Frozen Fire

by Evans, Bill; Jameson, Marianna

  Micki’s face took on an expression of surprised satisfaction, and her rigid stance relaxed slightly.

  “Thank you. Well, as I said, it’s just a possibility. But what made me think of it is the combination of the passenger list and the location. Nine of the world’s most powerful business leaders are dead. All personal friends of Dennis’s. No one would suspect him. And since it happened inside his territory, he gets to run the show.” Micki paused. “He controls the people who determine the outcome.”

  “I’m not following you, Micki. You still haven’t given me a motive.”

  “Publicity,” she whispered.

  Victoria felt her jaw sag again and instantly snapped it shut. “That’s crazy. That’s worse than crazy. Dennis doesn’t need to do something this . . . this awful to get publicity.”

  “Okay, maybe that was the wrong word.” Micki shrugged. “Maybe he did it to start momentum building for the methane extraction. He could use this event as a catalyst for restructuring the way the world does business. Out with the old, in with the new,” she finished, her voice as callous as it was casual.

  Could he—

  No. Victoria shook her head as if to wake herself from a bad dream, and then steadied herself. “Micki, I appreciate your willingness to share your ideas with me,” she said coolly. “However, I don’t find the argument compelling. If anything, what you’ve just said makes it more apparent that someone outside of Taino, outside of the Climate Research Institute, has learned about the mining project and is taking drastic steps to sabotage it. Our competitors and the nations and consortia that sponsor them are more feasible suspects. Radical ecowarrior-type environmentalists, too, especially the heavily funded ones. Have someone compile a list. Meanwhile, I want you to focus on finding out who might have leaked information—any information—about Atlantis and what we’re doing down there.” She paused minutely. “And please keep your . . . suspicions to yourself.”

  Her back straight and her jaw clenched, Victoria turned and walked briskly down the path toward her cottage, and Dennis.

  She felt as if she were about to be sick. What happened this morning was no accident, of that she was sure. Whoever planned it had known about the habitat, had known what Dennis was doing. The question worrying her was who was behind it. And how he or she had found out about the mining operation.

  “Where are you going now?” Micki called.

  Victoria stopped and glanced over her shoulder. “My cottage. I’ll be back soon.”

  Micki gave her the ghost of a smile. “I don’t suppose you want company?”

  “No, I don’t suppose that I do. I’d rather you get in touch with the boats and see if anything has changed. I’ll be back shortly,” Victoria repeated and continued walking.

  CHAPTER

  8

  3:15 P.M., Saturday, October 25, Gainesville, Florida

  Sam sprawled lazily across the enormous brown leather couch that took up most of his living room. He had a beer in one hand, the remote control in the other, a half-eaten bag of barbecue pork rinds resting atop his flat belly, and the remains of a plate of bean burritos and jalapeño cheese grits congealing on the floor next to the couch. There was no one there to yell at him, so he had his head resting on a few of the dozen or so damned throw pillows Cyn had inflicted on him a few months ago, and his feet resting on a short stack of a few more.

  Feeling happily dazed at the prospect of having an entire Saturday to himself, he’d abandoned plans to go to the Gators game and parked himself there a few hours ago to begin surfing the pregame shows on the brand-new fifty-inch plasma TV he’d hung in front of the fireplace. Cyn had had a complete hissy fit that he’d hung it in front of the fireplace instead of above it, but he’d stuck to his guns. She didn’t live with him—yet—and he wanted the height of the screen to be just right. Besides, he never used the damned fireplace. The only time he’d ever even had the damper open was when a nest of baby squirrels had fallen down from the top and he’d had to get them out.

  Right now, he was flicking through the channels during halftime of a game between his alma mater, the Georgia Tech Yellowjackets, and the University of Maryland Terrapins. He paused briefly at the Weather Channel because one of his buddies was displaying uncharacteristic gravitas as he discussed some tornadoes that had just slammed through another trailer park.

  What is it with trailer parks and tornadoes?

  He continued to flick the remote until his eye was caught by a ticker tape of headlines running along the bottom of a news channel’s screen.

  PRIVATE JET CRASHES OFF TAINO. NO SURVIVORS REPORTED.

  Sam took another pull from his beer and decided to wait for the commercials to end so he could see what the story was. He’d been to Taino once, when he was finishing up his Ph.D. He’d applied for a grant from the Climate Research Institute to finance a research trip he’d been trying to put together to study methane releases from ancient lake beds in Siberia. Dennis Cavendish had called Sam personally to discuss his proposal and then had flown him down there for an interview.

  Sam smiled at the memory. He’d been in the final throes of getting ready to defend his dissertation and, boy howdy, had he been full of himself. Cavendish’s surprise offer of a high-paying job with lots of perks—including eight weeks of annual vacation and a huge bonus if he’d move to the island permanently—had made Sam damned near unbearable, at least according to the girlfriend he had at the time.

  There he was, not even in possession of a real Ph.D. yet, and he was having serious money dangled in front of him. He’d been tempted, but in the end he’d turned down the job because the island was beautiful and all, but it had an odd feel to it, and the people he’d met with and would be working with were odd, too. They were friendly in a stiff way, and were completely focused on their work, sort of like some of the dweebier colleagues he had in the doctoral program. The kind that got excited over the discovery of a new species of hermaphroditic mud worms.

  Besides, it hadn’t seemed like there would be much to do on the island except work and surf, which wasn’t that bad, except that he’d been twenty-seven and just coming up for air after ten years of nonstop higher education. Sure, he’d wanted to make a name for himself, but he’d also wanted to play and party and fry some of those pumped-up brain cells, not bury himself doing work he could never talk about.

  The commercial ended and the news babe came on looking all serious, and began talking in that low, urgent, news-anchor voice.

  “We go now to the waters off the eastern Caribbean island known as The Paradise of Taino, where a luxury jet belonging to billionaire Tainoan President Dennis Cavendish crashed at 10:38 this morning, Eastern Standard Time. I-Team reporter Soledad Steinly is there at the crash site. Soledad, what’s going on?”

  The screen split to show an attractive woman clutching her microphone with one hand and the railing of a ship with the other. She must have been in a heavy chop or on a really small boat because the camera kept losing her. Just watching her made Sam rethink any more pork rinds.

  “Thank you, Tiffany. I’m actually about four nautical miles from the crash site and just outside Taino’s national boundary. The Taino government is not allowing any outsiders in the area and they aren’t providing us with much information. In the three hours we’ve been here, the number of reporters in the area has probably quadrupled and we’ve all been sharing what little we know. The story that seems to have the most credibility is that the passengers on the plane were all high-powered business executives headed to Taino at Dennis Cavendish’s invitation to see some secret underwater installation he’s created. There is, apparently, a large methane deposit under the seafloor around Taino, and it has been rumored for years that President Cavendish has been attempting to mine it.”

  The female anchor in New York City frowned. “Did you say ‘mine’ it?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Isn’t methane a gas? Do you mean he’s going to be drilling for it like they do for na
tural gas?”

  “Not exactly.” The woman on the boat let go of the railing briefly to look at some index cards in her hand but a wave must have hit the boat because the cards flew out of her hand and fluttered over the side. Her next words were bleeped.

  “Oh, I’m sorry! Let me see. The methane that’s beneath the seafloor is in a form called methane hydrate, which is a white, very lightweight crystalline form. I’ve been told its appearance and weight are much like those Styrofoam pellets used as packing material. It has been considered for years to be the answer to the world’s energy problems because it burns clean and its only by-products are carbon dioxide and water.”

  “If it only gives off carbon dioxide and water, it does sound like the answer to a lot of our problems!” Tiffany chirped with a smile, the plane-crash victims forgotten.

  Sam stared at the TV screen in mild disbelief. “Carbon dioxide in the atmosphere is one of our problems, you moron,” he said out loud.

  “So, Soledad,” Tiffany continued brightly, “if people know the methane is there, why hasn’t anyone drilled for it before now?”

  Sam rolled his eyes. “Well, damn, honey, maybe because it’s beneath four thousand feet of water and a few more hundred feet of rock? And maybe because it’s not a liquid you can pump to the surface like oil?” He tipped his beer bottle to his lips. “Bet your next question is about underwater bulldozers.”

  “Well, Tiffany, apparently, the challenge is getting the methane out of the seafloor and up to the surface. You can’t exactly use bulldozers down there,” Soledad said with a smile.

  As the women shared a brief laugh, Sam went to the kitchen to get another beer and some Tums.

  When he returned, Tiffany was posing questions to an official from the National Transportation Safety Board and getting the same answers: The Taino government wasn’t letting any people in or any information out.

  I’ll get me some information. Sam grabbed his phone and punched in a number.

  “The ’Jackets are kickin’ your big old Terrapin asses, son,” he drawled when Marty—Dr. Martin Collins, professor of environmental science at the University of Maryland, expert on the geochemistry of Caribbean trenches, and Sam’s research partner and fraternity brother—picked up the phone. “I think I’m goin’ to have me some turtle soup for dinner. Terp soup.”

  “It’s halftime, which means there’s half a game left to go. And being ahead by a field goal doesn’t qualify as kicking our asses,” Marty pointed out, his voice as dry as the dust on Sam’s TV. “What are you doing watching the game anyway? Doesn’t she have you wallpapering a powder room or stenciling rosebuds in your bedroom closet or something?”

  Sam winced. There had never been any love lost between Marty and Cyn. Not since the day they met, when Marty had come into town for the weekend and Cyn had insisted on hanging around. And pouring their beers into glasses. And telling them to take their feet off the coffee table. And laughing at Marty’s truly putrid Hawaiian hula-girl shirts.

  Nobody was allowed to laugh at his shirts.

  “She’s on a whale-watchin’ cruise off the Bahamas on one of those clipper sailboats. The kind where you pay for the privilege of bein’ a crew member,” Sam replied. “Went with a bunch of girlfriends this morning.”

  “Anywhere near Taino?”

  “Hell, yeah. They got permission to go divin’ with the humpbacks off Taino. Although I’m guessin’ that’s not going to happen now.” Sam wandered out onto his deck, which backed up to a small nature preserve. “You see that stuff about the crash?”

  “Yeah. Can’t believe the fucking timing,” Marty muttered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I wasn’t supposed to say anything, but I just got a call saying it was all off anyway, so I figure the secrecy is, too. A few of us were going down there for a meeting late next week.”

  Sam stopped short. “What for?” he demanded. “And why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I just told you. I couldn’t. And I’m not really sure what for. All I know is about a month ago I got this invitation from Dennis Cavendish to attend some sort of conference he was calling a Geo-Marine Summit. I had to sign a confidentiality agreement. They wouldn’t tell me who else was going, just that I’d be flown down to Taino on one of his jets this Friday and flown home on Sunday.”

  “They wouldn’t tell you what it was about?” Sam repeated, frowning as he stared absently into the swampy woods.

  “Well, come on, Sam, what else could it be about but that methane hydrate gold mine Cavendish is sitting on? He was hot for you eight or nine years ago when you were polishing that reputation of yours. Mine’s the one with the high gloss now,” Marty said. Sam could practically hear him grinning. “I’ve been quoted in The New Yorker and Newsweek. Everybody wants me. I’m Martin Collins, Methane Man.”

  “You’re also even more full of shit than you used to be,” Sam pointed out.

  “Yeah, but nobody else has figured that out yet, so keep your piehole shut,” Marty replied with a laugh.

  Squinting into the middle distance and taking a long, thoughtful slug from his beer, Sam paused before asking his next question. “You really think he’s going for the methane?”

  “Oh, hell, yes.” He paused. “This goes nowhere, right?” Marty waited for Sam’s grunt of acknowledgment. “I think he’s already done it.”

  Sam frowned. “Done what? Mined it?”

  “Yup.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Seismic activity, mostly. But, I don’t know, maybe it’s just a gut feeling. You know, the oddball questions coming up on some loops, some of the research he’s been offering to sponsor. Then this weird invitation to the mystery conference. I guess once I figured out who some of the other people invited were, it all made me wonder. That’s when I went back to the seismo readings. Some of the activity was just odd enough to make me start to plot it, and I think I see a trend.”

  “A trend?” Sam repeated.

  “I think I might have seen evidence of some tests, Sam,” Marty replied bluntly. “Exploratory activity of the drilling kind.”

  “Are you sure? There haven’t been any fluctuations in atmospheric levels there. I’ve got a grad student doing a dissertation on eastern Caribbean microclimates right now, and she’d have noticed something.”

  “Well, I’m not looking at that end of the data with a fine-tooth comb, but I’d have noticed a blip. And she’s right: There aren’t any.”

  “How can he be mining methane hydrate without any atmospheric release?” Sam demanded. “There would have to be something there. I mean, something, Marty.”

  There was a long silence that Sam knew better than to break.

  “Okay,” Marty said at last. “You know I’m not crazy, right?”

  “Hell, yes, you’re crazy. You just called yourself ‘Methane Man,’” Sam replied.

  “Yeah, well, okay. I’m crazy. Here’s what Methane Man thinks Dennis Cavendish is up to.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I think he’s doing whatever he’s doing on the seafloor.” Marty’s voice had dropped to a little above a whisper.

  Sam blinked, then blinked again. “Say what? Well, of course it—”

  “No, you dumb shit, from the seafloor,” Marty said, interrupting.

  Sam paused as he let this sink in. “You think he’s got some sort of . . . facility on the seafloor?”

  “I can’t think of any other way he could be doing it, Sam. Over the years, I’ve looked at a lot of satellite shots of that island and there’s no production facility there. There’s a volcano, palm trees, sand, a few clusters of small buildings, and a very simple, streamlined, deepwater port, and I know the last thing sounds like an oxymoron. But that is all there is, Sam. There’s no mining operation on that island. Nothing visible offshore, either.”

  “But that island is surrounded by some of the deepest water in the region, Marty. How the hell could he—”

 
“I don’t know. I mean, really, not a fucking clue, Sam,” Marty replied, and Sam could practically hear him shrug. “But why else would he have invited me and a bunch of other pointy-headed methane hydrate groupies down there next week? I don’t know the whole guest list, but I confirmed three other guys, and just the four of us constitute one serious geek squad, Sammy.”

  “But how—who the hell would—” Sam stopped, not even sure what questions he wanted to ask. “That’s just too wild, Marty. Nobody can build anything that deep. Even the U.S. Navy hasn’t attempted anything beyond a few hundred feet, at least anything that I know about.”

  “Yeah, well.” Marty sighed. “Sam? Game’s back on.”

  “Okay,” Sam replied absently.

  “Think about it for a while,” Marty said. “If anything comes to mind, let me know. I can’t really come up with any other conclusion.”

  “Well, yeah, okay, I will.”

  “Hell, there goes the kickoff.”

  The click as Marty hung up on him snapped Sam’s mind back to the present, and he wandered back into his house and parked himself in front of the TV. In the real scheme of things, what Dennis Cavendish was or wasn’t doing on his island wasn’t quite as important at the moment as what the Yellowjackets were doing to the Terps. He rearranged the stack of silk pillows beneath his head and brought up the volume.

  3:35 P.M., Saturday, October 25, Taino

  Not entirely recovered from her upsetting conversation with Micki, Victoria let herself into her cottage. All of the large, screenless windows in the room were open, admitting a breeze that retained heavy hints of the acrid odor of burning jet fuel and little else. Even the frangipani that curled up and around the windows and doors couldn’t obliterate it.

  Dennis was standing in the doorway to her private lanai.

  He still looked like hell.