Crossing Savage Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Author’s Post Script

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Crossing

  Savage

  a Peter Savage novel

  Dave Edlund

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2014, by Dave Edlund

  Crossing Savage (Peter Savage, #1)

  Dave Edlund

  www.petersavagenovels.com

  [email protected]

  Published 2014, by Light Messages

  www.lightmessages.com

  Durham, NC 27713

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-61153-078-0

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61153-079-7

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without the prior written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Dedication

  For Morgan and Mac.

  If true beauty shines from within,

  you each are as radiant as a supernova.

  I love ya, kiddos.

  Acknowledgements

  Okay, I have a confession. I love books—always have, always will. My fondness for old fashioned, hardbound books with off-white paper pages and black ink borders on an obsession. Time and again I find myself drawn to the musty smell of old books, the crinkling of pages being turned, the beauty of an ornate leather-bound collection.

  It should be no surprise that I find libraries to be very tranquil, peaceful places. So, I suppose it was inevitable that I would eventually focus my energy on creating that which I hold so dear.

  This project began many years ago as a story for my son… a birthday gift. Along the way, it evolved into so much more. But as one would expect, this is not the work of merely a single person. Indeed, this novel would have never gone farther than my son’s bookcase had it not been for the encouragement, support, and contributions of many. The exuberance of a nine-year-old boy can only carry one so far!

  I’ll begin with a huge thank you to Elizabeth, my editor, for taking a chance and seeing more in the manuscript than the typed words. Your patience and coaching is greatly appreciated. And I have to agree with your metaphor, this is akin to giving birth, at least from a male’s perspective (although my wife would probably disagree). To my good friend Gordon, thank you for your encouragement and your detailed feedback, not only of what worked for you, but most especially for what needed improvement. Also, my heartfelt thanks to Mona and Jerry for your kind encouragement and support, not only in this work but over the many years since our paths first crossed. But mostly I want to thank my buddy Gary for applying his considerable skill and encyclopedic knowledge, as well as patiently devoting countless hours, to editing the rough manuscript, checking details, critiquing and challenging the plot, and much, much more. Thanks, buddy, for always being there!

  These many significant contributions have been essential in evolving this story from its original form. Of course, the responsibility for all errors remains fully with me.

  Finally, but certainly not least, I want to express my gratitude and appreciation to my wife. She is my cornerstone of support and motivation. Whenever I questioned going forward, she never failed to find kind words of encouragement and a generous smile. By believing in me, she has taught me to believe in myself.

  The adventures of Peter Savage will continue; the second volume has already been written and received the stamp of approval from my son! You can rest assured that even though Peter Savage lives in Bend, Oregon—far from the traditional centers of intrigue, mayhem, and murder—his life remains anything but mundane and boring. A short excerpt from his next harrowing escapade can be found at the end of this story.

  Hopefully, you will find enjoyment tucked away between the pages of this adventure—for that is how I will measure my success.

  Author’s Note

  Anyone who regularly listens to the evening news, or reads a newspaper, is no doubt aware that oil is a finite resource; one that the world is bound to run out of in a handful of decades. Or are we?

  Such dire predictions have been repeatedly publicized since the early twentieth century, and yet worldwide, proven reserves of petroleum have never been greater. Indeed, in November 2012 the International Energy Agency forecast that the United States would surpass Saudi Arabia as the world’s biggest oil producer by 2020.

  The theory that oil and gas are the byproducts of ancient plant and animal life that have undergone a chemical transformation over millennia, deep within the Earth, is contrary to conventional laws of chemical thermodynamics. This widely accepted theory for how petroleum was formed is challenged by a competing theory called abiogenic (or abiotic) oil formation. This is science fact.

  While it is true that most scientists do not subscribe to the abiogenic theory of oil formation, it is equally true that there must be alternative mechanisms at work in the solar system if one is to explain such cosmic oddities as Titan, a moon orbiting the planet Saturn. With a silicate-rock core, Titan is literally covered in seas of liquid methane and ethane separated by mountains of water, ice, and solid hydrocarbons. The atmosphere of Titan has a distinct orange hue—thought to be smog that is composed of much heavier hydrocarbons, likely even polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons—a ubiquitous class of organic compounds found in petroleum. This orange smog is believed to deposit solid hydrocarbon “soil” on the moon’s surface.

  As strange and unique as Titan is, attempts to explain its rich organic chemistry as the byproduct of decaying organisms certainly stretches the imagination to the limits of absurdity. Indeed, the extremely frigid conditions combined with its great distance from the sun would be totally hostile to all known or imaginable life forms.

  So questions remain. How were a great variety of organic compounds formed on Titan in such abundance? What if non-biological routes to oil formation are possible? Could such mechanisms be taking place on Earth?

  It is interesting to speculate on the economic and political impact that such a discovery might have. We tend to think of imported energy as an economi
cally and politically destabilizing factor; but how would oil-exporting countries react to the real threat that their income base would be severely eroded if the oil export market collapsed? What would be the unforeseen consequences of winning freedom from imported energy? Of course, these are hypothetical questions as this situation does not currently exist.

  In fact, most of the known oil reserves are owned by national governments—countries including Saudi Arabia, Iran, Iraq, Russia, Venezuela, Nigeria, and Libya. “Big Oil” is not ExxonMobil or BP; it is the nationalized operations, governments—many of which are run by dictators or kings. In many cases, these oil producing countries are participating members of OPEC—the Oil Producing and Exporting Countries; more commonly known as the oil cartel. And universally, these nationalized oil “companies” operate with a heavy hand, thinking nothing of signing contracts and accepting private investments, only to later nationalize those operations and take over a majority position without further compensation to the other parties.

  Crossing Savage is based on these and other facts of science and geo-politics. The line between fact and fiction is intentionally blurred, but in every case where fact has been stretched to the breaking point, the resulting fiction is based on the plausible.

  A short comment about the weaponry described in the story is in order. All military and civilian weapons used by the good guys as well as the bad guys are real. The magnetic impulse gun under development at EJ Enterprises is based on a scaled down version of the rail gun… a large-caliber, hyper-sonic field piece that has been demonstrated in recent years. Do prototypes of the magnetic impulse gun exist now? The answer is buried deep in classified files at the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA).

  I hope you enjoy…

  DE

  Chapter 1

  June 7

  Caracas, Venezuela

  What is he talking about? Oh, yeah—something about a unique rock stratum that is supposed to be a tell-tale marker for the presence of petroleum. Jeremy had heard that claim too many times to count. His more experienced colleagues at British Energy, Ltd.—that was the politically correct term for the old farts close to retirement—had long ago convinced Jeremy that there are no absolutes when it comes to where petroleum and gas may be found.

  Truth is, every few years someone makes a strike where it shouldn’t be, at least not according to accepted theory. Oil is where you find it, and being the first to find it—or just as important, control it—is what the game is all about.

  But right now, what Jeremy really needed was a well-mixed gin and tonic, and sleep. Maybe with a couple drinks and two of those little blue sleeping tablets, he would pass the night with few stirs.

  He was pulled back to the present by the sound of applause, and Jeremy realized the presentation was completed. All he had to do now was endure maybe ten minutes of questions, and then he could leave with 500 or so other zombies who, like Jeremy, were struggling to stay awake and attentive at 5:00 P.M. Caracas time, whatever that was.

  All the attendees applauded again, then gathered up their notepads and briefcases and started to file out of the main conference room. The chatter from hundreds of voices merged into a mild roar, punctuated by an occasional metallic clang as the hotel staff began stacking chairs as soon as they were vacated. The opening day of the American Association of Petroleum Geologists Hedberg Conference had mercifully concluded.

  The conference rooms were one floor above the hotel lobby. Jeremy decided he could use a short walk. Besides, the elevators would be packed for the next ten to twenty minutes with all the other conference delegates rushing to their rooms. Jeremy walked to the grand staircase that led down to the lobby with a graceful sweeping curve, checking his phone for messages along the way. There were a dozen emails from various colleagues, but he would answer them later, maybe over a drink in the bar.

  The lobby of the Gran Meliá Caracas Hotel was indeed as beautiful as the conference brochure had promised. With rich wood paneling on the ceiling, wood wainscoting, French marble tables thoughtfully placed around the lobby, crystal chandeliers, and 16th-century Spanish tapestries decorating the walls, the European elegance was obvious yet tasteful.

  This would be a nice place to visit with his family, he thought. His two daughters, Mary, age five, and Madeline, seven, would be perfectly happy spending all day at the pool under the tropical sun. His wife, an ardent sun worshipper, would also like that. And with Prosciutto’s serving poolside meals and drinks, who would ever need to leave the comfort and luxury of the hotel?

  Jeremy walked up to the reception desk, stretching his lower back as he did so.

  The receptionist greeted Jeremy with a warm smile. “Good evening,” she said. Her command of English was good, with only a moderate accent.

  “Hello. Are there any messages for Dr. Jeremy Hitchcock? I’m staying in room 1143.”

  She looked down—obviously a computer monitor was installed below the leading edge of the reception desk—and typed in a query, pausing for a moment before looking up again at Jeremy.

  “No sir, no messages. Is there anything else I may do to be of assistance?”

  “No, thank you. Have a good evening.” Jeremy turned and walked to the bank of elevators. He stretched again and took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. Time to take a quick shower, put on a clean change of clothes, and then find the gin and tonic that he was sure he could hear calling his name.

  The shower did wonders to energize Jeremy. As he grabbed his passport, wallet, and room keycard, he decided to take the hotel-supplied newspaper with him: the International Herald Tribune.

  Born, raised, and educated in the United States, Jeremy was an expatriate living in the United Kingdom. He had taken his first job with British Energy following graduation with a degree in geochemistry. He was given an assignment out of an office in London. There he met Molly, a colleague who, like Jeremy, was a recent graduate beginning her professional career. They dated for six months before he proposed and she accepted.

  Upon first meeting, Molly and Jeremy were to many to an odd, unexpected couple—he with his six-foot, wire-thin frame, short black hair, and wire-rim glasses in stark contrast to Molly’s short but athletic build and sandy-blond, wavy hair that fell gracefully to her shoulders. But whenever they were together the intimate bond they shared radiated from the pair, an unmistakable beacon communicating a deep love and respect for each other.

  Molly had no interest in leaving her native England and moving to the United States, and Jeremy’s career path did not point in that direction anyway. So they had settled into a comfortable life just outside of London, although Jeremy still carried his U.S. passport. Someday, perhaps not until he retired, he assumed they would leave Britain for America. Sometimes they would talk about where they would live after Mary and Madeline had gone off to college—would it be New England or the Rockies? Maybe southern California—Molly had heard so much about California but had never been there.

  Jeremy tucked the newspaper under his arm and walked into the hallway, pausing to ensure the door was securely latched. Arriving at the bank of elevators, he glanced at his reflection in a mirror and was adjusting the collar of his polo shirt when the familiar chime sounded, announcing the arrival of the elevator.

  The Gran Meliá Hotel did not earn a five-star rating by cutting corners. That was equally true for the hotel’s restaurants. Tonight, Jeremy decided to eat at L’Albufera, which was serving a tantalizing blend of Spanish and Mediterranean cuisine.

  He was seated quickly, somehow managing to beat the crowd of conference delegates. As Jeremy scanned the menu, thoughtfully printed in both Spanish and English, the waiter approached his table.

  “Good evening, sir. May I get something for you from the bar?”

  “Absolutely—I’ll have a double gin and tonic, Bombay Blue Sapphire, please.”

  “Certainly. Would you also like some tapas to enjoy while you are looking over the menu?”

  “Yes, I t
hink so. It all looks very tasty. What would you recommend?”

  “The sampler plate is very popular, but the portions are rather generous. You may find it a bit much if you also plan to order a full dinner.”

  “You know, the sampler plate does sound good. Let’s do that.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll be right back with your cocktail.”

  Jeremy found himself beginning to relax. He opened the Tribune and scanned the front page. The headline story concerned tensions between the governments of Colombia and Ecuador over a long-standing border dispute. His gin and tonic arrived, and Jeremy took a sip… then another. Further down the front page was a story about Venezuela’s role in OPEC. It was written with the usual anti-U.S. propaganda, proclaiming that the U.S. and European countries were essentially stealing the national resources of Latin America, as they had done for centuries.

  After Jeremy had another sip of his drink, the waiter arrived with the plate of tapas. It was indeed a very large portion, and Jeremy did not waste any time digging in. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.

  Finished, he wiped his mouth with his napkin and leaned back in his chair. His attentive waiter appeared, as if on cue, to take away the plates and brush the crumbs off the table. “Would you like to see a dessert menu?”

  “No, I don’t think so. It was all very good, and I’m stuffed. I’ll take the check and retire to the bar for another drink.”

  “Of course. I’ll be right back.”

  In keeping with the lobby furnishings and decorations, the bar suggested a classic Old World style and was fabricated from solid mahogany stained a traditional deep red-brown, surfaced with sheets of copper. An assortment of stemware hung from brass rails above the bar. Jeremy pulled up a stool,

  and his eyes were immediately drawn to the selection of gin on display, amongst a great variety of vodkas and whiskeys—including American bourbons, Canadian, Irish, and single-malt Scotch.