Blackmail Earth

Chapter 14





The hijacking of the supertanker trumped every other news story, including the presidential race. As soon as Jenna finished her weather segment, she rushed over to the main set to join host Andrea Hanson and Harold Swenson, a portly, gray-haired senior researcher at the Washington Center for International Terrorism Studies. Swenson immediately sparked an impromptu debate.

“We’re looking at a doomsday scenario.” The expert sat forward.

“I don’t think it’s responsible to call it a doomsday scenario,” Jenna said. “We don’t know that to be the case.” She found herself still adjusting to her new role as the network’s resident expert not only on geoengineering but also the Maldives. And now a debater to boot.

“How can you not see this brazen act of ecoterrorism in those terms?” Swenson demanded. “If they blow up that tanker and release five hundred thousand tons of iron oxide, worldwide temperatures could drop five or six degrees. That’s a distinct possibility.”

“It is possible,” Jenna said, “but—”

“That’s a new ice age,” Swenson interrupted. “That’s doomsday.”

“A five- or six-degree drop would be a new ice age,” Jenna agreed, “but it’s difficult to calibrate the impact of that much iron oxide in the ocean. Yes, it will cause a massive algae bloom; and yes, the algae will absorb carbon dioxide from the atmosphere. But it’s more likely that we would see a two-degree drop in temperatures.”

Swenson shook his head. “Two degrees? That’s no picnic, either. Two degrees would mean massive crop losses in North America, Europe, Russia, and China. We’re talking famine. There wouldn’t even be summer in many places.”

“That’s very possible, and that would be horrible,” Jenna said, “but we know from the Mount Pinatubo explosion, which did drop temperatures almost two degrees worldwide, that it’s not doomsday.”

“Can you explain about Mount Pinatubo?” Andrea asked.

“That was a volcanic explosion in the Philippines in 1991 that sent millions of tons of sulfur dioxide into the atmosphere,” Jenna said quickly.

“So any drops in temperature in the Maldives would also be felt worldwide?” Andrea followed up.

“That’s right,” Swenson said, getting back into the discussion. “But Mount Pinatubo wasn’t even two degrees. And anything beyond a three-degree drop is the end of the world as we know it.”

“Look,” Jenna said, “we’re sitting here talking about specific drops in temperature when the reality is that we don’t know how bad the impact would be.”

“Maybe,” Swenson said, “but what’s very clear now is that suicidal Islamists have taken control of the Earth’s thermostat. This,” he pointed an accusing finger at Jenna, “is precisely why we can’t be soft on terrorists.”

“I’m not saying we should be soft on them,” Jenna remonstrated. “We should get their hands off the thermostat as fast as we can and make sure that they never get another chance to do something this frightening. But the issue about how much temperatures will drop cannot be resolved here and now, because dumping iron oxide in the ocean is a crude tool, if you want to think of it that way. And dumping five hundred thousand tons is the very definition of chaos theory. That’s why scientists insist on small-scale studies.”

“And why radical Muslims want to send us into a new ice age.”

“Hold that thought,” Andrea said to Swenson. “We’ve got Special Terrorism Correspondent Chris Randall in our Washington Bureau with an important update on the hijacking story.”

Jenna shifted her attention to a monitor on the set and watched Randall, a strikingly handsome former Army Ranger, offer Andrea a tight smile. Then he reported that the same Islamic Web site that had released the video of the hijacking had just announced that the jihadists would blow up the tanker—if the industrialized world didn’t reduce its carbon emissions by 50 percent in the next five years.

Over video of the supertanker, Randall said, “The jihadists have given the U.S. one week to shut down the country’s ten largest coal-fired power plants as a show of good faith.”

Randall reappeared on camera, naming a handful of the plants listed by the hijackers.

“Thank you, Chris Randall, special terrorism correspondent.” Andrea turned back to Jenna and Harold Swenson. “What do you make of those demands?”

“To be expected,” Swenson said. “Al Qaeda’s been blaming climate change on the U.S. for the past three years.”

“There’s no way to get anywhere near a fifty-percent reduction in greenhouse gasses, even in the next fifteen years,” Jenna said. “That’s a nonstarter.”

“I’ve just been informed,” Andrea adjusted her earpiece, “that President Reynolds is calling the hijacking ‘Islamo ecoterrorism.’ That’s a new term.”

“I couldn’t have put it better,” Swenson said. “Maybe Al Qaeda remembers what the oceanographer John Martin once said: ‘Give me a half tanker of iron, and I’ll give you an ice age.’” Swenson looked pointedly at Jenna.

“I would never go that far,” she said.

“Where does this leave us?” Andrea asked.

“On the brink of the abyss,” Swenson answered.

“In a dangerous spot,” Jenna said, “but—”

“The abyss,” Swenson repeated emphatically.

That’s how the segment ended. Jenna found it ironic to see herself as the voice of reason after years of being criticized for trying to raise awareness of the dangers of climate change. But her position was nuanced, and she would not join in Swenson’s dire prophesying.

Now she was off to see James Elfren. The urgency of the meeting with the news division vice president—scheduled for minutes after The Morning Show signed off—signaled its importance, but when Marv hustled to join Jenna on the way to Elfren’s office, she knew without question that a pivotal development was in the works.

Elfren’s young male assistant jumped from his desk outside his boss’s office to escort Jenna and Marv into a spacious corner lair, which was well insulated from the squawking horns, squealing brakes, and piercing sirens of Manhattan traffic. Elfren rose from behind his cherrywood desk and smiled at Jenna. She saw him so rarely—Jenna was not officially in the news division, as Marv was wont to remind her—that Elfren’s tall, slope-shouldered stature took her aback. As did his bright hazel eyes and mocha-colored hair. An altogether attractive example of the executive species.

He gestured to a sitting area, and Jenna knew instinctively to take the tufted couch. Marv appeared to weigh the wisdom of claiming the brass tack armchair, before realizing, or perhaps remembering, that that was likely the boss’s perch and that it might not behoove him to long so openly for the perquisites of power. Jenna thought Marv looked like a stumpy Ecuadorian general lusting after the presidential palace in the hours before a coup.

Dream on, twit.

“Your outfit was a huge improvement today,” Elfren said to her, adjusting his smartly striped tie as he assumed his throne.

As soon as he spoke, Jenna recalled why Elfren had never been a candidate for on-air honors: His voice sounded as if his throat was being continually throttled by a murderous hand. Every high-pitched word sounded panicked.

“Yesterday, you had her looking half undressed out there in that sleazy Dorothy outfit, Marv.” Elfren spoke without a smile or any evidence of cheesy, male-bonding humor. To the contrary, this was unadulterated admonishment, Jenna realized, and brought to mind Elfren’s other appealing quality: He was a decent guy, a married man with two kids and no reputation for chasing women.

“I’ll talk to Jeremy,” Marv said.

“You mean you didn’t have him clear those outfits with you first?”

Marv looked pained, like he wished more than anything that he could slink back to the fourth floor. “I trusted him.”

“I wouldn’t,” Elfren said in a way that made it clear that Marv shouldn’t have, either. “I never want to see that again.”

“Numbers were up,” Marv peeped.

“So were viewer complaints. Thousands of e-mails have come in. They’re still coming, and most of them thought our host looked like a slut. I don’t want viewers thinking of Andrea—a mother-to-be—as a slut, Marv. It’s bad morning television.”

Maybe Marv’s getting fired. Jenna had never seen a show producer so severely dressed down—Bad pun, she told herself. But she loved every moment of it. Go, Elfren.

“To the business at hand,” Elfren said, to Marv’s evident relief. “We’ve got two stories that I’m concerned about. Let’s start with the murder of that GreenSpirit woman. I want you to see what CBS had on just minutes before our show ended.”

“I know about it,” Marv said.

“I want to go through it with you anyway,” Elfren said.

His office had five large, wall-mounted flat-screen TVs. He used a remote to click on the one closest to them. It was cued to the story in question. Video of naked men and women—breasts, bottoms, and pubic areas digitized—opened a report on the killing. The reporter’s off-screen voice was filled with gravitas:

“This was the aftermath of an initiation of two witches Saturday night, presided over by GreenSpirit, the self-described witch and Pagan leader who was murdered just hours later. Pagans and witches from a wide region attended the gathering; followers included Suze Walker, a daughter of the Malloy County sheriff, Nate Walker. The young woman wouldn’t talk to CBS News,” the camera stayed on her as she turned away, “but her father has declared that this high school quarterback, Jason Robb, shown in a recent game, is a ‘person of interest’ to law enforcement authorities.”

“We want to talk to him,” Sheriff Walker said to the unseen reporter. “We think he might know something.”

“Did you know that your daughter was at the initiation?” the reporter asked.

“Yes, of course I did.”

“Are you a Pagan?”

“No, we’re Baptists, proud Pentecostals, and so is my daughter. My wife and I don’t encourage belief in Paganism but we understand the spiritual curiosity of young people.”

“The sheriff’s tolerance,” the reporter continued over video of the man as he walked away, “may not be shared by everyone in this rural region. People at the gathering say that Jason Robb,” the football video reappeared, “the young man the sheriff named a ‘person of interest,’ threatened some of them, including GreenSpirit, the night before she was murdered.”

The reporter then stood before the camera detailing Sheriff Walker’s request for help on the homicide investigation from the New York State Police and FBI. The reporter also noted that law enforcement authorities said that the crime scene “appeared to have been compromised,” which sounded consistent with the sheriff’s own statements the day before.

Elfren clicked off the report. “What did we have on your show, Marv? Biggest story in the New York region, and one of the biggest in the country, and what did you have?”

“There was a screwup on the assignment desk. We’ve got the Northeast Bureau on their way up there now.”

“We had video of downtown Bennel, and aerials from a trip that Jenna took up there last week. And what I’m hearing from you are excuses. First, it’s wardrobe’s fault that the women on your show look like hookers. Now it’s the assignment desk’s fault that we’re getting skunked. I don’t like getting skunked. Do something about it.”

“We did, like I said—”

Elfren cut him off by turning to Jenna, who’d noticed that his squeaky voice reached an even higher octave when he was angry. “I want you on the next plane to the Maldives. We’ve got to take the lead on this story. That’s our own guy they’ve got, and they’re probably going to kill him. If I could launch a team of Navy SEALs to grab him back, I would. What I can do is send you to do two things for us: I want you providing expert analysis of the iron oxide threat—you should own that story with your background—and I want you to help the rest of our team with your local knowledge. You game?”

“You bet I’m game.”

“I know Birk’s very … eccentric,” Elfren said, “and I’d be shocked if he hasn’t insulted you at least once because he’s done it to every other woman in the news division, but he’s our guy. He’s been with us forever, he has his fans, and the old creep’s smart.”

Jenna laughed. So did Marv. The eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room had been acknowledged: Birk could be a jerk of the first order.

“What about me being a member of the task force? I thought that would get in the way of any news division duties.”

“You’ll be going as an analyst, not as a reporter. Give us sound bites. Boil down the science so people know what’s at stake. But that does bring up something else that you might be able to help us with, and that’s Senator Gayle Higgens. She’s going to be besieged by every news organization that shows up on that island, and that basically means everybody. See if you can get her in our corner. We’re sending Chris Randall down there with you to do the actual reporting. Do you want Nicole to come?”

“Yes, I do. She’s incredibly good on the ground, and—”

“You don’t have to convince me,” Elfren interrupted. “I hired her. I think you two are a great team, when you’re not dressed like you’re heading to a Penthouse Pets pajama party.” He threw yet another steely look at Marv.

Elfren walked over to his desk for Jenna’s book, recently reissued with an eye-catching, ecofriendly cover. “I read it last night. I had no idea, I’m sorry to say, that your background was so strong. I knew you’d written a book, but this was very well done.”

“Thank you.” That he might have read her tome in a single evening was another reason for Elfren’s fast-track success: He was a legendarily fast study.

“This is one hell of a story,” Elfren said somberly. “Might be the biggest one in my lifetime.”

“If they blow up the tanker,” Marv asked, “will it look—”

“Orange?” she jumped in. Leave it to Marv to cut to the crassest point. “The video will be unlike anything anyone has ever seen.” She would have liked to equivocate, just to stick it to him, but the truth wouldn’t let her.

“We’re chartering. One o’clock at LaGuardia,” Elfren announced.

“Chartering?” She thought those days had ended when the bean counters had executed their coup de grâce on network coffers. Personally, she was glad never to have flown Lears and Gulfstreams: Jets emitted enormous amounts of greenhouse gases, and private jets were the worst offenders by far.

“Look,” he tapped her book, “I know about the carbon footprint, but one of our own is on that tanker, and we’re going to move as fast as we can to try to help him.”

* * *

Goddamn brown buggers.

The sun beat down so hard that Rick Birk felt broiled alive in the blinding tropical heat. The skinny jihadist he’d dubbed Raggedy Ass had given him a swig of water but it had been hours since Birk had had a real drink. If he’d been dealing with anyone but an Islamist, he’d have offered to split his hooch just to get a few sips for himself. He still had his flask because, interestingly enough, Raggedy Ass and Suicide Sam hadn’t patted him down. Everybody—even f*cking jihadists—figured he was too old to be a serious threat.

Well, maybe he, Rick Birk, who had survived the Shining Path guerrillas in Peru, the Vietcong, and right-wing death squads in more Latin American countries than George W. Bush could possibly name, had a gun in an ankle holster and was about to put a stop to all this madness.

Yeah, right. If only …

He wondered if he could convince Raggedy Ass that the flask contained very important medicine. He’d always thought about wearing one of those bracelets that lepers and diabetics have for emergencies, only instead of a snake curled around a staff, his would show a cheerful bottle of Bombay gin.

F*ck. Fat lot of good a medical bracelet would do him now. Raggedy Ass was too busy to bother with him anyway. Had more important things to do, like dragging dead bodies down to the deck, the back of their heads bounce-bounce-bouncing off every metal step on the stairway, then leaving a big smear all the way over to the railing till they got the old heave-ho. Right in front of Birk. Who wouldn’t need a drink?

Oh, no, here he comes with number nine. Birk couldn’t see Raggedy Ass because the aged correspondent was still lying facedown on the goddamn deck. But he heard the head of number nine—bumpita-thumpita-bumpita—and he was keeping track because when he got out of this mess he wanted to be able to report every little detail with absolute accuracy. He could already see the George Polk Award for foreign reporting hanging on the wall of his new corner office.

Christ, this one’s a moaner. Ah, Jesus f*ck, there he is. Not just moaning, but rolling his brilliant blue eyes in crazed panic. Catching Birk’s gaze and staring at him while Raggedy Ass hauled him to the railing.

Raggedy Ass paused and stared at the man, whose moans heightened in intensity. Then the jihadist screamed at him. Might have been “Shut up” in whatever bone-in-the-throat language he claimed, but if it was, the tanker crewman paid no attention.

The hijacker lifted the man up and pushed him over. Long way down to Davy Jones. At least fifty, sixty feet just to the water. And the sharks. Oh, God, the sharks. Birk’s groin tightened. With all the body bait that Raggedy Ass had dumped overboard, Birk figured there had to be a feeding frenzy down there by now. God knows, there were plenty of those deep-blue devils in the Maldives: The country had declared itself a shark sanctuary.

Raggedy Ass wiped his bloody hands on his bloody pants as he walked over to Birk. The correspondent did his best to keep his tone supplicating when he said, “Please, Mr. Raggedy Ass, scum-f*ck terrorist, please don’t miss my vitals when you shoot me.”

Raggedy Ass peered at him suspiciously, as if trying to unlock the secrets of this severely sunburned old wreck.

“That’s right, needle dick, blow my brains out proper when it’s my turn.”

“Dick? Dick?” Raggedy Ass asked.

Oh, sweet Lord. F*cker knows one word of English and it’s got to be that one.

Raggedy Ass stared at him, and Birk offered his most craven smile. The jihadist grabbed his shoulder and dragged Birk to his feet. Emaciated, but strong. Raggedy Ass turned him to face the wall, kicked Birk’s feet apart as sharply as any NYPD tactical officer, and searched Birk’s pockets, finding his cell phone, notebook, pen, a fistful of blank receipts so he could cheat on his expense account, and, finally, Birk’s most prized possession.

Raggedy Ass unscrewed the flask, smelled the gin, and pulled his nose away in disgust. Birk looked over his shoulder, watching the jihadist pour out the liquor in a slow, tantalizing stream. The correspondent almost sank to his knees to try to intercept the precious, fragrant flow. But no, he held back and watched the flask empty even as he filled with longing deeper than the sea itself, thinking, Bastard. A*shole. Shitface. Scum f*ck, and every other deprecation that came to mind.

Raggedy Ass cracked him on the head with the flask, then hurled it into the ocean.

Goddamn him. That flask had more miles on it than a gypsy caravan. Is nothing sacred anymore?

Raggedy Ass kicked the backs of Birk’s knees, collapsing the old sod into a heap before he walked back up the stairs. Another body to retrieve, no doubt.

How many more before it’s my turn?

Birk’s eyes dropped to the gin-soaked deck. His tongue followed.

* * *

Jenna hurried out of Elfren’s office. Marv rushed after her, puffing audibly.

“Lucky break for you, huh?” he said, resentment poorly contained.

“Yeah, too bad for the planet.”

Jenna took the stairs rather than endure the elevator with him, guessing correctly that he wouldn’t follow her if it entailed any physical effort.

She rushed into her office, giving Nicci a joyful jolt with the news about the Maldives assignment. She stayed in the office only long enough to answer a few e-mails while waiting for her Ford Fusion to be brought around, then sped home. Arriving at her apartment, Jenna was immensely pleased to find Dafoe waiting for her on the sidewalk. After her telephone call from Marv last night, Dafoe was so certain that the network was going to send her overseas that he said he’d “move mountains” to try to see her before she left.

“You made it,” she exclaimed, giving him a quick kiss.

“Just got here. You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

“I am.” A distinct stirring bloomed in her belly. “I’m really glad you’re here. Was Forensia able to cover for you?” She led him into the lobby.

“With Sang-mi, this time. Those two don’t go anywhere without each other these days. In fact, Richtor and three other Pagans are camped in their living room. They figure group living is the first line of defense against whoever killed GreenSpirit.”

She nodded. “Makes sense to me.”

“How’s your time?” he asked with a smile whose meaning was easy—and delightful—to divine.

She glanced at her watch as the elevator doors opened. “I’ve got a small window.” Her driver wouldn’t mind a short wait.

The first kiss began as the doors closed and didn’t end till they arrived at her floor. To hell with the security camera, she thought.

In a minute they were in her apartment, playing another round of bedspring boogaloo. She loved every second of it. He had the richest scent, and tasted so good.

But the real intimacy came after their most intense pleasure, when they lay on their sides, facing each other. Her finger trailed the line of his jaw, and then she leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips. They were so close, inches apart, his look penetrating her much more deeply than even his most eager, aroused exertions. These were the most intensely loving moments that she’d ever known.

She finally had to pry herself away for a fast shower. She dried and dressed quickly, and packed in record time. Jenna was as efficient with her getaways as she was with her weather forecasts.

Together, they headed down to the elevator. Before the doors opened, she gave him one more passionate kiss, knowing it would have to last.

She almost let slip three little words that she hadn’t spoken in years. But she feared that “I love you” would only burden such sweet beginnings, though she felt certain that what they shared went well beyond basic chemistry.

So instead of “I love you,” she said, “I’ll miss you,” but she spoke with an unguarded honesty that was as new to her as the power of real intimacy. Even so, in the next instant Jenna wondered whether she should have gone further and stated her feelings with the same robust abandonment that her body had revealed upstairs—with the same intense longing that her heart had felt so palpably when they lay close to each other.

What if you never get a chance to say it?

Dafoe escorted her to the Ford Fusion. The driver took Jenna’s bag and she slid into the backseat.

Don’t be silly. You’ll have plenty of chances. Why wouldn’t you?

“Hey.” Dafoe motioned for her to lower her window. “Any idea how long you’ll be gone?”

“No telling. Could be over before we get there. Could be weeks.”

“Do you know where you’ll be staying?”

“The Golden Crescent Hotel.”

Dafoe bent toward the car window, and Jenna knew he was going to kiss her again, but the driver pulled out and the moment was lost. She waved at her dairy farmer just before she startled at the sight of her own face; it took a second to realize she was looking at a banner ad for The Morning Show on the side of a bus.

She sat back, smiling, thrilled by Dafoe, her assignment, and the life she felt privileged to have found.