NC2-Dark Tide (standard:fantasy, 1837 words)
Author: Gavin J. Carr	Added: Jun 24 2005	Views/Reads: 3263/2215	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An insurance investigator makes a startling discovery on a beach in Alaska.

Zoom.  Freeze frame.  Pull-back.  Freeze frame. Zoom. 

One-hundred feet above Prince William Sound, Donald Logan adjusted his
camcorder.  The cabin of the helicopter vibrated noisily, making it 
impossible to get a clear picture. 

He put down the camera and rubbed his face with his hands.  He hadn't
slept for twenty-four hours, not since he'd got the call from head 
office. 

Something big had happened, they'd said.  A disaster.  Get up there as
soon as you can.  Investigate and give us a ball-park figure. Lloyds 
would want to know as soon as possible. 

It had sounded exciting on the phone.  A trip to Alaska.  A mini-
adventure.  Something a bit different from the insurance investigations 
he was used to.  But this was the jet age, a time when you could reach 
anywhere by jumping on a plane.  Hermetically sealed, sipping tepid 
coffee from a plastic cup, watching a movie, watching the stewardesses, 
stealing aftershave from the toilet in business class - they'd sucked 
the romance from travelling like modern day succubus's, leaving bland 
convenience in their wake. 

The helicopter wheeled around sharply and began to hover.  The pilot
tapped Donald on the shoulder and shouted over the sound of the rotors. 


"Bligh Reef.  There she is, down there." 

Donald craned his neck and looked to where the pilot was pointing. 

There she was alright, all 987 feet of her.  The Exxon Valdez sat
motionless, a beached leviathan, bleeding crude oil in a slowly 
spreading stain. 

*** 

A group of workmen, busy erecting tents, cursed as Donald jumped from
the helicopter.  They fought against the draught from the rotors, 
struggling with the canvas like tag-team wrestlers. 

This was Esther, an island near the disaster area with nothing to offer
except a couple of buildings and a hatchery.  A small fleet of boats - 
trawlers mostly - were moored off-shore, bobbing queasily in the pitch 
and swell. 

Donald felt a momentary panic as the helicopter took off.  He was a city
dweller, a man whose idea of communing with nature was to have a drink 
in a beer garden.  He was not prepared for the starkness of the 
landscape, the undiluted wildness of Alaska. 

He picked his way around puddles and patches of mud and headed towards
the nearest building.  It was being used as forward HQ by the NOAA - 
the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration - who were in 
charge of the clean-up. 

Dr. Mike Forrester cut an imposing figure.  He was tall, bear-like with
long hair and a tangled beard.  He looked like something out of 
Alaska's past - a trapper or hunter perhaps - but Donald knew from his 
notes that Forrester was the top man here; a scientist and 
environmentalist who cared passionately about his work. 

"Doctor Forrester," said Donald.  "I wonder if I could have a moment of
your time?" 

Forrester was on his feet, zipping up his waterproof jacket.  "I don't
have a moment," he said.  "If you want to talk you'll have to come 
along." 

They went outside and down to the shore.  A wooden rowing boat lay on
the loose shingle and Forrester went to it. 

"Here, give me a hand with this," he said.  "There's a storm coming and
we've got to get this on land." 



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