Radclyffe - Wild Shores

Of course she did. There’d be no other reason for the VP of Operations of the U.S. division of General Oil and Petroleum to be calling personally at any time of the day or night. Austin set her drafting pencil aside, pushed her wheeled stool back from the table, and pivoted away, staring across her cabin to the dark windows that looked out over the Hudson. “How much of an issue? I’ve only been back in the country a few days, and I was hoping to go off the grid for a bit.”

She didn’t add that she had a deadline in a few weeks for the first draft of the graphic novel she was adapting from a paranormal urban fantasy series. That part of her life was private and bore no relationship to what she did for GOP. Even her family didn’t know about her secret career, not that they’d put much stock in it. They’d far rather see her embroiled in a big burn or a high-profile media extravaganza with the potential for fireworks—no matter how metaphorical. Drawing and texting comics was something for teenagers.

“Rig 86 has a breach,” Eloise said coolly and without apology for derailing Austin’s plans, giving no indication of precisely how serious the situation might be.

Serious was a given. The company had land and offshore drilling sites throughout the world, and breaches were not uncommon. Usually they were small, confined, and repaired before anyone outside the company was really aware of the potential problem. If they were calling Austin, the company was worried.

“How large?” she asked.

“At the moment, a flow rate of only a few thousand barrels a day.”

Austin walked through the living room to her bedroom beyond, opened the closet door, and pulled out her go bag. “Chance for containment?”

“Uncertain at this time.”

She transferred shirts, pants, socks, and underwear from the rough oak dresser against one wall into the bag. Her toiletries and work boots were already loaded. Anything else she needed, she’d buy wherever she was going. Her wallet was on the dresser and she slid it into her back pocket. “Escalation potential?”

“Moderate at this point.”

“Where is it?”

“About fifty miles from the Maryland shore.”

“Damn.” Why didn’t these spills happen in unpopulated areas far from TV cameras, fishing waters, and beaches?

“Your flight has been scheduled to leave Albany at six,” Eloise went on as if they’d been discussing a board meeting. “You’ll transfer to a regional plane at BWI that will take you to Rock Hill Island. The present point of operations is at the Hilton nearest there.”

“Who’s the incident commander?”

“Ray Tatum. He’s aware you’ll be arriving.”

“How long do we have before we need to go public?”

“We’ll make that assessment when you arrive.”

“You have a marine meteorologist available?”

“We will have. She’s flying in from Philadelphia at about the same time you are.”

“All right. I’ll be in touch.”

“There is one other thing,” Eloise said in the same cool, even tone.

Austin tensed. Eloise was about to drop the hammer. “What would that be?”

“There’s a large wildlife refuge on Rock Hill Island and surrounds. It’s a well-known stopover for migratory birds and this is apparently the beginning of their nesting season. The area is a popular tourist destination.”

“Where is it relative to the rig?” Austin locked the cabin, tossed her bag in the back of the Jeep, and climbed in.

“The island is almost directly in line with our rig and presently represents the outermost point of contact should the spill progress toward land.”

“In other words, a PR nightmare.” And now she understood why she’d been called at such an early point. Eloise wouldn’t say it, but the company was counting on her to keep a lid on news of the breach. What she needed to do was plug the leak in terms of publicity, and if this wildlife refuge became threatened, to minimize the bad press.

“I’m sure you’ll handle it.”

“What do we know about this place and the people?” It was probably too much to hope they’d find someone sympathetic—environmentalists generally were opposed to any kind of drilling and, once an accident occurred, took full advantage of the situation to lobby against the whole industry.

“I’m afraid not very much,” Eloise said. “I have people working on that now, but you’ll probably never need to interface with them.”

Austin read between the lines. Make sure the environmentalists don’t get wind of the threat.

“Right.” Austin backed down the drive. “By the time I get there, the problem might already be solved.”

“Precisely.”

“Right.” Austin disconnected and drove toward the river, a black ribbon under the moon, quiet and still and deadly. Right.

❖

“We’ll be landing through a bit of a storm moving in from the south,” the pilot announced. “Might be a bit bumpy for a few minutes, so I’ll ask everyone to keep your seat belts on and close up your electronics at this time.”

Gem flagged the page in the latest population report she’d received from the Carolina Coastal Observatory, closed her iPad, and slid it into her computer bag under the seat in front of her. She’d known the storm was coming and had caught the earliest flight out of Hartford she could before the anticipated fog rolling in with the front grounded planes along the East Coast. She’d been lucky to get one of the last coach seats still open. She didn’t mind stormy weather—in fact, she often stood on the shore waiting for a front to roll in just to watch the beauty of the clouds roiling in the sky, dark blues and purples swirling and dancing, as if an invisible artist mixed the colors on a wild palette in a frenzy of creation. She loved the way the wind buffeted her hair and plastered her clothes to her body, the stinging bite of the first needle-sharp raindrops bringing every sense and cell to life. The sea felt it too—cresting and crashing as to the call of the wind. While she was often the only human on the beach, life around her pushed on as if in a race with the storm to lay claim to the shore. Terns and gulls scurried along the edge of the frothing waves, plucking up the sea creatures that struggled valiantly against the battering push and pull of the tides.

Even when the rain blew in solid sheets of icy water, she’d often stay, the scent of fresh pure air and the untamed sea filling her with wonder and peace. She loved those solitary moments when she knew in her bones her life was nothing but an inconsequential point in a vast continuum of time.

As much as she loved those moments of abandon, she detested flying in airplanes. The unnaturalness of it, being contained in a metal canister, breathing recycled air and other things she’d rather not consider, reminded her of how land bound she was and how different from the creatures she envied.

As the plane began to descend, she remembered the first time she’d told her mother she wanted to be a bird.

“Why is that?” her mother had asked patiently, never laughing at any of her wild fantasies.

“Because they can go anywhere they want, and they’re never really alone, even when they’re by themselves in the sky.”

Her mother studied her and nodded gravely. “You know what we call that, honey?”

She’d shaken her head.

Her mother had patted her hair. “We call that freedom.”

Freedom. Yes, but even the free flying creatures she loved were not really free, but bound by some innate instinct that directed their life cycle and bade them return to certain places every year, against all odds or adversity. They followed the call of some distant drummer, on a stage too ancient and too primal for her to ever understand. But she’d keep trying, and keep envying them.