‘I see you have done your homework,’ Martin Kincofu replied. He looked embarrassed that Sam had found out how far his family had fallen.
‘I can lessen the disruption of the trucks and the drilling by imposing the most stringent operational procedures ever seen in the fracking industry. Tourism and drilling can co-exist in harmony and the profits can be channelled into wildlife protection schemes.’
‘Let me talk to my father.’ Martin turned to his right and began a long, animated discussion with the chief. Several times he heard the word ‘kukhulupirira’ uttered by the old chief.
‘Chief Kincofu says he can trust you. You are a man of your word and if you say the well is safe, then it must be so.’
Sam felt the exhilaration of a successful negotiation. He had extracted enormous concessions from Rex Daingerfield to seal the deal with Kincofu and he was confident he could meet all the promises he had made. And yet a strange feeling of guilt troubled his conscience. As Martin Kincofu pulled the drilling permit from his briefcase and pulled the lid off a cheap pen, Sam experienced the chilling realisation he was no better than Dan Elrod.
‘And you, Martin. What do you think?’ Sam asked.
‘I know everything you have said is true and yet I fear the demand for water from the river is unsustainable. A part of me feels uneasy.’
‘I believe there is a traditional Zambian proverb that says when you are in two minds, you should follow the advice of your heart.’
Sam waited while Martin Kincofu translated the conversation to his father. The chief looked at Sam and chuckled.
‘Let me know when your heart has spoken,’ Sam said. He then tore the unsigned drilling permit into tiny fragments, picked up his jacket from his chair, and threw the paper fragments into the waste-paper basket as he made his way to the conference room door.
‘Please take as much time as you need to come to the right decision, gentlemen. You have my details if you decide to proceed.’
CHAPTER 4
Southern Egypt
Sir Roger Harmison sat in the cockpit of his solar-powered vehicle and readied himself for an attempt on the world solar land speed record. The car that he had named Sirius was achingly beautiful. Its racing lines were sculpted and graceful, yet an edge of raw power gave it a muscular stance. Its long bonnet extended like the nose of a leopard and the coupé-inspired rear quarters conveyed gentle, almost feminine curves. The Sirius was the culmination of Sir Roger’s obsession to end the reliance of vehicles on fossil fuels and bulky electric batteries. He had dedicated his life to this moment since his illustrious Formula One career had almost ended in tragedy twenty years before.
‘Ignition.’ Sir Roger spoke to the voice recognition unit contained within the dashboard. An array of soft green lights flared in the centre console and the noiseless engine powered to life.
‘V8 engine simulation,’ he muttered to Sirius’s computer. The cabin filled with the simulated burble of a 1970’s Triumph Stag engine. Sir Roger smiled with pleasure at the memory of his favourite teenage run-around. The engineers at his Berkshire workshop in the UK had an uncanny eye for detail. He ran his fingers through his thinning grey hair as he stared at the finishing line in the distance with ageing blue eyes.
The driver focused on the five-mile track that cut like an arrow into the Egyptian desert. The cost of the world record attempt had taken the last reserves of his Formula One fortune and pushed him to the brink of bankruptcy. Only a last-minute, five-million-dollar sponsorship deal with the loathsome Daingerfield Oil Company had given him the funding he required to continue. His blood pressure rose as he remembered how he had been forced to compromise his environmental principles and accept onerous terms from the fracking company. Daingerfield’s persuasive chief negotiator, Sam Jardine, had wormed his way into his confidence and claimed the oil company had reformed its rapacious commercial behaviour. Sir Roger realised the next morning when he studied the fine print of his sponsorship deal, he had sold his soul to the devil. Daingerfield Oil had assumed complete ownership rights to all the Sirius’s designs, drawings and technology in exchange for their sponsorship money. Even worse, Jardine had insisted all costs over one thousand dollars needed Daingerfield company approval. Sir Roger seethed at the humiliation of having his technical expenses approved by the young negotiator, who had admitted he could not tell a Phillips from a Pozidriv screwdriver.
At the finish line, a gaggle of engineers, scientists and officials clustered under the shade cast by the ruins of an ancient Egyptian temple to witness and record his world record attempt. Sir Roger squinted at the little temple that had been dedicated to an obscure ancient goddess. He found the contrast between the cutting-edge technology represented by his Sirius and the ancient Egyptian temple pleasing. A trickle of sweat ran into his eyes and he had to blink twice to clear his vision. It was fifty degrees centigrade in his cockpit, but he knew there was nowhere else on earth more suitable for his record attempt. He needed Egypt’s predictable desert sunlight to flood the car’s solar cells and power the Sirius to speeds of two hundred and fifty miles per hour.
‘You may proceed in three... two... one seconds,’ came the voice of his chief engineer through the two-way radio. In confirmation, the light on the overhead gantry turned from red to green. Sir Roger pushed the gear paddle on his steering wheel and depressed the accelerator pedal with his right foot. Power flooded from the engine to all four of Sirius’s twenty-inch wheels. The tyres squealed in protest as they struggled for grip on the salt flat surface, leaving deep skid marks in the crust. The car shuddered like a raging bull, slewed to the left and then accelerated like an arrow from a bow as Sir Roger wrestled with his precision-engineered machine.
Sir Roger had two miles of track in which to accelerate before the critical ‘flying mile’ commenced. At that point, the scrutineers from the Federation Internationale de l’Automobile would measure his average speed. The existing solar world record stood at one hundred and eighty-seven miles per hour. Sir Roger had designed the track so the finish of the ‘flying mile’ was parallel to the imposing statue of the goddess that dominated the walls of the crumbling Egyptian temple. Once past the temple, Sir Roger would have two miles of track to bring the car to a controlled halt, and one hour to turn the car around to repeat the whole process on the return journey. Should Sir Roger be successful, the new world record would be the average speed of the two ‘flying miles’.
The car accelerated to one hundred miles per hour within seven seconds. The rate of acceleration dropped as the car’s precision-engineered components strained to draw sufficient electrons from the photovoltaic cells that covered the exterior skin of the car. The speedometer inched higher towards one hundred and fifty miles per hour, and he noted with satisfaction his engineers had fixed the wheel judder that had marred previous trial runs.
When the car hit two hundred miles per hour, he experienced a sense of euphoria, and as he sped under the second gantry, the timing of his official ‘flying mile’ began. He knew he should ease off the accelerator as the car approached the limits of its technical capability, but it was performing better than he had anticipated. Sir Roger was making history and he knew at sixty-five years of age, he might never get a better opportunity to push the world record to such extremes again. The solar vehicle shuddered as the car hit two hundred and fifty, and then settled. Sir Roger fixed his attention on the finishing gantry near the ruined temple just as a rogue wave of heat and hot wind turned the track ahead into a mirage of indistinct shapes and colours. The track shimmered, snaked and then liquefied into a vast inland lake as the mirage played havoc with his senses. Sir Roger experienced a moment of panic as his field of view blurred. The wheels shuddered and Sir Roger felt real terror for the first time in his illustrious racing career.
In those chilling moments, Sir Roger imagined he saw an apparition emerge from the centre of the mirage. Its form was graceful and feminine, but there was an edge of menace to its shadowy features. A musty o
dour like the smell of a damp cat filled the cabin, as a violent gust of cooler air cleared away the mirage and brought the looming temple back into view.
Sir Roger pulled the steering wheel to the right to correct his racing line and hit the brakes hard. The wheels shuddered once more and locked solid as the white-hot brake pads fused onto the wheels like a vice. The former racing driver hurtled out of control towards his startled ground crew, who scattered in all directions. The solar-powered car ploughed into the stone walls of the temple, smashing its bonnet and windscreen. Sir Roger’s pelvis shattered in several places, but the precision-engineered crumple zones within his cockpit absorbed most of the impact, saving his life. The former racing champion marvelled at his survival against the odds, but knew his beloved Sirius was damaged beyond repair. As Sir Roger waited for his ground crew to release him from the crumpled car, he heard the noise of collapsing masonry above his head. He looked up in horror as a three-tonne granite statue rocked on its plinth and toppled towards the Sirius. The last thing he saw before being crushed to death was a cruel smile on the lips of the stone goddess known as Sekhmet the Avenger.
CHAPTER 5
Texas, USA
It was known as the ‘Green Mile’, and was a well-trodden pathway for failed Daingerfield Oil executives. The Daingerfield Oil headquarters was located in a greenfield campus thirty miles to the north of Houston, in a picture-perfect, architecturally planned community known as The Woodlands. Rex Daingerfield, one of the pioneering fathers of the fracking industry, had located his headquarters on a small island on the eastern shore of Lake Woodlands. A dozen elegant, four-storey office buildings graced the island. With their steep roofs and mock-Georgian windows, the campus resembled a well-ordered Swiss ski resort. A jogging track encircled the island and within sight of Rex Daingerfield’s executive chalet, a group of employees kicked a football on a grassy oval. The campus boasted four restaurants, a medical complex, a gymnasium and a day care centre.
Tumbling gas prices had eaten into the company’s profits and had exposed the mediocre performance of many of the company’s senior executives. Rex Daingerfield had a reputation for zero tolerance towards those who did not come up to his own high standard and the axe was falling thick and fast. Sam could feel the disdain of the office workers who stared at him from the windows of surrounding buildings as he trudged a path towards the executive chalet.
The door of the executive chalet opened and a middle-aged man emerged carrying a storage box of personal possessions. He wore the shell-shocked expression of someone whose professional world had collapsed around him.
‘Tony?’ Sam said in surprise. Tony Lambert was the chief safety officer responsible for ensuring Daingerfield’s rigs around the world were accident and defect free.
‘Hi, Sam. Sorry to hear about your Luangwa fiasco. I wish I could say things will be okay for you, but I have never seen Rex Daingerfield in such a filthy mood.’
‘What happened to you, Tony?’ Lambert had a reputation as a fastidious safety professional.
‘We had a spill in Greenland. I didn’t even know we were drilling there, but somehow it became my responsibility.’
‘We frack in Greenland?’
‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it; I signed a non-disclosure agreement as part of my severance package.’
‘I’m sorry to hear you’re going, Tony.’
‘Good luck in there, Sam. You’re going to need it.’
Sam walked into the executive chalet and gawped at the opulence on display. No expense had been spared in decorating the inner sanctum of the Daingerfield Oil head office. A smart receptionist handed him a gold-coloured executive pass.
‘Please take the lift to the second floor and make yourself comfortable in the executive lounge. He will be with you shortly,’ the receptionist said, as she busied herself at her PC. Sam noticed she had avoided his gaze during their brief exchange.
The lift opened on the second floor to reveal a small but comfortable lounge area. Sam saw an exotic-looking woman in her early thirties behind a large glass-topped desk. She appeared to be studying a technical manual. Her simple black Tom Ford dress complemented her jet-black hair and dark eye make-up. Sam could tell she was tall, even as she sat at her desk with one leg tucked under her body.
‘Ah, Mr Jardine,’ she said, looking up from her book. Her accent was cultured as if she had attended an English boarding school, but it betrayed elements of a middle eastern upbringing. ‘How nice to meet you. Mr Daingerfield is in discussions with Bob Brooks, the engineering director, but he won’t be long. May I get you a coffee while you wait?’
‘English Breakfast tea, please,’ Sam replied, taking a seat on a comfortable sofa behind a low smoke-glass coffee table. He sifted through the pile of oil industry trade journals that littered the table and picked up a copy of the American Oil and Gas Reporter, but his nerves were getting the better of him and he threw it back on the pile.
He watched as the tall, slim woman prepared his tea near the little sink in the corner. She moved with feline grace and displayed none of the arrogance Sam had come to associate with the Daingerfield managers. He noticed an exquisite gold pendant hanging from her neck, showing the image of an Egyptian goddess.
‘It’s the symbol of Sekhmet, the ancient Egyptian warrior goddess,’ said the woman, following his gaze. She stroked the pendant as if it were a talisman upon which her good fortune depended. ‘Are you religious?’ she asked.
‘Not particularly,’ Sam replied. He was embarrassed she had noticed him staring at her. He picked up the 2017 Daingerfield Oil Corporate Social Responsibility Report from the coffee table, and was surprised to see the woman making his tea graced the cover of the report. It showed her in front of a gas rig, peering at a clipboard and wearing a Daingerfield hard hat, looking like a seasoned but beautiful oil worker.
‘The model went home sick after smelling methane gas, so I was asked to step in at the last minute,’ she explained.
‘It’s a stunning photo,’ Sam said.
The woman smiled at his compliment and Sam found himself drawn towards her like a co-conspirator in a dangerous game.
They were interrupted by the sound of a glass shattering against the wall in the next room. The muffled, angry voice of Rex Daingerfield pierced the adjoining wall.
The exotic woman handed Sam his tea and sat in the sofa opposite him. Once more she tucked her long, tanned legs under her body like a Persian cat. Sam cast an appreciative glance in her direction but the shouting in the next room was getting under his skin and spoilt the moment.
‘What do you think of the Corporate Social Responsibility Report?’ the woman asked, trying to engage Sam in conversation. The sound of another glass smashing against the wall in the next room intruded on their discussion.
‘Is he like this all the time? Sam asked.
‘Not usually. The Greenland spill has agitated him.’
‘With all due respect, your boss seems a bit of a psycho,’ Sam said, as he flicked through the report.
‘You made a bit of a name for yourself in Zambia. Chuck Crawford is livid. He’s claiming you’re a closet environmentalist.’
‘Definitely not.’ To be labelled an environmentalist at Daingerfield was the death knell for career aspirations. He held up the Corporate Social Responsibility Report. ‘I know we have to put these reports out there to keep the shareholders happy, but this stuff about workplace diversity and sustainable drilling is greenwash.’
‘It’s a shame you feel that way, Mr Jardine, because Daddy asked me to put the report together for him. I was quite proud of it.’
‘Daddy? You mean Mr Daingerfield is your father? You’re Sienna Daingerfield?’
‘He asked me to attend this meeting with you. Daddy said he couldn’t work you out and I might provide a different… perspective.’
Before Sam could respond, the door to Rex Daingerfield’s office flew open. A shell-shocked Bob Brooks stumbled out of the office and into the lif
t. His face was as white as a sheet and his hands were shaking.
‘One more fuck up and you’ll be looking for a new job!’ Daingerfield yelled after his engineering director from his office.
Sam braced himself for his turn. His stomach was churning and he felt nauseous.
‘Jardine!’ the voice reverberated around the second floor.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Get your sorry ass in here right now.’
* * *
Rex Daingerfield’s office was at the epicentre of a twenty-billion-dollar oil and gas fracking empire that straddled four continents. The carpet was shag-pile Axminster and the solid oak, curved desk had graced the cabin of the USS Constellation during the Anglo-American war of 1812. A pile of glass shards that had once been part of a Waterford crystal glass decanter set lay scattered on the carpet by the far wall.
‘Sit,’ Daingerfield said without looking at Sam. He pointed to an empty chair on the opposite side of his large desk. He was peering into his laptop screen.
‘Why do I work with such fuckwits, Jardine?’
‘Well...’
‘Goddamn it. That sleazy reporter Charlotte Shaw from The World Today has picked up rumours about the Greenland spill. That just about tops a shitter of a day. There will be hell to pay now.’ Daingerfield slammed his laptop lid shut and stared at Sam over the rim of his half-moon glasses. ‘Luckily she’s convinced that the spill is in the Canadian tundra, which gives us a chance to clean things up before she brings the cameras in.’
Sam did not respond. He was glancing towards the back of the office where a large man in company overalls sat uncomfortably in a large leather chair. He was nursing a broken leg he had sustained while attempting to stop the old elephant from demolishing the Luangwa test rig. Crawford shifted in the chair and eased the cast protecting his left leg to one side.
The Last Oracle: A Climate Fiction Thriller (Sam Jardine Crime Thrillers Book 3) Page 3