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TEXAS:
The morning sun momentarily flashes off the Gulf of Mexico, as the Boeing 777 jet airliner circles Brownsville International Airport. Alex stares out the window at the sprawling city below. Luxurious hotels line the white sand beaches for miles on both sides of the city, and small boats skim across the light blue water. South of the city, the behemoth oil tanker looks obscenely out of place with its bow so close to the shore in front of the million dollar homes lining the beach. Even from that height, Alex can tell there are several people wandering around the tanker.
What’s happening to the tankers? Six men are dead with no explanation how or why. He sincerely hopes the crew from this tanker escaped whatever had taken the lives of the Defiance’s crew.
The jet touches down and taxies to the terminal. It’s only 7:30 A.M., but the outside temperature is in the upper seventies with a promise of climbing higher. Alex grabs his tote bag, walks directly to the men’s room, and changes into shorts, a polo shirt, and white tennis shoes. His next stop is the car-rental desk, where he receives the keys to a white Ford Thunderbird and a map of the city. When the young man hands him a small envelope, Alex tears it open and retrieves the government identification card Martin sent him.
As he drives south along a two-lane road down the shoreline, the air smells of saltwater and seaweed, and the blue water of the gulf stretches away to the horizon. As he draws near the tanker, he sees several police vehicles and television news vans parked on the black asphalt driveway of a two million dollar home.
He shows his identification to a police officer keeping the public at bay and drives past the barricade. He parks next to a police vehicle and walks around the side of the house, emerging on the white sand one-hundred-feet from the water. The tanker is another one-hundred and fifty-feet from shore, as if trying to make it to the small wooden boat dock in front of the house. Bold blue letters across the black bow state the ship belongs to the West Gulf Corporation.
Alex shows his identification to another police officer, who allows him past the reporters. One of the two men near the shore is dressed in a tan police uniform and matching cowboy hat. The other is tall, but exceedingly overweight, and dressed in dark blue shorts and matching lightweight shirt. They turn and watch him approach across the sand, and Alex extends his hand to the police officer, a lean man in his late forties. “I’m Alex Cave. I believe you’re expecting me.”
“I’m Sheriff Jackson, and this is Kirt Hendrick, the representative from West Gulf.”
Alex shakes Jackson’s hand. When he accepts Hendricks’, he cringes at the limp handshake and faces the sheriff. “Fill me in on what you’ve discovered so far.”
Hendrick interrupts before Jackson can speak. “I can’t figure it out, Mr. Cave,” he says in a high-pitch voice. “Yesterday evening, she left the offshore oil rig with fifteen-thousand-tons of crude, but she was empty when she ran aground here, eight hours later.”
“What about the crew?”
“There were eight, but there’s no sign of them. They must have abandoned ship out in the gulf.”
Alex looks at the sheriff. “Did the residents in the area see anything unusual?”
“These folks aren’t home, and the neighbors say they saw the tanker for the first time yesterday morning.”
“Did the tanker radio in that they had problems?”
“The Coast Guard received a short mayday, but no one answered when they replied. They’ve been searching the gulf by helicopter all night, but only found an overturned pleasure boat with a man and woman sitting on the hull. The Coast Guard had a shrimp trawler pick them up.”
“I’d like to ask them some questions later. Have you been down in the cargo hold?”
Hendrick grins. “Now why would I want to go down there? You can see she’s empty. The Coast Guard has been searching for an oil slick and the crew.”
“I’d like to go onboard.”
Hendrick leads Alex and the sheriff down the dock and onto the nineteen-foot motorboat, fires up the outboard engine, then drives them out to the tanker. To Alex, the ship looks twice the size of the Defiance, about one-hundred-feet from deck to waterline.
When they tie off to the boarding ladder hanging down from the main deck, Alex is the first to climb up, followed by the sheriff. Both of them think Hendrick might not make it to the top of the ladder, and when he finally crawls onto the deck, the big man spends several minutes catching his breath. Alex spends the time walking around the open deck and notices all the inspection hatches are open. A few minutes later, Hendrick leads him and the sheriff into the crew quarters.
The bunks are made, but personal belongings lay scattered around the room. Hendrick leads them to the galley which is neat and orderly. Hendrick waits below, while Alex and the sheriff climb the stairs to the bridge which is also in perfect condition. This is a new twist. Apparently, someone stole thousands of tons of crude oil without any resistance from the crew.
Alex and the sheriff rejoined Hendrick on deck, and Alex points toward the long, capsule-shaped objects fastened to the railing. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd they didn’t use the life rafts?”
Hendrick studies the capsules. “Doesn’t make sense, does it?”
Hendrick and the sheriff follow Alex over to the nearest inspection hatch and watch him peer into the hold. Alex looks up at Hendrick and the sheriff and grins. “Care to come along?”
Hendrick chuckles. “No, thanks.”
The Sheriff shakes his head no. “I’ll take your word on what you find down there.”
They watch Alex disappear down the ladder, and several minutes later, the two men stare at him with looks of astonishment when he returns without a trace of oil on him or his clothes.
“What the hell?” Says Hendrick.
Alex smirks at him. “I’ve seen enough.”
Once back on shore, the three men stare at the tanker for a moment before leaving. Alex plays a hunch and turns to the sheriff. “I imagine you have a helicopter at your disposal. I’d like to use it for a search, if you don’t mind.”
“The Coast Guard is already searching.”
“So you’ve told me. They’re searching the gulf. I want to search the desert.”
The sheriff squints and puts his hands on his hips. Demanding little bastard. “Just who the hell are you, anyway? The governor called me personally and said to delay them from moving the tanker until you arrive. Told me to give you whatever help you need. You seem to have a lot of pull, Mr. Cave.”
“The government asks for my help once in a while.”
The sheriff stares at Alex for a moment, then speaks into his portable radio, requesting a chopper pick them up on the road.
“What about my ship?” Hendrick asks. “It’ll be high tide in two hours. I need to get it towed back out to sea.”
“I’m through with her. I’d like a list of the names and addresses of the crew. Have it sent to the sheriff’s office as soon as possible. I’ll pick it up when I get back.”
“No problem.”
They hear the helicopter approaching and Alex and the sheriff walk to the road. They shield their eyes from the billowing sand as the blue police helicopter sets down. Alex sits in front with the pilot, with the sheriff in the back seat.
“Which direction?” asks the pilot.
“Inland, about a hundred miles.”
The helicopter leaps from the ground and swings northwest. Mile after mile of green farmland pass below. Half an hour later, they’re flying over brown sand and sagebrush. Alex and the sheriff stare out opposite sides of the helicopter as they fly back and forth, north and south, each time extending farther west and deeper into the desert. An hour later, the pilot informs them there is only enough fuel for the return trip.
The sheriff tells the pilot to head back. “I gave you the benefit of the doubt, Mr. Cave, but we’re just wasting time. Ain’t no way those sailors are out here.”
Alex thinks about arguing. He is sure he will find the crew from the tanker on land, just like up in Washington, but he has to admit the idea sounds crazy to someone not familiar with the incident. He stares out the window at the miles of barren desert, and it will be sheer luck to find them.
As they approach the homes along the coast, Alex sees the tanker being towed away from the shoreline by a large tug. The helicopter sets down on the road, and Alex and the sheriff jump out of the side door. When it departs, the two men stare at the receding tanker for a few minutes while Hendrick approaches.
The sheriff turns to Alex. “Look, Mr. Cave. It’s been a long night. I’m leaving, if you don’t mind.”
“Sorry for the inconvenience.” Alex extends his hand. “I appreciate the help.”
The sheriff accepts and walks away.
“Any luck?” Hendrick asks. The look in Alex’s eyes is his answer. “I didn’t think you would,” Hendrick says in a condescending tone and grins.
Alex looks at him and grins back. “Yesterday, there was another tanker incident similar to this one. They found the crew in the snow on a mountaintop, one-hundred and fifty miles away.”
Hedrick’s jaw drops open in bewilderment. Alex smiles and walks back to his car, with Hendrick staring after him.
***
Alex is heading back to town when phone his rings, but he doesn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”
“Sheriff Jackson here, Mr. Cave. I, uh, I owe you an apology. It seems you were right. A rancher found the eight men from the tanker on his ranch just outside Austin. Seven of them are dead, but one’s still alive. Busted up pretty bad, but the hospital says he might make it.”
“Where are the bodies now?”
“At the General Hospital, in Austin.”
“I’m on my way.”
“I’ll call and let them know you’re coming.”
Alex walks into the hospital, and the woman at the front desk gives him directions to the emergency ward. A man in a tan police uniform is standing outside the door to the intensive care room, and Alex introduces himself.
“I’m Sheriff Earl Bowdy, Mr. Cave,” he says as the two men shake hands. “Sheriff Jackson said you’d be coming, so I wanted to be here.”
“I appreciate that. How’s he doing?”
“Damned if I know how he’s even alive. The doctor says his whole spine is a bunch of fractured bones. Early indications are he’s paralyzed from the neck down. They have him heavily sedated, and the doctor says he probably won’t regain consciousness for a while.”
“Was he conscious when you arrived at the ranch, Sheriff?”
“Nope. They were already loading him into the ambulance by the time I got there. The old man who found them said the man was mumbling when he first found him. We didn’t find a single sign of how they got there. No footprints, no tire tracks, nothing. Beats the hell out of me.”
“Have you identified the bodies?”
“Yeah, they were all carrying identification, and they match Sheriff Jackson’s list from the oil tanker.”
“I’d like a copy of the report.”
“Sure. Stop by my office and pick it up from my secretary.”
“I’d like to talk to the rancher, too.”
Bowdy gives him directions. “His name is Gus Tilman. He’s an ornery old cuss. Wouldn’t say much when I spoke to him.”
“If this man regains consciousness, I’d appreciate it if you would call me at this number.” Alex gives him his card.
Alex leaves the hospital and stops at the sheriff’s office for the report. Half an hour later, he sees the battered mailbox. He turns off the asphalt onto a narrow dirt road, leaving a cloud of brown dust in his wake. A mile farther, he stops next to an older model pickup truck in front of a doublewide mobile home sitting on cement blocks, surrounded by desert sand and sagebrush. Behind the mobile home stands a large wooden structure that might have been a barn.
No one comes out of the mobile when Alex shuts off the engine and climbs out of the car, so he walks up the rickety wooden steps and pushes the doorbell button. No one answers, so he knocks loudly. When no one comes to the door, he walks around the mobile toward the wooden building behind it. Dust from the dry dirt swirls around his tennis shoes as he walks past several pieces of rusted farm equipment, partially hidden by overgrown weeds. He breathes in the strong smell of sagebrush as he walks to the structure.
The building is an old gray barn with a flat-sloped roof. Several additions are crudely built onto both sides, and every part of the structure needs of repair.
“Anybody here?” Alex hollers as he approaches the weathered building.
The door on the first addition to the barn opens and a short, skinny man appears in the opening. He’s dressed in oil-stained jeans, badly scuffed cowboy boots, and a tee shirt that might have been white at one time. He’s also wearing an old, sweat-stained cowboy hat.
As Alex walks closer, he sees the man’s face is as weathered as the barn. Deep wrinkles give the impression of a prune with the texture of rawhide.
The man stares at him suspiciously. “What can I do for you?” he says in a raspy voice.
“My name’s Alex Cave, Mr. Tilman. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Tilman pulls a rag from his back pocket, lifts his hat, and wipes the tattered cloth across his bald head. “Nothing that can’t wait. What’s on your mind?”
“It’s about the men you found, Mr. Tilman. The sheriff said one of them was mumbling when you found him.”
Tilman gives him a quizzical stare. “You don’t look like a lawman, not dressed in them duds.”
Alex grins. “You’re right, I’m not. I’m a teacher at a college in Montana.”
Tilman’s leather face looks as though it will crack when he smiles. “Montana,” he says wistfully. “I always wanted to move there. Seen pictures of it when I was a boy. Gaud almighty that’s pretty country.” Tilman takes on a faraway look as he stares into the distance for a moment and then looks back at Alex. “A teacher you say? I have a lot of respect for teachers. Never made it past the tenth grade, myself. Lied about my age and joined the Army when I was sixteen. Anyhow, why’s a teacher interested in those men?”
“It’s a long story, but basically, I’m just curious.”
Tilman stares at Alex for a moment. “Yeah, the man was hurting something fearful. Kept mumbling about a bright light.”
“Do you remember his exact words?”
Tilman rubs his jaw as he thinks about it. “Seems to me he said something like, ‘Stay away from the blue light. I have to hide.’ He must have been delirious.”
“Anything else you can remember, Mr. Tilman? Anything at all?”
“Not in particular.”
Alex extends his hand. “Thanks for your help.”
Tilman smiles. “You keep on teaching, you hear?”
“I will.”
Alex turns and starts walking toward his car. He reaches the corner of the mobile home and hears Tilman yell his name. He stops, turns around, and sees Tilman shuffling toward him, small clouds of dust swirling around his boots.
“Come to think of it, he said something about a ship. Must have been delirious, though. He called it a spaceship.”
“Thanks again,” he says and continues to his car.
On the drive back to Brownsville, Alex keeps repeating the words the injured crew member mumbled to Tilman. And where did the crew member see a second ship?
Alex sees a message to call Jackson’s office. A moment later, Jackson answers.
“I got a preliminary autopsy report, Mr. Cave. The coroner is baffled. It seems the blood in all the bodies of the dead crew has been dehydrated. Must have been the dry desert air.”
“It was the same in the bodies of the Defiance’s crew. I appreciate the call.”
It’s nearly dark when Alex checks into a hotel room. He tries calling Martin and gets his voicemail. He orders dinner from room service, and while he waits, sits at the desk and writes the details he’s discovered so far, churning them over and over in his mind, trying to come up with some logical conclusion, but an answer eludes him. His dinner arrives, and he eats at the desk, occasionally jotting down his thoughts.
He finishes the dinner, and after a quick shower, he crawls into bed and turns on the television, switching channels until he finds a news broadcast. He isn’t listening too close while his mind churns over the strange events of the past three days. A map of Alaska suddenly flashes on the screen and the camera zooms in on an oil tanker in Prince William Sound. He grabs the remote control and fumbles with the buttons until the volume increases.
“. . .EXXON Valdez incident. This is the way it looked after the spill,” the female announcer is saying as the picture changes to show work crews in yellow rubber coats and pants cleaning up the thick, slimy crude oil along the rocky shoreline. The picture changes again, and a dotted line runs down across a map of Alaska. “The pipeline was completed in 1974, using state-of-the-art technology, and it is supposed to be impossible for a rupture to occur. In a statement released an hour ago, authorities said they don’t think the pipeline is ruptured, but they refuse to speculate on why the oil from Prudhoe Bay has failed to reach its destination in Valdez. They have shut down the pumping stations and crews have been dispatched to check every foot of the pipeline for any sign of leakage. Some sections can’t be searched because of the severe snowstorm that has moved over the area. Our meteorologist, Mike Banner, will explain what’s going on.”
His phone rings and he sees Martin’s image. “Hey, Martin.”
“We have a major problem in Alaska.”
“I know. I just saw the news broadcast.”
“Listen, Alex. This is no longer just an investigation. The President called a moment ago and informed me that the Joint Chiefs think someone is sabotaging our domestic oil supplies. I don’t have to tell you what that will do to our nation. He wants an all-out effort to find who’s behind it and stop them any way we can.”
Alex doesn’t reply for a moment as he thinks about sabotage.
“Alex? Did you hear me?”
“Yes, Martin. I’ll fly up to Valdez on the next available flight.”
“Good, I’m putting you in charge of the investigation. I’ll call and tell them you’re coming. What have you discovered there?”
“It’s almost identical to the incident with the Americrude tanker.” Alex explains all he knows. “We’ll know more when the survivor regains consciousness.”
“Okay, stay on top of it. Call me day or night if you find out anything.”
“I will. I’ll send you the names of the crew members. I’d like a background check on them as soon as possible.”
“Okay, I’ll see to it.”
“Thanks, Martin.”
Alex hangs up and calls a travel agency. The next connecting flight to Alaska is in three hours, and he books a seat. He packs his tote bag, grabs his notes from the desk, and shoves them inside. He checks out of the hotel and drives to the airport, hoping he can get some sleep during the long flight to Alaska.