"There," Mark Beamon said, pointing weakly through the Cessna's windscreen. "Thank God. You can see lights."
     Erin pushed the yoke forward, causing the plane's nose to dip violently. Beamon grabbed the instrument panel, but once again managed not to throw up. He was a hell of a lot tougher than he looked. The combination of the snow beating against the glass, the profound darkness extending out in every direction, and Erin's artfully simulated turbulence would have broken most people.
     Erin swung the plane wide and circled, looking down at the well lit drilling rig centered in a meticulously scraped snowfield. As they continued to lose altitude, he could make out a tangle of trailers, snow cats, and weathered machinery, but no people.
     "Where is everybody?"
     Beamon started to take a deep breath in preparation for answering, but then seemed to conclude that it made him feel even worse. "All the normal personnel were reassigned when the bacteria was discovered. There are people who think the price of gas could go up as much as twenty percent overnight if this got out–and that's something politicians don't like telling the people who vote for them."
     That explained why Beamon had been so pleased when he'd discovered that Erin was a pilot–one less chance of a leak. Of course, it was a decision that Erin was taking great pleasure in making him regret.
     He eased back on the throttle and the plane started to dive–too fast and angled improperly into the wind, of course. It was a shame the flight wasn't longer. Another hour or so and he was sure he could have Beamon burning through air-sickness bags like a newborn went through diapers.
     On the other hand, he had to admit that he, too, was feeling a little queasy–but not for the same reason. Just being back in Alaska was enough–the strangely unique feel of the cold, the empty scent of the air. This was where he and Jenna had spent some of their happiest times, but now those memories mocked him with the absolute certainty that they'd never be repeated. Even worse, it looked as if he was about to replay his brief and incredibly self-destructive stint with the energy companies. Outstanding.
     The plane's skis touched down and he glanced over at Beamon. His eyes were tightly closed but he wasn't actually praying–at least not out loud. Erin shut down the engine and Beamon immediately threw open the door and dove out.
     "You made it!" Steve Andropolous shouted as Erin dropped to the snow and retrieved his duffle from the back. "I wasn't sure you'd come."
     He thumbed at Beamon, who was teetering around as though he'd never felt solid ground before, but was still holding down that stubborn lunch. "Didn't have a hell of a lot of choice."
     "But did they tell you? It's the same bacteria." He grabbed Erin's arm, dragging him along. "My mind's officially blown, man. I mean seriously, do you have any ideas on this? It's freakin' me out."
     "Have you checked their data, Steve? This doesn't make a lot of sense to me."
     "No mistakes, dude. You wouldn't believe the shit you can get done when the oil companies and the government are with you instead of against you. We've already done a full genetic profile of both the Saudi and Alaskan bacteria. They're exactly the same."
     "So what's the verdict, then?" Beamon said, his breath coming out a thick fog as he caught up to them.
     Andropolous shot the man a nervous glance, but didn't answer. It was a trait Erin had found infuriating when they'd worked together–Stevie hated delivering bad news and, if given the choice, would just remain silent.
     "Spit it out," Erin said.
     "Uh, yeah. This well's offline–basically it's a rerun of one you worked on in Ghawar."
     "What about the other wells you tested?" Beamon said. "What did those samples show?"
     "You're not going to believe it, man. More than seventy percent of them are showing at least trace infestation."
     "Jesus Christ," Beamon said, putting a gloved hand to his face and wiping at the sweat that was already starting to freeze. "Why the hell am I just hearing this now?"
     "The satellite's out! There's no way I could contact anyone. And with all this secrecy shit…"
     Erin threw an arm around Andropolous's shoulders. "Relax, Steve. What would a bunch of politicians and FBI guys do with that information other than go out and short a bunch of oil stock in their IRAs?"
     Beamon ignored the insult. "Look, you've been clear on how you feel about drilling here, and I'm sure you're enjoying the hell out of all this, but for your own good I suggest you start taking the situation a little more seriously."
     "Are you threatening me, Mark? Because if so–"
     "I'm not fucking threatening you. What I'm saying is that if you just forget about the hundreds of millions of dollars invested here, the incredible political costs of getting drilling in the wilderness approved in the first place, and the billions the energy companies expected to make here, it's still one of the country's biggest oil reserves. And that's a national security issue–something a lot of very powerful people don't have much of a sense of humor about."
     "The bacterial loads aren't high enough to bring down production in most of the other wells," Andropolous interjected hopefully, then looked at his boots. "Yet."
     "Yet?" Beamon said, working to keep his voice even. "Could you define yet, please?"
     Andropolous pushed through the door of a trailer and Erin followed, peeling off his jacket and feeling the warmth soak painfully into his bruised, sunburned, and now half-frozen skin.
     The trailer was a typical wreck–just like he remembered from the old days. Card tables covered in papers, an old sofa with the stuffing coming out of it, carpet covered with dirty footprints. Andropolous grabbed a damp notebook off the floor and tossed it to him. "This is everything we've got."
     The first few pages consisted of maps of the ANWR fields with well positions superimposed and individual bacterial loads noted. Erin fell onto the couch and stared down at the diagrams, trying to make out a pattern.
     "Well?" Beamon said.
     He didn't answer, instead picking up a pencil and shading the different wells. The higher the bacterial load, the darker the shading. Then he connected them, gradually darkening and lightening the shading to smoothly join all the wells and give him a picture of how the bacteria might be traveling.
     "Erin?" Beamon prompted again.
     He ripped the page from the notebook and held it out. "Look at the different levels, Mark. This didn't start in one place and radiate out. And it wasn't already there or you'd have more random variation in the loads."
     "So?"
     "So in my opinion, you had a number of wells contaminated all around the same time, and now it's spreading from those individual wells."
     "What are you saying?"
     "If I had to guess–and it's only a guess–I'd say that some of the drilling chemicals were contaminated, and when they got pumped down the holes, the bacteria took hold and started to spread. I'd look at suppliers the Alaska drilling companies have in common with the Saudis."
     "Okay, let's say you're right. What can you do about it?"
     Erin thought about it for a moment. "Nothing."
     "That's not going to go over real big, Erin. You're going to have to do better."
     "What the fuck do you want me to use on this stuff, Mark? Harsh language? I just spent an entire week in Saudi Arabia and got exactly nowhere."
     Beamon's face, which had lost the green pallor it had taken on in the plane, now looked pale. "So you're saying more wells are going to go down?"
     "Yeah."
     "How many?"
     "Eventually, all of them, I guess."
     "All of them. That's just great. How long?"
     Erin shrugged and looked over to Andropolous, who was trying to disappear into a corner. "Did you look at the spread rate?"
     "We don't have any history, Erin. And we don't really know much about this reservoir. So, it's impos–"
     "For God's sake, Steve!" Beamon said. "I'm not here to shoot messengers. Just give me your best guess! A year? Two?"
     Andropolous chewed his lip for a moment. "Oh, no, definitely not years. At this point, we're talking about months."