by Fiona Quinn
“William Davidson is an oilman?”
“He’s an ‘anything to line his pockets’ man, from his reputation. Energy; some attachment to military weaponry; and you probably know he was on the board at Omega.”
Omega was Iniquus’s rival of sorts. They’d had a major upset in the States and now mostly worked overseas ops. Where Iniquus was willing to push the gray envelope on legality to get a job done and keep America safe, Omega was willing to do the truly black stuff. They were the group who showed up on the news with their naked dance parties around their camp fires in the Middle East and balls-out swaggering that gave contractors a bad reputation—a reputation that put other teams, like Iniquus’s, at risk of targeting and reprisal by the locals. Gator couldn’t very well hold that against the locals. Omegas acted like psychopathic animals in the field. And one of their teams had come at Lynx full throttle, risking her life, and shooting a bullet into Blaze. Gator swiped his tongue over his teeth. Davidson had ties to Omega. Interesting.
“I think he’s also into luxury hotels and apartments,” Meg was saying. “I don’t know the extent of his enterprises. Right now, I think he’s negotiating drilling rights for oil off Zanzibar. Their techniques aren’t nearly as environmentally protective as Hesston’s would be. But what has me scared is the helium.”
Helium?
“Is there a specific reason why you’re following Davidson’s reputation? You’re an animal migration specialist, what’s that got to do with Zanzibar?” Blaze snagged a grape and popped it in his mouth. Then reached for the paper Gator held out to him.
“The scientists on the Key Initiative have been worried about Davidson’s dealings in this part of the world. As far as my interests go, it’s about the Rift Valley, which extends through Tanzania and includes the Ngorongoro Crater and the Serengeti where the animals I’m trying to protect migrate.”
“This is about helium you said?” Gator asked.
“Yeah, do you guys know about the global helium issues?”
“My contact with helium is restricted to birthday parties, and sucking up a lungful to sing in a Minnie Mouse voice for my nieces and nephews,” Gator grinned. “Sorry. Do we have global helium issues?”
“More so this month than we did last.” She handed Gator a napkin and a plate that held a couple of sub sandwiches. “Let me explain.”
“Thank you,” he said, accepting the plate and digging in with gusto.
“Helium is a big deal. It’s one of the most abundant elements in the universe, but it’s not all that abundant here on Earth. We don’t just use helium to fill up balloons at a kid’s birthday party, it’s of vital importance to a bunch of industries right now like making MRIs, fiber optics and semi-conductors, and if I’m not mistaken, something to do with nuclear energy, too. Lots of high-tech is helium reliant. Governments are also funding research for engines that would use helium gas for fuel cells and transportation technologies. There are major geological surveys being done to see if there is enough supply waiting to be tapped to power human energy needs. One of the benefits of using helium over petroleum is that unlike fossil fuels that take millenniums to create, helium is in constant production.”
“That sounds like a win,” Blaze said.
“Maybe,” Meg’s voice was glossed with skepticism. “On Earth, there are only a few key locations where the helium deposits are concentrated enough to harvest them. Most of the helium comes from the United States. If the power source moved from petroleum-based to helium-based, our country would stand to make a lot of money.”
“The US?” Blaze leaned back in his chair. “Really? Where is this found?”
“It’s mixed in with the natural gas the US produces. When they pull the gas out of the ground, they put it through a process to separate the component gases. A little over seventy-five percent of helium comes from the US. It’s like a five-billion-dollar a year industry.” Meg said, taking her own bite of food. “Big money,” she said with her hand over her mouth. “Hence, Davidson’s involvement.”
Gator let out a low whistle. “B – billion?”
Meg swallowed and grabbed her glass. “B – billion.” Meg tilted back some lemonade. “The second biggest supplier is Qatar. Some comes from Russia, I think. And, as it turns out, Tanzania has an enormous supply of helium. The geologists found large pockets near the volcanoes along the East African Rift Valley. Not only are there deposits of the gas, but there’s also a high on-going production of the gas. The heat from Rift Valley volcanoes apparently releases helium deposits from where it’s naturally stored inside of the rocks.”
“Like fracking?” Gator asked.
“Yes, a little.” Meg took another bite, chewed, and swallowed. “But instead of drilling and forcing fluids between the rocks, this is naturally released by the heat.”
“And this is bad?” Blaze adjusted his seat farther under the shade of the umbrella out of the sun’s glare.
“That depends on your perspective.” Meg put her sandwich down, wiped her mouth with her napkin, and tucked it back on her lap. “A lot of people were very excited about the possibilities if the helium that was discovered here in Tanzania went into extraction. Think about the jobs for scientists and mining experts. As they got paid, they’d buy things – housing, clothing, restaurant food. They’d hire maids and mechanics and—gosh, I don’t know—teachers for their children. If it was done right, it could be a boon. But there are huge risks. Mining the lands and building the necessary infrastructure interrupts the lifestyles of the indigenous people who live in the areas. It infringes on their ancestral lands. The tensions here are already high.” She stopped talking and pursed her lips as if holding back an expletive. “Mining the gas might interrupt some of the businesses that Tanzania has worked to build over the last generations,” she continued. “Agribusiness. Tourism. And, of course, there’s the safety and well-being of the wild life. These lands have some of the most diverse and amazing wildlife – remember we’re talking about the land around the Ngorongoro Crater and the Serengeti where elephants, lions and wildebeests live...The eco-system here is fragile and already straining to adapt to the climate changes. Everything could be wiped out. I really, really hope the government says ‘thanks but no thanks’ to extracting the helium. And tells Davidson no on anything he’s proposing. Talk about speeding us into the apocalypse...The helium that is ‘off gassed’—not the right word, but you can guess what I mean—from the heat is located very near the volcanoes. And the helium in those areas is heavily mixed with other gases especially carbon dioxide.”
“And releasing carbon dioxide into our atmosphere increases the rate of climate change,” Gator said.
“Exactly. Up until this point, the Tanzanian government has been working to protect nature and the animals. But if Hesston Oil contracts are off the table because their executive was kidnapped, and his company now deems the area to be too much of a hot spot to do business, the government needs to get money from somewhere. This is already a big fat political fight. And to make matters worse, right now, there’s a distribution problem for helium. Last time there was a hiccough in distribution, the prices doubled. If the prices were to rise with continued distribution issues? It’s a no-brainer for signing extraction contracts – that is, if your brain only values power and wealth.” She rubbed her hands up and down her thighs in her agitation.
Gator fought to stay connected with their conversation. His sixth sense pulled and tugged, struggling to grab his focus. He was a horse at the derby held back behind the gate, rearing and snorting, ready to race forward. Whatever was suddenly lighting him up, Gator didn’t like it none.
He wished he could condense this into a coherent thought to share with Lynx. Even thinking about the sixth sense felt like using a foreign language. He had to use what was available to him in terms of phrases and words to try to get his meaning across, even to himself. Lynx was right, thinking and talking about stuff from the ether was hard to do because what she called “mundane vocab
ulary” didn’t quite cover the experience.
But mundane was what he needed to be, this sense of urgency to get off the X and back into the fight, the feeling that his team needed him. He knew that just wasn’t true. Strike Force was at the airport, boarding their plane to head home to their loved ones. Gator’s mission wasn’t spooling up until later that evening when he and Blaze flew to Dar es Salaam. Rational-him knew that. But his whole system was lit up in go-mode, pissed as hell that he was penned up. Yet, here he sat poolside under an umbrella listening to Meg talk geo-politics.
He looked up at the cloudless blues sky and thought, Yup, sure looks like a shitstorm a-brewing.
Chapter Ten
Christen
Tuesday, Forward Operating Base Bara, Iraq
Christen paced the room, wringing her hands in frustration. Back and forth. Back and forth. Come on! She screamed in her head. She was rabid to get back in a helicopter, take off, and head out after the Delta operators she’d left out in the hills. The group she’d brought in was in Medical getting a once over – sewn up and patched. Except for Tyler Newcomb. He stood with his back to the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, and a look of patience on his face. It didn’t fool her. Christen knew he didn’t like being grounded any more than she did. She sent him a scowl in return.
“You’re pissed. I get it,” Ty said. “But your bird was full. There wasn’t a damned other thing you could have done by staying back. Our objective was to pull Grey out of his box and get him tucked into bed, safe and sound here on base. Mission accomplished.”
It was reasonable. It was kind of him to say. But Christen still felt like shit.
“How come they call you Ty? I’d think with the last name like Newcomb they’d call you something like ‘Nuke’em.’”
“They tried. I didn’t like it.”
Yeah, it might take someone with a death wish to try to give Ty a label he didn’t want to wear.
Ty’s head snapped to the right, and he stared at the door. A private poked his head in looked around, and backed back out of the room.
This was agony.
Christen took up her pacing again. She didn’t leave her customers in harm’s way. It was against her creed. It rubbed against every fiber of her being. She needed to be part of the rescue crew. Though, as far as she knew there was none being staged. She checked her watch. The hands didn’t seem to move. She needed them to move. She needed night to descend. The cover of darkness. Then, surely, they’d send her to pull the men out of there.
The private stuck his head back in the door. “I’m looking for Lieutenant Davidson,” he said, casting his eyes toward the Delta operator.
Christen stalked toward the private. “That’s me.” Please, let this be orders to go.
“The colonel needs to speak with you stat.”
Christen bunched a fist in the air and yanked it to her side. “Yes!” she shouted victoriously and sent a grin toward Ty.
Ty squinted at her, assessing, as she danced through the doors, feeling jubilant that she was about to get her shackles unlocked. “Where is he?” she asked the private.
“His office, ma’am.”
Christen took off at a jog down the hall. At the commander’s door, she knocked and waited with her hand on the knob for him to call, “Come in.” She pushed the door open and was at his desk in two strides, ready to accept his orders when she came to a screeching halt.
“Lula,” she whispered, seeing the woman sitting in the industrial-metal folding chair in front of the colonel’s desk.
“Hey there!” Lula smiled and gave her a finger wave.
Well, this was Twilight Zone material. What was Lula doing in her commander’s office at the Forward Operating Base in Iraq? Christen’s first thought was the there was an emergency at home, and she needed to be told something in person, something terrible. But that thought was quickly rejected. No one comes to the Syrian border in ISIS’s backyard to deliver personal information. No one even knew she was here. How did Lula know she was here?
“Surprised to see me?” Her smile widened.
Lula had been her friend since they met in gymnastics camp as little kids. They’d been BFF’s all through high school. They were still great friends, but the Internet kind, keeping up on Skype and emails as their lives and jobs took them in different directions. Christen hadn’t been in touch with Lula since Christen had deployed on this last assignment. And she had told no one she was leaving the US.
“Come, sit down.” Lula patted the seat beside her. “We need to talk.”
Yeah, no, this was weird. Christen glanced over at the colonel peering at her from behind his laced hands, his elbows perched on the desk. He was looking at her as if he was seeing a new side of her. Something he hadn’t calculated before.
“Colonel, I thought you might be sending me up,” Christen said.
“We’re working the situation.” His words had no actual meaning. It just told her that this was separate and apart from the Delta operators she’d left behind along with her teammates Smitty and Prominator.
“Lieutenant Davidson?” A woman shifted out of the shadow. She wore khaki pants and a t-shirt, but they weren’t military issue. They were upscale outdoors wear. She looked fit and had a no-nonsense gaze. Christen wondered what branch of the government she worked for. She definitely had some kind of military-type training. She had that look in her eye. Christen instantly got the impression that this woman needed something from her. An ask of some kind. And she’d brought Lula along as grease, to smooth things along.
The woman held out her hand. “I’m Johnna Red. I work for the government.”
CIA? FBI? NSA? As Christen shook hands with Johnna, she wondered if she’d ever know, or if she should care who this woman worked for.
“Please, sit. We need to talk,” she said in a warm, friendly tone.
Christen glanced again at her commanding officer, then slid onto the folding chair, curling her fingers around the seat. She wanted to jump up and shake the colonel. Why was this happening when their customers’ lives were endangered? Why were they sitting in an airconditioned office while her fellow Night Stalkers, were out in the hundred-and-ten-degree heat? Limited water. Bullets raining on them. The downed Black Hawk, magnetizing the militants to their location… this was surreal. Christen crossed her legs. Held. Crossed them the other way. Sprang to her feet.
“Sir, Prominator and Smitty!” she gasped.
“This comes from above me, lieutenant, sit down.”
“Yes, sir.” Christen folded herself miserably into her seat, her back straight, her shoulders squared, and sent a tight lipped wide-eyed stare toward Lula to project her thoughts - This damned well better be good.
“I know we’ve come at a bad time,” Johnna started, and stopped when Christen raised a single eyebrow in her direction.
“Christen,” Lula gathered Christen’s hand in hers. “We’re here because we need your help. You are the only one in the whole world who can help us.” Lula’s lips twitched into a smile. “Which, as I say it, sounds like some shady movie line.” She paused. “But this is big. Right now, your country needs you in its service, just not flying planes.” She tried on a smile, but Christen wasn’t warming to her. Lula shook her head. “You’re going to have to trust me. This is important to the big picture with lives at risk down the line. Military lives.”
Okay, now Christen was truly and completely confused. But still adamant. “I’m sorry. But no. I have a commitment to my unit. I’m not interested in any other assignment. I’m happy where I am.”
Johnna folded her hands in her lap and leaned forward. “We’ve spoken with the Pentagon and obtained permission for you to work on this project with us. We only anticipate this taking a very short while. Days not weeks. Then you’ll be right back here with your unit.”
“You had no right to do that,” Christen said evenly and turned to Lula. “What’s this got to do with?”
Neither Johnna nor Lula even attemp
ted an answer. Their gazes drifted to the colonel.
It was a compartmentalized secret. “Okay if not what, then whom? Who are you working for now, Lu?”
“Oh, I do International law, still. My office is in D.C. I work closely with the diplomatic corps and travel on those credentials.”
“You’re a spook,” Christen said.
“Do people even use that term anymore?” Lula asked. “I’m a lawyer who works with the US diplomatic corps—”
“Got it. What could I possibly be able to do that no one else in the entire world could do? And the answer is ‘no’ by the way.” She turned toward her colonel. “They can’t order me to do this can they? I’m not in their chain of command.”
“Lieutenant, you have a creed you live by.”
Christen didn’t like the direction he was heading. “I do.”
“‘Service in the 160th is a calling that few will answer. Our missions are demanding and hard. As you’ve proven today, they are almost impossible. And yet, you accomplished the impossible. Your only reward for that will be another mission. One that no one else will try.’” He was paraphrasing the Night Stalker creed, that was darned manipulative.
“That’s right, sir. And that’s why you should order me back out, right now. To finish what I started.”
“You’re needed elsewhere.” His tone was measured. Emotionless.
“With all due respect, sir, this doesn’t sound like a mission for the 160th.” She turned to Johnna. “Does it have anything to do with flying? Would you be the customer?”