“I can hardly believe it,” Bob muttered. “The catalytic reaction is dead-on.”
Lisa felt light-headed and dropped into a chair. She checked and rechecked the output, searching for an error but finding none. She finally allowed herself to accept the probability that she had hit pay dirt.
“I’ve got to tell Maxwell,” she said. Dr. Horace Maxwell was director of the GWU Environmental Research and Technology Lab.
“Maxwell? Are you crazy? He’s testifying before Congress in two days.”
“I know. I’m supposed to accompany him to the Hill.”
“Now, there’s a suicide mission,” Bob said, shaking his head. “If you tell him now, he’s liable to bring it up in testimony in order to obtain more funding for the lab.”
“Would that be such a bad thing?”
“It would if the results can’t be duplicated. One lab test doesn’t solve the mysteries of the universe. Let’s rerun things and fully document every step before going to Maxwell. At least wait until after he testifies,” Bob urged.
“I suppose you’re right. We can duplicate the experiment under different scenarios just to be sure. The only limitation is our supply of ruthenium.”
“That, I’m sure, will be the least of our problems,” Bob said with a hint of prophecy.
11
THE AIR CANADA JET SKIMMED HIGH OVER ONTARIO, the landscape below appearing like a green patchwork comforter from the tiny first-class windows. Clay Zak was oblivious to the view, focusing instead on the shapely legs of a young flight attendant pushing a drinks cart. She caught his stare and brought over a martini in a plastic cup.
“Last one I can serve you,” she said with a perky smile. “We’ll be landing in Toronto shortly.”
“I’ll savor it all the more,” he replied with a leer.
Dressed in the traveling businessman’s uniform of khaki slacks and a blue blazer, he looked like just another sales manager headed to an off-site conference. The reality was quite different.
The only child of an alcoholic single mother, he’d grown up in a ragtag section of Sudbury, Ontario, with little guidance. At fifteen, he’d dropped out of school to work in the nearby nickel mines, developing the physical strength that he still retained twenty years later. His life as a miner was short-lived, however, when he committed his first murder, driving a pickax into the ear of a fellow miner who’d taunted his family lineage.
Fleeing Ontario, he assumed a new identity in Vancouver and drifted into the drug trade. His strength and toughness were put to use as an enforcer for a major local methamphetamine trafficker named “The Swede.” The money came easily, but Zak treated it with an unusual intelligence. A self-taught man, he read voraciously, and judiciously studied business and finance. Rather than blowing his ill-gotten gains on tawdry women and flashy cars like his cohorts did, he shrewdly invested in stocks and real estate. His lucrative drug career, however, was cut short in an ambush.
It wasn’t the police but a Hong Kong supplier looking to expand his control of the market. The Swede and his escorts were gunned down during a nighttime deal in Vancouver’s rambling Stanley Park. Zak managed to duck the fire and disappear unscathed into a maze of hedges.
He bided his time before taking revenge, spending weeks staking out a luxury yacht leased by the Chinese syndicate. Setting off a timed explosive charge, using knowledge gleaned from his days in the nickel mines, he blew up the boat with all of the Hong Kong associates aboard. Watching from a small speedboat as the fireball erupted, he saw a man on an adjacent yacht get thrown into the water by the concussion. Realizing the authorities would spend little time investigating the death of a known drug dealer but might expand the dragnet if a wealthy socialite was an added victim, he sped over and fished the unconscious man out of the water.
When a sputtering Mitchell Goyette came to, his gratitude was uncharacteristically effusive.
“You saved my life,” he coughed. “I will reward you for that.”
“Give me a job instead,” Zak said.
Zak enjoyed a huge laugh when he reminded Goyette of the whole story years later. Even Goyette conceded the humor in it. By then, the mogul had come to admire the subversive talents of the former miner, employing him as a high-level enforcer once again. But Goyette knew Zak’s loyalty was based solely on cash, and he always kept a wary eye on him. For his part, Zak enjoyed being the lone wolf. He had influence with Goyette, and while he enjoyed the compensation he also enjoyed tweaking his rich and powerful employer.
The plane landed at Toronto’s Lester B. Pearson International Airport a few minutes ahead of schedule. Shaking off the effects of the in-flight martinis, Zak stepped out of the first-class compartment and headed to the rental-car counter while waiting for his bags to be unloaded. Taking the keys to a beige four-door sedan, he drove south, skirting the western shoreline of Lake Ontario. Cruising the lakefront expressway for another seventy miles, he exited at a sign reading NIAGARA. A mile below the famous falls, he crossed the Rainbow Bridge and entered the state of New York, handing the immigration officer a phony Canadian passport.
Turning past the falls, it was just a short drive south to Buffalo. He found the city airport in plenty of time to catch a half-empty 767 to Washington, D.C., flying under yet another assumed name, this time with a phony American identification. Dusk had fallen as the jet crossed over the Potomac River on its final approach to Reagan National Airport. It was Zak’s first time in the nation’s capital, and he duly stared at the city’s monuments from the back of a cab. Watching the blinking red lights atop the Washington Monument, he idly wondered if George would have deemed the towering obelisk an absurdity.
Checking in at the Mayflower Hotel, he perused the file that Goyette had given him, then rode the elevator down to the wood-paneled Town & Country Lounge on the lobby floor. Finding a quiet corner booth, he ordered a martini and checked his watch. At a quarter past seven, a thin man with an unkempt beard approached the table.
“Mr. Jones?” he asked, eyeing Zak nervously. Zak gave the man a weak smile.
“Yes. Please sit down,” Zak replied.
“I’m Hamilton. Bob Hamilton, from the GWU Environmental Research and Technology Lab,” the man said quietly. He stared at Zak with trepidation, then took a deep breath and slid tentatively into the booth.
12
A MIRACLE OF SORTS ARRIVED ON THE PRESIDENT’S desk shortly after his meeting with Sandecker. It was another letter from the Canadian Prime Minister, offering a potential solution to the growing crisis. A major natural gas field had quietly been discovered last year, the Prime Minister wrote, in a remote section of the Canadian Arctic. Preliminary explorations indicated that the site, located in Viscount Melville Sound, could prove to be one of the richest reserves of natural gas in the world. The privately held firm that made the discovery already had a fleet of tanker ships on line to transport the gas to America.
It was just the tonic the President was seeking to help boost his broader objectives. A major purchase agreement was quickly put in place to get the gas flowing. Though market price was exceeded, the company promised to provide all the gas it could deliver. Or so guaranteed the CEO of the private exploration firm, one Mitchell Goyette.
IGNORING THE PLEAS FROM his economic and political advisers that he was being too brash, the President quickly acted on the news. In a nationally televised address from the Oval Office, he outlined his ambitious plans to the public.
“My fellow Americans, we are living in a moment of great peril,” he said into the cameras, his normally upbeat mood masked by solemnity. “Our daily lives are imperiled by a crisis of energy while our very future existence is threatened by a crisis of the environment. Our dependency on foreign oil has created damaging economic consequences that we all feel while promoting the emission of dangerous greenhouse gases. Troubling new evidence continues to show that we are losing the battle against global warming. For our own security, and for the safety of the entire world, I am hereby d
irecting that the United States achieve a national goal of carbon neutrality by the year 2020. While some may call this objective drastic or even impossible to attain, we have no other choice. I call tonight for a crash research effort by private industry, academic institutions, and our own government agencies to solve our energy needs through alternative fuels and renewable sources. Oil cannot and will not be the fuel that powers our future economy. A funding package will be presented to Congress shortly, outlining our specific investments in new research and technology.
“With the proper resources and a determined will, I am confident that we can reach this goal together. Nevertheless, we must make sacrifices today to cut our emissions and reduce our reliance on oil, which continues to choke our economy. Due to the recent availability of natural gas supplies, I am directing that all of our domestic coal and oil-fired power plants be converted to natural gas within two years. I am pleased to announce tonight that President Zhen of China has agreed to impose similar mandates in his country. In addition, I will be presenting plans shortly for our nation’s automakers to accelerate the production of natural-gas- and hybrid-electric-powered vehicles, which I hope will be adopted at the international level.
“We are facing difficult times, but with your support we can reach a more secure tomorrow. Thank you.”
As the cameras turned off, the President’s chief of staff, a short, balding man named Charles Meade, approached Ward.
“Excellent job, sir. I believe it was an effective speech, and it ought to pacify the anti-coal fanatics and their proposed boycott.”
“Thanks, Charlie, I believe you are right,” the President said. “It was quite effective. Effective, that is, at eliminating any chance of my being reelected,” he added with a twisted grin.
13
ROOM 2318 OF THE RAYBURN HOUSE OFFICE BUILDING was uncharacteristically packed with reporters and spectators. Open hearings of the House Subcommittee on Energy and the Environment seldom drew more than a handful of onlookers. But in light of the President’s mandate on greenhouse gas emissions, the resulting media firestorm brought a flurry of attention to the subcommittee and its previously scheduled hearing. Its topic: the status of new technologies to aid the battle against global warming.
The assembled crowd slowly hushed as an anteroom door opened and eighteen members of Congress filed to their respective seats on the dais. The last member to enter was an attractive woman with cinnamon-colored hair. She was dressed in a deep purple Prada jacket and skirt, which nearly matched the hue of her violet eyes.
Loren Smith, devoted congresswoman from Colorado’s Seventh District, had never traded away her femininity since arriving at the blue-suited halls of Congress years before. Even in her forties, she still made a smart and stylish appearance, but her colleagues had learned long ago that Loren’s beauty and fashion sense did nothing to lessen her skill and intelligence in the political arena.
Walking gracefully to the center of the dais, she took her seat next to a plump, white-haired congressman from Georgia who chaired the committee.
“Ah call this hearing to order,” he brayed with a thick accent. “Given the public interest in our topic, Ah will forgo opening remarks today and invite our first speaker to testify.” He turned and gave a quick wink to Loren, who smiled in return. Longtime colleagues and friends despite sitting on different sides of the aisle, they were among a rare minority of House members who shunned partisan grandstanding in order to focus on the good of the country.
A succession of industry and academic leaders took turns testifying on the latest advances in energy alternatives that emitted zero carbon. While offering up sunny long-term prospects, every speaker wavered when pressed by the committee to provide an immediate technological solution.
“Volume production of hydrogen hasn’t been perfected yet,” testified one expert. “Even if every man, woman, and child in the country had a hydrogen fuel cell car, there wouldn’t be enough hydrogen available to power a fraction of them.”
“How far off are we?” asked a representative from Missouri.
“Probably ten years,” the witness replied. A ripple of murmurs quickly spread across the gallery. The story was the same from each spokesperson. Advances in technology and product improvements were hitting the marketplace, but the progress was being made in baby steps, not leaps and bounds. There was no imminent breakthrough that would satisfy the President’s mandate and save the country, and the world, from the physical and economic devastation of accelerated global warming.
The final speaker was a short bespectacled man who headed up the GWU Environmental Research and Technology Lab in suburban Maryland. Loren leaned forward and smiled as she recognized Lisa Lane taking a seat next to Dr. Horace Maxwell. After the lab director made a preliminary statement, Loren jumped in with the initial questioning.
“Dr. Maxwell, your lab is at the forefront of alternate fuels research. Can you tell us what technological advances we might expect from your work in the near term?”
Maxwell nodded before speaking in a henlike voice. “We have several outstanding research programs in solar energy, biofuels, and hydrogen synthesis. But in answer to your question, I’m afraid we have no imminent product development that will satisfy the President’s tough new mandate.”
Loren noticed Lisa bite her lip at Maxwell’s last remark. The rest of the House panel took over and grilled Maxwell for another hour, but it was clear there was to be no noteworthy revelation. The President had gone out on a limb to challenge the brightest minds of industry and academia to solve the energy problem, but he was clearly striking out.
As the hearing was adjourned and the reporters rushed out of the chamber to file their stories, Loren stepped down and thanked Dr. Maxwell for his testimony, then greeted Lisa.
“Hi, roomie.” She smiled, giving a hug to her old college roommate. “I thought you were still at Brookhaven National Laboratory in New York.”
“No, I left a few months ago to join Dr. Maxwell’s program. He had more funds for blue sky research.” She grinned. “I’ve been meaning to call you since I moved back to Washington, but I’ve just been swamped.”
“I can sympathize. With the President’s speech, the work at your lab has suddenly become very important.”
Lisa’s face turned solemn, and she moved closer to Loren. “I really would like to talk to you about my own research,” she said in a low voice.
“Would dinner tonight work? My husband is picking me up in half an hour. We’d love to have you join us.”
Lisa thought for a moment. “I’d like that. Let me tell Dr. Maxwell that I’ll make my own way home tonight. Your husband won’t mind driving?”
Loren laughed. “Taking a pretty girl for a ride is one of his favorite pastimes.”
LOREN AND LISA STOOD on the north steps of the Rayburn Building as a string of limos and Mercedes sedans rolled through the dignitary lane, picking up the wealthier members of Congress and their ever-hovering lobbyists. Lisa was distracted by the appearance of the House Majority Leader and almost missed seeing a rakish antique convertible come barreling to the curb, nearly creasing her thigh with its high-turned fender. She stared wide-eyed as a rugged-looking man with ebony hair and sparkling green eyes hopped out of the car and grabbed Loren in a tight embrace, then kissed her passionately.
“Lisa,” Loren said, pushing the man away with a tinge of embarrassment, “this is my husband, Dirk Pitt.”
Pitt saw the look of surprise in Lisa’s eyes and smiled warmly as he shook her hand. “Don’t worry,” he laughed, “I only maul pretty women if they’re members of Congress.”
Lisa felt herself blush slightly. She saw an adventuresome glow in his eyes, tempered by a warm soul.
“I invited Lisa to join us for dinner,” Loren explained.
“Glad for you to come. I just hope you don’t mind a little wind,” Pitt said, nodding toward the car.
“That’s some set of wheels,” Lisa stammered. “What is it?”
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“A 1932 Auburn Speedster. I just finished rebuilding the brakes last night and thought it would be fun to take her out.”
Lisa gazed at the sleek car, painted in dual shades of cream and blue. The open cockpit offered cramped seating for two, and there was no backseat. Instead, the bodywork behind the driver’s compartment flared to a triangular point at the rear bumper, in the classic boattail shape.
“I don’t think there’s room for all of us,” she lamented.
“There is if somebody doesn’t mind riding in back,” Pitt replied. He walked over and pushed down on the flush topside surface of the boattail. A hideaway seat folded back, revealing a one-passenger compartment.
“Oh my, I’ve always wanted to ride in a rumble seat,” Lisa said. Without hesitation, she climbed onto a foot bracket and hopped into the compartment.
“My grandfather used to tell me how he rode in the rumble seat of his father’s Packard during the Depression,” she explained.
“No better way to see the world,” Pitt joked, winking at her before helping Loren into the front seat.
They loped through rush hour traffic along the Mall and across the George Mason Bridge before heading south into Virginia. As the city monuments grew smaller behind them, the traffic lightened and Pitt mashed down on the accelerator. With a smooth and powerful twelve-cylinder engine under the hood, the sleek Auburn quickly sprinted past the speed limit. As the car accelerated, Lisa grinned and waved like a little girl at the passing traffic, enjoying the wind as it rustled through her hair. Up front, Loren placed a hand on Pitt’s knee and smiled at her husband, who always seemed to find a touch of adventure wherever he went.
Arctic Drift (A Dirk Pitt Novel, #20) Page 7