Athabasca Page 7

  “Agreed.” They lowered the body to the ground and Dermott tried to unzip the shredded green parka, but it, too, was frozen. There was a slight crackling of ice as he eased the jacket away from the shirt beneath and peered into the gap between the two layers of clothing. He could see some documents, including a buff-coloured envelope, tucked away in the inside right pocket. By sliding his hand in flat he tried to extract them with his fore and middle fingers, but because he could achieve so little purchase, and because they seemed frozen—not only together but also to the side of the pocket—they proved impossible to move. Dermott straightened to an upright kneeling position, looked at the dead man thoughtfully, then up at Bronowski.

  “Could we have the two bodies moved to some place where they can be thawed out a bit? I can’t examine them in this state, nor by the same token, can the doctors carry out their postmortems.”

  “John?” Bronowski looked at Poulson, who nodded, albeit with some reluctance.

  “Another thing,” Dermott said. “What’s the quickest way of clearing away the snow here from the floor and machinery?”

  “Canvas covers and a couple of hot air blowers. No time at all. Want me to fix it now? And the two men?”

  “Please. Then there’s a question or two I’d like to ask. In your living quarters, perhaps?”

  “Straight across. Be with you in a few minutes.”

  Outside, on their way, Mackenzie said: “Your hound-dog instincts have been aroused. What gives?”

  “Dead man back there. Index finger on his right hand is broken.”

  “That all? Wouldn’t be surprised if half the bones in his body are broken.”

  “Could be. But this bone appears to have been broken in a rather peculiar fashion. Be able to tell better, later.”

  Bronowski and Poulson joined them round the table of the comfortable kitchen living quarters. Poulson said: “Okay, fixed. Snow in the pump-room should be gone in fifteen minutes. About the two engineers—well, I wouldn’t know.”

  “Considerably longer,” Dermott said. “Thanks. Now, then. Bronowski, Mackenzie and myself think it likely that the murderers were employees of the trans-Alaskan pipeline. What would you think of that?”

  Poulson glanced enquiringly at Bronowski, found no inspiration there, looked away and pondered. “It figures,” he said at last. “The only living souls for ten thousand square miles around here—a hundred thousand as far as I know—are employed by the pipeline. More than that, while any mad bomber could have blown up the pump station, it took an oilman to know where to locate and destroy the bypass control valve.”

  “We also theorise that the engineers—what were their names, by the way?”

  “Johnson and Johnson. Brothers.”

  “We think that the bombers gave themselves away in one fashion or another, that the Johnsons recognised them and had to be silenced for keeps. But you and your men didn’t recognise them. That’s for sure?”

  “For sure.” Poulson smiled without much humour. “If what you suppose is correct, it’s just as well for us that we didn’t. But then it’s not surprising that we didn’t. Don’t forget that up here in Number Four we’re no better than hermits living on a desert island. The only time we see anybody is when we go on leave every few weeks. Travelling maintenance engineers like the Johnsons—or, come to that, Mr Bronowski here—see ten times as many people as we do, and so are likely to recognise ten times as many people. Which makes your idea that it was an inside job all the more likely.”

  “You and your men are certain there wasn’t the remotest peculiarity about them, either in speech or dress, that struck a chord?”

  “You’re flogging a dead horse, Dermott.”

  “I suppose. There’s a possibility that those saboteurs came by helicopter.”

  “Damned if I can see how else they could have come. Mr Bronowski here thought he saw skid marks. I wasn’t sure one way or another. It was a bad night for being sure of anything: dark, with a strong wind and drifting snow. Circumstances like that, you can imagine almost anything.”

  “You didn’t hear this helicopter approaching—or imagine you heard it?”

  “We heard nothing. Don’t forget we were all asleep and—”

  “I thought you mounted a radar watch?”

  “In a fashion. Any errant bleep triggers off an alarm. But we don’t sit with our eyes glued to the screen night and day. Then, because of the extremely heavy insulation, it’s difficult for any sound to penetrate from outside. The generator running next door doesn’t help much either. Finally, of course, the wind was blowing—as it still is—almost directly from the north and would have carried away the sound of any craft approaching from the opposite direction. I know that a helicopter is one of the most rackety bits of machinery in existence but—even though we were wide awake then, we didn’t hear Mr Bronowski’s chopper coming in from the south. Sorry, that’s all I can tell you.”

  “How long will it take to repair the pump-room?”

  “A few days, a week. I’m not sure. We’ll need new engines, switchgear, pipelines, a mobile crane and a bulldozer. All those we already have at Prudhoe except the engines, and I expect a Herc will fly those in this evening. Then a chopper or two can fly the stuff out here. The repair crews will be on the job in the morning.”

  “So a week before the oil starts flowing again?”

  “No, no: tomorrow, with luck. The bypass control valve is not a major repair job; parts replacement mainly.”

  Dermott said: “You might look at all this as just a minor disruption?”

  “Technically, yes. The ghosts of the Johnson brothers might see it differently. Want to look at the pump-room now? Most of the stuff should have melted by this time.”

  The snow in the pump-room had gone, and the atmosphere was warm and humid. Without the protective white covering, the scene was more repellent than before, the extent of the devastation more clearly and dishearteningly evident, and the stench of oil and charring more pungent and penetrating. Each with a powerful hand-torch to lighten the shadows cast by the arc-lamps, Dermott, Mackenzie and Bronowski embarked on a search of every square inch of the floors and walls.

  After ten minutes Poulson said curiously: “What are you looking for?”

  “I’ll let you know when I find it,” Dermott said. “Meantime I haven’t a clue.”

  “In that case, can I join in the search?”

  “Sure. Don’t touch or turn anything over. The F.B.I. wouldn’t like it.”

  Ten minutes later, Dermott straightened and switched off his torch. “That’s it, then, gentlemen. If you’ve found no more than I have, among the four of us we’ve found nothing. Looks as if fire or blasts have wiped the platter clean. Let’s have a look at the Johnson brothers. They should be in a fairly examinable state by now.”

  They were. Dermott moved first to the man he’d looked at in the pump-room. This time the zip on the green parka unfastened easily. The blast effect that had shredded the parka had not penetrated it, for the plaid shirt beneath bore no signs of damage. Dermott removed some paper, cards and envelopes from the inside right pocket of the jacket, leafed through and replaced them. He then lifted both charred wrists, examined them and the hands in an apparently cursory fashion and lowered them again. He repeated the process with the other victim, then rose to his feet. Poulson bent a quizzical eye on him.

  “That’s the way a detective examines a murdered man?”

  “I don’t suppose it is. But then, I’m not a detective.” He turned to Bronowski. “You all through?”

  “If you are.” Sam Bronowski led the way to the helicopter, Dermott and Mackenzie following through the thinly-driving snow that reduced visibility to a few yards. It was intensely cold.

  “Clues,” Mackenzie said into Dermott’s ear, not from any wish for privacy but simply to make himself heard. “Man can’t move around without tripping over them.”

  “None in the pump-room, that’s sure. Place had been pretty comprehensive
ly quartered before we ever got there. Almost certainly before the snow had started to cover anything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The old fine tooth-comb is what I mean.”

  “Poulson and his men?”

  “And/or. Who else?”

  “Perhaps there was nothing to find?”

  Dermott said—or rather shouted: “That dead man’s forefinger had been deliberately broken.

  Bent in at forty-five degrees towards the thumb. Never seen anything like it before.”

  “Freak accident.”

  “‘Odd’ is better. Something else odd, too. When I searched him first there was a buff envelope in his inner pocket. I was unable to get it out.”

  “But you were when you unzipped it later?”

  “No. It was gone.”

  “‘And/or’ at work, you think?”

  “So it seems.”

  “All very curious,” Mackenzie said.

  Jim Brady was of the same opinion. After reporting the results of their investigation, Dermott and Mackenzie had retired with him to the room he’d been allocated for the night.

  Brady said: “Why didn’t you mention those things to Black and Finlayson? Those are hard facts—an oddly broken finger, a missing envelope?”

  “Hard facts? There’s only my word for it. I’ve no idea what was in the envelope anyway, and although I’d say the forefinger had been deliberately broken, I’m no osteologist.”

  “But no harm in mentioning those things, surely?”

  “Bronowski and Houston were there too.”

  “You really don’t trust anyone, do you, George?” Brady’s tone was admiring, not reproachful.

  “As you never fail to remind people, sir, you taught me yourself.”

  “True, true,” Brady said complacently. “Very well, then, have them up. I’ll do my Olympian act while you ply them with questions and strong drink.”

  Dermott spoke on the phone and within a minute Bronowski and Houston had knocked, entered and taken seats.

  “Kind, gentlemen, kind.” Brady was at his most avuncular. “Long day, I know, and you must be damnably tired. But we’re babes in the wood up here. We’re not only short of necessary information, we’re totally devoid of it, and we believe you two gentlemen are those best equipped to supply us with that information. But I forget myself, gentlemen. I suggest a pre-inquisitional restorative.”

  Mackenzie said: “What Mr Brady means is a drink.”

  “That’s what I said: “You gentlemen like Scotch?”

  “Off-duty, yes. But you know the company regulations, sir, and how strictly Mr Finlayson interprets those.”

  “Strict? I am iron-clad in the interpretation of my own regulations.” The wave of Brady’s arm was, indeed, Olympian. “You are off-duty. Off regular duty, anyhow. George, refreshments. Mr Dermott will ask the questions, alternating, I do not doubt, with Mr Mackenzie. You gentlemen, if you will be so kind, will fill in the gaps in our knowledge.”

  He took his daiquiri from Dermott, savoured it, laid down his glass, relaxed in his chair and steepled his hands under his chin. “I shall but listen and evaluate.” Nobody was left with any doubt as to which was the most demanding task of the three. “Health, gentlemen.”

  Bronowski lifted his own glass, which he had accepted with no great show of reluctance. “And confusion to our enemies.”

  Dermott said: “That’s precisely the point. The enemy aren’t confused, we are. The taking out of Pump Station Four is only the opening skirmish in what promises to be bloody battle. They—the enemy—know where they’re going to hit again. We have not the vaguest idea. But you must have—by the very nature of your job you must be more aware of the points most vulnerable to attack than anyone else between Prudhoe Bay and Valdez. Take off your security hats and put on those of the enemy. Where would you strike next?”

  “Jesus!” Bronowski fortified himself with some of Brady’s malt. “That’s more than a sixty-four-dollar question. It’s an 800-mile question—and every damned mile is virtually a sitting target.”

  “The boss is right,” Tim Houston said. “If we sit here and drink your whisky while pretending to help, we’re only abusing your hospitality. There’s nothing we or anyone else can do to help. A combat-ready division of the U.S. Army would be about as useful as a gaggle of girl guides. The task is impossible and the line indefensible.”

  Mackenzie said: “Well, George, at least we’re operating on a bigger scale than with the tar-sands boys in Athabasca. There they said a battalion wouldn’t be big enough to guard their installation. Now it’s a division.” Mackenzie turned to Bronowski. “Let’s switch hats with the enemy. Where wouldn’t you strike next?”

  Bronowski said: “Well, I wouldn’t strike at any of the pump stations again on the assumption that, until this matter is cleared up, they will be heavily guarded. I’d have been sorely tempted to go for Pump Station Ten at the Isabel Pass in the Alaska Range, or No. 12 at the Thompson Pass in the Chugach Mountains. All pump stations are vital of course, but some are more vital than others, and those are No. 10 and No. 12 — along with No. 4 here.” He considered briefly. “Or maybe I would go for them…I mean, maybe you’d be so damned certain that I wouldn’t hit again in the same place that you wouldn’t much bother—”

  Dermott held up his hand. “Start in on the double-guessing, and we’re up all night. On with the hazards—the low priority ones, I mean.”

  “I wouldn’t go for the two master operations control centres at Prudhoe Bay. They could be taken out easily enough and, sure, they’d stop all production from the wells immediately, but not for long. It’s no secret that contingency plans for bypassing the centres are already in hand. Repairs wouldn’t take all that long. In any event, security will be now tightened to the extent that the game wouldn’t be worth the candle. So we can be pretty certain that there will be no attempt made to sabotage the oil supply before it enters the pipeline. Same goes for when it leaves the pipe at Valdez. Maximum damage there could be inflicted at the oil movements control centre, where the pipeline controller can monitor and control the flow of oil all the way from Prudhoe to Valdez, and the terminal controller—he’s in the same room, actually—controls practically everything that moves in the terminal itself. Both of those, in turn, are dependent on what’s called the backbone supervisory system computer. Knock out any of those three and you’re in dead trouble. But they’re pretty secure as they are: from now on, they’ll be virtually impregnable. Again, not worth it.”

  Dermott said: “How about the storage tanks?”

  “Well, now. If one or two of them were attacked or ruptured—it would be impossible to get them all at once—the containment dykes would take care of the spillage. Fire would be another thing, but even then the snow would have a blanketing effect—we may only have an annual dusting of snow up here, but down there they have over three hundred inches. Anyway, the tank farms are the most open and easily guarded complex on the entire pipeline. There’s no way you can really get at them without bombing the area: not very likely, one would think.”

  “What about the tanker terminals?”

  “Again easily guarded. I hardly think they’re likely to run to underwater demolition squads. Even if they did they couldn’t do much damage, and that would be easily repaired.”

  “The tankers themselves?”

  “Sink a dozen and there’s always a thirteenth. No way you can interrupt the oil flow by hitting the tankers.”

  “The Valdez Narrows?”

  “Block them?” Dermott nodded and Bronowski shook his head. “The Narrows aren’t as narrow as they look on a small-scale chart. Three thousand feet—that’s the minimum channel width—between the Middle Rock and the east shore. You’d have to sink an awful lot of vessels to block the channel.”

  “So we cross off the unlikely targets. Where does that leave us?”

  “It leaves us with eight hundred miles.” Bronowski shifted.

  “The air tem
perature is the over-riding factor,” Houston said. “No saboteur worth his salt would consider wrecking anything except the pipeline itself. This time of the year any attack has to be in the open air.”

  “Why?”

  “This is only early February, remember, and to all intents we’re still in the depth of winter. As often as not the temperature is well on the wrong side of thirty below, and in these parts thirty below is the crucial figure. Rupture the pipeline at, say, thirty-five below, and it stays ruptured. Repair is virtually impossible. Men can work, although well below their norm, but unfortunately the metal they may try to repair or the machine tools they use to make the repairs won’t co-operate with them. At extreme temperatures, profound molecular changes occur in metal and it becomes unworkable. Given the right—or wrong—conditions, a tap on an iron rod will shatter it like glass.”

  Brady said: “You mean, all I need is a hammer and a few taps on the pipeline—”

  Houston was patient. “Not quite. What with the heat of the oil inside and the insulation lagging outside, the steel of the pipeline is always warm and malleable. It’s the repair tools that would fracture.”

  Dermott said: “But surely it would be possible to erect canvas or tarpaulin covers over the fracture and bring the temperature up to workable levels by using hot-air blowers? You know, the way Poulson did at Station Four?”

  “Of course. Which is why I wouldn’t attack the pipeline directly. I’d attack the structures that support the pipeline, those that are already frozen solid at air temperature and would require days, perhaps weeks, to bring up to a working temperature.”

  “Structures?”

  “Indeed. The terrain between Prudhoe and Valdez is desperately uneven and traversed with innumerable watercourses which have to be forded or spanned in one way or another. There are over six hundred streams and rivers along the run. The 650-foot free-span suspension bridge over the Tazlina River would make a dolly of a target. Even better would be the 1,200-foot span—a similar type of construction—over the Tanana River. But one doesn’t even have to operate on such a grandiose scale, and I, personally, would prefer not to.” He looked at Bronowski. “Wouldn’t you agree?”