Ill Wind (8 page)

Cochran glanced at both of their badges,
then
turned to flip through an appointment book. “Oh. Bioremediation people.”

Branson heaved a weary sigh. Dr. Kramer hung behind Stone, who seemed too full of
himself
. She decided which one to trust on the basis of her first impression. Kramer looked tired and listless, with a simmering fire behind his eyes. She recalled a memo that had mentioned Kramer’s name, something about losing his family in an accident, an Oilstar fund to send flowers. She had even signed the form letter herself.

“What can we do for you, gentlemen? We’re in the middle of an important meeting.”

Stone flinched a smile. As he stepped into the room, the strong smell of his sweet cologne mingled with the haze of cigarette smoke thickening the air. “We need you to listen to us for a moment. What you decide after that is up to you.”

The deputies frowned at the interruption. “We’ll be brief,” Dr. Kramer interjected, looking very uncomfortable.

Mitch strode toward an overhead projector in the corner of the room. He pulled a set of viewgraphs from under his arm and slapped one on the projector, punching the button that turned on the lamp. The title stood out against the blue-and-gold Oilstar logo: THE PROMETHEUS PROJECT.

Branson sighed. “Is a canned presentation really necessary? I get enough plastic flipped at me that I don’t believe my people can think for themselves anymore. Just talk to me and get it over with.”

Stone faltered, then flicked off the projector. “Of course.” He drew a breath. “In the Bioremediation section, we’ve been searching for a way to use natural microbes to break down substances in the environment, toxic wastes and so forth. Dr. Alex Kramer, here, and myself head up a team studying ways to break down long-chain polymers in landfills. You know, plastic garbage bags, beverage containers,
styrofoam
cups, and packaging. Waste products of such polymers deteriorate very slowly. We’re trying to find ways to get rid of it.”

“Excuse me!” Walter Pelcik said, raising his voice. His bushy brown beard stuck out in all directions. “We’ve got an oil spill to deal with here.”

Stone raised his voice a notch higher and continued without acknowledging the interruption, speaking directly to Branson, as if she was the only one who counted. Smart guy. But he had better get to the point in the next few seconds.

“As the first step, we developed an organism we called Prometheus. This little microbe has an appetite for octane—the eight-carbon molecule in gasoline . . . and
crude oil.

“At the time, we didn’t see any use for it, but we applied for an FDA license just in case. Why would anyone want to decompose crude oil? Well, now it seems you might have a use for our little miracle.” Stone looked at the others. Dr. Kramer hovered beside him, fidgeting but not interrupting Stone. The conference room became quiet as the information sank in.

“Let me get this straight,” said Branson. An unexpected sensation twisted inside of her. Hope. “You’ve come up with some kind of germ that
eats
crude oil?”

“Not all of it,” Dr. Kramer answered, stepping forward, moving in front of Stone, “only the octane component and some of the ring hydrocarbons.”

Branson got right to the point. “So what does it leave behind? What kind of toxic mess are we going to have to deal with? Will we be in worse trouble than we are now, like with dispersants?”

“No.” Dr. Kramer shook his head vigorously. “Octane is just carbon atoms and hydrogen. When the Prometheus organism metabolizes the octane, it leaves behind CO2 and H2O, carbon dioxide and water, with maybe a little hydrogen sulfide—like rotten eggs—from sulfur contaminants in the mix.
Nothing toxic whatsoever.
It’ll work.”

Stone picked up the thread. “From our studies, we know that 25 percent of the
Zoroaster
crude is lightweight hydrocarbons that will evaporate off in a few days all by themselves.
The rest of it, though, will be broken down slowly by photo-oxidation and natural microorganisms in the water
. That part will take years.”

His eyes gleamed. “What we’re offering is a way to get rid of all the
octane
in the spill. That, plus the evaporation effects, will decrease the amount of visible oil on the Bay by something like 65 percent in a few
days
—and it will leave no pollution behind.”

Dr. Kramer cleared his throat. “We need to make clear, though, that Prometheus does not attack longer-chain hydrocarbons. That’s been our problem in fighting
styrofoam
and plastic waste. You’ll still be left with the tarry residue they keep showing on the news.”

Branson’s heart pounded, and a flush rose in her face. “But from the public’s point of view, over half the spill will disappear? That’s a dramatic and obvious effect.”

“You said you applied for an FDA license—why don’t you have it? And what if this microbe spreads?” Cochran said. “How are we going to get rid of it when we’re done?”

Dr. Kramer shook his head. He spoke confidently, as if daring them to disbelieve him. “That’s not unusual. It takes
years
for the FDA to process those things. Anyway, we should be able to get a waiver in an emergency. The other problem will take care of itself. These microorganisms are not indigenous to the area. We got them out of the ocean, near volcanic vents deep beneath the Gulf of Mexico. We crossbred them with some of the other oil-eating strains from samples along the beaches in Prince William Sound in Alaska. They’ll flourish for a while, feasting on the spilled crude oil, but they’ll die out quickly. They can’t handle this climate, and their food source will disappear as soon as the spill goes away. They can never become airborne.”

“We’ve demonstrated that several times in laboratory tests,” Stone added. “We can show you the reports. Dr. Kramer has all his lab books.”

“Well, we have to do something,” Branson said, tapping her nails on the table. She looked around the smoky room. “And this could look very, very good for Oilstar.”

“It’s not a cure-all,” Dr. Kramer said.

“We’re only interested in a short-term solution for now,” she retorted. “I need something spectacular to confirm that Oilstar is doing all it can. Once the press is satisfied, they’ll turn to some other problem.” She tapped a pencil on the table. “How soon can you have it? When can we try it?”

Stone flipped through viewgraphs to double-check information he should have known perfectly well—unless he was just putting on an act to appear overly conscientious. “Prometheus has been successfully tested. We got piles of reports out of it. We’ve already started making a supply, and the strain reproduces quickly. That’s one of its advantages. Once we get the waiver from the FDA, we can start spraying the spill in a day or so.”

“I’m not sure about this microbe stuff,” Cochran said. “I can just imagine people complaining even louder about genetically engineered organisms than they are about the spill itself.”

“Excuse me,” Dr. Kramer said, as if he had anticipated the question. “Don’t let anyone raise those objections. These microorganisms are crossbred strains of naturally occurring microbes. No genetic engineering.”

Branson waved aside the words. That part didn’t matter, and she had heard what she needed to know. “If the people stonewall our every effort to clean up the spill, we can take the moral high ground because we offered a solution
and they didn’t want it
.”

She beamed at Stone and Dr. Kramer. “We’ll call a press conference for tomorrow morning, a regular town meeting. We can let the public decide—and Oilstar wins either way.”

Chapter 8

“Emergency override! Eagle
One
, this is Albuquerque tower. I say again, emergency override!” The squawk of the walkie-talkie jerked Brigadier General Ed Bayclock out of a tedious Friday interview in his base office. Time to leap into action.

David Reinski, the young-and-trim mayor of Albuquerque, somehow didn’t notice the emergency call and kept chatting. “General, this White Sands agreement could benefit Albuquerque as well as Kirtland. Could you point that out in your dinner speech?”
Reinski to Bayclock as if they were equals.

“Quiet, please!” Bayclock said, holding up a hand as he strained to hear the radio voice.

“Guzzle 37 on approach,” the walkie-talkie said. The voice sounded tight and high-strung. “Five souls on board with an ETA of five minutes. An emergency has been declared.”

In an instant, Bayclock became a different person, shoving trivial business matters to the back of his mind: the agreement he had just signed with the White Sands Missile Range and the upcoming awards dinner, at which Mayor Reinski would introduce him. No time for that baloney right now. God had given different people different skills, and not everyone was as good at coping with emergencies as he was.

He lurched forward in his overstuffed chair. The warm leather creaked as he snatched the clunky old radio from its recharging stand. “Tower, this is Eagle One. Give me details.” From his window, Bayclock looked out over Albuquerque International’s 13,000-foot runway out in the desert, but saw no sign of the approaching aircraft.

“KC-10A unable to retract their boom, sir,” the tower voice answered. “Their controls were inadvertently scrambled by a high-power microwave test at Phillips Lab. Main pump has failed, and they are unable to dump fuel. They’re coming in from the east and are cleared to the desert where the crew will eject—”

“Belay that!” Bayclock said. The KC-10 was a wide-body jet outfitted as a flying fuel tank, and it would explode like a bomb if it crashed. “Foam up the runway and have them do a slow pass.”

Dammit, he’d hang those Phillips Lab scientists later.

“A
flyby?
” The tower voice sounded incredulous. “General, we are following the emergency checklist!”

“You heard me,” he said. He didn’t have time to explain to some snot-nosed airman. “Bring them low enough so I can spot the damage. I’ll watch them at the break-to-final point, three miles from the runway. Then you let
me
decide what to do. That’s what I’m paid for, son.”

Waiting for a response, Bayclock glanced at his office walls, at the framed photos of fighter aircraft, at the memos and reports stacked on his desk. He longed for the days when he had been in the cockpit himself, ‘kicking the tires, lighting the fires,’ and blasting off into the stratosphere. Not chained to a desk.

Desk job.
The words soured his mouth. It was the one thing he had disdained throughout his 30-year Air Force career.
Real men don’t fly a desk.
Yet Bayclock had been offered a star, the chance to serve as a general officer with command over a large number of people, more responsibility. He was
not
power hungry, but he firmly believed a man should serve to the best of his ability. And few people had the
ability
to do the job Bayclock did every day. He could not shirk the tough assignment just because he would miss flying.

“What’s taking so long, dammit!” he said to the silent radio. He could feel the cold, exhilarating sweat prickle beneath his clean uniform.

“Uh, we’re getting flack from the crew, Eagle One. We told them your plan, and they insist—”

Bayclock strangled the transmit button. “Tell them to do the flyby, or they’re going to wish they crashed with their plane! They’re not qualified to make this kind of decision.” He took a deep cold breath. He didn’t question orders from above, and he didn’t like it when enlisted men did it to him.

“Rog,” came the stiff reply from the tower.

Keeping the old-model
walkie talkie
in one hand, Bayclock reached for his dark blue flightcap. He snapped at Reinski as he started for the door. “If you want to come along, Mr. Mayor, you’ll have to
move
it.”

Reinski jerked to his feet, but Bayclock left without waiting for an answer. The general clicked past officers and enlisted people who moved out of his way. He paid them no attention—he had his body set on autopilot, intent on getting to the staff car.

He burst out of the air-conditioned headquarters building, feeling the sudden dry heat slam him like a baseball bat. He trotted to his staff car parked in the reserved space, then turned to see Reinski tripping down the steps after him. “You coming?”

“Yeah.” Reinski wheezed, out of breath.

The general’s driver was nowhere to be seen, but Bayclock could damn well drive himself. “Hurry up, Reinski, but don’t get in my way.”

“Shut up and drive, General. There’s an emergency here,” Reinski said as he scrambled into the car. Then, with an uncertain grin, he added, “Sir.”

Bayclock snorted at the young mayor, then let out a guffaw. Flicking on his lights as he screeched from the parking lot, he barely missed an oncoming car. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Reinski frantically trying to fasten his seat belt.

Bayclock fumbled at the dashboard and brought up a microphone. “Tower, Eagle One. I’m heading to the break-for-final. What’s the status of Guzzle 37?”

The radio crackled. “We’re foaming the runway now.”

“Is that plane going to crash?” asked Reinski. His voice seemed to carry a mixture of dread and anticipation.