The First Billion

They had buried their parachutes, jumpsuits, and altimeters two miles away in holes four feet deep, now filled and covered with stones and moss and the natural vegetation of the region. Each wore a compact backpack no different from one a college student might be likely to carry. In it they hefted eight 125-gram sticks of C-4 explosives, a length of det cord, three electronic fuses, and a model TA9 remote detonator no larger than a transistor radio. All traces of the C-4 would theoretically vanish in the blaze following the explosion. If, however, investigators were to discover a trace of the plastique and to analyze its chemical signature, they would learn it belonged to a shipment stolen from an American armory two years earlier.

No one carried a weapon. Ghosts did not leave behind corpses.

From somewhere in the wilderness, a foghorn sounded. One bleat, rude and ominous, then silence.

The members of Team 7 scattered.

They were divided into three squads of four persons each, designated, in American military vernacular, as "Alpha," "Bravo," and "Charlie." Alpha and Bravo Squads climbed from the protective cornice of the riverbank and ran at a crouch to the fence surrounding the enclosure. The fence stood only six feet high. It was designed to keep animals away, not to deter intruders. Coldfoot was the nearest town and it was seventy miles away. Springing over the fence, they landed softly on the balls of their feet, eyes peeled for oil workers.

Alpha Squad moved to the right, toward the giant reservoirs filled to capacity with North Slope crude, oil from the mammoth field at Prudhoe Bay. Skirting the rear of the reservoirs, they kept out of sight of the supervisor's office (located some two hundred feet across an open concrete field) until they reached the fat, white intake pipes that fed oil into the tanks. Team Leader Abel slung his pack to the ground and removed two sticks of the green C-4, several fuses, and a length of det cord. He gave Baker one stick. One stick he kept for himself.

Immediately, Baker began to roll the stick between his palms to soften the putty. As the C-4 grew malleable, he broke the explosive in two, affixing a slim strip to joints in the pipe that had recently been welded together.

At the same time, Abel ran up the metal staircase attached to the side of the reservoir. He stopped halfway to the top where a blunt valve extended from the side of the wall. The valve allowed for the manual release of oil from the reservoir. After softening the explosives, he fashioned a long tubular section and wrapped it around the valve. With his fingers, he worked the putty into the crease at the base of the valve, as if stanching a leak. Plastique was a forgiving mistress, he thought as he pressed the putty against the cold metal; hit it with a hammer, burn it, shoot it even, and still it would not ignite.

Between his fingers, he held an electronic fuse, two inches in length, one half inch in diameter. From his pocket, he withdrew the det cord and plugged it into the electronic timer. Next he stabbed the det cord deep inside the putty. Det cord was simply a thin plastic cord filled with PETN, a fast-burning explosive. With a glance over the stairs, he snapped his fingers and dropped the cord to the ground where Baker picked it up, similarly attached it to the electronic fuse, and inserted it into the C-4.

From the corner of his eye, Abel spotted the other two members of his squad doing a like job on the next reservoir in line. He checked his watch. They were ahead of schedule.

Bravo Squad had split in two. Two men were now at the north end of the complex, lying on their backs beneath the pipeline itself. They worked quickly and efficiently, molding the plastique to the joints of the pipe, where one forty-foot section was welded to another. Det cord was produced, electronic fuses primed and inserted.

The other two men of Bravo Squad moved to the pump station itself. Sliding against the wall, they lifted their eyes over the windowsill and glanced inside. They saw no one. As expected, the staffers on duty were huddled inside the supervisory shed, where they would remain unless an equipment failure or breakdown summoned them to one part or another of the compound.

Turning the corner of the building, they opened the door and entered. Inside, they moved to the control panel, a wall of dials and gauges, none younger than twenty years old. Screwdrivers were produced. Wire-cutters. Needle-nose pliers and a miniature battery. Their work required five minutes' time. The sensitive gauges that comprised the leak detection system and monitored the pressure of oil flowing through the pipeline had all been "adjusted." Even when all oil had ceased coursing through Pump Station 2, it would relay flow as "normal" to the other ten stations up and down the line.