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died for us to achieve our goal, it makes me ill."
"Now is not the time for conscience," Zale admonished her. "We are in an economic war. There may be no need for generals or admirals, tanks, submarines or nuclear bombers, but to win we have to supply the public's insatiable appetite for fuel. Soon, very soon, we will be in a position to tell every person living north of Mexico what fuel to buy, when to buy it, and how much to pay for it. We will be accountable to no one. In time, our efforts will replace a governmental state with a corporate state. We cannot weaken now, Sally."
"A world without politicians," Guy Kruse murmured thoughtfully. "It seems too good to be true."
"The country is on the verge of mass demonstrations over foreign oil," said Sherman. "We need only one more incident to push them over the edge."
A foxlike grin cut Zale's features. "I'm one jump ahead of you, Rick. Such an incident will take place three days from now."
"Another tanker spill?"
"Far worse."
"What could be worse?" Morales asked innocently.
"A spill magnified by an explosion," Zale answered.
"Off a coastline?"
Zale shook his head. "Inside one of the world's busiest harbors."
There were a few moments of silence while the conspirators grasped the awesome consequences. Then Sandra Delage looked at Zale and spoke up quietly, "May I?"
He nodded without speaking.
"On Saturday, at approximately four-thirty in the early evening, an Ultra Large Crude Carrier, the Pacific Chimera, with a length of one thousand six hundred eight feet and a width of two hundred thirty-two feet-making her the largest oil tanker in the world-will enter San Francisco Bay. She will make for the Point San Pedro Mooring, where she would normally tie her bow and discharge her cargo. Only, she will not stop. She will continue toward the central section of the city at full speed, driving ashore at the Ferry Building's World Trade Center. Estimates are that she will plow nearly two blocks into the city before coming to rest. Then charges will be detonated and the Pacific Chimera and her deadweight cargo of six hundred twenty thousand tons of oil will go up in an explosion that will devastate the entire San Francisco waterfront area."
"Oh my God," muttered Sally Morse, her face suddenly pale. "How many people will die?"
"Could be in the thousands, since it'll take place during rush hour," answered Kruse callously.
"What does it matter?" asked Zale coldly, as if he were a coroner shoving a body into a morgue refrigerator. "Far more have died in wars that accomplished nothing. Our purpose will be served and we will all benefit in the end." Then he rose from his chair. "I think that will be enough discussion for today. We'll take up where we left off tomorrow morning, deliberate on our respective dealings with our governments and finalize our plans for the coming year."
Then the most powerful oil moguls of two nations stood and followed Zale to the elevators and up to the lodge's dining room, where cocktails were waiting.
Only Sally Morse of Yukon Oil remained, visualizing the horrible suffering that was about to fall on thousands of innocent men, women and children in San Francisco. As she sat alone, she came to a decision that could very well end her life. But she set her mind and left the room determined to carry it through.
When the driver of her Jeep stopped in front of her company Lockheed Jetstar after the conference ended, the pilot was waiting at the boarding steps. "Ready for the flight to Anchorage, Ms. Morse?"
"There's been a change in plans. I have to be in Washington for another conference."
"I'll draw up a new flight plan," said the pilot. "Shouldn't take but a few minutes before we take off."
As Sally sagged into a leather executive chair behind a desk with a computer and an array of phones and a fax, she knew she had entered a maze with no way out. She had never made a decision that was life threatening. A resourceful woman, she had directed the operations of Yukon Oil after her husband died, but this-she had no experience with this. She started to pick up a phone to make a call, but realized there was a very real danger her conversation might be listened into by Zale's agents.
She asked her flight attendant for a martini to beef up her resolve, threw off her shoes and began making plans to undermine Curds Merlin Zale and his vicious operations.
The pilot of Zale's big Executive Boeing 727 sat in the cockpit and read a magazine as he waited for his employer to appear. He looked through the windshield and idly watched the Yukon Oil jet roll down the runway and lift off into a sky scattered with thick white clouds. He was still watching as the jet banked and headed toward the south.
Odd, he thought. He would have expected the pilot to turn northwest toward Alaska. He left the cockpit and stepped back into the main cabin, stopping before a man with his legs crossed, reading the Wall Street Journal. "Excuse me, sir, but I thought you should know that the Yukon Oil jet took off on a heading south toward Washington instead of north for Alaska."
Omo Kanai laid the paper aside and smiled. "Thank you for being so observant. That is an interesting piece of news."
41
Tarrytown, nestled in New York's Westchester County, is one of the more picturesque towns in the historic Hudson Valley. Its tree-lined streets are complemented by Colonial antique shops, homey little restaurants and stores selling locally produced craft items. The residential areas host gothic mansions and secluded estates in the grand style. Its most famous landmark is Sleepy Hollow, made famous by Washington Irving's classic story "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow."
Pitt lounged and dozed in the backseat of a rental car as Giordino drove, and Kelly admired the scenery from the passenger side. Giordino steered the car around the curves of a narrow road to Marymount's twenty-five-acre campus high on a hill overlooking the Hudson River and the Tappan Zee Bridge.
