When he’d built the submersible, Hawkins hadn’t gone the usual Woods Hole route of seeking Navy financing. He didn’t want to deal with the government red tape. Congress had cut back on Navy research and the competition for money was fierce. And there was his lack of trust in the government, going back to Afghanistan. He had pulled together a package of loans, mortgaged himself to the hilt, and intended to pay for the expensive investment by farming Falstaff out for high-paying expeditions. He had at least one dive scheduled with the institution’s Deep Submergence Laboratory.
Problem one. How to get Falstaff to Spain. Air-freighting the two-passenger vehicle to Cadiz could be complicated and expensive.
Hawkins locked up his office and biked back to his house. Climbing the stairs to the second floor office, he sat behind his desk, surrounded by his collection of antique dive gear and diving history books. He picked up the phone and punched out a number he hadn’t used for months.
A woman’s voice answered. “How do you do it, Matt?”
“Do what?” he said.
“Not call in months, only to snag me at the precise moment Global Logistics Technologies is in full freak-out mode.”
“Sorry, Abby. I can call back later.”
The crisp tone melted. “For heaven’s sakes, Matt, don’t be sorry. You’re an island of sanity in a sea of crazy.”
Hawkins was glad his ex-wife couldn’t see his smile. His erratic behavior after he left the Navy with a psychiatric discharge had pushed their marriage over the brink.
“What’s going on with GLT?”
“Landed a huge contract with Department of Defense, so I’m busier than a one-armed juggler. Pay no attention to my whining, it’s all good, Matt. Okay, I’m through. Your turn to vent.”
“No complaints here, Abby. I’m wrapping up the ocean glider project for the Navy.”
“I’ve been reading about it on the WHOI website. Congratulations. Let me know when you can take a break. Maybe we can do something together.”
“I’d like that Abby, but I’m jumping onto a project in Spain. Which is why I called. I need your help to move the submersible to Cadiz.”
If Abby had been disappointed by his failure to follow up on her indirect invitation, she didn’t show it.
“Let me check,” she said, returning to business-mode. He could hear the clicking of a computer keyboard. “You’re in luck, Matt. There’s a cargo 747 leaving New York tomorrow night for Frankfurt. I can arrange an air freight transfer to Cadiz from there. Can you and the sub get to JFK by tomorrow afternoon?”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll call a trucking company I’ve worked with before.”
“Done. Why are you going to Spain?”
“Can’t say, Abby. I’ve promised to keep the details secret for now.”
“You know I can weasel it out of you. You’re easy. I can get you to tell me everything in less time than a coffee break lasts.”
“Idle threats don’t scare me, Abby.”
“You know I don’t make idle threats, Matt.”
“Don’t I ever. Okay, here’s what I can tell you. I’m going off to find the Holy Grail of archaeology.”
“Damn you, Hawkins! Now you’ve really got my curiosity up.”
“Sorry, but here’s the deal. The scientist I’m working for is worried about site contamination. She asked me to keep this close to my vest.”
“She?”
“Kalliste Kalchis. A highly-respected archeologist I worked with in Greece a couple of years ago. That’s all I can say.”
“That’s all the information I need. Someone will call you. Got to tend to business. Bye.”
Hawkins clicked off the phone, then walked to the picture window that took up one wall of his home office. He gazed out at the harbor, thinking about his turbulent relationship with Abby, picturing her lovely face framed by hair the color of claret. She was one of the most elegant and graceful women he had ever met. Her Annapolis training and Navy service had given her a wealth of self-assurance and confidence, qualities that made her an effective CEO.
By contrast, in his Navy days Hawkins had been impulsive and dashing, traits that she loved. Then he came back from Afghanistan with a head full of crazy thoughts. Since then they had managed to set aside some of the misunderstandings that had plagued them after their messy divorce. Several months earlier, they even had a fling off Matinicus, the rugged Maine island that was his namesake. The encounter had been pleasant, but it confused rather than clarified their relationship.
His head would start spinning if he thought about Abby for too long. So he was glad when his phone chirped and the male voice on the other end spoke, “I’m with GLT. I understand we’re moving a big load to Spain.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The office that took up the entire top floor of the thirty-six story Auroch Industries tower was a unique space. Instead of tinted glass windows offering a spectacular view of the city and the river Manzanares below, the walls were solid. Every square inch was covered with a wrap-around panoramic photograph of soaring earthen terraces. Anyone sitting in the office would have the uneasy feeling of being stuck at the bottom of an open-pit mining operation.
The effect was exactly what Viktor Salazar had intended. As Auroch’s Chief Executive Officer, Salazar wanted subordinates and visitors who entered his domain to be reminded that the company’s wealth and power rested on its ability to remove vast amounts of solid and liquid material from the untouched locations on Earth. Auroch had grown into a conglomerate that made it one of the biggest players in the fossil fuel industry, but the company’s roots were in mining.
Photographs from one Auroch mining operation were spread out on his large steel-top desk. The photos, taken from different angles — at ground level and from the air — showed a village, or what was left of it. Most of the corrugated metal houses were at the bottom of an enormous sink hole. Twenty-three people had been killed when the mining operation had weakened the ground under the village to the point of collapse.
Salazar was on the phone with Jared Spaulding, chairman of a consortium of environmental and humanitarian groups that had banded together, forming an international organization after a series of highly-publicized disasters near Auroch mines. The corporate public relations department had folded under the weight of wide-spread criticism. Auroch had come under increased media scrutiny. No such company with a worldwide reach can remain invisible, but Salazar preferred a low profile. When the coalition’s president asked to talk to him directly, he agreed.
The conversation had been one-sided, with Salazar listening to Spaulding lay out in detail the damage done to people and planet from Auroch’s undertakings.
“I understand your concern,” Salazar said when Spaulding had paused for a breath. With his large bald head and wide shoulders, Salazar looked like a Turkish wrestler, but he spoke in a mellifluous alto voice that was surprisingly high for a man of his size. “I take full responsibility for everything, good and bad, that this company does.”
“That’s certainly a refreshing admission of culpability,” Spaulding remarked.
“We are painfully aware of the unfortunate side effects that come with providing fuel for power plants that benefit millions of people, and minerals for our machines and electronic devices.”
“Those villagers might object to being labeled as unfortunate side effects, Mr. Salazar.”
“Of course, which is why we have provided restitution to the villagers and will help them rebuild their houses. Furthermore,” Salazar said, “if you have suggestions as to anything else Auroch can do to make amends and prevent further disasters, I’d be glad to listen.”