Polar Bear Dawn

by Lyle Nicholson

  Barnstead sat in his office in a state of shock. A slow anger was growing. Bernadette Callahan had gone over his head and outside of channels to alert the Alaskans to a possible threat. Being in the vanguard and protecting assets and the public was commendable—going outside of channels and not contacting superiors was incomprehensible.

  He’d felt like ...something he’d never felt before ...like he had no idea what was going on.. .and he knew Detective Bernadette Callahan was to blame. The phone call from the journalist had confirmed it. Barnstead let his shock turn to anger, and let the anger smoulder.

  Byron was leaving his office to head to his editor with his exclusive but got sidetracked by Addison Thorncliff, the business news reporter. She was standing outside a cubicle as he walked by. Addison motioned for Byron to look at something. Addison was in her late twenties, a well- dressed and well-manicured brunette who would have nothing to do with Byron’s many advances.

  He was intrigued by her calling him. As he walked into the cubicle, Addison motioned for him to look at the laptop playing on the desk. A program called CTV News was showing a newscast, and the reporter was claiming that two polywater devices had been released in Fort McMurray. The reporter did not say what the devices were—only that eight others had been found that had not been released. In a cool and calm Canadian manner, the CTV newscaster claimed that the oil companies believed the threat had been contained.

  Byron couldn’t be more thrilled. He had a picture of the polywater that he would be unleashing to the world on Tuesday morning. He winked at Addison, got the usual “piss off’ look, and headed down the hall to his editor. The world was his.

  36

  Byron Was Awake When his cell phone rang at 3:30 a.m. on Tuesday. He had hardly slept. The story on the polywater attacks and his picture were going to be front-page news in the Alaska Daily Mirror newspaper that day. He spent most of the night sending electronic copies to all the major newspapers and news stations in the lower forty-eight states.

  Newspapers from the lower forty-eight states called in rapid succession, wanting Byron’s quote with the story. Byron was in his element: he gave quotes and spoke of how close he was to the story, of how he had developed it using his keen investigative journalism. He made no mention of Della Charles at Arctic Oil.

  He’d fought hard with his editor over the headline. He wanted POLYWATER WREAKS 6 INCHES OF DESTRUCTION ON ALASKAN OIL FIELDS and the picture of the six-inch condom gorged with opaque polywater front and center. They settled on POLYWATER WREAKS HAVOC ON OIL FIELDS IN NEW DEVICE. The editor liked the picture—it was “6 Inches of Destruction” he didn’t agree with. Somehow he didn’t think it would meet Republican sensibilities. Democrats, the editor knew, would accept anything as a threat.

  The calls came one after another, and somehow in the morning, he managed four bites of stale pizza from the night before and three pots of coffee. He took bathroom breaks while on the phone by sitting on the toilet to pee so he wouldn’t make unnecessary background noise.

  His cell phone would ring the moment he ended a call, and by 10:00 a.m., Byron had spoken to a dozen newspapers and television stations. He had calls waiting, texts coming in. The world wanted his opinion and more of his story.

  Back at Arctic Oil, Steve Zeeman looked over the newspaper article and mumbled several times about how Byron had screwed him over. He needed to call a press conference. Byron Jacks, the son of a backstabbing bitch, would not be invited, would not be allowed in the room much less the Arctic Oil building. Zeeman hated being lied to by reporters.

  Byron was exhausted by the afternoon. California media wanted interviews from him as they were the most vulnerable to disruptions in the Alaskan oil supply. Several text messages from the LA Times came in. They not only wanted interviews, the editor wanted to speak to him about a job. He was a newsmaker. He was a game changer. He decided to let them wait a while longer before getting back to them—let them sweat a little.

  Detective Mueller sat on his couch in his apartment, his left hand wrapped in an ice pack—it still hurt like hell—and his right hand holding the TV remote. He flipped between news channels—from CBS to NBC then back to CNN headlines news. All the channels carried the picture of the condom full of polywater. News anchors threw out technical questions at supposed professionals. Mueller could see that the anchors really wanted to ask, “Just how fucked are we really?” No one has the balls to ask the question, Mueller thought.

  There were numerous mentions of the Canadian RCMP detective who had alerted the Alaskan and the Canadian oil fields to the polywater threat, and one news station had dug up a photo of the detective, a graduation photo from Bernadette’s younger years as an RCMP constable. She was dressed in the RCMP red tunic with the brown Stetson and riding boots, standing ramrod straight in front of the Canadian flag. There was a smile on her face, but it was almost a smirk. Mueller could see all of Bernadette in that look—one of determination and attitude.

  She was a damn fine looking women, Mueller admitted. Probably still is. He felt bad he had not been able to keep her name a secret. His telephone call to Troy must have been overheard by someone in the security guard office. Mueller knew there were few secrets in what was called the “oil patch.” Rumors became gossip and gossip became fact in a matter of hours with oil workers. If someone had overheard something about Bernadette Callahan being the source, there was no way of keeping it quiet.

  Mueller had sent a “sorry your secret got out” text to Bernadette just after he had watched the news in the morning. She’ll have to deal with it, he thought. Sometimes you have to reap the wind of your good intentions. Police and detectives walked a fine line between doing what was right and doing what was proper through channels of the force. He’d crossed the line many times himself and knew what the consequences were—he felt sorry for Bernadette.

  Fred Harris wrestled with his dilemma of what to do with the video he had made of Della and her conversation with Byron Jacks. He turned it over in his mind. If he published the video, he gave up his precious Della. As the day wore on, however, and more coverage of Byron came on the television and radio, Fred’s longing for Della was replaced by his hatred for Byron.

  Fred was a proud man. He would fight this interloper for Della’s affections. With a quick keystroke on his cell phone, Fred uploaded the offending video of his Della and Byron to YouTube.

  By 3:30 p.m., Byron was exhausted from talking on his cell phone to numerous media outlets about his story. There had also been two television interviews at news stations over lunch hour, and one radio station interview. This time, he had controlled the interviews. The lead was his. His day could not have gone better. Well, maybe it could be better, he thought. What he needed were some accolades from his peers. To truly breathe the heady air of his fame, he wanted to surround himself with his fellow reporters back at the newspaper.

  Byron walked through the doors of the Anchorage Daily Mirror office with his chest puffed like the prize-winning journalist he knew he was. He readied himself for the praise, hearty slaps on the back, and invitations for beer at their local hangout. Entering the press room, he was instantly recognized by the other reporters. They looked up, they stared, they smiled, and they started to laugh. Laughter was not something he had expected. His polywater story was serious journalism; okay, the condom on the front page, that may have been a little much, but he hadn’t expected laughter.

  He walked to his cubicle, the coveted one by the window, and Addison Thorncliff was standing by his doorway. She looked into his eyes as he approached. He looked her up and down like a lion taking inventory of a gazelle on the African plains. His day was getting better.

  “Hey, sweet biscuit,” Addison said in a southern drawl, “y’all have a caller from the LA Times on line two.” She gave him a wink and walked back to her cubicle.

  Sweet biscuit? Byron thought, confused. She had called him asshole and shithead but never sweet biscuit. And the southern accent—what’s up with that
? Serious apprehensions rose in his gut as he sunk into his office chair and picked up the phone.

  “Byron Jacks, this is Marty Krieger with the LA Times. I’m following up on the YouTube video of a conversation between you and a Miss Della Charles, who demanded sexual favors in return for your story. You agreed to the said favors. Would you like to comment on that?”

  Byron slammed the phone down and turned on his laptop. He brought up YouTube and entered “Della Charles.” There it was—the conversation from yesterday: Della telling him about the polywater, the condoms, the Canadian detective, and then bargaining for a weekend in San Diego. And the worst part: she had clearly said his name at the end. The video had half a million hits already and the number was rising. Most people had “disliked” it.

  Addison came back to his door, her eyes a wide glare of satisfaction at his destruction. “Hey sugar, the editor said to get your sweet little biscuits down to his office when you come in.” She blew him a kiss and walked away.

  Della didn’t know anything was wrong until two security guards appeared with Patrick Kearns at her door. There was a rule at Arctic Oil: you could gossip amongst others at the camp—you never talk to media. It was a simple rule, and Della had violated it. Her firing took seconds, and she was escorted out the door with her belongings minutes later.

  There were no flights back to Anchorage and Louisiana until the next day. Arctic Oil booked Della on the next morning’s flight and reserved a room for her at the Prudhoe Bay Hotel for the night. They were that pissed. Kearns didn’t want Della Charles on Arctic Oil property for one more minute.

  Chuck drove Della to the hotel. He drove up to the door and motioned for her to get her suitcase out of the back of the truck. Chuck was ex-marine and didn’t like any of what Della had done to Arctic Oil. As Della got of the truck, he called to her, “Hey, Ms. Charles, your flight is at 0900 hours tomorrow. Now, most of the workers will be gone to work, so it may be hard to get a ride to the airport, which is only about a quarter mile.”

  Della looked up at Chuck. Her face, which had been about to break into tears, broke into a sweet southern smile. She was expecting Chuck to say that he would be back to give her a ride. “Well, that’d be nice of you,” she said.

  “Ah, no, I got duties tomorrow at 0700. I just wanted to make sure that if you have walk to the airport, keep a lookout over your shoulder—there’s been a polar bear alert here, so don’t tarry on your journey.” Chuck slammed the truck door shut and headed back to the camp.

  He could see Della standing there in the rearview mirror. Ice fog from the truck exhaust was lifting into the dark Arctic sky.

  Byron walked out of the Anchorage newspaper office with a box of his belongings and a copy of his newspaper article. His dreams were done. Byron Jacks was an anecdote on YouTube, a name linked to sweet biscuits and sugar and Della Charles, not to professional journalism. Polywater had been his, and now it wasn’t. He scrolled through his cell phone—the only message was from his dad. He wanted him to come home, back to Cleveland.

  37

  Bernadette Was Two Hours North Of Fort McMurray at an oil sands camp investigating what looked like an attempted murder. Someone hadn’t paid someone for drugs, or delivered the wrong drugs, and after going around and around on the case, the police had nothing—a big goose egg for three days of investigation. The victim wasn’t talking. And so, on Friday morning, she headed back to Fort McMurray with Detective Symons, her partner on the case.

  Bernadette knew something was brewing back at RCMP headquarters. Detectives had sent her texts letting her know that Barnstead was furious over the media attention. She was the darling. The media wanted her story. News anchors wanted her for interviews. The Tonight Show called from New York, Jay Leno’s people called from Los Angeles. Could they send a plane for her?

  She and Detective Symons drove the two hours back to Fort McMurray in silence. Light snow fell, the snow swirled over the pavement like waves blown by the wind. Detective Symons drove under the speed limit. He was in no hurry to get Bernadette to Fort McMurray.

  The impending showdown with Chief of Detectives Barnstead was obvious.

  Bernadette’s hunch about the second threat of polywater had been right. But, she had been off the case—and should have used the channels. And thus, the shit storm of Tsunami-sized proportions was bearing down on her.

  They arrived at the RCMP detachment; two media trucks were parked outside. They lay in wait. Symons drove around back. Bernadette grabbed her overnight bag and slipped in the back entrance. The other RCMP detectives and officers nodded in her direction and parted the way as she moved through the office. They were not being cowardly in avoiding her—it was self-preservation in the RCMP. Bernadette understood and accepted it.

  She walked to her desk, removed her gun and holster, and placed it in the desk. She noticed Chief Barnstead get up from his desk. He opened his door and spoke her name. “Callahan.” It was loud—not shouted, but loud.

  She walked into Barnstead’s office. Her head was not cowed, and her eyes flashed a mild defiance as she stood in front of Barnstead’s desk.

  “Take a seat,” Barnstead commanded.

  “I’d rather stand, sir.”

  “Very well, Detective Callahan.” Barnstead’s voice was quivering with anger. His eyes narrowed as he gazed at her. “I understand you’re quite the hero. The phones have been ringing while you were away. People think you’re some kind of saviour. Know what I think, Detective?”

  “No, I don’t, Sir.” Bernadette said evenly. She knew what was coming.

  “I think you are a loner who doesn’t belong in the RCMP. You have no idea how to work with a team or through channels or with your superior officers, and that makes you an inferior Detective, and a weak link in this detachment.”

  Bernadette stood, her face blazing red with anger. She knew the deeper shit she would be in if she said what she wanted to say to Barnstead. Her only words were, “Yes, Sir.”

  “I have been on the phone with my superiors in Ottawa and Edmonton. Oh, they wanted to commend you; however, I reminded them of your lack of discipline, your lack of working through channels, of how you were off this case—and they saw my view.”

  Bernadette thought about how much Barnstead must have ranted and raved to get the commanding officers in Edmonton and Ottawa on side. Barnstead was a rock steady RCMP officer. His father had been in the RCMP, and so had his grandfather. As far as Bernadette knew, a Barnstead relative was part of the first arrival of the North West Mounted Police in 1874. Barnstead had clout, and he used it to his advantage.

  “I, of course, asked that you be reprimanded,” Barnstead continued. “And although that would be the case in most circumstances,” he cleared his throat, “as the circumstances in this case warrant it, you will be transferred to another detachment—effective immediately.”

  “Another detachment,” Bernadette said. She wondered what lonely outpost Barnstead had succeeded in having her relegated to. Would she be demoted back to a constable?

  “Yes, you will be attached to the detective squad in Red Deer.” Barnstead said. He tried to make it sound like a demotion. But even he knew it wasn’t. It was not even close.

  “Red Deer,” Bernadette said, more for affirmation than surprise. “Yes, Red Deer. Now that is all. Pack your desk and turn over all pertinent casework to the other detectives. Hopefully you will work through proper channels in your next detachment.

  Bernadette was slightly amused as she turned and walked back to her desk. Red Deer was a nice-sized city between Calgary and Edmonton and some 7 hours south by car. Nice lakes nearby, close to the Rocky Mountains, with a much warmer winter than Fort McMurray. Barnstead had only succeeded in getting Bernadette out of Fort McMurray. She was not only landing on her feet, she was going up a notch. Not bad at all— she felt good.

  Several hours later, she turned over her case files to the other detectives. They all wished her well in her new city and promised to keep in to
uch. Grabbing her jacket and making an exit out the back door, she took back roads to avoid the media. She gave thanks when she reached her place and saw no media had staked it out.

  Her cell phone rang as she walked into her apartment. She wasn’t going to answer it, but the caller ID showed Pierre Beaumont. “Hey Pierre, can no one keep a secret in the oil business?” Bernadette said as she took her coat off and dropped it on her kitchen chair.

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I told the vice president of operations at Synthetic Oil that it was you who had provided the information on the threat of polywater so he would take it seriously. Unfortunately, he did not keep the information to himself.”

  Bernadette just sighed. “Oh yeah, not too good on keeping secrets. Worse than old women—or should I say old men?” She opened her fridge to start foraging for anything that might be edible.

  “I want to make it up to you, Bernadette.”

  “Um . . . I’m listening.” She opened a Tupperware container. The smell that wafted up made her eyes water.

  “I wanted to invite you for dinner tonight,” Pierre said.

  “Ah, I’ll have to pass on that. There’re more media types crawling around here than flies on a Moose carcass, and I’ve been told to be in Red Deer on Monday. Bernadette picked up a container of leftover Chinese food. This time she approached it more carefully, sniffing before opening it fully. It wasn’t too bad. I may not have to order in.