‘Will both houses accept the subcommittee’s recommendation?’
‘They will, Mr Jardine. Your amendment is technical in nature and if accepted, will result in a rewording of the main bill.’
Sam was impressed with Mandy Malone’s thoroughness.
‘We have drafted dossiers on each member of the subcommittee, of which eleven are Republicans and eight are Democrats.
‘Will any of the Democrats vote for my bill?’ Sam asked.
‘Not in a million years,’ Malone replied. ‘Most Democrats are pro-free trade and pro-renewable energy and will oppose any aspect of the legislation as a matter of principle. There is little point in trying to convince them otherwise. But we have nine Republicans who have already promised Art Shaughnessy they will support your amendment.’
‘So, I assume there are two Republicans who have not yet committed to do so?’
‘That’s right. Not all Republicans are in favour of the bill. They may want to oppose your amendment regardless of its merits.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘They are free trade Republicans and they may wish to block the passage of the Make America Prosperous bill and all associated amendments.’
‘So which Republicans do I need to convince?’
‘We’re targeting Congressman Jake Pope, who has a large wind turbine factory in his electoral district. He’s a reliable hard-line conservative on most issues, but he might attempt to curry favour with the wind turbine workers in his electorate by standing up to Big Oil, who have most to gain from the bill. Then there’s Senator Curtis Silverwood, who chairs the subcommittee. He would have the casting vote in the event of a tie. He’s our biggest problem.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Sam.
‘He’s rich and idealistic and is one of the few politicians who cannot be bought. Believe me, we have tried. He’s likely to vote as his conscience dictates.’
‘So all we need to do is negotiate with Congressmen Jake Pope and Senator Curtis Silverwood to convince them renewable energy and oil can co-exist for the next five to ten years. I think I can manage that. Great strategy, guys.’
A female graduate trainee sniggered into her hand. La Rue looked embarrassed at Sam’s naivety.
‘Actually no, Mr Jardine,’ La Rue said. ‘Negotiations carry too much risk and we’re looking for certainty. We need to make the subcommittee members realise which side of the coin their real interests lie. We’ve launched a smear campaign against Congressman Jake Pope accusing him of taking bribes from the wind turbine manufacturer. His campaign funding is already dwindling and we’re expecting him to approach the Fossil Fuel Alliance to replenish his funding gap. Once he does that, he’s our man.’
‘He’s corrupt? That’s terrible,’ Sam said, shaking his head.
‘Unfortunately, we have no direct evidence to suggest he has ever taken bribes, but no-one can prove otherwise,’ said Malone.
‘So, he isn’t corrupt?’ Sam said, confused.
La Rue stepped forward. ‘Look Mr Jardine. He’s a politician, which means he’s no choirboy. We’re just moving his moral decline forward by a decade or two, that’s all.’
‘I’m not sure I like the sound of this,’ Sam said. ‘Is it necessary to trash his reputation?’
‘He’ll be fine. Your friend Clint Cobb and his Fossil Fuel Alliance have promised to fund his next two congressional election campaigns if he votes for your amendment. Please do not concern yourself with the details, Mr Jardine.’
‘I’m sorry, but I won’t be responsible for destroying this man’s reputation. Is there another way?’ Sam persisted.
‘We’re trialling our new robotic trolling software, Mr Jardine,’ said a bespectacled male graduate in a light grey suit.
‘How does that work?’
‘We intend to troll the target’s favourite news columns and websites. The purpose is to make Mr Pope doubt his strong beliefs and think opinion in his district favours the oil industry’s position, despite the wind turbine factory workers.’
‘But no-one would fall for that, surely?’
‘You should read some of the automated blog comments the robots can generate, Mr Jardine.’ The graduate was excited by the new technology. ‘It contains artificial intelligence software that can mimic the language used by typical readers of the sites he frequents. It has about fifty personality types programmed into its database, so it’s almost undetectable. The software keeps pumping out obnoxious comments until all contrary opinion has ceased on the blog.’
‘So, what about Congressman Silverwood?’ asked Sam. He had heard enough about automated trolling software.
Mandy Malone stepped forward and handed Sam a beige dossier. ‘Unfortunately, he’s a man of high ethical principles and firm beliefs. We’re not going to be able to compromise his character in the time we have available. We will have to neutralise his influence within the subcommittee.’
‘How will you do that? He is the subcommittee chairman after all,’ Sam said as he leafed through the dossier, which contained several scientific studies on climate science.
‘We have assimilated the latest scientific opinion on manmade climate change and we will present the evidence to the ten Republicans who are most likely to vote for your amendment.’
‘But Silverwood won’t fall for this. It’s badly written drivel.’
‘Actually, the eminent climatologists who wrote these papers have had their research grants paid by the oil industry and they conduct valuable research,’ said La Rue. ‘In any case, the papers are not intended for someone of Silverwood’s intellectual stature. They are designed to reinforce the existing opinions of the ten Republicans that global warming is a myth perpetuated by an elitist conspiracy contrived by the Illuminati. Once they’re on board, a Republican chairman would never vote against the unanimous opinion of his own party colleagues. That would be unthinkable.’
‘Surely these congressmen don’t believe in the Illuminati? That’s ridiculous.’
‘The Illuminati are real and are valued clients of Shaughnessy and Associates. Except they don’t call themselves the Illuminati, of course.’
The young male graduate in the light grey suit turned to Sam. ‘I’m sure you will be astounded at how effective our campaign will be, Mr Jardine. In fact, we will be using your amendment as a case study for the American Fossil Fuel Alliance’s real mission, which is to stop the introduction of solar and electric vehicles on American roads.’
Sam reeled at the young graduate’s revelation. It would be the end for the Sirius if the American Fossil Fuel Alliance succeeded in their mission. He had to remind himself to keep his interests in solar technology to himself.
‘Do you seriously believe you can persuade Congress to suppress the use of these vehicles?’
‘Yes, we do,’ said La Rue. ‘With the huge financial resources of the American Fossil Fuels Alliance and other super PACs at our disposal, we have the ability to determine the electoral fate of dozens of congressmen and women who are standing for re-election.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ Sam asked.
‘Because they need your oil money, Mr Jardine. The minimum cost to run an election campaign is at least fifteen million dollars per candidate. They are either forced to spend their entire working day fundraising, or they approach the super PACs. If they don’t vote for our bills, they won’t get re-elected. That’s why the National Firearms Association and your own American Fossil Fuels Alliance Super PAC wield such influence in America. Even the Russian and Chinese are buying our politicians.’
‘And that doesn’t bother you?’
‘A bit. Especially with the amount of money coming in from Russia.’
‘So why do you do it?’
‘Hey, we didn’t make the rules,’ said La Rue. ‘Big corporations like yours have a legitimate right to petition Congress. We just smooth the way.’
Sam looked around at the zealous young faces who were crowded around the whiteboard. They loo
ked at Sam and waited for him to approve their campaign strategy.
‘Let’s say someone from the renewables industry attempted to challenge the oil lobby’s campaign to destroy their business. How would you respond?’
La Rue laughed. ‘No-one has ever managed to stand in the way of one of our campaigns, Mr Jardine. A few of the resilient ones lasted a month or two, but once their reputations and those of their family and friends had taken a beating, they soon capitulated. It may not be pretty, but it’s how things get done on Capitol Hill.’
CHAPTER 28
The White Desert, Sahara
The Dorcas gazelle sensed danger and lifted its head to sniff the air. The gazelle froze as it recognised the rancid scent of a human and then bolted for the cover of the rocks twenty metres away. Jack fired a single shot from his sniper’s rifle, which tore through the gazelle’s heart causing it to drop in its tracks. He searched the sky for signs of helicopters and scoured the surrounding rocks to check for the presence of the Egyptian Rapid Deployment Forces. They were an almost daily intrusion into the White Desert where he scavenged for rodents and snakes to keep himself alive. The Rapid Deployment Forces did not take prisoners and those unlucky enough to be taken alive suffered horribly before they died.
As brutal as they were, Jack feared the remaining rebel fighters even more. They shadowed his movements like a black cloud and had vowed to make him pay for his ultimate betrayal of their cause. He had managed to stay one step ahead of them by living off his wits like a feral animal, but he realised it was only a matter of time before they tracked him down. He swore when the moment arrived, he would not be taken alive.
Jack waited five minutes and then dragged his stinking and emaciated body out of his foxhole and walked towards the gazelle. He unsheathed his combat knife and removed the gazelle’s head, hoofs and intestines. He hoisted the bleeding carcass onto his shoulders and trudged the ten kilometres to the ruined Temple of Sekhmet, where he could hide in the maze of corridors and tombs that were feared by both government and rebel forces.
* * *
Jack was usually much more cautious, but in his state of extreme thirst and almost total exhaustion, his judgement failed him. He was already halfway along the short corridor that led to the underground cavern when he realised the temple had been compromised. It had become his habit to stake out the temple entrance for hours to check for the presence of enemies before entering. But he was half-crazed with hunger and the thought of eating fresh gazelle meat had made him reckless. He considered backtracking but realised the enemy would already have cut off his rear and would be waiting to ambush him. He dropped the gazelle carcass and checked his rifle’s curved magazine. He added three more rounds and switched to semi-automatic. He had enough ammunition to take ten men with him. His pounding heart echoed in his ears as he inched along the one-hundred-metre passageway, trying to blend in with the contours of the rock face. The hairs on his neck and arms stood on end as he sniffed the strange aromas coming from the vast cavern. His head swam and his vision blurred, whether from exhaustion or fear he could not tell. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and peered into the dark entrance of the cavern. He noted the familiar black scars along the walls where the rebel’s grenades had detonated six months before during their attack on the temple. He also saw the broken rocks in the corner of the cavern and the shattered oak doors that had once displayed the image of the ancient goddess with her beautiful feline features.
His index finger increased the pressure on the trigger, ready to let loose a short burst from his Dragunov. As he entered the cavern, he noticed the air was heavy with the smell of delicious foods he remembered from a time before he his involvement with the rebel army. A table had been placed in the centre of the cavern and was laden with fruits, meats and bread. Two stone jugs overflowed with a clear, fruity smelling liquid, reminding him he had run out of water in his leather canteen six hours before.
Jack scanned the cavern and its alcoves for signs of a trap but finding none, he laid down his rifle and approached the food-laden table. Tears flowed down his cheeks as he grabbed a roasted chicken breast and wolfed it down. He drank the sherbet straight from the jug without bothering with the cups that had been placed on the table for his use.
A flash of movement caught his eye to his left and he knew he had been caught. He expected to hear the staccato death rattle of a Kalashnikov rifle but to his astonishment, he saw a lone woman in a khaki skirt and top stoop to pick up his sniper’s rifle where he had left it leaning against the wall. The woman was slender and graceful with long, multi-toned fair hair and pretty features, but he had no doubt she would put a bullet through his heart with his own rifle if he attempted to escape.
He watched in surprise as the woman engaged the safety catch and removed the magazine from the Dragunov. She racked the slide three times and locked it open, then turned the semi-automatic weapon on its side and tapped the chambered round out of the rifle. She placed the rifle back against the wall and threw the magazine and spare round into the pool. It had taken her less than three seconds.
‘Are you the minister of internal security?’ Jack asked. There was fear in his voice. The rebels had mentioned Rania Sharif in hushed tones around the campfires. She was known as a ruthless enemy who had never shown the rebels any mercy. If her plan had been to lure him into the open so her troops could take him alive, she had succeeded and he was powerless to defend himself. He bowed his head and readied himself for what was to come.
‘No, but I am Rania Sharif’s sister. Your brother Sam sends his greetings,’ said Cantara. ‘He asked me to find you and bring you out of Egypt safely.’
Jack clutched at his head and tried to think clearly. He was unable to understand why anyone would want to rescue him from his nightmare. Cantara watched him with concern and was grateful Jack had been so careless with his rifle. He looked like a cornered animal.
‘How did you know I’d be ’ere?’
‘Your brother guessed you would be drawn to this temple. He said it had a strange effect on him too.’
‘He still cares about me?’
Cantara nodded. ‘Very much, Jack. Here, drink this.’ She offered him a fruit drink from the food-laden table. It was laced with a powerful sedative. She did not want Jack getting excitable when she drove him to the Libyan border where she had arranged for a private security firm to spirit him out of the country. He would be sleeping like a baby within the hour.
Jack eyed Cantara as he gulped down the fruit juice and helped himself to a ripe nectarine. ‘How do I know you’re not from the Rapid Deployment Forces? This could be a trap.’
‘Jack. You need to listen to me carefully. The detachment that has been hunting you has been given a special assignment on the Sudanese border for the next forty-eight hours. You can wait for them to return and hunt you down, or come with me now. It’s your choice.’
‘I need proof before I go with you.’
‘Sam said you would know there’s a time for sticking up for yourself and a time for walking away. I’m going to help you walk away from this living hell you have suffered for the last six months.’
Jack managed a weak smile before tears streamed down his hollow, dust-caked cheeks.
‘Aye, me Uncle Roy were always telling me that.’ It dawned on him he might survive his horrific ordeal. He slumped to the ground and buried his head in his hands. Cantara was unsure if it was from relief that his suffering was over or that she had overdone the sedatives. She knelt on the stone floor and hugged him until the sedatives took hold of his emaciated body.
For the first time in over a year, Jack knew he would be able to sleep without the ever-present threat of death hovering at his shoulder.
* * *
Upernavik Icefjord, Greenland, February
‘The new drilling equipment has arrived, boys. Would you mind helping me unload the crates onto the transporters?’
‘Yes, Mr Crawford,’ said Jamal. Crawford slapped him playfully on the
shoulder. He had taken a shine to the enthusiastic young man and his team of hard-working colleagues. They claimed to be American-born citizens. Their accents were good and their citizenship papers were forgeries of the highest order. Crawford had done a background check and knew the group of boys were Egyptian nationals. But he didn’t care that they were illegal immigrants as long as they worked hard and didn’t complain about the conditions. Compared to the near-mutinous white American oilmen, the boys were a pleasure to work with. They never threatened strike action or complained about the perilous state of the ice shelf. The boys were respectful of authority and had a keen sense of humour. The half-dozen white American oil workers he had had brought in for the new drilling season shunned the Egyptian boys and criticised their slightest error. Fuck ’em, thought Crawford. They were a bunch of racist, hard-drinking rednecks unworthy of his respect.
Jamal and his three colleagues smiled at Crawford as they dressed in half a dozen layers of thick thermal clothing and followed him into the Greenland winter darkness. It was midday but the sun would not rise for another couple of months this far north of the Arctic circle. Crawford had erected a dozen floodlights close to the small fjord harbour where an icebreaker ship awaited them with its precious cargo.
For the next two hours, Jamal and his team manhandled the crates from the cargo ship’s crane onto the little transporters that took them to the camp’s storage sheds.
‘This one’s got your name on it,’ said Crawford to Jamal as they finished tidying the storage shed.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Jamal. ‘It’s the new twelve-inch gaskets and drill-bit components we ordered. The old gaskets perished in the cold. We thought we would have a go at replacing them if you don’t mind, Mr Crawford. We’ve seen how Mr Schultz does it and we thought we could give it a try.’
‘Sure. Just give me a shout when you’ve finished and I will check over what you’ve done. I’m heading back into the accommodation hut to warm up. Hand me the keys to the shed when you’ve finished.’
The Last Oracle: A Climate Fiction Thriller (Sam Jardine Crime Thrillers Book 3) Page 21