Crossing Savage (12 page)

After the sun dropped below the horizon, Brad gave up his concealed position. Both marshals were back at the cabin so they obviously did not have the ability to perform night patrols. “Sloppy,” Brad muttered to himself. He pulled a pair of night vision goggles from his pack and adjusted them on his head. He glanced at his watch and noted it was time to head to the landing beach on the north tip of the island. He used his GPS to guide his way, the coordinates for the landing beach having been preloaded into the GPS memory. The walking was easy despite the darkness, with plenty of grassy meadows between patches of forest. Placing his booted feet carefully with every step to avoid excessive noise, Brad walked along the tree line so his silhouette would not be visible—just in case someone happened to be watching. His path would take him around the east of the mountain peak north of the cabin.

He arrived at the beach in plenty of time and spent the next two hours carefully checking over the area for any other people. Although it was very unlikely that there would be other hunters on the island, it was not impossible.

Finally, convinced that the area was clear, Brad sat down on a fallen tree with his back against the roots that had once held the giant spruce to the earth. It made a pretty comfortable chair, he thought, and it was a lot warmer than sitting on bare rock. It would be another three hours before the landing party was scheduled to signal, so Brad made himself comfortable and inserted chemical warming packs into his boots and gloves, and over his kidneys inside his parka. All he had to do now was wait. He ate another couple of granola bars and downed the last of his now-cold coffee.

In the early morning hours, right on schedule, he saw the blink of light from the ocean. Ten seconds later he saw it again. He removed his flashlight from his pocket, pointed it toward the blinking light, and signaled back with three short flashes. The return signal was two short flashes followed by one long, then two short. Brad replied with one long, two short, and then one final long.

A darkly-colored Zodiac with a silenced motor arrived with six men on the beach five minutes later. The men were dressed entirely in black, including black paint on their faces and black stocking caps to ward off the cold night air. And all were wearing night vision goggles.

Silently, the men pulled the Zodiac onto the beach. They slid the inflatable boat next to a large fir tree, the low, drooping boughs providing camouflage. Brad handed the team leader his notes, and the rest of the team waited as he read them by the suffused red glow of a penlight. Speaking quietly, the leader briefed the team on what to expect. Each team member was wearing communication gear consisting of a throat mic and an ear bud. The transmission range was short—they would only be communicating amongst themselves.

It was now 4:00 A.M., and the team headed south toward the cabin. The leader removed a small radio from his load harness and keyed a short coded message, then pressed the transmit button.

They were on schedule, and no resistance had been encountered. They had the element of surprise and expected only weak opposition from the two lightly armed marshals. Maintaining strict silence and with a high degree of confidence, the team closed on Peter's cabin.

Chapter 9

September 26

Moscow, Russian Federation

Grigory Rostov swallowed the iced vodka
and placed the empty glass on his desk next to a short stack of reports he had just reviewed. Rostov Oil Corporation was doing well. The global economy had an insatiable thirst for oil, and the ever-growing demand exerted nearly constant upward pressure on the price of oil. Reserves owned by Rostov's corporation, as well as production, were up marginally over last quarter, and substantially over the preceding year, thanks in part to the recent strikes in Kazakhstan and southern Russia. Of course, it also helped to have the full power of the Russian government on your side when negotiating with so-called partners.

The formula was simple; let the Western oil companies come in early and pay dearly to develop the new fields, and then simply nationalize the project. Oil-rich countries had been doing just that for decades. And it worked, so long as they allowed the private concerns—British Energy, Excelon Petroleum, New Holland Oil, Trident Energy Group, and others just enough revenue to report reasonable profits to their shareholders.

The cell phone in his jacket pocket vibrated to signal an incoming call. He pressed the phone to his ear and listened. He had been expecting the call, so no greeting was required.

“The strike team is in place. They should make contact with the targets in approximately one hour. Everything is proceeding according to plan.”

“Very well. Keep me informed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Grigory terminated the call and walked across his office to the wet bar built into a polished walnut cabinet covering the entire wall. A silver sink and faucet were set into an ebony-black granite surface speckled with small crystals that glistened like tiny diamonds under the recessed halogen spotlights. He retrieved a bottle of vodka nestled in a silver bucket of crushed ice and poured another glassful. Although he had a high level of confidence in the Ramirez brothers, he also knew that operations seldom went as planned.

The key to success was to always anticipate your opponent's next moves. This meant that first he had to anticipate the outcome of his actions, whether the operation proceeded as planned or not. But Grigory enjoyed this part of the game; he was a master strategist and tactician.

Using his position of influence in political circles, Grigory had quietly approached the governments of Venezuela, Iran, Russia, and Libya with a plan that was so bold and daring that their initial reaction was nothing short of ridicule. But he persisted, arguing that the risk was disproportionately his, yet the benefit would be for all.

Although he normally kept his illegal affairs secret from government officials, for his plan to succeed he needed the combined intelligence capabilities of several national governments, not to mention sympathetic national police agencies to help with covering up official investigations that could otherwise prove troubling.

He had presented his plan two years ago, and Russia and Venezuela accepted his proposal; Iran and Libya, each still dealing with internal unrest, decided not to provoke the Western nations. Since then Grigory was directly responsible for orchestrating the murder of more than 500 men, women, and children. Mostly they were scientists working on alternative, and most inconveniently, promising theories about oil production— theories that, if fully developed and commercialized, would ruin the advantage he and his company held over the oil-consuming countries.

Initially it had been fairly easy to make the murders appear like accidents—lab explosions, car crashes, and the like. But the real breakthrough came when he altered the modus operandi to mimic global terrorism—bombings and political assassinations. Suicide bombings were particularly effective, and the death toll began to rise rapidly.

The attack at the Hedberg conference in Caracas a few months earlier had been especially efficient, killing 45 experts in abiogenic oil formation at one time. Soon there wouldn't be any “experts” left. Yet he still had a few targets on his list, including that professor from Oregon and his colleague from Japan. Pablo Ramirez, with planning assistance from his brother Vasquez, was the perfect operative to lead the mission.

At least for now, the Venezuelans were his allies, and he would exploit them to his maximum benefit. But logic also dictated that he have a backup plan. He pressed the number 1 on his cell phone, and the call connected immediately.

“Good evening, Grigory. Everything is going well, I trust?”

“Of course, Mr. President. The plan is proceeding on schedule.”

“Excellent. You will keep me informed?”

“I will have a final status report within ten hours. As you know, this mission is extremely important to our goals.”

“Yes. Is something troubling you, my friend?”

“I have assigned our best men to this task, but an American agent has been asking questions—he may suspect our intentions. Since I do not know the extent of his knowledge, I cannot be 100 percent confident that the mission will succeed as planned. Therefore, Mr. President, I am requesting that you authorize the secondary plan as we agreed.”

“Ahh. Your ‘insurance policy.' Isn't that what you called it?”

“I have found that it is best to plan for all possible contingencies, however unlikely, in order to secure the desired outcome.”

“Yes, I am sure you are right, Grigory. Do not worry, I will send authorization to the submarine captain. Is that all, my friend?”

“Just one more item, if I may?”

“One more
small
item, I trust?”

“It concerns President Garza and his advisors. As you know, he seems to draw endless pleasure from antagonizing the Americans. I do not trust him. We should be cautious in our dealings with him as we reach our goals.”

“Do not worry about Enrique Garza. I can handle him, don't you think? Besides, I have plans for the Garza regime. The government of Venezuela can still serve our needs.”

Grigory feared that his warning was being brushed aside. “But sir, I strongly encourage—”

He was cut off mid-sentence. “Trust me. Now, if that is all, I must send the coded message to our intrepid submarine captain, and then I have other business to attend. Report to me when the mission is completed.” And the line went dead.

Chapter 10

September 26

Chernabura Island, West Side

Murph pushed back the blanket
and stretched, still groggy from having slept only four hours on the sofa. He and Davis had taken shifts throughout the night so that one of them was always awake and on guard. Slowly Murph sat up and nudged his 12-gauge under the sofa with his foot. He inhaled deeply. “Mmmm… coffee and bacon! Sure does smell good, and I'm starving!”

As Davis had the last watch of the night, it was natural that he was already cooking a hearty breakfast. Murphy expected the others to invade the kitchen at any moment and drain the coffee pot, so he quickly poured a cup and added his requisite amount of sugar and cream. Once satisfied that his beverage was the perfect shade of tan, he took a sip, indulging in the wonderful flavor. Nothing was quite as good as hot coffee first thing in the morning, he thought.

“Anything unusual happen while I was out?” Murph asked followed by a long, slow, slurping sip from his cup. Davis shook his head without averting his attention from the bacon he was flipping in a large cast-iron frying pan.

“Think the military intel is any good?”

Davis glanced at Murphy and answered in a low voice so as not to be overheard. “I can't say… never heard of Colonel Pierson and his outfit. And someone would have to go to a lot of trouble just to get here. I mean, this island is remote. I can think of dozens of easier places to carry out a hit on the professors if I was the one planning it.”

“Yeah, I hear you,” agreed Murphy. “Still, we have our orders. Let's stick with the same routine today and then re-evaluate tonight.”

Just then Karen Bailey and Professor Savage emerged from their separate rooms, following the delicious aroma like two bloodhounds on a scent trail. Karen grabbed an empty cup and filled it with coffee. The professor was a tea man and set to boiling a small pot of water on the stove.

“Good morning, gentlemen, Karen,” he said. “I hope you found my son's cabin comfortable last night.”

Although the professor would not easily admit it, he loved this place. It reminded him of his younger days, backpacking with his buddies in the Sierra Nevada range between terms at UC Berkeley. Then it was easier to get away from crowds of people. Now you had to travel to the far corners of the earth to find solitude.

“Good morning, Professor,” said Davis as he flipped several strips of golden-brown bacon. “Just about done with breakfast—scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast, coffee. I see you're a tea drinker. I'll remember that tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, nonsense. I'm more than capable of preparing a pot of tea. And thank you for cooking; it smells delicious!”

While Murph and Karen began setting the table with napkins, plates, and forks, Sato-san walked into the kitchen and joined in conversation with Professor Savage. They had become good friends over their many years of collaboration, although they only saw each other one or two times a year.

Sato-san was a renowned professor at Tokyo Institute of Technology, and he had taken an instant liking to Ian Savage when they first met at a technical conference many years ago. Professor Savage had presented a paper on his ideas that hydrocarbons could be naturally formed by inorganic reactions deep within the Earth's mantle.

At the time Sato-san was a young assistant professor at Tokyo Institute of Technology. His interest was applied mathematics, and he saw in Professor Ian Savage's theories an opportunity to apply chemical thermodynamics to test those theories. Even then, the idea that petroleum and gas could be formed by inorganic reactions was not a new concept, Sato-san knew very well. But no one had been able to offer any credible hypotheses as to how oil could be formed deep inside the earth.

Professor Savage was not altruistic about his ideas. In fact, Sato-san recalled he was more excited about possible funding from NASA and did not seem that interested in how his work might impact conventional beliefs about terrestrial petroleum and gas formation. NASA was just beginning to get detailed data on Saturn's moons. How could such bodies be covered in methane, ethane, and other hydrocarbons? Conventional theories said that decomposed plant and animal material was the source of simple and complex hydrocarbons.

Sato-san had found himself excited and energized by this paper. The author was obviously a courageous man to offer up such unconventional ideas for peer scrutiny. Sato-san had introduced himself, and they talked for hours that first day about Savage's ideas that inorganic reactions, carried out at high temperature and pressure, could yield organic products.

“After all,” Professor Savage had said, “hydrocarbons are simple compounds of carbon and hydrogen arranged in an almost endless variety of configurations. Geology provides the basic ingredients— various mineral carbonates, such as calcium carbonate, are a ready source of carbon, and the most obvious source of hydrogen is water, since it is both abundant and ubiquitous.”

“But haven't other researchers thoroughly examined the reaction kinetics and thermodynamics?” Sato-san asked. “The theory of abiogenic oil production is not new, of course. I agree that it is widely discredited, but there are those who subscribe to the theory.”

“Sure, there is slowly growing support for the idea that oil and gas are not only formed from organic precursors. As you have pointed out, a few groups have examined the thermodynamics of conventional, or biogenic, petroleum formation theory and found it cannot be supported by any known chemical equilibrium. So indirectly, this lends support to alternative theories.”

“That is very interesting. So there are two general theories for oil formation: biogenic and abiogenic. The biogenic theory suggests that petroleum and gas are formed at shallow depths by decomposition of organic material. Yes?”

“Yes,” replied Professor Savage.

“But the competing theory of abiogenic oil formation has not been tested by thermodynamic analysis?”

“Correct.”

“Ahh. That interests me very much. My work is in the field of applied mathematics, and I am especially interested in chemical kinetics and thermodynamics. Perhaps we can collaborate and gain a better understanding of the abiogenic theory?” Sato-san was clearly excited about the prospects of working with Professor Savage and applying a theoretical depth to his experimental work.

Professor Savage liked Sato-san. He was a pleasant man and quickly understood what had been presented as new material. Perhaps even more important, Sato-san did not exhibit any biases or preconceptions about his radical ideas. They just might make a good team, Professor Savage agreed. And that was the beginning of a long friendship and a collaboration that had yielded an impressive number of papers and helped to secure the academic careers of both men.

As Davis continued cooking, Sato-san and Professor Savage ambled into the great room and sat on the hearth, absorbing the lingering remnants of warmth from the previous night's fire.

“If I remember correctly, it has been about two years since Peter's wife died. How is he doing?” asked Sato-san.

“He seems to be getting along all right, I suppose. At first, it was very hard for him. He and Maggie were inseparable. But Peter has focused his energy on his work, which he has always enjoyed.”

Kenji Sato nodded. “I can see that Peter is driven, like you Ian-san.” He smiled. “But he does not joke or laugh very much. I remember he used to do that a lot.”

“When Maggie died, something inside Peter died, too. He feels somehow responsible for not being able to help her.”

“You and I know that does not make sense. There was nothing he could do, and nothing the doctors could do, based on what you told me. Fate had claimed his wife—one cannot fight fate.”

“My son doesn't easily give up, and he most certainly does not believe in fate. Peter thinks he can control the world around him.”

Sato-san nodded understanding.

“In the months following Maggie's death,” Professor Savage continued, “Peter was withdrawn and depressed. He struggled out of it, but he definitely changed. Sometimes when I talk to him, I see an edge—a hardness—that wasn't there before. It can be frightening. I wouldn't want to cross him. He sees things differently now—more black and white rather than shades of gray.”

Sato was listening intently to Professor Savage, and after a moment his eyes brightened just a bit, betraying a sudden insight. “Yes, I see that too. Perhaps he is like the samurai of my ancestors. Perhaps Peter was born with a warrior's spirit and now it is surfacing. He is a man whose spirit chooses to follow Bushido—the code of the samurai.”

“I don't understand. What is Bushido?”

Sato-san contemplated the question, pausing for a moment as he searched for the right words. “It is difficult to explain in terms you would understand. You can think of it as analogous to chivalry, but much more complex. Bushido is a collection of the moral principles that governed the actions of the samurai. They lived and died by this code of honor.

“It is tempting to remember the samurai only as fierce and skilled warriors… and they were. But they were also benevolent, gentle, and compassionate, especially to those who could not protect themselves—children, women, the elderly.”

“But that's not Peter's world. He's not a warrior; he's an engineer and a businessman.”

“You speak of the man, but I speak of the spirit.”

“I'm not sure I understand what you mean.”

“A man's spirit is the truest form of his being. It can be masked, but in times of hardship and stress, it will surface. Peter's despair over the loss of his wife has unmasked his spirit. Maybe you are seeing your son as his spirit was born, in his true nature, rather than as he has chosen to present himself to others.”

Professor Savage nodded, but he had no response. His good friend had offered a perspective that had never occurred to him. He loved his son and silently grieved for him and his loss—a loss that he knew Peter still felt every day.

By this time, everyone had risen and the group was informally assembling in the kitchen. Murph and Davis were wise to fill their coffee cups when they did. The second pot was brewing, and people were beginning to find seats at the table. Junichi had joined Sato-san, and they were talking softly in Japanese.

Sato-san said, “Junichi has not stayed at a rustic cabin in the forest before.”

“This is much different than how we live in Tokyo,” Junichi added.

Harry nodded. “Well, you won't find accommodations this comfortable in Boston either.” Junichi smiled but didn't fully comprehend the joke. “How about you, Daren? Given your time in Colorado, I'd imagine you spent time in the Rockies.”

“Oh sure, every chance I had. We mostly backpacked though, you know, roughing it. I would have killed for a warm, comfortable cabin on some of those trips.”

Davis and Karen brought platters of food to the table and then sat down. Plates were filled and platters passed around the table. For a few minutes, everyone was quiet, mouths filled with hot, tasty food.

Professor Savage finally broke the silence. “Okay. I think everyone more or less got their bearings yesterday. At least I hope you did. The beach where we landed is to the west. Remember, this is an island. That means it's surrounded by water.” He smiled at his sarcasm, but he wanted to make a point for the students.

“If you get turned around… lost… don't panic. You are all smart adults. Just walk far enough in any direction, and you will run into the ocean. Worst case, follow the edge of the island and you will eventually end up at the landing beach. I don't want anyone spending a night in the forest because they failed to think. Still, make sure you are always carrying your rain parka and basic survival gear, especially matches, lighter, and lighter fluid. Dry clothes and a fire are the best ways to ward off hypothermia.”

Karen, Junichi, and Harry chuckled and were just a bit self-conscious. They knew that those instructions were mostly directed at the three of them. Harry was from the Boston metropolitan area, Junichi from Tokyo, and Karen from Atlanta. They were all young, and none had spent any substantial amount of time in the woods.

They continued to eat and sip their coffee. All were enjoying the hearty breakfast, even more so since Davis alone had risen early and prepared the meal. Although Junichi and Sato-san were not fully accustomed to a western-style breakfast, they showed no hesitation about partaking in the selection prepared for them.

Professor Savage continued, “The island is not large—about five miles north to south and maybe a bit more than two miles wide. There may be hunters on the island, although it's unlikely. This is National Forest land, and on rare occasions hunters and fishermen will come here in pursuit of game.

“You will be working in pairs. Sato-san and I feel that you will learn much from each other, so we will be rotating assignments and partners.”

Professor Sato, in his quiet, confident voice, chimed in. “Our objective is to gather additional mineral specimens today and begin work on a geological assessment of the underlying crust. We will need to place the seismic charges precisely to gain the maximum benefit. Understand that we have less than two weeks to complete our work. The samples and seismic data are very important to the continuation of our research.”

Karen asked, “Professor, I'm new to your research group and I'm learning a lot, but I don't fully understand what we expect to learn from the seismic data.”

“This island—in fact all of the Aleutian Island chain—is located along the edge of the North America tectonic plate. The Pacific plate is being drawn under the edge of the North American plate about 26 miles south of here.

“Based on the thermodynamic modeling done by Professor Sato, we know that it is possible for certain mineral carbonates to be reduced by hydrogen to hydrocarbons. The seismic data will allow us to map the underlying rock density, for comparison to what is thought to be true on Titan.”