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by L. Todd Wood


  As he approached the site, he put the map aside. It was obvious he was near the drill location from the throngs of people. There was a massive demonstration underway in spite of the pouring down rain. The cars blocked the road a mile back. The demonstrators chanted in unison, decrying the drilling operations at the site. Unfortunately, Connor had to get out of his vehicle and walk. I’ll be tired quicker because of this. The rain made the walk miserable. Making it through the aggressive, screaming crowd was unpleasant, but he finally reached the drill site and was let through the security perimeter after explaining who he was. He had already coordinated the meeting over the phone the day before. One of the guards led him to the trailer that was the company’s base of operations near the fracking operation. Alan Dodson was standing out front, wearing a hard hat, speaking with several workers. He saw him approach.

  “Mr. Murray, I presume?” he said as Connor approached.

  “Yes, Mr. Dodson, do you have a moment?”

  “Yes I do! But give me a couple minutes, okay?” he said and motioned to the trailer. “Step into my office.”

  Connor walked to the trailer entrance and let himself in. His shoes were soaked from the hike from the car. He sat at a foldout table and Alan stepped in five minutes later. “Coffee?” he asked.

  “Sure, sounds good. I could use some right now.” Alan poured coffee for both of them then sat down himself.

  “Sorry for the horrible cup of joe, but I’m just happy to have something this ugly morning. Been quite a day.”

  “Looks like you have your hands full,” Connor replied.

  “You bet I do! From monitoring the drilling process to monitoring the perimeter for saboteurs, you could definitely say I have my hands full. We’re spending a ton of money I didn’t count on for security.”

  “Yes, I noticed the protests.”

  “How could you not? If you can’t see them, you can sure hear them up here. My head is pounding at the end of the day.”

  “So Peter says I should talk to you. I’m not going to tell you why, but I need to know what is happening. Peter is scared. He has people following him, ransacking his apartment, et cetera. It’s more than just harassment. What’s going on?”

  “Peter is a great guy. He’s been really helpful to us—he’s brilliant. But as I’m sure he told you, someone doesn’t want this technology to be tested and proven here. Someone doesn’t want that in a bad way. We’ve had harassment. We’ve had equipment stolen. We’ve had permit delays, lawsuits. We’ve had everything under the sun. We’ve had our own people try and infiltrate the mob out there to find out who’s behind all of this. They are obviously well funded. We’ve found out that there is definitely a lot of money backing this circus. What we haven’t found out is just who is behind this. It’s an enigma. Whoever it is, they are professionals.”

  “So what’s so special about your new technology?”

  “Well, I’ll put it in layman’s terms for you. As you know, hydraulic fracturing is the process of injecting high-pressure fluid into horizontal oil wells to force hairline cracks in the surrounding rock to release hydrocarbons, mainly oil and natural gas. This technology is key for the United States to unlock its energy reserve potential. Geologists think we have over 1.4 trillion barrels of recoverable oil right beneath our feet. However, if done incorrectly, there can be dangers. We use chemicals and other materials along with water to produce these fractures. If proper procedures aren’t used, the chemicals or hydrocarbons can be released into aquifers and contaminate ground water. As I said, this has to be done professionally and carefully. However, it can be done safely. It has been aggressively regulated by the states for decades. We have made huge technological strides. The market sees the potential here and is privately funding the research and development of new technologies. Typically the chemicals used are less than one half of one percent of the fluid pumped into the well. Mostly they are needed to prevent bacterial growth and to reduce friction. Now, here’s the interesting part. We have developed a proprietary process that insulates fracking from environmental issues. We think we have a chemical that after use rapidly decays into a harmless substance. Thus, there are no contamination issues from chemical injection. We also have found ways to absolutely prevent hydrocarbon release out of the general vicinity of the aquifer and the wellbore. This also gives us one hundred percent contamination prevention. This is the technology someone wants to stop.”

  Connor asked, “But why would they want to stop it?”

  “Ah, that is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. We’re trying to find that out. Obviously environmental groups come to mind, but this seems to be very well organized and funded. I think there’s more to it.”

  “I just don’t understand how they are connected to me and my girlfriend. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I have no idea,” said Alan. “You know, American energy companies have been fracking since 1948, for sixty years. We have concrete and steel barriers in place around the wellbore next to the aquifers to prevent leakage. The technology is improving constantly. There have been over one million fracking wells drilled. The hydrofracturing process is done thousands of feet below the water table. The areas are separated by impermeable rock. I just don’t get it. There has to be some other agenda behind all of this.”

  Alan’s phone rang. He answered.

  “What? For what? Get our company attorneys on it.” He slammed down the phone.

  “What’s going on?” asked Connor.

  “Peter’s just been arrested.”

  The sultan sat quietly holding the Quran. The stillness gave him strength. He was staring off into space, meditating, his mind listening to the will of Allah. Some time later, he focused on the present, looked down, and read aloud verse 8:12.

  “I will cast terror into the hearts of those who disbelieve. Therefore strike off their heads and strike off every fingertip of them."

  He closed his eyes and remembered accompanying his father as a small boy to the mosque and hearing these words. Growing up in Egypt had been hard, they were poor. But he was taught the greatness of his nation, the greatness of Islam. They seemed fearsome words then but over time he had learned to love them. He now understood their greatness. “So it shall be,” he said calmly and closed the holy book. He turned again toward Mecca to pray.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Connor sat at the small cubicle in the Shreveport library; it was late in the day and the sun had set. He was uncomfortable with all of the terminals facing the attendant, but nothing could be done about that. It was probably set up that way to prevent viewing of inappropriate material; Connor could tell she was a nosy one. He picked the farthest computer away from the librarian’s counter and logged on using a guest pass he had taken from the basket on her desk. It was just a series of numbers and letters; there was no way anyone could track him. The good thing was he was the only person around, since the library was closing shortly. In fact, the librarian almost did not let him log on, but he had sweet-talked her and she relented. It seemed she wanted to leave early. The silence was deafening.

  He hated touching the public keyboard, but nothing could be done about that either. He remembered reading an article that a telephone and a computer keyboard were dirtier than a toilet seat, teeming with bacteria. There was a hand sanitizer kiosk at the library entrance. He would make sure to use it on his way out. I’m tired. The buzzing in my ears is coming.

  The revelations from the day’s events had not provided comfort; no, they had worried him even more. He still had no idea who he was up against. He only knew Natasha and he were in more danger than previously thought. Connor needed to communicate all this to her. He hoped she had initiated contact.

  He pulled up the Gmail account they had set up to email each other. There was nothing. Even though he had suspected as much, it still was a let down. He wanted so much to talk to her, to hold her again, to warn her. His energy dissipated even faster.

  Nothing. Where is she? Will I ever
see her again? Hold her close? Make love to her again? Was she really who I thought she was?

  The humming returned. He had taken steroids all day, but he was past the point of them being able to help. It was getting hard for him to hold his head up. The exhaustion was amazing, it came on so quickly. His body had nothing left. The red light was flashing. He needed to find a hotel room fast before his body turned out the lights.

  He signed out of his email account and then off the computer and started to make his way to the rented SUV in the parking lot, hitting the hand sanitizer on the way out. At least the rain has stopped, he thought. The cicadas were making a racket tonight up in the pines. The warm southern air felt nice. It was as if the wet blanket had been lifted by the slight breeze. One foot in front of the other. Slowly he walked past the parked cars and made it to his own door and got inside. The exhaustion overtook him. I’ll just rest here for a while.

  Natasha crossed from Vermont into Canada at the Highgate Springs port of entry. She chose this port due to the high volume of traffic on its way to Montreal, hoping she would not be questioned. As she suspected, the line of cars had stretched for a quarter mile to get through; that was fine with her. The border agents were under pressure and in a hurry. She was confident no one had followed her. The spring rains were coming down hard now as she drove farther and farther towards the city. From there she would catch a plane to somewhere no one would find her, except for Connor of course, in due time.

  It was highly possible they would be looking for her at the border. For that reason, she had completed her disguise. She looked like a frumpy housewife, with a bunch of trash from her kids in the car, McDonald’s Happy Meals and all, squished into the seats. There was no way she would be mistaken for a sexy Russian spy. Her accent was the only thing that concerned her. She hoped that she would not have to talk very much. She had been practicing her American English and trying to lose her accent.

  She knew Connor would be concerned about her, but she couldn’t worry about that right now. She had to take care of herself and not be a burden to him. First things first. They both would survive if they played their cards right. But she missed him.

  The wait in the line of cars was nerve-racking. Finally she was a few car lengths from the border. Then she pulled up to the agent’s booth. After a few short questions from the border police, she was let through the gate. I’ve never been to Canada, she thought.

  Connor felt a harsh pain in his neck and opened his eyes. The sun was glaring through the windshield, and he quickly shut them. Where am I? I’m still in the car, shit. He groggily sat up and looked around; no one had seen him—that he knew of at least. His neck was sore from his sleep position against the car seat. His mouth felt like a cotton ball. He looked at his watch. He’d been asleep for fourteen hours. I’ve got to take better care of myself. This is ridiculous. You do have cancer you know. Wake up dammit!

  Once fully aware of his surroundings, Connor started the SUV and slowly left the library parking lot, trying to notice everything around him. The hotel he had seen on the way into Shreveport was not far away. The drive took less than ten minutes, and he booked a room near an exit. Soon he was in his bathroom, taking a shower. The hot water felt good, and he lingered under the blast of the nozzle for several minutes, attempting to wash away the groggy feeling. At least I feel refreshed, he thought. He toweled off and sat on the bed. I’ve got to take stock of things.

  He had no idea where Natasha was. Something had spooked her while he slept. He had no idea what. Peter had been arrested. Why? He had no idea about that either. Was someone looking for him? I don’t even know what I don’t know. Someone got to her somehow. Someone got to Peter. I can’t trust anyone. At least, I can’t trust anyone who I’ve been dealing with security-wise in the last few years. There is a mole somewhere, a leak. That must be how they found her. Well now I’m on my own.

  He had another chemo treatment in two weeks. How was he going to deal with that? I’m in no position to be saving the world, he said to himself. He thought more for a while. But I am in a position to help Natasha, and that is what I will do. And helping her means finding out what is going on. You can do this!

  Whatever was going on with the energy issue was over his head. Somehow, the whole thing was tied to him as well. He needed to speak to someone with resources. He needed help. He needed a friend with benefits. Connor reached into his wallet and took out a nondescript business card that he had carried for several years but never used. He pulled out from his bag his recently purchased prepaid cell phone. Connor had reinvented himself upon leaving for JFK with a new identity from his prepared documents, a new phone, and had plenty of cash. These had been prepared by both him and Natasha well in advance. He called the number on the card.

  “Yes, it was definitely him,” the man said into his phone. “We picked him up at the drilling site outside of Shreveport, a stroke of good luck. We found out from the analyst that he mentioned Catenation to Murray, so we had a hunch he might show up. He must have been sent there to speak to Dodson. “

  “That’s most unfortunate. Where is he now?”

  “He’s in a hotel here in town. We have him under surveillance. What are my instructions?”

  “Do nothing. Watch him. Maybe he will lead us to her or someone else of value. She would be of some value to trade. He may be a little more dangerous. When we need to, we will dispose of him.”

  The sultan hung up the phone and calmly reached for the cup and saucer on the table next to the window. The bougainvilleas were blooming and framed the window outside. In the desert, these flowers were everywhere, providing a splash of color to the drab surroundings he remembered as a child. He drank some warm, golden tea and prepared to pray.

  Connor dressed, paid the bill, and left the hotel with his meager belongings. Everything I now have is in this SUV. Of course, I’m forgetting a few hogs in the bank in Cayman and elsewhere, he laughed to himself. Glancing around the parking lot, he realized he was the only one there. Not much activity late morning here in Shreveport. He got in the car and made his way to the exit then pulled into the street. The main activity around him seemed to be the crowd of people at the local Waffle House a couple blocks down.

  That’s when he noticed the Buick. It looked like a rental as well and had pulled out of the fast food restaurant that was diagonally across the street from the hotel. The car followed some distance behind. Probably nothing, he thought. He kept an eye on the car in the mirror as he drove up the on-ramp to the expressway that led to the airport. It was obvious the infrastructure here had been built up quickly after the Haynesville discovery. Connor accelerated rapidly to check the Buick’s reaction.

  As Connor closed on the airport, the car was still there. Shit. Now what to do? Do I get on the plane or not? Connor sat in the SUV thinking as he parked in the rental car return. Finally he grabbed his bags and got out, deciding to get on the plane anyway. He was changing planes in Chicago; if he was being followed, he could probably lose them at O’Hare. He entered the terminal and gave the keys to the rental desk then walked quickly to the window to see if someone followed him in. A menacing-looking fellow got out of the Buick and briskly made his way inside, his eyes darting back and forth searching for his prey. He had on an expensive suit with a bulge under his arm. Connor got a mental look at his face and moved on. The terminal complex was rather small, so he went through the TSA checkpoint, walked to the gate, and waited.

  If he was being followed, this would force him to change identities once again amongst the several he had prearranged. Whoever it was would surely check out his identity from the flight manifest, but, that could be dealt with later. Connor waited to be the last one to board then he saw the man walk into the gate area, ticket in hand. He flashed some type of ID to the ticket agent. This guy doesn’t quit. Connor entered the jetway so as not to be discovered. His mind was racing. Who was he and why was he after him?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Connor walked off
the jetway in Chicago into a mad rush of passengers desperately trying to navigate the concourse and find their gate. There wasn’t enough room in the concourse for all of the people and the beeping carts carrying the invalids from one gate to another. He subconsciously felt his wallet to make sure he had not been pickpocketed as people bumped into him. The man following Connor had been booked in first class and got off the plane before him. He was nowhere to be seen when Connor entered the terminal. He’s here somewhere. Connor walked briskly to his next gate for the flight to Pellston, Michigan, again touching nothing and attempting to avoid the throng of human beings. From Pellston he would take a helicopter to Mackinac Island. That was where the president was, former President Walker that is. The man who had befriended Connor after Kate died and had introduced him to Natasha. He was the only person in the world he trusted right now. That was who Connor had called in the hotel.

  The president was spending some time at the governor’s summer residence on Mackinac Island, located in the Straits of Mackinac, the narrow waterway between the Lower and Upper Peninsula of Michigan. The former president was a longtime friend of the new governor and had invited him previously to the White House on multiple occasions. The governor was simply now returning the favor.

  The island was initially settled by native Indians; however, as the northern fur trade picked up steam in the eighteenth century, Mackinac Island became a strategic position. The British established Fort Mackinac there during the American Revolutionary War, and during the War of 1812, the English occupied the fort for a period of time. Now the island was primarily a state park and tourist attraction. The name was derived from the Indian word for turtle. The “cottage” was perched on the southern bluff of the island, overlooking the straits. It was built in 1902 with no power tools and was a marvel of craftsmanship and a public treasure.

 

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