by Randy Dutton
Ed had momentarily tuned out of the conversation. Having finished his dinner he was relaxing with a beer while watching the action of small merchant and fishing boats plying the water between islands. Off to his right a turquoise speedboat was tied up along the harbor’s catwalk inside the breakwater. Walking to the boat along the catwalk was an officious man yelling orders to the boat’s two-man crew.
“Excuse me guys,” Ed interjected, then pointed. “That guy heading to the boat was in the conference room earlier today…looks like a local. That boat must have cost him half a million. How do you suppose he could afford it?”
“Maybe his family made it selling shark fins,” Art mused. “I’ve read it’s a major export item. Ever have shark fin soup? It tastes great!”
Tom chimed in, “Don’t they throw away the rest of the shark?”
“Usually, though I don’t know why. Shark steak’s pretty good too,” Art said the waiter removed two empty water bottles from the table.
Anna was inconspicuous as she leaned against the restaurant’s outer wall. A broad hat shaded her large sunglasses as she watched, from behind a menu, the waiter remove the two bottles from the furthermost table and place them in a dirty dishes trolley. Her lips formed a widening smile as Jacques nonchalantly passed the trolley, and, with gloved hand, picked up a green bottle.
Continuing past her, he slipped his treasure into the plastic shopping bag hanging from the crook of her elbow.
Waiting half a minute, and with an air of indifference, she turned and walked across the small resort island.
Meanwhile, thirty meters away, the men, unaware of the scrutiny, continued their discussion on the world’s woes.
Chapter 5
June 15, 1800 hours
North Malé Atoll, Maldives
Devon Brown approached Anna. His heart beat faster as a slight breeze rippled the edge of her knee-length skirt and drew attention to her very toned legs. Her left hand held a white wine cooler while her right was gesticulating operational details to the coterie of older executives.
“Anna, I need your assistance,” he interrupted meekly.
“That was fast.” She flashed the captivating smile that entranced most men. “Excuse me gentlemen.”
The older men deferentially nodded as drones might to a queen bee.
She looked toward the rippling ocean. “Let’s go to the water’s edge.” She kicked off her sandals and led, her hips swaying with each step in the soft sand.
As they relocated for privacy, her casual elegance and sensual demeanor caused him to reminisce how his career had started.
Devon had been a University of California at Berkeley freshman, and gotten his first taste of anarchistic passion. After joining the SDS – the Students for a Democratic Society – he first protested for the adrenalin rush of violence, drugs freely passed around the group, and the hope of getting laid.
By his second year he quit the drugs – they addled his brain – and he developed a knack for leading the anarchists toward accomplishing specific goals. He was particularly empathetic toward the environmental agenda. With him as a defacto leader the protests got more press, and more adherents. His sexual adventures were less successful.
Then she entered his life. At the beginning of his junior year, a long-legged brunette, wearing an open London Fog coat fluidly strode into his dorm room one evening and closed the door.
He looked up from his engineering book. It wasn’t unusual for dorm friends to come in unannounced.
She put a box down and turned toward him. Like a runway model, she smoothly slid off her coat to reveal a tight-fitting, low-cut deep-red dress, highlighted by a braided gold chain around her long neck. She draped the coat across a chair.
Confused, he abruptly stood from his fourth-hand green velvet couch, and partly tucked in his JC Penney plaid shirt. His mouth hung open.
Her hips sashayed as she slowly gravitated closer.
He swallowed, straining to find words for this beautiful seductress.
The mid-twenty-something’s warm voice softly said, “Devon Brown, my name is Julie…. I’ve been watching you.”
Three-inch stiletto heels put her deep blue eyes level with his. She stepped closer and softly challenged him. “How capable do you think you are?”
He cleared his throat and attempted to sound cocky. “Very.” His eyebrow lifted. “Who are you...Julie?”
“Does it matter?” she asked coyly and took another small step forward.
A whiff of her spicy scent sent a shiver through him. “It does if I’m being pranked,” he stammered.
Her head moved side to side just enough. “It’s not a prank, Devon.” Her voice was like honey.
“Then I guess not,” he said hesitantly.
“What turns you on?” She inched closer. She wet her lips as her eyes traveled down to his neck and torso.
His gaze wandered down, just a little to her ample cleavage. “Uh,” he hesitated, not sure why such an attractive woman would be so forward with him. He knew he looked like and acted like a geek. Certainly he wasn’t handsome or athletic – or experienced, he reminded himself. He figured a nontypical answer would score higher. “Adrenalin.”
“Good answer.” Her smile broadened. The front of her dress pressed firmly against his shirt. “And what would give you the biggest rush?”
He nervously smiled. “Becoming a hero...so women like you would want me.”
“Devon, I can make that happen,” she whispered, her breath tickling his ear. “But first, you need to prove yourself.”
At that moment he would have done anything for her.
The mysterious woman stepped back and coyly asked, “Will you do a simple task for me?”
He nodded.
“I want you”—she let that linger for several seconds—“to get Berkeley to create an independent reading program focused on environmental issues.”
“And if I do?” He was somewhat let down by the test, yet, very intrigued.
“Rewards will befall you,” she said seductively. “And so you don’t think I’m setting you up for a...prank, I have a present for you.”
She turned and retrieved the box, then with open palms, handed it to him. “Inside’s a business card with my electronic bulletin board contact information.” Her cadence was slow and soft. “If you need any resources, just use the code on the card and send a note.... I’ll be in touch.... Oh, and Devon?”
“Yeessss?” He put the computer down and his sweaty hands pressed nervously against his legs.
Her forefinger touched her full red lips then lightly grazed his. “This is our little secret.” She winked and maintained eye contact. “If you tell anyone it was anything other than your idea, not only will you fail the test”—her lips parted as her head slowly moved side to side—“the women won’t want you.”
He gulped.
She stepped back. “You can open your present now.”
He knelt down and lifted the box cover like a kid at Christmas. Inside was an expensive, state-of-the-art laptop. Like a child, he looked up expectantly.
“It’s yours whether you succeed or fail…and Devon?”
“Yes,” he responded like an obedient puppy.
“Expect a visitor at ten tonight.” She smiled coyly, then turned and left him, his wordless mouth hanging open.
As promised, a beautiful blonde coed appeared at ten and spent the night fulfilling more carnal desires than he even knew he had.
Devon was unaware at the time, that first night’s pleasure had been lavishly paid for by his new benefactor – neither would he have cared.
But it was his focused success on forcing a curriculum that he believed would help protect the Earth that brought scores of women to his bed in ensuing months. As Julie promised, the other women gravitated to his new found confidence and mission.
He completed his task by the end of the academic year, moving Berkeley from a learning-by-teaching, to learning-by-reading system. The students pic
ked the references they wanted to study and had little professorial interaction or guidance. While many traditionalists decried it as anti-intellectual, it nonetheless was seen by liberals as compassionate and in keeping with the social contract.
Progressive students declared Devon a hero.
Learning-by-reading also made it easier for progressives to manipulate students and Swanson’s foundation provided the recommended curricula – all devoted in demonizing traditional values.
The day after the Berkeley announcement, Julie reappeared at Devon’s dorm room. This time she was conservatively dressed and all business. She took him to an elegant dinner at Restaurant Gary Danko, in San Francisco, and made an offer.
“Devon…would you like a paying job?”
There was no doubt of his answer. The last year had been the best of his life. It was a further year before he learned just who he ultimately worked for – Alexis Swanson. Anna, as he now knew her, was the recruiter.
Devon started his community organizer job running the Students for Environmental Security (SES). He enlisted students in over 100 engineering colleges and universities, focusing on environmental activists and environmental justice advocates in technical fields supporting carbon-based industries. Through his growing alumni network, secretly aided by Swanson’s foundation, he was in a position to get new graduates good paying jobs.
Through her elite contacts, Devon relied upon Anna to help with financial backing. While Swanson gave the ultimate direction, a web of foundations, associations, unions, grant providers, media companies, and bloggers funneled the filtered cash to support the army in waiting.
Until graduation, he was equally unaware that Julie had approached other anarchist leaders in other engineering schools with similar deals.
Years later, Devon was living Lenin’s quote: “Give me four years to teach the child, and the seed I have sown will never be uprooted. Give me eight years to teach the child, and it will be a Bolshevik forever.”
The flashback had taken just a moment. Today, in this Maldivian resort, he knew it was time to implement the next stage of the plan. In his mind a Shakespearean quote came to mind. “Cry havoc! And let loose the dogs of war….”
Devon’s usually pale face was burnt from a couple days of tropical sun, but his suit wasn’t the scruffy attire befitting his computer geek image. Now, in his late twenties, he was wealthy and didn’t mind flaunting it.
He broke out of his reverie. He stepped quickly to prevent a small wave over his dress shoes. They were a hundred meters from the cabana.
Anna was ankle-deep in the warm water, her toes flexing in the white sand. She stared at a child’s pink flip flop floating toward her, its mate nowhere in sight. Unexplained sadness caused her to emit a sigh.
Her lightened mood was gone as she turned to Devon. “Okay, shoot. What do you need?”
“I need your hackers.”
She grimaced. “Don’t call them that...they’re systems programmers.... In what capacity?”
“Sorry.... Mostly for targeting... partly for access.”
“Explain.”
“Most of my guys are lower placed within their companies. They’re ready to attack—”
“Never use that term! Try...move forward.”
He cleared his throat. “Um. Many don’t have access to their corporation’s confidential files.”
“Which files?”
“There’re an estimated half million producing oil wells in the US, and five million in the world. There are more that aren’t producing. Many bore holes locations aren’t publicly accessible so I need some legalistic pretense to force a complete national resources review.
She nodded with tongue-in-cheek. “Otherwise, most will be hidden from the regulators and our...alums.”
“Right. Many capped fields could be reopened and developed within months.”
“Why would they tap the depleted wells?”
“Many of the old oil fields are refilling from surrounding rock. And two-thirds of most oil was never extracted – it was too thick for the older technology. New technology, like fracking, allows oil companies to go back and remove a higher percentage of oil. I want the government to force companies to open them all up for a review, and Sven’s biological seal can be put into them. This will destroy their viability.”
Her smile slowly formed on her nearly wrinkle-free face. “That makes sense, Devon. Draw up a list of exact requirements and send it to me.”
“I’ll have it to you within the week.”
“Do you know how you’ll design the delivery system?”
He shrugged. “Not really.”
She looked up, pondering. “I may have some ideas on that. Work with Sven to determine a minimum dose per well, and the best packaging to preserve it under adverse conditions.”
“Good idea.”
“Go solely through me for the packaging and delivery – that way I can control the secrecy.”
“That’ll lift a burden off me,” Devon agreed. “I’ve got a related issue. The higher up in the companies my people are, the easier it is for them to accomplish the sabotage. Think you can help them get promoted?”
“Sure. You provide the names, current positions, the positions they need, and the obstacles. I’ll see what we can to do remove impediments. It shouldn’t be hard to electronically change performance records, credentials, and assignments, and undermine their competition.”
He cocked his head in concern.
“Anna, do you really have the time to do all this, along with whatever else you’re doing?”
“I’m efficient.” Anna’s lips tightened. “I make the time…And Devon?”—her eyes narrowed, and her tone turned harsh—“Fair warning. Never dig into how I do my job! Don’t ask, don’t discuss it, don’t even think about it! That’s a recipe for trouble. Just know that if I say I’m going to do something, it gets done!”
He pulled back in surprise. “S-sorry.”
They started walking toward the cabana.
She turned her head to see the adrift sandal floating back out to sea. Her eyes tightened momentary with the memory of futilely waiting on an Okinawa beach for her mother to return.
Chapter 6
June 16, 0830 hours
North Malé Atoll, Maldives
The aroma of onions and curry wafted over the industrialists. The outdoor restaurant’s breakfast buffet offered the local favorite mas huni, a shredded smoked fish with grated coconuts and onions. Other local dishes included combinations of fish, deep fried or barbequed, with curry, breadfruit, or chili. The less adventurous chose typical western fare of omelets, yogurt, cereal, eggs, bread and cheese.
“Good morning, guys,” Ed said to each as they arrived at the same table as the evening before. “Glad we decided to reconnect this bright morning before any of us fly out.”
Small ocean waves passing the breakwater rhythmically rolled up the coarse sand near the deck.
“Good morning, Ed.” Art responded, as he placed his plate of mas huni on the table. “Anybody else have trouble sleeping?”
The same waiter as last night was serving them. He poured coffee for each and left the insulated carafe.
“Still thinking about the Carbon Conference ramifications?” Tom sat down.
“Yes, I feel we’ve been set up.”
“I’ve no doubt about it,” Tom agreed. “And I’m not ready to give up.”
Ed cocked his head. “What’s your idea?”
With clasped hands and elbows resting on the table, Tom leaned forward. “I’m going to the Palace in Malé to find out what happened with that ocean levels Stanford report.... Someone at the Ministry of Interior must know how it got challenged.”
“Mind if I tag along?” Art asked. “I’m also curious how real science gets ignored.”
“No problem.” Tom pointed at the dock. “I’m leaving at 10 AM. Love to have the witness…I mean company.” He chuckled.
“Good morning,” Sam said, carrying his plate
of scrambled eggs. “I was thinking last night about where we go from here.” He poured a cup of coffee and sat down.
“And did you reach a conclusion?” Ed asked.
Sam shook his head. “More a resolution. If we project what chaos will ensure with the implementation of this enviro scheme, we might be able to position our industries to better survive, then pick up the pieces after it falls apart.”
Art nodded. “Good idea. ‘Better to be forewarned than forearmed,’ as Shakespeare wrote.”
“You guys interested meeting periodically to discuss how our industries can adapt? I’m willing to host the first meeting at GFA,” Ed suggested. “We could project what we think may happen. With our varying expertise, we can brainstorm ideas none of us would come up with separately.”
“I like that,” Sam said. “But we’ll have to keep it quiet. I don’t trust our government.”
“When was the last time our government was impartial?” Art’s scoffed. “It’s been pushing this for years.”
“True. I was giving our government the benefit of the doubt, hoping it was stupidity, and not malice,” Sam responded.
“We’re going to need a real projection of what’s going to happen with CO2,” Ed added. “Any ideas?”
Tom beamed with pride. “Well, coincidentally, my eldest son Pete has a PhD in atmospheric science from MIT, and a Masters in applied genetics from Texas A&M.... I’m sure he’d be willing to help. He recently worked on a study at CERN, in Switzerland, about cosmic effects on atmospheric heating.”
“That’s great! Maybe he can project CO2 levels and their effect,” Sam said. “So, why didn’t he come with you?”
Tom let out a sigh. “We planned it but he had to attend a last minute funeral.”
“Well, I’m more worried about how society will cope with the coercive regulations by the UN and our sycophant US government,” Ed countered. “How does one grow food for eight billion people when government tries to eliminate the very components necessary for plants? I mean, really, CO2’s free fertilizer. They want to eliminate fertilizers, pesticides, and herbicides, and expect to feed everyone with organic food. It’s preposterous. It’s well known that developed nations have three times the productivity of underdeveloped nations.”