The Alex Cave Series. Books 1, 2, & 3.: Box set

by James M. Corkill

  “Anything else you can remember, Mr. Tilman? Anything at all?”

  Tilman slowly shook his head. “Not in particular.”

  Alex nodded and extended his hand. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Tilman.”

  Tilman smiled. “You keep on teaching, ya hear?”

  Alex smiled. “I will, Mr. Tilman.” Alex turned and started walking toward his car. He had just reached the corner of the mobile home when he heard Tilman yell his name. Alex stopped , turned around, and saw Tilman shuffling toward him, small clouds of dust swirling around his boots.

  “I just remembered something’,” Tilman told him. “Come to think of it, he did say something about a ship. Must have been delirious, though. He called it a spaceship.”

  Alex nodded. “Thanks again,” he said, and continued to his car.

  On the drive back to Brownsville, Alex kept repeating the words the injured crewmember had mumbled to Tilman. The light had to be the same one Sorenson saw, but what about another ship? Sorenson didn’t say anything about a ship. So where did the crewmember see a ship?

  When he arrived in Brownsville, Alex drove to the Coast Guard station and talked to the duty officer; a sea-weathered man with white curly hair named Brian Conroy.

  “Got a call about you, Mr. Cave,” Conroy told him. “I’ve been told to extend you every courtesy. What can I do for you?”

  “I appreciate it, Commander. I’d like to know how many ships were in the area of the West Gulf tanker last night.”

  “I’ve already checked into it. There were a few pleasure boats in the area, but no ships along the tanker’s course.”

  “None? Isn’t that unusual?”

  “Not really. Take a look.” Conroy waved Alex over to a large map of the gulf and tapped his finger on an X with a red circle around it. It was directly in a southeasterly line from Brownsville. “That’s the offshore oil rig where the tanker was filled. The tanker normally runs a straight course into Brownsville, but last night she veered south and ran aground here.” Conroy pointed to the spot on the map, then placed his finger on the eastern end of the shoreline, a short distance off the coast, and drug it along the map. “Most of the shipping traffic follows this course, about fifty miles offshore. We track them on radar and at the time of the incident, there were no ships in the area of the tanker until well after she ran aground.”

  “Interesting,” Alex said as he stared at the map for a moment, and then looked at Conroy. “Did you know they found the crew?”

  “Yes. Sheriff Jackson called a few hours ago. Said the one survivor is still unconscious. They promised to let me know as soon as they learn anything. He thought you would stop in here, and he wants you to call him before you leave.”

  Alex nodded. “I interviewed the man who found the crew on his ranch.” Alex told him what Tilman had said.

  Conroy looked skeptical. “From what I hear, he was probably delirious as hell.”

  “You’re probably right. Thanks for your time, Commander.”

  Alex called Jackson’s office.

  “I got a preliminary autopsy report, Mr. Cave,” said Jackson. “The coroner’s baffled. It seems the blood in all the bodies of the dead crew had been dehydrated. Must have been the dry desert air.”

  “It was the same in the bodies of the Scorpio’s crew. I appreciate the call.” Alex hung up and walked out to his car.

  It was nearly dark when Alex returned to his hotel room. He tried calling Martin Donner, but was transferred to voicemail He ordered dinner from room service, and while he waited, sat at the desk and wrote down the details he’d discovered so far, churning them over and over in his mind, trying to come up with some logical conclusion, but an answer eluded him.

  His dinner of arrived, and Alex ate at the desk, occasionally jotting down his thoughts. He finished the dinner and stepped out on the balcony to see the lights of the city. The room was on the east side of the building and the moon was just creeping over the horizon; a dull yellow full moon against an indigo sky. Suddenly, Sorenson’s last statement leapt to the front of his thoughts. “A crescent moon, brighter than usual,” Alex said aloud. The moon doesn’t change phases that fast, he knew. So what was Sorenson looking at? Alex sighed and left the balcony. After a quick shower, he crawled into bed and turned on the television, switching channels until he found a news broadcast. He wasn’t really listening too close while his mind churned over the strange events of the past three days. A map of Alaska suddenly flashed on the screen and the camera zoomed in on an oil tanker in Prince William Sound. Alex grabbed the remote control and fumbled with the buttons until the volume increased.

  “. . .EXXON Valdez incident. This is the way it looked after the spill,” the female announcer was saying as the picture changed to show work crews in yellow rubber coats and pants cleaning up the thick, slimy crude oil along the rocky shoreline. The picture changed again, and a dotted line ran down across a map of Alaska. “The pipeline was completed in 1974, using state of the art technology and it is supposed to be impossible for a rupture to occur. In a statement released an hour ago, authorities said they don’t think the pipeline is ruptured, but they refused to speculate on why the oil from Prudhoe Bay has failed to reach its destination in Valdez. They have shut down the pumping stations and crews have been dispatched to check every foot of the pipeline for any sign of leakage. Some sections can’t be searched because of the severe snowstorm that has moved over the area. Our meteorologist, Mike Banner, will explain what’s going on.”

  The picture changed, and a heavyset man appeared next to a satellite image of North America as he explained about the storm. His phone suddenly rang and Alex grabbed it. “Hello?”

  “Alex, it’s Martin Donner. We have a major problem in Alaska.”

  “I know. I just saw the news broadcast.”

  “Listen, Alex. This is no longer just an investigation. The President called a moment ago and informed me the Joint Chiefs think someone is sabotaging our domestic oil supply. I don’t have to tell you what that would do to our nation. He wants an all-out effort to find who’s behind it and stop them any way we can.”

  Alex didn’t reply for a moment as he thought about the idea of sabotage.

  “Alex? Did you hear me?” Martin said in a tone of desperation.

  “Yes, Martin. I’ll fly up to Valdez on the next available flight.”

  “Good, I’m putting you in charge of the investigation. I’ll call and tell them you’re coming. What have you discovered there?”

  “It’s almost identical to the incident with the Americrude tanker.” Alex explained all he knew. “We’ll know more when the survivor regains consciousness.”

  “Okay, stay on top of it. Call me day or night if you find out anything.”

  “I will. I’ll send you the names of the crewmembers. I’d like a background check on them as soon as possible.”

  “Okay, I’ll see to it.”

  “Thanks, Martin.” Alex hung up and called the airport. The next connecting flight to Alaska was in three hours, and he booked a seat. He packed his tote bag, grabbed his notes from the desk and shoved them inside, then checked out of the hotel and drove to the airport.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON:

  Harold Woolly laid back against the pillows propped against the headboard in his room at the motel. He stared at the television screen, the only illumination in the tiny room. The announcer on the news broadcast was explaining how the disabled pipeline in Alaska might have an effect on the availability of petroleum products in Washington State.

  “Authorities tell us there should be enough reserve gasoline and heating oil to carry us through a temporary shutdown of the pipeline, and there is no reason for anyone to panic. The same situation has occurred many times over the past several years, when the pipeline has been shut down for routine maintenance, and it has never created a shortage. We are not the only ones dependent on the supply of oil from the pipeline. Oregon and Cali
fornia also receive most of their crude oil from Alaska, and the refineries on the west coast ship the refined products to Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, Utah, Colorado, and Nevada. In a statement released to the press early this morning, our Governor has asked that nobody panic over the news from Alaska.”

  Harold shook his head at the stupidity of the news media. Those guys at the news stations are idiots, he thought. Nobody would even think about panicking if the broadcasters didn’t plant the idea in people’s heads.

  His thoughts turned to his family. What would Calli think of all of this? He wondered. Since she didn’t work, she probably could not care less if there was a gas shortage. The school busses would still run, so the kids would be okay. It might interfere with her social life, though. Harold grinned as a mental picture came to mind of Calli all upset because she couldn’t get to her precious choir practice. He chuckled. Wouldn’t it be funny if they had to cancel the whole concert? That would really fry Calli.

  Harold’s smile slowly faded as his thoughts returned to his situation. Sure, his boss was happy he made it to work early for the past two mornings, but he really missed his family. What good was it to have such a short drive to and from work when he didn’t have anything to do with all the extra time? All he could do after leaving the office was return to this tiny room and stare at the television.

  He desperately wanted to call Calli and ask if it was all right to come home. But wait a minute, he thought. I left her. She didn’t kick me out. Why should I have to ask permission? She is the one filing for a divorce, not me. He thought about packing his suitcase and going home, but the idea of a confrontation with Calli changed his mind. He decided that maybe staying away for a while might be good for their marriage. He decided to give it a little more time, hoping Calli might change her mind about divorcing him.

  He sat on the end of the bed. “Why me?” he mumbled softly in the dark as a tear slowly rolled down his cheek. A soft sob escaped his lips, and suddenly he couldn’t hold back the steady stream of tears. He fell back onto the bed and let them flow.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  VALDEZ, ALASKA:

  Alex managed a few hours of sleep on the flight from Houston, and during the two-hour layover in Seattle, he purchased warmer clothing and an additional suitcase. His next stop was Anchorage, Alaska, where he joined two elderly women on a small plane bound for the southern end of the Alaska pipeline, in the town of Valdez. They landed on a runway covered with brown-colored snow, and taxied to the air terminal. It was cold when he stepped off the plane, and a sign on top of the terminal read twenty-two degrees. When Alex entered the small passenger terminal he looked around for a moment and noticed a petite woman standing a short distance away. Attractive, he thought. Her long, light red hair hung loosely inside the pulled back hood of her pale blue snow parka. She smiled warmly as she walked toward him.

  “You must be Mr. Cave,” she said in a slightly husky voice and extended her hand. “I’m Christa Avery.”

  Alex smiled as he accepted her hand, and felt a surprisingly strong grip. He noticed she had eyes the color of green candy and small dimples at the corners of her mouth when she smiled. She wore very little make up and was in her late twenties, he guessed. “Nice to meet you, Miss Avery. Are you in charge here?”

  Christa smiled. “No, I’m just part of the hired help for the All Alaska Company.”

  Alex looked at her. “Come again?”

  “All the major oil companies joined forces to build the pipeline under the name, All Alaska Corporation.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Oh, I do the brain work and tests for the corporation. I thought I might be of some help in your investigation.”

  “Do you know about the tanker incident in Houston?”

  “Not all the details. You can fill us in on the way to the loading docks. I have a ride waiting outside.”

  Alex nodded and grabbed his bags, and together they walked across hard-packed snow through the chilly evening air. White smoke blossomed from the exhaust of a black Chevy Suburban, with ALL ALASKA painted on the door in large white letters. As they approached, the driver’s door opened and an enormous man crawled out, smiling broadly from inside the hood of a heavy orange parka.

  Christa introduced him. “Mr. Cave, this is the head honcho for the pipeline, Jerhamia Peterson.”

  Alex’s first impression was Peterson could have just stepped off of a Viking longboat. He appeared to be of Norwegian descent judging by his blond hair and light blue eyes. The hand he extended was nearly twice as big as his. Alex estimated Peterson stood six-foot-six, and weighed about two-hundred and eighty pounds.

  “Everyone calls me Bull,” Peterson said in a voice that could have come from the bottom of an empty oil drum.

  “I can see why,” Alex said with a smile and accepted his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Bull.” He looked at Christa. “Since we’re going to be working together, let’s use first names.”

  Christa smiled. “Fine with me.”

  Bull opened the tailgate. “Toss your bags in and I’ll take you to our office.”

  Alex tossed his bags inside, and everyone climbed into the front seat, with Christa in the middle. On the drive to the office, Alex filled them in on what he had discovered in Houston.

  “The incidents on the West Gulf tanker were the same as the Scorpio. Not a speck of oil was left in the hold. We lucked out with the crew, though. There’s a survivor. When he regains consciousness, I hope we’ll learn what actually happened. What’s bothering me the most is what happened to the other crewmember? We’ve learned their names and I’ve asked for a background check on each of them.”

  As they drove past the loading dock, Alex saw the Scorpio moored to the docks. She rode high in the water, apparently still empty. Bull stopped in front of a single-story building with the company logo above the door. Light gray smoke escaped from a single silver stack on the roof, and soft white light escaped through two windows on either side of a metal door in the center.

  They climbed out and followed Christa into the building. It was warm inside the sparsely furnished office, so they removed their parkas and hung them near the door. Bull introduced them to a wiry little man sitting at one of the desks. “This is Herb Bell, our station manager.”

  When Herb stood, it was as though he was still sitting, for he could not have been over four and a half feet tall. His dark brown eyes sparkled behind horn-rimmed glasses perched on an oversized nose. His long black hair was streaked with gray, and tied in a long braided tail. His dark brown complexion and facial features declared he was a native Alaskan.

  “Herb, this is the government man we were expecting, Alex Cave.”

  Herb shook Alex’s hand. “Everybody calls me Herb, Mr. Cave.”

  “Just Alex, will do,” he told him. Herb’s friendly smile exposed his widely spaced teeth.

  “I’ll show you what’s going on,” Herb told him and walked to a large chalkboard with columns of numbers scrawled across it. When he released a pin on either side and flipped it over, a large map of Alaska was tacked to the other side, and a narrow red line depicted the pipeline.

  “Late yesterday afternoon, the engineers at pumping station thirteen reported a low pressure alarm,” Herb told him. “We called the main station in Prudhoe Bay, and they reported they were still pumping oil into the line at eighty-three-thousand barrels an hour. We knew immediately something was wrong and shut everything down. We closed all one-hundred and forty-two valves in the line, and had all the pump stations report their status so we could isolate the area where the pressure drop began. The problem is here, at pumping station 12, just west of Black Rapids. It’s the only one we haven’t heard from. Unfortunately, the storm is stopping us from finding out why.”

  “And here’s the kicker,” Bull added. “When we checked the reservoirs here, in Valdez, we discovered they were empty except for a few inches of sea water.”

  A frown formed on Alex’s lips. �
�I found salt water on the floor in the holds of the ships. How much oil was in your reservoirs?”

  “About six million barrels give or take, plus whatever was in the pipeline.”

  “My God!” Alex mumbled. He looked at Herb. “Can you estimate when this started?”

  “Already have,” Herb told him. “We move two million barrels a day through the line. It figures the sea water began replacing the oil on the twelfth of March.”

  “That’s the same day the Scorpio was attacked,” Bull added. “She was the last tanker to receive a full load of crude.” Bull shook his head in wonder. “What bugs the shit out of me is how in the hell did sea water get into the line from the middle of Alaska?”

  “Any idea when the storm will break?” Alex asked.

  Herb nodded. “Sometime tonight, if the forecasters are right.”

  “I’ve made arrangements for you at the hotel,” Christa told Alex. “It’s just down the street.”

  “Thanks. It’s getting late, and I have a few calls to make. I’ll meet you here in the morning.”

  Christa watched Alex leave the office, and then turned to Bull. “A good looking stranger comes to town, and you’d think he could have at least invited me out for a drink.”

  “Maybe he’s married,” Herb offered.

  “I didn’t see a wedding ring,” Christa told him. “Maybe he’s the bashful type. I’ll have to work on it. See you in the morning, guys.”

  Christa stepped through the door and saw Alex pulling his suitcase across the snow. On a sudden impulse, she jogged up beside him.

  Alex stopped and looked at her. “Is there something else?” he asked.

  Christa smiled, feeling a little ridiculous. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  Alex smiled. “That’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”

  They walked without speaking and entered the hotel, where Alex checked in and asked for his bags to be taken to his room. Once Alex had his room card, they entered the dimly lit cocktail lounge and sat at a small table.