Walker Stromberg had been at RATT the night before with his lacrosse buddies. He was 6’ 2”, a solid 200 lbs with wavy blond hair down to his shoulders and a chiseled jaw. He was a ladies man. The fairer sex gravitated towards him like cash to a casino. The top ‘attackman’ on the U of A lacrosse team, Walker also came from money. Old money. His great great grandfather had made his mark during the days of the Klondike gold rush and then in oil when Alberta was first realized as the ‘Texas’ of Canada.
He had it all, except the fellowship with Dr. Johns. Karson Delly had scooped him on it. It wasn’t the future job prospects that the fellowship guaranteed that had pissed him off. His future was already set through the family’s network of companies. No. It was the family’s pride and honour that had been trampled on in Walker’s eyes. And his father had let him know it.
Walker was sure the fellowship had been in the bag. How could he not be? He was a Stromberg. But then Johns had gone and named Karson. That was something he couldn’t let go without a consequence, without some sort of payback. Beating Karson to a pulp would have been just too easy, and too unsatisfying. That aggression had been taken out on the lacrosse pitch, to the horror of the other teams. Three players had already been made guests of their local hospital this season.
Walker’s opportunity came soon after the start of the new semester and it came with a phone call. A man, identifying himself only as Mr. Williams, had made a proposal of utter simplicity with accompanying rewards and what Walker was truly looking for. The destruction of Karson Delly’s future. Mr. Williams had told Walker that he was with a watch group that tracked research associated with natural resources at each university in North America. They had no fellowship to offer, but they have a perk – bonus arrangement to offer.
The deal was sealed when $10,000 suddenly appeared in Walker’s account the same day. All he had to do was keep an eye on Karson’s research progress and submit updates once a month, or earlier if necessary. Since Walker worked in the same building anyway, and since his father had reduced his standard of living as a punishment for not getting the Fellowship, it had been an easy sell.
Walker had had a few beers last night as well, but he was not suffering, as he knew Karson was now. Seeing Karson hold the bottle of iced tea to his forehead in the 7-11, Walker had wanted to smash it over his head. He had considered turning around and just heading home, figuring Karson wouldn’t be very productive today, but he had some work he could do himself, so continued along.
Karson put the half empty iced tea bottle on his work counter and sat back in his chair. Today was going to be a struggle. The head pills were slowly separating the hangover from his head, but the tiredness would be there all day he knew. Separation. That was the key. Like how a pill worked. Separating the sickness from the human body. Like penicillin, one of the great discoveries in history. A botanical wonder. What if?
Letting his mind wander on that last thought, Karson found himself staring over at Dr. Johns’ desk. Something was holding his attention. The desk was a typical steel work desk that belonged in a laboratory. It was perfectly organized in keeping with Johns’ character – a neat freak of the extreme kind. A layered file organizer was on the front left corner, a picture of his wife on the right corner with a potted orchid accompanying the picture. The orchid. Dr. Johns had brought it in the day before. It had been an anniversary gift from his wife. That was what was holding his attention.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Chapter 11 - Stromberg
Chapter 10 - head pills
About a block down from his apartment building, Karson stopped into a 7-11. With his head still pounding from last night’s bender, he decided a bottle of iced tea was needed to wash down a few more head pills. Focusing on work was going to be a struggle today. Opening the door the convenience store brought a momentary stay of relief as the air conditioning washed over his face. It suddenly felt like he had dunked his head into a sink of cool water. He quickly went over to the back of the store and located the shelf with iced tea on it. Opening the cooler door, he grabbed a bottle and held it to his forehead, eyes closed, enjoying the cool air from the open door and the cold condensation from the bottle as it suddenly hit the warmer temperature of the store.
Feeling momentarily better, he opened his eyes slowly. Leaning against the open cooler door, he caught a glimpse of something in the reflection. Someone outside the store was looking in, their hands cupped around their face to block the sunlight as it pressed against the store glass. He’s looking for someone, at least I think it’s a he, thought Karson. His eyes a little cloudy from the headache. It had looked like a dark shadow against the window. He closed his eyes again for relief. Wait a minute! Whoever it was, was looking directly at me. What the hell. Karson quickly opened his eyes and looked towards the side window where he had seen the figure. There was no one there. He shook his head out and rubbed his eyes and looked again. Still, there was no one there. Had he been mistaken? Maybe they hadn’t been looking at him. Maybe on one had even been there. Perhaps it was just a shadow of something that was outside. Closing his eyes one more time, Karson closed the cooler door and moved towards the counter. It must be the hangover. God his head hurt. Paying for his iced tea, Karson walked out of the 7-11 and onto the sidewalk.
Not a good way to start the day, Karson, he thought to himself. He would have to hold Digger off for a while. It was just getting too painful to go drinking these days. Each day as he got older seemed to extend the amount of time it took to recover from those nights of drinking. Whereas before he would back in tiptop shape within a few hours, nowadays the average recovery was two full days. Thankfully Professor Johns wouldn’t be in today though. He was down in Calgary on business – no doubt getting wined and dined by CHOMAC for his moonlighting work. If he were lucky, perhaps the professor would take him down with him as well one time. Although he had never heard of any instances when the professor had done so with anyone else in the past. My lucks not that good. That was Karson’s last thought as he turned into onto campus grounds and headed for the science building.
About a block behind him, walking cautiously but keeping pace, a man kept an eye on Karson. He had in fact been looking in the window at the 7-11, but only momentarily before he ducked in behind the store and waited for Karson to leave. He had been watching Karson ever since he stepped out of his apartment building and knew he had a bad hangover. The man following Karson had watched him drink until 3am the night before at RATT.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Chapter 9 - Bitumen
Karson had dragged himself out of bed the next morning and into a hot shower by 11am. The stream of hot water pouring over his head did very little to ease the pounding of the hammer that seemed to exist within the confines of his skull. Digger and the gang had been successful at misleading the amount of alcohol he had consumed the previous night. By constantly diverting his attention and always touching up his glass, Karson had no clue as to how much he had drank. His head was now telling him. It was all in good fun though. He didn’t go out and drink much very often anymore, so last night hadn’t been so bad. It had actually been a great time. The alcohol had encouraged some engaging conversations to ensue, topics ranging from Canadian and American politics and the North Korean crisis to the war in Iraq.
Topics like these were repeatedly discussed whenever the gang got together. Although they were a tight-kit group and got along very well, they all had very differing points of view. One of them was a socialist and hard line NDP’er while the rest were a mix of varying degrees of liberal. Karson was the only conservative of the group, with a mix of libertarianism in him.
By 11:45, Karson was dressed and out the door with a bagel in his hand and a bottle of Advil in his backpack. He was on his way to the university and to his passion – to continue working on his “black molasses” as Digger called it.
What he was working on in fact was called bitumen. It is a black, sticky and heavy, carbon rich viscous oil. Once a nice light crude oil, time and the actions of water and bacteria are the cause for this transformation. In northern Alberta, the oil saturated sand deposits left over from ancient rivers can be found in three main areas, Peace River, Cold Lake and Athabasca covering a total of nearly 141,000 square kilometers. That is larger than the state of Florida. The Athabasca area is the largest and closest to the surface, which thus accounts for the largest oil sands development around the city of Fort McMurray. This city, located about ten hours north of Edmonton is home for about 65,000 people. Although getting there can be arduous because of its remoteness and distance from the capital city of Edmonton, the local landscape is unparalleled in many ways. The convening of land, sky and water in this area seems almost spiritual. The real treasure though had to be the mystical, magical and miraculous Aurora Borealis. This was especially true if you ventured out of the realm of the city lights into the lands natural surroundings under its natural illumination. It was here, that a gaze upward to the sky revealed the dancing lights of the phenomenon known as the Aurora Borealis. You would swear it a show put on just for from god. However, beauty aside, Fort Mac was there for one reason and one reason these days. Oil.
The Alberta Oil Sands contain one of the largest known reserves of oil in the world, second only to Saudi Arabia. It is not the sweet light crude oil however that flows out of the ground in places like Saudi Arabia, Iraq and Kuwait, so it does not garner much attention. In addition, existing in a country that is both the second largest land mass in the world but at the same time having a population of only around 35 million, and then also which happens to be north of the world’s largest economy, the strongest and most powerful military force and the third largest population in the world, namely the United States, many things in The Great White North are often invisible, like the Alberta Oil Sands. Only in the last few years had it been garnering any attention. And even then, very minute. Even an exhibit at the Smithsonian did little to attract any attention from the U.S. administration. The only people interested were hedge funds and true oilmen.
Bitumen can be extracted from this enormous area via two methods, open-pit mining and “in situ” – latin for “in place.” Deposits found near the surface can be recovered by open-pit mining. The most efficient way of doing this is by using the largest trucks and shovels in the world. Made by Finning Interna-tional Inc., the 380-ton Caterpillar 797 trucks are 40% heavier than a Boing 747 with tires that reach more than 4 m high. These monsters are the backbone of the Oil Sands industry.
However, since about 80% of the oil is found deep below the surface, the second method for recovery need to be done in situ. Companies use drilling technology by injecting steam into the deposit to heat the oil and thus lowering the viscosity of the bitumen. It then migrates towards producing wells that bring it to the surface while the left over sand remains in place. Access to necessary nearby water sources and expensive technology make for some costly obstacles for this type of recovery and thus affecting the cost efficiency of extraction of the Alberta Oil Sands.
Overall though, the industry of the Oil Sands move enough fill and oil sand every two days to fill any major baseball stadium in the world.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Chapter 8 - GreenCore
“That idiot! That fool! What did the hell did he think he was doing?”
“Our men tried to find him in time, sir, but he slipped through. He thought it would make a difference. He was a believer, sir.”
It was 7 o’clock the next morning. Two men were in an executive looking office on the south side of Edmonton. One man, was furiously pacing behind his large desk, covered with papers and notes while the other man remained seated, slightly flushed from embarrassment, but keeping his composure.
“Is that so? Well, look what his unsanctioned personal grudge got him. Nothing but dead. They didn’t even flinch. All it did was piss them off. No wonder they had him killed. How many times did he think he could get away with it? He annoyed them to this point, you know? And the worst of it was he worked for us, so they obviously will assume it was on our behalf,” said Ken Talbert, the President of GreenCore, a motivated and secretive environmental group. He was speaking to Denny Fulk, the leader of the Green Men.
Although alien sounding, the Green Men belonged to the operations branch of the group. They were a unit of 12 men, a few military trained and all devout environmentalists. Zealous to say the least. They acted however, only upon instructions from Denny, their leader and most fanatical. He was also very bright and knew when to pick his battles with the enemy, in accordance with the groups overall mission and agenda. Missions had to be sanctioned by majority vote by the groups high committee. Bropen had sidestepped them and had carried out an independent mission – an unsanctioned one and the committee was not happy. The war with enemy, Order 6, was a tenuous one and some sort of balance had to be preserved in order to carry on the fight on all fronts – politically, in the media, through back channels and yes, even militantly. It was something both sides did and accepted. This latest action by Bropen however, might cause the other side to sense a weakening GreenCore’s power base though, that they were not able to control their own and thus make a more aggressive move to all out war, and GC could not afford it. Not right now anyway. Therefore, the back channels had been used to consult on the killings with Order 6 and stability had been restored quickly.
“Do you have a replacement for Bropen, yet? Someone controllable”, mused Talbert, a questioning look on his face to the man responsible.
“I am reviewing three candidates, sir. All well qualified and motivated, just needing guidance, sir.” Fulk knew Bropen had been his responsibility, but he wasn’t about to take the full brunt. Bropen had been pushed on him by the committee.
“Good. Let me know which one you decide on and submit a report. We need to keep our houses in order Denny. And your house is a valuable one. You have mine, and our complete confidence. You have done good work until this unfortunate incident.”
“Thank you. Everything will back in order. Shipshape, sir.” Fulk knew he had to take some shit from the committee to make themselves feel better. They were like politicians after all. Often childlike and they didn’t like self-accountability.
Chapter 7 - who is Keel
Within one hour, Keel was back across town sitting in a booth by himself. He was just starting to dig into his pan bread. It was one of Earl’s’ most popular and core appetizers. That and their buffalo wings with Parmesan dipping sauce. With a rye and ginger off to the right side of his plate, he tore off a piece of bread and dabbed it into the bi-colored liquid. As the strong and unique flavor hit his mouth, he thought about how after so many years of eating it, he never got tired of it. Of course, the fact that it was thick bread in oil and vinegar was not lost on him in that it forced him to work out even harder. He couldn’t afford to have it start to lay ground around his middle section. Tonight however was a treat. So, instead of worrying about it now, he reached over to his left and picked up the book that sitting there.
Keel had found that reading had fit into his lifestyle very well. It was quiet, which he liked and it was an individual act, which he also liked. He could do it anywhere and everywhere if his mind and eyes were not being required for something else. He read literally everywhere, waiting for a movie to begin and sometimes even grocery shopping. He would walk down the isles, knowing what he was looking for and where it was all the while having his face in a book. Sometimes it seemed to draw looks from others, but the book helped to cover and even distort his face. That in addition to his relatively common features made him quite forgettable. It wasn’t that he wasn’t good looking, he was just a little rough looking. Combat tended to do that to a person. He had somewhat dull blue eyes and not the sky or baby blues either that the ladies went after. His hair was usually a little disheveled, but not messy enough to draw attention either. It was all meant to be unseen and overlooked, by choice. He kept his posture a little slumped, with his shoulders down to look smaller than he really was as well. He only brought himself up to his full proportion when he was on the job. In those occurrences, the effect was confusingly intimidating. His size and the aura he gave off always made the “problem causing person” suddenly retreat, physically and mentally, but it was his face that confused them. It didn’t seem to match his obvious physical persuasiveness. And then would come the smile – that little smile. Upon seeing that, the person would know it was over. There would be no negotiating and no pleading.
This evening’s choice of reading was one of Keels’ favorite authors – Jeffery Deaver. It was one that he had read before, a few times, and one that he would most likely read again sometime. The Coffin Dancer was Deaver’s second book in the Lyncoln Ryme series. There was a new book out now, but he hadn’t picked it up yet, so the dancer it was. He didn’t even really read it, but more like skimmed it since he knew it all anyways. It didn’t really matter. He only slowed down at the parts involving the dancer. It was such a great character. A little man with a genius for killing. Someone who knew how to use all of his attributes – all of what was at his disposal despite his diminutive size. He might have been just a vicious contract killer, but then …. so was Keel, in a matter of speaking. That a brought a smile to his face.
Keel was a native of Winnipeg, Manitoba, once rated number one as the coldest city in the world. Perhaps it was that environment that helped to foster his innate toughness. At eighteen years old, he enlisted into the army and quickly gained the respect of those around him. He showed distinct promise.
By twenty-one, he had joined the 101st Airborne Regiment – Canada’s elite commando fighting force, based out of Petawawa, Ontario. It was during this time that Keel had really excelled. He became the premiere member of his unit and was often given orders that put his talents as an individual to good use, despite being part of a team. He made his mark in places like Somalia, although that mark was classified and would never be acknowledged publicly. Some things were not for public consumption. Joe and Sally Canadian would not be able to accept such actions, even though it was sometimes necessary.
However, after the Somalia incident, in which Canadian peacekeepers, there as part of a UN peace enforcement protecting humanitarian operations, were charged with allegations of torture, abuse and murder, Keel started to sense a looming sensation of doom for the regiment. The Canadian Liberal government had never been very enthusiastic about the military and had been slowly cutting away at it for years. After having a proud, strong military heritage where a fighting Canuck was someone to be reckoned with, Canada was slowly becoming the social worker for the world. Keel didn’t have a problem with that, but it saddened him that Canada was losing its military backbone as well – a source of pride for any nation.
The end came shortly after Somalia. A hazing ritual involving new recruits into the 101st Airborne caught on tape that found its way into the media. This spelled the final end for the group. The government, using the excuse of embarrassment by its fighting elite dissolved the regiment – one that traced its roots to two distinguished units formed during World War II, the 1st Canadian Parachute Battalion and the 1st Special Service Force. Keel was to be sent back to his old unit, the Princess Patricia’s.
Salvation came unexpectedly and quickly. Formed in 1993, Joint Task Force II (JTF2) came looking for men like Keel. It was formed to be Canada’s Armed Forces elite counter-terrorism/special operations unit. A maximum classified and secretive unit modeled after the British SAS, its other allied counterparts included Germany’s Grenzschutzgruppe 9 (GSG-9), Australia’s Special Air Service Regiment and America’s Special Forces.
Keel had again found the niche he fit into and again excelled to the top of the bar, which in this case was the barrel of a rifle. After serving in the war against Al-Qaeda in Afghanistan as part of a strike team for Task Force K-Bar, Keel was reaching the end of his tour. Deployed back to Canada, he was to receive a most unexpected visitor and a unique opportunity.
Notice - changes made to Chapter 6
- most of the changes relate to the dialogue.
- minor changes elsewhere
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Chapter 6 - RATT
Back in his rented car four blocks from the Bropen residence, Keel reached into his left bicep pocket and pulled out his Blackberry. It looked like most others, but its guts had had some modifications done to it. He punched in an initial 6-digit number and then waited. After hearing a buzzing sound, three clicks made their announcement and were then followed by silence. Keel punched in another set of numbers. After only five seconds, the ringing stopped as someone answered on the other end. “It’s done, sir,” and then the phone was quickly shut off.
On the other end, Mr. Fremore, using a similar looking phone sat back in his leather high-backed chair. No smile of satisfaction was evident, just a look that conveyed business had been taken care of. No one would be listening in on that conversation, or any other made by these phones. Not even the renowned American NSA - National Security Agency, or as Mr. Fremore liked to think of them as, the Nefariously Sinister Agency. No other agency was as well known about, yet at the same time so unknown. The NSA could pinpoint any place on the planet, zero in on it, observe the activity, listen to any communications, and then disappear without leaving so much as a whisper that they were even there. This was also why the phones had made a detour through the NSA for subsequent modifications. It helped to have invisible Canadians in areas of influence within the American machine.
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About 25 minutes away, Karson was on what seemed like his 100th beer. The glasses never seemed to be empty. Someone was always topping them off. Usually Digger.
“Come on, Petrov. You can’t possibly believe that”, repelled Karson to Digger’s blanket statement that the States was in fact a dictatorship ruled by a few right-wingers who only wanted war for economic gain. Petrov was Peter Diggins’ other nickname, which came out of his more than left of left wing political beliefs.
“What more proof do you need? Afghanistan was nothing more than a setup for closing ranks on Iraq. And I’m still not convinced that 9/11 wasn’t an inside job either. Something smells bad south of the border”, spouted Digger.
“Even if Iraq was always in the crosshairs of some of the people in the elephant party, there is no way you are going to convince me that 9/11 was perpetrated by these same people. That it just evil”, replied Karson.
“Everything is about oil and always has been. It’s starts and ends with that, and the end will come. Those bastards in the White House are just trying to sap everyone and every country dry while they still can”. Jay, like Digger, had always been clear with his views regarding the present administration. “What really pisses me off is that for these kinds of people, never is enough. They’re all ancient old cronies who’s ending is hopefully near, they’ll have bled many countries dry while destroying whatever is left, and then what? We’re left to deal with the consequences. Fuck, fuck, fuck. To bad Mr. Environmental and the Election was Stolen From Me, wasn’t running again. He’d be my man for the office”
Shelly glanced over to Jolene. A look of boredom in her eyes. “It’s such a nice change to not talk about politics for once.’
Jolene smirked back and topped off Shelly’s glass.
“I find it funny that they are still trying sell this war on the premise that it was because of the imminent threat. What a joke. I would consider giving them an ounce of respect if they would just stand up, look straight in the camera and say, ‘Ok, we wanted the oil.’ What is it so hard for people to just say exactly what it is.”
“Except for all of you, of course”, again smirked Jolene.
Karson sat back in his chair. He took a swig of his ale in preparation for what was coming. He knew what was coming. It always did.
Digger let off another volley. “You should be the most pissed off, Shelly. You’re the environment science student.”
“Yeah, I am, but I’m tired of this conversation already. Jo and I are here to see if there are any lucky lotto winners, and we can’t do that if the aura around this table is shit.” Shelly had always very high standards for men, and rightly so, and so she had always referred to those possibilities as lotto winners. So far, no tickets had been authenticated. “Besides, what is your focus tonight? The environment, or oil?”
And there it was. Five pairs of eyes slowly turned to the wall-side chair. They all turned to Karson.
Karson was smiling before they even looked at him. Already prepared for that moment, he lifted his glass above the table. “Cheers!” Smiles broke out on all faces.
“You fucker. You knew that was coming”, let off Digger, who was wearing the biggest smile.
“Yup. The oil man you all know and love.”
“So when are you going to solve that molasses problem anyway, so we can leave the rest of the world alone,” asked a grinning Josh.
“Oh, well, since it’s that important, I’ll get back to it after this beer.”
“Dedication. Good man. This has to be the most fucked up table in this place,” said Jay.
“But that’s why we all get along so well”, said Jolene. “So, cheers.”
“Cheers.”
“Ok, so no more evil topics for tonight”, said Shelly as she picked up the pitcher to top off everyone’s glasses. “Why does politics have to make it into every beer-induced conversation we have. Peter, you’re a socialist, Karson, you’re a republican slash libertarian, Jason and Josh are hippies and Jo and I are trying to lower our inhibitions. And not for any of you.”
The hippie comment was thrown out to Jason and Josh only because of their extremely long hair. Other than that, they were far from hippies. Jason, with his straight long red hair was already starting to look more and more like the Archaeologist he was working to be. He had already finished his Masters degree and was now a PhD candidate. He had a quick wit and a very sharp mind that had gained him the respect from his professors. His friends embraced his wit.
“I agree with Shelly. Enough of this politics shit. Peter, why don’t you go find a woman to hit on”, said Jolene.
“Oh yeah. I’m always what the ladies are looking for. Maybe I should tell them outright that I want to sire their children, “ joked Digger.
“Well, you know Peter. One day you’re going to offer that up to someone, and they are going to take you up on it”, smiled Josh.
“I just hope he’s at least cute, Peter”, laughed Jason.
“Fuck you Jay. And fuck the rest of you. I’m going to find a hottie and she’s going to love me. And my beer Buddha.”
“Cheers to that Digger”, announced Karson as he raised his glass in praise of Digger.
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Sitting 3 tables over, Walker Stromberg watched. He couldn’t hear though due to the music that filled RATT. He didn’t care what they were talking about anyway. He just stared at Karson. A loathsome look in his eyes.
