by David Lyons
But Palmetto was walking away, Perry’s gun digging into his side.
CHAPTER 35
BOUCHER LISTENED FOR THE sounds of stirring beneath him, but there was nothing at first. Then he heard a rattle, like dried peas in a pod. A warning, but to him or was one of the snakes warning off another? Some of them did eat other snakes. The rattling stopped. He spread his arms to try to gauge the width of the shaft. He was hanging with his back against one side. He pushed away from the wall with his arms. The width was more than an arm’s length, but was it wide enough? He raised his head, his headache from the blow to his head increased by the pressure of hanging upside down. This in itself was dangerous enough. Blood could pool in his brain and cause a stroke. It could fill his lungs and cause him to suffocate. The venomous creatures below weren’t his only problem.
He rested his back flush against the brick wall and tried to press the backs of his legs against it. He raised his torso. It was like an extreme sit-up. He had done thousands of them with his feet raised forty-five degrees, but at this angle? He reached out his hands. Maybe if he could grab his trousers at the knees. He reached up, looking at the light in the sky above the shaft. His fingers clutched only air. He lowered his back, took a breath, and tried again. Nothing. Did he reach any farther on the second effort? The pain in his abdomen was certainly greater on the second try. He rested for thirty seconds, if you could call it resting when straining every muscle in your neck and upper back just trying to raise your head to a horizontal position. He finally lowered his head and it hit the wall, his muscles already tiring. There was a shadow overhead.
“Sorry to tell you, Judge, but your pal Palmetto is not cooperating. Here. Have a word with him. Tell him how it’s going down there. Oh, but first, let me do this.”
Boucher free-fell several feet. The rope snapped taut and he again felt as if his ankles were being ripped from his legs. He cried out. Palmetto leaned over the well.
“I’m going to give him what he wants,” he said. “Even if he is going to kill us, that’s no way to die.”
“Bob, these snakes haven’t done a thing. They’re more scared of me than I am of them.”
“Oh?” Now Perry was leaning over the shaft. “Then let’s just get you in range.”
Again he was dropped. Again the excruciating pain in his ankles. And there was a whoosh of a reptile striking. It missed, but he could feel the air caused by the sudden motion. He was in the range of one of them.
“Afraid we must leave you again,” Perry said. “Mr. Palmetto is expressing a wish to oblige. Perhaps we can offer you a more suitable fate. We’ll see. Be back in a few. Hang loose down there.”
Now there were several rattles, and Boucher thought he could hear the sound of scales slithering over the bottom of the pit. He turned his head and out of the corner of an eye could see the white mouth of the cottonmouth, open wide. There was another whoosh, as a strike just missed the top of his head. Boucher gritted his teeth and bent at the waist, lifting his upper body, reaching out, fingers extended. Fingertips touched fabric. He bent further upward. His right hand grabbed at his knee, then his left, grabbing fistfuls of chino. He pulled himself up, using the muscles of his hands, wrists, forearms, then biceps; walking his hands up his legs to his ankles. He grabbed his ankles. If the muscles in his lower back could have screamed their pain, the noise would have been deafening. He was a closed jackknife, his forehead resting against his knees. But it wasn’t enough. There was still an impossible task. He felt the rope around his ankles, then stretched his arms as if he were trying to remove them from the shoulder joints. He felt around his heels till he could get one hand on the rope, then the other. He had the rope in both hands. So what? What could be done from this position? He was doubled over, his head pressed against his knees, his hands reaching above his feet. There was no movement from this position.
Yes, there was. Houdini did it. The artist’s most exceptional escapes involved using musculature in ways that defied human physiology. Boucher began to reach up the rope and to push his legs away from his body, the jackknife opening. Finally, he was able to straighten out. He grabbed the rope between his knees. From this point it was rope climbing, just like in his high school gym. Just like in boot camp. He pulled himself up to the lip of the well shaft, loosened the rope from his ankles, climbed out, and fell on the soft ground, gasping for breath, staring at the blue sky above, the smell of pine replacing the smell of terror in his nostrils.
Palmetto and Perry were huddled over a notebook computer.
“So you’ve developed different carbon fiber composites for decompression, separation of CO2, and transmission of methane hydrate from the seabed,” Perry said.
“Yes,” Palmetto said. “The efficient use of carbon fiber composites allows for cost-efficient extraction.”
“Makes sense. They’re now making long-range passenger aircraft from the stuff because it’s half the weight and twice the strength of the metals they had been using.”
Boucher snuck up on them from behind. Perry’s hands were in his lap; the gun was nowhere else to be seen. Boucher was two feet behind them, creeping forward, when Perry saw his reflection in the computer screen, stood, and fired. The shot went wild. Palmetto had also stood and knocked Perry’s arm with his shoulder. Perry raised his hand for another shot, but Boucher’s right cross was already on its way, one of the best punches he had ever thrown in his life. Perry’s head snapped back and he fell to the floor unconscious. Boucher kicked the gun out of reach, and used the computer power cable to bind his hands behind his back. They stood over him.
“Is he dead?” Palmetto asked.
Boucher knelt down and felt his neck for a pulse. “No,” he said.
“Good. Let’s dump him in that snake pit in the interest of science. I would like to know how fast the poisonous vipers of Louisiana can kill a certified son of a bitch.”
“It’s tempting,” Boucher said. “It’s awful tempting.”
EPILOGUE
TWO MONTHS LATER, JOCK Boucher had chartered the forty-eight-foot ketch because he liked the name, Revenge. She was sleek and swift under sail, a luxury vessel. For many the chance to sail such a craft at sunset across Banderas Bay on Mexico’s Pacific coast, one of the world’s loveliest bodies of water, was the pinnacle of luxurious living. He assumed that the ship’s name was a reference to Oscar Wilde’s famous quote, with which he agreed. Living well was the best revenge.
But neither living well nor revenge was on the agenda on this evening. His was a solitary and a solemn task. He was lucky his bag had not been opened by customs on arrival in Mexico; his suitcase contained jars with labels identifying their contents as crushed black pepper. He had not prepared a logical excuse for carrying such a quantity of the condiment if challenged, knowing only that if he had declared Dawn’s ashes the red tape would have been endless. He was the only passenger on board the ketch. His mission was to grant her last wish. The gentle waves would carry her ashes to the shore and she would lie eternally on the sandy beaches of Puerto Vallarta.
“Did you catch anything?” Malika asked when he returned to the hotel.
He raised his empty hands. “That’s why they call it fishing, not catching,” he said. “Did you enjoy your day?”
“That’s not hard to do here. I napped out by the pool, went into town to shop, found this great place on the beach where people go to watch the sunset. I missed you.” She kissed his cheek.
“Thanks for understanding,” he said. “Some things a man’s got to do when he gets next to water.”
“I know, I know, but that’s all you get. No more solo adventures. Where would you like to have dinner tonight?”
“Someplace on the beach.”
“Okay. Get yourself ready. Oh, by the way, I was watching CNN and there was something about a businessman from New Orleans. He was refused bail and is awaiting trial on a lot of charges. Sounds like an awful man. His name was John Perry. Did you know him?”
“I
knew who he was,” Boucher said. He walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. “I knew who he was.”
He turned the water on full force and hot—and heard the phone ringing. Malika answered it, then called out, “It’s Bob Palmetto for you.”
Muttering curses, he wrapped a towel around himself and walked to the phone.
“Perfect timing. I was in the shower.”
“Ah, well, drip-dry, Judge,” Palmetto said. “Did you hear the news about Perry?”
“Malika just told me.”
“I wish him a long and miserable life. With him behind bars, I think we can say the case is closed.”
“I think we can. How’s the new job?”
“I don’t know whether I can even discuss it over an international phone line. I tell you, I’m working for one of the most secretive government agencies in the world. You just whisper ‘methane hydrate’ and doors slam shut. They don’t want anyone knowing about what they’re really doing until they’re good and ready. They treat me like I’m Einstein with plans for an atomic bomb in my head, but I’m not complaining. I think they mean well. More important, I think they’re responsible people. They’re treating this with the respect it deserves. You two having a good vacation?”
“We are. This place is beautiful.”
“What’s next? Have you decided whether you’re going back on the bench?”
“No. I’ve got another month before I have to decide. Malika and I might go to India. I’ll think about it on our trip.”
“Well, happy trails. Give me a call when you get back.”
“I’ll do that, Bob. You take care.” He hung up the phone.
“Was that the gentleman you helped?” Malika asked.
“We sort of helped each other,” Boucher said.
She walked up to him and put her arms around his neck. “I should be angry with him. I thought for a while that whatever you were doing with him had taken you away from me.”
He put his hands on her waist and looked into her eyes. “I thought whatever you were doing with your client had taken you away from me.”
She shook her head. “We must learn to trust each other. Now get dressed. I’m starving.”
There was a knock at the door. Malika went to open it as he stepped into the bathroom, closing the door.
“Jock, you’d better come here,” she said.
“Malika, I’m wrapped in a towel.”
“I still think you’d better come here.”
He gave the towel a tighter wrap, then stepped out. A man in U.S. Air Force blues stood in the center of the room, a bird colonel. He removed his hat.
“Judge Boucher, I’m Colonel Lance Barrett. I have orders to transport you to Washington immediately.”
“Orders from whom?”
“From the President of the United States, Your Honor.”
“The President wants me? What for?”
“I wasn’t told, sir. We need to get moving. There are several aircraft in holding patterns pending our departure. The President of Mexico granted us landing rights, but we have a tight window.”
“What about my friend?” Boucher motioned toward Malika.
“I’m sorry. The F-15 Strike Eagle is a two-seater.”
“That’s a jet fighter. You flew a military aircraft into Mexico’s sovereign airspace?”
“The President is anxious to see you, sir.”
Boucher shook his head and turned to Malika. “I’m sorry, honey.”
She smiled. “I’ll be fine. You’d better get dressed before you drop that towel.”
He walked to the bathroom, then turned to the officer. “Can you tell me one thing, Colonel?”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Is the President pissed off at me?”
“I’ll have to let him address that, Judge Boucher.”
THE END
POSTSCRIPT
METHANE HYDRATE IS POISED to become a major worldwide energy resource. It is estimated that there is twice as much methane hydrate in the world as all other carbon-based fossil fuel sources combined.
Methane hydrate is found in marine sediments and Arctic regions. Consisting of gas molecules surrounded by a cage of water molecules, it resembles snow or clumps of crushed ice. A striking feature of this ice: when lit, it burns. It is stable in ocean depths of more than three hundred meters and can form layers several hundred meters thick. Mapping by the U.S. Geological Survey has shown an immense deposit of methane hydrate off the outer continental shelf of North and South Carolina. Other deposits have also been discovered in U.S. offshore areas. Other countries that are actively exploring and developing deposits of methane hydrate in their own territorial areas include Russia, China, India, and Japan. New Zealand has recently announced that it intends to be the first country to commercially produce fuel from methane hydrate. The U.S. government has announced its plans to begin large-scale production tests for methane hydrate in the Arctic in 2012.
Methane is clean-burning, and one source claims that replacement of current coal and petroleum with methane extracted from hydrate could reduce global carbon dioxide emissions by 50 percent.
On the downside, disturbance of subsea hydrate layers may destabilize the ocean floor and cause landslides on the outer continental slope, which may in turn cause tsunamis engulfing coastal population centers. Furthermore, excessive release of methane gas into the atmosphere may contribute to global warming.
In summary, a clean-burning, abundant energy resource exists that may last for centuries and lessen reliance on imported fuel sources for the United States and several other of the world’s leading economic powers. The development of this resource may create entire new industries and the jobs that accompany them. It also presents challenges and risks that will require analysis and prudence, if not an abundance of caution.
But regardless of one’s perspective, the term methane hydrate is about to assume a prominent position in the lexicon of global energy.
BLOOD GAME
A JOCK BOUCHER THRILLER
by
DAVID LYONS
Coming August 2013 in hardcover from Emily Bestler Books/Atria
Turn the page for a preview of Blood Game. . . .
“Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.”
GEORGE SANTAYANA (1863-1952)
“In addition to combat of all kinds, possible operations in the next several years will include everything from helping victims of a flood to restoring order in a collapsed state with large-scale criminal activity, violence, and perhaps even unconventional weaponry.”
GENERAL RAYMOND T. ODIERNO, CHIEF OF STAFF OF THE U.S. ARMY, FOREIGN AFFAIRS MAGAZINE, JUNE I, 2012 (ITALICS MINE)
PROLOGUE
MAC HALLEY DESERVED A better death.
He’d known failure, more than his share. Three marriages had ended in bitter divorce. Failed husband. Three kids from those marriages were grown and on their own. Not one kept in touch with him. Failed father. He had owned a small barge company that plied the Mississippi River and intercoastal waterways of Louisiana, but that went bust. Then he had a seafood restaurant overlooking the gulf, but Katrina smashed it flat, and when he’d spent every last dime getting it back on its feet, the BP oil spill fouled the neighborhood beaches and robbed him of the regular trade he had built up. Failed businessman. Alicia, his latest live-in, had dumped him; walked out with her suitcase—and his Rolex. Failed lover. At fifty-five years of age there wasn’t much left for him, but it helped when he gave himself credit for his one consistent success in life, survival. His failures were not all his fault, and the fact that he got back on his feet over and over again reinforced his sense of self-worth. His resilience had helped him land the job he had now; a shit job, but one that kept him alive. Halley’s present occupation was a galley cook on one of the many offshore service vessels owned by Dumont Industries, one of the Gulf Coast’s biggest conglomerates. It was a curious combination of his former lines of work, only now he was a grunt, not a
proprietor. Big difference.
The three-hundred-fifty-foot high-capacity vessel had made a run deep into the gulf and was now on its way back to shore. It had been his first trip. Except for sack time in his bunk, he’d spent all his time in the galley cooking, as he’d expected. What he hadn’t expected was to be ordered to remain in the galley unless permission was given to go topside. This ship was not running personnel to and from the offshore rigs as most of them did, but taking out drilling equipment. Were they worried he’d hurt himself? He probably knew the business better than most of the crew.
On the second day of rolling seas, he said to hell with the orders. He needed some air. Looking for an access to the main deck he’d passed an entrance to the ship’s hold, opened the door, and took a peek. He wasn’t sure what he saw, but he knew what it wasn’t. It wasn’t offshore drilling equipment. One item was uncovered. It was a tripod and stood chest high. Painted olive drab. Halley forgot about going on deck. He hastened back to the galley. Where he stayed the rest of the day.
That night he was in his bunk alone. All his crewmates quartered with him were on duty. The ship was slowing down and without speed was rolling in moderate swells. Being cooped up inside was enough to make any sailor seasick. He got up, went to the head, and splashed cold water from the sink on his face. He then went to the cabin door and found it locked. They’d locked him in the crew’s quarters. The engines rumbled, gurgled, then stopped. He heard another ship for just a moment, then its engines died too. It was close by. Then it was alongside. There wasn’t a lot of noise, but he knew his ship’s cargo was being transferred. The silence was odd. He’d never offloaded a ship without yelling orders—it was part of the process. When he did finally hear voices, they were speaking Spanish. Half an hour later, the engines started up. Halley got back in his bunk. He feigned sleep when his mates returned.