by Ben Coes
They exited the elevator at the top of the dam and walked into the operations center. Theoretically at least, the room was soundproof. Savoy and Mijailovic took off their headphones. You could still hear the tremendous noise of the dam, but at least now you could have a conversation.
This was the main operations center for Savage Island Project, housed in a room that looked like mission control at NASA. Nine technicians per shift kept watch over computer screens under a massive, thirty-foot flat-screen graphic display depicting the real-time operation of all two hundred turbines. In the background, the loud pounding noise of the rushing water was everywhere. None of the technicians seemed to notice.
Savoy and Mijailovic walked past the engineers and Savoy opened the steel door to the outside. They ascended the stairwell in the back of the room and went to the observation deck.
The noise, outside of the soundproof operations center, was again deafening.
Savoy and Mijailovic stared at the violent Labrador Sea. The wind ripped across the great plain of water into their faces. The vast expanse of sea spread east to the horizon. Savoy walked to the other side of the dam, stepped to the edge, and peered over the side. The sky dropped in a curved cement plain to the running river formed by the through water. The line of houses next to the river was visible but tiny, like dollhouses.
“He washed up down there,” Mijailovic yelled over the noise, pointing to the shoreline below the town. “This is probably where he fell from.”
Or jumped, Savoy thought. At least that’s what I’d do if I had to live in this fucking place. Savoy zipped his parka and pulled the hood around his head. He stood at the east edge of the deck for a few minutes, staring at the sea.
“You want to go back in?” Mijailovic yelled after a minute.
“I’m going to walk the deck!” yelled Savoy. “You go ahead.”
“What are you looking for?”
“How the hell should I know?”
Savoy stepped quickly across the cement, toward the far end of the facility and Mijailovic followed. They walked for several minutes. As they approached the unprotected central part of the dam, the wind picked up in intensity and ripped across the open plain, nearly knocking them over. They saw nothing.
When they got back to the northern entrance to the dam, they descended the stairs and walked back into the operations center. In a conference room at the far corner of the operations center, Savoy sat at the table and removed his parka.
“Just so you know, I had two men walk the roof this morning,” said Mijailovic. “I’ve also done two sweeps of every floor in the facility.”
“What about a head count?” Savoy rubbed his hands together, trying to get warm.
“Done that. Every worker is accounted for.”
“Were they all here?”
“Here or on leave. As you know, we go four months on, one off. There are always some guys on leave.”
“Did you speak with the ones on leave?”
“What would be the purpose of that?” Mijailovic asked, obviously a little perturbed.
“The purpose is following protocol. A man is dead. We don’t know what happened. Any time there’s even the slightest chance of foul play, the rule book says full staff interviews, even those on leave. According to the protocol, they’re all supposed to be reachable.”
“Got it.”
“I also want to see the full list of workers, ages, nationalities, et cetera.”
“Okay.”
Savoy looked at Mijailovic as he removed his parka. “Remember, Jake left Marks an odd message. That’s the main reason I’m being a hard-ass about this, all right? Besides, what else you got to do?”
“I’ll go run a manifest. You want coffee?”
“I can get it. Is there a kitchen up here?”
“Down the hall. Head’s down there too.”
“Got it.”
While Mijailovic found an empty computer, Savoy went to the kitchen. A pot of coffee sat half filled on the warmer. Savoy poured a cup and walked back to the main control room.
As he walked behind the engineers, Savoy took a long look at the big plasma screen in front of the room. He stood behind one of the men at the computer terminal, studying the complex array of lights that monitored turbine activity. He took a sip from his coffee cup. “Jesus, this stuff tastes like shit.”
“He’s drinking the coffee,” one of the engineers said. The others laughed.
“That’s probably been sitting there a week,” said another man.
“Tastes like it,” said Savoy. “No wonder you guys are such a joy to be around.”
They laughed again.
Savoy pointed to a row of lights that were flashing orange.
“What’s that row of lights?” he asked.
The engineer in front of Savoy turned and looked at him.
“First tier,” he said. “Been down almost two months. Problems with three of the four turbines.”
“Is there someone there right now?”
“Might be. Don’t know.”
“It’s pretty standard stuff,” added one of the engineers. “There hasn’t been a time since I’ve been here that at least one turbine hasn’t been offline.”
“What exactly’s wrong with them?” Savoy asked.
None of the engineers responded.
He turned to Mijailovic, who’d just come in with a stack of printouts.
“Does anyone know why the hell these turbines are down?” Savoy pointed again, this time with a hint of anger, at the screen.
“No, sir,” said the engineer in front of him.
“It would’ve been a Jake project,” said Mijailovic.
Savoy shook his head in disbelief. “Well, now it’s a Terry and Arnie project.”
“Here’s the FTE manifest. There are six people on leave. I’ve called all six.”
“You made contact?”
“I made contact with all six.”
“Okay. Let me glance this over.” Savoy pulled a pair of glasses out of his pocket and put them on. “Then we can go look at those first-tier turbines on the way out of here.”
After a few minutes, Mijailovic cleared his throat. “Find anything interesting?”
Savoy didn’t respond. He was focused on one sheet of paper in particular. He held the paper in one hand as he flipped through the small stack with the other hand.
“Who is Mirin Chaltoum?”
“He’s a maintenance guy. Big fellow, strong. Nice kid.”
“Hmm. I see Vida ran the manifest against the HR database,” said Savoy. “You know, the disciplinary files.”
“Like I said, I knew about all discipline cases,” said Mijailovic. “Even if it wasn’t reported, Jake would’ve mentioned it to me. Especially if he had a serious problem with someone.”
“What’s a ‘blue file’?” asked Savoy.
“A blue file? It means Jake has concerns about someone’s behavior, work ethic, attitude, suspicions, that sort of thing. Jake’s supposed to send any straight to me, but I haven’t had a blue file in more than a year.”
“He put a blue file on Mirin Chaltoum two weeks ago.”
“It says that in the file?” Mijailovic paled. “Any specific notes?”
“No, nothing. Do you know someone named Amman? He lives with him.”
“I know who he is, that’s all. Also in maintenance.”
“They started work here the same month, three years ago.”
“Maybe they’re friends.”
“It says here he’s from Spain. The other’s from Saudi Arabia.”
“So? You know what it takes to get people willing to come to this place? Jake advertises all over the world.”
“You’re missing the point. I’m not saying anyone did anything to Jake. I still believe he fell. Or who knows, maybe he killed himself. The point is, no matter what you think, you can’t just ignore other things. Like two guys starting work the same month, living together, both Middle Eastern, one of them with a new
blue file.”
“The blue file I get, but these are far from our only Middle Easterners.”
“Really? Have you ever counted how many?”
“No.”
“Well, while you were taking a crap, I did. You have exactly three. These two, and one other guy, an engineer who’s fifty-five years old and has been with KKB for twenty-eight years. I think we can probably trust him.”
Savoy stood.
“So what do you want to do?” asked Mijailovic.
“I think one of us should go walk the idle turbines, see what’s up. The other should go interview these guys in person. We probably won’t find a goddamn thing, Arnie. I’ll be the first to admit that. But I have to look. That’s my job. And yours.”
“I know. You’re right. I don’t mean to be difficult. It’s been a hell of a day.”
Together they took the elevator down to the first row of turbines.
“What do you want,” asked Savoy, “turbines or Mr. Blue File?”
“I’ll look at the turbines,” said Mijailovic. “I know my way around in there pretty well.”
“Sounds good,” said Savoy. “See you back at the ranch.”
In a small modular house in the village, two young maintenance workers, Mirin and Amman, put their coats on and walked to the dam. A frozen dirt road led to the front entrance of the dam, where they took turns touching their thumbs to a black screen.
“Hey, guys,” the guard said. “First turbine?”
Mirin, the older of the pair, nodded and handed the guard a slip of paper.
Mirin and Amman entered the elevator. At the first floor, they stepped off and removed their bright yellow parkas, leaving them on the ground. They passed the first three turbines, and at the fourth they stopped. Amman placed the large red toolbox on the ground.
The two looked at each other as they pulled the tarp down off the turbine column.
Mirin ran his left hand down the column, looking for the seam. Near the middle of the turbine column, he found a slight ridge in the metal. He turned toward Amman. “I need the drill.”
“Yes, yes,” Amman said. He reached into the toolbox. “Here.”
Mirin took the drill and began removing the bolts that held the steel plate in place. There were more than a hundred of them. For the next twenty minutes, he moved down the hull of the turbine, sweating profusely, nervous sweat. Finally, he finished removing the last of the bolts.
“Knife.”
Amman opened the toolbox, pulled out a box cutter, and handed it to Mirin, who gently inserted it in the manifold’s seam, cutting away the epoxy liner. He popped the casing open. The two men pushed the heavy casing to the side, then looked at each other. Despite the inactive turbines, the noise of the dam filled the space. The younger of the two men, Amman, wanted to say something, but Mirin shook his head. He walked toward him and hugged him. Then he stepped back and placed his hands on Amman’s shoulders. He stared into Amman’s eyes.
“It’s time, Amman. Mother would be proud.”
11
CAPITANA TERRITORY
Capitana was strangely quiet.
Eight hours had passed since Dewey had put every Middle Easterner aboard the Montana for transport to Buenaventura. All pumping operations had been shuttered. It would take at least another day to calm the rig down after two days of bloodshed, never mind getting it back to full production.
In his office, Dewey took down the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and took a gulp. It was almost three in the morning. He could use a good night’s sleep, but it wasn’t likely to come tonight. He lay back on the bed with the bottle and a sheaf of faxed pages that had come through several hours before. The moment he began reading, he sat up straight, put aside the bottle, and turned on his bedside lamp. It was a press release:
KKB TO ACQUIRE ANSON ENERGY IN $67 BILLION DEAL; HISTORIC MERGER WILL CREATE WORLD’S SECOND-LARGEST ENERGY COMPANY
(New York, New York)—U.S. energy conglomerate KKB has agreed to acquire Dallas-based oil giant Anson Energy in a $67 billion deal that will create the world’s second-largest energy company.
Ted Marks, CEO of KKB, stated: “Through this historic merger, KKB-Anson will be building the largest energy company in America. Most importantly, all of KKB-Anson’s products will come from sources outside of the Middle East, ensuring that our customers, employees, and shareholders do not directly or indirectly create financial profits for opponents of American policy. . . .”
Dewey had read about Marks. He’d been in the Navy, fought in Vietnam. Dewey had also read about Marks’s crusade to end America’s reliance on Middle East oil. Now he was doing it. And in the middle of it all sat Capitana. Dewey shook his head. Talk about awful timing. What would Marks think when he heard about Capitana’s sudden shutdown? Dewey was too tired even to contemplate that.
As he lay back, he felt the rig move, enough to make him sit up again. A wave, he thought. He reclined once more, taking another sip from the bottle. A noise echoed down the hallway outside his room. He stood and flipped on the main light switch in his cabin. Everything was silent except for the occasional bell or door slamming somewhere on the rig, the ocean patting the tide deck, the wind. Maybe he was getting paranoid from all of the mayhem of the last forty-eight hours. Still, whatever it was, it alarmed him enough to make him walk to the far end of the cabin and look out the window.
What he saw caused him to shudder.
There, against the side of the rig, stood the dark silhouette of a ship, its running lights shut off. He recognized the profile of the vessel. It was the Montana.
He walked to the dresser and took his knife from the top drawer. Dressed only in his Carhartts, he walked to the small closet and opened the door. He took out a gray T-shirt and put it on. Then he heard it. The sound of footsteps. Steel-toed boots coming down the corridor to his cabin. He tensed. He felt the warmth of adrenaline in his veins.
The door flew open and Dewey found himself facing four armed gunmen with rifles trained on him. One was Pazur, the murderer of Jonas Pierre; he’d been put aboard the Montana with the others, specifically to face charges in Cali.
From behind the gunmen stepped Esco. “Drop the knife,” he ordered.
Dewey held on to the knife for a moment more, despite the command, and eyed the gunmen. One of the men raised a rifle and aimed it at his head. Kalashnikov, Dewey’s soldier’s brain registered automatically. The gunman fired a round over his shoulder. It ripped a hole in the wall next to the bed.
He tossed the knife to the ground, where it slid beneath the desk. “Where’s Pablo?”
Esco walked between the gunmen. He stood in front of Dewey, confident but serious, quietly staring at him.
“Dead,” said Esco.
Dewey looked at the gunmen again. He knew he’d regret what he was about to do, but he couldn’t help himself. Without warning, he delivered two quick, ferocious punches to Esco’s ribs and a right hook to his left eye. Esco collapsed as his gunmen lunged at Dewey, the one to his right striking first, with the butt end of his gun to the side of his head. A gunman to his left kicked Dewey squarely in the groin, folding him in pain. A third man swung at his face and nailed him above his eye, which began to bleed. All four of the men pounded away at him as he descended to the floor in pain from the blows.
“Stop,” Esco ordered from behind them after nearly a minute. “We need him alive.”
Dewey turned his head slightly and opened his eyes. He was looking straight ahead at Esco’s boots.
“Lift him up,” Esco said.
Two of the gunmen reached down and picked Dewey up. They placed his arms around their necks and got ready to lead him away.
“You’ll pay,” Dewey muttered as he stared at Esco.
Esco stepped forward and delivered a last sharp kick to the balls.
They tied his hands behind his back, then stuck a rag in his mouth to gag him. Then the gunmen led Dewey down the corridor to the main deck of Capitana.
Despite the ar
rival of the armed men, despite the violence of the past days, nothing prepared him for what he saw next. Bodies lay piled at different points on the deck, now dimly illuminated by the sunrise to the east. He counted more than two dozen corpses strewn about. Rage began to replace Dewey’s initial shock. As they walked near the edge of the platform, he saw yet more corpses floating in the waters off the platform, then Pablo’s corpse lying face-up on the deck.
They led him to the infirmary. Inside, the body of Chaz Barbo lay awkwardly contorted on the ground. His head had been blown off.
The two gunmen threw Dewey to the floor. One of them had a chain and he took it and fastened him to the steel pole at the edge of the room, so that he couldn’t get away or even move. They left the room and closed the door.
Dewey sat in a daze. After several minutes, he was able to spit the rag from his mouth. He could taste blood.
Only once in his life had he ever been in a situation worse than this. That was in Panama. He’d been one of the ones in early, sent to kill Manuel Noriega more than a year before Operation Just Cause. They’d gotten trapped in an apartment building down the street from where they knew the dictator was sleeping with one of his mistresses. Some kid in the building tipped off Noriega’s men and what was supposed to be a surgical infiltration turned into a shitstorm. Noriega’s goons surrounded the apartment building and slowly worked their way concentrically inward, moving in and slowly strangling off Dewey and the four other Deltas on his team. They were saved by the Navy and a pair of F/A-18 Hornets, which came in at four hundred feet and leveled the buildings on either side of the one they were in with AGM-65s. Two Deltas survived, including Dewey.
The Navy wasn’t going to save his ass this time.
Dewey closed his eyes and tried to think. Is this what Mackie had tried to tell him? Whatever Esco had been planning had taken years. And for some reason, a living and functioning Dewey Andreas mattered to their plan.
The pumping station. The seabed. The key to Capitana. They needed Dewey to access the main pumping station. This was the most vulnerable part of Capitana, the link to the oil reservoir.