Sea of Greed Page 8

  “That’s correct,” Rudi said. “Kurt Austin and Joe Zavala.”

  “Can they keep their mouths shut?”

  Rudi wondered where this was going. “I’m sure you’ve already asked your Vice President about that. He hired them. He brought them up through the ranks. I’ll defer to him on that question.”

  The President sat back and then glanced at his VP. “You really know how to pick them, Jim.”

  “I got lucky,” the Vice President said. “Should we cut to the chase?”

  “By all means,” the President said. He looked across the table to the geologist from the Energy Department. “Hallsman, the show is yours.”

  The first thing Hallsman did was slide a file across the desk to Rudi. It was far thinner than the one Rudi had left with Alcott.

  Rudi slid his hand under the band and broke the seal, opening it. The first page showed a map of the world, with pie charts on each continent showing the total oil reserves. There were sections for proven reserves, unproven but estimated reserves and, finally, theoretical recover scenarios.

  The second page was a chart depicting total world oil supply over the years and dividing it into used-up and remaining amounts. The numbers went up continuously, with the estimated recoverable supply climbing each decade, even though nearly a trillion barrels of oil had been extracted from the earth since the 1850s.

  Rudi looked through the numbers. “As I said, awash in oil.”

  “Yes and no,” Hallsman said.

  “I’m not sure where you get the no part,” Rudi said. “The amount of recoverable oil has gone up by thirty billion barrels in the last decade alone.”

  “Most of that is a result of the fracking revolution,” Hallsman said. “But, at any rate, these numbers are estimates. At this point, they can only be described as deliberately fudged estimates.”

  Rudi put the papers down. “What are you telling me?”

  “About eighteen months ago, we noticed an odd pattern,” Hallsman said. “Fields around the world that had been producing successfully for years suddenly began to run dry. At first, it seemed irrelevant. There was so much oil around, the big companies just shuttered the dying wells and opened the spigots on other projects. Supply remained abundant. The price remained low.”

  “At first,” Rudi said, repeating Hallsman’s words. “Am I to assume we’re no longer in that first phase?”

  Hallsman continued without answering the question. “Initially, we thought it might be caused by bad drilling techniques or wasteful, inefficient recovery systems, but the occurrences were too widespread. Over the next year, we began getting reports of dying fields in Africa, the Middle East and Malaysia, as well as similar tales coming from Venezuela and Russia—”

  The President broke in. “Central Intelligence confirmed that the Russians were having a horrible time keeping up production, drilling two wells for every one that went dry and still losing ground.”

  “It’s the same in every country,” Hallsman said. “Fields that had been producing for years and were expected to have decades of life were slowing to a trickle or drying up completely in a matter of months. Even newly discovered fields are being affected.”

  “Could it be a supplier’s trick?” Rudi asked. “A way to rattle the market and drive up the price? They’ve done that before. I recall hearing as a kid that there wouldn’t be any oil left by the year 2000. That didn’t turn out to be true.”

  “Not by a long shot,” Sandecker said. “And a few years back, it was peak oil and a downhill slope for reserves that would never be reversed. That wasn’t true either.”

  Rudi looked at Hallsman “But you think this is different.”

  “For two reasons,” Hallsman said. “First, if someone is trying to convince the world that the oil is running out, they’re doing a lousy job of advertising it. Every nation dealing with these changes has gone to great lengths to pretend it’s business as usual and the oil is still flowing freely. The false numbers I gave you came directly from nations that have been hit hardest by this sudden change.”

  “Can’t tell the world that the oil is running out when you’re too busy telling them you have plenty,” Sandecker added.

  “Agreed,” Rudi said and then turned back to Hallsman. “You mentioned two reasons. What’s the second one?”

  “Because the effects are now hitting home,” Hallsman said. “Six months ago, a large North Slope oil field in Alaska went into a rapid decline. From half a million barrels a day to a quarter of that in six weeks. It has continued dropping to less than a tenth of the normal production and is still falling. Randomly scattered fields in Texas, Oklahoma and California have gone through the same thing. And the offshore field that Alpha Star and the other platforms were attempting to revive crashed even more dramatically. In eight weeks it went from full production to nothing.”

  Rudi nodded. He could see the connection.

  “Taken individually, these things don’t add up to much,” Sandecker said. “But when you step back, you can see a different picture emerging. Oil fields going dormant all around the world, the corporations and companies who own them powerless to revive them and desperate to cover up the losses. And now a human element connected to the events. This is an act of war. A worldwide act. But by who and for what purpose, we don’t know.”

  Rudi looked at the chart again. “What are the real numbers?”

  Hallsman slid another paper toward him. It showed recoverable reserves down nearly fifty percent in the last eighteen months.

  “Aside from those of us in this room,” the President said, “very few others know the full scope of what’s happening. And we’d like to keep it that way. That’s why we’re not launching a big public investigation and why you’ll need to be discreet in everything NUMA does. I don’t want other agencies involved. That leads to leaks, which leads to us losing control of the message, which leads to panic.”

  “I understand that,” Rudi said, “but how is the price of oil not skyrocketing already?”

  Hallsman explained. “A glut of oil that had been built up in tankers and storage facilities around the world has cushioned the blow. That supply has largely been used up. To fill the void, we’ve been releasing oil from the strategic reserve. We think the Chinese are doing the same from their own reserves. But those actions will only keep the lid on for so long. Once the public gets wind of this, people will panic. Traders will bid the prices through the roof and everyone will scramble to grab what’s left on the table.”

  “How bad is it going to get?”

  “Two hundred dollars a barrel by the fall,” Hallsman suggested. “And if current trends are not reversed, seven to eight hundred dollars a barrel a year from now is not out of the question. I don’t have to tell you what happens if we get there.”

  “We’ll never get to seven hundred dollars a barrel,” Sandecker said. “World economic collapse, multiple wars and global depression will hit before then.”

  Rudi nodded. “Scarcity has been a precursor to war since the caveman walked the earth. What is it you want NUMA to do, Mr. President?”

  “Based on what your people discovered in the Gulf, we have our first direct evidence that there’s a man-made cause to this,” the President said. “I want NUMA to figure out who it is, what they’re doing and why. And if possible, find a way to stop it. We know there’s oil down in those fields, but it’s no use to anyone if we can’t get at it without blowing ourselves up.”

  Rudi sat back. “That’s a tall order. Wouldn’t the CIA and FBI be better used to investigate this?”

  The President shook his head. “Those two organizations have their own areas of proficiency, but there are factors here that go beyond what they do. To begin with, we have no idea how many offshore fields have been compromised. But when the final tally comes in, we expect it to be extensive. I have no doubt we’ll need NUMA’s aquatic ex
pertise to both establish and deal with that issue. More importantly, you people in NUMA get things done. Those other agencies spend a lot of time talking about getting things done. We don’t have time for that.”

  Rudi nodded. He would leave no stone unturned as he attempted to fulfill the President’s request. “I appreciate your faith in us. I’ll do everything I can to get to the bottom of this.”

  The President stood and everyone around the table did likewise. “Good,” he said. “The sooner, the better. Otherwise, my limo will be a horse and buggy by the year’s end.”

  13

  NUMA VESSEL RALEIGH, ON STATION IN THE GULF OF MEXICO

  ELEVEN COFFINS lay on the deck of the Raleigh the morning after the disaster. Inside the coffins rested the bodies of ten men and one woman, all crew members from the oil platforms.

  Some had died in the explosion, others were burned to death, still others had few obvious injuries but had been overcome by the toxic fumes or drowned trying to swim to safety.

  A dozen additional roughnecks remained missing.

  Standing by them, Kurt wondered briefly about each life that had ended prematurely. What had they left behind? What dreams had they never been given a chance to fulfill?

  Captain Brooks came up and remained respectfully silent for a moment before speaking. “Sad day,” he said. “You did all you could. More than anyone could expect.”

  Kurt nodded. He wasn’t thinking about the past but the future. He shifted his eyes from the coffins to the horizon.

  “Somewhere out there, the people who did this are reading the headlines and celebrating,” he said. “They might even be laughing with glee. Whoever they are, they’re not going to be so happy when I find them.”

  “Three of our own crewmen are in the sick bay with smoke inhalation and lung damage. Another crewman has chemical burns on him from pulling one of these bodies out of the water. So, when you find whoever did this . . . you give them my regards.”

  Kurt nodded. “With pleasure.”

  Brooks changed the subject. “Paul and Gamay Trout are on their way in. Joe’s waiting for you inside. He’s been taking apart whatever device you pulled off that submersible. Asked me to send you his way if I saw you.”

  “Thanks,” Kurt said.

  Kurt stepped inside and found Joe in one of the Raleigh’s recovery holds, where artifacts and salvaged items were stored during a mission.

  There, Joe had taken apart what they’d assumed was a battery pack and was examining it under a small microscope.

  “Making progress?” Kurt asked.

  “Depends on your definition of the term,” Joe said. “I called everyone I know in the submersible business, no one has even heard of a disk-shaped submersible, not even a design concept for one.”

  “Must have been built in-house somewhere,” Kurt said. “That might help us narrow down the list of suspects. What about this battery pack?”

  “It’s not a battery pack,” Joe said. “It’s a fuel cell. But its design and materials are like nothing I’ve ever seen. Very advanced stuff.”

  “Must be, if you can’t figure it out,” Kurt said. “Know anyone who can?”

  Joe nodded. “I have a friend in Florida who might be able to help. Her name is Misty.”

  “As long as she’s discreet and trustworthy, I’m game.”

  “Misty’s a lot of things,” Joe said with an odd look on his face. “I can’t exactly explain her to you. But she fits your requirements and she’s an electronics genius.”

  “Perfect,” Kurt said. “Pack this up. We’ll leave on the helicopter that’s bringing in Paul and Gamay.”

  14

  GULF OF MEXICO

  GAMAY TROUT peered through the bubble canopy of the Hughes 500 helicopter as it traveled across the Gulf at an altitude of five thousand feet. She had her seat pulled so far forward that the curved acrylic of the windshield ran up above her head. She could see sky and horizon above and around her. She could see past the rudder pedals at her feet to the shimmering sea below.

  “When I lean forward, it feels like I’m flying an invisible jet, like Wonder Woman.”

  “Glad you’re enjoying this,” a voice said from behind her. “When I lean forward, I hit my chin on the back of your chair.”

  “So, lean back.”

  “Then I hit my head on the ceiling.”

  Gamay twisted around to see her husband, Paul, having folded himself into an area that was far too small for an individual only a few inches shy of seven feet.

  Gamay turned to the pilot, who was a member of the NUMA aviation division. “How long before we arrive?”

  He pointed across his body to a column of smoke in the distance. “We had to swing wide,” he said, “so we could come in upwind and stay out of the smoke. But we’ll be landing in five minutes.”

  The pilot’s estimation proved spot-on as he set the egg-shaped helicopter down directly on top of the H precisely five minutes later.

  Gamay unlatched her seat belt and waited for the rotors to stop before popping open the side door. She climbed out, pulled a helmet off and shook out her red-wine-colored hair. She couldn’t see the fire in the distance, but from the sheer volume of smoke being produced, it was obvious that the fires were still raging.

  Paul climbed from the helicopter behind her, arched his back and stretched. Several audible cracks accompanied his realignment. “Ahhh . . .” he said. “That’s better.”

  “About time you two got here,” a voice said from the hatchway beyond the helipad.

  Both Gamay and Paul turned to see Kurt standing there. His silver hair was tucked under a NUMA ball cap.

  “Where’s the Alpha Star platform?” Gamay asked. “We couldn’t see it from the air.”

  “It went down late last night,” Kurt said.

  He walked up, gave Gamay a hug and then shook Paul’s hand.

  Stepping up beside her once again, Kurt offered to shoulder one of their bags. Gamay noticed the raw color of Kurt’s palm. It looked like a bad sunburn. She assumed it came from the fire.

  She pulled her backpack up onto her shoulder. “That’s okay,” she said. “We packed light. Now, what exactly is it you need us for?”

  Kurt waved them toward the hatch. “Your job is to collect samples of the gas that’s venting down below, figure out what it is and where it’s coming from. All we know about it at the moment is that it’s toxic, explosive, and it burns hot enough to melt steel. And the unsavory fact that it reacts with water, igniting upon contact.”

  “So you said,” Paul replied. “That’s rare. Especially for a gas. Are you sure it’s not another liquid or a solid dissolved in the flow of liquids?”

  “We’re not sure of anything,” Kurt said. “That’s why you’re here and why Joe and I are leaving it in your capable hands.”

  “You’re not sticking around?” Paul asked.

  “We have something else to take care of,” Kurt said.

  At that point, Joe appeared in the passageway carrying a pack and some large items that had been hastily boxed up in cardboard and wrapped in an overabundance of duct tape.

  “Souvenir,” Joe said, heading to the helicopter.

  Kurt took Paul and Gamay inside, showing them to their quarters. “One other thing,” he said. “You need to pretend that all you’re doing is studying the environmental impact of the fires. FEMA and the Coast Guard are technically in charge of everything else.”

  “Why not let them handle this as well?”

  “Because someone very high up wants us to do it and they want it done in secret.”

  Gamay stared at Kurt as he explained what Rudi had told him. “They’ll never keep this quiet for long,” she said.

  “We’ll let them worry about that,” Kurt said. “Just find out what you can.”

  “And what will you be d
oing in the meantime?” Paul asked.

  “Meeting one of Joe’s ex-girlfriends,” Kurt said.

  Kurt’s sly grin did nothing to ease Gamay’s sense that she and Paul were getting the short end of the stick, but she also knew Kurt would never take the easy road out. “Good luck with that.”

  “You, too,” Kurt said. “Keep me posted. And watch your backs.”

  15

  NUMA VESSEL RALEIGH

  EIGHT SHIPS from different sources clustered in the sea west of the fires. Two Coast Guard ships, two tugs, NUMA’s Raleigh, one tender operated by the Navy and two other ships chartered by FEMA.

  To make the mixed fleet work together, the head of FEMA had put representatives with satellite phones on each boat to coordinate with the captains and crews. Derrick Reynolds had come aboard NUMA’s boat.

  He was nearly forty, had grown up around Louisiana and had worked two dozen oil spills in the last decade. He knew how hard it was to get the oil companies or the government agencies to admit they’d done anything wrong. There would be hearings, committee meetings, maybe even fines—which the oil companies would pass on to their customers—but things never changed.

  He hoped this time would prove different. He hoped this time there would be action, that the regulations would change or a total ban on offshore oil would be put into place. He hoped for these things, but he doubted any of it would happen.

  After Deepwater Horizon, he’d given up on government action and began acting on his own. He’d met others who thought like him and they’d brought him into a loose underground network. Knowing he was on the scene, someone from that network had reached out to him. And Reynolds intended to answer.