Platform Alpha

By David Panaro

PLATFORM ALPHA

A diabolical plot to take over the world's precious metal supply can spell the ruin of every economy on Earth. Gold, silver, and platinum are disappearing from supposedly secure bank vaults.

How can hundreds of tons of heavy metals be stolen and transported without anybody finding out how the thefts were pulled off? That's what Italian-born Ricardo "Rick" Fortuna must figure out to stop the world from spinning into economic ruin.

Tracking down criminals used to be fun and adventurous for highly trained and extremely beautiful Canadian intelligence agent Amanda Sanders, but her superiors have forced her to work with some jerk named Fortuna that claims to be an Italian Prince by birthright. If he wasn't so darn handsome, she might be able to ignore his arrogant attitude. He annoyed yet attracted her at the same time.

Exotic and sometimes dangerous geographic locations are thrown into this mix of intrigue, romance, science, and adventure. Billions of dollars are at stake in this account of conspiracy, theft, danger, and romance.

The world's monetary systems are in jeopardy, and financial disaster will cause widespread panic and collapse. Many twists and turns take place, but the Prince and the Spy must work together to solve the case without getting killed in the process.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483591209

Book preview

Chapter 1

ROUGH SEAS AHEAD

PLATFORM ALPHA - North Sea - Buffeted by gusting crosswinds, the lone helicopter flew on with difficulty across the shale-gray waves of the North Sea with no destination in sight. The American made Bell Industries 412 twin-turbine powered craft was one of the most reliable workhorses in the world, and one of the most dependable aircraft ever made, but even it was having trouble maintaining altitude in these roaring winds.

Renowned for working in extreme conditions, the 412 strained in the frigid air below the solid cloud cover as the full-on gale swept driving rain into near horizontal gusts. Designed with utility capabilities for almost any application, this aircraft could support everything from combat ready troops to intensive care litters for medical-evac units. With only slight differences, the military version was currently in use by several dozen U.S. and foreign armed services. Although meant to carry up to 15 passengers, there were only 10 souls on board for this trip, and that included the pilot and co-pilot-crew chief sitting up front.

It had been more than an hour since they had left the coast, and the men were getting anxious. With a top flying speed of 150 miles per hour, they could barely do 90 in these nasty crosswinds. The unfamiliar passenger looked at his watch as he was doing the math in his head,

‘Let’s see, the new passenger thought to himself, a 3:00 A.M. departure, more than 90 minutes flying time at something between 60 and 80 knots, we should be about 130 to 150 miles out. That is a long way to swim, and nobody could do that for more than about two minutes before freezing to death anyway, so we had better get there soon. The platform should be coming into view any time as this model chopper only had about two hours of fuel capacity.

A few minutes later, he double-checked the numbers one more time. He felt they had to be nearly that far offshore by now and wondered why they hadn’t seen the faint twinkling lights of the rig yet. There were seven members of the drill-rig relief crew huddled unsteadily inside. Everyone was swaying unevenly from side to side and occasionally jerked violently up and down compressed against the restraining seatbelts whenever rough air was encountered. The mesh-covered fold-down bench seats offered no padding to counter the bumpy air pockets the helicopter was fighting through in this gale-force weather.

Snug tight, but still cold in their 20-pound immersion suits festooned with safety whistles, buddy lines, emergency lights, and inflatable life vests; it was a crowded cabin. Each man was strapped in shoulder to shoulder by the waist and chest straps of the safety harness-type seat belts. Some must feel claustrophobic in these bulky, confining, and almost smothering suits he thought. As uncomfortable as they were, these suits were the only thing between life and death if one were exposed to the weather or had the misfortune to fall into the icy sea. The loss of comfort was part of the risk of being in a place clearly not meant for man nor beast.

Except for the stranger, they all had made this trip many times before. It never got any easier or shorter. The weather this night was worse than most had experienced and that made all of them none too easy about enduring the bumpy ride. Even in summer, survival in this choppy 40 something degree North Sea water is measured in minutes, and uncomfortable as they were, nobody wanted to test their safety suits in these pre-dawn hours when the waves were usually at their highest.

Finally – now far off the coast of Norway - the superstructure of the Alpha Platform started to come into view. Built in the early 1990’s and almost 700 feet tall from ocean bottom to highest point above the waves, it towered nearly 290 feet above the swells at this watery crossroads of some 3,000 miles of undersea pipelines carrying oil, solvents, or natural gas for just over 50 million European customers. It was an imposing and especially welcome sight in this darkness.

At first, the only thing visible was a small, glowing, flickering yellow light of the burn-off mast flame. Then as the driving rain momentarily cleared and the distance was lessened, a cluster of distinct white lights were clearly shining just below and to the right of the giant Roman Candle-like flame ever burning out on the end of the extension boom jutting from the south end of the rig. This eternal fire was the waste mixture of gaseous hydrocarbons burning off after being separated from the precious oil and more abundant natural gas mined from deep below.

Normally at nearly 60-feet tall, this giant flame could be seen for miles, but tonight it was whipping about randomly in the high winds making for a fascinating sight. It reminded the stranger of a giant birthday candle not unlike those trick models that seem to go out when you blow on the flame, but quickly spring back to life an instant after you’re sure they’ve gone out.

As the helicopter got closer, their destination looked like a small city with a thousand lights twinkling and shining. Like a giant bejeweled Christmas ornament against the vast expanse of darkness. Located in the East Gas Field almost dead center in the North Sea, Platform Alpha’s decks were roughly 200 feet in width by 460 feet in length. Built as a combined production and processing platform, it could accommodate up to 140 people. Six surrounding satellite fields, each with their own cluster of offshore platforms, were all tied-back to Alpha via dozens of pipelines and cables lying on the ocean floor.

In addition to its own operations, the Alpha 1 platform was used as a remote operation center via an umbilical cable for the smaller Alpha 2 wellhead platform located more than a mile away to the southwest. The Alpha 3 platform was a carbon dioxide treatment facility only 100 yards north, but linked physically to Alpha 1 by a thin metal bridge structure. This linkage made the Alpha One-Three pair appear larger than any other offshore rig in the North Sea.

Although a stranger to these men in the cramped compartment, there was someone on board Rick Fortuna knew fairly well, and at this moment, he was the most important person in his mind – the pilot. Looking out the Plexiglas window on the port side sliding door just behind the co-pilot, Rick could see they were slowing as the giant 20-foot high capital letter H came into view in the center of the white triangle that designated the landing pad. With a fuselage length of almost 42 feet and nearly a 50-foot main rotor diameter, it would take considerable skill to land this helicopter on what appeared to be a postage stamp-sized see-through, steel-mesh net. This ‘net’ was hanging precariously over the edge of the massive platform supported by just a few steel girders and pipe cross braces.

Triggered by his knowledge that taking off and landing were the most dangerous phases of any flight, the thousand possible ways to die raced through Fortuna’s head. Rick’s slight panic was abruptly interrupted by a sudden coughing and sputtering noise from the two small but normally powerful turbine engines located outside directly above his head.

Fortuna quickly switched on his intercom by pressing the small ‘TALK’ button on the lead wire emanating from the overhead ceiling plug and connected to his left headphone. What’s happening, and what can I do to help? he urgently asked trying very hard not to show any panic in his voice even as the worst nightmares ran through his brain.

The voice of the pilot came in quite loudly through his headset, so Rick adjusted the volume with the little thumbwheel next to the ‘TALK’ button. I suspect were taking in too much water through the intakes at this lower elevation, the Pilot calmly replied. The salt and sheer volume of rain are probably drowning out the air-fuel mixture, he said with little if any emotion, as if this was some kind of everyday occurrence.

I’m adjusting the mixture – and all you can do now is hang on, he added.

It was Jim McCarthy, the best pilot in the business by anybody’s measure. That’s if you could believe his own somewhat exaggerated tales of many a harrowing trip and his purported expertise after nearly 30-plus years of flying. Old Jim had piloted everything from F-15 fighter jets to a cranky converted former military trainer turned crop duster single-engine 1937 Stearman biplane. What Jim fondly called his old Model 75. One of the best planes ever made by Boeing or anybody else for that matter! he would say at every opportunity.

They had flown together before Rick and Jim, but despite the confidence Rick had in his friend, he could not help feeling nervous on this wet, cold, and very windy night.

The Pratt & Whitney PT6 engines changed pitch as the turbines adjusted from the sporadic gulping of a drowning whale to something a tad more like the normal hum of level flight just before one of them coughed a small but loudly explosive POOF and died.

The corresponding high-pitch scream of the transmission rpm shift was not muffled enough by Rick’s headphone ear covers to distract him from that horrible empty-stomach feeling that surged through his body as the aircraft took a sudden drop in altitude.

He didn’t hate flying, actually rather enjoyed the convenience of it all, but remained fearful of the consequences of knowing what could happen if something broke or went wrong. Despite the view when he was able to soar above the Earth, he just got nervous when he wasn’t in control and on the ground, or in this case, falling rapidly toward a deep, dark sea of choppy, chaotic waves and ice-cold freezing water.

Just as Rick was contemplating whether he should vigorously start praying, or simply give in to the inevitable and make peace with his maker, the pilot’s voice crackled in this earphone again.

Hang on boys while I set this 10,000 pound contraption down on that little see-through screen they call a helipad. This particular helicopter was equipped with the optional ‘pop-out’ floats because it was making regular trips flying over water. Those floats increased the aircraft weight and reduced the fuel capacity, and hence the available flying time. These same floats also inhibited the pilot’s view when landing.

What appeared to Rick to be a flimsy looking wire mesh was coming closer much faster than he thought it should be. His palms were sweaty and the soles of his feet felt hot as he looked across at the guys sitting on the opposite side of - what now suddenly seemed like - a very small and cramped enclosed space. Most of them looked just as apprehensive, but maybe they were just simply not that anxious to get back to work after their 10 days off.

Either way, Rick felt this was a hell of a way to get to work, and was glad he was more of an office-type of guy. These men must have steel in their veins he thought. Either that or they simply aren’t afraid to die.

Platform workers typically do 10 days on and 10 days off, sort of like firefighters on a double shift. However, unlike firemen who get to enjoy clean surroundings in well-kept firehouses on 3 to 5-day shifts, and who mostly work during daylight hours; these guys are required to put in continuous 12-hour shifts every day in grimy, smelly, cold, and mostly wet conditions.

Drill rigs are every bit as dangerous as any firefighter job, and the benefits are not nearly as good, but most of these guys didn’t know how to do anything else. Some liked the chance to get away from a nagging wife or a constantly demanding girlfriend. Others just reveled in the chance to live what many considered a short-time gig in a foreign country. And a good percentage did it just for the money.

Monthly pay on offshore rigs is at least triple what a Driller, Toolpusher, or Roustabout could earn in any onshore oil or gas field. It was not uncommon for some of these men to be missing a finger or two as evidence of their more dangerous assignments. A rough lot they were, that was for sure.

Rick was all too familiar with the pitfalls and dangers associated with trying to harvest valuable products from beneath the ground since he had once been a Driller himself. He had worked up through the ranks from Soils Technician to Logging Assistant before holding the position of Senior or Lead Driller. After a few years of putting up with cranky bosses and constantly greasy clothes, and the fact that he felt there were too many guys with missing fingers from being caught in spinning chains, cables and rotary tools, he vowed to go back to school and finish out his Geology degree. His experience was primarily from doing onshore work, but he knew it was even more difficult and lonely out here in the middle of the ocean on these offshore platforms.

The chopper touched down with a distinctly loud metallic metal-on-metal sounding thump followed by a quick thud as the full weight of the helicopter and its contents settled onto the platform. The remaining engine’s rpm’s dropped off suddenly and the sense of movement was immediately gone. Rick let out the breath he suddenly realized he’d been holding for far too long, and took a gasp of air just as the door at his right elbow was flung open by a grizzly looking bearded man who looked to be about 45 years old. In reality, he was probably not more than 26, give or take a couple of years.

WHAT TOOK YOU GUYS SO LONG, ‘Red Beard’ shouted over the descending crescendo of the one remaining turbine engine as the characteristic high-pitched whine thankfully dimmed. Coupled with the howl of the still blowing wind, his words were whipped overboard almost as fast as they left his mouth. YOU’RE 20 MINUTES BEHIND SCHEDULE, he yelled with a slight but noticeable resentment in his voice. He was obviously annoyed that his shift was being stretched out and that was cutting into his off time, even if it was just a few minutes. This guy obviously wanted to get off and back to land as soon as possible.

With his first gasp of outside air, Rick immediately recognized the rather unpleasant and all too familiar smell of old dirty grease mixed with a dozen or more petroleum, lubricant, paint, slimy ocean mud, and gaseous odors. Worst of all in his mind was the ever-present lingering smell of cigarette smoke that permeated every office, lab, and square foot of these drilling platforms. Smells he had learned to put up with, but which still assaulted his senses as if new once again.

His father had been a smoker. A habit picked up while serving in the Merchant Marine Service during World War II. While many servicemen at the time smoked the old popular unfiltered brands like Camel or Lucky Strike and ended up dying of cancer some 20 to 30 years later, his father had gravitated to the filtered menthol Newport brand cigarettes. A distinct smell Rick and his three brothers would all hate for the rest of their lives.

Although his father never got cancer, he only quit smoking cold turkey after he had a heart attack at age 56. A two-week stretch in the hospital and some strong advice by several doctors had convinced him that if he wanted to live another year or more, the smoking would have to stop. To his credit, he never smoked again, but when his body finally cleared most of the tar and nicotine toxins out, he regained his sense of taste and smell. That was his eventual undoing. He wanted to make up for decades of lost pleasure that food flavors could offer. His eating increased so much, that his once skinny frame morphed into a balloon shape with head, arms, and legs protruding. Although his father did live until to his mid-70’s, he did not make it through a second heart attack.

Now many years later, he realized in his own way that his father had done him and his brothers a favor. None of them smoked after putting up with years of offensive and constantly lingering cigarette odors, ash stains, burn-spotted clothes, ruined furniture, and smelly carpets. Having experienced what might await them if they followed the same path as their ‘Pop’, none wanted to suffer a similar fate. Even the sight of an ashtray filled with grey ash and several butts almost made Rick gag, even to this day.

Rick’s lips pursed into an ever so slight grin as he mentally patted himself on the back for sticking with school and getting his life out of the proverbial loop of killing yourself on a job just for the lure of money; or succumbing to a habit of drugs, alcohol, or some other equally debilitating and destructive vice. He did not want to look like Red Beard here - old before his time - and definitely not what any woman would ever consider attractive.

Just before removing his headset, Rick spoke into the microphone that was grazing his lips and left cheek. Thanks for the ride Cowboy, he said mockingly as his head cocked around to see what kind of reaction he would get from the pilot seated diagonally behind his rear-facing seat position.

The term ‘Cowboy’ was used in aircraft terminology to refer to any pilot that was a bit of a renegade. Someone who flew with reckless abandon, that took undue chances, and often pulled stunts that endangered themselves or others. It was generally meant as a denigrating term by those who bestowed it, but was instead worn with pride like a badge of honor by those who were called it. That difference in perception was a fundamental insight into the minds of these daredevil pilots who seemed to stand apart as a special breed or group all their own.

Jim was looking up and to his left at the overhead ceiling electrical panel busily pulling fuse switches for any system not needed during the shutdown procedure and paused just a second to twist his head just a bit more to look back over his shoulder. Apparently not a bumpy enough ride since I figured your face would be a little green by now, he tossed back referring to Rick’s innate fear of flying which few people but Jim knew about.

Not wanting to reveal any sign of weakness to his friend or anyone else who also were connected to the internal com system, Rick replied, No way, as he smiled back with his shining white teeth gleaming through at the end of his obviously kidding grin. I must be getting used to this flying stuff – See Ya, he finished off as he pulled the headset away and placed his baseball cap back onto his head.

HARDHAT, the bearded one yelled at him as he unbuckled his seatbelt and started to step off onto the deck. What? Rick yelled back over the din of the wind, the clanging of machinery, the hum of electric motors, and the thumping of a multitude of various pumps. YOUR HARDHAT, he yelled again tapping the top of his head with an open palm. YOU HAVE TO WEAR YOUR HARDHAT AT ALL TIMES WHILE YOU’RE ON THE RIG, UNLESS YOU’RE SLEEPING OR FALLING OFF THE SIDE, he shouted before chuckling loudly to himself.

‘This must be considered acceptable humor these days,’ thought Rick, as he turned back to grab his helmet from under the strap on the top of his duffel bag where he always kept it when traveling. He hadn’t been around oilrig workers for at least a year, and it might take a bit of re-acclimation on his part.

As he turned and started to get out of the way of the open door to make way for the unloading, he caught the tired stare of Red Beard. The grin that was left on a bit too long from the lame joke he had cracked just a moment before now immediately leave his face. The cocky look was instead replaced by what Rick perceived as a slight touch of respect. ‘No doubt, due to all the stickers on Rick’s hardhat, earned through years of duty around guys just like this one’, he thought to himself. Stickers were like the badge of seniority to these guys. The hardhat with the most oil company or support firm logos or corporate stickers usually meant that the person wearing it had been around for a while and was no rooky in the business. The more beat up, scratched, and dirty the hardhat, the better, and Rick knew that. He had earned his stickers. Those things aren’t just handed out like candy. One usually had to work for them.

That was a classic mistake many politicians, visitors, and corporate types always seemed to make. Show up on a rig or construction site with a brand new clean hard hat, or an obvious loaner hat that was a bit dirty but free of any oil company logos or supply vendor stickers. It was the quickest way to spot a neophyte or rookie, and that opened up the person wearing such a helmet to teasing, ridicule, pranks, or just plain disrespect from the older, more seasoned workers and supervisors.

Rick was careful to duck as he crouched and scurried away from the now slowing rotor blades. He knew that even though the main hub that held those four blades was at least 8 to 10 feet above the landing skids, the wind could gust at just the wrong moment causing a blade to flex downward. He didn’t want to get whacked by a foot-wide, aluminum sheeted, honeycombed, 600 pound, 20-foot long, knife blade slicing through the air. Especially as his mission was just beginning.

Having been around helicopters before, Rick had almost been decapitated by a twin-bladed 206 model when he unthinkingly stood up in the bed of a small open top truck while loading boxes. The engine had been shut down, but the rotors were still turning as the rpm’s slowly wound down. Without realizing that the truck was within the swing arc of the just-landed Bell Jet-Ranger, Rick went to help unload the baggage compartment by jumping up into the truck bed to stack the several boxes of gear a ground crewman was handing over.

Luckily, the pilot of that 206 had shouted, Watch out! - Which provided just enough time for Rick to duck as one of the blades knocked his baseball cap off. He put that scary memory out of his head almost as fast as it had been recalled. There was a job to do, and he needed to get to it, not waste time thinking about how few of his precious nine lives he might have left.

Turning to descend the landing pad ladder, Rick looked down to note the dozens of pipes rising up out of the ocean heading for some terminus beneath the rig or into some holding or production tank on one of the several layers of decks of this massive offshore platform. One of these pipes he knew led not up into the rig, but from the platform back into the seafloor. It carried industrial carbon dioxide deep into the earth as a means of disposal. Here, in the remote and seemingly lost middle of a turbulent sea, on just one of more than a few dozen drilling sites, preventing global warming by disposing of waste CO2 was big business.

And business was why TransPetro Oil Company had sent industrial physicist Kurt Zentz out to oversee the operation on Platform Alpha. Kurt was working in the Gas Analysis Lab when Rick worked his way down the ladder from the helipad and across the connecting catwalk to the injection module. One of the men on the landing below the Helipad had directed him to the Gas Lab after offering to stow his duffel bag in the scientist quarters.

‘That’s unusual,’ Rick thought, apparently not everyone out here was trying to maintain that ‘hard roughneck’ image. Rick made a special note to remember the name JJ on the front of the man’s hardhat. After all, one never knew when one might need a helping hand or a friend out here, and Lord only knew how hard those were to come by.

JJ had told him to look for the yellow module on the other end of the long southern catwalk two decks below on the left, so he hurried along as best he could, all the while making sure to maintain his footing on the wet mesh walkway in the still pelting wind and rain. The faster he got out of this, into someplace dry, and warm, the better.

It was going to take Rick a few minutes to get back into the naval terminology of ladders vs. stairways, bulkheads vs. walls, and decks vs. floors. His earth science education had led him into the Navy ROTC or Reserve Officer Training School in college and he had ended his military career as a full Lieutenant. His promotion from Ensign was automatic upon graduating from the Air Photo Interpretation Section at the U.S. Naval Training Unit in Monterey, California.

His specialty had been analyzing oblique and orthographic aerial photos taken by satellites, high-flying SR-71 Blackbird spy planes, or nighttime reconnaissance flights that utilized infrared cameras mounted beneath various fighter jets, or more likely, the newer stealth fighters known as the F-117A Nighthawk.

He’d always loved maps of any kind, so his combined geology training helped make him an expert in spotting and recommending geologic and geographic hazards. Advantages that assisted military command officers to plan sneak attacks or avoid difficult vegetation or steep terrain. Knowing the lay-of-the-land helped avoid the enemy or minimize losses during battle actions. His intelligence assisted field units in seemingly mundane ways like avoiding places where tanks or vehicles might get bogged down because of swampy areas or high groundwater.

Rick was especially adept at noting places where structural geology could be used to block roads because a hillside joint or fracture pattern was conducive to creating an easily controlled landslide or rock fall. He had even suggested how a controlled flood could deter or destroy the enemy forces in a handful of instances. Almost all of his duty station assignments however, had been on solid ground in regular concrete, wood, or stucco buildings and not ships at sea or smelly oil platforms.

Since 1996, Norway's largest petroleum company, Vikinoil, had injected almost 1 million tons of carbon dioxide every year deep into the seabed beneath the Alpha complex of offshore platforms. The theory was that the overburden of undersea sediments and the weight of several tons per square inch of overlying seawater would keep the potent greenhouse gas from venting into the atmosphere where it would contribute to global warming.

The reason such processes are called theories is because they have not been proven, and Vikinoil was starting to have some problems. That was why Kurt was here - and also why Kurt had asked that Rick be sent out. He clearly needed some help or wanted advice on something.

As the Navy had taught him, it was not only polite to knock before entering, but probably a good idea around scientific labs to keep from interrupting an ongoing experiment. Besides, this wasn’t exactly friendly territory and Rick didn’t want to surprise someone who wanted privacy. As he stepped under the overhanging roof or deck and began to enter the open-ended passageway, he shook off the water from his survival suit and smacked his hardhat against his thigh to shed any excess water collected during his stagger across the slippery catwalk in the still relentlessly driving wind and rain.

He found the door or hatch with the words Gas Analysis Lab stenciled in 4-inch high letters with black spray paint above the steel crossbeam, and pounded loudly three times with the bottom end of his clenched fist.

Come, he heard a man’s voice shout from within, followed by a rather cryptic toned follow-up of, and shut the door behind you. As he entered, the smell of fresh-but oily-salt air was immediately replaced by a gentle but noticeable blast of warm air that reeked of chemical fluids and the usual lab-type rubber hose, glassware, packing materials, and typical apparatus-type chemistry lab hardware.

A slightly hunched-over, dark haired man, a few inches less than six feet tall, in a white lab coat, was standing in front of a bench across the room. He turned around and Rick immediately recognized the face of his somewhat older friend Kurt. Rick Fortuna, his friend expressed with a big smile curving up his cheeks that made the edges of his black mustache bend upwards. I’m glad you’re finally here, we have a lot to discuss.

Hello Dr. Zentz, Rick replied in a sort of half-respectful, half-mocking way. Always good to see an old colleague whose famous black mustache seems to be getting a little grey, added Fortuna.

Hey, at least I’m not putting on the extra weight around the middle like someone, the Doctor replied as a counter tease obviously knowing how much the younger man prided himself on his so-called 6-pack ab stomach. Take off that damned survival suit and stay awhile, he added. They shook hands and Kurt pulled a chair out from under a nearby worktable for Rick to sit down on.

As he fumbled trying to undo the various zippers with his wet, cold hands, Rick asked, So what was so important that you had my status reactivated by the Navy, woke me up in the middle of the night, and had me shipped off to this God-forsaken platform out in the middle of nowhere?

You surely were briefed by someone along the way, replied Kurt, …and they no doubt told you what this platform’s main function was here in the North Sea, but you need to hear the rest of the story.

Dr. Zentz went on to explain that Vikinoil's engineers aren't injecting CO2 into the seafloor to save the environment, but to save money. The Alpha 1 injection facility, which cost about $80 million to build by the way, saves Vikinoil over $53 million every year just in Norwegian taxes on carbon-dioxide emissions the company would otherwise have to pay to offset if vented to the atmosphere like most worldwide petrol operations. They want this platform along with the sister rigs Alpha 2 and Alpha 3 to be model disposal sites for the future of fossil fuels. You may have read that because of all the new environmental laws being passed, energy companies and power utilities are being forced to retool to meet the new greenhouse-gas emission standards. Dr. Zentz paused before going on.

Although business executives generally oppose such controls because of the costs involved, energy-company planners here believe there may be positive monetary opportunities in the financial balance sheet of global warming. Even before all of the scientific, safety and legal questions are settled, energy companies from Scotland to Southern California are gambling billions of dollars on the hope that they can meet growing demands for electricity with oil, gas, and coal, and avoid the increasing financial penalties by burying the greenhouse gases they generate.

Saving the planet from global warming and making millions of dollars at the same time, I get it, added Rick, …but I still don’t understand what this has to do with me, or you, or the Navy, he complained.

I was just getting there, chimed in Kurt. He leaned closer and lowered his voice to just above a whisper, as if someone else was in the room who might overhear, and slowly said, Rick, I need your help in finding out who is trying to destroy America’s economy by controlling the world’s precious metals, he finally revealed with a stern and concerned look on his face.

Rick immediately leaned back and started to chuckle. He had to try hard not to laugh heartedly out loud. This has got to be one of the most stupid jokes I have ever been the brunt of, he said as he leaned back in the chair tilting his head back in disbelief that a friend of his had gone to such lengths for either amusement or revenge.

Come on Kurt, he added, I can’t believe you’ve gone to all this trouble just to get back at me for drinking all your beer during that really hot summer in Bakersfield back in 2002. Or was it the time I borrowed your car to take that hot red head out on-the-town when we were working together in western Canada and I crashed on the way back while she was taking care of business and distracted me, if you know what I mean?

Lower your voice you idiot! This is not about some girl, or you wrecking my car, or making me drink stale water for a month. This is serious and dangerous, and I’m not in the least kidding or trying to exact revenge, you dumbkoff, he said in short, exact, clench-fisted tones while gritting his teeth and slipping back into his German accent, which he always tried to control.

Suddenly realizing Kurt was dead serious - Rick immediately straightened up and leaned forward to put his elbows on top of his knees. He clasped the fingers of both hands together before looking at Kurt to show his full attention. He knew this man well enough to realize when things were serious and businesslike. OK, what exactly are you talking about, and how can I help? he asked.

Up until this moment, Ricardo Giovanni Fortuna, Prince of Italy, and Duke of Apulia had lived a more-or-less charmed life. Born in northwest Sicily in the house of his mother’s parents located in Bari the regional seat of government. This was considered the heel of the ‘Boot of Italy’ in the province of Apulia. The family moved to America when Rick was age two so his father could seek employment.

Descended from an ancient line of royalty on his father’s side of the family, that served the King of Italy as Royal Guards. In return for loyal service, his Great Grandfather had been granted the title of Duke of the Royal Court and given lands in Apulia, so his family line had been well established by a fraternal ancestor.

Because of his bragging in elementary school about being of ‘royal blood’, the other kids began to tease him and started calling him ‘Prince Fortune’ since his last name meant fortune in English. A moniker that followed him into military service in the U.S. Navy. He now held dual citizenship but could speak fluent Italian.

Reaching the rank of Lieutenant, Fortuna had spent most of his American Naval career in offices in the Pentagon or any one of several bases or ports of call where his expertise in aerial photoreconnaissance and interpretation was needed. Too young for Vietnam, and too old for the Gulf War, he had never been in any actual combat situations, although he had been trained in all aspects of jungle, desert, and high altitude fighting and survival warfare.

Only after his father had passed away, did his mother admit to him that there was some question as to the legitimacy of the family’s royal line of succession. His father was always so proud to claim this connection to something greater than the average common man could. How could he be wrong? Why would he mislead his children? What would he stand to gain by proclaiming such a birthright connection in a country like America where few, if anyone, even cared about such things as royalty?

The timing of this realization was difficult for Rick to fathom. He was still in the Navy at the time, and not yet even 30 years of age. Yet he had already told anyone who would listen that he was of royal birth. He could not take those claims back now even if they were not true, and he did not believe they could be. No, he reasoned, his father would not lie about this, and he would prove the naysayers wrong.

Rick began a quest to research his heritage seeking proof not only for himself, but also to vindicate his father. Unfortunately, he was unable to trace his family roots back far enough to prove a direct connection to the Italian King and the bestowment of any royal position or property. Only that his ancestors had indeed served as Palace Guards. He wasn’t even sure which King they had worked under as there were questions in the history of succession given all the competing provincial monarchies prior to true unification of Italy in 1861, and in Italy, many used the term Duke and Prince interchangeably and often at the same time.

He had learned that the Nobility of Italy could be recognized by any one of a handful of sovereigns, such as the Holy Roman Emperor, the Holy See, various Kings of Italy, or certain other Italian kings and sovereigns as members of a class of persons officially enjoying hereditary privileges, which distinguished them from other persons and families.

Many Italians who claimed nobility, were merely endowed with hereditary titles. Medieval Italy was a loose coalition of separate states until 1861, and thus had many royal bloodlines. Italian royal families were often related through marriage to each other and to other European royal families.

The title