Crossing Savage

Title Page

Crossing

Savage

a Peter Savage novel

D
ave Edlund

Copyright

Copyright © 2014, by Dave Edlund

Crossing Savage (Peter Savage, #1)

Dave Edlund

www.petersavagenovels.com

[email protected]

Published 2014, by Light Messages

www.lightmessages.com

Durham, NC 27713

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-61153-078-0

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61153-079-7

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without the prior written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Dedication

For Morgan and Mac.

If true beauty shines from within,

you each are as radiant as a supernova.

I love ya, kiddos.

Acknowledgements

Okay, I have a confession. I love books—always have, always will. My fondness for old fashioned, hardbound books with off-white paper pages and black ink borders on an obsession. Time and again I find myself drawn to the musty smell of old books, the crinkling of pages being turned, the beauty of an ornate leather-bound collection.

It should be no surprise that I find libraries to be very tranquil, peaceful places. So, I suppose it was inevitable that I would eventually focus my energy on creating that which I hold so dear.

This project began many years ago as a story for my son… a birthday gift. Along the way, it evolved into so much more. But as one would expect, this is not the work of merely a single person. Indeed, this novel would have never gone farther than my son's bookcase had it not been for the encouragement, support, and contributions of many. The exuberance of a nine-year-old boy can only carry one so far!

I'll begin with a huge thank you to Elizabeth, my editor, for taking a chance and seeing more in the manuscript than the typed words. Your patience and coaching is greatly appreciated. And I have to agree with your metaphor, this
is
akin to giving birth, at least from a male's perspective (although my wife would probably disagree). To my good friend Gordon, thank you for your encouragement and your detailed feedback, not only of what worked for you, but most especially for what needed improvement. Also, my heartfelt thanks to Mona and Jerry for your kind encouragement and support, not only in this work but over the many years since our paths first crossed. But mostly I want to thank my buddy Gary for applying his considerable skill and encyclopedic knowledge, as well as patiently devoting countless hours, to editing the rough manuscript, checking details, critiquing and challenging the plot, and much, much more. Thanks, buddy, for always being there!

These many significant contributions have been essential in evolving this story from its original form. Of course, the responsibility for all errors remains fully with me.

Finally, but certainly not least, I want to express my gratitude and appreciation to my wife. She is my cornerstone of support and motivation. Whenever I questioned going forward, she never failed to find kind words of encouragement and a generous smile. By believing in me, she has taught me to believe in myself.

The adventures of Peter Savage will continue; the second volume has already been written and received the stamp of approval from my son! You can rest assured that even though Peter Savage lives in Bend, Oregon—far from the traditional centers of intrigue, mayhem, and murder—his life remains anything but mundane and boring. A short excerpt from his next harrowing escapade can be found at the end of this story.

Hopefully, you will find enjoyment tucked away between the pages of this adventure—for that is how I will measure my success.

Author's Note

Anyone who regularly listens to the evening news, or reads a newspaper, is no doubt aware that oil is a finite resource; one that the world is bound to run out of in a handful of decades. Or are we?

Such dire predictions have been repeatedly publicized since the early twentieth century, and yet worldwide, proven reserves of petroleum have never been greater. Indeed, in November 2012 the International Energy Agency forecast that the United States would surpass Saudi Arabia as the world's biggest oil producer by 2020.

The theory that oil and gas are the byproducts of ancient plant and animal life that have undergone a chemical transformation over millennia, deep within the Earth, is contrary to conventional laws of chemical thermodynamics. This widely accepted theory for how petroleum was formed is challenged by a competing theory called abiogenic (or abiotic) oil formation. This is science fact.

While it is true that most scientists do not subscribe to the abiogenic theory of oil formation, it is equally true that there must be alternative mechanisms at work in the solar system if one is to explain such cosmic oddities as Titan, a moon orbiting the planet Saturn. With a silicate-rock core, Titan is literally covered in seas of liquid methane and ethane separated by mountains of water, ice, and solid hydrocarbons. The atmosphere of Titan has a distinct orange hue—thought to be smog that is composed of much heavier hydrocarbons, likely even polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons—a ubiquitous class of organic compounds found in petroleum. This orange smog is believed to deposit solid hydrocarbon “soil” on the moon's surface.

As strange and unique as Titan is, attempts to explain its rich organic chemistry as the byproduct of decaying organisms certainly stretches the imagination to the limits of absurdity. Indeed, the extremely frigid conditions combined with its great distance from the sun would be totally hostile to all known or imaginable life forms.

So questions remain. How were a great variety of organic compounds formed on Titan in such abundance? What if non-biological routes to oil formation are possible? Could such mechanisms be taking place on Earth?

It is interesting to speculate on the economic and political impact that such a discovery might have. We tend to think of imported energy as an economically and politically destabilizing factor; but how would oil-exporting countries react to the real threat that their income base would be severely eroded if the oil export market collapsed? What would be the unforeseen consequences of winning freedom from imported energy? Of course, these are hypothetical questions as this situation does not currently exist.

In fact, most of the known oil reserves are owned by national governments—countries including Saudi Arabia, Iran, Iraq, Russia, Venezuela, Nigeria, and Libya. “Big Oil” is not ExxonMobil or BP; it is the nationalized operations, governments—many of which are run by dictators or kings. In many cases, these oil producing countries are participating members of OPEC—the Oil Producing and Exporting Countries; more commonly known as the oil cartel. And universally, these nationalized oil “companies” operate with a heavy hand, thinking nothing of signing contracts and accepting private investments, only to later nationalize those operations and take over a majority position without further compensation to the other parties.

Crossing Savage
is based on these and other facts of science and geo-politics. The line between fact and fiction is intentionally blurred, but in every case where fact has been stretched to the breaking point, the resulting fiction is based on the
plausible
.

A short comment about the weaponry described in the story is in order. All military and civilian weapons used by the good guys as well as the bad guys are real. The magnetic impulse gun under development at EJ Enterprises is based on a scaled down version of the rail gun… a large-caliber, hyper-sonic field piece that has been demonstrated in recent years. Do prototypes of the magnetic impulse gun exist now? The answer is buried deep in classified files at the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA).

I hope you enjoy…

DE

Chapter 1

June 7

Caracas, Venezuela

What is he talking about
? Oh, yeah—something about a unique rock stratum that is supposed to be a tell-tale marker for the presence of petroleum
. Jeremy had heard that claim too many times to count. His more experienced colleagues at British Energy, Ltd.—that was the politically correct term for the old farts close to retirement—had long ago convinced Jeremy that there are no absolutes when it comes to where petroleum and gas may be found.

Truth is, every few years someone makes a strike where it shouldn't be, at least not according to accepted theory. Oil is where you find it, and being the first to find it—or just as important, control it—is what the game is all about.

But right now, what Jeremy really needed was a well-mixed gin and tonic, and sleep. Maybe with a couple drinks and two of those little blue sleeping tablets, he would pass the night with few stirs.

He was pulled back to the present by the sound of applause, and Jeremy realized the presentation was completed. All he had to do now was endure maybe ten minutes of questions, and then he could leave with 500 or so other zombies who, like Jeremy, were struggling to stay awake and attentive at 5:00 P.M. Caracas time, whatever that was.

All the attendees applauded again, then gathered up their notepads and briefcases and started to file out of the main conference room. The chatter from hundreds of voices merged into a mild roar, punctuated by an occasional metallic clang as the hotel staff began stacking chairs as soon as they were vacated. The opening day of the American Association of Petroleum Geologists Hedberg Conference had mercifully concluded.

The conference rooms were one floor above the hotel lobby. Jeremy decided he could use a short walk. Besides, the elevators would be packed for the next ten to twenty minutes with all the other conference delegates rushing to their rooms. Jeremy walked to the grand staircase that led down to the lobby with a graceful sweeping curve, checking his phone for messages along the way. There were a dozen emails from various colleagues, but he would answer them later, maybe over a drink in the bar.

The lobby of the Gran Meliá Caracas Hotel was indeed as beautiful as the conference brochure had promised. With rich wood paneling on the ceiling, wood wainscoting, French marble tables thoughtfully placed around the lobby, crystal chandeliers, and 16th-century Spanish tapestries decorating the walls, the European elegance was obvious yet tasteful.

This would be a nice place to visit with his family, he thought. His two daughters, Mary, age five, and Madeline, seven, would be perfectly happy spending all day at the pool under the tropical sun. His wife, an ardent sun worshipper, would also like that. And with Prosciutto's serving poolside meals and drinks, who would ever need to leave the comfort and luxury of the hotel?

Jeremy walked up to the reception desk, stretching his lower back as he did so.

The receptionist greeted Jeremy with a warm smile. “Good evening,” she said. Her command of English was good, with only a moderate accent.

“Hello. Are there any messages for Dr. Jeremy Hitchcock? I'm staying in room 1143.”

She looked down—obviously a computer monitor was installed below the leading edge of the reception desk—and typed in a query, pausing for a moment before looking up again at Jeremy.

“No sir, no messages. Is there anything else I may do to be of assistance?”

“No, thank you. Have a good evening.” Jeremy turned and walked to the bank of elevators. He stretched again and took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. Time to take a quick shower, put on a clean change of clothes, and then find the gin and tonic that he was sure he could hear calling his name.

The shower did wonders to energize Jeremy. As he grabbed his passport, wallet, and room keycard, he decided to take the hotel-supplied newspaper with him: the
International Herald Tribune.

Born, raised, and educated in the United States, Jeremy was an expatriate living in the United Kingdom. He had taken his first job with British Energy following graduation with a degree in geochemistry. He was given an assignment out of an office in London. There he met Molly, a colleague who, like Jeremy, was a recent graduate beginning her professional career. They dated for six months before he proposed and she accepted.

Upon first meeting, Molly and Jeremy were to many to an odd, unexpected couple—he with his six-foot, wire-thin frame, short black hair, and wire-rim glasses in stark contrast to Molly's short but athletic build and sandy-blond, wavy hair that fell gracefully to her shoulders. But whenever they were together the intimate bond they shared radiated from the pair, an unmistakable beacon communicating a deep love and respect for each other.

Molly had no interest in leaving her native England and moving to the United States, and Jeremy's career path did not point in that direction anyway. So they had settled into a comfortable life just outside of London, although Jeremy still carried his U.S. passport. Someday, perhaps not until he retired, he assumed they would leave Britain for America. Sometimes they would talk about where they would live after Mary and Madeline had gone off to college—would it be New England or the Rockies? Maybe southern California—Molly had heard so much about California but had never been there.

Jeremy tucked the newspaper under his arm and walked into the hallway, pausing to ensure the door was securely latched. Arriving at the bank of elevators, he glanced at his reflection in a mirror and was adjusting the collar of his polo shirt when the familiar chime sounded, announcing the arrival of the elevator.

The Gran Meliá Hotel did not earn a five-star rating by cutting corners. That was equally true for the hotel's restaurants. Tonight, Jeremy decided to eat at L'Albufera, which was serving a tantalizing blend of Spanish and Mediterranean cuisine.

He was seated quickly, somehow managing to beat the crowd of conference delegates. As Jeremy scanned the menu, thoughtfully printed in both Spanish and English, the waiter approached his table.

“Good evening, sir. May I get something for you from the bar?”

“Absolutely—I'll have a double gin and tonic, Bombay Blue Sapphire, please.”

“Certainly. Would you also like some tapas to enjoy while you are looking over the menu?”

“Yes, I think so. It all looks very tasty. What would you recommend?”

“The sampler plate is very popular, but the portions are rather generous. You may find it a bit much if you also plan to order a full dinner.”

“You know, the sampler plate does sound good. Let's do that.”

“Very good, sir. I'll be right back with your cocktail.”

Jeremy found himself beginning to relax. He opened the
Tribune
and scanned the front page. The headline story concerned tensions between the governments of Colombia and Ecuador over a long-standing border dispute. His gin and tonic arrived, and Jeremy took a sip… then another. Further down the front page was a story about Venezuela's role in OPEC. It was written with the usual anti-U.S. propaganda, proclaiming that the U.S. and European countries were essentially stealing the national resources of Latin America, as they had done for centuries.

After Jeremy had another sip of his drink, the waiter arrived with the plate of tapas. It was indeed a very large portion, and Jeremy did not waste any time digging in. He hadn't realized how hungry he was.

Finished, he wiped his mouth with his napkin and leaned back in his chair. His attentive waiter appeared, as if on cue, to take away the plates and brush the crumbs off the table. “Would you like to see a dessert menu?”

“No, I don't think so. It was all very good, and I'm stuffed. I'll take the check and retire to the bar for another drink.”

“Of course. I'll be right back.”

In keeping with the lobby furnishings and decorations, the bar suggested a classic Old World style and was fabricated from solid mahogany stained a traditional deep red-brown, surfaced with sheets of copper. An assortment of stemware hung from brass rails above the bar. Jeremy pulled up a stool,

and his eyes were immediately drawn to the selection of gin on display, amongst a great variety of vodkas and whiskeys—including American bourbons, Canadian, Irish, and single-malt Scotch.

The bartender took Jeremy's order and promptly placed a gin and tonic in front of him. Jeremy continued to skim through the paper and sip his drink. It had been a long day. He would get to his email in due time, but for now he intended to enjoy his drink and newspaper.

He came to the international section, which was mostly a collection of one-paragraph pieces picked off the wire services. A story on the lower right corner of the page caught his eye:

Body Found at London Ritz

The body of a man, believed to be a hotel guest, was discovered at the Ritz at Piccadilly Circus. According to London police the cause of death is still under investigation, but early reports suggest the man died of ricin poisoning.

Jeremy was no biochemist, but he was pretty sure ricin was not a substance someone was likely to encounter in daily life. The deceased had been identified as Professor Mark Phillips of Georgia Tech in Atlanta.

Jeremy read the name again, thinking he had surely made a mistake. After all, he was tired and was on his second drink. But he had made no mistake. There it was, in black and white—
Mark Phillips
.

“No, that can't be…”

Mark Phillips was a friend and long-time colleague. They often met at conferences, and Mark had offered to host Jeremy's family should they ever wish to vacation in the States. In fact, Jeremy had expected Mark to be at this conference.

Mark… dead? How could he come in contact with ricin?
It just didn't make any sense.

Jeremy was stunned. His arms collapsed to the bar with the crumpled newspaper still clenched tightly in his fists. He stared at the story.

The bartender approached. “Is everything all right, sir?”

Jeremy seemed to not hear the bartender as he stared in silence at the crumpled paper.

“Sir, may I get anything for you?”

He looked up from the newspaper but not at the bartender. “No. I'm fine.”

Jeremy continued to nurse his drink. His thoughts went back to his many visits with Mark. They had first met years before at a conference on petroleum exploration. Mark and Jeremy hit it off from the beginning. They often enjoyed discussing their work; Mark was passionate about his theories on abiogenic oil formation—the theory that oil is not derived solely from dead plant and animal material but is also a product of inorganic reactions. Jeremy was part of a small group within British Energy that shared similar ideas.

In fact, that was why Jeremy was here at the Hedberg Conference. Tomorrow morning he was scheduled to present a paper discussing recent progress on correlating significant new oil-producing fields with predictions from the abiogenic group.

My paper, yes
. Jeremy glanced at his watch—it was almost 8:00 P.M. He decided to finish his drink and go back to his room and try to sleep. Suddenly, Jeremy felt very, very tired.

Jeremy woke the next morning, five minutes before his alarm. He felt rested despite being upset by Mark's death. He would contact Mark's family when he returned to London. This morning, he needed to focus on presenting his paper. He dressed quickly in a gray suit and white shirt with a golden-yellow patterned tie.

He was scheduled to present his paper in a special breakout session focused on abiogenic theories of oil and gas production. With the theories no longer cast off as nonsense, the professional community now allowed for a small portion of the mainstream conference to be devoted to this rather unorthodox collection of hypotheses.

Jeremy walked confidently into the meeting room. It was still early; the session would not begin for fifteen minutes. At the front of the conference room was a small stage, elevated maybe twelve inches from the floor, containing a podium in the center with a table and four chairs to its left. The first group of three speakers along with the session chairman would be seated at the table.

Since Jeremy was scheduled to be the first to present his results, he walked to the front of the meeting room and introduced himself to the man who, he guessed, was the session chair.

“Hi, I'm Jeremy Hitchcock.”

“Pleased to meet you. I'm Bill Shell.”

As they shook hands Jeremy glanced at his name badge. William Shell, Group Leader, Excelon Petroleum.

“I'll queue up your first slide after I introduce you to the audience.” Pointing to a small remote controller with two buttons, Bill continued, “Press this button to advance the slide and this button if you want to go back.”

“Got it,” Jeremy confirmed.

“You'll have no more than 25 minutes for your presentation, and I'll stop you if you go over. There will be five minutes for questions. Be sure to repeat the question so everyone hears it. I think that's it.”