Jack Du Brul - Charon's landing

“That reminds me.” Mercer turned to Collins.

Anticipating, Collins spoke first. “Yeah, I called. I can’t believe you have the FBI director’s personal cell phone number. Jesus, that was really something, talking to Dick Henna, I mean.”

“Deep down, Mike, he’s a cop, just like you. He has a bigger office and a longer title, that’s all. Did he say that he would contact Elmendorf?”

“Yes, he said Admiral Morrison contacted General Kelly, the Air Force’s man on the Joint Chiefs. We’ve got full cooperation.”

“Mercer, the Air Force? What are you expecting, World War Three?” Lindstrom remarked jokingly.

“Boy Scout training, Andy. Be prepared.”

“Guys,” Mossey spun himself from the computer, his face pinched. “I’m having a hard enough time with this without you talking, okay? I could use a little quiet while I work. And I certainly don’t need that cigarette smoke.”

“Yeah, sure, Ted,” Lindstrom said, taken aback by Mossey’s harsh tone. The computer operator had been nothing but docile since starting work at Alyeska. Lindstrom assumed that Mossey was more confused by the system’s problem than he was letting on. “We’ll head back to my office. Call if you find anything.”

“Fine,” Mossey breathed and turned back to the scrolling screen, his bony fingers poised over the keyboard like a musician waiting for his cue.

Back in Lindstrom’s office, the wait began.

“Jesus H. Christ, relax,” Lindstrom said, seeing how anxious Mercer appeared. “We talked about this yesterday. We all agreed that if someone wanted to use liquid nitrogen to disrupt the oil flow, the only logical place would be the equipment depot in Fairbanks, and we caught the bastards at it last night.”

“Did they have any nitrogen tanks with them? Any stainless steel cylinders?” Mercer shot back moodily.

“Well, no. They were probably there to scout around for the best places to use their stuff. Shit, that depot is something like forty acres, with buildings and piles of equipment scattered all over the grounds. It takes a couple of hours just to find the bathrooms.”

Mercer’s silent glance quieted Lindstrom immediately. Mike Collins nodded his approval at Mercer, the assuring compliment of one professional to another.

A few quiet minutes went by.

“The computer system,” Mercer asked, “how much of your operation does it control?”

“Well, hell, everything. You know the way the world works nowadays. Nothing happens unless the computer gives you permission first.”

“Could it shut down the entire pipeline?”

“Sure. We can remotely operate the whole system from here, but we don’t. All of the pump stations are autonomous, monitored twenty-four hours a day, and they have ultimate say as to what happens at any location. If they have a problem, they can shut down the line too.”

“Is there any sort of automatic override? Any way the system can take over from the pump stations, cut them out of the loop and run independently?”

“I don’t follow you.”

Mercer spoke slowly and clearly so there could be no question as to his meaning. “Can your computer take over the pipeline?”

It took Lindstrom a few seconds to respond and when he did, he didn’t like his answer. “I don’t know.”

The phone rang, and Collins and Lindstrom both gave a startled jump. Lindstrom answered, listened for a few seconds, then handed the phone to his Security Chief. He turned to Mercer, nervous fingers fumbling to light a cigarette. His eyes had gone wide and his face was dewed with sweat despite the chill seeping into the building. Collins spoke little, just grunting a few times and once muttering a quiet obscenity. When he hung up, he had visibly whitened and his hands were trembling.

“That was Ken Bassett with the State Police. There’s been an accident. Both vans carrying men from Pump Stations 5 and 6 to augment security at the depot went off the Dalton Highway. There are two cruisers there now, but it appears no one survived.”

“When?” Mercer’s voice was like a whip crack.

“The police just got there, but the vans may have gone off the road awhile ago. Guessing from where they crashed and what time they left the pump stations, I’d say at least six hours.”

Mercer looked through the open miniblinds covering the window behind Lindstrom’s desk. Twilight was just a few minutes away. It would be totally dark soon after. Rain fell in silvery channels down the glass. “We need to get up there.”

“That’s five hundred miles north of us.”

“Then let’s not sit here and discuss mileage,” Mercer snapped. “You must have a chopper with that kind of range?”

“Yeah, but…” Lindstrom was obviously out of his element. He had a crisis on his hands and didn’t realize it. Mercer moved easily into the vacuum created by his hesitancy.

“Mike, call up those Pump Stations. Make sure everything is okay.”

“They can be accessed through the computer,” Collins pointed out.

“The computer’s down, or had you forgotten? And the majority of the men working those stations have been called away to Fairbanks and are now dead. I need you to make sure that the men they left behind are still alive.”

Collins immediately recognized the possibility that the three apparently separate situations were linked. He raced from the room to make those calls from his own office.

“Andy, contact your pilot and have him file an emergency flight plan to get us to the Dalton Highway. I’m going out to your receptionist’s desk to call Elmendorf. We’re going to need them.” Mercer was already headed for the door.

“What’s happening?” Lindstrom was visibly shaken now.

“World War Three.”

Twenty agonizing minutes dragged by, the ticking of a wall clock sounding like the heartbeat of a dying man. Mercer’s call to Elmendorf had secured two Hueys with eight fully equipped Air Force commandos in each of the helicopters. True to his word, Dick Henna had galvanized the powers that be in Washington. Andy Lindstrom had phoned one of Alyeska’s on-call chopper pilots, a cowboy he thought would jump at the chance of the flight to the northern pump stations. The pilot would meet them at the Valdez Municipal Airport in thirty minutes. Mercer and Lindstrom were waiting for Mike Collins to get off the phone. Then they’d get a final word from Ted Mossey on his progress reactivating the pipeline’s computer operating system.

With ten minutes to go before they were to rendezvous with the helicopter pilot, Collins finally emerged from his office, his weathered face wearing a dark expression. His eyes had gone glassy and lifeless. The plug of tobacco jammed in his left cheek looked to be the size of a softball.

“I can’t reach Pump Stations 5 or 6. I’ve tried the phone, the two-way radio, and the shortwave. Even the fax machine. There’s no response.”

“What do you mean, no response? You didn’t send everyone down to Fairbanks, did you?” Lindstrom asked, panicked.

“Of course not. Do you think I’m that stupid?”

“Knock it off.” Mercer recognized the beginning of an ass-covering session and stopped it as quickly as he could. He had neither the patience nor the time for such bureaucratic idiocy. “We’ve got a major situation on our hands and don’t have the time to sit here and point fingers.”

Once again, Mercer found himself making decisions for Lindstrom and Collins, and again the two men obeyed without question. “Andy, I want you to stay here and coordinate our communications. Also, work on your computer guy. It’s imperative that you regain control of the system. Mike, you and I are heading up to Pump Station 5. On-site intel is crucial. Does your helicopter have the right gear for me to contact Elmendorf?”