Daylight Stealing Time

Daylight Stealing Time

by

Calvin Wolf

Daylight Stealing Time

Calvin Wolf

Published by Calvin Wolf at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 Calvin Wolf

Discover other titles by Calvin Wolf:

The College

The University

The City

The State

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter One

65.00

They say great nights lead to terrible mornings, his friend had once told him. If his friend was correct, then last night had been one hell of a good night. His head hurt and he felt gross. He hadn’t had a hangover in years, but the universe seemed to be making up for lost time. His eyes felt like the light was sandpaper.

Gingerly, he sat up on the couch, his clothes feeling stiff and gritty. Ugh. He looked around for a bottle of water and saw an unopened one on the coffee table in front of him. I must’ve been in bad shape if I chose to go to sleep rather than drink that. I should have known better.

He twisted off the top and gulped the refreshingly crisp liquid. In this town, you didn’t drink tap water.

Hey.

There was a woman on the other side of the oversized couch, and she was most definitely not his date from last night. What happened here?

Hey, he replied, trying to make himself presentable. Embarrassed, he ran his fingers through his hair and straightened his collar. Since we probably had sex, why am I so worried about making myself look formal now? Looks like we’re both in for a walk of shame. Still, he tried to smooth his button-down shirt.

Last night was quite a party, he said, standing up. He looked around for another bottle of water to offer to the mystery woman, but found none. Can I get you anything?

Some water would be nice, she said, and he winced. Then, he spied a second bottle of Dasani and felt some relief. I’m not the worst host in the world, after all. He handed it to her with a charming smile, fortunate that she was wearing a dress. If she had been naked, the whole thing would have been unbearably awkward.

The hotel suite felt hot, tense.

"So, uh, I don’t really remember anything about last night… he began, hoping not to offend her with the fact that he did not recall her name. She gulped water and nodded. Me either." She took the initiative and told him her name, allowing him to respond in kind.

Well, nice to meet you, I suppose, she said. Are we in the same hotel as the after party?

Yeah. I got a room upstairs, just in case things got crazy. No drinking and driving, you know?

Good idea. She did not seem very talkative. She stood up from the couch and smoothed her dress. Her head swiveled around, apparently searching for her purse.

His phone buzzed, his text tone, and he looked around for the device. Sweet distraction! He found it on the carpet next to the coffee table and grabbed it. It was his boss, telling him to check the price of crude.

The text seemed abnormally intrusive, especially since oil hadn’t changed much in months. It was in the toilet, where it had been since December. He thumbed his way to the app and did a double take.

Oil was up ten dollars a barrel.

What the hell? How long have I been in here? The light coming in through the windows indicated that it was morning, but there was no way that the market price of crude oil had skyrocketed so quickly. It had only been hours.

His phone said the time was 8:49 AM.

The woman was muttering something about leaving, and he was so stunned that he simply nodded. She left the hotel suite quietly, evidently having retrieved her purse.

He checked the news and they were calling it an act of God.

69.00

The helicopter flew over the fields of smoking metal, the journalists inside the cabin filming with their personal smartphones and tablets as the camera pod beneath the fuselage streamed images back to headquarters. CNN, ABC, NBC, CBS, and FOX all absorbed the digital stream and rebroadcast it to millions of viewers. Plumes of metallic smoke rose above the oil fields of Saudi Arabia, Venezuela, Mexico, Dubai, Iraq, Kuwait.

Some nations are already calling it an act of war, a Fox News correspondent said, her eyes furrowed and jaw set. Others, an act of God.

"The big question on everyone’s mind is who," declared a CNN analyst. NBC and CBS showed dueling pundits debating who had the capability to cause such carnage.

North Korea and Iran are prolific antagonists and hackers, but this seems beyond their known capabilities, explained an MIT professor on CBS News. Similarly, it seems doubtful that Anonymous, the hacking collective, is behind this either.

A former Republican congressman blamed North Korea. A retired Army general blamed Iran, though this was quickly refuted. Despite Iran’s secretive nature, its oil rigs seem to have suffered almost as badly as anyone’s, said a nameless State Department official.

The president flew back to the White House from his Camp David retreat, cutting short his vacation. The vice president, on an overseas trip in Italy, returned as well. It was all hands on deck in Washington. Senators and representatives were awakened from Sunday morning slumbers and told to get dressed by their frantic aides. Governors in oil-rich states were told by their staffs to be ready for press conferences by lunchtime.

Oil is almost seventy dollars a barrel, up almost twenty dollars from yesterday evening, the president announced to the anxious nation at noon, Eastern Time. Unfortunately, this does not appear to be a natural shift in the market. Concurring with the many experts who have hypothesized that this event was manmade, our nation’s own experts believe that this was an intentional act. It is the position of the United States government that the destruction of countless oil rigs across the globe last night was due to an organized hacking attack.

Pundits on all networks began commenting on the president’s announcements, discussing the troubling fact that no evidence of any hacking existed whatsoever. When you go through the time logs on all oil rig computers, nothing sticks out. Literally, nothing happened.

71.00

Because the act of God occurred shortly after the U.S. invasion of Assad’s Syria, which had begun on October tenth, Syria was immediately placed atop the list of likely suspects.

Syria will be defeated within the month and is on the verge of becoming a failed state, a devil’s advocate in the Office of the White House cautioned. Why would it use any of its cyberwarfare resources on such an ambiguous and roundabout goal?

I agree, said the National Security Adviser. As the 477th Army closes in on Damascus, Syria would be better off using its dwindling resources to threaten U.S. infrastructure directly. It could maximize its clout by attacking popular web sites and infrastructure like power grids and transportation hubs.

Well, their war is lost. But, knowing the American people don’t want to pay for an expensive occupation, perhaps the Assad regime wants to increase its bargaining power at the upcoming peace talks by raising the costs of occupation, reasoned the president, who had felt forced into the war.

Everyone around the conference table was vividly recalling the lessons of the Iraq occupation.

That does make some sense. Lose the war, which is inevitable, but win most of it back at the peace talks, said the vice president.

The Secretary of Defense asked an aide to wheel in the War Map, and everyone was treated to a three-dimensional tabletop map of the situation in Syria. The setup was expensive, but sufficiently impressive. Everything was revealed in exquisite detail, down to figurines representing individual brigades.

Last night our forces were relatively static, just holding positions and letting Assad’s remaining forces either surrender or bleed themselves against our heavy artillery and air power, the SecDef explained.

Then why launch a cyberattack that night? Why not earlier, when they had more of a chance of holding ground, or later, when we might be more inclined to make a deal to minimize casualties? the Secretary of State mused, unconsciously twirling a silver pen.

Nobody was sure. Well, back to the drawing board, the president insisted. Let’s scratch Syria for now and begin looking at other suspects.

73.50

The flatscreen on the wall at FBI headquarters revealed that the United States was, among major petroleum producers, the least affected by the mysterious incident. Of the swarms of red dots on the globe revealing destroyed rigs, only a light smattering appeared in Alaska, followed by a few pinpricks in North Dakota and along the Gulf of Mexico. Most OPEC nations, by contrast, were a sea of red dots. Russia was also significantly affected, but not as severely as OPEC. Newer exporters in Africa were also heavily reddened.

Rigs owned and operated by our Western allies are also only lightly affected, agent Roger Garfield said, reading a report on his tablet. His trainee, a young man from Odessa, Texas who had been given the nickname Dutch, was being grilled by white-collar colleagues as to the nature of the oil business. Standing by the conference room’s coffee bar, he kept reiterating that he knew next to nothing about oil rigs. Guys, I was a computer nerd, not a roughneck, he kept saying.

Any news rolling in yet? a deputy director asked, bursting into the ad-hoc command center. It was only early afternoon, and most oil companies were still far more concerned with damage control than reporting the damage to outsiders.

Not yet, ma’am. And I think accurate information may be slow in coming. Corporations don’t want their stock prices to be hurt by revealing that many of their rigs are damaged, Garfield replied.

Smart thinking, agent. I should have expected that we’d be dealing with a lot of corporate doublespeak and misinformation. We should send a team to investigate independently, not relying on info from the oil companies.

Garfield smiled at this praise. With a growing family, he was definitely bucking for promotion. He was on the verge of becoming an ASAC, which would mean a generous boost in pay from supervisory agent. He meandered over to the computer table and phone bank, where a dozen junior agents were managing the influx of data.

Anything new, Tim?

Just got ahold of an executive from ExxonMobil, who has agreed to send us the hard drive from an affected rig out in the Gulf, the tech man said after pulling out his earpiece. We should have it by late this evening.

A young woman swiveled around in her office chair and informed Garfield that an independent operator in Alaska had also just agreed to send a hard drive. If we pay, they’ll fly it out here, she said, and Garfield approved the expense. Given this crisis, I doubt the higher-ups will complain.

We’ll reimburse you for a rush send, she said into the phone.

Walking around the massive table, Garfield checked on the work of the other techs, many of whom were trying to get information from foreign sources. There’s a lot of suspicion, and I don’t think any OPEC countries will want to talk to us until they conference among themselves. Our contacts say there’s a whole lot of anti-American rhetoric today, especially since there are rumors that U.S.-owned rigs are mostly unaffected, an agent with a thick Southern accent said. We can keep trying, but the SAC said to go easy and not ruffle too many feathers. We’re already off most nations’ favorite friends list because of Syria.

Garfield nodded and told the man to carry on. I figured this would happen. Nobody wants to talk, at least not quickly, which means the investigation will be like pulling teeth.

The deputy director appeared at Garfield’s side with a large cup of coffee. Garfield, I need you to go across the hall to conference room C. We’re sorting out who’s got motive, and I want your two cents.

76.00

Another oil company truck roared past the homes on Maple Street, enraging Max the French bulldog. As Max howled at the passing eighteen wheeler, its flatbed carrying some piece of petroleum-esque industrial machinery, his owner pulled back on his leash and told him no noise! The command did not take, and Max continued to lunge. Exasperated, Max’s owner decided to take him back inside the house.

Inside, Max! Inside! The man opened the front door of the house behind them and Max ran through the doorway, pleased that he had vanquished the metal beast. Hi, Max! cried a young boy as the bulldog raced past, trailing his dropped leash. The man shut the front door and returned to his chore of pulling weeds. Despite it being the first of November, the warm west Texas climate kept weeds growing strong almost into winter itself. As usual, the man cursed himself for not doubling down on weed killer.

He had just pulled out a noxious, milky-spewing weed when he saw three black SUVs roar past, grille and visor red-and-blues flashing. Holding the weed in his gloved hand, the man walked to the edge of his driveway to see where the official-looking vehicles were headed. They passed all the houses on Maple and continued onward into the construction zone, where bare dirt awaited the placement of townhomes.

Kids doing drugs out there in the boonies, where those Tom Haverford homes are gonna go?

At the end of the construction zone, almost out of sight, the SUVs hung a left and headed toward the oil rig beyond.

Problem with one of those oil company trucks?

For the first time since he had begun to pull weeds, the man noticed a thin plume of smoke rising from the top of the rig. That doesn’t look good.

76.50

It was just after one o’clock in the morning when everything started to get fucked up, the rig manager said from his cot. The man, like many of his colleagues, slept on the rig when not on shift, much like firefighters at a station house. He had gotten off shift at six-thirty in the morning and crashed hard. The dark, air-conditioned trailer kept him and his fellows cool enough to sleep until mealtime. After that, it was back up on the metal rig to work anew.

Only now, the rig was not functional. Gaskets had blown and everything was haywire.

Can you go into detail what was going wrong? the local FBI agent asked, aiming his digital recorder at the tired oilman.

Yeah, it’s like something set it to run at full capacity without any safety controls. We tried everything we could, but every time we hit the manual emergency stop it would start back up again. It seemed like something kept sending it a signal to run at full speed. For an hour we kept hitting the emergency stop button, but it kept winding back up.

You have any video footage of this, from a security camera or something? the agent asked. The oilman replied that there was a camera network, but that all the feeds were streamed to the central office and recorded there. We can watch in real time, or whatever you call it, but not record. Only the people in the office can do that.

The agent told a younger colleague to go to the central office and get the video records from midnight to three o’clock in the morning. She hurried out to one of the black SUVs and departed, the tires swirling up caliche dust.

So, do you have any theories or impressions from what happened? I mean, that’s quite an event, and it happened all across the globe, as you may have heard.

I would assume hacking or computer error, but nothing showed up on anything when we checked afterwards. No commands from the entire hour. It’s like that whole hour of hell never happened. I’ve never heard of anything like it.

Baffling, the agent agreed, clicking off the recorder.

79.00

I already put it on these flash drives for storage, the young woman said, holding up five digital sticks. The files are pretty high-res, which is good for us.

Yeah, we invested a lot in maintaining good security, the company spokesman said, tweaking the lapels of his expensive suit. Nothing happens on our rigs without us knowing.

The trio of federal agents borrowed a large-screen computer workstation and began toggling through the time-stamped videos, quickly discovering which cameras allowed them to see the equipment in action.

Looks like Camera 4 is focused right on the drilling apparatus from the side of the tower, the oldest agent said, making a note of it on his tablet computer.

They used the mouse to navigate the Camera 4 feed back to 12:45 AM and paused it. We’ll need some coffee, someone said, and the company spokesman waved over an intern to round up some Starbucks. We have snacks in the break room, if you want, the spokesman offered, trying to be helpful. We usually restock on Sundays for the work week, so you get first pick. We try to keep our employees happy.

None of the agents was hungry. The spokesman excused himself and said he needed to go home, but that the Sunday evening staff would help with anything they needed. It’s all hands on deck and we want to get this solved, so don’t be shy about asking for help, he said, collecting his attaché case and sliding his phone into his suit pocket.

The intern wheeled in a cart with the coffee, evidently Starbucks from a Keurig machine rather than the actual coffee shop, and the agents added their own accoutrement from the cart to perfect their drinks. It would be painstaking viewing, requiring caffeinated attention, and then the videos would be forwarded to more senior personnel in Dallas, Houston, and then D.C. For a moment, nobody spoke. Everyone sipped, reluctant to get down to it.

Okay, let’s start.

The woman agent hit the play icon on the touchscreen and the video began to stream. Silently, the three agents stared at the screen while sipping coffee, waiting to spot anything out of the ordinary. Since none of us are petroleum engineers, this is probably an effort in futility, quipped the younger male agent. The other two nodded and the woman reached out and paused the video.

Should we call for an engineer to watch with us? Otherwise, they’ll just have to do that step in Dallas.

Pulling his phone from his pocket, the older agent called the company spokesman and asked for him to send an engineer over to their work station. Several moments later, a harried-looking engineer walked over. The middle-aged man appeared displeased with having to work on a Sunday. The agents wondered if he was getting overtime pay.

I understand you want me to watch the camera feeds with you? the engineer asked. A swivel chair was pulled over for the man to sit, and the agents asked him to narrate what they were seeing. Once the man was situated and given a cup of coffee from the cart, the video was played again from the 12:45 AM mark.

Everything looks normal, the engineer confirmed. Indeed, it all