The Covenant Of The Flame

ONE

SENATE CLEAN-AIR BATTLE LOOMS WASHINGTON, DC, 10 June (AP) – In this year's most tense confrontation between Democrats and Republicans, the Senate today begins its debate on the controversial Barker-Hudson clean-air bill, which advocates that the nation not only adopt but exceed the stringent atmosphere-control policies recently adopted in California.

'Our air's as foul as the smoke from a field of burning tires,' Senator Barker (Dem, New York) announced in a smoggy press conference on the steps of the Capitol Building yesterday. 'Take a deep breath. That is, if you're brave enough. Try not to gag. We ought to be wearing gas masks.'

'And stay indoors,' the bill's co-sponsor, Senator Hudson (Dem, New Hampshire), added. 'My wife and I went out for a stroll last night. Five minutes was all we could bear. We rushed back home and made sure all the windows were closed. I gave up smoking a dozen years ago. Might as well not have bothered. According to my statistics, the atmosphere's so filthy we inhale the equivalent of two packs of cigarettes every day. If you don't care about yourselves, then at least protect your children. We've got to stop destroying their and your lungs.'

The Barker-Hudson bill advocates a complete ban on smoking in all public places, an exorbitant fine for car and truck manufacturers if they fail to reduce emissions within two years, an equally exorbitant fine for industries that fail to reduce

atmospheric pollution within the same length of time, a surcharge on automobile license fees for owners of more than one vehicle, a mandatory air-exhaust filtration system outside restaurants, dry-cleaners, and…

TWO

Georgetown, Washington.

As was his custom, the Republican senior senator from Michigan, Roland Davis, woke at six a.m., careful not to disturb his wife. He went downstairs, made coffee, fed his cat, leaned out the front door to pick up the Washington Post, and carried the folded newspaper into the kitchen. The June sunrise shone dully through a smog-hazed bay window onto the table. Davis sipped his steaming coffee, put on his glasses, spread open the paper, and scanned it for any mention of his name.

He didn't have to read far. The headline referred to the Barker-Hudson bill, and in the ensuing two-column story, Davis was frequently cited as the leader of the Republican party's opposition to 'an extreme, repressive, radical, and economically suicidal approach to a temporary, admittedly serious problem that requires time and care to be corrected.'

Davis nodded, approving both his rhetoric and the reporter's accuracy in quoting him. He was fifty-eight, tall, with a full head of distinguished-looking gray hair, a patrician's face, and a photogenic slender body that he kept in shape by a half-hour daily workout on a stationary bicycle. Better get peddling, he thought. Got a busy day coming up. Besides, he was eager to watch the early morning news.

But first he wanted to finish the story in the Post. Barker and Hudson made more apocalyptic statements about 'poisonous air pollution contributing to the greenhouse effect and the depletion of the ozone layer… increasing rate of skin cancer… risk of drought… melting polar icecaps… rising ocean level… state of emergency.' Sounded like a plot for a science-fiction movie'.

Davis snorted. Those Democrats didn't stand a chance of getting their bill through the Senate, although he had to give Barker and Hudson credit – they knew how to get the attention of the media, and that wouldn't hurt come election time, at least with the liberals in their districts. Or maybe their tactic would backfire. Nobody wants to re-elect losers, and Barker and Hudson were sure to lose today. Clean air? Great idea. The trouble is, Americans didn't like making sacrifices. What they preferred was for the people down the street to make the sacrifice. Every smoker, multiple-car owner, factory worker worried about his job, everyone whose life style or pocketbook would be affected by the bill would urge his senators to vote against it.

Hadn't Barker and Hudson ever heard of compromise? Was 'moderation' not in their vocabulary? Didn't they realize you had to approach a problem one step at a time instead of jumping on it all at once?

Davis finished the story, pleased that he'd been quoted once more near the end, the voice of reason: 'I think we'd all agree, the air's not as clean as it could be. We've got a problem, yes, at least in some big cities, at least in June through September. Conditions will improve, though, when the weather gets cooler. That doesn't mean I recommend we sit on our hands. But we can't change society overnight, although my distinguished colleagues seem to want to do just that. What we need instead, and what I intend to propose as soon as I've evaluated all the statistics, is a balanced, moderate, carefully implemented, non-disruptive solution. Time. Air pollution took time to develop, and it requires time to be reduced.'

Excellent, Davis thought. The Post gave me plenty of space, and I'm sure to get even more press in Michigan. The smokers in my constituency will feel less put upon. So will two-car families threatened with a surcharge on their license fees. But most important, Davis thought, the automobile manufacturers will be awfully grateful when they don't have to worry about meeting new restrictions on exhaust from their cars and their factories.

Awfully grateful.

And mighty generous. Yes, indeed.

The doorbell rang. Davis frowned at the digital clock on the microwave across from him. 6:14. Who'd be here so early? At once the obvious answer occurred to him. An eager reporter. In which case, I'd better make sure I look presentable. Davis used his hands to neaten his hair, tied his housecoat securely, left the kitchen, and did his best to look cheery when he opened the front door.

Abruptly he scrunched his eyebrows together, because no one was there. He scowled up and down the hazy street lined with elegant townhouses, but except for a car disappearing around a corner, he saw no activity.

Who the-?

Why the-?

Suddenly an object on his doorstep attracted his attention. A large manila envelope. Frowning harder, Davis picked it up, peered once more along the street, went back inside his house, and locked the door behind him.

Couldn't have been my assistant, Davis thought. Susan would have called first if she had something important for me to look at this early. Even if she didn't have time to phone, she wouldn't merely have left this envelope and rushed away without an explanation.

Troubled, Davis unsealed the envelope and pulled out several documents. Too curious to wait to go into the kitchen and sit down to read them, he quickly scanned the first page but managed to complete only half of it before a moan escaped him.

Jesus.

Oh, dear Christ.

He rushed to finish the page and flipped through the others.

Fucking mother of-!

The documents provided dates, places, names, and amounts, every bribe he'd ever received, every illegal campaign contribution, every expense- paid vacation, every…!

And after the documents, there were photographs that made Davis grope for a wall to steady himself, afraid that his sudden chest pain meant he was having a heart attack. The photographs -clear, glossy, professional-looking black-and-whites – depicted Davis and his gorgeous young female assistant naked on the deck of a yacht and not simply having sex but performing several illegal versions of it, including sodomy and cunnilingus.

Davis vividly remembered that exquisite summer afternoon. He and his assistant had been alone. Taking care that they weren't followed, each had traveled separately to the small private Caribbean island owned by one of Davis 's most powerful constituents. They'd been assured that the island would be deserted, but just to be extra cautious, Davis had taken the yacht out to sea, where no one could spy on them. No Gary Hart screwups for him.

But someone had spied on them! From the downward angle of the photos, Davis concluded that they'd been taken with a long distance lens from a plane. And the photos were so sharply defined that Davis and his assistant almost appeared to be posing. Certainly their faces were easily recognizable, except when Davis had the back of his head to the camera while he hungrily burrowed his mouth between his assistant's legs.

And damn it, there was more! After the photographs, which made Davis's chest heave no longer in pain but rage, he shuddered at the sight of an unsigned typed note, its implied threat as chilling as it was proportioned:

WE SUGGEST

THAT YOU RETHINK

WHICH WAY YOU'LL VOTE

ON THE BARKER-HUDSON BILL.

Davis tore the documents, the photographs, and the note into halves, quarters, then eighths. The clumps became so thick that he had to subdivide them as he kept tearing. All the while, he cursed, with furious quietude so he wouldn't waken his wife.

Cocksuckers! he thought, dimly aware of the irony that one cocksucker, the evidence about whom he wanted desperately to destroy, was his female assistant.

At the same time, he was also aware that no matter how many times he shredded the damning evidence, his frenzy was useless – because whoever had sent this package wouldn't have been so foolish that they hadn't kept copies.

Yes! Whoever! But there wasn't any doubt who they were.

Barker and Hudson!

Davis shook with indignation. Junior Democratic senators threatening a senior Republican senator? Had they no conception of the power that a seasoned politician like Davis could muster?

I'll-!

Yes? You'll-

What? Exactly what will you do? Confront them? Reinforce the validity of their accusations? No matter what you do to them, it's nothing compared to what they can do to you if they decide to reveal what was in this package. Your career will be finished, ruined, a joke!

Then what are you going to do?

'Dear?'

Davis flinched as he heard his wife coming down the stairs. In a rush, he shoved the torn evidence into the envelope.

'Did I hear the doorbell?' Davis 's wife appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Her wrinkle-rimmed eyes were baggy. Her pudgy cheeks and belly sagged. Her white hair was in curlers.

'Yes, love,' Davis answered. 'It was nothing. Just a messenger with some last-minute information about the clean-air bill.'

'Oh, my, how tedious. I wish they wouldn't bother us this early.'

'I know, sweet,' Davis said. 'But it was important. It made me rethink which way I'll vote. I'm beginning to sympathize with Barker and Hudson. The children, dear. We have to protect the nation's children. We have to insure them clean air so they can have clean lungs.'

'But what about-?'

'My generous supporters in Detroit? I guess I'll just have to make them understand, dear.' Davis thought about the photographs, about the arousing smell of his assistant. 'Yes, that's right. I guess I'll just have to make my generous supporters understand.'

THREE

The Amazon basin. Brazil.

A haze filled the sky. Juanita Gomez, wearing a long black dress, fought to maintain her strength as she squinted through tears and a veil toward her husband's makeshift coffin. Yes, be strong, she thought, her soul aching. You must. For Pedro. It's what he would have wanted. Around her, she knew, her husband's mourning followers watched her as intensely as they did the coffin. If she lost control, if she gave them the least cause to suspect that her grief had weakened her resolve to continue her husband's work, then her husband's enemies would indeed have accomplished what they'd hoped to achieve by killing him. For Pedro! she thought. Be strong!

Juanita was twenty-five, short and thin, with a narrow face and tawny skin. She wasn't beautiful, she readily admitted, and had never been able to understand why Pedro had chosen her. Her single attractive feature was her shoulder-length dark hair, which despite the poverty of her diet had a sheen. How Pedro had loved to stroke it. How he'd bragged that their two infant children had inherited Juanita's lovely hair. What am I going to do without you? Juanita thought, barely able to restrain the trembling in her legs. But the answer-

– it seemed she heard Pedro's impassioned voice inside her brain-

– instantly made her stand straighter.

Have courage, Juanita. Don't give up. Make sure I didn't die uselessly. Take my place. Inflame my discouraged followers. Say the words! Give the speech!

Yes, Juanita thought and raised her angry eyes toward the thickening haze that obscured the sky. The speech. Since her husband had been shot two days ago, Juanita had felt an overwhelming pressure of words inside her. Although she'd never been gifted with her unschooled husband's amazing ability to speak in public and capture a crowd's attention, she'd suddenly known that she had to make a pronouncement at his graveside. It was almost as if she'd been commanded to do so. Throughout the preparations for Pedro's funeral, while his bullet-ravaged corpse lay on precious, hard-to-find ice, Juanita had mentally rehearsed what her compulsion dictated. Last night, too distraught with sorrow to sleep, she'd perfected the words. Soon, when the elderly priest finished droning his words over the coffin, it would be her turn. She would say hers. Pedro, her beloved husband, would speak in her, with her, through her – and provided that she remained strong, her husband's followers would subdue their fear, overcome their discouragement, and persist in their fight to save the land.

Be strong!

The cemetery was ancient, the majority of its wooden crosses listing from decay. The graveyard stood on a barren hill that overlooked the shacks in the village of Cordoba and the silt-choked, mud-colored tributary of the once-magnificent Amazon River. The silt was caused by runoff, Juanita knew, by erosion when the rain washed away the soil that the roots of the former majestic forest could no longer protect.

Because of the fires.

Because of the slash-and-burn tactics of her husband's enemies.

Those enemies had compelled the villagers to cut down the trees, to set fire to them, and to use the cleared land to grow more crops. That was why a thickening haze obscured the sky. Juanita trembled with increasing rage. Because of the fires in the distance, on the rim of the dwindling forest. The soil was extremely thin, even with the ashes from the trees, and after a few years of intensive farming, the soil stopped being fertile. As a consequence, more trees were burned, more land cleared, more crops planted until that soil too became infertile – a sickening pattern of progressive destruction.

But there was even more sickening destruction, Juanita knew. For her husband's enemies, who owned the land, forced the villagers to leave and brought in heavy equipment to strip-mine the treeless land to get at the minerals beneath it. In the end, nothing of worth remained. Wherever Juanita looked, barren ugliness surrounded her.

The priest had almost finished his prayers. Juanita felt heat in her soul, a furious need to turn to her husband's followers and say her words, to urge them to persist in their fight. Pedro had organized these villagers, convincing them to refuse to allow the wealthy, greedy, evil men in the nation's capital to continue destroying God's creation. Pedro had learned from visiting foreigners – what had they called themselves? ecologists? – that the dense smoke from the widespread fires was poisoning the earth's air. The foreigners had also said that this largest forest in the world took something bad (she remembered the meaningless term 'carbon dioxide') out of the air and added something good (what was it? oxygen?), that if the forest disappeared, which it would at the present rapid rate of millions of acres each year, the carbon dioxide in the air would accumulate until the weather changed, the temperature rose, and the rains no longer came.

The world depended on this forest, the foreigners had insisted. The burning had to be stopped!

Pedro had understood what the foreigners had told him, but he'd also understood that the peasants wouldn't fight to save the forest merely because foreigners claimed it was important to the world. At the same time, Pedro had known that the peasants would fight to save their homes, to preserve the rubber trees that gave them both shelter and the crop from which they earned their living, to protect the river from the muddy erosion that choked the fish they depended on for food. They'd fight. That is, if someone showed them how to fight, if someone banded them together, if someone gave them the confidence to realize that in numbers there was strength.

So Pedro had accepted the challenge, and for a time, he and his followers had been successful, forcing the enemy from the land. Apparently too successful, for the evil men in the capital had sent assassins with machineguns to shoot – to shred - Pedro's body while he made a speech in a neighboring village, and now the air was again thick with smoke. Once more, the ominous fires burned.

You mustn't give up! Juanita heard Pedro's voice in her head. You must continue the fight!

As the priest backed away from the coffin, she spun toward her husband's followers, about to raise her veil, to let them see the furnace-like determination in her eyes, to say her words.

But her impulse was interrupted, her husband's followers distracted, by a long black car that bumped unexpectedly along the dusty road and stopped at the base of the cemetery.

The villagers watched in confusion as a stranger got out. He was a tall, refined-looking man in a suit as black as his expensive car. His tie as well was black, in contrast with his immaculate, gleaming, white shirt, perhaps the only such shirt the villagers had ever seen. With dignified funereal steps, the stranger proceeded toward the rear of the car, opened its trunk, removed a cardboard box, and carried it somberly up the hill through the smoky haze toward the mourners in the dismal cemetery.

'Please, forgive me, Senora Gomez,' the man whispered and bowed in respect. His polished accent and careful pronunciation made it clear that he came from the city. 'I deeply apologize. I'm extremely reluctant to intrude at this sensitive trying time for you. I extend my sympathies and offer a prayer for the soul of your brave departed husband. I would not have troubled you, but a man instructed me – in fact, he insisted – that I do so.'

'Man?' Her back muscles rigid, Juanita studied the stranger with suspicion. 'What man?'

'Alas, I do not know. My client never told me his name. Yesterday he arrived unexpectedly at my office… I own a limousine service in the city. He paid me a generous amount to drive to this village and deliver this package… this gift, he said… at this precise moment.'

With greater suspicion, Juanita stared at the box. 'Gift? What is it?' Her immediate thought was that the evil men in the city had sent a bomb to destroy her in such a dramatic fashion, during her husband's funeral, that Pedro's followers would surely lose their will to fight.

'My client would not reveal to me what was in the box. In fact, he warned me that if I unsealed it prematurely, he would discover my transgression and punish me severely. He assured me and instructed me to assure you that the gift is not a danger, that instead you'll find it a comfort.'

Juanita squinted harshly. To drive all this way… and on such a mysterious mission… you must have been paid very well.'

'True, senora. As I confessed, the fee was generous.' The man looked embarrassed, as if comparing his fine clothes with the poverty around him. 'With the stranger's compliments, senora.'

Juanita reluctantly accepted the box. Its size reminded her of a cake box. But its contents, which made a thunking sound, were much heavier than a cake.

Troubled, Juanita stooped to set the box on the ground beside her husband's humble coffin. She tried, but when her trembling fingers couldn't break the seal, a villager stepped forward and used his knife to open it.

Compelled, Juanita pried up the flaps, then gazed warily inside.

At once she gasped. The villager who'd used his knife to unseal the box gasped as well. With equal suddenness, Juanita moaned, but not in shock, instead in triumph. She eagerly thrust her hands inside the box and held up its contents.

A human head. The severed skull of one of the evil men in the city who'd ordered her husband's death. The head – its features contorted grotesquely – vividly communicated the agony that the man had suffered while being decapitated. The skull was wrapped in a plastic bag, the bag evidently intended to prevent the jagged neck's blood from soaking through the cardboard box.

With a wail of victory, Juanita yanked off the bag, grasped the skull by its hair, and jerked it as high as her arm would permit so that all her husband's followers could see the wondrous gift that her unknown benefactor had sent.

The messenger stumbled back in horror, a hand raised to his mouth as if he might vomit. Nearly toppling him, the villagers surged forward to get a better look.

'Fight!' she screamed. For Pedro! For yourselves! For the land!'

The villagers shouted with determination.

Juanita swung the head toward Pedro's coffin. 'My husband, my beloved, can you see your enemy? Dear father of our children, you didn't die in vain! We won't be beaten! We'll fight! We'll continue fighting! We'll never stop fighting! Never! Until we're victorious! Until the day the fires stop!'

FOUR

The Coral Sea. The South Pacific.

The Argonaut, a supertanker carrying crude oil from the Persian Gulf to a refinery near Brisbane on Australia 's eastern coast, was three hours ahead of schedule. Clear weather and smooth seas all the way. A completely uneventful voyage. Can't ask for better than that, the captain thought. His name was Victor Malone. A twenty-year veteran of the ocean, most of which time he'd spent in the service of the Pacific-Rim Petroleum Corporation, he was forty-eight, of medium height, with receding brown hair and a stocky build. Although while at sea he seldom left the interior of his vessel, his somewhat puffy face had a ruddy complexion. In the supertanker's bridge, which despite its windows had lately caused Malone to feel claustrophobia, he checked the weather, sonar, radar, and navigation instruments. Nothing unusual. Another ten hours, and we'll be in port, he thought. Certainly by tomorrow morning. Confident of a routine evening, Malone told his watch officer that he was leaving the bridge. 'If you need me, I'll be in my cabin.'

Five minutes later, after locking the door to his cabin behind him, Malone unlocked a drawer in his desk and removed a half-empty bottle of vodka. A condition of Malone's employment was that he abstain from alcohol while commanding a Pac-Rim vessel, and for most of his career, Malone had abided by that rule. Guilt-ridden, puzzled, he wasn't sure when or why he'd begun to bend and finally had broken the rule.

Perhaps it had been the trauma of the divorce his wife had demanded three years ago after falling in love with a salesman in the real-estate office where she worked in Boston, a man who, she'd angrily explained, wouldn't abandon her for months at a time.

Or perhaps it had been the lonely nights in foreign ports that had long ago stopped being glamorous.

For whatever reason, a sip now and then before he went to sleep had turned into periodic secret binges in which Malone tried to counteract the boredom of too many lengthy voyages. Aware that his vice was getting out of control, he'd tried to exercise discipline on this voyage and had indulged his need for alcohol only when absolutely desperate.

Even so, he'd come close to finishing all eight bottles that he'd smuggled aboard. Amazing how they go so fast, he mused as he poured two inches of vodka into a glass and leaned back in the chair behind his desk.

He wished he had ice and vermouth, but tomorrow morning after docking at the refinery, as soon as his obligations were completed, he would go ashore, find an isolated bar where he wouldn't be recognized, and at last be able to enjoy a martini again.

Several martinis.

He'd rent a room to sleep off his drunkenness and the next day return to work with no one suspecting.

That was the beauty of vodka. It didn't taint his breath.

After what seemed a few sips, Malone was surprised to discover that he'd emptied his glass. Confused, he squinted blearily, assessed the situation, and decided. What the hell, we're almost in port. This'll be my last chance before we dock. A routine assignment. No problems coming up. Why let the rest of the bottle go to waste? So Malone poured another two inches into his glass, and by the time he fell asleep a half-hour later, the bottle and the glass were drained.

Abruptly his watch officer's gravelly voice roused him. 'Captain?'

Malone struggled – and managed – to raise one eyelid.

'Captain?'

Malone, through his half-opened right eye, sought the source of the voice and gradually realized that it came from the wall, from the intercom.

'Captain, we're having some problems with our sonar reception.'

With difficulty, Malone raised his head. He shook it to try to clear his thoughts, opened both eyes, and blinked, his vision blurry. His glass fell off his lap as he lurched to his feet and groped for the intercom's speaker button. 'Uh, yeah, what? Uh, what was…? Tell me that again.'

'Captain, I said we're having problems with the sonar.'

Malone rubbed his throbbing forehead. 'Problems? What kind of…?'

'Intermittent fade-outs.'

Malone's tongue felt thick. He strained not to slur his words. 'Sounds like… an…' That word was a tough one. His lips were rubbery. 'An electrical short.'

'That's what it seems to me, Captain. I've ordered a maintenance crew to look into it.'

'Good. Yes, good. A maintenance crew. Good. Let me know what they report.'

'Captain, I think you'd better get up here.'

'Absolutely. I was having a nap. I'll be there shortly. As soon as possible.' Too many s's, Malone nervously realized despite his grogginess. He picked up his glass, rinsed it in his cabin's sink, and set it on a counter. Next he placed the empty vodka bottle inside his desk and locked the drawer.

Better brush my teeth.

Better gargle and wash my face.

But when Malone scowled in the mirror above the sink, the stupor in his bloodshot eyes appalled him. Come on! he thought. Wake up!

He washed his face with hot, then cold water, and swallowed two aspirins. With alarm, he noticed that his shirt was wrinkled. Better change it, he thought. Look alert!

From the intercom, the watch officer's gravelly voice blurted, 'Captain, the sonar has failed. It's…' Garbled voices in the background. '… completely dead.'

Malone somehow didn't waver as he crossed his cabin and reached the intercom, pushing its transmit button. 'Completely?'

'The screen is blank.'

'Switch to the backup system.'

'I did, but it's not working either, Captain.'

'Not…?' Malone inhaled. Dear God. I'm coming right up.' With trembling fingers, he fumbled to change his shirt. As a last-moment thought, he splashed his face with after-shave lotion on the off-chance that a crew member might somehow smell the supposedly undetectable vodka.

God was merciful. No one saw Malone stumble from his cabin, grasp a bulkhead, straighten himself, and waver onward.

'Status report!' Malone demanded when he entered the control room with what he hoped was convincing authority.

'The same,' his watch officer replied. 'Both primary and secondary sonar systems are not in operation.'

'Give me the navigation charts.'

'I assumed you'd want them ready for you, Captain. Should I stop the engines?'

'No! Not yet! Not until we have to!' Malone glared toward his officers. What the hell was wrong with them? Didn't they realize how long it would take for the huge, heavy Argonaut to coast to a stop and, after the sonar was repaired, to regain maximum speed? Three hours! We're three hours ahead of schedule! The refinery's expecting us! We'll probably get a bonus for being so efficient! But all we'll get is shit if we stop to fix a minor problem with the sonar and we show up God knows how late!'

The lingering effects of the vodka were making him overreact, Malone realized, but he couldn't help himself. He'd counted on reaching the refinery by tomorrow morning, eager to relieve himself of his obligation, to escape this massive vessel, the walls of which had lately seemed to close in on him.

Most of all, he'd counted on his reward. The martinis.

He could almost taste them.

'But Captain, without the sonar…'

'It's just an electrical problem,' Malone insisted. The maintenance crew will find what it is and repair it.' He spread the navigation charts on a table and studied them, noting the varying depths of the ocean and the pattern of reefs.

Yes! These waters were just as Malone remembered! To avoid the reefs in the Torres Strait to the north, he'd guided the Argonaut around New Guinea, then southward through the Soloman Sea into the Coral Sea, carefully skirting the Great Barrier Reef along Australia 's northeastern coast.

Once past the Great Barrier, except for a few smaller reefs, the ocean was clear all the way to Brisbane.

'What was our position when the sonar went out?'

'Right here, Captain,' the watch officer said, naming a latitude and a longitude, pointing at the chart.

'Perfect.' Malone's skull felt as if a spike had been driven through it. 'No problem. Then all we have to do is make sure to avoid these two reefs.' Striving to maintain his balance, he turned from the chart. Twenty degrees starboard.'

'Aye, aye, Captain,' the watch officer said. He repeated the course correction to the helmsman, who acknowledged his instructions by repeating them as well. Twenty degrees starboard.'

Malone's hands shook as he lit a cigarette. 'Now let's get that electrical problem fixed.' He'd amazed himself by thinking so clearly, given his hangover. 'And order some coffee up here. It'll be a long night.'

Ninety minutes later, Malone requested confirmation of the Argonaut's speed, determined the tanker's position on the chart, satisfied himself that the first reef had been avoided, and turned to order another course correction. As he did so, he bumped his cup of coffee, knocking it onto the floor. 'Shit! Get someone to clean this up! Ten degrees starboard!'

'Aye, aye, Captain. Ten degrees starboard.'

The control room became tensely silent.

The sonar screen flickered.

'Captain, the maintenance crew has located the problem. We're ready to… There. The sonar's functional.'

'I told you. A minor problem. No need to stop.'

Malone and his officers leaned forward to study the suddenly glowing console.

'Jesus,' someone said.

Malone clasped a hand to his mouth.

The outline of a reef flashed before him. At the same time, a sickening, rumbling crunch shook the supertanker's hull. As Malone lost his balance and fell to his knees, the coffee he'd spilled soaked his trousers. Legs wet, he gaped down in shock as another crunch shook the tanker. The coffee. So dark. So much like…

FIVE

'Good evening. This is Dan Rather. CBS News. The worst oil spill in history continues to become more catastrophic. Since striking a reef off Australia 's eastern coast yesterday, the Argonaut - a Pacific-Rim Petroleum Corporation supertanker – remains in danger of sinking while efforts to contain its cargo have been alarmingly ineffectual. An estimated thirty million gallons of crude oil now pollute the formerly pristine Coral Sea. Prevailing currents direct the spill toward one of the world's finest natural wonders, the thousand-mile-long Great Barrier Reef. Ecologists predict that, unless a miracle occurs, the delicate microscopic organisms that form the basis of the reef will be destroyed, and along with those organisms, the Great Barrier itself will be destroyed. As our correspondent in Brisbane explains, yet another magnificent and irreplaceable glory of our planet is about to cease to exist.'

SIX

Australia.

Captain Victor Malone, trembling, haggard, left the Brisbane courthouse where he'd been interrogated throughout the day about the mistaken directions he'd given his watch officer to avoid the reef that the Argonaut had struck. Ten degrees port,' he'd insisted he'd told his subordinates.

But ten degrees starboard is what his watch officer and helmsman insisted they'd heard. Fools! No, cowards! That's what they were! Damned disloyal cowards! They didn't have the guts to stand by their captain! Some of them even claimed they suspected he'd been drinking!

A good thing no one had thought to test his blood until twelve hours after the accident. The chemical analysis would be inconclusive. If a small trace of alcohol did show up in his blood, Malone could always claim that he'd had a drink to steady himself after the helicopter had flown him ashore.

As Malone left the courthouse and photographers snapped his picture, he raised his arm to shield his face and stumbled angrily down the courthouse steps through the crowd toward the car he'd hired to take him away. His muscles shuddered. A vodka martini, he kept assuring himself.

All I need is…

If I can manage to escape these bastard reporters…

A martini!

That'll set my mind straight!

Malone jabbed his elbow into a photographer's chest, shoved the doubled-over man aside, oblivious to his anguished moan, and reached the hired car. But the dark sedan was empty. Where the hell was the driver? Sure, Malone thought. The son of a bitch! He ran! The crowd made him panic! He's a coward, the same as my officers!

Malone lunged behind the steering wheel, slammed the door shut, jerked the ignition key, stomped the accelerator, and roared from the courthouse.

While he veered around a corner, grinning, free, eager to taste his martinis, his body erupted, as did his car.

The explosion – which he never heard – sprayed blood, bone, hair, and chunks of metal for thirty yards in every direction.

The site of the blast had been perfectly chosen. As Dan Rather explained the next evening, 'It appears that the method was deliberate and selective. No one else was injured. Only the Argonaut's captain died.'

SEVEN

Hong Kong.

Chandler Thompson, chief executive officer of the Pacific-Rim Petroleum Corporation, strained not to squint from the glare of TV lights while he stood authoritatively straight behind a podium on a platform, addressing a throng of reporters in the conference room of Pac-Rim's headquarters. Forty-eight, with stern chiseled features, he'd been extremely reluctant to agree to this press conference, but the mounting furor about the disaster left him no choice. He had to diffuse the controversy and bolster Pac-Rim's devastated reputation. His thousand-dollar suit was impeccably pressed. He'd made sure to button its coat before he strode with military bearing into the room and onto the platform.

'Were we aware that Captain Malone had a drinking problem?… No. It's stringent corporate policy that all of our crewmen abstain from alcohol while on duty and for twenty-four hours prior to boarding a Pacific-Rim vessel… Do we test samples of their blood to insure that they abide by the rule? It's never seemed necessary. Our officers are rigorously screened before they're hired. We have utmost confidence in our personnel. Captain Malone's violation of the rules was a singular exception. There's no reason to question the professionalism of our other officers, but yes, from now on, we do intend to administer random blood tests to check for alcohol and drugs… Have we any idea who's responsible for the murder of Captain Malone? The police continue to investigate. It would be premature for us to make unwarranted accusations… Our delay in responding to the oil spill? What delay? The containment team snapped into action the moment we learned of the accident… Insufficient staff? Lack of training and preparation? Minimal equipment? Nonsense. We were ready for any emergency…One at a time, please. I didn't hear the question…That's true. Several members of the containment team were at home asleep at the time of the accident, but our night-shift supervisor immediately alerted them. I assure you, from now on, our night crew will operate at the same strength as our day crew… No, unfortunately we haven't been able to prevent the Argonaut from discharging more of its cargo… Thirty million gallons to date? I regret to say that's correct. Efforts to keep the oil from spreading have so far proved futile. Portions of the Great Barrier Reef, to my great sorrow, have indeed been contaminated… Repeat the question, please… Yes, some containment equipment did malfunction. Rumors of disorganization? Confusion? A twenty-four-hour delay? Why didn't the Argonaut have a reinforced double hull so the reef couldn't rupture the cargo's interior wall? Before I answer further questions, I want to assure you that the Pacific-Rim Petroleum Corporation is a responsible, public-minded…'

Harried movement on Thompson's left distracted him. A nervous Pac-Rim executive stepped onto the platform, hurrying forward with a folded note. The executive's face was ashen. You idiot, Thompson thought. You'll ruin…! For God's sake, don't you know enough not to interrupt me? We have to keep up a show of confidence. I was just about to…!

Repressing a furious scowl, Thompson took the note and mentally vowed to fire the executive the moment the press conference ended.

'Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,' Thompson told the reporters. Straining to look dignified, he opened the note, scanned its typewritten message, and instantly forgot his rage. His heart pumped so fast that he felt dizzy. He grasped the podium for support. The note seemed to swirl.

OUR BRISBANE OFFICE REPORTS KEVIN STARK, DIRECTOR OF CONTAINMENT PLANNING,

Stark! Yet another executive whom Thompson planned to fire. The bastard's preparations for controlling a major oil spill had been abysmally inadequate. It was Stark's fault that containment procedures had been delayed because of insufficient staff and ill-maintained equipment. It was Stark's fault that the oil had reached and was killing the Great Barrier Reef.

WAS FOUND AN HOUR AGO, DROWNED, HIS BODY UPSIDE DOWN IN A BARREL OF OIL.

Reporters responded to Thompson's evident shock and crowded toward him, shouting further questions. Still dizzy, suddenly thirsty, he groped for a glass of water on the podium. As Thompson swallowed the water, he noted its bitter aftertaste and abruptly gasped, fire coursing through his stomach. His legs felt knocked from under him. Photographers flashed more pictures. Video cameras whirred while Thompson dropped the glass, fell to his knees, clutched his stomach, gasped again, and pitched forward, dead before he hit the platform, but not before blood spewed from his mouth, spattering the front row of reporters.

EIGHT

Houston, Texas.

Virgil Krause, the newly appointed chief executive officer of the Pacific-Rim Petroleum Corporation, urgently thrust documents into his briefcase, about to rush from his top-floor office in Pac-Rim's American headquarters. An hour from now, he was due at Houston 's Intercontinental Airport, where a company jet made frantic preparations to speed him to Hong Kong. Krause was forty, in excellent health, known for his energy and resilience, but already the shock of his sudden promotion had made him breathless. He'd been able to spare just five minutes to phone his wife and explain his new responsibilities. She would join him in Hong Kong as soon as possible. Meanwhile, Krause anticipated an intense, mostly sleepless flight during which he would not only have to review the mistakes that had caused the Argonaut disaster but would also have to come up with solutions for cleaning the spill and avoiding another one.

More to the point, Krause wouldn't get much sleep on the flight because he feared that the promotion he'd so often prayed for would be his damnation.

Malone, Stark, and Thompson. Their brutal deaths had been as startling as the Argonaut disaster.

Will I be next? Krause thought, his hands trembling as he shut his briefcase.

A secretary intercepted Krause as he darted from his office. This telegram just came for you, sir.'

Krause crammed it into his suit-coat pocket. 'Got to hurry. I'll read it on the plane.'

'But the messenger said it was urgent. He insisted you read it as soon as possible.'

Krause faltered, yanked the telegram from his pocket, and tore it open.

The three sentences made him more breathless.

MISTAKES DEMAND PUNISHMENT. DON'T LET THE ARGONAUT HAPPEN AGAIN. THE LORD IS YOUR WITNESS.