Ill Wind (18 page)

Since the spraying, multi-spectral imagery from high-flying NASA planes showed a marked decrease in oil density around the spill. Prometheus was metabolizing the spilled crude more than a hundred times faster than expected. TV and print journalists had begun running feature stories about Kramer’s “miracle.”

It pleased Oilstar to no end—but Prometheus wasn’t supposed to be behaving that way.

Iris had taken samples from the surface of the spill where it had been treated with Prometheus. She detected plenty of carbon dioxide as waste product, as expected, but she also found substantial traces of sulfur dioxide and sulfuric acid.

Alex Kramer and Mitchell Stone had delivered the original control sample of microbes only last week. Kramer claimed the sample had remained in a cryogenic container for over a year. “The microbes we’ll be spraying are identical, but one generation removed,” Stone had assured her.

After running simple tests on the control, Iris established microbe reaction rates, temporal densities, and localized activity, everything neatly pigeonholed in its own statistical universe. Routine stuff, but she took pride in her work. All of her predictions for Prometheus had been grounded on this baseline.

Were these latest anomalies happening because she had somehow goofed up her initial test run? A screwup causing this much variance could cause a genetic laboratory to lose its license, and Iris knew she wasn’t that sloppy. Her parents had imposed a rigorous work ethic and study regimen on her; Iris had hated it while growing up, but it had proved very useful once she got into Stanford. Now she was damned good at what she did, and she knew it. She had reviewed her work and found no errors—and so, logically, the problem must come from somewhere else.

The microbes Todd Severyn had sprayed on the oil spill just didn’t match the baseline. Nowhere close. The rates were all wrong. And that, in her opinion, was impossible.

Unless she had been given a fake control sample.

Her insides twisted with a rush of cold uneasiness, disbelief, and anger at being jerked around. Kramer did not seem the type to play practical jokes, nor did he seem so careless. She had read and admired some of his published papers on the Oilstar bioremediation work.

But a difference of this magnitude couldn’t possibly be a mistake.

The only way she could tell the two organisms apart was through a genetic check. It was tough enough tracking down minuscule differences in genetic structure without a devoted team and dedicated equipment. She had tried to use Schaeffer’s Autotrans 700 down the hall, but he had just upgraded his GeneWorks software and had not yet reconfigured the system. And she couldn’t pay for an outside service, either, since the state Environmental Policy and Inspection department had frozen its support of her work with Oilstar and a dozen regulatory agencies in the middle of their legal battles.

Besides, if Prometheus cleaned up the
Zoroaster
spill much faster than expected—that was terrific, wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it?

Iris drained the rest of her coffee and turned from the whiteboard to pour
herself
another cup. On the stereo, the lead singer for Kansas urged her to “Carry on.”

She’d been in her teens when the
Exxon Valdez
had slathered the Alaskan coast with crude oil. Since then, certain microbial strains had been researched for various bioremediation applications, from plastic in landfills to toxic waste. Wall Street had seen enormous potential in startup bioremediation firms; even the White House had established a major initiative in biotechnology.

As she reached the bottom of her next cup of coffee, Iris started to feel a tingling buzz as her system became saturated with caffeine. Good. It helped her think.

Todd Severyn would have told her not to worry about the reaction rates.
It doesn’t matter if everything fits with predictions, as long as it works!
She didn’t know whether to scowl in annoyance or be amused at his ridiculous posturing. She couldn’t decide what she disliked most, his defensive reaction to her or his straightforward naivete.

But Todd had surprised her by bulldogging his way to get the spraying job done, and by sticking to his word even to the point of being arrested. It was a far cry from the whitewashing and polite lies that permeated faculty politics here at Stanford.

Iris found herself staring at the whiteboard. Turning, she poured the remainder of her coffee down a chemical disposal. Time to make a new pot.

The expected anomalies—the so-called “known unknowns” such as bacterial infection—were
a
cinch to account for because they had some kind of logical explanation.

But Prometheus had too many “unknown unknowns.”

Chapter 21

For the first time since the spill, Jackson Harris woke from a sound sleep in his own bed, instead of a sleeping bag on Angel Island. He blinked bleary eyes at the glowing green numbers on his digital clock on the nightstand next to his glass of water.

Daphne shook him awake again. “You’re gonna miss your interview, Jackson!” She was already up and dressed. He never understood how he could have been crazy enough to marry a genuine morning person.

Jackson and Daphne Harris had returned from Angel Island to their house in Oakland to prepare for several media interviews about their volunteer work. His stunt with the oil-covered pelican at Oilstar’s town meeting had been melodramatic, calculatedly so, but man did it make for great television! And there had been plenty of cameras to record it. No way did he mind media attention, not if it served the cause.

In an hour, he was scheduled to be interviewed in the San Francisco National Public Radio studio for their morning “Forum” show; then he would go to the KRON TV studio to tape a human-interest spot for the evening news on Channel 4. TV stations liked Harris because he was actually doing something about his convictions, getting volunteers to work, putting his money where his mouth was. And these interviews worked like magic, stirring up donations to keep the brothers and sisters going.

As he crawled out of bed, Harris smelled coffee brewing, a rich aroma that smelled good enough to waft off a commercial. He listened to the morning city sounds of Oakland: the traffic, the neighbors, the radio sounded too loud after days isolated on the island. He flinched with guilt, knowing his volunteers had to make do with the primitive facilities available on the state park.

Harris was convinced that the Prometheus microbe had made progress. The oil had a rotten smell now, and the globs of crude were thicker, as if the lighter hydrocarbons had dissolved away. But the volunteers had not lessened their efforts. As a warm shower pounded his body, Harris stood in a daze. His body had never ached like this in his life.

In his years working with the Sierra Club and Greenpeace, or fighting for city funding dollars, Harris had become outspoken. He had learned how to talk in front of an audience, how to drop sound bites so the reporters would quote exactly what he wanted them to, how to get them to ask the right follow-up questions.

Daphne handed him a cup of coffee and turned up the stereo as Harris dressed in his interview clothes, one of the rare times he dragged the suit and the tie out of the back corner of the closet. He loved good music, but being at the mercy of the too-much-talk Top 40 radio stations on the boom box out on Angel Island had made him grumpy. Humming to a classic Jackson Browne song, he tried three times to knot the tie evenly; Daphne finally had to straighten it for him.

He took a sip of coffee,
then
glanced at his watch; he had to split. He considered taking the cup in the car, but he would probably spill it all over his shirt during the commute. He gulped the rest instead, kissed Daphne,
then
headed for the door. She raised her eyebrows and gave him a thumbs-up as she stood on the porch. As soon as he left, she would start making phone calls, hunting down additional supplies or volunteers.

Outside, the morning was brisk, clear. A faint tracing of dew highlighted dusty streaks on his windshield. He felt refreshed, ready to take on any interviewer. At another time he might have felt nervous, with the beginnings of stage fright in his gut, but the
Zoroaster
spill had made him so angry that he couldn’t keep quiet.

Their home had a small yard and low property value, located too close to the BART mass-transit tracks—but it was home. He and Daphne had chosen to live there in the thick of things, among the people they wanted to help. The lawn was losing its battle against the thistles and weeds, which looked greener than the drying grass. A faint, sour odor of pesticide drifted over from his neighbor’s lawn, but the other grass didn’t look any better off. Gang graffiti was scrawled on some of the brick fences nearby, but street kids left him alone, especially since he had taken some of them on day trips out to state parks.

Normally, he would have taken BART into San Francisco, jostling and standing among all the other commuters, but neither the TV nor the radio station was close to the BART line; it would take him all morning if he worked his way through the labyrinth of MUNI bus service. Instead, he’d drive his own green Pinto station wagon, which had served him faithfully for 200,000 miles now.

When Harris sat behind the wheel, the springs creaked under him. He put the key into the ignition and tried to start the engine, but the Pinto groaned and coughed like a cat trying to spit up a furball. Something smelled rotten, worse than the burnt-rubber smell of the old vinyl seats. He frowned and twisted the key again. He hadn’t been having any trouble with the car. The engine struggled, but would not turn over.

Harris slammed his palm on the steering wheel, eliciting a thin peep from the horn. He couldn’t miss his interview. “Why today, of all days?” The car didn’t answer. Daphne peeked out at him from the small kitchen window and duck away. He tried the key once more, with no better luck. He looked at his watch again.

Harris ran inside the house. Daphne was already on the phone, trying to call emergency road service. The line was busy. She hung up and dialed again. Frustrated, Harris grabbed the thick Oakland telephone book and flipped to the yellow pages.

“I don’t have time for this, baby,” he told her.

“I know you don’t.”

She called one emergency service listing after another; most of the lines were busy. She mimicked one recording with a sarcastic, old-biddy voice, “sorry, but all of our personnel are currently out on calls assisting other customers.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Harris asked. “This is the dumbest excuse I ever heard of for missing a big interview! When was the last time we drove the car?”

“Yesterday. It sounded kind of ragged then.”

“It always sounds ragged.”

Daphne finally got through to the last place listed, but after she cocked her head and listened for a moment, she slammed the receiver down. “Fifteen names ahead of us,” she said, “at least a two-hour wait.”

“Why on Earth are all the emergency vehicles already out on calls? What the hell is going on?” Harris muttered.

Daphne waggled her finger at him. “Bitch about it later, Jackson. Right now you get your ass down to the BART station, then get a cab inside San Francisco.”

“A cab! We can’t afford that!”

“You can’t afford to miss this interview either. This is important. Now go!” She swatted him on the butt as he sprinted out the door.

In his best clothes, Jackson Harris began to run toward the BART station.

Chapter 22

In the early morning rush hour, Todd Severyn joined three million other people trying to stampede into the city, bumper to bumper. By now he hated downtown San Francisco and wanted desperately to be back in Wyoming.

His arraignment hearing was set for 10:00 AM.

Crawling across the Bay Bridge, expensive foreign cars surrounded him, BMWs and Mercedes with conservative paint jobs, Porsches in blazing tasteless colors. They all kept a car length from Todd’s heavy Ford pickup that could squash them in a second. He rolled up the windows after choking down some of the noxious fumes. Toward the horizon, even the air had a gray-brown tinge.

Wearing new polyester slacks—bought for the impending arraignment—instead of his usual jeans, Todd was hot and uncomfortable. He hoped he would make a good impression; he had even polished his boots. He seemed to squeak when he moved, and he had nicked himself shaving.

He wasn’t supposed to do anything but stand and look innocent—and get there on time. Oilstar’s lawyers would handle the rest, but that didn’t put him at ease. He’d never even met them.

Through gaps in the bridge
guard rails
, he caught glimpses of the glittering water underneath. Oil still shone on the surface, but it seemed sparse now, clumpier. Dozens of recovery boats dotted the black lake, nibbling at the perimeter. Alex’s little Prometheus bugs seemed to be working.

The traffic inched ahead. Todd had the urge to pound his fist on the loud horn of his truck, but that would make him look as bad as the other city jerks. A charcoal-gray Mercedes in front of him belched bluish smoke from its diesel engine; in the car beside him he could see a woman squinting in her rear-view mirror, applying makeup; behind him, a man read the newspaper while driving, casting an occasional glance at the road.