by Jack Du Brul
The cab was now perpendicular to the trailer, hurtling down the icy road in the grip of gravity, wheels slipping against the icy tarmac. The guardrail separating the highway from the deadly drop to the river was just a narrow band of steel, puny compared to the force of the truck. Brock tried to steer into the skid and once again put the cab in front, but the trailer, with its twenty-eight tons of gasoline, pushed remorselessly and could not be controlled. The front fender of the cab now touched the rounded side of the tanker as it hurtled down the road.
In a last-ditch effort, Brock Holt hit the accelerator, hoping he could whip the trailer around, setting the rig back in tandem. His gambit almost paid off. The drive wheels were out of the ice-covered lane and began to pull against the trailer, dragging it slowly under control. Had the curve been another hundred feet away, he would have made it. The back of the cab hit the guardrail first, buckling the metal so badly that when the trailer hit an instant later, the whole section let go.
With a rending scream, the eighteen-wheeler went over the edge, the tangled guardrail twisting around the truck’s wheels. The rig rolled once, the top of the cab crushing against a rocky outcrop, the trailer splitting open like a wildflower bloom. The truck rolled again, spraying gasoline in a forty-foot Catherine wheel that splashed against the dark rocks and pelted the river like machine gun fire. The roll ended when the two halves of the rig locked together and the whole eighty-eight-thousand-pound mass slid down to the inky river, gouging a huge furrow into the earth.
The two passengers in the Rover sprang for their doors, but the driver halted them with a sharp command. He slid the vehicle into gear and slowly backed out of the parking lot until all four wheels were firmly on the Richardson Highway and then, just as carefully, drove forward again, guiding the Rover over its own tire tracks, making it look as though they’d just pulled into the lot.
“Flask,” he said as he killed the ignition.
The passenger in the backseat twisted as he pulled a silver hip flask from his parka. He carefully poured a few ounces of its acrid contents into each of the six jerry cans before returning it to his pocket. It took only a few shakes to coat the insides of the plastic jugs.
“Remember the scenario,” the driver cautioned. “We just witnessed a horrible accident and we’re the first people on the scene. Make sure your footprints in the snow show our urgency to help the driver of the tanker truck. Now let’s go.”
They dove from the Range Rover, dragging their feet slightly as if in shock and then began running across the road to the smashed guardrail. The first nauseating waves of gasoline fumes cloyed their throats when they were still fifty yards from the precipice. At the edge, it looked as though a giant ax had struck the earth; rocks, loose dirt, and the tenacious vegetation that grew along the slope had been thrown aside by the hurtling truck.
The rig lay halfway in the swift river, like a giant overturned beetle. The trailer resembled the glossy carapace, and the mangled wheels turning on their bent axles twitched like limbs. Under the beams of the powerful flashlights all three carried, the river downstream of the destroyed truck was rainbowed by the spreading slick of gasoline pouring from the huge tank. From their vantage point, they couldn’t see the fate of the truck driver; the cab was too dim even for the four-cell Maglites.
“Make sure he’s dead,” the driver said, meaning that if the driver had miraculously survived, he was to be killed, not rescued. “I’ll go call the police.”
He trudged back to the Rover, focusing his flashlight on the emblem painted on its front door. The seal depicted a very detailed globe, each continent and coastline rendered almost perfectly, yet the world was cut up into segments and laid back like the skin of an orange. It was a haunting image showing both reverence for the subject while demonstrating a concern for its future. Beneath it, in tall block letters, was written PEAL. He dialed 911. The connection to the police station in Valdez took only a moment.
“Hello, my name is Dr. Jan Voerhoven. I’ve just witnessed an accident on the Richardson Highway.”
It took an hour for the police to arrive, two patrol cars and a single ambulance. Voerhoven had assured the authorities that there was no need for urgency since no one had survived the crash. Four satellite uplink trucks roared into the parking lot only moments after the police, each van emblazoned with the logotype of a television network. Voerhoven smiled tightly when he saw the first of the vans arrive. Perfect. The media had been listening to police scanners, as he knew they would.
The police were thorough with their questions, considering PEAL’s global reputation. Two patrolmen took the time to follow their tire tracks from the highway to where the Rover had parked and studied the footprints across the snow. They seemed satisfied with Voerhoven’s explanation that they had been driving to Valdez when they saw the tanker truck lose control.
The officer in charge, a heavy lump of a man with a red nose that might or might not have been caused by the cold, told one of Voerhoven’s men to open all six jerry cans in the back of the Rover. He sniffed each one to confirm that the PEAL vehicle carried its own extra fuel, an environmentally friendly blend of gasoline and ethanol that hadn’t been commercially available since the 1970s gas crisis. The few ounces of gasohol poured from the flask were pungent enough to convince him that the cans had once been filled with the alternative fuel.
Cautious and considerate attention to detail had always been Voerhoven’s way of ensuring that PEAL, though always under suspicion, was rarely found responsible for its actions.
As soon as the police had finished with him, Voerhoven sent his two companions back to the Rover while he went to meet the members of the press who were arrayed like a choir awaiting its conductor.
“This has all been rather difficult for me, so I don’t have any sort of prepared statement, yet I’m sure you all have a number of questions.” When he spoke, his slight accent and his naturally compelling voice created an instant aura of trust. His blue eyes were captivating under the harsh glare of the cameras’ klieg lights.
“Given that PEAL’s latest target of protest is Petromax Oil, do you think it ironic that you were the person to discover this accident?” This from a local reporter, not one of the network heavy hitters who’d been shouted down by the woman’s grating voice.
“Ironic? I think it’s tragic that anyone has to see what happened here tonight.” He dismissed her summarily, then pointed to a CNN weekend anchor who’d been giving PEAL favorable coverage in the weeks since their ship, Hope, had entered Prince William Sound.
“Doctor, what is your personal reaction to what happened tonight and what is the official reaction from your organization?”
As he’d expected, the CNN reporter had just given Voerhoven the step he needed to mount his soapbox.
“How does it make me feel? To be honest, it scares the hell out of me. The driver of that truck was traveling much too fast for these conditions, indicative of the negligent attitude of the company that employed him. Petromax Oil established tonight that they can’t be trusted to transport a few thousand gallons of gasoline on a well-traveled highway, yet they are about to pump millions of barrels of crude through the pristine environment of the Arctic Wildlife Refuge.
“Tonight, Petromax spoiled just a small portion of a glacial river that nature will be able to clean, but what happens when this very same company has a much more serious accident on the North Slope? The irresponsibility of one man has consequences that we can cope with, but the actions of the company he represents will be with us far into the future. When Petromax and the other oil companies turn the Refuge into a reeking plain of sludge, all the finger pointing in the world won’t clean it up.
“As to the official position of PEAL, we are here to make sure that never comes to pass.” Voerhoven nodded to another nationally recognized reporter.
“When the President announced that he would suspend oil imports, PEAL had no official comment, yet since the opening of the Arctic Wildlife Refuge,
your organization has been extremely vocal on the subject. Would you care to comment?”
Voerhoven smiled, his eyes bright with humor. “The one announcement followed so closely after the other that we didn’t have time to react.” The members of the press chuckled with him. “Of course, we applaud the suspension of oil imports. Getting just one supertanker off the oceans is a major victory. And we fully support the search for alternative energy. But only a few weeks after the President’s speech, we see what we have to pay for that victory. By so quickly capitulating to the power of the oil lobby, the President has shown that he really doesn’t have a serious commitment to the environment. When his ten-year deadline is up and we still don’t have a viable alternative energy source, you can believe that the oil companies will be there, eager to peddle their poison again.”
“What about the research to be carried out by the Johnston Group, founded by the president of Petromax Oil, whose sole aim is to find a solution to the world’s oil dependency?”
Voerhoven’s eyes drilled into the reporter who’d asked the question. “They’ll make a lot of noise, promising that they’re on the verge of a great discovery, but in ten years’ time they’ll have nothing to show us, and the Johnston Group will quietly close their doors. Max Johnston will be right back in the oil business.”
The bitterness of Voerhoven’s answer prompted an even more challenging follow-up from the same journalist. “How do you respond to the accusation that PEAL is a band of so-called eco-terrorists?”
“You call my organization a band of eco-terrorists?” Voerhoven raged. “Did you get a close look at the truck that went over the guardrail, pouring thousands of gallons of gasoline into that river? It doesn’t say PEAL on the side of the trailer; it says Petromax Oil. Don’t call me a terrorist when they are the ones working to destroy the planet.”
“Dr. Voerhoven, you know what I mean. Many feel that the tactics used by PEAL to promote global environmental awareness are so extreme they border on terrorist acts.”
“Why is it when someone fights for a belief that you disagree with, he is called a terrorist, yet when you are sympathetic to his cause, he’s referred to as a freedom fighter?” Voerhoven challenged. “In today’s world, context no longer determines meaning. Today it’s all a matter of perception. Are the goals and methods of PEAL extreme? To some, I’m sure that they are, but to call us terrorists is to place yourself in opposition to the environment. If you believe the health of our planet isn’t worth fighting for, then yes, we are eco-terrorists. But to those who see our cause as just and our methods as necessary, we are freedom fighters, engaged in a war to save the very place that gave us life.
“To win this war, we must win each and every battle. Alaska is about to face a massive assault by oil companies fixed on making a quick profit, and PEAL is here to lend a hand in her defense. But as we saw here tonight, nature is not entirely defenseless. She has made a clear statement. The oil companies and their eagerness to destroy will not be tolerated.” Voerhoven turned away from the cameras without another word, striding purposefully toward the Range Rover.
A man had died that night in a horrible crash, leaving a widow and two young daughters, and as the press packed up their gear, they felt almost good about it. Such was the power of Jan Voerhoven’s oratory.
Georgetown
Forty-eight hours earlier, everything had been simple; her life had fit neatly and flowed. One event led naturally to another with hardly a thought. Private school to college, college to grad school. From there into a field she had such a passion for that it didn’t seem like work at all. Jan Voerhoven had come into her life ten months ago, and while he hadn’t formally proposed, it was a foregone conclusion that they would marry. She’d been able to make decisions easily, with little regard to the consequences. Just one month shy of her thirty-second birthday, she was on her way in the life that she’d envisioned for herself: a career, a cause, and a soul mate.
But now everything was different. The choices more difficult, and their aftermath would change her life forever. True responsibility scared Aggie Johnston more than she wanted to admit.
It had all come crashing down when Philip Mercer had walked into her father’s party, his tuxedo accenting his lean, powerful body, his hair so thick it seemed to crackle, and his eyes as seductive as the devil’s own. Mercer’s smile was a challenge no woman could resist.
Aggie got up from the couch and crossed the living room to the glass balcony doors. Her condo looked over the C&O Canal, and the balcony, which cantilevered over the murky water, was one of her favorite spots. Joggers passed on the other side of the waterway in an almost constant parade. She stood there until the afternoon humidity made her uncomfortable in her own skin, her cropped T-shirt clinging to her body. She turned back into the air conditioning, sliding the door closed with a finality she didn’t feel.
The condo was decorated with some of her father’s cast-off furniture, precious woods and oils that she neither liked nor appreciated but kept to make him happy. The only item she really loved was an old easy chair she’d bought from a thrift shop when she was at prep school. She carted it around like a faithful pet. Over the years, the chair had been repaired so many times that little of the original remained. Yet to her it was still the same chair she’d had since those easy days at Westminster. She fell into it gratefully, slouching into its embrace so she almost felt like it was hugging her. Something she needed desperately right now.
She’d known that Mercer was on the guest list of the party; her father had teased her about it from the time he’d sent the invitations. She’d hoped that he wouldn’t show while praying that he would. When his RSVP was not returned, she felt a strange mixture of relief and loss. And then he walked in from the dining room, and her girlhood crush came back with such force that she again felt like the callow coed she’d been when she’d first met him. Her simple life suddenly grew more complex than she could have possibly imagined. New thoughts, new ideas, and new options tumbled in her mind until all she could do was act rudely to him when they finally met.
She didn’t know why she’d gone to his house yesterday; however, either consciously or not, she’d worn her skimpiest lingerie. From the moment she’d walked into Mercer’s brownstone, she hadn’t given Jan the slightest consideration. Her feelings for Mercer could not be denied, and that frustrated her. Such a rush of emotions had never happened to her before, not even when she’d met Jan for the first time.
“Damn it!” she said, launching herself angrily from her chair.
She hunted for her cigarettes, locating them on a cluttered kitchen counter. She lit one quickly, calming herself.
She shouldn’t have gone to him last night, but like an addict she couldn’t refuse herself. She was in love with Jan, was going to be his wife. That was what she wanted. He represented everything that she respected in the world. Why would she throw that away for a man she found reprehensible?
She considered this until there were three fresh cigarette butts in the overflowing ashtray, but she couldn’t find an answer. She didn’t know what this meant to her life. Would she always be unfaithful, giving in to casual affairs every time someone caught her eye? Or was Mercer a special case, a once-in-a-lifetime infatuation? Aggie had never doubted herself until this day. And there was another question plaguing her, one that was undoubtedly more important. Every time she came close to thinking about it, the fear of the answer forced her away. It felt like those times when she missed her period and was more afraid of taking a pregnancy test than of actually being pregnant.
In her confusion, the question finally slipped into her mind. Why had her father sent Burt Manning to kill Mercer last night?
Manning had worked for her father for years. Aggie had known him since her senior year of college. The attack on Mercer’s house had been the most frightening experience of her life, but when she saw Burt dead on the floor, it was too much for her to handle. She fled as fast as she could, immediately understand
ing why her father had told her not to see Mercer. He knew Burt was going to Mercer’s house to assassinate him.
Tears filled her eyes, spilling onto her chest. She thought she’d cried herself out the night before, but as she reached for a tissue from the box half buried in the junk on the counter, she knew she might never get this out of her system. Her silent tears turned to racking sobs that shook her whole body. She slumped to the tiled floor, pressing herself against the cabinets.
Consequences were catching up to her faster than she could handle. In the past forty-eight hours, everything she’d worked for and dreamed about had been turned upside down. Her fiancé, a man she loved and respected more than anyone else, paled in every comparison to Philip Mercer. And her father, whom she’d never liked but always loved, had turned out to be a monster who employed hit men. She wanted to close her eyes and sleep it all away, to wake up again and find it was all a horrible dream.
When the doorbell chimed, it was just subconscious ringing, far in the distance. But then she heard a key turning the front door lock and struggled up from the floor, steadying herself. She combed her fingers through her hair, thumbing salty tears from under her eyes.
Her father came into the kitchen, his face showing a deep concern. He wore his typical uniform, a perfectly fitted dark suit, a white shirt, and a subtly patterned tie. Even in her pain, Aggie saw that his shoes were like they always were, not exactly scuffed but well worn. He didn’t believe in highly glossed shoes, feeling they were an affectation sported by those more concerned with image than substance.
“I’ve been trying to call you all day, but your line’s been off the hook. I was worried about you,” he said before he noticed the tear tracks on Aggie’s cheeks. “Sweetheart, what’s the matter?”
It didn’t matter now that her father knew she smoked. Aggie lit a cigarette. “I was there last night, Daddy. I know what you tried to do.”