Power Read online

  Power

  A novel

  by Thomas Hollyday

  Copyright Thomas Hollyday 2017

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle ASIN: B071VKL3HH

  Paperback:

  ISBN-10: 1546540709

  ISBN-13: 978-1546540700

  ~ v5 ~

  Dedication

  To my family

  Acknowledgements

  In describing the various United States Coast Guard craft used in this narrative I consulted USCG.MIL to get the proper rigs, sizes, and military nomenclature. The description of the freighter River Niger was adapted from an earlier World War Two cousin, John Brown, www.ssjohnwbrown.org

  The delightful Bertram 31 cruiser used by the characters in the story was based on historical descriptions at Bertram.com.

  Another of my characters loved the songs of Cyndi Lauper, https://cyndilauper.com

  Part One

  “Seem like most people are peed off about something or the other. When they find someone who agrees with them, they join up and pee together.”

  Comment by a popular Maryland tent revival preacher in 2015

  Chapter One

  Monday

  The harbor water was not as blue as it used to be, or maybe this was John’s imagination. Morning mist drifted away as the hot July sunlight warmed Baltimore. In the distance a black tanker was pumping its oil cargo to huge storage tanks. John Loggerman tapped his fingers on the steel rail of his freighter River Niger. She was trim with her bright blue hull and vertical stack with the emblazoned letter H. The ship was berthed and quiet from her sixty-six hundred mile voyage across the Atlantic from Port Harcourt, Nigeria. Her final run up the Patapsco River had ended at Sparrows Point this morning when the pilot and tug had left them. This was her homecoming of sorts as she had long ago been constructed near this yard to carry war supplies to England during World War Two.

  As he looked around the harbor, he spotted and heard something unexpected. In front of the gate of the pier area, a noisy crowd protested along the barrier fence. He wondered what these people, many in colorful green clothes, were so angry about.

  Loggerman studied the peaceful harbor water. He sensed its difference from the pirogue laden water of his vessel’s African home port of Port Harcourt, Nigeria. The smells of fish and seaweed were certainly unique and he welcomed these scents of America. Matter of fact he’d have been happier if he were in a port in Maine, like Portsmouth. He was a Down-easter, a man from Maine, with the muscular frame, the tanned intelligent face, the worn khaki pants and the blue work shirt. In his case, fastened at his belt, he carried a Ka-Bar knife, as if ready to splice a line or gut an enemy. He inherited the knife from his grandfather, a Marine survivor of Iwo Jima, was taught to use it by his father, a fighter in Viet Nam, and used it himself as a Marine in the Middle East and later against terrorists in Africa. He knew the meaning of “Wear and Scare.”

  Loggerman was vice president of computer systems for the Henry Company, an American firm partnered with African investors. Henry was one of the fastest growing conglomerates in West Africa. Its profitable African partner companies were located at the high tech “New City,” specializing in oil leases, electronic assembly, and cocoa and warehousing products for its country wide retail stores.

  The shipyard was old, constructed during World War Two for ship manufacturing and then allowed to rust. Its manager, Stoney Howard, stood far below him. Stoney was a wharf rat, the kind of man who inhabited shipyards. He had sponsored its modern reconstruction and brought back the jobs. Stoney was alight with his purpose, his love of the ships, and his hope illuminated his pride in the new cranes and piers.

  He called to Loggerman, whom he’d known over the past Henry voyages to Baltimore. He said, “Captain Jimmy brought her in again, soft as a baby. I didn’t hear a single one of these old pilings creaking as the hull came to rest.”

  “Maybe it’s because you installed all new piers.”

  “You got that right. Glad you noticed. I’ll tell my advertising agency. No more mentioning 1940s creaks in our timbers.”

  Above the two men, the tall figure of Captain James Abada stood in the July sunlight. He oversaw them from the wing of the bridge, resplendent in his blue and white uniform. He provided his powerful smile, showing teeth and amusement. His name, Abada, was one of the native words for creatures of magic. Loggerman often wondered about the man. It might be true he held magic in his bones. Loggerman sat many nights staring at his friend’s impenetrable African eyes over a chess game trying to figure out Captain Jimmy’s thoughts with no success.

  Captain Jimmy said, “Figured might have been some due to Loggerman helping the crew with the tying up to the pier. Maybe it’s his talent with the spring lines.”

  “I bet so,” called Stoney, smiling, knowing full well the Captain was joking. His crew was well trained. Loggerman had not needed to lift one of the heavy lines. “I’ll put in my report back to Joe.”

  Joe was Joe Henry, sitting thousands of miles away up country in his “New City.” He was the head of the corporation. He had masterminded in little more than a decade this large pioneering African American firm. It was a growing Silicon Valley, the biggest and most successful technological conglomerate, in a continent of fascinating and warring countries.

  “As usual, Captain Jimmy, you get all the compliments,” Loggerman joked, then asked, “Any more word on the oil pipe, Stoney?”

  The shipyard manager hesitated, looking over his shoulder at the placards held by the mob at the gate. The angry protestors pressed against the wobbly steel fence of Stoney’s yard.

  “This crowd is growing. Lot of them making noise out there. Hope the city police can handle them.” He smiled, “Come ashore, Loggerman. I’ll tell you what I told Joe. I called him right after the pilot said you’d started up the Patapsco this morning.”

  Loggerman knew what Stoney would say. He had, however, heard the same story already several times as they crossed the ocean. The freighter would stay moored in Baltimore several days longer waiting for the shipment.

  As he stepped down to the pier, he followed Stoney’s eyes to the far end of the yard. He saw the cardboard protest posters. Yes, he thought, this was not going to be a regular cruise to load needed equipment for the corporation. He knew the problem. Henry Company drew some of its business from pumping oil. Right now in the States energy and oil were bad words to mobs protesting in the cities.

  Storey’s orange and black tee shirt had a slogan on its front. “Hit with the Orioles.” The colors screamed against the pier colors of gray paint.

  They shook hands.

  “Your team winning?” Loggerman asked.

  “I keep praying.” Stoney talked with a lisp. His mouth had been smashed by sniper fire during his second tour in the Vietnam War.

  “Who are they?” he asked, pointing at the outside street.

  “Like I told Joe. Energy protesters. They are active in cities all over the nation.”

  “I read they were complaining about utility companies out west.”

  “Hell, not just utilities. Someone just burned up an oil storage tank out in Texas. Videos of the big fire are all over the cable news. No one caught doing it, either. These people, you never know where they will be. Prayers are going
against us, too. News people report religious activists are marching with them.”

  “God is involved too?” Loggerman stared at the signs.

  Stoney said, “The church ones call themselves clerics.”

  “They are protesting us because we drill for oil in Africa?”

  “I don’t know what the church ones do. They seem to just stand around. The others, the Tinkers, are pretty nasty.”

  “Tinkers?” He recalled the name from the past. Cole Tinker was once a Congressman. His former wife worked for the man after she divorced Loggerman. She came back to the States with his daughter.

  Stoney went on, “The reporters call Tinker, ‘The King of the Working People.’ The logo sells their newspapers and gets people to watch their news shows. I went out to talk to the crowd the other day. No use. They just yelled at me.” His smile was the weakest Loggerman had ever seen on the man.

  “Our oil pipe shipment?”

  Stoney shook his head and shrugged.

  “Did you get me a car?”

  “Over at my office. You said you wanted to see your kid.”

  The mention of her traced in Loggerman’s mind his daughter Stephanie racing with local girls through the streets of New City, Nigeria. She’d be singing a Cyndi Lauper tune, her ten-year-old head bobbing with the red wig the village chief’s wife had made for her.

  A day after he left Africa on this trip, a letter was texted from a Maryland stranger. A Doctor Mike Carmichael had asked him to visit in person on his next trip to the States to talk about Stephanie. The doctor included an address in River Sunday, Maryland, not far from Baltimore.

  Stoney interrupted his thoughts. “Too bad she’s is not in Africa with you. Captain Jimmy told me last time he was here about those fancy digs where you executives live. She’d like.”

  “I’d sure want her there with me. She had a lot of friends she left behind when she was little. She’d have lots of opportunities to work with Joe’s businesses.”

  “I got you hotel reservations in River Sunday as you asked.” He grinned and said, “You be careful down there with those country people.”

  Loggerman laughed and patted his left hip. “My Ka-Bar knife’s been with me a long time.”

  Stoney looked at the knife. “I gotcha.”

  “Let’s look at the cargo,” he said, pointing to the large storage field behind him, with all its containers to be loaded about the River Niger. Among the steel boxes, a truck-mounted crane was moving the smaller twenty footers toward the ship.

  Jimmy arrived beside them on the pier and said, “Good to see you, Stoney. When do you start unloading?”

  “Right now. As soon as the holds are clear, we’ll load. The trucks and deck cargo go aboard last. “

  Captain Jimmy looked around the field.

  “Seems most of the outgoing cargo is here waiting.”

  “We’ll ride over and take a look,” said Stoney, smiling.

  “Can you do any more about the oil pipe?” asked the Captain.

  “Well, I was just about to tell Loggerman. The manufacturer filled me in. He assured me his company never had any trouble delivering your pipe before.”

  “We got drilling teams waiting for it. I guess Joe told you.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “So what do we do about it?”

  “The factory tells me the pipe was loaded on trucks and sent from the plant on time.”

  “Truckers. Those boys don’t usually have any trouble.”

  “Seems like Tinker people followed the trucks and stopped them. By the time the state police clear the road, we lose a day or more. It’s hard to fight this because the troublemakers travel over state lines and appear suddenly.”

  Stoney looked at the protestors outside the gate again. “The television reporters show up and interview the protest folks. They say they are complaining about expensive heating oil in freezing weather and high priced gasoline. Then their stories go viral on social media.”

  Loggerman asked, “Anything we can do?

  Stoney laughed. “Doesn’t pay to let them know they are bothering us. I don’t want Joe Henry’s company on national TV. He’s worked too hard to build up New City.”

  “You got it right,” said Loggerman.

  Stoney packed them into his golf cart and they took off to see the shipment of new highway trucks for the Henry freight business.

  “How many stores?” Stoney asked.

  Captain Jimmy answered, “My cousins have three village stores and there are many more along the highway. We make much money with the products shipped by Henry warehouses.”

  Stoney was quiet for a long moment and then said, “The whole thing is strange. It’s like Tinker knew you were coming. Maybe his team was tipped off from their sources in Africa. Then his internet website starts spreading the word through his fans. This social media is powerful.”

  Loggerman said, “We got our share of African enemies doing attacks on our wells.” He asked, “How are you going to get the pipe through the gate crowd?”

  “The Baltimore police keep the gates open. Anyway, you leave it to me. I know my dock workers. They like having jobs loading ships and they want trucks coming in to the pier. None of them will let these protestors keep them from a paycheck.”

  The big Kenworth C500 rural off-road diesel trucks shone brightly in the June sunlight. They were prepared for ocean shipping. All the breakable items such as the side mirrors were packed in special foam plastic to avoid damage while stored on deck.

  “They will carry a lot of freight on the country roads,” the Captain said.

  Stoney dismounted the cart and walked ahead between the big machines.

  “God damn it,” he said.

  They moved quickly to catch up. Stoney pointed to a painted design on the driver’s door of the middle truck. The door had been marked with a large green line around a white inner circular shape.

  “Have you seen this symbol before?” asked Captain Jimmy.

  “Yes. They say the green outline means zero green dollars, or free energy. I guess the white blob is energy or sunlight. I don’t know. Don’t worry. I’ll clean up the truck before I load her.”

  “How do they get in?”

  “Slicky boys. They have no fear. The demonstrators sneak in even though I have the guards alerted. They do this kind of thing all over the country. Someone trained them to be nasty.” He repeated, “I tell you, they have mobs around power plants, oil supply companies. No one knows when they will hit.”

  The Captain bent down to Stoney. “Any word on my Bertram cruiser?”

  “She’s over at the end of the yard waiting for you. Pretty as can be.”

  He looked at Loggerman. “You’re going to like this one.”

  Captain Jimmy had arranged thorough his boat contacts in the United States to procure a vintage American thirty-one-foot cruiser for his use on the Niger River near New City.

  They rounded a corner of containers in a far part of industrial site and spotted the trailer with the sharp hulled V-bottom boat on its rack.

  As they got off the golf cart, Stoney handed the captain information on her. “Here you are. You’ll want to read this. Look here. It’s the old instruction manual.”

  He read it to his friend,

  “A word of welcome:

  We are pleased you have chosen a Bertram, and know her unique design will give you outstanding performance and many years of boating pleasure.”

  Captain Jimmy reverently touched the black hull, a white cabin cruiser-fisherman. “She’ll do,” he said softly. He looked over the side and inspected the engine compartment. “She’s got jet drive installed for her two engines.”

  “Just like you ordered,” said Stoney. “We actually found her in a Virginia marina, all restored.”

  Loggerman said, “She will handle weed hyacinth in the Niger, I bet cha.”

  “Supposed to. Before we leave Baltimore, we’ll put her overboard for a little run up into the Inner Harbor. T
hen we’ll pack and load her.”

  “I’m looking forward to the ride,” Loggerman said as he stared over the pier at the slow current of the summer harbor. In the distance he saw Fort McHenry, the old battlement which had beaten the British invasion of the War of 1812.

  “Stoney, you think this crowd will keep us from loading cargo and heading home?”

  Stoney did not answer. He stared at the crowd too.

  A breeze blew up, trembling the surface. A cool chill struck Loggerman’s body. It felt strange in the heat of the hot Baltimore sunlight. He heard again the words of his respected African friend, the older village chief. The two of them one night were enjoying beers on Loggerman’s porch. He was telling a story of a hunting trip when he was a young man. He said,

  ‘I learned you be dead if you don’t pay attention to omens, Loggerman.’

  Chapter Two

  Loggerman reached River Sunday in the late afternoon. The town, quiet and rustic, was on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, east and south from Baltimore across the long Chesapeake Bay bridge. As he drove over its high center span he passed the funnels of a container ship far below him, a ship at least two times as large as River Niger. Then he travelled south in light traffic.

  In the center of River Sunday on the main street he reached a cluster of buildings. A very large and impressive police station was prominent on his right. It was bigger than the courthouse next door. However, the ancient brick courthouse was more impressive, standing like something out of a Colonial Williamsburg movie set. It waited in the center of its boxwood fortress as if antique actors would descend from its tall front door. In this case, the old look was freshened with an avenue of green canvas tents carefully erected among the courthouse garden. Yards in front of them, at the edge of a concrete and brick street, stood a six foot high and wide sign with green letters. On its white background proclaimed