Radclyffe - Wild Shores

“Sounds like a lot of fun.”

“That’s the easy part.”

“Really? I’m not sure I want to know the bad part.”

“That would be dealing with all of the agencies involved in containment if the oil gets away from us. U.S. Fish and Wildlife are the first responders and will be in charge of the operation, but lots of other agencies and even independent organizations get involved. Considering where we are? We’ll have a regular circus.”

“Couldn’t be a worse place or a worse time,” Claudia said.

“No,” Austin said, thinking of Gem and the sanctuary, “it couldn’t be.”

“So what now?”

“We wait,” Austin said, “until the leak stops, the well blows, or you tell us the storm is going to tear the rig out of the water.”

“Lovely,” Claudia muttered.

Austin’s cell rang and she checked it. “And now I do the other part of my job.” She answered Eloise’s call. “Good morning.”

“Is it? What have you got for me?”

“Nothing new. They haven’t stopped the leak, but they slowed it. They’re still working on it, and we’ll know more by nightfall.”

“That’s not what I wanted to hear.”

“I know,” Austin said, “but that’s what we’ve got.”

“No, what we’ve got is a big-ass storm headed right for you and a gathering of some of the nation’s premier wildlife scientists fifty miles away on shore.”

“Really? I didn’t realize—”

“Apparently, your passenger didn’t explain to you exactly what a big deal this project is. It’s federally funded at a very high level and has every tree hugger and green agency supporting it. Add to that the recent outbreak of avian flu in the Midwest and the concern for human crossover, and even the damn CDC is involved.”

Austin tried to adjust the picture she’d had of Gem’s role at the sanctuary, remembering Gem had told her she was a virologist studying the association between wild bird flu and domestic flocks. “I guess I didn’t realize—”

“What’s your passenger’s name?”

“Gem…Gillian Martin. She’s a—”

“PhD virologist from Yale. That’s wonderful.” Eloise sounded as if she was chewing bits of broken glass. “She’s the lead researcher and her work is funded by the CDC and the NIH and half a dozen other places with acronyms I could give you, but that wouldn’t mean anything. We’re talking international reputation here. Could you have possibly picked up anyone more likely to shoot us down in flames?”

Eloise’s researchers had been busy. “I really didn’t have any way of knowing that, and besides—”

“Well, now that you do”—Eloise actually paused for breath—“you can put that knowledge to good use.”

“I don’t think I follow.”

“You have a direct pipeline inside the sanctuary. Make contact, find out what the status is there after yesterday’s storm. If the conditions are already compromised, we can’t be blamed as much for anything that happens if we have problems with the rig. Just take a look around. Test the waters.”

Austin unclenched her jaw. “You mean spy?”

“No,” Eloise said coolly, “I mean gather information. Information is essential where communication management is concerned, and you are the communications specialist. It’s all in a day’s work.”

“I don’t see how anything we learn now would really be of benefit,” Austin said. Communication management was Eloise-speak for keeping a lid on bad press, which Austin would do, up to a point. The point being lying—or spying. No way was she going to pump Gem for information, not after what they’d shared. Gem wasn’t a source—she was…well, that was kind of ill-defined, but she was special, and that’s all that mattered.

“At least get boots on the ground and take a look at what the situation requires if we have to institute protective measures. Advance knowledge will allow us to plan and deploy more efficiently.”

Eloise was an expert at manipulation, and Austin knew it. But she couldn’t argue when she made sense. The more Austin and the company knew about the exact nature of the sanctuary, the better they could design the protocols they would need to protect it.

“I’ll see what I can find out, but I’m not going to lie about who I am.”

“Of course not,” Eloise said, “but there’s no need to advertise it until necessary, is there?”

Austin sighed. Rock and hard place. She could keep on protesting, but part of her job was to assess the logistics and personalities she might have to work with, and beyond that, she couldn’t keep pretending she didn’t want to see Gem again.

Chapter Fourteen

Alexis scanned the water ahead of the cutter, checking for smaller vessels, solitary sea forms, and other flotsam and jetsam that didn’t show on sonar or radar. Air temps were warmer than usual for this time of year, and she wore only a light flight jacket, cap, and gloves. On the one hand, it was nice to be able to stand on deck while patrolling without being lacerated by frigid winds, but the high temperatures were a deceptive gift whose price was steep. The unseasonably warm Gulf winds were harbingers of virulent and unpredictable storms that were forecast to be more plentiful and extend later into the fall than during other years.

Tropical storm Norma was thundering down upon them now, big, fast, and threatening major damage, and Alexis couldn’t do anything but wait while trying to secure the sea, shores, and inhabitants before it arrived. Seafaring traffic was down, but not absent. After the high winds and heavy rains of the previous day and a half, commercial fishing boats had started to put out to sea in hopes of making up for their lost catches, and despite the maritime weather warnings, she’d spotted a few intrepid pleasure sailors and touring boats as well. The onboard radar screen at her console beeped rhythmically, and she scanned it reflexively every few minutes. On the last sweep, she picked up four new blips just emerging on the upper left-hand corner of her field, about twenty nautical miles northeast. She didn’t have to check the map to know that put the ships in the waters off the oil rig, nothing unusual in and of itself, but the timing was strange given the storm warnings. The oil rig was a common destination for tankers offloading oil from the rig, transport ships delivering equipment, and other vessels. Ordinarily, she didn’t pay much attention to the traffic, as their patrol range was considerably closer to shore. This morning, though, any activity on the seas caught her notice.

She would have expected the rig to ramp down production until the weather cleared. The oil platform sat out in the ocean like an apple in a barrel. Considerably more stable, but all the same, a speck compared to the vastness of the sea. A speck that housed dozens of vulnerable human beings as well as an underwater threat to the entire coastline.

She calculated the directional adjustment and thumbed her radio to contact the helmsman. “Lieutenant, course change. Let’s go see what’s going on out at the rig.”

“Aye, aye, Commander.”

She gave him the coordinates, and the patrol boat made a sweeping curve and headed farther out to sea. Thirty minutes later, they came in visual range of Rig 86 and the four big ships riding the waves in a semicircle a half mile away. She switched to an open channel and hailed the rig.

“This is Coast Guard Cutter Hayes Adams, hailing Rig 86. Come in.”

A moment later, a female voice, deep and steady, replied, “Coast Guard Cutter Hayes Adams, this is Rig 86. Morning to you. Over.”

“Permission to come aboard, over,” Alexis said, although she didn’t really need permission. As federal law enforcement agents, coastguardsmen could board any oceangoing vessel in territorial waters, and the rig was technically a ship since the platform was anchored to a stationary underwater hull. All the same, she was making a routine check and extended the courtesy of a request.