“Well, about this huge blind spot you mentioned — ”
“What you’re trying not to tell me is that the pipeline can be breached any place, any time.”
“That’s right.”
Brady looked at Dermott. “You’ve thought about this problem?”
“Of course.”
“And you, Donald?”
“Me, too.”
“Well then, what have you come up with?”
“Nothing. That’s why we sent for you. We thought you might come up with something.”
Brady looked at him maliciously and resumed his pondering. By and by he said, “What happens if there’s a break and the oil is stopped in the pipe? Does it gum up?”
“Eventually. But it takes time. The oil is hot when it comes out of the ground and it’s still warm when it reaches Valdez. The pipeline is very heavily insulated, and the oil passing through the pipe generates friction heat. They reckon they might get it flowing again after a twenty-one-day standstill, maximum. After that — ” He spread his-hands.
“No more oil flow?”
“No.”
“Not ever again?”
“I shouldn’t think so. I don’t really know. Nobody’s talked to me about it. I don’t think anyone really wants to talk about it.”
No one did until Brady said, “Do you know what I wish?”
“I know,” Dermott said. “You wish you were back in Houston.”
The radio-phone rang. The driver listened briefly, then turned to Shore.
“Operations manager’s office. Will we return immediately. Mr. Reynolds says it’s urgent.” The bus driver picked up speed.
Reynolds was waiting for them. He indicated a phone lying on his table and spoke to Brady. “Houston. For you.”
Brady said, “Hello.” Then he made a gesture of irritation and turned to Dermott.
“Horseshit. Damn code. Take it, huh?” This was hardly reasonable of Brady, since it was he who had invented the code and insisted on using it for almost everything except “Hello” and “Good-bye.” Dermott reached for a pad and pencil, took the phone and started writing. It took him about a minute to record the message and two more to decode it.
He said into the phone, “Is that all you have?” A pause. “When did you get this message, and when did this happen?” Another pause. “Fifteen minutes and two hours. Thank you.” He turned to Brady, his face bleak. “The pipeline’s been breached. Pump Station Number Four. Near Atigun Pass in the Brooks Range. No hard details yet. Damage not severe, it seems, but enough to close down the line.”
“No chance of an accident?”
“Explosives. They took out two gate valves.”
There was a brief silence while Brady surveyed Dermott curiously.
“No need to look so goddamned grim, George. We were expecting something like this. It’s not the end of the world.”
“It is for two of the men on Pump Station Four. They’ve been murdered.”
Four
It was half-past two in the afternoon, Alaskan time, almost dark, but with good visibility, a ten-knot wind and a temperature of — 4ºF. -36ºC. below when the twin-jet touched down again on one of the Prudhoe Bay airstrips. Brady, Dermott and Mackenzie had moved quickly after receipt of the message from Houston. They had driven back to Fort McMurray, packed essentials, which in Brady’s case consisted primarily of three flasks, said good-bye to Jean and Stella and driven straight to the airport. Brady was asleep when they entered Yukon air space, and Mackenzie dozed off shortly afterward. Only Dermott remained awake, trying to puzzle out why the enemy, in carrying out what they said would be — and, in fact proved to be — no more than a token demonstration, should have found it necessary to kill in the process.
As the jet came to a halt, a brightly lit minibus pulled up alongside and slid open a front door. Brady, third out of the aircraft, was first into the bus. The others followed him in and the door was quickly closed. As the bus moved off the man who had ushered them aboard came and sat down beside them.
Aged anywhere between forty and fifty, he was a broad, chunky man with a broad, chunky face. He looked tough, but he also looked as if he could be humorous — although he had nothing to smile about at that moment.
“Mr. Brady, Mr. Dermott, Mr. Mackenzie,” he said, in the unmistakably flat accent of one who had been born within commuting distance of Boston, “welcome. Mr. Finlayson sent me to meet you — as you can imagine, he’s right now practically a prisoner in the Master Operations Control Center. My name’s Sam Bronowski.”
Dermott said, “Security chief.”
“For my sins.” He smiled. “You’ll be Mr. Dermott, the man who’s going to take over from me?”
Dermott looked at him. “Who the hell said that?”
“Mr. Finlayson. Or words to that effect.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Finlayson must be slightly overwrought.”
Bronowski smiled again. “Well, now, that wouldn’t surprise me either. He’s been talking to London, and I think he suffered some damage to his left ear.”
Brady said, “We’re not out to take over from anyone. That’s not how we work. But unless we get co-operation — I mean total co-operation — we might as well have stayed home. For instance, Mr. Dermott here wanted to talk to you right away. The chairman of your company himself had guaranteed me complete co-operation. Yet Finlayson refused point-blank to co-operate with Dermott and Mackenzie.”
“I’d have come at once if I’d known,” said Bronowski quickly. “Unlike Mr. Finlayson, I’ve been a security man all my life, and I know who you are and the reputation you have. In a set-up like this I can do with all the expert help I can get. Go easy with him, will you? This isn’t his line of country. He treats the pipeline as his favorite daughter. This is a new experience for him and he didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t stalling — just playing it safe until he’d consulted on the highest level.”
“You don’t need lessons in sticking up for your boss, do you?”
“I’m being fair to him. I hope you will be, too. You can imagine how he feels. Says that if he hadn’t been so ornery, those two men up at Pump Station Four might be alive now.”
“That’s plain daft,” Mackenzie said. “I appreciate his feelings, but this would have happened if there had been fifty Dermotts and fifty Mackenzies here.”
“When,” Brady asked, “are we going out there?”
“Mr. Finlayson asked if you and your colleagues would come first to see him and Mr. Black. The helicopter is ready to go any moment after that.”
“Black?”
“General manager, Alaska.”
“You been out at the station?”
“I was the man who found them. Rather, I was the first man on the scene after the attack. Along with my section chief, Tim Houston.”
“You fly your own plane?”
“Yes. Not this time, though. That section of the Brooks Range is like the mountains on the moon. Helicopter. We’ve been making a continuous check on the pump stations and the remote gate valves since this damned threat came through, and we’d stayed at Station Five last night. We were just approaching Four, a mile away, I’d reckon, when we saw this damned great explosion.”
“Saw it?”
“You know, oil smoke and flames. You mean, did we hear anything? You never do in a helicopter. You don’t have to — not when you see the roof take off into the air. So we put down and got out, me with a rifle, Tim with two pistols. Wasting our time. The bastards had gone. Being oilmen yourselves, you’ll know it requires quite a group of men and a complex of buildings to provide the care and maintenance for a couple of thirteen-thousand-five-hundred-horse-power aircraft-type turbines, not to mention all the monitoring and communications they have to handle.
“It was the pump room itself that was on fire, not too badly but badly enough for Tim and me not to go inside without fire extinguishers. We’d just started looking when we heard shouting come from a store room. It was locked, naturally, but the key had been left in the lock. Poulson — he’s the boss — came running out with his men. They had the extinguishers located and the fire out in three minutes. But it was too late for the two engineers inside — they’d come down the previous day from Prudhoe Bay to do a routine maintenance job on one of the turbines.”
“They were dead?”
“Very.” Bronowski’s face registered no emotion. “They were brothers. Fine boys. Friends of mine… and Tim’s.”
“No possibility of accidental death? From the effects of the explosion?”
“Explosions don’t shoot you. They were pretty badly charred, but charring doesn’t hide a bullet wound between the eyes.”
“You searched the area?”
“Certainly. Conditions weren’t ideal — it was dark, with a little snow falling. I thought I saw helicopter ski marks on a wind-blown stretch of rock. The others weren’t so sure. On the remote off-chance, I contacted Anchorage and asked them to alert every public and private airport and strip in the state. Also to have radio and TV stations ask the public to report hearing or sighting a helicopter in an unusual place. I haven’t but one hope in ten thousand that the request will bring any results.”