Sea of Greed

He was nearly forty, had grown up around Louisiana and had worked two dozen oil spills in the last decade. He knew how hard it was to get the oil companies or the government agencies to admit they’d done anything wrong. There would be hearings, committee meetings, maybe even fines — which the oil companies would pass on to their customers — but things never changed.

He hoped this time would prove different. He hoped this time there would be action, that the regulations would change or a total ban on offshore oil would be put into place. He hoped for these things, but he doubted any of it would happen.

After Deepwater Horizon, he’d given up on government action and began acting on his own. He’d met others who thought like him and they’d brought him into a loose underground network. Knowing he was on the scene, someone from that network had reached out to him. And Reynolds intended to answer.

Watching through a pair of binoculars, he studied the Hughes 500 as it took off and headed northeast. After reading the tail number, he made a call on his satellite phone. But it wasn’t being placed to FEMA.

“This is Reynolds,” he said, identifying himself. “I have the information you requested.”

There was a brief pause before the party on the far end of the line responded. “Please continue,” an electronically filtered voice said.

“Two new arrivals,” he said. “Both named Trout. A biologist and a geologist, based on their listed profiles. From what I’ve learned, they’re here to look at the eco impact.”

His contact didn’t seem too concerned. “Anything else?”

“Two of the other NUMA personnel left on the helicopter. They were carrying some oddly shaped equipment. I couldn’t get close enough to see what it was, but the rumor is, they brought something up from the failed blowout preventer.”

“Interesting,” the voice said. “Where are they going?”

“The helicopter took on a lot of fuel. One of them said something about New Orleans.”

“Give me the tail number.”

“N541NM,” he said. “It was a NUMA helicopter.”

A brief delay followed. “They lied about the destination. That helicopter is traveling to Pensacola, not New Orleans. They’re already beginning to manipulate the truth. Be careful. Contact us if you see anything else out of the ordinary.”

As he broke the link, Reynolds considered the lies. It meant NUMA was part of the cover-up. That was too bad — he’d heard good things about the organization, indications that they’d done their fair share to care for the environment. Apparently, that was only window dressing and they were just part of the big-government machine like everyone else.

16

PENSACOLA, FLORIDA

KURT AND JOE borrowed a car from the Navy motor pool after landing at the Pensacola Naval Air Station. Driving west, they cruised along the coast for a while, before cutting inland over marshes and wetland areas.

“So, who is this mysterious Misty Moon Littlefeather?” Kurt asked. “Old fiancée? Love of your life?”

“She’s a friend,” Joe said. “Her dad wouldn’t have her dating a Navy man.”

“Ah-ha,” Kurt said, grinning. “The one that got away.”

“Trust me,” Joe said. “I did more of the getting away. And you’re having too much fun with this.”

Kurt laughed. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

The drive from Pensacola took them back along the beaches and across a portion of the wetlands. They didn’t notice anyone following them because there wasn’t anyone following them, but neither of them noticed a drone tracking them from high above.

Thirty minutes later, they pulled onto a dirt road and then onto a private stretch of land complete with a pristine beach. At the end of the road lay a group of trailers, one of which was attached to a wooden barn. Nearby were several pens with animals grazing and, beyond that, piles of electronic junk stacked up in mounds ten feet high.

A dock made from weathered gray planks stuck out into the water. An old man, tanned as a baseball glove, stood on the dock, fishing. He didn’t react as they pulled up.

Joe got out of the car. “Better let me do the talking.”

Kurt opened the trunk. “I’ll get your effects.”

Joe walked on ahead, making his way past a pen with baby goats and a second that corralled a small pack of stray-looking dogs. Finally, he made it onto the dock. The old man was reeling in his line when Joe approached.

“This is Seminole land,” the man said. “You government people have no right to be here.”

“What makes you think we’re government people?” Joe replied.

“Your license plates are government issue,” the man said, before casting his line again. “And I know you, Joe Zavala.”