Wall of Night

34

Could this be why Soong was in such a hurry to get out? Tanner wondered. One glance at Dutcher told him they were thinking alike. Lack of solid connections aside, the timing was hard to ignore.

Dutcher said, “If you’re right, Walt, we’re in new territory. I assume you’ve got a theory?”

“A rough one.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“I’ll have to give you a short course in shale oil basics—”

“Oh boy,” Cahil muttered.

Oaken gave him a sideways grin and kept going. “First of all, shale oil isn’t shale at all, but something called organic marlstone — a mixture of clay, calcium carbonate, and kerogen — plants that have decayed into petroleum over a few million years. In essence, shale oil is a kind of crude oil.”

“Which means it needs a lot of refinement,” Latham said.

“Right, but first comes extraction. The most common method is called retort mining: A block of shale is bisected with shafts, then holes are drilled into the block and stuffed with explosives.”

Tanner asked, “How big are these blocks?”

“The average size is one square mile and two thousand feet deep. After the charges are in place, the block is ‘rubbled,’ breaking the shale into smaller chunks. Think of it like a skyscraper that’s blown to bits, but held upright by massive scaffolding; in the case of retort mining, that scaffolding happens to be the earth surrounding the block.”

“How small do they make the … chunks?” asked Cahil.

Oaken paused for a moment. “Gravel sized.”

“That’s a lot of blasting.”

“Yep. After the block is rubbled, it’s ignited. The burn is controlled by either injecting or evacuating air into the block. Once the shale reaches about a thousand degrees, the kerogen separates out and trickles to the bottom shaft, where it’s pumped into tanks for transport to a refinery.”

“How much of this stuff is lying around, and why hasn’t someone collected it?” asked Cahil.

“Rough estimates put worldwide deposits at about nearly three trillion barrels.”

“Three trillion?”

Oaken nodded. “To answer your second question, no one’s been able to come up with a recovery method that gets around shale oil’s two biggest problems: cost and pollution. It’s a balancing act. You can go low cost — strip mining, for instance — but the leftover pollution and hazardous waste is staggering. Some countries have even played with injecting radioactive isotopes during the heating process to increase the output, but the isotopes tend to leak into groundwater systems.

“Now, if you go the environmentally friendly route, it becomes a losing proposition.”

“How so?” asked Dutcher.

“A couple years ago Atlantic-Richfield did a study. They estimated it would take twelve years of output to simply break even; until then, it was all money down the drain.”

“So, let’s suppose someone found an inexpensive, environmentally friendly way of recovering shale oil. What kind of money are we talking about?”

Oaken thought for a moment. “Hundreds of billions a year — pure profit. And that’s not even including offshoot ventures like transportation agreements, sub licensing, intellectual property royalties … The list goes on. Plus, whoever has the process would gain enormous political power. Virtually overnight, they’d be on par with the Saudis or the UAE. We’re talking real power here.”

“Enough power to warrant the slaughter of an innocent family?” Cahil asked.

“Worse has been done for less.”

“That it has,” Dutcher said. “I think it’s time we learn more about TASSOL.”

When the meeting broke up, Dutcher led Tanner to his office. “Briggs, I’m not sure I like where this is going. If this Baker business has anything to do with Soong, it brings up a whole new set of questions.”

“Such as, if he’s been locked up all this time, where’s he been getting his information?”

“Right. The carrot-and-stick game he’s playing with the CIA doesn’t help matters.”

“As I told Dick, Soong would have to be a fool to assume the CIA is going to care about Lian. By doing it his way, he increases the chances of us rescuing both of them.”

Dutcher sighed. “Wheels within wheels. You know what the worst part is?”

“What’s that?”

“I keep getting the feeling we’re still not seeing the whole picture.”

Tanner nodded. Like there’s an ocean beneath us, just waiting to open up.

Mason walked into the Oval Office to find General Cathermeier sitting before the president’s desk. Bousikaris, the ever-watchful sentinel, stood beside Martin’s chair. “Dick, thanks for coming. I feel it’s important you hear about this along with General Cathermeier. Please, sit down.”

What now? Mason thought. Both Martin’s and Bousikaris’s expressions were grim.

“The Security Council went badly,” Bousikaris announced.

“How bad?” Mason asked.

“The Chinese stormed out. The Russians are claiming the reactor leak was minor and that there were no deaths — Russian or Chinese. More importantly, they’re denying the accusation that this is just another in a long line of accidents. They say it’s all fiction.”

“You mean they’re downplaying them, or they’re claiming they never happened?” said Mason.

“The latter,” Martin said.

“When’s the meeting going to reconvene?”

“It isn’t. The Chinese are getting ready to release a statement. Unless the Russians fully admit their culpability, agree to reparations, and allow inspectors into all facilities employing Chinese citizens, Beijing will not return to the table.”

“That’s extreme. They’re not giving the Russians anywhere to go.”

Bousikaris said, “According to the Chinese, this isn’t the first time they’ve voiced their concerns to Moscow. They’ve been batting this issue back and forth for years.”

“What kind of proof do the Chinese have?”

“We don’t know,” Martin said. “They’re claiming Moscow has been covering up the accidents.”

“I’d be interested to know where the Chinese are getting their intell.”

Cathermeier asked, “Why would the Russians be covering up accidents?”

“Over the last five years, a lot of Chinese citizens have moved into Siberia; they retain their original citizenship, but live and work in Russia, often taking jobs that Russians either don’t want, or won’t accept.”

“Cheap labor.”

“Exactly. The problem is — at least according to the Chinese — the Russians see them as second-class citizens. To the Russians they’re just warm bodies.”

“The solution is simple,” Mason said. “We bring in the Red Cross, attach a small, neutral peacekeeping force, put them both under the aegis of the UN, then send them in to sort it out.”

“The Chinese won’t accept that,” said Bousikaris.

“Why?”

Martin cleared his throat. “We had a visit from China’s ambassador this morning. This afternoon they’ll be holding simultaneous news conferences here and in Beijing. At the same time, China’s ambassador in Moscow will be delivering a message to the Russian foreign minister.”

Mason felt a flutter of fear in his chest. “Do we have any idea what this message will say?”

“Judging from the ambassador’s tone, they’re probably going to give Moscow an ultimatum.”

“This is a mistake, Mr. President. They’re moving too fast, too aggressively.”

“That may be, Dick, but we don’t set Chinese policy.”

No, but you are the leader of the most powerful nation in the free world, Mason thought.

Right or wrong, America had fallen into the role of global policeman. The moment the Chinese ambassador left his office, Martin should have lit a fire under every state department official between here and Beijing and Moscow.

“Mr. President, we need to intervene — put a diplomatic buffer between Moscow and Beijing.”

“I agree,” said Cathermeier. “If we can slow things down a bit—”

Martin raised his hand, silencing them. “Gentlemen, you don’t understand: This is happening. Of course we need to intervene; of course we need to buy some time for a diplomatic solution, but that’s tomorrow. Today—in a matter of hours — China’s ambassador will be sitting in front of the Russian foreign minister. We have to assume Moscow will react badly to the ultimatum. So, the question is, what’s our response?”

We’re running in goddamned circles, Mason thought.

“General, what kind of assets do we have in range of Russia’s eastern coast?” asked Martin.

“Pardon me, sir?”

“Naval assets. What do we have and how long would it take?”

“You’re talking about battle groups, Mr. President?”

“Yes.”

Mason thought, No, no, no …

“As far as ready assets, the John Stennis group is coming off an exercise in the Pacific.”

Bousikaris asked, “Its composition?”

“One aircraft carrier, seven surface ships in escort, a handful of support ships, and two LA-class attack submarines. Mr. President, I have to advise against this. Parking that kind of firepower off the Russian coast is going to be seen as provocative. At best, it’s premature.”

“If diplomatic measures fall short and this thing escalates, I don’t want to be caught playing catch-up. If it becomes necessary, that group might provide a stabilizing influence until we can cool things off.”

Mason could no longer contain himself. “Or, more likely, it will piss off both the Russians and the Chinese and we’ll find ourselves in a hell of a mess.”

“Dick, you’re here as a courtesy — to serve as my chief intelligence officer, not to set policy.”

“For God’s sake, Mr. President, these are superpowers we’re talking about, not some banana republic we can frighten into submission. If we’re not careful—”

“Watch your tone, Dick!”

“This is a mistake, I want it on the record—”

Cathermeier was at his side, whispering, “Dick, ease up …”

Bousikaris barked, “That’s enough!”

“I want it on record that I’m formally advising against this course of action.”

Martin bolted from his seat. “That’s it! Not another word, or I’ll have you removed!” Bousikaris placed a restraining hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Dick, you serve at my discretion! If you can’t do your job, say so! I’ll see that a change is made.”

Mason’s mouth was halfway to “Go ahead” before he caught himself. This was a fight he couldn’t win. Martin wasn’t bluffing; he would gladly fire him then install a bootlicker like Tom Redmond. Don’t hand it to him, Mason thought. There was something very wrong going on, and the only way he could get to the bottom of it was to keep his job.

He forced a cowed expression onto his face. “Mr. President, I apologize. I’m out of line.”

Martin glared at him. Bousikaris whispered something in his ear and he nodded vaguely and sat down. “Forget it, Dick,” he said with a chuckle. “Truth is, I need a devil’s advocate from time to time.”

Nice try, Mason thought, but no sale. Martin had almost gotten what he wanted. Hell, he’d almost given Martin what he wanted. Perhaps the man wasn’t such a dummy after all.

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Well,” Martin said, “back to business: General, how long before Stennis can be en route?”