Kevin Anderson - Ill Wind

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.”

Todd glanced at Iris, who only shrugged. Any contact from the pier could only mean trouble, and Todd was in no mood to stop now. Not in the middle of a job. He sighed and reached forward to take the handset. “Severyn here. What is it, Mr. Plerry?”

After a short squawk, Plerry’s feathery voice burst from the radio. “Mr. Severyn, things are getting a bit out of hand here. This group does have a legitimate court order, and I’m afraid they are insisting that you cease immediately and return to the pier.”

Todd rolled his eyes. No frigging way! He had a job to do and he was going to get it done, for the good of the whole country. “What’s that? I can’t hear you.” He had read about similar things during the Exxon Valdez cleanup—serious cleanup attempts stopped in mid-stream by bureaucratic bickering. He pushed the microphone out the open window, allowing the outside air to blast over it. He pulled it back in and shouted, “Getting some interference here, Plerry. We must be flying too low.”

“Mr. Severyn,” Plerry continued, sounding panicked. “I can read you the court order over the radio. They don’t have to hand-deliver it to you. I think it best that you stop your spraying operations. A gesture of good faith on our part.”

Todd shoved the microphone out the window again, this time giving it a good thump against the side of the helicopter. “All I’m getting is static, Plerry. You’re fading fast. We’ll have to check out the radio systems when we get back. Severyn out.”

He tossed the microphone back to the pilot. Both she and Iris looked at him. He shrugged. “What? You can’t close the barn door after the horses are loose, to use a cliche you’ve probably heard before. We’re already spraying. We may as well finish the job.”

“That’s rather unethical, isn’t it, Tex?” Iris said.

Todd clenched his teeth. Unethical ? Didn’t anybody understand priorities? “Look, I told Oilstar I’d get this done—and I’m a man of my word. I’d rather apologize afterward than get bogged down asking permission from those wackos in the first place. I plan to get this oil spill cleaned up the best way I know how. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

She shrugged. “For better or worse.”

On the Oilstar pier, trying to stay away from other people, Alex Kramer monitored the test from the metal storage shack. A flutter of dread and nervousness kept his stomach taut. His joints felt like they were gliding on ground glass.

Outside the protesters swamped Plerry, who had given up trying to answer their questions. Two minicam vans from local TV stations pulled up. Alex ducked inside the shack. The wolves would push their way through the door in a moment. He could imagine the ghost of Erin among them. He closed his eyes and drew deep breaths. All the brutal attention he had endured in the last few days had taken its toll, but he only had to hold on for another hour. Then there would be no stopping Prometheus.

Since the spill, Alex had begun to wonder if fate had intentionally backed him into a corner, making certain that he had nothing to lose. Nothing at all. It had been an enormous decision; but now that Prometheus was deployed, he had nothing to worry about. Cool relief washed over him.

Todd Severyn had managed to complete the spraying run, and the helicopter was even now returning to the pier. Soon all hell would break loose.

Someone pounded on the door of the shack. Before Alex could answer, the door rattled open. “Dr. Kramer, would you step outside please?” The man wore a t-shirt beneath a hooded sweatshirt. “The police are here to arrest you and Mr. Severyn.”

Alex blinked as he stepped into the sunshine, walking like an automaton. The bright green Oilstar helicopter chattered its way across the sky toward the pier. Jake Torgens, the bearded man who had charged through the gate waving his court order, shooed people away so the copter would have a place to land. Plerry sat all by himself on the hood of his car, staring at his loafers.

After the helicopter settled onto the wooden pier, several protesters pushed forward, ducking low. Torgens shouted, “Just wait a minute!”

When the helicopter’s passenger door popped open, Todd swung out. Torgens came forward with his court order, accompanied by a uniformed police officer. “You should have stopped!”