Black Gold

by Chris Ryan

  Being in the decompression chamber, Hex decided, was like being in a space station. The room was cylindrical, the ceiling a mass of white-painted valves and pipes, dotted with red sprinkler nozzles. A slightly battered space station; the paintwork was scratched and the floor was marked with lines where the trolleys had been moved about. Now he was lying down, he felt better, probably because they were now effectively underwater again so their bubbles had dissolved. Funny. He would have thought a place like this would set off his claustrophobia but he was so relieved to be feeling normal that he was quite comfortable. Or maybe the fact that it was painted white inside made it seem bigger? He propped himself up on his elbow. Paulo was sitting cross-legged, inspecting a handle on the ceiling.

  'The trouble with something like that,' he said, 'is that you're tempted to pull it to find out what it does.'

  'Leave, boy!' said Hex sternly. His voice came out strangely flat.

  Paulo looked at him oddly. 'Why are you using that funny voice?'

  'I was just about to ask you the same thing. You sound like you've got a cold.'

  'It's the pressure. It makes your voice like that.'

  The voice came out of the intercom: Andy, in the other compartment. He had woken up and his gas mask was off. The intercom was above Paulo's trolley so he moved over to make room for Hex.

  'I'm Paulo and this is Hex. What are you in for?'

  'I got shot by a guy with a harpoon,' said Andy.

  'I beg your pardon?'

  Andy moved so that they could see the fleshy part of his upper arm. It was bandaged. 'I work at the aquarium. I was collecting specimens of fish – we're all diving like mad at the moment to preserve whatever we can so that we can repopulate later. On one site I saw a light – a guy swimming along. I thought it was someone I knew – another ichthyologist. I tried to catch up with him and he shot me with a harpoon gun.'

  'A harpoon gun?' repeated Hex.

  'That's a bit unfriendly,' said Paulo.

  'Where was this?' asked Hex.

  'San Juan Bay,' said Andy.

  Paulo and Hex looked at each other. San Juan Bay was where the tanker was.

  'Then what happened?' said Paulo.

  'No idea. I was hyperventilating and panicking and doing all those things you shouldn't do if you have an emergency underwater. But it was such a shock. I had this harpoon stuck in my arm.' Andy was breathing hard as he relived the experience; no question that he was telling the truth.

  'I bet it was a shock,' said Paulo. 'Did you see what your attacker was doing? Do you know why he did it?'

  "Fraid not,' said Andy. 'I was bleeding into the water, and the first thing I thought about was sharks. That's when I got my act together. I surfaced as fast as possible and got back in my boat before I became some shark's dinner. When I got here with that harpoon sticking out of me, the police came and questioned me but I could hardly speak. I've been better since I got in here, but I doubt I'll be much use. One guy in dive gear looks very much like another. I can't really give a description.'

  Paulo was certain there was more to know, but he had to remind himself that ordinary members of the public were not used to keeping their wits about them when someone attacked them.

  Hex tried a different tactic. 'What time did this happen?' Andy should at least be able to answer that. All divers kept an eye on the time.

  'About noon.'

  'Why did they put you in here?' said Paulo.

  Andy sighed. 'Bad diving practice catching up with me. I'd already done quite a lot of dives that morning. I've been pushing it recently – we all have, or the fish will be wiped out. I'd been down to about fifty metres already today and yesterday I did sixty and seventy metres. The San Juan Bay dive was one dive too many – and the harpoon attack . . .'

  This didn't quite add up, Hex thought. His suspicions created scenarios at lightning speed. Could ArBonCo have noticed them and planted a spy to get information out of them? With all these environmental activists around, he wouldn't be surprised if they had. 'You were collecting fish from deep down? Don't they die if they come up to our pressure?'

  'They don't die if you pierce the swim bladder,' said Andy. 'That's a big air-filled space they use for buoyancy control. It doesn't hurt them.'

  A surge of noise filled the chamber, like a roar of air. 'What's that?' said Paulo.

  Andy shouted the answer. 'Air change. They do that every twenty minutes. Or we'd suffocate. Nice meeting you.' He moved away from the intercom and lay down on his bunk again.

  Hex made sure the intercom was disconnected before he talked to Paulo. His face was serious. 'Noon. When was that explosion on the tanker?'

  'About two this afternoon.'

  Hex nodded. 'Have you been wondering why the tanker didn't blow sky high?'

  Paulo nodded. 'If the chamber of oil and air had exploded there shouldn't have been anything left.'

  'But there was some sort of explosion in there – what was it?'

  Paulo thought about the circumstances. 'Andy saw someone – who obviously didn't want to be caught. Shortly afterwards, there's the explosion.'

  'A bomb?' suggested Hex.

  Paulo frowned. 'Why?'

  'Because,' said Hex, 'someone doesn't want that tanker investigated.' He fixed Paulo with a grim look. 'We are not supposed to know what we know.'

  'Dios,' breathed Paulo. 'At the moment we're one step ahead – but if they can do something like that, they're not far behind us. How much longer have we got in here?'

  Mara had confiscated their watches when she had taken their underwear. 'I don't know,' growled Hex.

  10

  SHOWTIME

  Neil Hearst looked out of his window as the city wound down for the day. He had just printed out an e-mail on that day's progress on the clean-up. All positives – locals still co-operative, spill now contained and stabilized, beaches washed down, collection and removal of oil due to begin the next day. Hearst looked out at the sea. It was still a pure glittering blue, as if nothing had happened. Willemstad was quite a few miles up the coast from where the tanker had grounded and it was untouched.

  Crashing the tanker had been a risky strategy, but the leak from the drill site had nearly given away too much too soon. And now the damage had been contained. In a few years' time, once everyone had adjusted, few people would complain. Especially when the new wells were producing.

  Tubular Bells. Hearst saw on the screen who was calling. He steeled himself. Although the tanker was out of sight, it seemed he wouldn't be able to put it out of his mind for long. 'Yes, Simon?'

  'What happened to the bomb? He was supposed to put the bomb on board.'

  'He did.'

  'Well, why is the ship still there? I saw it on the news this evening and it's beginning to make my eyes hurt. What went wrong?'

  'The bomb did go off. But it hardly did anything.'

  'Why?'

  Hearst's voice rose angrily. 'I don't know why. Maybe the powder got damp.'

  'Don't take that tone with me. You told me the tanker was highly unstable. Likely to go up at any minute. But you can't seem to make it go off even by putting a bomb in it!'

  'The diver must have put it in the wrong place,' said Hearst limply.

  'Well, never mind about that now. You know we've got something far more important to worry about. You'd better not mess up tonight.'

  Hearst's voice was flinty. 'We won't mess up, don't you worry.'

  Normally used for cricket, the stadium in Willemstad had been converted into a massive auditorium. The pitch had been laid with a wooden floor to turn it into a huge dance area. At the scoreboard end was a large stage, surrounded by a stack of black speakers and tall poles with lighting rigs. The scoreboard itself had been covered with an enormous screen, which played a video from one of the event's sponsors, illuminating the shadowy items on the stage – a sprawling drum kit, spindly microphone stands, guitars propped upright, keyboards on slender black frames, the black wedges of sound monitors. A b
and's kit, ready for the performers.

  Amber and Li moved purposefully down the steps to ground level. Alex, Danny, Carl and Lynn followed.

  'Do we really want to dance?' said Carl. 'I'm a scientist. I don't dance.'

  'Yeah,' agreed Alex. 'I've got two left feet.'

  Li turned and glared at them. 'Yes, we do want to dance.' She and Amber continued marching downwards, on a mission.

  A murmur of excitement went up around the stadium. A row of people in white boiler suits were walking onto the stage, forming a line at the front. Some were wearing gas masks; others had black smears on their faces. Many carried placards: LIFE NOT OIL; STOP THIS BLACK DEATH; STOP THE KILLING; ECOLOGY IS OUR LIVES. They were immediately joined by men in black jeans and T-shirts, the word SECURITY printed across their backs.

  'Could get nasty,' said Amber quietly to Li. The gas masks looked sinister. A flash made her look around. Behind them, Lynn was snapping away with a digital camera.

  They turned back and watched the stage intently. One of the security men was talking to the ringleader. The protestor was nodding his head, the hose wobbling up and down, but his posture didn't look threatening.

  Alex whispered to the two girls. 'I don't think this is going to get violent. They look like they want to co-operate.'

  His instinct was right. The protestors leaned their placards up against the front of the stage and dispersed into the crowd. Danny hoisted Lynn onto his broad shoulders so she could snap the empty stage with the protest messages showing. The security guards began to remove the placards and a pair of burly men in suits appeared to inspect the stage. They moved stiffly, as though their jackets were tight.

  There was something very familiar about that, thought Amber. She nudged her two friends. 'They're wearing body armour.'

  'Must be some bigwigs here tonight,' said Li.

  'I know that guy!' exclaimed Alex. 'The one on the left with the crewcut. He was in the Regiment with my dad.'

  Li looked incredulous. 'What's the SAS doing here?'

  'He's not in the Regiment any more,' said Alex. 'He left to do personal security, guarding VIPs.'

  'I wonder who he's with,' said Amber. 'One of the bands?'

  'Hey, Alex,' grinned Li, 'go and talk to him – get us a backstage pass.'

  She was joking but Alex took her seriously. 'Li, the point of people like him is to keep people like you away.'

  'Rats,' smiled Li. 'It was worth a try.'

  Danny lowered Lynn to the ground. Once down, she pressed a speed dial key on her phone. 'Hi, Ray, I'm at the concert and I've got some pics of some protestors. I can e-mail them tonight.'

  'I suppose a photographer is always on duty,' said Amber to Danny.

  'It's her friend on the picture desk at the Amigoe.' The Amigoe was the daily newspaper for the whole of the Antilles group of islands. 'Lynn carries her camera everywhere. She's had quite a few scoops just by being in the right place at the right time.'

  There was a thump from the speakers and a whine of feedback. The sound system was on. The screen that had been showing videos now began running through the logos of the event's sponsors. The bodyguards had left, satisfied that the protestors hadn't planted anything. Ten thousand people, gathered on the dance floor or in the tiered seating, now became quiet with anticipation and looked towards the stage. One or two shouted or whistled. The show was about to start.

  One of the sponsor logos remained on the screen – the red flash of ArBonCo. It provoked a few jeers. Then a figure walked out of the shadows and onto the stage, stopping at the lead singer's microphone. His clothes didn't say 'rock 'n' roll' or 'reggae'; they said 'office' – he was in his sixties, with white hair. A caption on the screen behind him gave his name: Bill Bowman, President of ArBonCo Oil. Three security guards stood behind him, including the two men they had seen checking the stage.

  The hush from the audience took on an intense quality, like a stare. Resentful murmurs started to flit through the crowd like a breeze through a forest.

  'I bet his fan club isn't here tonight,' muttered Carl.

  'I'm surprised he has the guts to show his face,' said Danny.

  Bowman's voice boomed out through the microphone. 'Ladies and gentlemen. First let me say how devastated, personally, I am by the tragedy that struck us on Monday. Tonight's festival has been months in preparation, the event of the year, anticipated by thousands. It seems so cruel that when it finally comes we find ourselves in such a dreadful crisis. I do not underestimate the impact—'

  The air erupted. There was a bright flash that drew everyone's attention. And a sound, which the crowd only identified afterwards as their ears began ringing – a rat-a-tat like a machine gun, followed by a whistling like a firework but much, much louder. Alex, Li and Amber were suddenly surrounded by a mass of pushing elbows, screaming mouths, frightened eyes.

  Then they heard something else. Two unmistakable cracks.

  Someone was shooting.

  11

  SHOOTER

  Alpha Force's training took over. Amber grabbed Danny. Alex grabbed Carl. Li took Lynn. They pulled them to the ground.

  Alex looked up at a row of heads. Everyone had taken cover. He made eye contact with one worried face, then another. Over their heads he could see the stage, where two bodyguards were hustling Bowman away, their bodies close to him, as if in a rugby scrum, protecting him. Another bodyguard lay on the ground. He'd taken the bullet intended for Bowman.

  Far away, people were running. Suddenly there were more shots. Different this time, thought Alex. The security guards must be chasing the shooter.

  There was a flash beside them. Lynn had lifted her camera above her head to take a picture. Li, Alex and Amber all had the same thought – they admired Lynn's dedication but a flashgun might startle jumpy bodyguards into shooting at them. Luckily Lynn couldn't take any more. Looking at the display, she cursed softly. Her battery was dead.

  All this took only a few seconds. Then the crowd seemed to wake from their stunned state and the screaming started. People were scrambling to their feet, trying to run, kicking those who were still on the ground. Children were terrified, turning from one adult to the next for guidance, but the adults were panicking too.

  A woman tried to run through Amber as though she wasn't there. Amber stood up and blocked her way. 'Get down!' she shouted. The woman stopped, shocked, then did as Amber said.

  Li was trying to calm the people near her. 'Stay down. Keep still and you'll be safe. You are not the target, it's that guy who was on the stage.' Her voice was strong and certain. She reached out and tried to touch as many of them as possible, so they would feel she was speaking to them personally. One by one, people stopped trying to run. One by one, they dropped down.

  Carl, Danny and Lynn were on the ground. They watched Alex calm a group near him. His voice was assured. 'Keep your head down and you'll be fine.' They were grateful that someone knew what to do.

  Others near them took confidence. They kneeled or crouched, kept their heads low, held onto friends for reassurance. They calmed others near them, encouraged them to do the same. The message to stay still was travelling outwards from their little group like ripples in a lake.

  Lynn suddenly realized how different it could have been. She held her camera up to get a picture of the huge dance floor with its hushed audience, then remembered she had run out of battery power. Pity; it would have made an excellent picture for the story – the heroes of the evening. If the three teenagers hadn't done what they had, the crowd could have panicked and people possibly been crushed to death. Li, Amber and Alex had quite possibly averted a disaster.

  Paramedics rushed onto the stage with a stretcher and lifted the wounded bodyguard. Alex quickly looked at the other people near him. Hearing someone screaming in real pain might be enough to break the spell. But no, everyone was quiet. He relaxed. Imagine having to take a bullet as part of your job, he thought.

  Amber had seen him too. 'Is that your dad's friend?'r />
  'No,' said Alex. 'He's gone with Bowman.'

  It looked like the security guards had gone out of the stadium in pursuit of the shooter. They were probably all safe to move now – but if this wasn't handled well, there might be another panic.

  A voice came over the speakers. 'Ladies and gentlemen . . . this is the front of house manager. We . . .' The voice faltered as though he wasn't quite sure what to say next. 'We apologize for the interruption to tonight's programme. We will reschedule for a later date. The police are on their way and they have asked if you would remain in your seats as they will need statements. If you're on the dance-floor area would you please sit down. Do not try to leave the building. Thank you.'