The Aeschylus

1

The old man was finally gone.

Kate looked down at her father's headstone, and all she could think about was how disappointed he would have been to know it had cost the state thirteen thousand dollars. It brought a smile to her lips, bitter but welcome. “Never waste a dime on anything that doesn't come back to you, pumpkin,” he had told her on more than one occasion. “Don't end up like your mother, all goosy with the credit cards.” And he had smiled and patted her head, even when she grew up and gained an inch on him, even when her mother was long gone. That was her dad, full of an endearing sort of rage when he thought he knew best. Maybe all dads were like that.

Remembering that was funny now, in a way. But it was better than remembering what he looked like in the last twelve hours, stuck in a hospital bed with tubes running in and out of his body, two dozen idiots crowded around trying to get a word in edgewise.

The press had been kind in the wake of his passing, however, and that was unexpected. The Times was calling him “The Most Powerful Vice President since Dick Cheney,” whatever that meant, but the tone was complimentary. All of his greatest accomplishments had been described in Sunday's edition, complete with dates and photos. Of course, she and her brother were missing from that list. She guessed that when you clawed your way to the top of the political food chain, your family became the equivalent of set dressing: necessary for esthetic appeal, but hardly worth talking about in matters of business.

“You never would have told us that, even if you knew it was true. Right, Dad?”

She blushed when she realized she had spoken aloud. And maybe that wasn't fair. He had always made time for her and Bobby, even after the last election. She supposed some girls would have been thrilled to be a part of it, just to see inside the most famous political building in the world, but Kate had always taken it in stride. It was her brother who had jumped into the life, moving from one high-profile job to the next, ending up as one of the top security analysts in D.C.

Bobby had only been to the hospital once before the old man died. That was typical, though he had loved their father as much as she. He was just unavailable. She was sure he was out about town at this very moment, dealing with things in his own way. With his friends, drinking, probably face down in his favorite Chinatown whorehouse. She wondered if she just didn't understand men.

Her cell phone rang, and she jumped. She thought about ignoring it, but she couldn't hide forever.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Katelyn. Can you talk?”

Out of all the people in the world, her godfather was the only person to call her by her full name. She hated it. “What's up, Godfried?”

“Listen, I just got back into town. There's something we need to talk about. Can you come by?”

She sighed. “Can I ask what it's about?”

“I'd rather not say.”

“You'd rather not say, and I'd rather not listen.”

He paused on the other end, and she could imagine his brow furrowing. “All right, it's about your… let's call it your inheritance. I know this is doesn't seem like the time, but trust me, we should speak today.”

“The reading was two days ago, Godfried. If you forgot something—”

“This is important,” he said, cutting her off. “It wasn't something we could talk about before. This is an addendum for your eyes only.”

“An addendum?”

“Your father added it only a week ago. His instructions were very clear. He said it was only to be shown to you, and only after his burial was complete. Since that was this morning, I figured now would be the best time.” Another pause. “He was very clear.”

She adjusted the left strap on her dress and shivered. Too skimpy for the weather, it was the only black dress she owned. “Only me?”

“It's not for Robert, not for former staff, hell not even for me. But it's important. Can you come?”

“Look, Godfried.” What kind of excuse could she give? She was all out. “Now's not the best time. Can we—”

“I've already sent Lance out with the chopper. He should be at your apartment in a few minutes.”

That was typical. That was, in fact, exactly why he and her dad had gotten along so well: no goddamned patience. “I'm not at the apartment. I'm still at the cemetery.”

“The cemetery? What are you doing there?”

“I don't know, do I have to come now?”

“I'll let Lance know. See you in twenty.”

He hung up.

She thought about skipping town and taking a cab back to the city, but if Lance showed up and she wasn't there, Godfried would have the National Guard in play by nightfall. If she humored him one last time, she might actually get home before dark, and that was a nice thought. The cemetery here was amazingly green, the well-kept lawn broken every twenty feet or so by trees and flowers. The church, an old brick Protestant job on the eastern end, fit perfectly into the rural landscape. You couldn't even hear the highway from the center of the place. Kate missed this kind of scenery; she hadn't lived in Virginia since she was a little girl, not since her mother had been alive.

Five minutes later, the image broke as a helicopter appeared overhead, buzzing and whirring its way onto the field. She walked towards it, pushing into the wind as the rounded metal monstrosity dipped into view. This would mark the eleventh time she'd flown in one. Two of the previous eleven times, she'd thrown up, and she prayed this wouldn't be the third. On a day like today, she just couldn't take any more.

2

When they touched down on the helipad in Alexandria a few minutes later, she couldn't wait to get out. Lance the pilot was one of Godfried's old Naval Academy crewman, aged enough to be her grandfather, but he still kept stealing glances at her legs every chance he got. Most days, Kate didn't know if she was good looking any more, but she thought she kept herself up all right. “You look good enough to eat, honey,” her friend Miranda liked to tell her. “Fuck thirty-seven. You look twenty-seven, and you know it.” Most days, that was well and good, but when you were trapped a thousand feet in the air with an old goat like Lance, that attitude was a curse. At times like those, she'd be perfectly happy being a cow.

As she stepped out onto the lawn, she found herself wishing for the hundredth time that she was in jeans. When she was a kid, the only time she wore anything different was on the grass in a field hockey game. Girls who played hockey were not the pink dress wearing sort. Only the black dress wearing sort, she thought grimly.

The estate — her godfather's place could never be called anything so plebeian as a mansion — had its own helipad, as well as its own Olympic swimming pool, garden, and statuary. It was within walking distance of Belle Haven Country Club, “One of the finest health spas south of D.C., my dear,” if you were impressed by that sort of thing. The house itself was a squat, two-story 19th Century Georgian style manor, but not without charm. She'd spent enough time running around the grounds as a child to know that.

Collin MacNab, the estate's head of security, appeared at the end of the green and waved. He was an old man himself now, but unlike her grody pilot, Collin was charming and, as far as Kate was concerned, harmless. As always, he tried to look the stern security guard, and as always, he couldn't help but slip into a smile.

He nodded. “I thought you might not come.”

“I didn't think I had a choice. You know Godfried when he wants something.”

“There's always a choice, girly,” MacNab said, walking her up the back steps. “There aren't many places to hide when the man comes looking though. I got called back from vacation enough times to know that.”

“I didn't think security guys were allowed vacation, Nabby.”

He reddened a little at the nickname. Always did, even after twenty-five years. “Sometimes Mister Grace felt that way, I think.”

“I could always hide in the hedges.”

“If you're referring to the incident—”

“Where I disappeared?”

“Where we had to send the state police to find you,” he finished, reaching the top and opening the French doors, “I wouldn't recommend it.”

She shrugged. “It worked when I was eleven!”

“And what happened when they found you?”

“Dad grounded me,” she said. “And I got a whipping,” she added miserably.

“Don't think the man is above that now just because your daddy's gone.”

He put a hand on her back and walked her inside. The view from the back door always made her feel like she was entering a library. Not the pleasant kind from your local middle school, but a vast, towering maze from the imagination of Umberto Eco. The lower level glowed with the pulse of an orange fire set back in the den. Spiral stairs with carved handrails led up to the second floor mezzanine on either end of the room. And on all sides, top floor and bottom, were shelves and shelves of books. Most were of the dusty and parched variety only a lawyer could find interesting, and Godfried Grace was a lawyer's lawyer, but there were shelves full of classics too. A fine collector, the good man of the house.

“He's waiting for you in his study,” Collin said.

Kate left him at the foot of the stairs and ascended to the second floor. She was greeted by Chester, her godfather's big golden lab. She gave him a quick pat on the head, and he drooled appreciatively. Chester was twelve now, nearly thirteen, and it showed. He was a little better off than George the dalmatian, however, who was laying grumpily in the corner. When she waved at him, he raised his head and then promptly went back to sleep.

“Well, at least one of you is glad to see me,” she said, finding the hall that led back to the office. Walking through almost made her glad she didn't have much money. Most of her father's inheritance had gone to her brother, and she hadn't made much as an executive assistant, even one who worked for a company as big as Valley Oil. She liked the place enough, but she thought she would go nuts living in it. It was too stale, too empty. And no place for kids, when you got right down to it. But aren't you getting a little old to think about kids, Kate?

She shook her head. What the hell was she thinking? If she had a place like this and didn't like it, she could always sell it and trade it in for something she did like. So yeah, almost glad she didn't own it was about right.

Kate found the door at the end of the hall and knocked.

A muffled voice: “Come in.”

She pushed the door open and entered her godfather's office. As always, it felt more cramped than it really was, in part due to the smells: shoe leather and papyrus and old man musk.

“Hello, Godfried. How was your trip?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Where's your escort?”

Straight to business, that one.

“I sent them away.”

“What?”

Kate stepped inside. “Come on, Godfried. I don't need bodyguards. You and I both know that.”

“I know no such thing.” He shuffled around the desk and gave her a hug. She noticed with some amusement that he was wearing a designer blue bathrobe that looked like it cost more than her dress. Godfried had never shared her father's views on fashion and frugality.

“You don't just send away a security detail, Katelyn. Are they outside? Are they watching?”

“Well, 'sent them away' might be a bit of a stretch. I sort of gave them the slip this afternoon.”

He stared at her, then broke into rattling, old-man laughter. “Gave them the slip? Whatever for?”

“I guess I needed to be alone for a while. It's not like they were looking too hard. I was back at the cemetery for the better part of an hour when you called.”

He shook his head and put one hand on his hip. “Christ Almighty, Katelyn, you are your father's daughter. Gave them the slip, indeed. How many young women do you think could have done that?”

“I don't know. Why don't you tell me?”

“All the wits of a CIA operative, and here you are still working as a secretary.”

“I'm not a secretary, I'm an—”

“Executive assistant, I know,” he finished.

“That's actually not true either now,” she said, looking at him slyly. “I got a new job.”

“Really? Where?”

“Same place. But I'm not an EA any more. I'm a media relations executive, and I have my own assistant. What? You're making fun of me now,” she said, noticing the glimmer in his eyes.

“Yes, I admit, I know all about it. And you've earned it. It doesn't look good to have the smart girl working for the dumb ones, does it?”

“Are you still going to harp on me for not moving up the corporate ladder fast enough?”

“Oh no. But you could have moved faster with my connections, if you weren't so stubborn to ignore them. All of that is meaningless now, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sit down, dear.” He shuffled back behind his desk and took a seat, watching as she grabbed the chair across from him. He smiled. It was a grandfatherly smile, but it was impossible for Godfried not to look crafty when he showed his teeth. He had too much Clint Eastwood in him.

“What's all this about, Godfried?”

The old man reached into a bowl on the side of his desk and took out a peanut. He cracked it in his gnarled hands and nodded. “Tell me what you think of Valley Oil, Katelyn. I'm not interested in the public relations nonsense, mind you. I just want to know what you think of us personally.”

She frowned. Godfried was one of her father's oldest friends, but he was also a significant shareholder. He was also on the board of directors. He had also given her a personal recommendation when more qualified candidates were spilling over the brim.

“I don't know. To tell you the truth, I never really thought about it. I love my job. I'm grateful for it. But the company itself? The most I could tell you is that I'm impressed by them, and that's the truth.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, they have the fourth largest market share of gasoline on the west coast, and they're still growing. They've got the best ad campaign of all the big oil companies right now. Their slogan is catchy,” she said, picturing the green and yellow outline of their stations, the words Drive through the green Valley printed above their pumps. She waited for Godfried to respond, and when he didn't, she picked up a peanut shell and threw it at him. He didn't return her smile this time.

“That's good, dear. Your loyalty is good. Because we have a problem now, and damned if I've ever heard of anything like it.”

“You're killing me,” she said, only half sarcastic. “If you need someone in public relations to—”

“This isn't about our image,” Godfried said. He was angry now, and she withdrew, surprised. “This is something serious, my dear. You'll be hearing the particulars soon enough, but it starts here, with this.” He withdrew a manila envelope out of his desk and passed it across to her. “He wanted you to have this.”

When she took the envelope, her hands were shaking. She didn't know why, but a darkness had descended upon the room. She could feel it in the envelope's weight, in the intensity of her godfather's stare.

She unhinged the clasp, and the contents spilled to the floor. Could there be a letter from him? The news of some scandal, or some heart-felt confession about the company? It turned out to be neither.

“Pictures,” she whispered.

“Satellite images, photographs, blueprints. Do you know what they're from?”

“They're from Aeschylus.”

The Aeschylus Platform had been one of the largest public relations pitches handled by Kate's department in the past two years. She had only been an EA when the campaign was heating up, but information about the project had percolated through the office months in advance. Deep in the south Atlantic, the two-point-two billion dollar platform was Valley Oil's crowning jewel, an engineering marvel made possible by VO's acquisition of several sub-sea drilling companies in the preceding decade. At the time, its construction was a large financial gamble, but The Aeschylus, as well as several smaller platforms to the north, were supposed to escalate VO's yield by three hundred thousand barrels per day. The real problem, however, was that VO had to go to extreme lengths to satisfy the Protocol on Environmental Protection for Antarctica since they were located only a few hundred miles north of solid land. In many respects, the real audience of the marketing campaign had not been the general public, who cared as little about where their oil came from as the cows on their dinner plates, but the U.N. And the U.N. was not a force that could be lobbied, greased, or otherwise moved in the way other businesses could. In the end, Argentina, who would receive a huge economic boost through sub-contracted labor on the platform's construction, helped win international approval, but it took months.

“Have you seen these?” she asked.

“No, but, after hearing the news from my contacts this evening, I'm not surprised.”

“What news? What are you talking about, Godfried?”

“All communication from the platform has ceased. They suspect some kind of terrorist attack, something like that. I don't know the details.”

“Jesus! Is the military—”

“No one knows about this, Katelyn. In fact, not even I'm supposed to know. They're holding an emergency board meeting tomorrow morning, and you're going to be there.”

“Me? Are they looking for a way to spin this?”

“You're not going as an executive, dear.”

“What do you mean, I'm not going as an executive? What are you getting at, old man?”

“Relax, dear. Have a seat.” She hadn't even realized she had gotten to her feet and pushed her butt back down, embarrassed. “You forget the reason I called you here. Your inheritance, remember?”

The reading had been two days ago, and she could barely recall any of it. She vaguely remembered getting the deed to her father's Mercedes, the family china, and a few knick-knacks. Bobby had gotten the condo on Independence Avenue, their summer home in Connecticut, the yacht and the jet skis on the Chesapeake pier, the other cars, and various other items he seemed to appreciate. The liquid cash had all gone to his favorite charities since the family didn't need it, and his positions on various committees and boards were already being filled. Mensa would probably be honoring him with a chess dinner, or whatever those types did.

“I don't care about the assets,” she said.

Her godfather's stony visage cracked, and he looked amused again. “Really?”

“I loved my father, Godfried. I'm not going to squabble over the scraps. And what does all this have to do with an emergency at the platform?”

“You do know your father was a board member, correct? He still had many friends at the company, which is where he came by those images, I'm sure.”

“Oh yes, I remember. I always figured you had the bigger influence, though.”

Godfried chuckled. “He was the largest shareholder in the country, Katelyn. He had twice the pull that I do. I know my position on the board offers me a lot of leverage, but at the end of the day, everyone answers to the shareholders.” Godfried was staring now, his green eyes burrowing into her. “The fact is, your father had a phenomenal stake. The fact is, most of his fortune came from Valley Oil before you and your brother were even born. Did you know that?”

Kate crossed her legs nervously. Her dress was too short, and she had to smooth down the hem with one hand. “And?”

“And he left it to you. His VO stock, I mean. Not to Robert and certainly not to me. To you. All of it.”

It took a moment for it to sink in. Kate stopped fidgeting with her dress and looked across the desk. “What?”

“Three hundred and eighty-three thousand, one hundred seventeen shares. I just looked up the share price while you were on your way in. It's sitting at eighty-four dollars a share. Do the math.”

“What?” she repeated.

And now Godfried really was smiling again, the crafty gunfighter showing through every crevice and age line. “You'll be at that meeting tomorrow not as an executive, but as the biggest oil shareholder in the country. In the meantime, I think it's best you let your security detail resume, don't you?”

“Do I… do I…” Whatever she wanted to know, she couldn't finish. Her whole body was trembling.

Godfried winked. “You're rich, sweetheart.”

3

Twelve hours later, Kate found herself on the top floor of Valley Oil's D.C. corporate offices. Imitation Victorian-era art lined the walls, statues decorated a nearby fountain, the rug beneath her feet probably cost as much as her car. It was oddly quiet, and oddly serene. If she closed her eyes, she could hear the gentle tap of the keyboard from the administrative receptionist, but that was all. The receptionist herself was a sculpted, bronzed figure, probably only a few years out of college. When Kate asked her name, she said, “My name? Oh! That's Merrie, dear. M-E-R-R-I-E, if you're interested,” though Kate wasn't.

She didn't have to wait long. An attractive man in his late forties strode past the reception desk and extended a hand to her just as she was getting comfortable. “Hello, Miss McCreedy. It's good to finally meet you in person.”

“Likewise, Mister Lucian.”

Michael Lucian was Valley Oil's head of international projects. Everything about the man was striking, from the sharp lines of his features to the colors he chose to accent his looks. His suit was a beautiful gray, the blue in his tie perfectly matching the blue in his eyes. The effect was planned but still disarming. Although Godfried had been keen to keep her inheritance a secret, now that the cat was out of the bag, it seemed everyone who was anyone at the company wanted to meet her.

“Please, call me 'Michael.'”

“Okay.”

“I was so sorry to hear about your father. He was a good man, and we'll miss him. It's terrible we have to meet under these circumstances.” He smiled sympathetically at her. It was the kind of smile that could charm investors out of hundreds of thousands of dollars and, she reflected, probably had.

As Kate opened her mouth, the television switched on behind her. She hadn't even noticed it was there. CNN flashed a view inside Capitol Hill, a gruff-looking man behind a podium. She recognized him immediately as Jack Fields, an old ex-marine built like a battleship with a voice just as tinny. “It is with great humility, but great honor, that I rescind my position here and rise to aid my commander-in-chief. Though we can never replace a man that was as stalwart and steadfast as—”

“Sorry,” Merrie said behind them, hitting the Mute button on a remote.

Fields went on as the sound cut out, gesticulating in silence. Kate knew what the speech was about, of course. Two days ago, Jack Fields had been Speaker of the House. Today, he was Kate's father's replacement. Or perhaps replacement was a poor word; he was his successor. She had met Jack twice prior to her father's funeral, and the most she could say was that there were worse men for the job.

“My fault,” Merrie said. “I bumped the remote.”

Was that jealousy Kate saw in her eyes? Dream on, honey.

“No problem,” Michael said, unperturbed. Then to Kate, “This way.”

The first stop was his office which, if possible, was even larger and more lavishly decorated than the corporate reception room. Like her godfather, it seemed her newest acquaintance was a collector of books, and he had the shelves to prove it. Kate thought of her own office three floors below — a cluttered mess of stacked folders and field reports that looked more like a college dorm room than a place of employment — and felt a tinge of embarrassment.

He stopped just long enough to pick up the phone at his desk. “Yes, she's here. We're on our way down.”

When he hung up, Kate thought he looked nervous.

“I'm afraid things are a bit of a mess right now. My counterpart in Abu Dhabi wants us to get started immediately, and I don't blame him.”

“Get started?” Godfried had told her about the meeting, but with all the hubbub, it had almost slipped her mind. “Oh, right.”

“Walk with me. I'll try to get you up to speed.”

Michael led her down a stairwell, through another concatenation of expensive-looking offices. “As you can imagine, this could be a public relations nightmare. Not to mention what it's going to do to our stock once this gets out. And we're not going to be able to keep it from getting out much longer.”

Kate was trying to keep up with the details, but it was hard. Production stopped. Personnel missing. Disaster on the newest and most expensive platform ever owned by the company.

“So you coming into the fold is a bit fortuitous. We don't want to break this to our public relations department until later today, but you're of that department. So your insights would be greatly appreciated.”

“Hold on,” Kate said, stopping.

Michael stopped. For a moment — just a moment — his stolid demeanor cracked. “Sure. What's wrong?”

“I just… I want to know what's going on, here.”

“I'm sorry,” he said, moving his hand to her arm. She didn't want to feel comforted by it, but somehow, she did. “I didn't want to put so fine a point on it, Kate, but the truth is, we have a bit of a crisis on our hands. I would love to stop and talk to you about long-term company goals, and maybe we'll get a chance later, but this comes first. I apologize that this is all happening so quickly.”

“All right,” she said.

“Good. Now, we only need to stop at the security desk down here for a moment, then we'll go in.”

“The security desk?” Kate had never been to this floor, and moments later, she found herself face to face with another receptionist with a pen in hand.

Five minutes and three non-disclosure agreements later, Kate walked into a meeting room, this one large enough to accommodate forty people or more. It looked just under half full when she and Michael walked in.

For the umpteenth time that morning, Kate found herself flummoxed. The room was littered with heavy hitters from the company's executive board. Marie Sinclair, the senior vice president of the D.C. office. Larabe Johnson, the director of security. Talia Stroikavich, the reputed computer genius who headed VO's internal engineering department. Several others were clustered around the room's long meeting table, and she noticed that one man in particular didn't look like he belonged. Chiseled and square-jawed, his cut Valentino suit looked more like a disguise than a piece of wardrobe.

Once they were seated, Kate leaned over to Michael. “Who's that?”

“That's Mister Bruhbaker. He's one of the reasons we're here.”

“Does he work for Valley Oil?”

Michael shook his head. “He's from Black Shadow.”

Kate recoiled. Black Shadow was the second largest mercenary group operating in the U.S. With fingers branching into Afghanistan, Iraq, and the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, they were a multimillion dollar firm with a dozen government-sponsored contracts. And who else besides the government could afford a private military group with the best hardware in the world? Big oil, of course.

Her father had supported the private military in his days as a senator, but since the Nisoor Square massacre in Baghdad and the reports of civilian casualties in Iraq, he and the president had only used them when absolutely necessary. “It's a sad thing when your own National Guard isn't enough, sweetie,” her father told her when they were watching the Katrina disaster in New Orleans on T.V. “But there's so much red tape. Sometimes it's faster to send in someone from the private sector. And they have skills. As much as I hate to say it, ex-Navy SEALs and Rangers kick the tar out of the weekend warriors we have in the Reserve. But I wouldn't send them anywhere they have to make moral judgments. Some guys would, but not me. Money clouds things, and that's why these guys do what they do: money.”

A skinny man in a white suit jacket pulled down a projector screen at the end of the room and waved his hands at the congregation. “Please. Ladies and gentlemen, if you can take your seats, we can get started.”

Kate watched as the remaining staff found their places at the oval table. She got a few puzzled looks, but no one questioned her. No one, that was, until a female executive sat down next to her. “Who are you?” she asked rudely.

“McCreedy. Katelyn McCreedy.” She realized she had used her proper name and wrinkled her nose.

“Are you new to the company?”

“Why?”

The woman cocked her head. “I'm just not used to seeing junior executives at a board meeting. You must be someone special.”

She was about to say something else when she was interrupted by a laugh.

The big man with the square jaw had taken a seat within earshot and was chuckling to himself. “She's the vice president's daughter, Nina. Don't you recognize her from T.V.?”

The woman looked at the big guy, then back to Kate. “Which vice president? Oh, you mean… oh, well excuse me,” she said. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

The big man switched to an empty seat directly across from Kate and leaned forward, showing off the size of his arms. Kate put his age somewhere between thirty-five and fifty but couldn't be any more accurate. His beard stubble was gray though, his face carved with wrinkles. “Kate McCreedy,” he said. “I knew your daddy back when the hunt for Bin Laden was still on. Almost found him ourselves a couple of times. Good contracts to be had back in those days. Not so many once he took the high office, but I guess business ain't the same when there's no war on. No official war, anyways.”

“So you're Black Shadow, right?”

“You've heard of us, huh? That's good. I'm glad to know you. I liked your daddy in spite of our differences.”

“Uh-huh. And what might those differences be?”

He smiled. It revealed a scar on his upper lip you couldn't see when his face was composed. “Oh, they're not important now. Bygones are bygones, that's what I say. From the look of you, I reckon you have his brains. Your mom's looks, though.” He paused, giving her a look she found rather disquieting, then said, “I'm Mason Bruhbaker.” He reached across the table and offered to shake.

Kate reached forward, but instead of taking his hand, grabbed a cup of water that had been set out for the meeting attendees and took a drink. The big man smiled and sat back, amused. His jaw worked as if chewing gum, but she was quite sure he didn't have any in his mouth. A big guy like that, he's used to chewing people up and spitting them out, she thought.

“Well, I'm glad to make your acquaintance anyways.”

She nodded. Though she'd only known him for a few minutes, she could not say the same.

“Excuse me, excuse me!” The skinny man was still trying to call the meeting to order. He waited until the murmur quieted, then began again. “Thank you all for coming. I know this is short notice. I know some of you were called in as early as four o'clock this morning, but believe me when I tell you that we have a situation on our hands, and it warrants your full attention.”

“What's all this about, Geoff?” someone asked.

He pulled a remote out of his pocket and flicked a button. Instantly, a satellite image of The Aeschylus shot up on the projector screen. Kate gasped; it was uncannily similar to the ones in her father's envelope.

“As you know, The Aeschylus is the largest of our deep-sea drilling rigs, a spar platform employing two hundred and thirty-eight workers on its present shift. It's been operational for almost five weeks without a hitch. As of yesterday, that all changed.” He looked towards his audience. “Most of you know by now that drilling has ceased entirely. However, most of you don't know why.”

“What, are they striking again?” someone else asked. “Do they have a little first sunset tribal holiday down there we don't know about?” The man did a little chicken dance in his seat, but Mason shot him a look, and the man shut up in a hurry.

“No,” Geoff said cautiously. “They've disappeared.”

Murmurs went around the table. Geoff pushed his glasses up on his nose and put his hands on his hips, waiting for the deluge of questions. Marie Sinclair, the D.C. V.P., was the first to speak.

“I'm sorry, Geoff. You're going to have to explain that.”

The man took a deep breath. “Yesterday morning, The Aeschylus failed to respond to a routine radio probe. Since then, we've been unable to establish any contact with the platform whatsoever. Short and long wave radio transmissions have failed, and satellite images confirm there is no activity on the platform itself.”

“I don't suppose a cell phone signal would work out there?” Sinclair asked.

Geoff nodded. “Yes ma'am, as a matter of fact, it does. During construction, we allocated costs for the installation of sub-sea wireless cell phone repeaters that bolster strength from the Argentinian coastline. They're not a hundred percent reliable that far out at sea, but they're enough to get one or two bars of reception on most days.”

“And?”

“And nothing,” Geoff said. “Incoming calls are routed directly to voice mail, or they don't go through at all.”

“What are you telling us here, Geoff? That they abandoned ship? Is that what you're saying?”

“No ma'am,” Geoff said. He looked genuinely scared now, and Kate had the idea it wasn't just because he was giving his superiors bad news. “The Aeschylus had just hit payload and was under careful satellite surveillance. It still is. We've been monitoring any arrivals and departures, coastal activity, anything in and around the area that might be important. The crew's rotation is up, but the boats are still at the docks. So I guess what I'm telling you, is that unless those two hundred and thirty-eight men swam two hundred miles to shore in freezing cold water, that they're simply not there any more.”

Sinclair's face reddened. “So you're telling us we have a two billion dollar piece of equipment sitting abandoned in the middle of the ocean?”

“Yes ma'am. Yes, that's exactly what I'm telling you.”

The room went silent. Kate glanced at the faces beside her and saw only puzzlement.

“Hold on a moment. You mean to tell me that Valley Oil has access to its own satellite?” Several seconds passed before Kate realized that the question had come from her.

All heads turned.

Geoff looked surprised but recovered quickly. “We have one on loan,” he said noncommittally. “How we get the updates isn't important.”

“So your eyes and your ears are telling you that almost two hundred and fifty workers vanished? What, were they abducted by aliens?”

Several people chuckled, but Geoff didn't. “We don't know.”

Kate searched her memory banks for everything about the project she'd picked up while working in public relations. She found they were full of information she hadn't even realized she'd known. One of her greatest strengths was thinking on her feet, a trait inherited from her father. “What about the next shift? Have the workers headed out there? Do they have any ideas?”

The firm's head of security, Larabe Johnson, turned to her in his chair. “You're full of questions young lady, aren't you?”

Kate blushed. She couldn't remember the last time someone had called her young lady. It wasn't until much later that she reflected she was probably one of the youngest — if not the absolute youngest — person in the room.

“On my instructions, the next shift is on hold. We're not sending anyone else until we know what the hell is going on. That answer your question?”

Johnson said.

Kate nodded.

“And the families of the workers? Maybe someone got a message,” Sinclair inquired, still talking to Geoff.

“We've contacted a few family members, but it's been difficult.”

“Why's that?”

“Well, we had to find a translator in the middle of the night for one. But so far, the people we've asked haven't offered a damned clue. As far as they know, their husbands and sons and brothers are still working out there without a word to suggest otherwise.”

Kate broke in. “And the Argentinian government? What about them?”

“The problem is,” Johnson said, “is that The Aeschylus is technically in international waters. Involving the Argentinian authorities complicates matters.”

“Not to mention we have proprietary hardware out there,” Sinclair added. “We don't want anyone who hasn't been cleared on that rig.”

Mason Bruhbaker got to his feet. “Excuse me. We're going in circles here, and we're short on time.” He turned to Sinclair. “If I may?”

The woman nodded.

Mason pushed his chair in and stepped over to the projector screen, taking the remote from Geoff. He towered over the guy, a giant next to a stick man.

“Ladies and gentlemen, those of you who know me know I'm not much for long speeches, so let me present the facts as I see them. This image was taken last night at twenty-one hundred hours local time.”

“We're an hour behind, so that would be eight p.m.,” Geoff added, trying to be helpful.

“Satellite photographs confirm that automated light systems were online at the time this image was taken. Now look at the next one.” He flicked the button, and a new picture flashed in front of the screen, this one focused on the northeast corner of the rig. It looked unspectacular until Kate squinted. “It's difficult to see, but if you want proof that something is seriously wrong, I ask you to look no further than this image.”

“One of the cranes is missing,” someone said.

Mason nodded. “That's right. There's smoke coming from the edge of the rig, there.”

Kate saw it was true. It looked like there had been a fire either at the edge of the deck or on the level just below.

“Where's the crane now?” Johnson asked.

“Well, if it was destroyed, it likely fell into the water and sank,” Mason said. “These images are a full hour apart, so we can't know what happened in between.”

Johnson threw up his hands. “So this is all speculation?”

“Yes sir, it is. But if you would let me continue, I will outline the details as I see them.”

The man motioned with his hand.

“Fact one,” Mason said, “is that you are no longer in communication with your platform. Fact two is that any traces, visual or aural, of the two hundred and thirty-eight workers you employ are gone. There is no radio signal. There is no phone communication. There is no visual indication of any life on board.”

Johnson sighed.

“Fact three,” Mason said loudly, “is that there is a clear indication your rig has been damaged, and it could be the result of foul play. Add to these facts that your platform, your multi-billion dollar platform,” he added, “is sitting unguarded in international waters only a few dozen miles from a South American country with tenuous ties to the United States. This is your ass on the line, sir, not mine.”

“All right,” Johnson said. “I get it.”

“What are your theories?” Sinclair asked.

“I'm not paid for theories,” the big man answered, “but if I had to guess, I'd say terrorists.”

“Isn't that a little melodramatic?” Kate demanded. Again, her mouth was moving before her brain could stop it. “You don't even know what happened to the workers and you're jumping to conclusions.”

“We've been tracking a guerrilla cell out of Rio for the past six months. They're industrial terrorists. They've hit factories, mines, electrical substations and the like. It's not too far-fetched to think they might go after an oil platform. It doesn't make the news here, but they've been busy. They're a lot smarter than your average jihadies, and a lot better funded. Word has it they get their dough from the MTP political movement, though that's unconfirmed.”

Kate met Bruhbaker's eyes and saw right through him. Hostile situation or no, the probability the disappearances were due to some radical Shi'ite sect in South America was slim. But with the right buzzwords, you could convince almost anyone they needed hired guns.

“What's your plan?” Johnson asked. “How does Black Shadow intend to help?”

Bruhbaker smiled. “Well, first of all sir, let me assure you Black Shadow is your most expedient option. Dealing with the closest authorities implies a ton of red tape, and as Ms. Sinclair mentioned, this is undesirable for its own reasons. Sending your own personal security staff is also questionable given the legal implications of transporting them out of the country on short notice. On the other hand, Black Shadow is equipped to respond to these kinds of situations with efficiency. We have experience operating in thirty-two foreign countries. Our track record is impeccable, and our involvement will be kept utterly confidential. We will assume all risk, both physical and legal. Not to mention, we can be on site in a matter of hours.

“The plan is to go in, secure the location, and set up a perimeter. Nothing will get in or out. Second priority is to find out what happened to the communications systems. Given what we've seen of the crane, it's possible it could just be a downed com tower. Regardless, our technician should be able to repair the damage. If not, we have the ability to communicate via cell phone. Even if the sub-sea repeaters are down, we can fly over sea until we're within range of the shore.”

“Excellent,” Sinclair said. “And what do you need from us?”

“Aside from money?” Johnson said under his breath.

“We'll need blueprints, layout plans, a structural analysis of the underwater supports in case we have to look for tampering. We'll also need a complete employee roster so we can verify identities if anyone is still there and in hiding. Or if we find any bodies, of course. Oh, and we'll need some basic instructions on the drilling machinery and power circuits in case we have to shut the place down more than it already is.”

Sinclair nodded. “You'll get everything you need.”

“Good. Then I assume we're done?”

Everyone stood up. Kate tried but found her rear end glued to her chair. She felt like she should say something more, should ask something more, but she couldn't. The wheels of the political machine were turning too fast.

Michael grabbed her arm. “Meet me back upstairs.”

4

As the crowd filtered out, Kate pushed into the nearby ladies' room. She looked at herself in the mirror, a question surfacing in her mind. How far are you willing to go, kid? The question had come unbidden, but here it was. The world was spinning around her, and she was caught in the middle. But as to the answer, it was simple: she would do what had to be done. She would go all the way. She would find what her father wanted her to find, because that's what this was about, wasn't it? He had left the envelope for her and her alone.

Several minutes later, she finished washing up and headed out, single-minded as she walked back to Michael's office.