Crossing Savage (7 page)

“Dad, I really think Jim is right. Please, at least think about what he's said. I don't want to see you hurt—or worse.”

“Peter, I'm going to be fine. Don't worry.”

Peter reluctantly accepted his father's decision. He looked into his father's eyes and said, “Actually, Dad, I've been planning to go to the cabin to do some hunting. I'll go along with you. There's plenty of room with the bunks.”

Jim frowned, not believing what he had just heard. It was bad enough he couldn't deter Professor Savage from continuing with his expedition—but now Peter was going too?

A bit surprised, his father answered, “It's too early for the black-tail deer rut, I think. Going after bear, I suppose?”

With a hard edge to his voice Peter replied, “Yeah, bear probably,” and he stopped short of voicing the rest of his thought—
or something even more dangerous
.

Chapter 5

September 13

Corvallis, Oregon

Although Jim and Peter were meeting
with Professor Savage in his office behind a closed door, that didn't mean their conversation was private. Unknown to the three men in the office, parked more than 300 yards from the professor's window was a dark-gray sedan with two ordinary-looking men seated inside.

No one was likely to notice anything unusual about the car or the men. The man in the driver's seat had a ball cap pulled over his eyes, and his head leaned back. The skinny guy in the front passenger's seat was holding what looked to be an expensive camera mounted on a window tripod with a large telephoto lens.

But it wasn't a camera at all—it was a laser listening device. It worked on the Doppler principle of frequency shift. A focused infrared laser beam was aimed at the window of Professor Savage's office. The beam was partly reflected off the glass back to the receiver in the camera-like device. All sounds originating in the office—in this case, the detailed conversation between Jim, Peter, and the professor—caused tiny vibrations in the window glass. These vibrations then distorted the reflected infrared waves, resulting in a pattern of higher and lower frequencies. The receiver built into the camera body processed this frequency data, reconstructing them back into voices. Although the reconstructed voices were not recognizable as those of the original speakers, the words that they said were very distinct.

The entire conversation, from start to end, had been recorded on one digital micro-recorder and stored on a thumb-drive with terabyte capacity—complete and total portability. The skinny guy only had to aim the telephoto lens at the window, activate the system, and then place it in automatic mode. He listened to the conversation through a tiny ear bud that was virtually invisible to the casual observer.

If anyone walking past the car in the student parking lot thought it odd that someone would have a camera with a telephoto lens aimed at Gleason Hall, no one said anything. But Skinny was counting on that—after all, most people were averse to speaking up and questioning a strange situation.

The guy behind the wheel appeared to be sleeping—in fact, he was. Heavy-set and not too tall, he was the muscle and the driver. Not paid to think, just to do what he was told. And he had been told that he was only to drive wherever Skinny directed him.

“Good. They've finished,” Skinny remarked. “The door just opened and their voices have faded. Turn the engine on and be ready to drive. I'll turn on the tracking device.”

Skinny opened the glove box and removed a small electronic gadget that looked a lot like a GPS unit. There was a color LCD screen on the front with a circular multi-select toggle button, like the four directional arrows on a keyboard, on the bottom of the front face of the gadget. Two push buttons on the front next to the multi-select toggle completed the controls.

Skinny turned on the tracking device by pressing the toggle switch closest to the top. The screen lit up, and the unit went through its boot-up routine. The logo of the U.S. software giant appeared momentarily, indicating the embedded code. Skinny laughed to himself.
Americans are so arrogant and stupid. They built their world around systems that can be easily corrupted and used against them.

The tracking device flashed a green circle in the upper left portion of the LCD screen, indicating that it was operational and receiving a strong signal. Then a street map with topographic contours and waterways was projected on the screen. The scale was adjustable, and Skinny used the cursor and buttons to scroll quickly through the menu and adjust the scale down to one mile.

Now he saw two arrow points, representing two separate signals originating from different geographical locations. The blue arrow point was his sedan, the red was the target vehicle. At the moment, both vehicles were stationary and approximately a half-mile apart.

“Drive out of the parking lot and turn right,” he ordered the driver. They would start to close the distance with the parked target vehicle.

Once the sedan began to move, the blue arrow on the screen pointed in the direction the car headed. The GPS was very accurate—not only did it tell their location, but also the direction and speed they were traveling. He again thought what idiots Americans were to make such technology available to anyone other than the military. He was smarter than that—if it were up to him, he would never share powerful tools like GPS, computer chips, and operating systems with the masses. Skinny knew all too well that your most dangerous enemies arise from the masses. He had seen this first-hand in his homeland, as warlords rose from the populace to overthrow the Somali government.

As the sedan drew close to the red arrow point, it began to move. “They're leaving; we'll follow at a safe distance. Our instructions are only to follow the target and record where it goes and not intercept.”

The driver remained silent and allowed the target car to keep far enough ahead so the sedan wouldn't be noticed. He had a full tank of gas and focused on not attracting attention, particularly from the police. Incompetence, he knew, would be dealt with very severely.

Skinny knew little about the target, and the driver knew even less. All Skinny really knew was that the target vehicle carried two, maybe three, men. He also thought they must be rather important for his employer to use two separate surveillance teams.

The first team had followed the target vehicle to the university campus in Corvallis. Once the vehicle stopped and the occupants left it, the first surveillance team planted a GPS transmitter on it. A simple magnetic attachment pad held the transmitter securely on top of one of the frame rails near the rear bumper—solid steel and still easy to reach.

After leaving Professor Savage's office, Jim and Peter walked back to the H3T, neither saying much. Peter's father said he was going to the faculty club to have lunch and asked his son and Jim if they wanted to join him. Jim politely declined, saying he needed to get back to Bend; he still had a lot to do. So they said their goodbyes and went separate directions.

Peter and Jim climbed in the truck and buckled up. Both men were deep in thought.

Peter was trying to digest everything he had heard. Until their meeting, he had known very little about his father's research. Jim appeared to be taking it in stride.

Eventually Peter broke the silence. “What do you think, Jim? Is Dad really in danger?”

“I can't be certain. A lot of people have been murdered, and we think there's a pattern. Look, I'm certainly no science expert, but it seems to me that your father's work, if successful, could have immense ramifications on civilization. You tell me, is that enough to kill for?”

“That sounds just a bit dramatic, don't you think?”

“Perhaps… perhaps not.”

Peter clenched his jaw and glanced sideways at Jim, waiting for him to continue.

Jim shifted in his seat. “You know, oil—petroleum—is the life blood of every developed country. When you think about it, it's truly an amazing societal and technological evolution that has occurred over the span of, quite literally, three—maybe four—generations. Within the last 100 years, the world has transformed from universal reliance on horses and steam locomotives as the primary means of land transportation to cars, trucks, and airplanes. And with this transformation came our reliance on oil. You could argue that electrical generation plants would have developed to their present state even without oil and gas—hell, a major portion of the electrical generation capacity world-wide is still based on coal. But transportation is unique. We would never have evolved our societies, governments, militaries, and standard of living to their present state without oil.

“Hitler lost the Battle of the Bulge—and with it his last opportunity to win the war—in part because he ran out of fuel for his tanks and aircraft. Our military might is based on a smaller, leaner, rapid-response force. We cannot project military might without oil—there would be no fuel for aircraft, so no air superiority. No fuel for ships, so no battle groups to be moved like chessmen to the regional hot spot of the month.”

“We have nuclear-powered naval ships,” Peter countered.

“That's true for our aircraft carriers and some submarines, but the high cost of nuclear propulsion precludes using it in most of our naval vessels.

“Of course, the United States is not unique in this respect. All armies, navies, and air forces face the same reality. No oil, no capability to fight—or to defend your homeland through traditional warfare. We have long distance missiles and such, but they have no use in modern conflicts where there is seldom a front line and the enemy refuses to wear a uniform.”

“Sure, I understand your point,” Peter replied. “But if there was no oil, everyone would be in the same boat. Your argument suggests that some countries would be at peril if oil was not made available to them, while other countries would have access to it. But that isn't realistic—that's not what we're dealing with. Petroleum is traded as a global commodity. And Dad's work isn't even directly aimed at synthetic oil production.”

“That's right. But if your father's work is successful, others will build on his breakthrough. If there is any chance that oil can be synthesized economically, you know a lot of people will try to do it, and they damn well should!”

“Okay. I can't argue with that.”

“But,” added Jim quickly, “what if not everyone embraces the idea that cheap energy should be available to all?”

“You're suggesting that there's a global conspiracy to deprive mankind of the knowledge to make oil. Really?”

“I don't know yet if it's global—but sure, it's not as crazy as you may think. Take nuclear weapons technology. Only a small number of countries have managed to control that knowledge for the past 70 years. And the number would be even smaller if the Chinese hadn't deliberately leaked nuclear weapons technology in the fifties and early sixties.”

Peter remained silent. He was still struggling to absorb the enormity of the concept. His mind was spinning, and he felt a whopper of a headache coming on. He realized that he was so wrapped up in trying to make sense of all this that he was on autopilot. The road was moving past at 55 miles per hour, and he didn't have any conscious recollection of being in control of the truck.
It's time to focus on driving
.

They were east of Corvallis now, driving through the farm country of the middle Willamette Valley. Peter found it most beautiful in the spring and early fall; it was still very green and often sunny but without the haze that forms in the summer months. The colors of green were almost indescribable—brilliant and vibrant, with so many different hues and shades that Peter thought it impossible nature could offer such a rich palette.

The H3T passed through Lebanon and Sweet Home and then began the ascent up the west slope of the Cascade Mountains. Jim hadn't said a word for a while; mostly he was just staring ahead, occasionally looking out the side window. Although Peter only stole an occasional glimpse at Jim, his face reflected a serious concern.

As they passed Green Reservoir Jim's gaze seemed to linger unnaturally on the side-view mirror.

“What's up?” Peter said.

“Nothing.”

Peter exchanged a quick glance with Jim, but before he could say anything else Jim spoke up, almost blurting his words. “I could use a bite to eat; how about you?”

“Yeah, I'm a bit hungry now that you mention it. There's a restaurant just a little farther up the highway at Upper Soda. We can stop there.”

Jim remained deep in thought, looking out the window at the rapidly passing scenery as the road climbed up the western slope of the Cascade Range. It wasn't long before they arrived at Upper Soda and pulled off the highway, parking in front of the Mountain House restaurant. It was rather chilly at this elevation, and Jim was happy he'd chosen to wear a lightweight jacket. Peter obviously knew the temperature variations well, as he was dressed in a loose-fitting pullover over a long-sleeve T-shirt.

The restaurant itself, clad in cedar boards with a red metal, steeply pitched roof, fit naturally in the forested surroundings. The structure was faced with a deep covered porch set two steps above the gravel parking lot. After locking the truck, the two friends walked in through the weathered wood door. It was about 1:30 in the afternoon, and there were only two other cars parked outside—probably the cook and waitress, since they saw no other customers.

“Take a seat anywhere you like, honey,” invited the waitress. Jim selected a table off to the side and sat facing toward the entrance. Peter sat across from him. The menus were on the table, so each man picked one up and looked it over; the selection was rather limited, consisting of burgers, soup, chili, and a couple types of sandwiches.

The waitress walked over with two glasses of water, napkins and silverware. Placing them on the table, she asked, “Are you ready to order, honey?”