Ill Wind (12 page)

Iris pulled herself into the helicopter from the passenger side, scrambling to the back seat. The rotors made a whirring sound like the world’s loudest fan. She stuck her head out of the cockpit. “Hey, Tex! They’re not here to sell you Avon products! Get your butt inside—you can gawk all you want from the air.”

Todd’s cheeks burned that someone else was telling
him
to hurry! He clambered in.

On the pier, Alex Kramer stepped out of the corrugated metal control shack, looking with blank, astonished eyes at the approaching group of people. He seemed startled at the interruption,
then
raised his hands as if to surrender.

“Go!” Todd shouted at the helicopter pilot. His pulse
raced,
as if this were as big a threat as the last time he had leaped into a chopper to escape the sinking
Zoroaster
.

The pilot popped her gum, eyes invisible behind mirrored sunglasses. “Okay, you’re paying for it if I burn anything out. Buckle up.”

One man ran ahead of the others on the pier, weaving his way around the debris and equipment piled there. In one hand he gripped a folded piece of paper like a weapon. It was that wacko Jake Torgens, known for pounding spikes into trees to stop lumberjacks. Torgens’s words vanished in the increasing roar of the helicopter’s rotor. Todd leaned over the side and mouthed, ‘I can’t hear you!’ and pointed first at his ears, then at the helicopter blades.

The pilot pulled back on the control stick, and the copter wobbled as it lifted off the pier. It hung for a moment like a bumblebee before darting higher.

Torgens, clutching the folded paper, put on a burst of speed; for a moment Todd thought he was going to make a leap for the landing strut, like a scene from a James Bond movie. But he pulled up short, shaking a fist at them.

The copter soared away from the Oilstar pier, turning south to fly under the span of the Richmond/San Rafael
bridge
.

Todd turned to Iris. “I just don’t get these guys. They scream at Oilstar to clean up the spill, then they scream when we try to do it.” He shook his head. “If we listened to people like that, we’d still be in caves arguing about the dangers of fire.”

Iris looked at him with one uplifted eyebrow. He had never seen eyes as dark as hers. “Interesting you should use that analogy when we’re about to disperse a microbe called
Prometheus.
”

“Right.” Todd tried not to show that he didn’t know what she meant. “Well, I wish those people would
disperse
too.”

The helicopter headed toward the heart of the spill, where they would begin spraying.

Chapter 13

As Spencer Lockwood’s plane descended toward San Francisco International, he watched the tiny, glimmering traffic crawl along the freeways below. Sunlight skated across iridescent rainbows on the oil slick sprawled across the Bay.

He didn’t want to be here. He felt like a politician with all the smiling, handshaking, and logrolling he would be required to do with his colleagues at Sandia National Lab in Livermore. “Networking,” Nedermyer called it, but it didn’t have much to do with actual working. Spencer wished he was back in New Mexico, refining the solar satellite experiment—they had so much analysis and refinements left to do! He was wasting his time.

He mentally slapped his hand for maintaining such a bad attitude. Chin up! It’ll all pay off in the end. Right . . .

The other passengers craned their heads to see through the scratched double glass of the jet’s windows. Spencer grimaced at how far the oil had spread across the green-blue water. With a satisfied smile, he wished he could go up and down the aisle, whispering the words “Think solar!” into everyone’s ears.

He rubbed his eyes and wished the flight attendants would bring another cup of coffee. Spencer hated flying in early, but otherwise he had to give up an extra day for traveling. And whenever Spencer was gone, Rita Fellenstein tinkered with the equipment at the antenna farm. Even though her modifications worked like a charm—most of the time—Spencer didn’t like to discover them after the fact.

He heard a whirring
thunk
beneath the fuselage as the landing gear locked into place. Flight attendants strolled by, snatching napkins and plastic cups. Spencer tucked his briefcase under the seat, holding it with his ankles. Inside were viewgraphs detailing the resounding success of his smallsats over the antenna
farm.
He couldn’t wait to show them off, win a few more supporters, and get back to White Sands.

Sandia, one of the nation’s Big Three national laboratories, had a huge primary facility in Albuquerque on Kirtland Air Force Base; but much of Sandia’s alternative energy work took place in their smaller facility in Livermore, California, about an hour’s drive east from San Francisco. With discretionary funds, Sandia had paid for part of Spencer’s smallsat testbed, as well as the miles-long electromagnetic launcher that ran up Oscura Peak in White Sands.

Spencer’s request to speak before the energy gurus at Sandia Livermore seemed an inspired idea. After working as a grad student at Caltech under a Nobel laureate, then successfully filing several
money-making
patents of his own, Spencer considered himself a whiz kid, flaunting his success in the face of stodgy committees. But after Lance Nedermyer’s unreasonable skepticism, Spencer decided to become more visible among his colleagues. Working on his own, on a shoestring budget with a bunch of young Turks, he needed
validation
more than anything else.

Spencer sat back in his seat and went over the canned talk in his head. The wreck of the
Zoroaster
had provided the world’s biggest visual aid against dependence on oil.

#

Car horns blared, tires screeched—

Spencer jammed on the brakes, nearly standing up in the rental Mazda. A sudden flash of cold sweat burst over his body. The woman in a blue Mercedes behind Spencer gave him a one-finger salute after she too squealed to a halt.

He took a moment to compose himself,
then
looked up and down the line of stopped cars. Traffic wasn’t moving on the San Mateo Bridge. Cars, camper trucks, flatbeds, vans, and motorcycles had come to a halt in both directions.

Spencer had driven from the airport over the second longest of the five bridges spanning the Bay. While the western end of the San Mateo Bridge rose high to allow large ships passage, the rest of the span lay only a few feet above the shallow water, like a road floating on the Bay.

Spencer rolled down his window, but the breeze smelled like a mixture of rotten eggs and burning tires, foul odors from the volatile components of crude oil. Crinkling his nose, he quickly rolled the window back up. He turned up the radio and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He couldn’t find any music. News announcers kept talking about the “
Zoroaster
Disaster,” using the rhyming phrase like a slogan; no doubt it would show up on the next cover of
Newsweek
.

Spencer hated traffic, idiot drivers
,
honking horns, exhaust fumes
. At times like this, he appreciated the long, straight highways in New Mexico, where you could rip open the engine and fly by at a hundred miles an hour, never seeing another soul.

He got out and climbed on top of his white Mazda Protege to see if he could tell where the traffic was held up, but he saw only stopped vehicles. He looked at his watch, wondering if he would ever make his noon meeting at Sandia National Lab. Dammit, he had cut his schedule close, but he should have had enough time—if only he had remembered to allow for traffic snarls.

Other people stepped out of their cars, giving up on waiting. Children ran to the edge of the
guard rail
, looking down in the oily water; parents shouted for them to come back. Spencer stared with a mixture of awe and disgust at the thick stain like gangrene on the bay. By contrast, White Sands and the array of gleaming microwave antennas seemed so pristine, so silent, so
clean.
. . .

Thousands of people had driven to get a glimpse of the largest oil spill in history. Some shimmied down to the water and bottled a souvenir, like Mount St. Helens ash. He drew in a deep breath of air,
then
choked on the stink.

A low sound of chopping filled the air. Probably a police helicopter checking out the traffic jam. He imagined a voice blaring from a loudspeaker, “All right down there! Everybody into their cars and start moving at the count of three!”

As the whirring grew louder, a low-flying copter bore down on them from the north. Painted bright green, the machine obviously belonged to no police service. The helicopter flew quite low, spraying something onto the water surface. Spencer frowned.
Some kind of dispersant?

He looked up as the helicopter doubled back, making an overlapping pattern on the water. Spencer shaded his eyes as it swooped low over the bridge. He ducked into the car as a fine mist drifted down onto the stopped traffic. Although he couldn’t smell anything over the petroleum fumes, he hoped the spray contained nothing toxic. As the craft passed overhead, he could see an enormous drum slung under the fuselage.

Several of the spectators standing on the bridge were sprayed; they jumped for cover, but the helicopter continued southward. Spencer used the windshield wipers to smear the droplets on his windshield, spreading it like translucent fingerpaint across the glass. Before long, the moisture evaporated, leaving only a faint residue, a thin gummy film. He waited for the cars to start moving again.

Finally, long after the helicopter had disappeared from sight, the tops of trucks far ahead of him crept forward. With a sigh of relief, Spencer started the engine, glanced at his watch one more time,
then
began the crawl toward Sandia lab.

Chapter 14

Two hundred feet above the water, Todd Severyn couldn’t decide which was worse: the jolting, ear-splitting throb of the helicopter . . . or the pilot’s radio blasting out “We Built This City on Rock and Roll.” At least the ride was a bit more comfortable than the crazy takeoff from the deck of the sinking
Zoroaster
a few days earlier.

He had long since stopped trying to carry on a conversation with Iris Shikozu, who sat behind him in the cramped passenger compartment. Between the pilot’s radio and the streams of cold air blasting through the open window next to him, he couldn’t hear much anyway. He thought wistfully about riding across the Wyoming grasslands, and concentrated instead on waiting out the test. Sitting here, he felt as useful as a middle manager.

The pilot nudged her mirrored sunglasses against the bridge of her nose,
then
prepared for another run. Momentum pulled Todd against the cold, hard metal cabin wall as she wheeled the helicopter around like an old-time barnstormer. She gripped the spray lever that released a fine mist of the nutrient solution swarming with Prometheus microbes. Their first pass had cut straight down the middle of the slick; overlapping flights followed in a classic mosaic coverage pattern.

Todd turned to stare out the window. He could make out the discolored mud flats of the South Bay. Black film from the oil slick outlined sandbars in the shallow water.

He watched Iris as she looked past him to the water below. It was obvious she didn’t share the same enthusiasm for Kramer’s little buggies, but she didn’t voice any direct skepticism when he asked her directly. Maybe she was one of those folks who always looked on the bad side. A glass was half empty instead of half full. But Iris had to believe
some
good would come of the spraying, or she wouldn’t be here in the first place.

She leaned forward to yell in his ear, startling him. “You’re certain of the initial canister temperature?”

What does that have to do with anything?
“Absolutely. I made sure we followed Doc Kramer’s checklist to the letter. The buggies were kept near freezing. Now they’re awake, and it’s time for breakfast.”

Iris said, “
If
this works.”

Todd frowned at her attitude. “It will.” He’d done his part of the job, and so had everyone else. As far as he was concerned, it was all over but the waiting.

Todd sat back in his vibrating
naugahyde
seat, glancing at Iris. The hint of a smile tugged at her lips. It flustered him not to know whether she was intentionally pushing his buttons. He turned away to cover his confusion.

On the next pass they came upon the oil suddenly as they sped across the water, not more than ten feet above the surface. The helicopter bounced in turbulence. Strangely enough, Todd felt more at ease flying low—it reminded him of roundup time, when he had ridden in his dad’s chopper to herd some of the cattle from the open range in Wyoming.

The pilot clenched her grip on the spray control lever. Behind them they left a trail of fine mist drifting down to the water. The helicopter soared low over the San Mateo Bridge where thousands of cars jammed the narrow strip of concrete. Todd looked down at the people staring up at them. The spectators probably didn’t have any idea what was going on.

The radio crackled. The pilot grabbed the handset without easing up on the controls. She acknowledged the speaker. “Yo! For you, Mr. Severyn,” she said. “Mr. Plerry, back at the pier.”