“I need a paramedic here,” Pitt shouted.
The fireman gave Pitt a surprised look, then called on his radio. A paramedic team arrived minutes later and quickly attended to her injuries. Pitt followed as they placed her on a stretcher and carried her down to a waiting ambulance.
“Her pulse is low, but I think she’ll make it,” one of the emergency workers told Pitt before the vehicle roared off to Georgetown University Hospital.
Threading his way through a horde of emergency workers and onlookers, Pitt was suddenly grabbed by a young paramedic.
“Sir, you better sit down and let me take a look at that,” the young man said excitedly, nodding at Pitt’s arm. Pitt looked down to see that his sleeve was soaked red.
“No worries,” he shrugged. “It’s not my blood.”
He made his way to the curb, then stopped in dismay. The Auburn sat covered in a blanket of shattered glass. Dings and scratches pockmarked the car from nose to tail. A piece of file cabinetry was mashed into the grille, spawning a growing pool of radiator fluid beneath the car. Inside, a chunk of flying building mortar had carved through the leather seats. Pitt looked up and shook his head as he realized that he’d unknowingly parked right beneath Lisa’s office.
Sitting on the running board and collecting himself, he observed the scene of chaos around him. Sirens blared as dozens of disheveled lab workers wandered around in a daze. Smoke still rose from the building, though fire had thankfully not materialized. Taking it all in, Pitt somehow had an odd sense that the explosion was no accident. Rising to his feet, he thought of Lisa as he gazed at the damaged Auburn, then felt a pang of anger gradually swell from within.
STANDING BEHIND A ROW of hedges across the street, Clay Zak watched the mayhem with idle satisfaction. After Lisa’s ambulance roared away and the smoke began to clear, he walked several blocks down a side alley to his parked rental car. Unzipping a gray jumpsuit, he tossed it into a nearby trash can, then climbed into the car and cautiously drove to Reagan National Airport.
15
A LOW MIST HUNG OVER THE STILL WATERS SURROUNDING Kitimat as the first gray swaths of dawn streaked the eastern sky. A distant rumble of a truck rolling through the streets of the town drifted over the water, breaking the early-morning silence.
In the cabin of the NUMA workboat, Dirk set down a mug of hot coffee and started the boat’s engine. The inboard diesel sprang immediately to life, murmuring quietly in the damp air. Dirk glanced out the cockpit window, spying a tall figure approaching on the dock.
“Your suitor has arrived right on time,” Dirk said aloud.
Summer climbed up from the berths below and gave her brother a scornful look, then stepped onto the stern deck. Trevor Miller walked up with a heavy case under one arm.
“Good morning,” Summer greeted. “You were successful?”
Trevor handed the case to Summer, then stepped aboard. He gave Summer an admiring look, then nodded.
“A lucky stroke for us that the municipality of Kitimat has its own Olympic-sized swimming pool. The pool maintenance director willfully parted with his water quality analyzer in exchange for a case of beer.”
“The price of science,” Dirk said, poking his head out the wheelhouse door.
“The results obviously won’t be on a par with NUMA’s computer analysis, but it will allow us to at least measure the pH levels.”
“That will give us a ballpark gauge. If we find a low pH level, then we know that the acidity has increased. And an increase in acidity can occur from elevated amounts of carbon dioxide in the seawater,” Summer said.
Summer opened the case, finding a commercial-grade portable water analyzer along with numerous plastic vials. “The important thing is to replicate the high acidity readings identified by the lab. This ought to do the job for us.”
The results of the Seattle lab test had been shocking. The pH levels in several water samples taken near the mouth of the Douglas Channel were three hundred times lower than base levels taken elsewhere along the Inside Passage. Most disturbing was the final sample taken, just minutes before the Ventura nearly ran into the NUMA boat. The test results showed extreme acidity not far removed from the caustic levels of battery acid.
“Thanks for sticking around,” Trevor said, as Summer cast off the lines and Dirk powered the boat into the passage. “This certainly appears to be just a local problem.”
“The waters know no international boundaries. If there is an environmental impact occurring, then we have a responsibility to investigate,” Dirk replied.
Summer looked into Trevor’s eyes and could see the concern ran much deeper. Left unspoken was the potential connection to the death of his brother.
“We met with the police inspector yesterday,” Summer said quietly. “He had nothing more to add about your brother’s death.”
“Yes,” Trevor replied, his voice turning cold. “He’s closed the case, reporting the deaths as accidental. Claims an accumulation of exhaust gases likely collected in the wheelhouse and killed everyone. Of course, there’s no evidence for that . . .” he said, his voice trailing off.
Summer thought of the strange cloud they had seen on the water, and the eerie Haisla tale of Devil’s Breath. “I don’t believe it either,” she said.
“I don’t know what the truth is. Maybe that will help tell us,” he said, staring at the water sample kit.
Dirk piloted the boat at top speed for over two hours until they reached the Hecate Strait. Tracking the navigation system, he cut the engine when they reached the GPS coordinates where the last water sample had been taken. Summer dropped a Niskin bottle over the side and scooped up a vial of seawater, then inserted a probe from the water analyzer.
“The pH reading is about 6.4. Not nearly the extreme we found two days ago, but still well below normal seawater levels.”
“Low enough to create havoc with the phytoplankton, which will ultimately sound a death knell up the food chain,” Dirk noted.
Summer gazed at the serene beauty of Gil Island and the surrounding passage inlets, then shook her head. “Hard to figure what could be causing the high acidity levels in such a pristine area,” she said.
“Maybe a passing freighter with a leaky bilge or one that outright dumped some toxic waste,” Dirk posed.
Trevor shook his head. “It’s not very likely here. Commercial traffic generally runs on the other side of Gil Island. Typically, the only traffic through here is fishing boats and ferryboats. And of course the occasional Alaskan cruise ship.”
“Then we’ve got to expand our sampling until we can pinpoint the source,” Summer said, labeling the specimen and preparing the Niskin bottle for another drop.
For the next several hours, Dirk steered the boat in ever-widening circles, while Summer and Trevor took dozens of water samples. To their chagrin, none of the samples approached the low pH levels reported by the Seattle lab. Letting the boat drift as they took a late-afternoon lunch, Dirk printed out a chart and showed it to the others.
“We’ve run a series of circles extending to an eight-mile radius from our initial sample. As it turns out, that was our peak reading. Everything south of there showed normal pH levels. But north of that point, it is a different story. We’re picking up reduced pH levels in a rough cone shape.”
“Flowing with the prevailing currents,” Trevor noted. “It might well have been a onetime spill of pollutants.”
“Perhaps it’s a natural phenomenon,” Summer suggested. “An underwater volcanic mineral that is creating a high acidity.”
“Now that we know where to look, we’ll be able to find the answer,” Dirk said.
“I don’t understand,” Trevor replied with a blank look.
“NUMA technology to the rescue,” Summer replied. “We’ve got side-scan sonar and an ROV aboard. If there is something on the bottom, we’ll be able to spot it one way or another.”
“But that will have to wait for another day,” Dirk said, noting the late hour.
Restarting the motor, he nosed the research boat in the direction of Kitimat and accelerated to twenty-five knots. When they drew closer to Kitimat, Dirk let out a low whistle when he noticed an LNG tanker tucked under a covered dock off a small inlet.
“Can’t believe they run one of those babies in and out of here,” he said.
“She must be offloading at Mitchell Goyette’s carbon sequestration facility,” Summer replied. As she and Trevor explained to Dirk the function of the facility, he eased off the throttle and turned toward the docked tanker.
“What are you doing?” Summer asked.
“Carbon sequestration. Carbon dioxide and acidity go together like peanut butter and jelly—you said so yourself,” he replied. “Maybe there’s a connection with the tanker.”
“The tanker is bringing in CO2 to offload at the facility. An inbound ship could have had an accidental leakage in the passage,” Trevor said. “Though that particular tanker must have come in last night or early this morning.”
“Trevor’s right,” Summer added. “The tanker wasn’t there yesterday, and we didn’t see it in the channel before that.” She studied the facility’s pier, which stretched out into the channel, noticing that Goyette’s luxury yacht and the other visiting boats had all disappeared.
“No harm in collecting a few samples to make sure they’re honest,” Dirk countered.
Seconds later, a dark speedboat came roaring out of the covered dock and headed directly for the NUMA vessel. Dirk ignored the boat and held his course and speed.
“Somebody’s awake,” he muttered. “We’re not even within a mile of the place. A tad touchy, aren’t they?”
He watched as the speedboat veered off when it drew near, circling around in a loop before pulling alongside the research boat. There were three men seated aboard, dressed in innocuous brown security uniforms. But there was nothing innocuous about the Heckler & Koch HK416 assault rifles they each held across their laps.
“You are approaching private waters,” barked one of the men through a bullhorn. “Turn away immediately.” One of his partners, a stocky Inuit wearing a crew cut, waved his rifle toward the NUMA boat’s wheelhouse for added emphasis.
“I just want to fish off the inlet,” Dirk yelled back, pointing toward the waterway that led to the covered dock. “There’s a deep hole off the mouth teeming with coho.”
“No fishing,” blared the voice through the bullhorn. Crew Cut stood up and pointed his rifle at Dirk for a moment, then motioned with his barrel to turn away. Dirk casually spun the wheel to starboard and pulled away, feigning ignorance of the threat on his life as he tossed a friendly wave at the speedboat. As the boat turned away, Summer nonchalantly leaned over the stern deck gunwale and scooped up a vial of water.
“What’s with the heavy security?” Dirk asked Trevor, as they sped the last few miles to Kitimat.
“They claim they’re trying to protect their proprietary technology, but who knows for sure? The company has shown signs of paranoia from the first day that they broke ground. They brought in their own team of construction workers to build it and have their own team of people to run it. They’re mostly Tlingit, but not from around here. I’ve heard that not a single local resident has been hired for any phase of the operation. On top of that, the employees have their own housing on the grounds. They are never even seen in town.”
“Have you been through the facility?”
“No,” Trevor replied. “My involvement was upfront, with environmental impact statements and the like. I reviewed the plans and walked the site during construction, but was never invited back after they received all of their building approvals. I made several requests to make an on-site review after they went operational, but never got the backing from my higher-ups to press the issue.”
“A powerful guy like Mitchell Goyette can incite a lot of fear in the right places,” Dirk noted.
“You are exactly right. I heard rumors that his acquisition of the building site was accomplished by a great deal of coercion. His building and environmental approvals breezed through without a hiccup, which is nearly unheard-of around here. Somehow, somewhere, there were some skids greased.”
Summer interrupted the conversation by entering the bridge with a vial of water held up in front of her. “Acidity level is normal, at least from a mile outside the facility.”
“Too far off to tell us anything for sure,” Trevor said, looking back at the facility with a contemplative gaze.
Dirk had his own deliberate look about him. He liked to play by the rules but had little tolerance for authoritarian bullying tactics. Summer liked to joke that he was a jovial Clark Kent, who always gave a handout to a beggar or held a door open for a woman. But if someone told him he couldn’t do something, he was apt to turn into the Tasmanian Devil. The confrontation with the security boat rattled his sense of propriety and alerted his suspicions, while silently elevating his blood pressure a few millimeters. He waited until the boat was docked and Trevor waved good-bye, agreeing to meet for dinner in an hour. Then he turned to Summer.
“I’d like to take a closer look at that sequestration facility,” he said.
Summer stared at the first lights of Kitimat shimmering on the water as twilight approached. Then she replied, answering in a way that Dirk least expected.
“You know, I think I would, too.”
16
IT WAS AFTER SIX P.M. WHEN LOREN AND PITT ARRIVED at Georgetown University Hospital and were allowed into Lisa Lane’s room. Given her brush with death earlier in the day, she looked remarkably robust. A mammoth bandage covered her left shoulder, and her broken leg had been set in a cast and elevated. Beyond a pallor from loss of blood, she appeared fully lucid, and perked up at the sight of her visitors.
Loren rushed over and gave her a peck on the cheek while Pitt set a large vase of pink lilies next to the bed.
“Looks like the good folks of Georgetown patched you up nicely,” Pitt observed with a grin.
“My dear, how are you feeling?” Loren asked, pulling a chair up alongside the bed.
“Pretty good, under the circumstances,” Lisa replied with a forced smile. “The pain medication isn’t quite keeping up with my throbbing leg, but the doctors tell me it will heal as good as new. Just remind me to cancel my aerobics class for the next few weeks.”
She turned to Pitt with a serious look. “They’ve given me six units of red blood cells since I arrived. The doctor said I was lucky. I would have died from blood loss if you hadn’t found me when you did. Thank you for saving my life.”
Pitt winked at her. “You are much too important to lose now,” he said, brushing off his actions.
“It was a miracle,” Loren said. “Dirk told me how devastated the lab was. It is amazing that no one in the building was killed.”
“Dr. Maxwell stopped by earlier. He promised to buy me a new lab.” She smiled. “Though he was a little disappointed that I didn’t know what happened.”
“You don’t know what caused the explosion?” Loren asked.
“No. I thought it came from a neighboring lab.”
“From what I saw of the damage, it appeared that the blast was centered in the room where I found you,” Pitt said.
“Yes, that’s what Dr. Maxwell told me. I’m not sure he believed me when I told him that there was nothing in my lab that could have caused that large of an explosion.”
“It was a pretty powerful bang,” Pitt agreed.
Lisa nodded. “I’ve sat here and pictured every element and piece of equipment in that lab. All of the materials we have been working with are inert. We have a number of gas tanks for the experiments, but Dr. Maxwell indicated that they were all found intact. The equipment is basically benevolent. There was simply nothing volatile I can think of that would have caused such a thing.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Loren said. “Maybe it was something with the building, an old gas line or something.”
They were interrupted by a stern-fac
ed nurse who came in and propped up Lisa’s bed, then slid a tray of dinner in front of her.
“Guess we better be on our way so that you can enjoy the hospital’s epicurean delights,” Pitt said.
“I’m sure it won’t compare to last night’s crabs,” Lisa said, struggling to laugh. Then her face turned to a frown. “By the way, Dr. Maxwell mentioned that an old car parked in front of the building was severely damaged by the explosion. The Auburn?”
Pitt nodded with a hurt look. “Afraid so,” he said. “But don’t worry. Like you, she can be rebuilt to as good as new.”
There was a knock on the door behind them, then a lean man with a ragged beard entered the room.
“Bob,” Lisa greeted. “I’m glad you’re here. Come meet my friends,” she said, introducing Loren and Pitt to her lab assistant Bob Hamilton.
“I still can’t believe you made it out without a scratch,” Lisa kidded him.
“Lucky for me I was in the cafeteria having lunch when the lab went boom,” he said, eyeing Loren and Pitt with uncertainty.
“A fortunate thing,” Loren agreed. “Are you as stumped as Lisa by what happened?”
“Completely. There could have been a leak in one of our pressure canisters that somehow ignited, but I think it was something in the building. A freak accident, whatever the source, and now all of Lisa’s research is destroyed.”
“Is that true?” Pitt asked.
“All the computers were destroyed, which contained the research databases,” Bob replied.
“We should be able to piece it together once I get back to the lab . . . if I still have a lab,” Lisa said.
“I’ll demand that the president of GWU ensure that it is safe before you step into that building again,” Loren said.
She turned to Bob. “We were just leaving. Very nice to meet you, Bob.” Then she leaned over and kissed Lisa again. “Take care, honey. I’ll visit again tomorrow.”
“What a terrible ordeal,” Loren said to Pitt as they left the room and walked down the brightly lit hospital corridor to the elevator. “I’m so glad she is going to be all right.”