Deep Time

by Rob Sangster

  But his clients at Armstrong never felt better. It had taken them a long time to sense the connection between those pollutants and the damage to their health. When they did, they demanded help from the city council, but its members were not about to take on the Air Force, the Pentagon, and, as one of them put it, “the whole damned federal government.” Their state legislators had also brushed them off, except for one who had pushed back hard, questioning his clients’ loyalty. Debra later got a tip that the man was on the secret payroll of one of the largest manufacturers of military aviation parts in the world.

  They’d come to Strider & Vanderberg with no money to pay legal fees, so that would have to come from winning the case. If his clients didn’t win, the firm would get nothing. Now, six months later, interviews, investigations, and experts had cost the firm more than $100,000 out of pocket.

  He reminded himself of what he wanted to accomplish. First, get enough money to compensate the clients for their expenses and suffering. Second, require the Air Force to cut far back on the contamination. His third goal was even more ambitious: set a precedent that would stop similar practices at other U.S. military bases. That would also decrease the massive volume of greenhouse gasses the military pumped into the atmosphere 24/7, unrestrained by the laws that regulated most industries. He’d taken this case to seek justice for these plaintiffs but, as he dug into the facts, he saw how much more was at stake. He wished he were about to confront the base commanding officer instead of meeting with wounded plaintiffs.

  He opened a folder that held photographs of every plaintiff and stared at the wan faces and resigned expressions. He rubbed his eyes, knowing that some of them would not live long enough to be awarded money for better health care.

  Mei’s voice came through the speaker. “While you were at Tikal, you had a call from a man who wanted to meet with you day after tomorrow morning. I told him you were working on a major case and weren’t accepting any new appointments.”

  “Exactly right. Thanks.”

  “But then he said, ‘Eight a.m., Sausalito Yacht Club aboard the schooner Excalibur. Give Mr. Strider my name and tell him to bring Ms. Vanderberg with him.’ Then he hung up. He wasn’t rude, just very sure of himself. His name is Petros Barbas.”

  That got his attention. Petros Barbas’s empire included tankers and container ships, a collection of ultra-luxury resorts in remote outposts, and much more, all under the umbrella of Odyssey Properties, a privately-held Greek holding company. It was possible that in the past decade not one person had declined a meeting with Barbas.

  “Tell him I’ll be there.” Then he remembered the other part of the message. “And Ms. Vanderberg too, if she’s available.”

  “I don’t think he expects a confirmation.”

  I’ll bet he doesn’t. Then a thought drifted past. Why had Barbas specified that he wanted Debra present?

  “Sir,” Mei spoke up again. “Also, Ms. Vanderberg wants me to remind you that she and the representatives of the plaintiffs’ group are still waiting in the conference room. I’m afraid she might be in a bad mood.”

  She had every right to be. She’d been honest in raising the red flag about financial survival for the firm when she knew he didn’t want to hear that. And he’d been a jerk to be defensive rather than give her a rah-rah and promise to share that load.

  As he entered the conference room, a young man wearing clean but worn Levi’s and a California Bears T-shirt stood up, nodded, and then quickly sat. He looked about twenty, perhaps ten years younger than the woman who remained seated. She had short-cropped blond hair that had the look of a wig. Her eyes were unusually deep-set with a haunted look. Debra sat across the table from them.

  “I’d like to introduce Mrs. Jane Rose and Mr. Tom Barlow,” Debra said.

  He was very aware that she hadn’t said his name, hadn’t even looked at him. When she finished the introduction, she pursed her lips tightly in the way she did when she was very ticked off but determined not to vent.

  He’d read the briefing on their histories. Mrs. Rose was married to a lieutenant whose squadron was stationed at Armstrong. They had lived in officers’ quarters on the base for five years and had two daughters. Mrs. Rose was working as a civilian CPA for the Air Force when diagnosed with aggressive metaplastic breast cancer, a type found in less than one percent of women who have breast cancer. The surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy she had received would not save her.

  Tom Barlow, a physics student at UC Berkeley, had grown up in housing one block beyond the base perimeter. His father had been an aircraft maintenance specialist on the base for twenty-three years. Tom’s mother had died ten years ago from a heart attack of unknown cause. His father had died four months ago from extensive small cell lung cancer, the kind usually caused by smoking. Because his father had been a non-smoker, Tom joined Victims of Armstrong and started probing into the cause of his father’s cancer. He’d quickly discovered that the percentages of people around Armstrong who were afflicted with various diseases were far higher than in the general population. Since genetics and lifestyle did not come close to accounting for the higher percentages, he became an outspoken leader who raged against the base commander’s refusal to undertake an unbiased investigation. He’d been quoted as saying that the Air Force didn’t want to know the answers.

  Jack shook their hands and sat at the head of the table. “I’ll begin by telling you about our strategy in your case. First, we have to prove that military activities at Armstrong generate vast amounts of pollution. Second, we have to show that those emissions are carcinogenic and otherwise hazardous to health. We’ve identified the ingredients of the fuel that are harmful, but the Pentagon has refused to release data to us on how much fuel is consumed at Armstrong. Third, we must demonstrate that a significantly above-average number of people on the base and in its vicinity got sick, and many died. After that, the highest hurdle will be proving that this pollution caused the illnesses and deaths. We’ll be working on that right up until the trial.”

  “My dad told me,” Tom said, “that one of those giant Stratocruisers burns more than thirty thousand gallons of fuel an hour. That’s six times what an average driver uses in a whole year.”

  “We can prove,” Debra said, “that the types of aviation fuel they use are super-polluting, generating three times as much CO2 as gasoline does. That exhaust also includes nitrous oxide, sulfur dioxide, and soot—more pollutants.”

  “Are you guys going to bring up the damage a big fire or explosion on that base would cause?” Tom asked. “Or an earthquake? That place is loaded with radioactive materials. Throw that stuff into the air, and the wind direction will decide whether San Francisco gets wiped out.”

  Debra looked taken aback. Several seconds passed before she said, “We have to focus on actual damage done to these plaintiffs. We’ve lined up medical experts to testify that the toxicity created can cause the illnesses and deaths suffered by people on and near the base. Then we have to prove that it did cause that harm in a number of cases large enough to convince a jury to conclude that pollution was the culprit. Results so far are very supportive, but we have a long way to go. Suing the government is a steep mountain to climb, but the facts should knock the jurors out of their socks.”

  “You should know,” Jack said, “that we’re going to be navigating through minefields in this trial. If we come off as broadly anti-military, we’ll lose sympathy from some on the jury. That’s ironic since most of the people we’re trying to protect are the airmen themselves. They’re soaking in the poison day and night.”

  He wouldn’t tell them that this high-profile lawsuit could be a disaster for his firm. Being stereotyped as anti-military or anti-government would cost him clients. Something he’d never mentioned to Debra was that if the lawsuit got really nasty, some vigilante might come after him with an AR-15.

  “Just a minute,”
Tom blurted. “Civilian kids grow up knowing the make and model of every hot car. Not me. I can give you the specs of any U.S. military aircraft. We’re military families. Air Force blue and silver run in my veins. At least it used to. Do you know about McClellan Air Force Base, which isn’t far from Armstrong? Spills and leaks of fuel and all sorts of caustic crap contaminated the groundwater so badly EPA had to put it on the Superfund cleanup list. Think how many people got sick and died at McClellan without ever knowing why.”

  Before Jack could tell him they would be using the McClellan example, Tom kept going. “When a hose breaks loose and dumps jet fuel on the ground, it migrates down to where our drinking water comes from. Exhaust from a huge cargo jet taking off doesn’t poison just the airmen standing on the tarmac. It’s also sucked into the lungs of kids playing Little League baseball miles away. When people join the military, they know they might have to face danger to defend their country, but they didn’t agree to be killed by their own people. So if Victims of Armstrong is ‘broadly antimilitary’ now it’s because those bastards killed my father, they’re killing Jane, and they’re killing God knows how many others.”

  Jack knew the firm’s research showed that children from infants through teenagers had been hit especially hard at Armstrong. That cut deep.

  “Tom.” Jane put her hand on his forearm to calm him.

  “I won’t shut up. The military is the largest user of energy, including petroleum, in the U.S. With five percent of the world’s population, the U.S. generates more than thirty percent of all global warming gasses, and a lot of that comes from its military. Overall, global military operations use more energy than any other activity on Earth. How screwed up is that?”

  Jack already knew those numbers but wasn’t about to cut Tom off. He wondered whether Tom knew that the Pentagon spent an amazingly high percent of its budget not on buying oil but on assuring access to oil. That was part of its justification for maintaining more than a thousand military outposts inside 140 countries around the world. He’d like the jury to know all that, but some of the jurors might think that was just fine, so he couldn’t indulge himself.

  “Jane, Tom, you need to report back to the other plaintiffs where your lawsuit stands, so we have to be candid. This lawsuit is so full of uncertainties and difficulties that winning is a long shot.”

  They glanced at one another. Tom didn’t look nearly as defiant now. He straightened and said, “Representing us is costing your firm a fortune, and you’re telling us that we probably won’t win. Why did you take our case?”

  “Because what’s being done to you, and others like you, has to be stopped, and you had nowhere else to turn. We didn’t get into this to make a point. We got in it to win for you. As we go forward, the government lawyers may move for continuances over and over to try to outlast us. Law students are taught the maxim that ‘justice delayed is justice denied.’ In this case, if our plaintiffs don’t get prompt justice, some won’t get any justice because—” He cut himself off. He didn’t want to say more in front of Jane.

  “Or,” Debra said, “they could switch strategy and demand an early trial date. They would do that because this is such a complex case. They know we have limited resources and haven’t had time to complete our research and preparation.”

  “And they will definitely try to get our complaint thrown out of court,” Jack said. “I’m afraid they’re going to demand dismissal at a crucial hearing that’s coming up very soon.”

  He paused, wanting to tell them that they might be better off marching in the streets and beating down the doors of their legislators. And that he wanted to, but couldn’t, go into the courtroom and blast the generals who turned away from the suffering and death. Just once he’d like to let it all out. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. He restrained himself as he always did, remaining the voice of reason.

  “We’re doing everything we can to win,” Debra said. “You already know that the Pentagon refused to give us records on how much of each kind of fuel they burn at Armstrong. They did it to force us to spend time and money to come after them. Well, we did. I got word this morning that our Freedom of Information Act request has been granted. Being required to release that information to us could turn the tide in our favor.” Debra wore a pleased smile.

  “Oh my God,” Jane said.

  “So you’re not giving up.” Tom’s voice was stronger.

  “Not unless hell freezes over,” Jack said. But he felt a chill in his bones.

  TOM BARLOW AND Jane Rose were gone, but neither he nor Debra had made a move to leave the conference room. He knew that was because each had things to say to the other. She was making notes, still avoiding eye contact, so he broke the ice.

  “Good thing we both got back from Tikal early, or we wouldn’t have been here when those two showed up without notice.” That was a clumsy start, reminding her of the scrap they’d had. Try again. “You did really good work on that FOIA request. It gave Jane and Tom some good news to report to the group.”

  She glanced at him, seeming surprised by the compliment. “We’re still a long way from winning,” she said evenly.

  No response to his flattery. “True, but if we do pull it off, our firm’s share of the recovery will be in the seven figures.”

  “Jack, I stand by what I said in Tikal.” She put down her pen. “But I do apologize for one thing. I was airborne on the Taca flight home when I realized that my leaving meant you couldn’t keep your promise to Zalman and make the climb. I’m sorry about that.”

  Without thinking, he said, “I made the climb anyway.” Oops, that answer was likely to derail any possible reconciliation.

  She did an almost comical double take. He felt her thoughts: risking your life—future of our firm—impact on me—how stupid can you get? Before she could verbalize, he said, “I made it up and down without a scratch. I know it wasn’t smart, but my brain was a little scrambled. To tell you the truth, I was thinking about what you said just before you . . . left.”

  That was true enough, but there had been another reason he’d made that climb. It was because of the demon he carried inside, the one he made sure no one knew about. His father had instilled in him the message that he wasn’t “good enough” so deeply that he was driven to prove himself in some way every single day. On the day of the climb, his cowardly, long-dead father had whispered that he couldn’t make it to the top, so he had to try. It hadn’t been until a couple of years ago that he’d realized he almost always raced his sailboat, very seldom took her for a leisurely sail. He was always competing. In situations where others weren’t competing, he competed more subtly. He was ashamed of that.

  He knew her mind so well. She was outraged by the risks he’d taken. She felt a little guilt that her absence led to that, but not much, because it was up to him not to be dumb. And since he was sitting in front of her safe there was no point in holding on to fear he might get hurt.

  So he said, “I heard the points you made. We’ll freeze hiring. We’ll figure out how to cut expenses. We won’t take any more pro bono clients for a while. Well, unless we absolutely have to. And I’ll get more involved in the firm’s finances.”

  Some of the tension left her face. “Glad to hear that.”

  Not much of a reconciliation, but he had to move on to what he’d been dreading. He hadn’t called her from Tikal to tell her about Katie, because he’d hoped to be able to report that Katie had had a rough time but was safely back home. But he’d heard nothing from Hank. He moved over to sit in the chair next to her. She looked puzzled.

  “I had a call from Hank Thompson. Aleutian, a Greenpeace ship, was attacked and damaged while on an anti-whaling mission. It seemed able to reach Seattle but, somewhere along the way, fell out of contact. Hank got an Air-Rescue search started right away. They haven’t found Aleutian or any lifeboats. The ship has disappeared.”


  “That’s terrible. Hank and the others must be beside themselves worrying about the crew. Do you know how many—”

  “Thirty-two on board.” He took both her hands. “Katie was one of them.”

  “No! I knew she—that’s not—there must be a mistake.” Tears filled her eyes. “What can we—”

  “No mistake. I got GeoEye to scan the entire area right after dawn this morning. Their techs reviewed the film carefully. No Aleutian. No wreckage. I also got Gano to fly up there to search at low altitude. So far, nothing from him either.”

  She buried her face in his chest and cried uncontrollably. He held her in his arms until her sobbing slowly ebbed.

  She finally looked up. “Could there be any . . . survivors?”

  “No one can last long in that water before hypothermia paralyzes them. Maybe we’ll hear something from Air-Sea Rescue, GeoEye, or Gano before dark.” He was fighting against losing hope.

  Debra leaned back, but continued holding his hands. They exchanged stories about Katie dashing around the office, at the helm of the sailboat, sampling everything on a Chinese buffet, telling corny jokes, and being wise far beyond her age. Looking into each other’s eyes, they understood that their shared grief was a big step toward rebuilding their bond.

  He lowered his eyes so she couldn’t see and interpret the doubt he felt. He’d keep digging, trying to find out what happened to Aleutian, but his feeling that something very strange had happened in that northeast corner of the Pacific Ocean was stronger than ever.

  Chapter 5

  July 10

  10:00 a.m.

  San Francisco

  “MR. STRIDER, THERE’S a . . . gentleman . . . here who says he has a contract on your life that he’s come to execute.” Mei, usually totally poised, sounded shaky.

  “He’s leaning over your desk trying to look down your blouse, and you think I should call the cops, right?”