‘What did we do wrong to land this goddamn awful posting?’ complained Elrod as he stamped his heavy boots into the packed ice to get the circulation moving in his feet.
‘We’re still paying the price for that bastard Sam Jardine’s lies,’ replied Crawford. ‘Rex Daingerfield wants us as far away from the real action as possible until the rumour mill dies down.’
‘And Upernavik is about as far away from the action as you can get without falling off the fuckin’ edge.’ Elrod stared into the distance and all he could see was endless plains of pack ice through his thick snow googles. His breath clouded around his face before freezing on his eyebrows, beard and nostril hairs. The town of Upernavik was three hours’ flight north of Greenland’s capital, Nuuk. The fracking well was a further three hours’ travel inland and could only be reached via an arduous journey up a long, spectacular fjord in an icebreaker ship that had been hired for the season by Daingerfield Oil.
‘How much ice do you reckon there is here, Chuck?’
‘It goes on forever,’ replied Crawford. ‘In most places it’s almost two miles thick and it stretches for thousands of miles in every direction. It’s a remnant from the last ice age.’
‘I heard it would flood every coastal city on the planet if it melted.’
‘Well that ain’t gonna happen. And don’t you go saying crazy things like that to the rednecks in the accommodation hut. It’s hard enough to get them to put in a decent day’s work as it is.’
The small community of twelve hardy oilmen was housed in the shadow of a long mountain range that was dissected along its spine by the fjord. Crawford and Elrod had climbed to the summit of the mountain to gaze in awe at the ten-kilometre-wide fjord. A half-frozen river of meltwater and huge icebergs flowed along the fjord on their long journey to Baffin Bay and the distant Labrador Sea.
‘Any more problems with the meltwater overnight?’ Crawford asked. The well site had been chosen to take advantage of a nearby moulin – a nearly vertical shaft caused by surface water falling through a crack in the glacier. The giant sinkhole in the ice pack descended all the way to the bedrock two kilometres below. By taking advantage of the moulin the previous season, the oilmen had hastened the drilling process and accessed the vast reserves of oil before the long months of perpetual darkness set in. But the onset of the new drilling season had brought increasing problems with the melting ice.
Elrod trudged through the snow and got as close to the edge of the moulin as he dared. He gazed in wonder at the small river of meltwater that poured into the mouth of the five-metre diameter hole. Only the western side of the moulin where Elrod stood was free of meltwater, but the little river opposite him had risen appreciably in the three weeks since it had first appeared from the bowels of the ice cap. Elrod was mesmerised by the sight of water gurgling down the moulin like a gigantic plughole swallowing the last dregs of bathwater. The unnerving noise sounded like the throat of a ghastly Norse monster as it swallowed its prey.
‘What do you think happens to the water?’ Elrod asked the operations manager. He was entranced by the phenomenon playing out in front of his eyes. Once more he shivered, but this time from the aura of evil that surrounded the moulin. It seemed to be pulling him closer to the edge like a black hole sucking in stars and planets.
‘Fuck knows,’ replied Crawford. ‘Maybe it finds its way to the sea? Or perhaps it’s forming a massive lake underneath the ice. Anyway, it’s not our business. Daingerfield wants this well pumping oil before the Greenland government changes its mind about our drilling licence.’
Just as Elrod was about to take a step backward to safety, a sudden force propelled him towards the gaping jaws of the moulin, before Crawford pulled him back from the precipice by the scruff of his neck.
‘Jesus H. Christ!’ Elrod squealed at his near-death experience. He turned around to see Crawford doubled over laughing at his own practical joke. ‘You bastard! How about I shove you in the ass next time you’re forty feet up an oil rig?’ Elrod stepped backward ten paces from the moulin and regained his bravado. ‘How many of these licences do we hold?’
‘Rex has picked up the drilling rights for the entire northern sector of Greenland for a song. He believes this area contains over five per cent of the world’s undiscovered oil reserves.’
‘How did he manage that?’
‘No-one else would touch it. With oil prices as low as they are and the terrain in northern Greenland so inhospitable, it was seen as a risky investment by most oil companies.’
‘And we don’t?’ asked Elrod.
‘That’s how Rex has made his money. He buys as many licences as he can when oil prices are down. He’s negotiating licences with the Greenland government for the eastern sector right now.’
‘I thought the Greenland government was… well, you know… green and didn’t want fracking companies on its ice shelf?’
‘Don’t you believe it. Politics are as vicious here as they are anywhere else in the world. The Greenland government is lobbying for independence from Denmark and they need the oil revenues to go it alone.’
Crawford trudged over to the spot where the Skycrane was due to drop off the new derrick. For the fifth time that morning he checked the mountings were secure, that there were no foreign items on the landing pad, and recoiled the rope that would tie the derrick down once it arrived. The derrick was designed to sit on an elaborate platform of wood and steel that would straddle the moulin and the meltwater river that fed it.
‘Is that why we didn’t get a visit from the authorities when we had the oil spill?’
‘No, we just got lucky. Greenland is larger than Mexico, but its entire population would fit into the LA Dodgers baseball stadium. They don’t have the people to watch over us.’
‘So why does Rex want this well operational so quickly?’
‘Rex has burned through most of his bank loans and cash reserves and the Wall Street analysts can smell blood. They don’t believe he can make money from his Greenland venture and they are starting to short Daingerfield’s stock. Rex needs to prove there’s plenty of oil down there – that’s where we come in.’
Elrod stood silent for a while, listening to the sounds of the Arctic. ‘Hey, Chuck? I think the chopper’s coming. I can hear the sound of its rotor blades.’
Crawford checked his watch. ‘Goddamn it. It’s half an hour early. Go and get the guys from the huts. We can’t land the rig on our own.’
‘Yessir.’ Elrod moved back towards the moulin and prepared to trudge the five hundred metres to the wooden cabins to rouse his colleagues. He knew it would be like rousing a pack of tired, angry bears. They were not enjoying their Arctic posting or Crawford’s hyperactive management style. The ground rumbled at Elrod’s feet and he slipped on the ice.
‘The Skycrane must be fuckin’ huge,’ he grumbled to Crawford.
‘It’s not the chopper,’ Crawford said. His face was a mask of concern as the rumbling increased in intensity. Suddenly, a sound like an explosion came from the direction of the huts and a crack appeared in the ice, snaking its way towards them like lightning, opening the surface of the ice sheet.
‘It’s a fuckin’ ice quake!’ Crawford yelled above the sound of rending and tearing ice. ‘Run!’ Crawford set off like a greyhound, displaying surprising agility for a large man encased in five layers of Arctic clothing.
Elrod stood rooted to the spot, his fear incapacitating him. He turned his head to look at the moulin, which beckoned him closer to its gaping mouth. Elrod shook his head and he mouthed the word ‘no’. The ground tilted at his feet as the ice sheet buckled and twisted. A small hill formed in the ice with the gaping moulin at its base. Elrod struggled to keep his feet and then slipped onto his backside. The moulin summoned him like the dark, moist opening between a woman’s legs. Elrod screamed as he slipped ever closer. He twisted his body and scrabbled at the ice with his gloved hands. One of his gloves dislodged and he managed to claw at the ice with his fingertips,
which slowed his descent towards the widening mouth of the moulin. Half a metre from the gaping hole, with his booted feet dangling over the yawning precipice, he wedged his bloodied fingers into a crack in the ice, stopping his descent. Elrod tried to lever himself back from the abyss while meltwater gurgled and hissed around him as it thundered over the edge of the moulin.
Elrod kicked and scrambled to get a purchase on the lip of the moulin and inched his way back from the drop. He watched in terror as the ungloved fingers of his right hand turned to ice in front of his eyes. One by one, his fingers snapped from his hand like icicles dislodging from a barn roof. Elrod screamed as he resumed his descent towards the gaping hole and then, he flopped over the edge like a rag doll. He was inundated by the freezing meltwater, which mercifully caused him to lose consciousness. His body plummeted down the deep chasm, hitting the sharp edges of the ice sheet on its way down. By the time the scraps of his body hit the enormous meltwater lake two kilometres below, he was unrecognisable as a human form.
CHAPTER 14
White Desert, Egypt
Sam called the convoy of Land Rovers to a halt at the Al-Khalif wadi in the White Desert and signalled the Bedouin guides to strike camp. They had been on a fruitless expedition into the desert for three weeks, and Cantara was finding it hard to hide her frustration at Sam’s obsession with the legendary Nefertari oil shale. Cantara watched the party of ten geologists disembark from their Land Rovers and pull out their boxes of geological equipment. Tom Bradshaw, the young geologist they had hired in London, caught her gaze and shook his head as if to signal there was little chance of finding oil in the immediate vicinity.
She watched Sam pull out his notes from his ancient satchel. They were barely readable after they had been drenched on the wet pavements of Fleet Street eight months before. He had told her his great grandfather Steven Jardine had discovered oil in this patch of desert over a hundred years before, but it had been considered uneconomic to drill due to the difficult geology. But with modern fracking techniques, Sam knew it could be one of the biggest new oil discoveries of the twenty-first century.
She studied Sam as the expedition busied itself setting up camp for the night five hundred metres away. Sam looked older and more vulnerable than she had seen him since his arrival in Egypt. His assuredness was gone and self-doubt had taken its place. She worried he had lost his sense of purpose and the search for oil had become a distraction from the incessant scramble for finances for both the solar panel division and the Sirius Motor Company. Sam claimed if he could rediscover his great grandfather’s well, it would resolve their financial woes at a stroke. She idly kicked at a deathstalker scorpion that had wandered too close to her bare toes, and then conferred with the Bedouins about where she wanted her tent pitched. She busied herself by unloading the provisions for the evening before heading back to Sam’s vehicle.
‘Doesn’t the sand burn your feet?’ Sam asked, astonished Cantara could walk barefoot over the hot desert sand without flinching.
‘It’s cooling off. Why don’t you put your notes away and join the rest of the team?’
‘We’re getting close, Cantara, I can feel it. And this wadi seems identical to the one that great grandpa Steven described in his diary. I just need a few more days. A week maybe…’
‘Sam, put your notes down and enjoy the rock formations. There’s one over there that looks like an old man and another that looks like a hawk.’ She pointed to the strange shapes in the distance.
Sam put his notes back in the satchel and stepped out of the Land Rover. They were surrounded by dozens of rock monoliths that had been sculpted by the harsh desert winds. Boulders of brilliant white rock thrust up from the desert floor and their colours changed to a golden hue as the sun sank behind a low ridge of chalk hills in the distance. The sky turned pink and Cantara turned to watch the setting sun. Sam looked at the sky and then at Cantara. A pair of Bentley sunglasses were perched forgotten on top of her long, multi-hued hair that flowed around her narrow shoulders, her legs and arms glowing like gold in the sunset.
Sam had been determined to keep his relationship with Cantara professional and respect her twin roles as the country general manager and the new owner of the Sirius Motor Company. But as he watched her facing the sunset in the White Desert, her dignity and exotic beauty were too much for him. I can’t resist... He walked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close. Cantara looked over her shoulder at Sam and nestled her head into Sam’s chest. Sam rested his cheek against her head and breathed in the soft, feminine fragrance of her hair.
‘Sam Jardine,’ Cantara said with mock severity in her voice. ‘What took you so long? A girl could die of frustration out here in the desert before you decide to make a pass.’
‘Well… you are my boss twice over, after all.’
‘Well, we had better get clearance from the nearest “talent and diversity” manager before you get too familiar then, shouldn’t we? But as we are unlikely to find one this side of the Sahara, you might as well show me your best moves.’
Sam laughed and turned her around in his arms. He ran her silky hair through his fingers and kissed her tenderly on the lips. Cantara kissed him back with a passion that surprised and delighted him. Sam experienced the sweet taste of her mouth and his pent-up emotions were replaced by an overwhelming desire for this beautiful woman. Their bodies pressed together and their limbs intertwined as they leaned against the dusty Land Rover.
In the distance, they heard the Bedouins call out their names to let them know the camp was ready and tea and coffee was being served. Reluctantly they separated, dusted themselves down and headed towards the camp. Cantara clutched Sam’s hand and walked with a spring in her step.
‘You’ve been acting as though you’re carrying all the troubles of the world on your shoulders. We can work this out together, Sam.’
‘I know, Cantara, but I worry the Sirius may ruin your parents. They’re pouring too much money into the project and the Egyptian government has indicated there will be no more grants.’
‘And what about the solar panels?’
‘We are selling them as fast as we can make them, but we’re also having to lower the prices to compete with Chinese imports. We’re at least a year away from turning a profit and Rex is running out of patience.’
Cantara gripped Sam’s hand a little harder. ‘I know Rex Daingerfield is one of the most ruthless businessmen in the world, but you seem to have a calming effect on him. Everyone is talking about how much we have already achieved in Luxor.’
‘I don’t worry about Daingerfield; I worry about you and your family. Van der Schaft was right. The Sirius is too big to succeed without the cooperation of the major manufacturers.’
‘And if that were to happen, they would bury the project. Even Colin Jenkins knows that. We’ve assembled a team of talented professionals who can turn our dream into reality. Jenkins is working miracles at the car plant and has already produced a working prototype.’
Sam stopped and turned to face Cantara. He wanted to delay the moment when they would join the rest of the camp and have to put on a professional façade in front of their colleagues.
‘You’re an amazing woman, Cantara. I promise you, I won’t give up on this project until we have exhausted every avenue of opportunity.’ He kissed her once more and was rewarded with her mischievous smile.
‘I’m going to hold you to your promise, Sam Jardine.’ She looked over to the campsite and noticed their two tents had been screened from the rest of the camp. ‘My tent’s ready. I’ll treat you to a gin and tonic while they make up your tent. It’ll keep the mosquitos away.’
Sam marvelled that Cantara still looked fresh and elegant despite the eight-hour drive through the Sahara Desert in a Land Rover. The feel of Cantara’s soft hand and her naïve optimism lightened his mood and made him feel guilty he had allowed his despondency to show.
‘I’ll race you to the tent,’ Sam said.
* * *
Raqqa, Syria
Jack Jardine watched as Jamal emptied a full magazine of his AK-47 sub-machine gun into the retreating mass of Syrian government troops. He held up his hand to signal they were out of range, and all firing ceased. Jack checked the skies for government aircraft and scoured the terrain for signs of a possible ambush. A minute elapsed before he was convinced it was not a government ploy to draw them out into the open to be butchered by Russian fighter bombers.
Jack emerged from the smoking ruins of the building they had been defending and turned to face his battalion of three hundred rebel soldiers. They were still shocked and bemused how they had held their ground. His long blond hair spilt out from underneath his Bedouin keffiyeh and his sand-coloured combat uniform was covered with dust and sweat. Jack extracted the long stainless-steel bayonet from his backpack that had been gifted to him by his fellow rebels, and attached it to the end of his assault rifle.
‘Up, lads,’ he shouted to his fellow rebels. ‘Let’s finish ’em off before they can regroup.’ He signalled with his hands for them to come out from their foxholes and then pointed towards the retreating government troops. ‘Hajum!’ he shouted: ‘Attack!’ and ran as fast as he could towards the enemy. First Jamal, then Tariq emerged and spoke to the rebels in Arabic, urging them to follow the young Englishman to complete the rout. They had become accustomed to endless defeats and relentless pounding by the enemy’s fighter bombers. But since the arrival of Jack, Jamal and Tariq, a new spirit of resistance had swept the ragged army. In his first week at the battlefront, Jack had picked off an enemy general and two high-ranking officers with his Russian-made Dragunov sniper rifle from a distance of over two kilometres. His bravery and instinctive understanding of guerrilla tactics had amazed even the rebel veterans and his reputation was growing by the day. Within seconds, the rebel army was on its feet and sprinting to catch up with Jack. The mass cry of ‘Hajum!’ rang out from the rebels.
The Last Oracle: A Climate Fiction Thriller (Sam Jardine Crime Thrillers Book 3) Page 10