Terror at Black Canyon

By Eugene G. Zimmerman

"In addition to providing an exciting race-against-the clock mystery, this story also provides a chillingly accurate picture of just how vulnerable our energy system really is." -Neil Latimer, Engineering Consultant with 33 years in the Petroleum Industry

Randy Thomas, production manager for Montgomery Oil & Gas, learns from a Homeland Security warning that an unidentified employee of the company is working with a terrorist cell to blow up Montgomery's huge Black Canyon gas plant, in western Colorado. Thomas's boss sends him to Grand Junction to identify and stop the terrorist. He races against time, trying to stop the planned explosion that could cause a major disruption in the western U.S. power grid by halting all natural gas flowing from the Western Slope.

Thomas soon confronts the murder of a key plant employee that may be tied to his investigation. He must work with the local western-style sheriff, who likes to run his own show, and a tough-minded but beautiful FBI special agent. Little does Thomas know, however, that his own life is in the sights of the unidentified terrorist. But who will step up and diffuse the situation when a massive bomb is found on the Black Canyon plant property?

As the entertaining and action-filled story unfolds, Terror at Black Canyon gives insight into the inner workings of a domestic oil and gas exploration and production company and relates author Gene Zimmerman's understanding of the differences between radical fundamentalist and moderate Muslims.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 19, 2006
• ISBN: 9780595830039

Eugene G. Zimmerman

Gene Zimmerman is a retired engineer with more than thirty years of experience in the oil and gas industry. A graduate of the University of Arizona, he also served in the Army Corps of Engineers. He and his wife reside in The Woodlands, Texas.

Book preview

1   

The Mystery Man

Scrambling out of the Yellow Cab that had been delayed in traffic, Randy Thomas glanced at his watch as he hurriedly checked his bag at the Atlanta Airport. If I make my flight, it’ll be a minor miracle. Traffic into ‘the world’s busiest passenger airport’ is worse every time I visit!

Randy was a six-foot tall engineer turned manager who worked for an independent oil and gas company. He carried himself much like a college athlete, though no longer as trim nor as quick as he was then. When he got to the gate, he found his minor miracle had occurred, the flight had been delayed an hour due to a thunderstorm in Houston. So, boarding time will be about 1:00? I guess that gives me time to look for something to read, he said to the gate attendant and flashed the boyish smile that made him look much younger than someone obviously in their forties. He picked up his laptop and walked toward a gift shop he’d passed.

Randy perused the selection of paperback books at the gift shop for several minutes when he noticed an extremely attractive woman in a long form-fitting dress standing next to him. He smiled as he remembered his wife’s admonition about girl-watching: You can look all you want, just don’t touch. The woman looked at him as though she were sizing him up, pulled a book off the shelf, handed it to him and said I think you’ll like this one. Then she was gone, leaving behind only the enticing fragrance of her perfume.

I don’t get it. Why would that woman—gorgeous young woman—pick out something for me to read? he asked himself. Randy spoke to no one in particular, as he gazed at the back cover of the book in his hand titled The Mystery Man. What the heck. Looks like an interesting story. I see its main character is also an engineer and I need something to read. This bit of pulp fiction should be a good escape after two days of long meetings with our partners. He bought the paperback from the cashier, who remarked that she hadn’t noticed it in their inventory before, and then he walked back to his gate. He tried to get comfortable in one of the airport seats and opened the book. Just then his cell phone rang, with a call from his wife, Joan.

Randy, just wanted to remind you that we have a dinner date tonight with our new neighbors down the street. Joan said. We’re supposed to meet them at 6 p.m."

I don’t think that will be a problem, honey. Unless it’s delayed further, my flight should be in before three. That should give me plenty of time to stop by the office to take care of a few things and be home before six.

Okay, dear. Just don’t get caught at the office like you sometimes do.

Don’t worry, Joan, he sighed. I’ll make sure I’m there on time.

Fine. Bye, Randy. Have a good flight. I love you.

Bye Joan. Love you too. Randy hit the end button on his cell phone and picked the book back up.

I saw him when I was working on my laptop in one of the crowded cafes at the International Airport, waiting for my flight to Kuala Lumpur. He was coming down the hallway, with a tattered canvas backpack over his right shoulder and a well-worn laptop bag in his left hand. He stood out from the crowd with that bushy brown hair and deeply tanned face, softened by the black plastic frames around his glasses. I wondered to myself if he was some sort of archeologist turned adventurer, because he at once looked like an intellectual, almost a geek, and at the same time like a wilderness explorer.

Mate, do you mind if I sit at your table, being this is the only empty chair in the place? he asked me in an easy-going Australian drawl. I think I tend, like a lot of Americans, to subconsciously regard people with Australian or English accents more highly. I gestured for him to sit down.

I’m bushed, the Aussie said as he motioned for the waitress to bring him two beers and some pretzels. Oh, sorry, my name is Alan Huntley. I’m a medical researcher for the Australian government, on my way back home from an expedition on one of the islands off the New Guinea coast.

Steve Jackson. I’m an electrical engineer on contract to a small software company. Probably a lot more boring job than yours.

Actually, I could use boring about now, confided Alan, signaling the waitress for his third beer. The last two weeks have been the most challenging of my career. And things are only going to get tougher from here. He rubbed his forehead as though trying to get rid of a headache.

Oh? What have you been doing on your expedition? I asked.

This hasn’t really hit the news yet, but the population of some of these islands off New Guinea has recently been decimated by a mysterious sickness. I went there to determine the cause and see how we can stop it before it spreads to other places.

I leaned in to listen closely and started asking more questions. The exhausted researcher evaded a lot of them, but I did gather that he’d confirmed the existence of a new plague, one that could have devastating consequences if it broke out in heavily populated countries. I also discovered he had two doctorate degrees from the University of Sydney. As we continued talking, I noticed him wiping his forehead a lot. He was starting to sweat profusely.

Dr. Huntley suddenly stood and asked, Sorry, I need to spend some time in the head. Would you mind watching my stuff?

Sure thing, I replied and then spent some time trying to flirt with the cute waitress. After a while I noticed that it had been quite a long time since Dr. Huntley had gone to relieve himself. The minutes on the clock on the café wall started ticking off more and more slowly, and I began to wonder what was up. What if his story was a lie and he really wasn’t a medical researcher at all? What if he was a wanted criminal and had a concealed weapon in his backpack? What if he was a terrorist and had hidden a bomb in his laptop bag? Just when I was about to try to find airport security, he emerged from the bathroom. Or should I say, staggered.

As he slowly and painfully sat back down, I saw that his tanned face was now pallid and sweat matted his hair.

Mate, looks like I may need your help. I’m starting to show the classic symptoms of the new plague I’ve been researching. Notice the little blisters on my tongue? The Aussie opened his mouth and pointed.

The mass of blisters amazed me, but what he said next astounded me.

Mr. Jackson, I need to level with you. This plague, if not stopped, could wipe out most of the earth’s population in the next six months. I’ve isolated the bacteria that causes it and I have some samples here in my backpack, he said as his breath came in shallow gasps. These need to get to my associates and to other researchers as soon as possible.

Feeling my chest tighten, I blurted out, I’ll help you get to your flight, if that’s what you need? Beyond that, what can I do?

Mate, Dr. Huntley said in a scratchy whisper, I can’t make it down the hall, much less to the gate. At this stage of the disease, I’ll be lucky if I’m alive in two hours.

As I stared, he slumped in his chair unconscious.

The loud blare of the PA at the Atlanta Airport caused Randy to put aside the paperback book and pick up his laptop to board his flight to Houston. The story so far had captured Randy’s attention, even though he wondered why a medical researcher would be carrying a lethal disease in such an unsecured fashion. What a dilemma to be in, he thought. Walking down the ramp into the old Boeing 737, his thoughts went back to the characters in the book and he pictured Steve Jackson’s face as he saw Dr. Huntley collapse. At least the kinds of problems I deal with are a lot more mundane and similar to ones I’ve dealt with in the past. I wonder what I would do if I were in Steve Jackson’s shoes? He buckled his seat belt and picked up the paperback again.

As I stared in amazement at the unconscious researcher in front of me, the first thought that hit me was that puts the final touches on an unusually crappy week! My mind raced through the events of the week, beginning when I walked out of the office parking lot on Monday afternoon and couldn’t find my truck! It wasn’t until later that evening that I learned my prankster brother-in-law, Bill the Pill as he likes to be called, had borrowed it without bothering to tell me. That prompted a big argument with my wife, Denise, about getting back the extra truck key that we’d loaned Bill.

Then Tuesday the air conditioner compressor at our house blew. Right in the midst of the first heat wave of the summer, naturally. Anyway, to make a long story short, the repair company still hadn’t arrived when I left for the airport the next afternoon.

My mind was suddenly jolted back into the present as I saw a small crowd of onlookers gathering around my table. Several problems presented themselves as my mind raced through what had just happened. How do I get Dr. Huntley, if that is really his name, to some emergency medical facility that could save his life? And how do I keep those people who try to help from getting infected themselves? This crowd seems to be getting bigger every precious minute. What about me? Have I already been contaminated by whatever disease is threatening Dr. Huntley’s life? Then there is the whole issue of trying to get his samples of the bug to his associates, whoever they are, so they can work on some sort of antidote or better yet, vaccination. One of my friends, also an engineer, says there is an engineering solution to every problem. So, the thing to do is to analyze all the givens and—but wait, I didn’t have enough time to really arrive at the best engineering solution. At this point, I’d be happy for any solution. Maybe I’d wake up and this would all be a dream. So I pinched myself to prove that I was not dreaming.

The in-flight meal came so Randy Thomas laid his book down. Opening the lunch bag, he mumbled, The usual cold turkey sandwich—processed meat between two hard-to-chew pieces of bread, a slice of lettuce and a semi-liquid to spread on the bread. Yummy. He did notice a token cookie and a few grapes that looked pretty good. He ate the fare as quickly as he could, staring at the sunshine and clouds out the window. Compared to the characters in this bizarre book my life is pretty routine. As soon as he finished off the sandwich with a cola, he again became immersed in the paperback book, not realizing that his own life would soon be filled with as much uncertainty and intrigue as that of Steve Jackson.

Then I realized that the problem of keeping the curious onlookers from getting too close might not be difficult. Large purple welts were breaking out all over Dr. Huntley’s face and arms. People had started to step back in horror. His body started twitching, and drool began to drip out of his open mouth. The transformation of this healthy looking researcher to someone with a hideous disease had taken place in the short span of twenty or thirty minutes.

Please, everyone, step back. These words came with such authority that I looked around to see their source. Out of the crowd stepped a small dark-haired man wearing light green scrubs and carrying a small medical bag. Please, I’m a doctor. It appears this man may have contracted a rare tropical fever. For your own safety you must keep your distance, he urged the onlookers as he put on the latex gloves he’d pulled from his little black bag and slipped a surgical mask over his nose and mouth. I’m going to give this poor bastard a sedative and have him taken to Singapore General Hospital, where we know how to deal with cases like this. With that the dark haired man gave Dr. Huntley a shot. The Aussie was suddenly very still. Is he dead? someone in the crowd gasped. No, this will just calm the seizure-like symptoms until we get him to the hospital.

Three men in white coats appeared out of nowhere with a stretcher. They showed some sort of ID to a policeman who had just arrived. The dark-haired little man motioned for them to lift the still form of the researcher onto the stretcher. Before I knew it, Dr. Huntley was disappearing in the distance, and I was left with his backpack and laptop bag. At least, one of my immediate problems was solved. Or was it? Didn’t the medical personnel at Singapore General need to know where he’d been and what his symptoms have been before he went totally unconscious? And what should I do, since I’ve been exposed to him? So I picked up the backpack and laptop and started in the direction of the stretcher. The crowd quietly moved aside as I left the little café.

I hurried in the direction the dark-haired man had gone with the three paramedics and the stretcher. They must have been moving fast, because they were nowhere in sight. I stopped at a nearby flower stand to ask if the lady cashier there had seen a man wheeled past on a stretcher. Yes, sir, they made a left at the private auto pick up exit just down the corridor.

The private auto exit? I shouted. Why not the one reserved for emergency vehicles? I had a sinking feeling as I hurried to the exit. My fears were confirmed when I saw one of the medics close the back hatch on a black Mercedes SUV and quickly drive away. These were not medics from Singapore General and that strange little man had just spirited poor Dr. Huntley away for who knew what sinister purpose?

Randy was jolted back to real life by the sound of the aircraft wheels touching down on the runway at Houston Intercontinental Airport. So he had to put the story up at this critical juncture and find his checked baggage. On the way there, his pager beeped. He saw that it was a message from his boss, Bill Jones. I need to meet with you on some urgent business. Please call me as soon as you can.

2   

The Letter Opening

Myra looked up as Randy Thomas entered. Bill is on the phone, but he said to send you right in.

"I wonder what’s