Using binoculars she could make out the yellow boom that stretched for a couple of hundred yards around the cove. It was designed to stop the spread of oil and there probably was another one inside it containing the worst of the spill. Near the bank were two suction dredges, each connected to a centrifuge truck. They looked like giant cement mixers, with outgoing hoses that led to oil tankers.
She scribbled her approximate distance from the boom on the side of a plastic vial and dipped it in the lake. Then she capped it and added it to her rack of water samples. Jenn would magically track down a local chemist to test the contents and give a more reliable assessment of the damage.
Next she lowered Izzy’s homemade “bottom feeder,” a weighted vial that worked like a scoop as it scraped along the lakebed eight feet below. She was stowing that specimen when a small motorboat started toward her from the area that had been cordoned off by the boom. In the time it took to close the distance she made sure her samples were secure and out of sight.
The husky, bearded operator of the aluminum skiff wore the uniform of Minnesota’s Department of Natural Resources. He greeted her with a tip of his cap. “Good morning. You’re out early.”
Her cover would be blown sky-high if she told him she was bird watching and he asked what kinds of birds she’d seen. She didn’t know a loon from a duck.
“I saw on the news last night there was some kind of oil spill. I couldn’t believe it was so close. Thought I’d check it out.”
“You live here?” His tone was cordial but businesslike, and it occurred to Stacie this was his regular patrol. He was probably suspicious because he didn’t know her.
“Just up for the weekend to stay at my friend’s cabin. Needed a little time to myself. You know how that is.” She was screwed if this interrogation went much further.
“Well, we’re closing down the lake for a few days until they can get this mess cleaned up. They say it’s not all that bad but the vapors can make some people sick to their stomach. Better to be safe than sorry.”
She pasted on a look of disappointment and spun her kayak toward the cabin. “Guess I’ll get on back then.”
“I can give you a tow. Now that the sun’s up, somebody from the sheriff’s department will be coming around to clear out all the stragglers. Mandatory evacuation all the way around the lake.”
She had little choice but to comply, since he’d already looped a towrope through the grab handle at the front of her kayak. He then tugged her across the murky lake, cutting her loose a few yards from the shore and watching her paddle to the dock. As she dragged the oily kayak to the cabin, she kept her eye on the back porch, hoping Ricky and Izzy had seen her motorboat escort. If they came outside right now, their cover would be blown.
Izzy was just crawling down from the loft when she came in, but Ricky was apparently still asleep. She related the morning’s events, including the fact that there was a dead bird in a sack on the back porch. “Natural Resources is already working with the sheriff’s department. He said they’re sending deputies around to make sure everyone leaves. It might be a good idea for me to go before they have a chance to run my plates.” She’d been arrested many times for trespassing and civil disobedience, a fact that would draw unwanted attention to the cabin.
“Too bad you have to hurry but we knew it was a risk for you to go out there.”
“It was worth it though. I don’t think we’re dealing with ordinary crude, Izzy. It looks like bitumen and it’s on the bottom of the lake at least a quarter-mile from the boom.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I shit you not.”
“Ethan sent me a copy of their press release last night before I went to sleep,” he said. “That pipeline’s over forty years old, so it wasn’t built for bitumen. I bet it’s only a quarter-inch thick.”
“Not only that, this spill is bigger than they say it is—a lot bigger. I got oil all over the kayak, and I didn’t go anywhere near the cove.”
As she packed her belongings, Izzy forwarded the latest note from Jenn containing directions to the farmhouse. “She’ll be there by noon. Oh, and make sure Ethan knows there’s another press conference at the North Shore Resort at eleven o’clock.”
As Stacie pulled out of the long driveway, a sheriff’s patrol car with flashing lights slowed to a stop. “We’re evacuating on account of the oil spill,” the female deputy said. Her yellow-blond hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and her name badge read Gustafson.
“Yeah, I heard. I was out on the lake this morning in my kayak and one of the—I guess he was a ranger of some sort—he told me about it. He said I’d better skedaddle so I packed up.”
The deputy pointed to the cabin. “Anyone else down there?”
“Just me. Like I told the guy out on the lake, I came up here to get a little time to myself. Guess it’s back to the grind.”
Skedaddle was right. Lying to the police was probably a felony in Minnesota.
* * *
Cathryn’s stomach growled loudly, prompting smiles from the reporters seated in the front row. “Sorry about that. I’ve been on the phone all morning and never got a chance to eat.” That wasn’t just hyperbole. Her voice mail had been stacked with inquiries from all over the country. So much for their hopes this would remain a local story.
A smartly dressed woman, middle-aged with graying hair and slightly overweight, stood and waited to be acknowledged. “Colleen Murray, Star-Tribune. The background you provided indicates the pipeline in question, known as Thirteen C, was constructed in 1971, and Nations Oil took ownership eight years ago in its acquisition of Pierce Petroleum. Can you tell us if any of the federally mandated inspections have been conducted on Thirteen C since the transfer?”
“As you know, the transport of petroleum products is governed by the Pipeline and Hazardous Materials Safety Administration, the PHMSA. Federal inspections are required every five years, but only where pipelines cross population centers or sensitive environmental areas, such as state and national parks and sanctuaries. Nations Oil strictly adheres to all PHMSA inspection schedules. This particular segment of Thirteen C did not fall under those inspection mandates.”
“So it’s possible this segment hasn’t been inspected since it was built in 1971?”
Cathryn pretended to check her notes. “I don’t have a definitive answer to that at this time”—the answer was probably not—“but it’s certainly reasonable to assume Nations Oil did its due diligence at the time of purchase and verified the quality of the infrastructure.” She looked for another question but Murray refused to yield the floor.
“Can you tell us then what sections of Thirteen C have been inspected, and share with us the results of those inspections?”
“Yes, of course. The pipeline crosses three State Natural Areas—Big Islands, Kohler-Peet Barrens and Sterling Barrens. As a result of federally mandated inspections in those segments, a total of twenty-seven routine repairs were made, many of which were necessitated by improper digging too close to the pipeline by utility companies and private citizens.” What she didn’t say was Nations Oil had received multiple extensions from PHMSA on repairs for sixty-one other citations for corrosion, faulty seams and weakened welding where leakage was not deemed imminent. “Further questions about federal inspections should be directed to the PHMSA. What’s important here is that Nations Oil values the environment—and yes, it values its infrastructure too—enough to maintain the relevant systems far above what the government requires.”
Eager to be finished with that line of questioning, Cathryn scanned the room for another hand. A young man stood and cleared his throat. He’d been taking notes feverishly throughout the press conference, a sign she recognized as inexperience. “Ethan Anders, The Statesman. In all of your remarks and background, you’ve consistently used the term ‘heavy crude oil’ to describe the product involved in this spill. Can you describe the difference between heavy crude oil and tar sands?”
There
was a collective shuffling of papers as reporters checked their notes and handouts.
The last thing she wanted was for any of them to mention “tar sands” in their stories, as it conjured something so thick and sticky it couldn’t be removed. “The difference is in viscosity and specific gravity, which is defined by the American Petroleum Institute. The Provincial Oil Field, where this product originated, is designated as heavy oil.”
“Isn’t the Provincial Field adjacent to the Cold Lake Oil Sands?”
“Yes, like California is adjacent to the Pacific Ocean. One is water, the other is not.” She was walking a thin line with her terse response, since dressing down a neophyte might rankle the other reporters, all of whom once had been cubs. “Heavy oil and oil sands are not the same thing. There are strict API guidelines for classification.”
“If I may go further, what I’d really like to know is if this oil spill is actually bitumen, irrespective of its designation?”
“The product is heavy oil,” she reiterated insistently, despite her recall of Bryce Tucker’s reference to dilbit when he exploded upon hearing Woody’s ominous projections. Bitumen, like tar sands, was a loaded term thanks to the disasters in Michigan, Arkansas and Wyoming, to say nothing of the controversy surrounding the Caliber Pipeline, which Nations Oil hoped to build through the middle of the Plains States. She needed to be certain it wasn’t mistakenly used in stories about this incident, and no wet-behind-the-ears reporter was going to change that. Her press conference, her message. “Once again, it’s heavy oil from the Provincial Oil Field.”
The next reporters didn’t wait to be acknowledged, simultaneously shouting questions about whether bitumen was more dangerous in a spill or more difficult to clean up. Cathryn provided a brief overview of the cleanup procedure, emphasizing again her use of the term “heavy oil,” and explained that it was much easier to manage a spill in a confined area than in a running body of water such as Talmadge Creek or the Kalamazoo River. She made no reference to the sewers of Mayflower, Arkansas, which had caught the spill from Exxon’s Pegasus Pipeline and carried it all the way to Lake Conway.
“Will you use dispersants?”
“No, dispersants are used only in a very large body of churning water, such as the ocean or a Great Lake. Nations Oil will completely remove all of the spilled product and restore Lake Bunyan to its natural state.”
She saved her last question for Gerry Simmonds, of the Energy Business Report. He was a familiar face at many of her press conferences, and also a golfing buddy to several Nations Oil executives. “Do you expect this incident to have any significant impact on your stock price?”
It was a perfect setup. “Honestly, Gerry, that isn’t our priority right now. I’m sure our stockholders are paying attention to our bottom line, but our main focus is to do the right thing for the people of Lake Bunyan and Bunyan County. Fiduciary concerns always take a backseat to our environmental responsibilities.”
The analysts in New York knew enough to ignore that. Like every other corporation in America, Nations Oil’s real priorities were always on Wall Street. Nevertheless, their stock price was impacted by their corporate image, something the analysts also understood, and it was imperative they emphasize their environmental stewardship.
“Thank you all for coming. I’ll put out an update at five o’clock, and I suppose if any of you show up at the same time tomorrow, we’ll do this again,” she added with a chuckle. It was always to her advantage to end a press conference on a light note.
“By the same time, do you mean eleven or eleven fifteen?”
“Touché. Let’s say I bring doughnuts. Will that make up for me being late today?”
She ducked out the side door and into a conference room, where Hoss, Bryce and Gregg had watched the press conference on closed-circuit TV.
Bryce’s face was beet red. “Who the hell is Ethan Anders, and what does he know about dilbit?”
“He said he was with The Statesman,” Gregg replied. “The only Statesman I know is in Austin, and I can’t imagine what they’re doing all the way up here.”
Cathryn had noticed the young man the day before and searched the Internet for his byline. “Don’t worry, it’s only the student newspaper at the University of Minnesota-Duluth. And to answer your other question, Bryce, judging from his use of the term ‘tar sands,’ I don’t think he knows much at all about dilbit. You know how college campuses are. He’s probably read all that propaganda put out by organizations like Greenpeace and…what’s that other band of idiots? The Clean Energy Network, or something like that.”
“College campuses are nothing but a cesspool,” Bryce hissed. “Ought to put fences around them and call them zoos.”
Hoss nodded. “Like deep, dark caves where even the dimmest bulb seems bright. How are we doing, Cathryn?”
“Well, it’s still mostly a local story. We had twelve reporters last night and only nine today. If we keep our focus on the cleanup, I think we’ll be off the front page within a week.”
“You see any threats?”
She shrugged noncommittally. “We always have to worry about the crazies showing up. They may not make a lot of sense but they make a lot of noise, and you know how the press likes conflict.”
“We need to get Karl Depew up here before it gets out of hand,” Bryce said. “That’s what we pay him for.”
Cathryn didn’t recognize the name, but the others obviously did and nodded their agreement.
“Find out what’s taking him so long,” Hoss said. He then announced his intention to fly immediately to Washington DC with Bryce to meet with Senator Mike Washburn, a personal friend and the ranking member of the Energy and Natural Resources Committee. Washburn was championing the Caliber Pipeline on their behalf and they needed to assure him this spill was minor and under control.
Bryce listed the teams he wanted to remain. Cleanup and repair were in the hands of Larry Kratke, Cathryn was in charge of communications and Depew would handle security. Gregg and his legal team would work from the downtown resort where they had access to conference rooms and upscale amenities that would impress the people whose property they needed to purchase.
Life would be easier once the rest of the executives left town, she thought. It was hard enough to do her job without adding a layer of direct reporting to the brass.
“Give us a minute,” Hoss said to Bryce and Gregg, who then picked up their briefcases and left the room. “You know, Cathryn, if you weren’t so daggone good at your job, one of us would have to stay here and call the shots. But you’ve got a good head on your shoulders and I know you’ll handle everything they throw at you. Just make sure you go through Larry for all your updates. If you’re not sure about something, run it by him. And I’ll call you personally every day for your perspective on how things are going.”
They’d been pleased with how she handled Woody’s slip-up, and she appreciated hearing from Hoss they were confident in her abilities.
He went on, “We need to make sure we’re all on the same page. This security fellow, Karl Depew…he knows how to handle a crisis like this one, and he’s coming in here to deal with these lunkheaded tree huggers. He plays hardball, and we pay him big bucks to get his hands dirty so none of us have to. I don’t want you sullied by anything that might happen up here because we’ve got plans for you. I’m talking big plans. Once we get this mess behind us, we’re gonna see about getting you a brass nameplate for your office door. That’d be your new office on the East End.”
It was all she could do to control the urge to dance around the room. The East End of their building was where the vice presidents worked.
* * *
Jenn rolled up to the farmhouse shortly after noon in a dented white minivan. A new vehicle, Stacie observed, at least new to her. The second thing she noticed was Jenn had cut ten inches off her hair and still it was a mass of violent copper curls.
“New wheels?” she asked as they shared a bear hug.
; “My VW finally gave up the ghost. Dad and I buried the steering wheel in the backyard. Had a funeral and everything.” Her thirty-two-year-old microbus had been handed down from her father, who bought it the year she was born. “This one has character too though. Half the knobs are gone and I found a half-smoked joint under the driver’s seat.”
Environmental consciousness was more than driving electric cars and hybrids. It also meant saying no to consumerism, using things until they fell apart instead of dumping them in the landfill at the first sign of wear. That was a regular part of their orientation seminar, the one Jenn would give after dinner tonight once all the volunteers had checked in.
At that moment a shaggy-haired young man emerged from the backseat and stretched his arms skyward, baring his belly. “I guess this means we’re here.”
Jenn tugged him forward and wrapped an arm around his waist. He towered over her small frame by a foot. “This is Marty Wingate. I think I’ll keep him.”
Marty wore ragged jeans and a faded Che Guevara T-shirt, and his face sported what Stacie called “fashion stubble,” four or five days’ worth of beard. Thrusting his hand forward, he said, “I’ve been hearing about you for the last three months. I halfway expected to see magic bracelets and a lasso.”
“If anyone is Wonder Woman, it’s Jenn,” Stacie said. “Whatever we need she finds a way to get it—and cheap too. I tell you, the woman buys more with a hundred bucks than most of us do with a thousand. Better keep an eye on your stuff or she’ll trade it for something.”
Stacie had often worried Jenn would meet someone and want to settle down at home in Colorado. Her departure would be a crushing blow to CLEAN, and she tried to head it off every year with a five percent raise from the hodgepodge of grants that helped keep their organization afloat. Marty didn’t strike her as much of a threat. From what Jenn had shared in her emails, he was a “true believer” too, and that meant CLEAN was getting two for the price of one.
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