The Good War

An underground resistance organization works hard to stymie the progress of the reckless resource extraction industry in a near future where climate change is wreaking havoc on the world.

            Far in the distant northern reaches of the Canadian Arctic the towers and boilers of the Eureka Sound oil refinery stood like obelisks on the permafrost. In the eternal darkness that covered the land for half the year, the compound was a spectre against the desolate tundra speckled with flood lights among its network of pipes and power lines.

An 18 wheeler tanker truck rolled in to the loading bay, the beep-beep-beep of its reverse warning piercing the freezing night so deeply it could be heard miles away across the blank expanse. The air brakes released a gale of exhaust and the vehicle heaved as if finding relief from its long journey. The engine settled and a ruddy faced driver in a heavy parka covering down to his knees hopped out of the cab. A dock worker quickly met him and took him aside while a crew attached the wide mouth of a tube to a hatch on the roof of the tanker. The worker clamped it tight and gave a thumbs-up to the man in the control tower. There was loud k-chunk and the hose flexed and expanded while black gold refilled the tank.

 A nonchalant individual with a clip board heavily swathed in thick winter clothing, a fur-lined hood and Sorel boots, checked his shoulder. There was no one around. He strode over the truck and removed a small device from his coat pocket. Crouching down by the front wheel well he reached around the tire, flicked a switch on the device, and magnetically attached it to the undercarriage.

Standing up, he performed another check. No one saw a thing.

*

            “We’ve got a signal,” Garcia declared. He sat at a computer desk staring at a monitor in the dank subterranean lair of the Enviromental Resistance headquarters. His desk was littered with empty take out containers and soda cups. His keyboard bore the dirt of hundreds of hours of surveillance duty and his chair seemed like it would break under his skinny weight. “Check it out. We finally got one,” he said.

            “Looks like our man’s been doing all right after all,” Freemon said, his spectacles resting over the tip of his nose. “Any movement?”

            “Nothing. It just came in.”

            “Keep an eye on that ping and let me know where it’s going. I’ll see about reaching the Iceman.”

            Their office was in the dungeons of an old heritage building in Toronto. The lighting was dim, the desks old, the floor concrete, and the activists dishevelled. This darkened warren held a crew of a select few people determined to stand against the endless drive for oil. In the 2020s, Canada’s northern tundra was a treasure trove of oil, tar sands, and shale gas. The enormous tracts of land in its frozen reaches contained untold reservoirs of hydrocarbon fuels, bountiful and untapped, and investors from all corners of the world descended upon the land with shovels and drills.

            While Canada’s gross domestic product reached euphoric heights, each summer became hotter and each winter became milder. Terrific storms with ripping winds and torrential rains marauded the cities every year with floods and destruction.  Every year a record breaking storm more violent than its predecessor would tear across the continent and the perpetrator of these trends was the continual combustion of fossil fuels. Climate change.    

            Freemon stood at the centre of the room where a half dozen other haggard activists were enveloped in their campaigns, arranging meetings and sabotage efforts with their members. One spoke on a phone hunched over his desk while another next to him held a pencil above her upper lip in a precarious, fishlipped balancing act.

Bossman Freemon planted both hands on his hips and said, “We got contact, everyone. Now, you all know your roles and what we need to do. We’ve been over this a hundred times. This is the real deal. Garcia’s got a line on the truck right now.”

A few weak woots and shouts sounded off in the dank office. “How long we got?” asked Kryzynski.

“Oh I don’t know...” Freemon mused. “It shouldn’t be long now.”

The blip on Garcia’s monitor flashed emitting circular waves across the screen and then, slowly, began to move south.

*

The driver hopped in the cab and kicked the engine to life and the whole machine quivered in the -43 Celsius cold as the tail pipe belched hot smoke. It lurched toward the gate with an angry rumble and hum as two men pulled the gates open. Clouds of white vapour shot from their mouths as they stood like sentries waiting for the truck to pass. They shut the gate behind it and hurried back inside.

The Iceman was already waiting outside the compound in a jeep, the engine idling for fifteen minutes and ready to roll. He let the tanker gain some distance ahead of him before turning on his headlights and following along on the icy road.

Snow blew across the tundra expanse in waves and buffeted the windows of the Jeep. Bored, he turned on the radio and scanned for stations. Nothing but static. He kept his eyes ahead, locked on the glowing red tail lights of the tanker. He sipped his thermos. Hot coffee with no sugar, bitter and strong.

For four hours he followed at a distance and not a single car passed him en route. No one ever travelled these northern service roads but the tankers and oil rig workers. If anyone stopped him he had a replica badge and forged papers in the glove box ready to show. His name was Roland Bakerfield, an oil man. His destination: wherever that truck was going. He hoped he wouldn’t have to explain himself, but the chance on that happening was slim.    

Eventually, a galaxy of lights rose up on the horizon and he could see a long freight train in waiting among the tracks of a rail yard. A barbed wire fence surrounded the compound and a small pillbox, a security guard post, was stationed at the gates where the truck stopped. He switched his headlights of, pulled to the side, and watched through a pair of binoculars. There was a quick exchange between the driver and guard, the gates rolled open, and the tanker went in.

            He picked up his radio. “This is Iceman. Tango, are you there?”

            “This is Tango, we hear you Iceman,” Freemon answered.

            “Looks like the truck just pulled into a rail yard. I can see a train waiting.”

            “What’s going on?”

            “I think it’s obvious. This has got to be a transfer station where the freight train carries the payload out from here. I can see a small crew on the ground. Looks like a long train.”

“OK. Can you get inside?”

            He looked around and assessed his chances. “I think so.”

            “We need you to find out where that train is going. You’ve got your papers and identification.”

            “Yeah.”

            “All right. Assume radio silence until clear.”

            “Understood.”

            “Good luck.”

            He threw down the handset onto the passenger seat and met the guard at the gate. “Roland Bakerfield,” he offered his badge to which the tired guard glanced over it with a flashlight and said, “Go ahead,” and Iceman went inside.

            He drove across the frozen gravel watching a ground crew transferring oil into the train. He parked at a distance, gathered his forged ID, and approached the technician overseeing the process.

            “So this one’s headed to,” he checked his papers. “Let me see here...”

            “You mean you don’t know?” the technician sneered.

            “Right. Of course,” he smiled. “How much longer on this transfer?  I’m hitching a ride back home in the passenger car.”

            “It’s not scheduled for another three hours. Get comfortable,” the technician shouted over the machine noise. “There’s some coffee and sandwiches in the office if you want. This might take a while.”

            Iceman nodded and looked over at the transfer operation, the freezing wind biting his cheeks.

            “We got it covered. Go take a break or something,” he said dismissively and went back to checking valve pressures and connections. Iceman backed off and returned to his car and waited until the transfer was complete. The technician disconnected the trailer from the train and sealed the hatches and a truck pulled in to pick him up. As it peeled away leaving the train alone Iceman jumped out with another tracking device and planted it on the undercarriage of the tanker car.

            Back in the Jeep, he spoke into the radio handset. “Tango. Tango come in.”

            “Give us some good news, Iceman.”

            “Don’t know where she’s going but I planted the tracker. Should be leaving in a few hours.”

            “OK. Good work. We see it on our radar now. Get out of there and don’t make a sound.”

            “No good.”

            “Don’t get testy Iceman, this is the real s**t. We’ll follow along from here and find out where they’re sending it. You’ve done enough.”

            “I need to get on that train.”          

            “You don’t need to do anything. Do you copy that?  You’re mission is done.”

            No answer.

*

            “Iceman, do you copy?” Only silence answered Freemon. “God damn it, he’s going to blow the whole op!”

Kryzinski said, “Maybe he’s got something special in mind?”

Freemon shook his head and swatted an empty coffee tin off the desk. It clattered against the wall in a mess of hollow noise. Meanwhile, the steady beep of the tracker flashed on Garcia’s monitor. Three hours later it began moving southwest.

*

The wheels of the train squealed and squeaked as they began turning, and the slow chugging of the great vehicle reached a crescendo as it set out across the frozen tundra. Iceman stood up in the passenger car, first one behind the locomotive, and stared ahead mulling over his plan. He brought a backpack onto the train. “It’s just some books, some extra clothes,” he told them. “Travel essentials. You know.”

That bag rested on the seat next to him and he glanced over to make sure it was still there. There were a few other oil men on the train, all of them in deep sleep with their heads lolling in neck-cramping positions. Their rugged faces with rough stubble, their clothing stained and worn from long hours of labour.

He sat down next to his bag and laid a reassuring hand on it. It wasn’t going anywhere. So he gazed out the window at the flat expanse, the distant rocky outcroppings and snowy hills all racing by in an instant. He wanted to sleep, but couldn’t. The package he carried was too sensitive to let alone for even a second. He played a precarious game and it seemed like the train couldn’t move fast enough. Breath flowed in and out of him with weight and he couldn’t sit still, even as the train glided peacefully along the tracks all he could think about was what would soon happen.

*

            Back in the shady warren of the resistors HQ, the activists worked furiously to determine the final destination of the train placing phone calls, raising contacts, shooting emails, plotting map data, and watching the little ping on Garcia’s radar. Freemon paced the room, hands on his hips and spectacles hanging around his neck. He rubbed his goatee while staring at a giant map on the wall with a red line marking the route the oil had taken so far.

            “There’s really only one place this could be going,” Kryzinski offered.

            “You care to share it with us?” Freemon said.

            “Northern Gateway.”  Everyone in the room spun on their chairs to look at him.

            “They shut that thing down years ago, what are you talking about?” said Mendelsohn, a woman with bushy hair.

            “Oh no, it’s out there. I’ve got it on good authority that it’s still running. They’ve been sending oil down that pipeline for years now.”

            Freemon turned to him sceptical. “What authority is this?”

            “I know a guy in the Western. Says they’ve been keeping a lid on that thing tighter than Sheena’s leather pants.”

            “Hey!” Sheena cried. Kryzinski laughed.

            “And if he’s right, I bet the farm that’s where they’re heading right now.”

            “Garcia, how’s it look to you?”

            “It definitely appears that way. But this rail line it’s travelling on, it don’t appear on any maps I can find. It’s like they’ve got some kind of... uh...” he struggled to find a word and Freemon stared at him expectantly.

            “Secret?” Mendelsohn filled in.

            “Yeah that’s it,” he snapped, “a secret railroad. And if I plot a line it goes right to Bruderheim. The mouth of the Northern Gateway.”

            Freemon said, “Somebody get Iceman on the line. Ring him up.”

            “Can’t reach him,” said Kryzinski.

            “What do you mean we can’t reach him?”

            “I mean the line’s dead. He shut his radio off.”        

*

            The freight train arrived at a walled compound with a galaxy of bright lights and complex networks of tubes and pipes rising up and bending at 90 degree angles. There were massive white tanks with wide pipes coming out of them and towers rising up in the sky. The train stopped in the middle of the sprawling compound where a crew immediately closed in and began their work. The breaks screeched and blasts of steam ushered out of the mechanisms and everyone on the passenger car woke up like bears coming out of hibernation.

            They all stepped out of the train and Iceman, bag in hand, walked among them. One of them tried to talk to him, but he avoided conversation by pretending to be too groggy to care. The operation went into full swing around them with oilmen rushing in with power tools and tablet devices. A foreman in a yellow hardhat barked orders to someone who nodded several times and took back into the throng. People shouted and called out to each other in code words, technical jargon Iceman didn’t understand. The bag weighed heavy in his hand.

            F*****g hell, he thought. The god damn Northern Gateway is still running. Those lying sacks of s**t!  This has got scandal all over it.

            He broke away from the procession heading towards the office building where, presumably, they would register for departure and catch their final transportation home. Slinking away with a sly glance over his shoulder, he skirted the crowd and spotted the perfect place to deposit the package. Beneath a row of piping, next to a reservoir, he crept behind where no one could see him. He looked up one last time and spotted a security camera perched high in the air on a fence pole, so he worked fast. Leaving his bag there, and checking for his ID in his pocket, he set his watch and made his way back out.

            “Hey what are you doing back there?” someone yelled at him.

            He looked and there was a pot bellied foreman pointing at him, looking like he wouldn’t put up with any crap. Iceman stopped and said, “Just had to check one little thing before I go.”

            “Check what? There’s no reason for you to be back there.”

            “Well....” he had no words.

            “You better speak up, son.”  His eyes bored holes through him like two power drills.

            He stammered and his face became hot. Then two men in black uniforms came out of the office building with hand cuffs and knight sticks. “Hold him there Pete. We caught him on camera leaving his bag behind the tank over there.”

            Pete demanded, “Who are you? Where’s your papers?”

            Iceman froze. They closed in on him. He broke into a full run and shoved the foreman aside in a mad dash for the building. Security was on him immediately. He ran as fast as he could, grabbing people in line and shoving them aside, elbowing and barging through. “Move it!!”

            But there was nowhere to go. “I have to do this,” he muttered in desperation.

Then he removed a handset from his pocket, entered a four digit code followed by a hashtag and pressed SEND.

In an instant everything was consumed with fire, debris blown for miles through the air, and the train blasted to a twisted wreck, the crude oil burning and sending billowing plumes of black smoke into the sky.

*

            “Oh s**t,” Mendelsohn said as she watched the Channel 7 evening newscast. They were showing footage of the smoky ruin with fires still burning in the Alberta north, fire trucks and ambulances swarming the scene and siren lights flashing like beacons.

            Freemon said, “Turn it up,” and everyone rushed over to see what happened.

            A massive explosion rocked the site of the former Northern Gateway pipeline today destroying everything on the derelict compound. It is unknown at this time who caused the destruction, and why they even did it. The pipeline has been shut down for years.

            “That son of a b***h went and did it,” Freemon spat.

            “Someone’s going to have to answer for this,” Kryzinski said.

            Some have speculated that the operation never really did shut down, and that environmental terrorists are responsible. We cannot substantiate this claim at this time.

            “So what do we do now?  Iceman’s AWOL. We can’t raise him on any of the channels,” Kryzinski said.

            Freemon turned to him with ice in his stare, “What do you think?  This changes nothing for us. We’re fighting a war here, and the war is far from over. If these b******s think they can go behind our backs and continue on where they said they wouldn’t, they should think again. It’s up to us to shed light on these crooks or no one else will. Someone’s got to stand where no one has the balls to do it. That’s what Iceman was trying to do. Now he might be dead with all the rest of them, but that’s the price we pay. The fight goes on for us.”

            The newscast continued with eye witness accounts from rural townsfolk who heard the blast from miles away. No one had any idea about what went on behind those walls. While the smoke rose up, the Environmental Resistance sat in their chairs sombre and silent.