“Please, call me 'Michael.'”
“Okay.”
“I was so sorry to hear about your father. He was a good man, and we'll miss him. It's terrible we have to meet under these circumstances.” He smiled sympathetically at her. It was the kind of smile that could charm investors out of hundreds of thousands of dollars and, she reflected, probably had.
As Kate opened her mouth, the television switched on behind her. She hadn't even noticed it was there. CNN flashed a view inside Capitol Hill, a gruff-looking man behind a podium. She recognized him immediately as Jack Fields, an old ex-marine built like a battleship with a voice just as tinny. “It is with great humility, but great honor, that I rescind my position here and rise to aid my commander-in-chief. Though we can never replace a man that was as stalwart and steadfast as—”
“Sorry,” Merrie said behind them, hitting the Mute button on a remote.
Fields went on as the sound cut out, gesticulating in silence. Kate knew what the speech was about, of course. Two days ago, Jack Fields had been Speaker of the House. Today, he was Kate's father's replacement. Or perhaps replacement was a poor word; he was his successor. She had met Jack twice prior to her father's funeral, and the most she could say was that there were worse men for the job.
“My fault,” Merrie said. “I bumped the remote.”
Was that jealousy Kate saw in her eyes? Dream on, honey.
“No problem,” Michael said, unperturbed. Then to Kate, “This way.”
The first stop was his office which, if possible, was even larger and more lavishly decorated than the corporate reception room. Like her godfather, it seemed her newest acquaintance was a collector of books, and he had the shelves to prove it. Kate thought of her own office three floors below—a cluttered mess of stacked folders and field reports that looked more like a college dorm room than a place of employment—and felt a tinge of embarrassment.
He stopped just long enough to pick up the phone at his desk. “Yes, she's here. We're on our way down.”
When he hung up, Kate thought he looked nervous.
“I'm afraid things are a bit of a mess right now. My counterpart in Abu Dhabi wants us to get started immediately, and I don't blame him.”
“Get started?” Godfried had told her about the meeting, but with all the hubbub, it had almost slipped her mind. “Oh, right.”
“Walk with me. I'll try to get you up to speed.”
Michael led her down a stairwell, through another concatenation of expensive-looking offices. “As you can imagine, this could be a public relations nightmare. Not to mention what it's going to do to our stock once this gets out. And we're not going to be able to keep it from getting out much longer.”
Kate was trying to keep up with the details, but it was hard. Production stopped. Personnel missing. Disaster on the newest and most expensive platform ever owned by the company.
“So you coming into the fold is a bit fortuitous. We don't want to break this to our public relations department until later today, but you're of that department. So your insights would be greatly appreciated.”
“Hold on,” Kate said, stopping.
Michael stopped. For a moment—just a moment—his stolid demeanor cracked. “Sure. What's wrong?”
“I just... I want to know what's going on, here.”
“I'm sorry,” he said, moving his hand to her arm. She didn't want to feel comforted by it, but somehow, she did. “I didn't want to put so fine a point on it, Kate, but the truth is, we have a bit of a crisis on our hands. I would love to stop and talk to you about long-term company goals, and maybe we'll get a chance later, but this comes first. I apologize that this is all happening so quickly.”
“All right,” she said.
“Good. Now, we only need to stop at the security desk down here for a moment, then we'll go in.”
“The security desk?” Kate had never been to this floor, and moments later, she found herself face to face with another receptionist with a pen in hand.
Five minutes and three non-disclosure agreements later, Kate walked into a meeting room, this one large enough to accommodate forty people or more. It looked just under half full when she and Michael walked in.
For the umpteenth time that morning, Kate found herself flummoxed. The room was littered with heavy hitters from the company's executive board. Marie Sinclair, the senior vice president of the D.C. office. Larabe Johnson, the director of security. Talia Stroikavich, the reputed computer genius who headed VO's internal engineering department. Several others were clustered around the room's long meeting table, and she noticed that one man in particular didn't look like he belonged. Chiseled and square-jawed, his cut Valentino suit looked more like a disguise than a piece of wardrobe.
Once they were seated, Kate leaned over to Michael. “Who's that?”
“That's Mister Bruhbaker. He's one of the reasons we're here.”
“Does he work for Valley Oil?”
Michael shook his head. “He's from Black Shadow.”
Kate recoiled. Black Shadow was the second largest mercenary group operating in the U.S. With fingers branching into Afghanistan, Iraq, and the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, they were a multimillion dollar firm with a dozen government-sponsored contracts. And who else besides the government could afford a private military group with the best hardware in the world? Big oil, of course.
Her father had supported the private military in his days as a senator, but since the Nisoor Square massacre in Baghdad and the reports of civilian casualties in Iraq, he and the president had only used them when absolutely necessary. “It's a sad thing when your own National Guard isn't enough, sweetie,” her father told her when they were watching the Katrina disaster in New Orleans on T.V. “But there's so much red tape. Sometimes it's faster to send in someone from the private sector. And they have skills. As much as I hate to say it, ex-Navy SEALs and Rangers kick the tar out of the weekend warriors we have in the Reserve. But I wouldn't send them anywhere they have to make moral judgments. Some guys would, but not me. Money clouds things, and that's why these guys do what they do: money.”
A skinny man in a white suit jacket pulled down a projector screen at the end of the room and waved his hands at the congregation. “Please. Ladies and gentlemen, if you can take your seats, we can get started.”
Kate watched as the remaining staff found their places at the oval table. She got a few puzzled looks, but no one questioned her. No one, that was, until a female executive sat down next to her. “Who are you?” she asked rudely.
“McCreedy. Katelyn McCreedy.” She realized she had used her proper name and wrinkled her nose.
“Are you new to the company?”
“Why?”
The woman cocked her head. “I'm just not used to seeing junior executives at a board meeting. You must be someone special.”
She was about to say something else when she was interrupted by a laugh.
The big man with the square jaw had taken a seat within earshot and was chuckling to himself. “She's the vice president's daughter, Nina. Don't you recognize her from T.V.?”
The woman looked at the big guy, then back to Kate. “Which vice president? Oh, you mean... oh, well excuse me,” she said. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”
The big man switched to an empty seat directly across from Kate and leaned forward, showing off the size of his arms. Kate put his age somewhere between thirty-five and fifty but couldn't be any more accurate. His beard stubble was gray though, his face carved with wrinkles. “Kate McCreedy,” he said. “I knew your daddy back when the hunt for Bin Laden was still on. Almost found him ourselves a couple of times. Good contracts to be had back in those days. Not so many once he took the high office, but I guess business ain't the same when there's no war on. No official war, anyways.”
“So you're Black Shadow, right?”
“You've heard of us, huh? That's good. I'm glad to know you. I liked your daddy in spite of our differences.”
“Uh-huh. And what might those differences be?”
He smiled. It revealed a scar on his upper lip you couldn't see when his face was composed. “Oh, they're not important now. Bygones are bygones, that's what I say. From the look of you, I reckon you have his brains. Your mom's looks, though.” He paused, giving her a look she found rather disquieting, then said, “I'm Mason Bruhbaker.” He reached across the table and offered to shake.
Kate reached forward, but instead of taking his hand, grabbed a cup of water that had been set out for the meeting attendees and took a drink. The big man smiled and sat back, amused. His jaw worked as if chewing gum, but she was quite sure he didn't have any in his mouth. A big guy like that, he's used to chewing people up and spitting them out, she thought.
“Well, I'm glad to make your acquaintance anyways.”
She nodded. Though she'd only known him for a few minutes, she could not say the same.
“Excuse me, excuse me!” The skinny man was still trying to call the meeting to order. He waited until the murmur quieted, then began again. “Thank you all for coming. I know this is short notice. I know some of you were called in as early as four o'clock this morning, but believe me when I tell you that we have a situation on our hands, and it warrants your full attention.”
“What's all this about, Geoff?” someone asked.
He pulled a remote out of his pocket and flicked a button. Instantly, a satellite image of The Aeschylus shot up on the projector screen. Kate gasped; it was uncannily similar to the ones in her father's envelope.
“As you know, The Aeschylus is the largest of our deep-sea drilling rigs, a spar platform employing two hundred and thirty-eight workers on its present shift. It's been operational for almost five weeks without a hitch. As of yesterday, that all changed.” He looked towards his audience. “Most of you know by now that drilling has ceased entirely. However, most of you don't know why.”
“What, are they striking again?” someone else asked. “Do they have a little first sunset tribal holiday down there we don't know about?” The man did a little chicken dance in his seat, but Mason shot him a look, and the man shut up in a hurry.
“No,” Geoff said cautiously. “They've disappeared.”
Murmurs went around the table. Geoff pushed his glasses up on his nose and put his hands on his hips, waiting for the deluge of questions. Marie Sinclair, the D.C. V.P., was the first to speak.
“I'm sorry, Geoff. You're going to have to explain that.”
The man took a deep breath. “Yesterday morning, The Aeschylus failed to respond to a routine radio probe. Since then, we've been unable to establish any contact with the platform whatsoever. Short and long wave radio transmissions have failed, and satellite images confirm there is no activity on the platform itself.”
“I don't suppose a cell phone signal would work out there?” Sinclair asked.
Geoff nodded. “Yes ma'am, as a matter of fact, it does. During construction, we allocated costs for the installation of sub-sea wireless cell phone repeaters that bolster strength from the Argentinian coastline. They're not a hundred percent reliable that far out at sea, but they're enough to get one or two bars of reception on most days.”
“And?”
“And nothing,” Geoff said. “Incoming calls are routed directly to voice mail, or they don't go through at all.”
“What are you telling us here, Geoff? That they abandoned ship? Is that what you're saying?”
“No ma'am,” Geoff said. He looked genuinely scared now, and Kate had the idea it wasn't just because he was giving his superiors bad news. “The Aeschylus had just hit payload and was under careful satellite surveillance. It still is. We've been monitoring any arrivals and departures, coastal activity, anything in and around the area that might be important. The crew's rotation is up, but the boats are still at the docks. So I guess what I'm telling you, is that unless those two hundred and thirty-eight men swam two hundred miles to shore in freezing cold water, that they're simply not there any more.”
Sinclair's face reddened. “So you're telling us we have a two billion dollar piece of equipment sitting abandoned in the middle of the ocean?”
“Yes ma'am. Yes, that's exactly what I'm telling you.”
The room went silent. Kate glanced at the faces beside her and saw only puzzlement.
“Hold on a moment. You mean to tell me that Valley Oil has access to its own satellite?” Several seconds passed before Kate realized that the question had come from her.
All heads turned.
Geoff looked surprised but recovered quickly. “We have one on loan,” he said noncommittally. “How we get the updates isn't important.”
“So your eyes and your ears are telling you that almost two hundred and fifty workers vanished? What, were they abducted by aliens?”
Several people chuckled, but Geoff didn't. “We don't know.”
Kate searched her memory banks for everything about the project she'd picked up while working in public relations. She found they were full of information she hadn't even realized she'd known. One of her greatest strengths was thinking on her feet, a trait inherited from her father. “What about the next shift? Have the workers headed out there? Do they have any ideas?”
The firm's head of security, Larabe Johnson, turned to her in his chair. “You're full of questions young lady, aren't you?”
Kate blushed. She couldn't remember the last time someone had called her young lady. It wasn't until much later that she reflected she was probably one of the youngest—if not the absolute youngest—person in the room.
“On my instructions, the next shift is on hold. We're not sending anyone else until we know what the hell is going on. That answer your question?”
Johnson said.
Kate nodded.
“And the families of the workers? Maybe someone got a message,” Sinclair inquired, still talking to Geoff.
“We've contacted a few family members, but it's been difficult.”
“Why's that?”
“Well, we had to find a translator in the middle of the night for one. But so far, the people we've asked haven't offered a damned clue. As far as they know, their husbands and sons and brothers are still working out there without a word to suggest otherwise.”
Kate broke in. “And the Argentinian government? What about them?”
“The problem is,” Johnson said, “is that The Aeschylus is technically in international waters. Involving the Argentinian authorities complicates matters.”
“Not to mention we have proprietary hardware out there,” Sinclair added. “We don't want anyone who hasn't been cleared on that rig.”
Mason Bruhbaker got to his feet. “Excuse me. We're going in circles here, and we're short on time.” He turned to Sinclair. “If I may?”
The woman nodded.
Mason pushed his chair in and stepped over to the projector screen, taking the remote from Geoff. He towered over the guy, a giant next to a stick man.
“Ladies and gentlemen, those of you who know me know I'm not much for long speeches, so let me present the facts as I see them. This image was taken last night at twenty-one hundred hours local time.”
“We're an hour behind, so that would be eight p.m.,” Geoff added, trying to be helpful.
“Satellite photographs confirm that automated light systems were online at the time this image was taken. Now look at the next one.” He flicked the button, and a new picture flashed in front of the screen, this one focused on the northeast corner of the rig. It looked unspectacular until Kate squinted. “It's difficult to see, but if you want proof that something is seriously wrong, I ask you to look no further than this image.”
“One of the cranes is missing,” someone said.
Mason nodded. “That's right. There's smoke coming from the edge of the rig, there.”
Kate saw it was true. It looked like there had been a fire either at the edge of the deck or on the level just below.
“Where's the
crane now?” Johnson asked.
“Well, if it was destroyed, it likely fell into the water and sank,” Mason said. “These images are a full hour apart, so we can't know what happened in between.”
Johnson threw up his hands. “So this is all speculation?”
“Yes sir, it is. But if you would let me continue, I will outline the details as I see them.”
The man motioned with his hand.
“Fact one,” Mason said, “is that you are no longer in communication with your platform. Fact two is that any traces, visual or aural, of the two hundred and thirty-eight workers you employ are gone. There is no radio signal. There is no phone communication. There is no visual indication of any life on board.”
Johnson sighed.
“Fact three,” Mason said loudly, “is that there is a clear indication your rig has been damaged, and it could be the result of foul play. Add to these facts that your platform, your multi-billion dollar platform,” he added, “is sitting unguarded in international waters only a few dozen miles from a South American country with tenuous ties to the United States. This is your ass on the line, sir, not mine.”
“All right,” Johnson said. “I get it.”
“What are your theories?” Sinclair asked.
“I'm not paid for theories,” the big man answered, “but if I had to guess, I'd say terrorists.”
“Isn't that a little melodramatic?” Kate demanded. Again, her mouth was moving before her brain could stop it. “You don't even know what happened to the workers and you're jumping to conclusions.”
“We've been tracking a guerrilla cell out of Rio for the past six months. They're industrial terrorists. They've hit factories, mines, electrical substations and the like. It's not too far-fetched to think they might go after an oil platform. It doesn't make the news here, but they've been busy. They're a lot smarter than your average jihadies, and a lot better funded. Word has it they get their dough from the MTP political movement, though that's unconfirmed.”
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