“No, but don’t tell Kirstie that. Look, we’ve come this far. We’re not going to turn around and go home empty-handed because of some bullshit threat. If they’re willing to see me, they’re willing to bargain.”
“I hope you’re doing the right thing.”
“So do I. Anyway, we’ll finish this and get back up as soon as we can.”
“You’re not going in there,” Kirstie said. “It’s insane.”
Don shook his head. “They were ready to start shooting. Just getting them to talk is an achievement.”
“Those buggers will just lock you up and hold you for ransom. Or shoot you just to prove they mean business. Don, you can’t go.”
“I know it’s dangerous, but it’s the best chance we’ve got.” He paused. “And I’m not going to let those people chase us off. It’s as simple as that.”
“You bloody, bloody egomaniac. You’re as bad as Geordie.”
“You know, I wish to God he could come with us. He’d end up with their oil as well as the tanker.”
She kissed him. “Why don’t you bog off, then, if you’re so eager?”
The Monterey waterfront reminded Don of Hunter’s Point on the day after the waves: a jumble of rocks, timber and debris, piled into a dike up to three metres high. Cannery Row was in ruins: oil floated in thick brownish-black clots on the water and coated the dike as well. The stink was foul.
About where the old wharf had been, two black soldiers stood on the top of the dike. One of them waved; Don waved back and steered his Zodiac towards them. They clambered down the face of the dike, slipping on the greasy logs and boulders, and moored the Zodiac. Don stepped out and followed the soldiers over the rubble, through the wreckage zone, and up into the streets of Monterey.
“Something the matter?” one of them asked.
Don was wiping his face with a handkerchief. “I’m getting over snow blindness. Makes my eyes water.”
“Man, that’s bad shit. I had some of that once. Like gettin’ chili sauce in your eyes.”
They said nothing more. Blinking and squinting behind his sunglasses, Don looked around at the remains of Monterey. The earthquake had left many new buildings collapsed, while some of the older adobes had come through almost undamaged. He saw no civilians, only a handful of soldiers patrolling the deserted streets. The stink of oil mixed here with the sharp, fresh smell of burned wood.
The city hall had lost its plate-glass windows, and a sentry stood in the doorway. He stepped aside; Don and his escort walked over broken glass and through the empty doorframe. Soldiers sat in the lobby, playing poker for cigarettes. They glanced incuriously at Don. His escort guided him up a flight of stairs to an office facing south across a dead lawn.
Two men sat before the windows of the office, dark outlines against the glare.
“Have a seat,” said one of them. Don blinked and squinted while his eyes adjusted. The man who had spoken was a bearded white man. He wore a wrinkled white cotton shirt, beige chinos and desert boots. He was self-consciously slumped back into his chair, as if trying to show himself relaxed and uninterested. His hands curled around the ends of his chair’s armrests, and his face was immobile. His eyes were narrowed to unreadable slits.
The black man in the other chair wore crisply pressed fatigues with gold eagles on the collar. His fingers were steepled in front of his lips; his deep-set eyes studied Don, inquisitive and calculating. This is the strong one, Don thought. The other guy is ready to snap.
“You’re Donald Kennard? I’m Robert Anthony Allison. This is Colonel Mercer. Let’s cut the horse-trading bullshit and get down to it. What’s your bottom-line offer?”
Don was not surprised by Allison’s abruptness. “Ten per cent of all the oil and gas we take out of the tanker. You can collect your first instalment day after tomorrow.” Mercer looked surprised and a little impressed. Allison only frowned and shook his head.
“We need enough fuel to sustain a hundred thousand people for as long as possible.”
“Okay, you’ve got a hundred thousand people? We’ve got three million. The Sitka’s got about four hundred thousand tonnes of fuel left in her tanks. Our share will carry us for four or five months. Ten per cent ought to carry you easily for a year, maybe two.”
“Mr. Kennard, I said for as long as possible. Our share will be fifty per cent. That gives us five years, maybe longer, by your calculations.”
“Look, you won’t need that much fuel. In four to six months we’re switching over to methane, produced by bacteria. By this time next year we plan to be exporting energy all over California.” Don saw Mercer’s eyes widen. “We’ve got genetic engineers working on it. We need the Sitka’s fuel to buy time to develop the methane.”
“For Christ’s sake, how fucking dumb do you think I am? How the hell do I know you’re gonna have methane or alcohol or vanilla ice cream? I know this: that tanker’s got fuel, and I want all I can get. All right, you people have the equipment and the know-how. But we’ve got guns that can turn you into scrap iron on the bottom of the bay. Fifty per cent of the tanker’s cargo goes to us, off the top. You can have whatever’s left.”
Don thought for a moment. “If I agree to those terms, thousands of people in San Francisco will die. I’ll go to fifteen per cent, delivered concurrently with our own shipments. Nothing more.”
“Then you have no deal, my friend.” Allison stood up. “You’ll be escorted back to your boat. I expect your ship to be out of the bay before sunset. If it’s not, we’ll sink it.”
“Uh, just a minute,” Mercer said. “Mr. Kennard, would you mind stepping outside for a minute? I need to talk something over with Mr. Allison.”
“Sure.”
The dim corridor was a relief after the glare in the office. Don took off his glasses and wiped his eyes; they hurt again. He was distantly aware of taking quick, impatient steps down the moldy, half-rotten carpeting. How had such jerks ended up running the lives of a hundred thousand people? Neither one would qualify for a neighbourhood committee in the Bay Area, but here they had all the weapons of a major army post, and the manpower to use it.
Mercer at least seemed interested in Don’s offer. He must realize that it was fifteen per cent or nothing. If Mercer could only be made to see that he’d get nowhere with Allison —
“Mr. Kennard? Like to come back in, please?” Mercer called.
Don paced into the office and sat down. Allison was slumped even deeper in his armchair, his chin on his chest.
“Colonel Mercer’s suggested an alternative, Mr. Kennard. For the sake of fairness I’m willing to consider it, and at least see your reaction to it. A sixty-forty split, in your favour, divided as you bring the oil up. That seems pretty reasonable to me.”
Don listened to Allison and wished he could see the man’s face more clearly. The voice was thick, monotone.
“It sounds like a step in the right direction,” Don answered slowly. “But the proportions are still wrong. We need the fuel to buy time to develop the methane. That’ll benefit all of us. What do you think you’ll use after all the tanker’s fuel is gone?” He kept his eyes on Allison but was aware of Mercer’s gaze, steady and unblinking. “I gave you a no-bullshit offer, fifteen per cent, and that’s as high as I can go. Now, that’s sixty thousand tonnes of real fuel. All this fifty-fifty, sixty-forty crap is fifty per cent of nothing, forty per cent of nothing. Without us, there’s no way you can salvage that fuel. Can you understand that, Mr. Allison?”
Allison’s face contorted; suddenly he grabbed Don’s shirt and yanked him to his feet.