The Manhunt For Zoner One

By D.B. Dakota

The reporter suspects a missing senator was cremated in the colossal oil shale smelter, and the murderer is the operator of the plant. The reporter vanishes, captured by one-world zoning advocates. The chief zoner is the son of the missing senator, on the scene to get at the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613091531

Book preview

One

Valley Gazette — August 1, 1997

Shaleburg, Colorado — Sheriff’s deputies apprehended a transient male yesterday for trespassing at Oilshaco, the local petroleum research facility. Officials withheld his description, pending confirmation of identity. Police say he refused to explain how he gained access to the secured property and what he was doing there. Garfield County authorities have requested assistance from the National Zone Patrol.

Look at that fire! The tabloid reporter gasped, addressing no one, just ether, squinting at the gigantic inferno, the blazing pit off to his side and below. Man, that is Hell itself. What if some jerk fell in there? "Wow." Or got pitched in— alive, he thought, talking to himself.

Like Giggins did.

Poor guy. Noel Bergen snickered and snapped a picture, doubting it would turn out right, never having shot the guts of a crematorium before, the thing he was staring at. He bought the farm right there in that, that execution chamber.

Never found. No wonder.

Inspired by the discovery and with the mystery reasonably cleared up at long last, Noel wiped his eyes, tearing from smoke, not sorrow. His glee was over a big story taking shape, about an assassination years earlier in that very inferno. Oh, the color, the political intrigue, the oil-for-energy game backdrop, the treachery, quirks of the torture—the cantankerous kook who got away with murder. And he’s standing right down there. Best of all, and what made the exclusive a mind-blowing good story, was the stature of the victim:

Giggins was a U.S. Senator.

Noel slipped his mask down under his chin, turned and yelled, What do you call this thing! Not that he cared, but he had to appear interested in order to uncover details that verified his thesis—the case of a missing politician last seen alive twenty-five years earlier in and around that very plant. Noel believed Senator Giggins was hurled into the furnace and incinerated.

That’s my still! Yukon Guido, the steward down on the ground floor, shouted to the mesmerized observer above. And keep that mask on!

Noel started gagging, yanked the mask off and edged closer for a better view.

I don’t want you to inhale that residuum vapor. Better come down now, mister!

Noel ignored the warning.

You hear me! Three whiffs and you’re a dead man! The white-haired steward below cupped his hands over his mouth and nose, signaling Noel to put the respirator back on. Sneezing and coughing from the stench, the writer obeyed and covered his ears with his hands to cut down the roar.

He moved closer.

Teetering on the high, inner catwalk of the mountainside research plant, he leaned over the handrail and gazed into the firebox, a cavernous open-top furnace. At the bottom of the railroad hopper-size cauldron dazzling blazes, scores of sizzling orange tongues, hissed and gurgled, igniting an extraordinary fuel.

Witnessing an incredible exploit, Noel just shook his head, thinking about the alchemists of old, wizards who sought to turn base metals into gold. Here, right now, was petrified matter burning, turning into petroleum. The secret, not magic at all, was in a special type of claylike rock, a dark brown shale, soft enough to whittle and ready to pop in the oven. As shale baked, then melted, it yielded something more precious than gold. The inferno of slabs was more than a spectacle. Crude oil bubbled and oozed and dripped into a trough or something—he couldn’t see where the petroleum went.

America was waiting for it, needed it. No longer would oil have to be hit-or-miss deep-drilled and, by various means, pumped out of the ground. Today’s alchemists would heat fissile rock and pipe the drippings to the refinery. To do that was expensive, given the current state of development of the new technique. Yet the terrain of adjacent Northwest Colorado was nearly all shale, hill after hollow, to depths uncharted, of combustible mineral. Few people in high places knew that, else they were afraid of shale for political reasons.

Reporter and steward were alone inside the mammoth energy experimental station at Shaleburg, Colorado. A low, heavy thunder rolled upward from the furnace, triggered by the exploding, churning fuel—not coal or coke, not wood. The fuel, a ton and more, was stone, rocks, flaring, percolating and spewing—of all things—oil. Oil just like the buried liquid stuff they find with those doodlebugs. Those divining rods.

Tragic, but Noel Bergen gathered news for fun and profit, and he’d have nothing to write about unless misfortune befell someone. He left the empathy albatross for others to bear. Nothing trumped going to press with an exposé of fraud and phonies. And this scandal—just waiting to be published—would knock Washington’s socks off.

What a way to go, the reporter snorted, adjusting his mask, beginning to hack at invisible fumes rising. But, hey, one less lawmaker. Chuckling at the poetic justice, building the story in his head, visualizing serial articles, documentaries, a book and the Pulitzer, Bergen combed his thin blond hair with his fingers and looked around. Now this is a scoop, he cracked, but no one was hearing his quips over the roaring fire, although the guide, the plant steward, watched him from thirty feet below.

No one else was on the premises of the dormant facility, and Yukon was showing off what the country was missing out on—what might have been. An alchemist of sorts, not in the vein of the mystics of olden times, he was a diligent engineer-geologist. With people, though, the skilled veteran was fumbling his way along, trying to interact properly. A chisel-faced old-timer of sixty-four, aristocratic and benevolent, he seldom wore glasses. For an Italian he was tall, over six feet, and athletic, and had a full head of untamed mane. Yukon wandered around through glistening pipelines, tanks, gauges and exhibits, keeping an eye on the young newshound.

They both wore denims and their sleeves were rolled up. It was June,’97, pretty hot, and the air wasn’t moving. A still? Noel yelled, cupping his mouth. Does this thing work? He slipped his mask back on, eased closer to the fire and just stared at it, picturing the gruesome scene of Senator Giggins’ cremation down in the pit.

What’s it look like? Yukon snarled under his breath. Work, does it? Rolling his eyes in exasperation, he bellowed, What do you think you’re looking at? From a nearby control panel he fed more gas to the jets, goosing the shale to flame up and boggle the pushy journalist, who backed away.

The grizzled expert and the green spectator were in a plane hangar-size building perched on the southern slope of a desolate plateau. The structure was a developmental enterprise, one of a kind, the exhibition pilot plant of the oil shale industry, what was left of the undertaking.

Carrying a writing pad and the mask, the correspondent descended a steel stairway to the main floor and joined his guide. This thing, as you call it, works because I test once a month, Yukon barked in response to Noel’s dumb question. Keeps the equipment from rusting and clogging up. All the exhibits, for that matter. You never know.

Know what? When this fiery furnace will blow you off the map? Noel smiled, flung his arms up like an explosion and puffed his cheeks, imitating a blast. A weak chin gave him a worried look, so his smiles never quite came off...seemed forced. Toothy grins were atonements for his hard-nosed grilling style.

Ridiculous! Yukon shot back over the racket. We never know when Uncle Sam will be dragged into another oil crisis.

And get caught with his reserves down?

They’re already down. Pretty soon we’ll have to spot two hundred bucks a barrel for OPEC crude. Then what? Shale is a hedge.

Oh, sure, the newsman tittered and pointed overhead. So the slate is roasted in the broiler and the cinders fall onto the hauler-outer.

Close enough. Something like that. Guido closed his eyes and nodded, skeptical of the agog hotshot just now gathering fundamentals catalogued in libraries before he was even born.

Along with bones from an incinerated body that might tumble down in there?

How’s that? Yukon barked, twisting around fast, caught off guard by the question, realizing he shouldn’t have reacted so intensely. May I kindly ask what prompts you to turn silly?

Noel picked up the body language. A man tossed in there alive would be cremated, wouldn’t he? he snapped, rubbing his sweaty face.

Well, the world needs an answer to that, Yukon huffed, and I have a suggestion: Why don’t you leap in and see what happens?

What a story, Noel heaved, buoyed by the comebacks he was getting from his interviewee; the old man flinched.

Yukon is one guy you don’t mess with, Noel’s boss had cautioned, knowing the reporter’s idiosyncrasy, don’t rough up the patriarch. A reference to interrogation.

Yeah, right, thought Noel. What did a desk-bound editor know about field research? Noel wrote articles and had his own column, but was still getting his journalistic legs, searching for a style admirers would talk about. A hard worker, his colleagues considered him an ace correspondent with a nose for exclusives and scoops. More than a reporter, he was an investigative journalist, as he saw himself. That sounded so neat, making him feel right at home with those TV guys. Staffers nicknamed him Zoner, an allusion to his obsession with zoning regimentation. He liked that better than Hammer, which was his previous handle, in reference to his technique, which was to ingratiate himself, wheedle and hammer—upsetting to some. Noel liked the metaphor and could see the day when his byline read simply, Bergen. In his mid-twenties, blue-eyed Noel was half-Nordic. While not tall, he had the narrow head and light skin. To offset a high forehead he was trying to grow a mustache and whiskers. Pretty lame.

GETTING TO SHALEBURG, the reporter had driven from Denver up to the Continental Divide and under it via Eisenhower tunnel, passed snow-free Vail and skimmed down the Western Slope, still had another hour to go. Crossing the Colorado River, then following it, he scarcely noticed it, a slow, canal-like ribbon, grim, silty and deep, since it was carrying the runoff of summer thunderstorms. He paid little attention to the pastoral flat canyon, wide and shallow; it had greened up since his last trip. And the river just moseyed along.

Then it plunged down through deep Glenwood Canyon, generating sudsy rapids. Turbulence in the trout pools was a welcome distraction as he drove alongside, but he missed the morning sun, hidden by a sheer granite wall. Tired of chewing gum to stay awake, he spit it out the window and reached over for the croissant with egg and ham, cold because he still wasn’t hungry.

Noel’s mind was on the interview ahead, rehearsing how to question the cranky old promoter he would meet in Shaleburg. Barreling out of the gorge, he shot by Glenwood Springs and didn’t slow down till he entered a territory of rough, eroded ridges, peaks and mesas—the badlands. He was in Shaleburg Valley.

This was the Oil Shale Capital of the World, Yukon insisted, the hub being a cordial, working-class town of around four thousand. Valley natives were easy to like and just as hip as people elsewhere—a few, more so. Noel had met some residents whose status was garbled, in several meanings of the word, and Yukon was one of them. An open book, he was not. But he was an arsenal of energy information, Noel intended to break into it and indirectly learn the truth about Giggins’ fate.

On the south edge of the town, the notable river, with more vigor, charged through the valley. A picture-postcard scene, upslope breezes swept the air clean. Noel had an appointment at Oilshaco, the petroleum research facility. The operation wasn’t on a commercial basis, but Yukon the caretaker promised to fire it up and give Noel a demonstration. Looking northward from the Interstate seven miles distant, the plant was usually mistaken for a conventional refinery. Some apparatuses were housed, protected from the elements...the rest were outside within a fenced yard, all monitored off-site by electronic alarms and other methods.

YOU’RE WASTING MY TIME. Yukon turned to walk off and not fool with such comic-book fantasy about cremation.

Noel grinned. On good authority I have intelligence that some time back a man did tumble down in there.

I thought you were a news man. Yukon folded his arms, checked his watch and started flipping switches off.

I apologize. Noel offered a handshake, but Yukon stepped aside and showed his back. You’ve been checking this facility for how long?

Years, twenty-odd. Ever since we shut down the research back in the seventies, Yukon replied over his shoulder, opening then twirling shut a steering-wheel valve. The modern alchemists, a consortium of three oil companies that made up Oilshaco, had walked off and left Guido as custodian.

The journalist sauntered along a shelf displaying variegated specimens of damp, saturated mineral and rubbed a finger over them. This is a spectacular museum you’ve got here.

"Museum! Oilshaco is a viable factory." Stay calm, don’t lose your temper; he’ll leave soon. I make oil here.

Noel peeked at shale earrings, rings and tie clasps inside a locked display case, once prominent in a jewelry store. Brown gems didn’t sell. He picked up and examined a hand carved figurine on a chain. Get many visitors?

Quite a few, Yukon replied, from all around the world...politicians and investors, geologists and engineers.

Do they think your brand of oil will ever be produced on any scale? the writer snorted, hefting a pair of large dice paperweights.

People without axes to grind think so—shale oil will have to be produced and can be and right here. Only a matter of time. As soon as we get the production costs down. Someday the world will come begging.

The world’s been hearing that for, what, seventy-five years?

There’ve been fits and starts, that’s for sure, the hoarse-voiced Yukon answered with his arms locked together. We’re standing atop trillions of barrels of oil, though.

How long have you been waiting?

Well, let’s see. After the war I graduated from School of Mines in Golden in nineteen fifty-seven, came over here to Shaleburg and picked up a few land options and mineral rights. In the early sixties, I got Oilshaco rolling—well, the oil companies did. I was sort of the cheerleader.

The interviewer leered. You must know something. You own much of this Valley land outright, don’t you?

No answer.

Whose money is behind that new shale corporation recently filed in Delaware? Noel grinned.

I have nothing to do with what goes on in Delaware. Yukon dropped his arms and glowered. Why do you ask such questions?

To see if the people here have a genuine future. I’m trying to compile the complete story.

The morgues of your own Denver newspapers have every development that’s known about the shale industry. My employers saw to that, publicized everything.

Then they pulled out, the writer stated and cracked his knuckles, an annoying habit.

Mothballed Oilshaco, sure did.

So you run this thing as a demo plant. This is not an actual still, is it?

Doesn’t condense vapors, no, Yukon chuckled and pointed to a control panel. In the sense that we cook the shale, it is still-like. Just turn the heat up and crude leaches out. Yukon led the way around the cobwebbed plant. Here is an underground oven, a model of one. Heated pellets are dropped into a hole and they cook the rock to free up the oil. We siphon it out through this line, he pointed, and into storage.

Then out she goes through a hose to a tanker truck.

Far from it, but Yukon nodded. That’s two methods: mining, and in situ. Here are pictures that show a technique employed in Queensland, down under—you know, Australia? And we have another method. I don’t have a demonstration of it.

The newsman squinted. You don’t mean the atomic bombs, do you?

Well, little fellas, yeah, way down in the ground, low yield devices. Don’t know how much oil they produced.

Environmentalists stopped you.

Money-grubbing Luddites. Yukon shook his head and spat. They bluffed the politicians who wouldn’t let us open up the holes to measure.

What’s this I hear about an oil shale extraction experiment using cold-fusion?

Yukon studied the floor, grinned and looked up. Well, the inventors haven’t been sitting on their hands.

The reporter pointed toward a padlocked room posted CONFIDENTIAL. Is that it in there?

Getting no answer, Noel cocked his head. Are you saying you’ve got secrets and mysteries here?

I’m saying I’m authorized to give you a tour, anyone influential who’s interested, including the press.

There’s a big story here, pops.

So you’ll headline it with a conclusion you’ve already jumped to. Yukon took a few steps toward the entrance.

Looking at your layout another way, how about this? That new Delaware corporation, your hush-hush experiment, those could be hype, a camouflage, just another cycle, another fit, another start.

Why would I do that? Yukon brushed hair out of his eyes.

Hey, sell some land, snapped the reporter, easing alongside the engineer. Invest in the Shaleburg Valley land boom, folks. Tomorrowville is here and now, another generation of suckers.

Are you trying to make me angry?

Aw, Yukon, of course not. Pardon my concern. Remember those plans you showed me on a previous visit? I haven’t forgotten them.

Yukon stopped and faced the harasser. I told you those were privileged, but down the road. He wished he hadn’t entrusted his project to such an impudent snoop, but back then he was so congenial.

My lips are sealed, sir. I’d like to buy up some options myself on some of this land around here.

I suggest you find a broker and get a sense of what’s available.

I’m getting my own license pretty soon. Noel tugged at his limp whiskers. How’d you like to throw in with me?

What has all this to do with gathering shale news? Yukon rubbed his ragged stubble.

Sideline. You’ve got a nice parcel down at Parachute, right? asked Noel, pointing westward. I happen to know a developer who might be interested in a regional mall. You’re an old man, Yukonie, you ought to be selling off.

You sure do come on, don’t you? Let’s stop this.

Dem bones, dem bones, dem... the reporter started snapping his fingers in rhythm, taunting, singing: Dry bones, ha-ha. Senator’s bones, dem dry bones. Let’s hear d’word of d’Lord. Come on, Yukon, tell me.

On second thought, why don’t I just do that? Yukon seethed. Cut this jerk down to size. And tell me about your newsletter. It’s a little old gossip sheet, isn’t it?

"The Rockies Dispatch. Again, sir, it’s a weekly business tabloid, a publication of record with lots of real estate news plus finance and business. The bible."

The mafia’s poop sheet isn’t it? Yukon scowled. They run it? He didn’t need to ask...he knew all about the paper and its publisher. Considering their reporter’s behavior, a little ignorance was in order.

The Monatini family is the owner and a son is the editor-in-chief. The chief’s brother is the miscellaneous and so forth.

Mr. Bergen, maybe you and I should get to know each other better.

I’m for that, and you’ll show me what’s behind that confidential padlock sometime? Noel pinched his lips together.

I’ll give it some thought.

They wandered out to their cars, shaded their eyes and gazed at Shaleburg below and to the south. Farther away, beyond the river, on scenic rolling hills, Yukon lived on a big spread. The area was perfect for urbanization, were it not for light poles, fences, farm houses, families, roads and orchards. It was already developed.

The territory was also ideal for a wilderness preserve, word was, if the development already in place was torn out and the people relocated. The region was called Valley Mesa. The forested Grand Mesa wilderness rose farther still in the south where thousands went camping and fishing. North of the river and west of Oilshaco, unending badlands sprawled with cliffs and rugged terrain. Oil shale country began there and extended west and north to neighboring states, 6,000 square miles of moist, mellow substance. The region would be shipping oil in Yukon’s lifetime, he hoped, and much of the credit would be his.

Nice to see you again, Mr. Guido, thanks for the demo.

My pleasure. Yukon’s voice was cheery, but not his face...it reflected contempt for the feisty bantam.

By the way. I’m amazed at how much you look like Einstein. Yukon’s hair attracted Noel’s attention...wiry, tumbleweed-like, uncombed. To all appearances, he had never in his life shed a single bristle. Haircuts? Not by a barber, no. Some men couldn’t stand barber shops, didn’t like the waiting or being touched on the head; others feared scissors or got edgy, pinned down in the chair. Yukon had all those phobias, too, plus one the psychologists had no name for: hatred of chitchat. He despised babble anyplace, but, once seated, he couldn’t get up and leave barbershop asphyxiation. So every few months, chore that it was, he trimmed himself.

On the street small children flinched and ran from the approaching threat, he with the loping gait, his chalky brush swaying in rhythm, his wide-eyed gaze over top the crowd. High schoolers weren’t afraid, they took to him. He visited their classrooms and kept them absorbed with lectures on geology and minerals. They fondled and carved shale, watched it burn and drip oil. He taught them respect for energy, their own resource just outside the window. And none mentioned his appearance. I don’t mean your eyes, Noel chuckled, staring at the head in need of a frizz or something fashionable. Yukon was not going to respond to such trivia; he turned to go back inside and lock up.

One final question. Noel pointed to the distant Valley Mesa and Yukon’s estate. When the feds rezone and take over that beautiful landscape over yonder...

What do you mean, rezone? They can’t take over our property, that’s illegal!

"Oh, sure, but it is going to happen. On another matter, know what, Yukon? Before your time, before shale, mean guys used to rifle the place, and that’s how and why this was called Rifle.

You don’t say.

Well, this time around it’s the feds, but the booty is land. So, are you going to fight the grab or roll over?

If they try something like that, Yukon grimaced, they’ve got a war on their hands.

Hey, I’m ready to report it. You think you’ve got an inferno in there in that furnace, wait till the rezoners show up with their surveying gear. Then all Hell’s gonna break loose. Are you a militia man?

Guido didn’t answer, but swallowed, squeezed his chin and eyed the fact-finder. Where did the combative reporter come up with such pap? Noel, let’s get together for another interview. But don’t tell your editor until we’ve finished. He’s afraid of me. You do some more digging, then drop by the house. Maybe I can help you with a really big story.

AT THAT HOUR, THE EDITOR of Rockies Dispatch, the Monatini son, was filling out a form, responding to an invitation. The elegant, personalized brochure stated that on July 12th in Aspen a symposium was scheduled, featuring scientists and media CEOs on the subject of zoning. Mr. Monatini was urged to attend and contribute his distinct insights. The invitation was not a come-on; to the contrary, attendees would receive a $500 stipend for their participation.

Still sounds fishy, he thought. But I need to be at the forefront of that zoning malarkey. It isn’t good for business. Maybe I can help squash it. Or on the other hand, get in on it.

Two

June, 15th, in Denver , three evenings after Noel’s interview with Yukon, his foster mother, Aunt Shelly, threw a hasty party for him. A small going-away affair, it was at her elegant house southeast in Cherry Hills, an old-money settlement of prominent business people. An art dealer, Shelly Torrence was a trim, pageboy blond of around fifty, wearing tan pants and a silver-button monogrammed blazer. Under her chin, pinned to a scarlet blouse, was a turquoise-and-silver original brooch crafted by the Navajo. Present at the light-wine party were a few of Noel’s friends and co-workers, including a couple of suits...most dressed casually. Noel showed up in a lightweight sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up, trying to appear athletic.

He was leaving Denver.

He’d been reassigned to road work, taken off the shale story and was not pleased about the change. He tried to look pleasant even as he ground his teeth. Bad timing, he confided to Shelly as they drifted off to a corner. Downright stupid. This sudden switch to zoning articles is one assignment I do not want to take on right now.

Zoning is your hot button, I thought, she frowned. Remember at our Christmas party? You were raring to do a backroads series on zoning.

Oh, sure, a travelogue, but that was filler stuff, a newspaper version about expendable people tucked back out of sight, locking horns with city hall, and losing. I hit Mona with the concept and didn’t get anywhere.

She likes city halls, huh?

It’s a he, replied the reporter, shifting around like he wanted to do something other than gab with a relative.

Mona, I mean.

Gaspar Monatini, he’s my boss, looks like Tom Dewey, likes to be called Mona.

That’s no better than Gaspar, said Shelly with a faint chuckle. Earlier he didn’t like your travelogue, and now he does?

Overnight. Strange. Just at the time I’m getting into the land swindle. I think something is going on with the militia over there, too, on the Western Slope. There was indeed and had to do with zoning, but not the petty codes of city hall. Noel scratched his brow and made a measuring gesture with his fingers. "Besides fraud, I am that close to uncovering an old unsolved murder, a senator, no