Darkness Falls (10 page)

Beamon just smiled and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He took one for himself and held the pack out. Erin shook his head, but Asli accepted and let Beamon light it for him.

"And now," the Arab continued, letting the smoke billow from his mouth as he spoke, "he's the head of a Homeland Security division that we know very little about beyond the fact that it is concerned with securing America's energy supply. At any cost, I assume. Would you care to comment, Mr. Beamon?"

The elevator stopped and the doors opened, but Asli didn't move.

"A lot of the stories about me have been exaggerated," Beamon said. "And the reason you don't know anything about the organization I work for is because it doesn't actually do anything. Not that unusual for Homeland Security, really."

"So I'm to understand that they inserted a man with your background and reputation to head an organization that, as you say, does nothing?"

"It's the God's honest truth, Mohammed. I'm getting married and inheriting a kid pretty soon. I go to the zoo. I play golf."

It was clear from Asli's face that he wasn't buying any of it. "So, you vouch for this man, Erin?"

He wasn't sure what to say. Beamon had been a bit of an enigma since they'd met, and now he was starting to sound like a dangerous enigma. "I barely know him, Mo. You make your own decision."

The door began to close again and Asli stuck a hand out at the last moment, reversing it. "Since you left, three more wells have failed."

"And are you seeing any indication of problems at other wells?"

He glanced at Beamon again before starting down the empty corridor. "At four more."

Erin let out a long breath and watched Asli punch a code into a pad next to a heavy steel door. The room beyond wasn't as impressive as Erin had imagined -- just a few computer terminals and some chairs scattered about.

"Okay, we're going to run a simulation," Erin said, rolling a leather chair up to one of the terminals and inviting Asli to sit. The Arab did, but obviously he wasn't happy about it.

"We're going to assume that the bacteria came in through water injectors, Mo."

"No," Asli said. "Our water is treated to prevent this. In fact, the treatment process is based on your design."

"Humor me."

Beamon wandered around behind them looking for an ashtray. "What's a water injector?"

"Don't you know anything about oil drilling, Mark?"

"Not really. Why would I?"

"Because you run . . . oh, never mind. Think of a reservoir as just a big cave full of oil that's under pressure. You drill a hole and the oil shoots out, right? But after you take a bunch out, the reservoir loses pressure and that means you have to pump in a corresponding amount of water to keep the pressure up. It's about a thousand times more complicated than that, but you get the point." He turned to Asli. "Do you have water-injection history on the problem area, Mo?"

"Of course."

"Okay. Then here are the assumptions. Let's say it got into the water supply through all the treatment facilities in the span of a week."

"That's simply not possible," Asli protested. "The water for the different treatment plants doesn't even come from the same places. Some is aquifer water, some is seawater --"

"You're humoring me, remember?" He shrugged.

"With how much bacteria?" Asli asked.

It was a good question. Probably no more than a person could reasonably carry. "Call it three liters per injector."

"Okay. When?"

"Let's start with three years ago and see where that gets us."

"How fast does it spread?"

Erin pulled the keyboard toward him and typed in the numbers that Andropolous had come up with.

A detailed map of the reserve appeared on the screen and they watched a purple stain begin spreading out from the water injectors.

After about twenty seconds, Asli paused the simulation. "It doesn't work. The wells are going down in the wrong order. In fact, three years ago, there was no injection program in the area of one of those wells, so your scenario is impossible."

Erin jammed his hands into the pockets of his shorts. The problem was that Asli and everyone else was assuming this was a natural event and not someone purposely pumping bacteria into the system. Now the question became how far in that direction did he want to lead them, in light of the fact that it was his genetic design.

"Erin?" Asli prompted.

"I'm thinking."

He turned and paced back and forth across the room, feeling a chill that he told himself was caused by the air conditioning.

This wasn't Alaska. It was Ghawar -- the largest oil field in the world. He glanced up at the ceiling, but wasn't sure what he was looking for. Ghosts? A whisper from Jenna about what the hell was going on?

The bottom line was that he could have ignored what was happening in Alaska, but he couldn't ignore this. If he was right, this could affect the entire world. And worse, it might just be the beginning.

He finally walked back and leaned over Asli's shoulder. "Okay, we know which wells have gone down and when, the permeability of the reserve, and the spread rate of the bacteria. We're going to assume that about three liters of bacteria came in through the water injectors over the span of a week. With that information, can you solve for the date it was introduced?"

Asli caressed the computer's space bar for a few seconds. "Yes, it can be done, but it's beyond the software's built-in capabilities. It's going to take some specific programming."

Erin patted him on the back. "Do it."

"I actually used two variables," Asli said, jerking Erin awake and nearly causing him to fall off the chairs he'd fashioned into a makeshift bed. "The date and the amount of bacteria introduced -- which you didn't seem certain about. It made for an incredible number of permutations, which is why it has taken the computer so long to calculate."

"You got an answer?" Erin said, grabbing his cold coffee from the floor and walking up behind the man. Beamon leaned against the back wall, his expression approximating resignation.

"I got a nearly exact match." Asli tapped the screen. "It was actually two liters of bacteria, thirteen months ago."

Erin frowned and watched the simulation on the screen take down the wells in the correct order and timeframe. But thirteen months couldn't be right. That was after Jenna and the others had died. "I think you made a mistake, Mo."

"Why?" he heard Beamon say. "That date and amount seems as good as any to me."

"It's hard to explain in simple terms," Erin fumbled. "It, uh, doesn't seem like it could spread that fast."

He could feel Beamon's eyes drilling into his back, but tried to ignore it. "Could it have been earlier, Mo? Maybe there was less bacteria to start."

Asli shook his head. "Maybe a month earlier. Two at the most. But one of those injection wells is only fifteen months old, so that brackets it."

A hot sweat broke across Erin's forehead. "Are you alright?" Asli asked.

"Could you excuse me for a second?"

He concentrated on walking as naturally as he could past Beamon and through a door that led to a tiny bathroom. Locking the door behind him, he slowly slid down onto the floor.

No bodies were ever found.

There was the distress call saying they were taking on water, but the seas had been calm. An hour later, a plane had flown overhead, but there was no sign of Teague's ship. No debris, no people in the water, no oil slick. Nothing.

Erin pulled his knees close to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. As self-described radical environmentalists, Teague and his people would have been on a list somewhere in the government -- not exactly an ideal situation for creating a bacteria to destroy oil reserves. Now that he actually gave it some thought, it made complete sense.

"Oh, my God," he said quietly, burying his head in his knees. Jenna hadn't drowned. None of them had.

The banging on the door broke him from his trance and he jumped to his feet, taking deep, controlled breaths.

"Erin?" came the muffled voice. "Are you okay?"

He pulled the door open and yanked Beamon inside, slamming it behind them and then just staring stupidly at him.

To his credit, Beamon didn't press, instead filling the silence by lighting another cigarette. "So how bad is it, Erin?"

"Bad. Mark --"

"Yes?"

"I . . . I think it's time for us to go talk to the president."

Beamon took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke at the ceiling. "We're already on his schedule. Ten tomorrow morning."

Chapter
12.

"Excuse me. Sir?"

Jenna Kalin watched through her open window as the gas station attendant approached a man pulling what seemed to be an endless series of gas cans from the back of his pickup.

"You can't fill those," the attendant said, pointing to a large handwritten sign saying just that. "Tanks only. There are a lot of people waiting and we don't have another supply truck coming in for a few days."

"Who's going to stop me?" the man responded without looking up from what he was doing. His confidence was undoubtedly the product of outweighing the attendant by a good hundred pounds, most of which appeared to be fat.

Jenna refused to look in her rearview mirror as the sound of car doors opening became audible. Just one minivan was gassing up in front of her, then she could fill her tank and get the hell out of there. Living with what she'd done was hard enough without being trapped right in the middle of the consequences.

"You too stupid to read?" someone shouted. "No fucking gas cans!"

More car doors opened, and she rolled up her window in a futile effort to block everything out.

All the economists had said the same thing: ANWR just didn't produce enough fuel to affect the U. S. economy. There would be an initial panic and the ensuing run on gas stations would create a temporary shortage that would last no more than a few days. But it wasn't getting better, it was getting worse.

When the minivan in front of her pulled away, she idled forward and jumped out to unscrew the gas cap on Teague's now-battered Expedition, trying to ignore the two men shouting at each other behind the pump. The attendant had retreated in favor of the more appropriately sized owner of a Bronco four cars back in line. The rhythm of the horns around her suggested that the people were out for blood.

Jenna had barely pushed the nozzle into her tank when one of the gas cans in question skittered across the ground and slid beneath her rear wheels. When the two men started shoving each other and the horns increased in intensity, she almost jumped back into her car and took off. But she'd been in line for over an hour and needed to go farther than two gallons could get her. Really, she needed to go farther than a thousand gallons would get her.

When a distant siren became audible, she yanked the nozzle out and sped away, running over the gas can as she accelerated toward the exit.

Instead of turning back toward the highway, she went in the opposite direction and followed the winding street until the traffic disappeared. Her breath was coming in short, uncontrolled gasps as she pulled onto the shoulder.

The phone resting on a stack of newspapers in the seat next to her began ringing for the twentieth time that day, but she refused to look at it, instead concentrating on slowing her breathing. There was little question about who was calling.

By the time the phone fell silent, she'd managed to quell her rising panic.

"What now?" she said to the empty car.

Her life alone on that windy knoll in Montana hadn't been much, but it had been something. Now all she had was a damaged SUV rented to someone else, the clothes on her back, a credit card that Michael Teague could probably track, and a few investment accounts that he probably had access to.

The phone started ringing again and this time she picked up.

"Jenna, we have to talk."

"You tried to kill me, Michael."

"It's not true. You're being hysterical. I wanted to control you, Jenna. Not hurt you."

"Control me?" she said quietly. "Jonas --"

"You did what you did, Jenna. We both know it was necessary and turning yourself and us in won't change anything. I wanted to keep an eye on you until all this dies down. In a month, no one will even remember ANWR or a few insignificant delays at the gas station. You know that."

What she knew was that she'd been a complete idiot. To Teague, everything was a selfish act -- even friendship. He surrounded himself with people who admired him, or could help him, or entertained him. But he valued you only to the degree that you did one or more of those things. How could she let herself become so blinded that she would get involved with someone like him?

"Let's meet," he said. "We'll just talk. You pick the place -- anywhere you're comfortable."

"I don't think we have anything to talk about."

"How about your life, Jenna? You mentioned terrorism, and in a way you're right. That's exactly the way the government would view this. Do you know what they do to terrorists now? Where they'll put you?"