA is not a right-wing anti-Castro organization. To the contrary, the stated goal of the CDA is to end the trade embargo and normalize relations between the United States and Cuba. Even with that agenda, the CDA made the following finding,” said Jack, pulling up the report on his iPad. “I quote: ‘A foreign diplomat provided the CDA delegation with one concerning evaluation. He said some of Cuba’s partners see Cuba as something of a laboratory for gaining experience in deep water.’ End quote.”

Not a single reporter in the courtroom missed that jewel.

“A laboratory,” said Jack, driving home the point, “conducting experiments in five thousand feet of water—without the necessary experience. I’m confident that we will be able to show that this ‘laboratory’ operated without proper safety and evacuation standards.”

Candela jumped to his feet. Even in his unprepared state, Jack was too well armed to suit the oil consortium.

“Your Honor, this is highly improper.”

“Yes, but highly interesting,” said the judge.

“I have much more,” said Jack.

“I think we’ve heard enough,” said Candela.

“I have time,” the judge said.

Reporters in the front row literally scooted to the edge of their seats.

Judge Carlyle settled back in her tall leather chair, making herself comfortable. “Continue, Mr. Swyteck.”

Jack could feel the momentum, but Candela cut him off, his tone somewhere between nervous and conciliatory. “Your Honor, since there is only one wrongful death suit filed in the United States, I am sure that the consortium can come up with an arrangement to satisfy Mr. Swyteck that, in the unlikely event his client prevails at trial, there will be sufficient assets to satisfy a judgment. As for today, we would urge the court to focus solely on the property claims and enter an order that protects our supertankers and keeps business operating as usual.”

The judge considered it. “Is that acceptable to you, Mr. Swyteck?”

“A ten-million-dollar bond posted in the next three business days is acceptable,” said Jack.

“Ten million?”
said Candela, incredulous.

“On the other hand,” said Jack, turning back to his iPad, “there are good reasons for this court to allow me to seize a supertanker. The latest projections from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration have oil landing on Florida’s beaches within the next four to five days if the spill is not shut off at the faucet. My understanding is that the consortium is still waiting around for a capping stack from Scotland. Seizure of a Venezuelan supertanker might give Mr. Candela’s client just enough incentive to get things under control before disaster strikes.”

Candela quickly conferred with his co-counsel, urgent whispers flying back and forth at their table. The entire team appeared anxious to shut down Jack’s pipeline to the press. Candela faced the judge and cleared his throat, the words not coming easy.

“Your Honor, a ten-million-dollar bond in the wrongful death suit will be fine.”

“So ordered,” said the judge. “I will defer ruling in the property claim cases.”

“Defer ruling?” said Candela. “But our supertankers—”

“The matter is deferred,” the judge said firmly.

Candela shot a quick but angry glare at Jack. It was obvious that Jack’s final point—his mere suggestion that the court had the power to push the consortium to expedite containment efforts—made it impossible for a judge who was
elected
by the citizens of Key West to side with a Venezuelan oil company.

“Judge,” said Candela, “Venezuela is this country’s fourth-largest supplier. The United States depends on Venezuelan crude for heating oil and—”

“That will do, Mr. Candela. We are adjourned.”

The judge ended it with a bang of her gavel. The crowd rose upon the bailiff’s command, the judge exited through the side door to her chambers, and the courtroom was immediately abuzz. Reporters leaned over the rail, calling Jack’s name, peppering him with questions about a lawsuit that, until Freddy’s ambush in open court, had managed to slide into the courthouse without notice.

“Who is Bianca Lopez?”

“Where does she live?”

“When can we talk to her, please?”

Jack did not respond. He grabbed his iPad and pushed through the crowd toward the rear exit, not so much as glancing in Freddy’s direction on his way down the center aisle.

Chapter 12

A
ndie took the Red Line into Washington, D.C., exited the Metro at the Judiciary Square Station, and walked three blocks to the J. Edgar Hoover Building. She was alone. And she was at that early stage of an assignment where she needed to remind herself every now and then that her name was Viola.

Viola
, she thought, noting another wave of “morning” sickness, even though it was five o’clock in the afternoon.
How do you like that name, baby?

Her meeting at FBI headquarters was in a windowless room below ground level. The entire undercover team had been summoned for an update on Operation Big Dredge. Three months before, when Andie had signed on to the operation, she was told that it was an investigation into organized crime and business cheats from south Florida to Guangdong who were making billions on the smuggling and sale of counterfeit goods. But that evening, at their first official meeting since Andie’s deployment into the field, the team leader’s welcome made it clear that “smuggling” and “counterfeiting” had never been the real targets of the investigation.

“Say good-bye to Big Dredge,” he said to a roomful of agents, “and welcome to Operation Black Horizon.”

Andie was seated in the front row of metal folding chairs as the lights dimmed and, with the hum of an electric motor, a projection screen descended from a slot in the ceiling. Andie had seen enough television news coverage about the spill to recognize the image immediately: the Scarborough 8 oil rig floating in blue waters—before the explosion.

Agent Anthony Douglas was a Gulf War veteran and former Marine officer, the quintessential team leader. He walked slowly up and down the aisle, as if inspecting his soldiers, as he spoke. “What I want to talk about this evening is this team’s mission, which is, simply stated: How did we get from this,” he said, pointing at the screen, “to this?”

With a click of the remote the rig was gone. The blue waters had turned black. Seas that had foamed with whitecaps were teeming with chemical dispersants. The sight was enough to make Andie nauseous.

Or maybe that’s Viola again.

“As you probably have guessed by now, the education you received over the past two months—everything from improved proficiency in the Chinese language to sharpened insights into the Chinese Mafia—has nothing to do with counterfeit Gucci handbags. So-called Operation Big Dredge was a mere cover to ensure the secrecy of your preparation for a much more vital operation at the core of our national security. The explosion of the Scarborough 8 has only shortened the timeline and heightened the urgency of the real investigation. I assure you, however, that everything you have learned will be of use to you.”

Another click of his remote brought the image of a shipyard onto the screen.

“From the day construction began in this shipyard in Yantai, Shandong Province, China, we have kept a close eye on the Scarborough 8. That scrutiny intensified when the world’s largest oil rig—an engineering and technological monster built entirely in China with less than ten percent American-made parts—ended up just sixty miles from the city of Key West. Through means that I will not get into here, FBI tech agents and experts from U.S. Homeland Security were able to access the Chinese rig’s computer system during drilling operations. We monitored the rig right up to the moment of the explosion. At this time I would like to introduce Special Agent Raj Gupta, who will briefly explain the technical aspects.”

Andie found that sickening as well.
Oh, my God, Viola, you little stinker. If you make me vomit in the middle of this meeting . . .

Special Agent Gupta walked to the front of the room and took the remote.

“Unfortunately, no one will ever be able to recover the exact software events leading to the Scarborough 8 disaster because, even on a state-of-the-art semi-submersible rig, there is no ‘black box.’ But here is what we do know.”

The projected image on the screen was suddenly a collection of circuits in a tangle of colored wires, which did absolutely nothing to alleviate Andie’s nausea.

Ugh, spaghetti.

“Offshore oil rigs are made up of dozens of complex subsystems that use embedded software or are operated under software control. Each system is a potential point of failure. When the software is operating properly, alarms are routed to a central control station.”

Gupta stopped and looked straight at Andie. “Are you okay, Henning?”

“Fine, thanks,” she lied.

Where is the Big Palm Island ice bucket when a girl really needs it?

Gupta went to the next slide. “Industry standards for manageable alarm rates are one alarm per ‘normal’ ten-minute period with a maximum of five in any ‘peak’ five-minute period. During Tropical Storm Miguel, in the peak period immediately prior to the explosion, our monitoring systems detected almost
five hundred
alarms. It was impossible for the system and its operators to sift through this overload of alarms and prevent the explosion.”

Andie pulled herself together to ask a question. “Are you saying the storm caused a computer malfunction?”

“Homeland Security does not believe it was the storm, per se, that caused the computer malfunction. We believe the system failed in the storm due to computer sabotage, unleashing a cascade effect that resulted in catastrophe.”

“But sabotage usually involves advance planning,” said Andie. “How would someone who sabotaged the alarm system know far enough ahead of time that the Scarborough 8 was going to be hit by a major tropical storm?”

“Excellent question, Henning,” said Douglas.

Thank you. May I puke now?

Gupta replied, “As it turned out, the storm was the trigger event that overloaded the alarm system. But the same catastrophic failure could have been triggered by a major equipment failure or any number of events and conditions that rigs typically face in ultradeep water. We believe the sabotage rendered the system unable to deal with
any
significant emergency. In essence, the Scarborough 8 was a ticking time bomb that was doomed to explode the first time the rig faced an emergency situation that, if not for the sabotage, would have been manageable.”