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WATERSHED is a tale of greed and revenge set against the looming water and energy shortage in the American southwest. Watershed presents a frightening scenario for the North America continent. The story is international in scope and stands out in two impo
Neil Hamilton / WATERSHED/ 1 CHAPTER 1 -- November 9, 21:55 HRS. Richards Air Field, Massena, New York. The night was black. The moon hadn‟t risen yet, and wouldn‟t until 2:44 a.m. Richards Air Field, a small municipal airport east of the Village of Massena in upstate New York. Richards Air Field was an international point of entry into the U.S., but seldom used after sundown. By 9:20 that evening, the airport was deserted with the exception of Robert Lepage and one other person. Crouched and camouflaged on the north side of Runway 09, a stranger watched. It was not the first time the stranger had been there. On three previous Tuesday evenings, he had covertly observed the activities at the airport and the routine of his targeted victim. In the third private hangar, Robert Lepage, a Canadian citizen, was working on Canadian registration requirements to a World War II Harvard trainer which he had purchased in the Montana. Lepage usually flew his Piper Seminole from Ottawa, Canada, to Richards Airfield every Tuesday to work on the museum-quality Harvard; one of the few luxuries he had afforded himself in the past year. The stranger glanced at his watch. It was time. He took a cell phone from his side leg pocket and dialled the number of Lepage‟s private Hangar. As forty-two year old Robert Lepage closed the engine cowling of the Harvard, the ring of the hangar phone startled him; a phone he seldom used. “Yes.” He answered curtly. “Airport security, sir. Just a routine check before we lock the perimeter gates. Will you be staying over or flying out tonight?” “No, I‟m locking up. I‟ll be flying out shortly. My flight plan‟s filed with Burlington Center. I‟ll activate it when I‟m airborne. “Fine, sir. Have a safe flight and goodnight.” “Thanks.” Keeping low, the stranger moved towards the darkened side door of the third hangar. Concealing himself in the shadows, he waited. He tensed as the distinctive ring Lepage‟s cell Neil Hamilton / WATERSHED/ 2 phone filtered through the thin metal walls of the hangar. “Matt, it‟s great to hear from you. Where are you?” “…When?” “…Tomorrow, great. “…Yep. “…Can‟t say, but no, I‟m not hiding, I‟m just taking a break, but I‟ll be flying into Ottawa later tonight. “…Yeah, sure I‟ll join you at the Remembrance Day service. I‟d planned on going, anyways.” “…Okay, I‟ll free up Friday evening also. “…Ah, hell, Matt, I don‟t know if Marion would be up to that. You know she‟d be uncomfortable. “…Okay, I‟ll mention it but it‟s up to her. “…Good. I‟m really looking forward to seeing you. Friday then…” Minutes later the side door of the hangar opened, spilling light across the asphalt walkway. Lepage emerged, and then switched off the hangar light. He closed, locked, and shook the door to make sure it was secure. As he started towards his Piper Seminole parked on the tarmac, his peripheral vision sensed a moving shadow to his right. His heart raced. What was…? However, he never concluded the thought. The two-pound pipe wrench smashed into the left side of his scull knocking him unconscious; his keys dropping as his body struck the asphalt walkway. The assailant retrieved Lepage‟s keys, and then dragged his body into the shadow of the hangar. As Lepage began to moan, his assailant kicked him viciously to the left side of his head, rendering him again, unconscious. The assailant then waited patiently for the next hour and a half until all airport and runway lights shut down. Assured that the airport was closed for the evening, the assailant then mounted the right wing of Lepage‟s Piper Seminole, entered the cockpit, and moved the left pilot‟s seat fully back on its rails. He then wedged a screwdriver between the seat slides and the rail, jamming the seat in the full back position. He then hoisted Lepage‟s limp body and awkwardly manoeuvred him into the cockpits left seat, securing the body with the safety harness. From the right seat, he started both Neil Hamilton / WATERSHED/ 3 engines, performed the customary engine checks, and began taxiing the aircraft towards the threshold of Runway 09. Aligning the aircraft on the runway centreline, he set the parking brake, adjusted the trim tab setting to full nose-up, and placed the headphones on Lepage‟s bloodied head. After making one final check of the controls, he pushed the throttles to full power, released the parking brake, and dropped to the runway. The aircraft slowly started rolling forward, its high tail section passing over him, as he lay flat on the runway. The counter-rotating propellers kept the aircraft centred on the runway as it gathered speed. At approximately 72 miles per hour, the aircraft became airborne and climbed at an increasing angle caused by the extreme nose up trim setting. The airspeed bled off quickly, Neil Hamilton / WATERSHED/ 4 dropping fatally to 55 miles per hour. The wings, now starving for air, stalled, sending a death shudder through the aircraft. At a height of 350 feet, it rolled over on its left wing and spiralled towards the ground. The aircraft smashed into the centre field left of runway 09; the smashed clock on the instrument panel showing 23:37. The sound of the crash faded, replaced by an eerie silence disturbed only by the faint sizzling of leaking liquids on hot engine components. A small flicker of flame licked briefly at the wreckage, and then died. The assassin quickly retraced his route through the airport parameter to his concealed rental car. He changed clothes, burying his jumpsuit, gloves, and ski mask in a pre-dug hole. Minutes later, he merged onto Route 37 and drove east towards the U.S./Canadian border. After crossing the International Bridge spanning the St. Lawrence River, he approached Canadian Customs situated on Cornwall Island, a part of the Akwasasnee Indian Reserve. Neil Hamilton / WATERSHED/ 5 The cross border traffic was sparse, but in light of the heightened border security since 9/11, he was prepared for a lengthy inquiry. A female Customs agent signalled him forward as she entered the license plate numbers into a computer. She silently scrutinized him and the car and then sternly asked, “Name?” “Ian Blair,” he answered, as he handed her his passport. “Where do you live?” “New York.” “Where were you born?” “Boston, Massachusetts.” “What is the purpose of your visit?” “I‟ll be visiting a friend in Ottawa.” “And how long do you plan to stay in Canada?” “Two days.” “Any tobacco, alcohol or firearms?” “No, Officer.” “Will you be leaving anything in Canada?” “Just my pay cheque,” he said smiling. She stared at him intently, then broke a smile at his reply and waved him through, adding, “Enjoy your stay in Canada, sir.” “Thank you,” he said, surprised at the briefness of the officers questioning. Ian Blair wasn't his real name. It was just a name on one of his many passports. Ottawa International Airport, 00:45 a.m. An hour and twenty minutes later, Ian Blair arrived at the Hertz drop-off zone at Ottawa International Airport. He made one last call to a number in New York, letting it ring four times to activate a relay messaging system. Hearing no message, he removed the batteries and smashed the phone, discarding it in a nearby trash bin. After depositing the keys and prepaid rental contract in the return box, he hailed a taxi, instructing the driver to take him to Friday‟s Roast Beef House on Elgin Street. Although the main-floor dining room of Friday‟s had closed for the evening, the second Neil Hamilton / WATERSHED/ 6 floor cabaret was alive with patrons. He climbed the broad stairway to the wide, carpeted hall that separated two salons. To the right was a piano bar, crowded and noisy with singles. The room to his left, a Victorian-decorated candle-lit salon, was quieter. He entered the candle-lit salon, settled on a deep, upholstered settee near the gas-fired fireplace, and ordered vodka on ice. Nursing his drink, he reflected on tonight‟s assignment. His cover as a security consultant was a facade to facilitate the unpleasant business his clandestine employer occasionally required. His typical assignments consisted of removing uncooperative competitors, or intermediaries suspected of double-crossing his employers organization. He planned his assignments to appear like random shootings or the acts of crazed citizens; thus turning assassinations into believable tragic events. Like tonight‟s assignment, he made sabotage-induced aircraft crashes appear caused by pilot error. He was paid well for his expertise. He never could sleep the first night after an assignment; the nightmares consumed him. It was different before when he was a member of a secret Directorate of the KGB referred to as the cleaning ladies; a covert team of KGB specialists that took care of irritant personalities. He was young then, and emotionally hardened. Besides, such executive actions were considered necessary operations in the theatre of the cold war. But now, without a guiding code of belief, his sullenness grew. He was troubled by the debilitating effects his assignments were having on him. He knew it was only a matter of time before he made a fatal error. His thoughts were interrupted when the attentive waitress caught his eye and silently transmitted, “Would you like another drink?” He smiled and with a slight shake of his head and returned a silent “No Thanks.” He had one more task before allowing himself the luxury of such pleasures. Leaving an American twenty-dollar bill under his unfinished drink, he walked to the large centre-hall and approached a bank of payphones opposite the men‟s room. He selected the second phone, and dialled a coded number in New York, letting it ring once before hanging up. He waited. One minute later the payphone rang. “Yes,” he answered. After a short exchange of coded dialogue, meaningless to any eavesdropper, he said, Neil Hamilton / WATERSHED/ 7 “The file is closed.” Unknown to him, his call had been re-routed through Istanbul, Switzerland, and finally lost in a computer system in Lisbon, Portugal. His call had triggered a series of events that would profoundly change the destiny of many individuals over the next few weeks. Lisbon, Portugal Lisbon had a long-standing tradition of commerce including shipbuilding, modern petroleum refineries, chemical plants, and textile industries. There was one other little-known truth about Lisbon‟s commerce; it was the nerve centre of the assassin‟s clandestine employer. When his message was validated, a coded message was sent from the employer‟s Lisbon nerve centre to a bank in Amsterdam, which commenced a transfer of 20 million American dollars into a Swiss numbered bank account. Minutes later, an arms dealer with high-level links to the Russian Mafiya instructed associates in the closed city of Tomsk-7, Siberia, to fulfil the order. November 10, 05:50 Hrs. Richards Air Field The wreckage of the twin engine Piper Seminole wasn‟t discovered until 6:20 the following morning. The 911 emergency networks were alerted. Within minutes, sirens were quickening the pulse of the normally quiet countryside as rescue teams, volunteer firefighters, and local police officials converged on the crash site. The New York State Troopers immediately contacted the aviation investigation branch of the National Transportation Safety Board, in Parsippany, New Jersey. At 8:45, two NTSB accident investigators arrived by aircraft at Richards Field. After establishing their jurisdictional authority, they set up a command post and proceeded with the initial accident investigation. When it was established that the dead pilot was a Canadian citizen, the investigators informed officials at the Federal Bureau of Investigation, who in turn, informed Canadian authorities in Ottawa, Canada. The Canadian reaction was swift. The crash was promptly classified as a security Neil Hamilton / WATERSHED/ 8 incident by the Canadian Security establishment, CSIS. At 10:45, a senior Canadian accident investigator, with top-secret clearance, arrived at the accident scene. The White House Washington, DC. 08:25 hrs. The warm November sunlight reflecting into the oval office didn‟t modify the mood of the President. Although President Jeremy MacArthur was aware that negotiations between Canada and the United States had broken off with respect to fresh water diversion initiatives, the reminder on the front page of the Washington Post amplified his anger. Water Talks Break Off OTTAWA (CP) Canada announced yesterday that it has broken off talks with the United States over the issue of diverting fresh water from the Great Lakes basin. At the heart of the Canada-U.S. dispute is the unilateral American decision to increase diversion of fresh water from Lake Michigan into the Illinois Waterway. In a statement Canadian Minister of Natural Resources, Jan Petersen, said, “Safeguarding our fresh water resources for future generations is a key priority for Canadians. The disregard by the American Government of historical Boundary Waters agreements between the United States and Canada is most troubling to Canada. Unnamed American Government sources stated privately… See Water p-3 He paced the floor muttering, “Those goddamn ungrateful Canucks. Who in Christ do they think they‟re playing with?” MacArthur reached over the front of his massive desk and punched the intercom button connecting him to the office of White house Chief of Staff, John Perez. “John.” “Yes, Mr. President.” “I need to see you now. Furthermore, find out where State is. We need to talk.” Without waiting for a reply, the President broke the connection and pushed the button for his White House secretary. “Mary, what times can you clear for me tomorrow afternoon?” “Mr. President, you‟re inked in until 17:45. Ah… just a moment, you cancelled your meeting with the Vice-President. Therefore, you have an opening after your return from the Neil Hamilton / WATERSHED/ 9 Veterans Day service at Arlington. That leaves you about sixty-five minutes before you meet the representatives of VFW at 2:20 in the Rose Garden.” “Leave that open, Mary. John will be making arrangements with you.” “I‟ll look after it, Mr. President. Coffee, Sir?” “That would be a treat, Mary. Make it two. John is on his way over,” the president responded, the southern charm returning in his voice. Jeremy D. MacArthur had been in the White House for three years. He was a tough, southern Republican from the State of Virginia who had been elected to the most powerful office in the world on a platform of restoring law and order on domestic and international fronts. Many of his opponents expressed the opinion that it was, “his laws and his orders.” MacArthur had every intention of extending his stay in the White House for another four-year term. However, domestic and international crises were increasingly refocusing his attention. In addition to the ongoing war on terrorism, he was faced with a disastrous drought in the American southwest. This wasn‟t some emergency conjured up by Presidential spin-doctors. This was an emergency that was reaching crisis proportions. Drought relief was one of his main re-election promises, and he intended to carry through on that pledge. As his Chief of Staff entered the Oval Office, the President slammed his hand on the newspaper and said, “Jesus, John, have you read this horseshit?” He thrust his finger at the headline. “I‟ve promised the south-western governors emergency measures and drought relief and now those tree-hugging northern assholes are pissing in my cornflakes. Christ almighty, don‟t they realize I‟m going into an election year?” “Yes, sir, I‟m aware of the developments,” Perez responded calmly. “We hadn‟t expected such a strong reaction from the Canadians when we initiated the additional water diversion.” “John, I‟m fed up with their goddamn attitude up there. If its not their oil, it‟s their gas, if its not gas, it‟s their goddamn trees or fish. Hell, we don‟t have time to play dicker tag with the Canadians while our people are losing their livelihoods. They‟re screwing us royally on electricity, and now they want to screw us over water. Water we need. “John, I want you to set up a meeting with General…Ah, what‟s his name at the Army Corps of Engineers.” Neil Hamilton / WATERSHED/ 10 “Major General Malcolm Hughes,” Perez answered. “Yes, General Hughes. Call him and our National Science Advisor and tell them I want an informal heads-up on the drought-relief proposals they‟ve been working on. Make it here, tomorrow afternoon at 1:15.” He paused. “No, let‟s make it in the Map Room instead. Set it up with Mary and get State to join us.” “I‟ll get on it immediately,” Perez said turning to leave. “And, John,” the President added. “Tell Science and the Army Engineer that this meeting is to be a confidential.” “I understand, Mr. President.” Relentless urban development coupled with drought had taxed the existing water supply in the southwest beyond sustainable levels. The water shortage had created a disastrous reduction in crop, rangeland, and forest productivity. The ramifications of which rippled throughout the U.S. economy. Diminishing revenues in agriculture and forestry had spawned a wave of bank foreclosures. Retailers and wholesalers who provided goods and services to these enterprises experienced a sharp decline in business, leading to growing unemployment. Income from recreation and tourism plummeted. Low water levels in rivers impaired the navigability of commercial shipping. These same reduced water levels were also curtailing the production of hydroelectric power at a time when demand for electricity was rising with the coming winter. More alarming was the shrinking Ogallala Aquifer, a body of water the size of Lake Erie, located deep beneath the Great High Plains region of the United States. Farmers had been pumping water out of the aquifer since the 1950s at a rate faster than the aquifer could replenish itself. Some experts predicted the water would run out by 2025, others said sooner. Many farmers had already gone bankrupt because they couldn‟t afford to drill deeper wells to reach the lowered water levels, nor could they afford the larger pumps required to lift the water from the greater depth. Richards Air Field, 13:15 hrs Massena, New York Because a fatality was involved, the Lawrence County Medical Examiner had been . Neil Hamilton / WATERSHED/ 1 CHAPTER 1 -- November 9, 21:55 HRS. Richards Air Field, Massena,. he waited. He tensed as the distinctive ring Lepage‟s cell Neil Hamilton / WATERSHED/ 2 phone filtered through the thin metal walls of the hangar.