Ice Fire: A Jock Boucher Thriller (31 page)

Boucher snuck up on them from behind. Perry’s hands were in his lap; the gun was nowhere else to be seen. Boucher was two feet behind them, creeping forward, when Perry saw his reflection in the computer screen, stood, and fired. The shot went wild. Palmetto had also stood and knocked Perry’s arm with his shoulder. Perry raised his hand for another shot, but Boucher’s right cross was already on its way, one of the best punches he had ever thrown in his life. Perry’s head snapped back and he fell to the floor unconscious. Boucher kicked the gun out of reach, and used the computer power cable to bind his hands behind his back. They stood over him.

“Is he dead?” Palmetto asked.

Boucher knelt down and felt his neck for a pulse. “No,” he said.

“Good. Let’s dump him in that snake pit in the interest of science. I would like to know how fast the poisonous vipers of Louisiana can kill a certified son of a bitch.”

“It’s tempting,” Boucher said. “It’s awful tempting.”

T
WO MONTHS LATER, JOCK
Boucher had chartered the forty-eight-foot ketch because he liked the name,
Revenge.
She was sleek and swift under sail, a luxury vessel. For many the chance to sail such a craft at sunset across Banderas Bay on Mexico’s Pacific coast, one of the world’s loveliest bodies of water, was the pinnacle of luxurious living. He assumed that the ship’s name was a reference to Oscar Wilde’s famous quote, with which he agreed. Living well was the best revenge.

But neither living well nor revenge was on the agenda on this evening. His was a solitary and a solemn task. He was lucky his bag had not been opened by customs on arrival in Mexico; his suitcase contained jars with labels identifying their contents as crushed black pepper. He had not prepared a logical excuse for carrying such a quantity of the condiment if challenged, knowing only that if he had declared Dawn’s ashes the red tape would have been endless. He was the only passenger on board the ketch. His mission was to grant her last wish. The gentle waves would carry her ashes to the shore and she would lie eternally on the sandy beaches of Puerto Vallarta.

“Did you catch anything?” Malika asked when he returned to the hotel.

He raised his empty hands. “That’s why they call it fishing, not catching,” he said. “Did you enjoy your day?”

“That’s not hard to do here. I napped out by the pool, went into town to shop, found this great place on the beach where people go to watch the sunset. I missed you.” She kissed his cheek.

“Thanks for understanding,” he said. “Some things a man’s got to do when he gets next to water.”

“I know, I know, but that’s all you get. No more solo adventures. Where would you like to have dinner tonight?”

“Someplace on the beach.”

“Okay. Get yourself ready. Oh, by the way, I was watching CNN and there was something about a businessman from New Orleans. He was refused bail and is awaiting trial on a lot of charges. Sounds like an awful man. His name was John Perry. Did you know him?”

“I knew who he was,” Boucher said. He walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. “I knew who he was.”

He turned the water on full force and hot—and heard the phone ringing. Malika answered it, then called out, “It’s Bob Palmetto for you.”

Muttering curses, he wrapped a towel around himself and walked to the phone.

“Perfect timing. I was in the shower.”

“Ah, well, drip-dry, Judge,” Palmetto said. “Did you hear the news about Perry?”

“Malika just told me.”

“I wish him a long and miserable life. With him behind bars, I think we can say the case is closed.”

“I think we can. How’s the new job?”

“I don’t know whether I can even discuss it over an international phone line. I tell you, I’m working for one of the most secretive government agencies in the world. You just whisper ‘methane hydrate’ and doors slam shut. They don’t want
anyone
knowing about what they’re really doing until they’re good and ready. They treat me like I’m Einstein with plans for an atomic bomb in my head, but I’m not complaining. I think they mean well. More important, I think they’re responsible people. They’re treating this with the respect it deserves. You two having a good vacation?”

“We are. This place is beautiful.”

“What’s next? Have you decided whether you’re going back on the bench?”

“No. I’ve got another month before I have to decide. Malika and I might go to India. I’ll think about it on our trip.”

“Well, happy trails. Give me a call when you get back.”

“I’ll do that, Bob. You take care.” He hung up the phone.

“Was that the gentleman you helped?” Malika asked.

“We sort of helped each other,” Boucher said.

She walked up to him and put her arms around his neck. “I should be angry with him. I thought for a while that whatever you were doing with him had taken you away from me.”

He put his hands on her waist and looked into her eyes. “I thought whatever you were doing with your client had taken you away from me.”

She shook her head. “We must learn to trust each other. Now get dressed. I’m starving.”

There was a knock at the door. Malika went to open it as he stepped into the bathroom, closing the door.

“Jock, you’d better come here,” she said.

“Malika, I’m wrapped in a towel.”

“I still think you’d better come here.”

He gave the towel a tighter wrap, then stepped out. A man in U.S. Air Force blues stood in the center of the room, a bird colonel. He removed his hat.

“Judge Boucher, I’m Colonel Lance Barrett. I have orders to transport you to Washington immediately.”

“Orders from whom?”

“From the President of the United States, Your Honor.”

“The President wants me? What for?”

“I wasn’t told, sir. We need to get moving. There are several aircraft in holding patterns pending our departure. The President of Mexico granted us landing rights, but we have a tight window.”

“What about my friend?” Boucher motioned toward Malika.

“I’m sorry. The F-15 Strike Eagle is a two-seater.”

“That’s a jet fighter. You flew a military aircraft into Mexico’s sovereign airspace?”

“The President is anxious to see you, sir.”

Boucher shook his head and turned to Malika. “I’m sorry, honey.”

She smiled. “I’ll be fine. You’d better get dressed before you drop that towel.”

He walked to the bathroom, then turned to the officer. “Can you tell me one thing, Colonel?”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Is the President pissed off at me?”

“I’ll have to let him address that, Judge Boucher.”

THE END

M
ETHANE HYDRATE IS POISED
to become a major worldwide energy resource. It is estimated that there is twice as much methane hydrate in the world as all other carbon-based fossil fuel sources combined.

Methane hydrate is found in marine sediments and Arctic regions. Consisting of gas molecules surrounded by a cage of water molecules, it resembles snow or clumps of crushed ice. A striking feature of this ice: when lit, it burns. It is stable in ocean depths of more than three hundred meters and can form layers several hundred meters thick. Mapping by the U.S. Geological Survey has shown an immense deposit of methane hydrate off the outer continental shelf of North and South Carolina. Other deposits have also been discovered in U.S. offshore areas. Other countries that are actively exploring and developing deposits of methane hydrate in their own territorial areas include Russia, China, India, and Japan. New Zealand has recently announced that it intends to be the first country to commercially produce fuel from methane hydrate. The U.S. government has announced its plans to begin large-scale production tests for methane hydrate in the Arctic in 2012.

Methane is clean-burning, and one source claims that replacement of current coal and petroleum with methane extracted from hydrate could reduce global carbon dioxide emissions by 50 percent.

On the downside, disturbance of subsea hydrate layers may destabilize the ocean floor and cause landslides on the outer continental slope, which may in turn cause tsunamis engulfing coastal population centers. Furthermore, excessive release of methane gas into the atmosphere may contribute to global warming.

In summary, a clean-burning, abundant energy resource exists that may last for centuries and lessen reliance on imported fuel sources for the United States and several other of the world’s leading economic powers. The development of this resource may create entire new industries and the jobs that accompany them. It also presents challenges and risks that will require analysis and prudence, if not an abundance of caution.

But regardless of one’s perspective, the term
methane hydrate
is about to assume a prominent position in the lexicon of global energy.

BLOOD GAME

A JOCK BOUCHER THRILLER

by

DAVID LYONS

Coming August 2013 in hardcover from Emily Bestler Books/Atria

Turn the page for a preview of
Blood Game
. . . .

“Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.”

G
EORGE
S
ANTAYANA
(1863-1952)

“In addition to combat of all kinds, possible operations in the next several years will include everything from helping victims of a flood to
restoring order in a collapsed state with large-scale criminal activity, violence, and perhaps even unconventional weaponry.”

G
ENERAL
R
AYMOND
T. O
DIERNO
, C
HIEF OF
S
TAFF OF THE
U.S. A
RMY
,
F
OREIGN
A
FFAIRS
MAGAZINE
, J
UNE I, 2012
(
ITALICS MINE
)

M
AC HALLEY DESERVED A
better death.

He’d known failure, more than his share. Three marriages had ended in bitter divorce. Failed husband. Three kids from those marriages were grown and on their own. Not one kept in touch with him. Failed father. He had owned a small barge company that plied the Mississippi River and intercoastal waterways of Louisiana, but that went bust. Then he had a seafood restaurant overlooking the gulf, but Katrina smashed it flat, and when he’d spent every last dime getting it back on its feet, the BP oil spill fouled the neighborhood beaches and robbed him of the regular trade he had built up. Failed businessman. Alicia, his latest live-in, had dumped him; walked out with her suitcase—and his Rolex. Failed lover. At fifty-five years of age there wasn’t much left for him, but it helped when he gave himself credit for his one consistent success in life, survival. His failures were not all his fault, and the fact that he got back on his feet over and over again reinforced his sense of self-worth. His resilience had helped him land the job he had now; a shit job, but one that kept him alive. Halley’s present occupation was a galley cook on one of the many offshore service vessels owned by Dumont Industries, one of the Gulf Coast’s biggest conglomerates. It was a curious combination of his former lines of work, only now he was a grunt, not a proprietor. Big difference.

The three-hundred-fifty-foot high-capacity vessel had made a run deep into the gulf and was now on its way back to shore. It had been his first trip. Except for sack time in his bunk, he’d spent all his time in the galley cooking, as he’d expected. What he hadn’t expected was to be ordered to remain in the galley unless permission was given to go topside. This ship was not running personnel to and from the offshore rigs as most of them did, but taking out drilling equipment. Were they worried he’d hurt himself? He probably knew the business better than most of the crew.

On the second day of rolling seas, he said to hell with the orders. He needed some air. Looking for an access to the main deck he’d passed an entrance to the ship’s hold, opened the door, and took a peek. He wasn’t sure what he saw, but he knew what it wasn’t. It wasn’t offshore drilling equipment. One item was uncovered. It was a tripod and stood chest high. Painted olive drab. Halley forgot about going on deck. He hastened back to the galley. Where he stayed the rest of the day.

That night he was in his bunk alone. All his crewmates quartered with him were on duty. The ship was slowing down and without speed was rolling in moderate swells. Being cooped up inside was enough to make any sailor seasick. He got up, went to the head, and splashed cold water from the sink on his face. He then went to the cabin door and found it locked. They’d locked him in the crew’s quarters. The engines rumbled, gurgled, then stopped. He heard another ship for just a moment, then its engines died too. It was close by. Then it was alongside. There wasn’t a lot of noise, but he knew his ship’s cargo was being transferred. The silence was odd. He’d never offloaded a ship without yelling orders—it was part of the process. When he did finally hear voices, they were speaking Spanish. Half an hour later, the engines started up. Halley got back in his bunk. He feigned sleep when his mates returned.

The next day, he waited for his chance and took another peek at the hold. There was a new cargo. Wasn’t hard to guess what was in the hundreds of rectangular packages. That night after dinner he complained about the restriction on his movement. A man needs fresh air.

“Go on up,” the captain said. “Have a smoke.”

He was standing at the stern of the vessel, one hand on the railing. It was a still night with a half moon, and by its light he gazed at the dark water, phosphorus blinking like fireflies. He took a drag from his cigarette, leaned over the rail, and exhaled smoke. He did not know what sent him over and into the ship’s wake. His head hit the stern as he fell and Halley was unconscious when he hit the water. Reflex actions took over, his pulmonary system seeking air. Half a liter of water was swallowed with the first gasp and flooded into his lungs. Then six liters of ocean water filled his respiratory organs. His throat constricted with rigor, cutting oxygen to his brain. Survival, his one success in life, now eluded him.