Great Spirit Valley

CHAPTER ONE

For many people around the world, Wednesday, March 29, 2000 was a day of mixed fortunes.

It was the day that Dr. Mark Mobius, president of Templeton Funds, co-chairman of the World Bank and undisputed godfather of international money managers, sent shockwaves through international financial circles when he warned of a looming crash of global internet stocks. At a news conference in Paris, the economic guru told reporters that he expected the collapse would be massive, with most Nasdaq listed shares losing 50 to 90% of their value.

Lance Delano, a wealthy young stock market speculator from Denver, Colorado, was with a group of friends sipping cocktails aboard his 50-foot sloop Lionheart, which lay at anchor in St. George’s Harbor, Bermuda, when he heard Dr. Mobius’s grim prediction on a local radio station.

During March, the Nasdaq had experienced some sharp falls, but Delano, like most tech stock investors, saw the decline as merely a correction in the phenomenal dotcom boom. But now Dr. Mobius had joined the few experts warning of financial disaster, suddenly Delano was worried.

One of many well-heeled Americans who enjoyed the luxury of cruising in the Caribbean during winter, Delano had stopped off in Bermuda on the way home to the United States. He had planned on staying at St. George's for a few more days but now he knew he must get home as soon as possible to tend to business.

*

For Jeff Bishop, the prospect of the dotcom bubble bursting and forcing thousands of nouveaux-riche stock market players back into the ranks of everyday wage slaves was of no concern. A native of Billings, Montana, and one of America’s fast disappearing breed of wildcatters, Bishop knew his future lay in oil, not in cyberspace.

Even as Dr. Mobius delivered his speech half a world away, on a remote and bitterly cold, snow-covered drilling lease in the foothills of the Canadian Rockies, Bishop’s lifelong dream of a major strike came true when the drilling rig he had inherited from his father struck oil at seven thousand feet.

*

Fifty miles to the west of Bishop’s oil derrick, in a high valley nestled between some of the highest peaks in the Rocky Mountains, a Blackfoot Indian knelt down in a patch of bloodstained snow and wept unashamedly.

For two days Black Dog Running had been searching the wilderness for his fifteen-year-old son after he had gone missing during a late winter blizzard. Now he had found him, but just a few hours too late.

Most of the boy’s flesh had been ripped from his bones. From the profusion of tracks, in and around the patch of crimson snow, Black Dog Running knew there must have been at least a half a dozen wolves in on the kill. And from one abnormally large set of tracks he knew the leader of the pack must have been a fearfully huge beast.

Still weeping, Black Dog Running rose to his feet. He took a rawhide blanket from his pony’s back and gently wrapped it around what was left of his son’s ravaged body and prepared to return to his village.

*

Over eight hundred miles to the south, Helen Coffey, a successful public relations director with a high profile law firm in Salt Lake City and an ardent supporter of the Sierra Club, one of the world’s most influential conservation organizations, sat at her computer in her downtown apartment.

At the end of her usual hectic day, she was busy preparing a speech she was to deliver the next day at the University of Utah when her attention was drawn to a newscast on her television. With the sound barely audible she hurried to the set and turned up the volume.

Helen felt a mixture of outrage and despair when the news presenter announced that it now seemed inevitable that US government’s plans to allow a private corporation to construct a nuclear waste storage facility in Utah’s Skull Valley would go ahead. Her anger grew until the newscast moved onto another story then she switched off the television and went back to her computer.

As a member of a panel of highly successful business professionals from her alma mater, Helen had been invited to speak to a student conference at the university about the boundless opportunities globalization was bringing to all American business and law graduates. But now, so incensed by what she saw as blatant corporate and governmental vandalism in Skull Valley, she deleted the speech she had almost completed and started on a new one.

CHAPTER TWO

When the first streaks of dawn appeared over St. George's Harbor, a sharp knock on Lance Delano's door woke him from a restless sleep.

'Ve are ready to vey anchor, Skippor.'

On hearing Lars Hansen's voice, Delano threw back the light sheet covering his long, lithe, naked body and swung his feet onto the floor of the master's cabin. The sudden movement caused a stab of pain between his temples and for a few moments he sat on the edge of the bunk until the throbbing in his head had eased a little.

The night before, after Delano announced he was heading for home at first light the next morning, the crowd of people visiting Lionheart from other yachts in the harbor turned the evening into a farewell party that had gone on until well after midnight. Only his paid crew, Lars Hansen and Bridgette Lindstrom, a young Swedish couple, had turned in early in preparation for the expected five or six day voyage to Maryland.

Delano regretted staying up so late and having a few drinks too many. He took a quick shower, hoping it might clear his head. Afterwards, he took a look at himself in the mirror. Apart from the bloodshot dark eyes, the handsome olive skinned face that looked back at him showed no sign of the hangover within. He quickly shaved and combed his thick black hair, then slipped into a pair of shorts and a polo shirt and headed up to the deck.

As he passed through the main salon, pretty Bridgette Lindstrom greeted him from the galley with a wide smile. A tall, statuesque, blond in her early twenties, she was clothed only in a halter and a skimpy red sarong as she busily prepared breakfast.

Being a born womanizer, the lovely Bridgette had been a major factor in Delano offering the cash-strapped Swedish cruising couple top dollar and airfares back to Tortola in the British Virgin Islands, to crew aboard Lionheart on her return voyage to the US. As Delano hurried topside, not even Briggette's spectacular physical charms could distract his mind from Dr Mark Tobias's chilling prediction of a collapse in the Nasdaq.

The sun was peeping over the horizon into a cloudless sky and a gentle fifteen- knot westerly was blowing as Delano stepped into the cockpit of the big sloop. On the foredeck, barefooted, bare-chested, and wearing just a pair of cut-off blue jeans, the powerfully built Lars Hansen stood ready to raise sail.

'Have you checked the VHF weather forecast, Lars?' Delano called out.

The big Swede nodded his head. 'Ya, the radio say clear skies and a steady vesterly, Skippor.'

'Then let's get underway.' Delano shouted, grasping the vessel's huge stainless steel steering wheel in his hands. 'Once we clear the harbor, we'll eat breakfast.'

*

Twenty degrees of latitude to the north of St. George's Harbor and three time zones to the west, the weather wasn't as agreeable. There was no sign of the sun and no warm westerly to caress Jeff Bishop's drilling rig, raised in a clearing in a forest of dense white spruce trees. Instead, Old Man Winter, in a final act of defiance, was delivering a parting shot to most of the Province of Alberta.

Heavy snow was falling from leaden skies and a flesh ripping northerly sent it swirling around in all directions. But the miserable weather and the prospect of being snowed in on the lease for a few days couldn't dampen the elation the drilling crew felt at bringing in the well the day before.

Bishop, a fit, muscular young man, sat alone on a wooden stool in the doghouse of the drilling rig with the hood of his heavy parka pulled up over an unruly mop of black hair. His dark eyes stared pensively into a mug of steaming hot coffee.

Since the death of his father in a fall from the rig three years earlier, a series of dry holes and constant financial worry had taken their toll. Now, as Bishop took a few minutes to reflect on the long struggle it had been to bring in his first gusher, there was no sign of stress on his boyish, strong-jawed face. His only concern was that his father was not around to share his joy.

His father had spent his entire life searching for oil. He had drilled in over twenty U.S. states and in three Canadian provinces and in the process had drilled more than his share of dry holes. But always when things had gotten really tough and the bank and his creditors had started screaming, somehow Jake Bishop had always managed to bring a well in, pay his debts, and start on yet another exploration adventure.

Bishop smiled at the recollection of his father's uncanny ability to somehow always come through when the chips were down. Unfortunately, he had not been so lucky himself. A year earlier when the bank had threatened to sell him up, Bishop had sold a fifty percent interest in Bishop Exploration to a silent partner for a song just to keep the company going.

Bishop drained his coffee mug, stood up and looked out the tiny doghouse window. Outside, the wind had picked up, wildly swaying the tall spruce around the perimeter of the lease and it was now snowing much heavier than before.

After a few moments, the doghouse door opened letting in a flurry of snowflakes and Henry Braddock, the long-time Canadian driller on the Bishop Exploration's only rig stepped inside.

Braddock grinned. 'Everyone's ready and waiting for you, Jeff.'

Earlier, Bishop had told Braddock to get the crew out of the weather and into the cookhouse where he planned to announce his decision to give every man a big cash bonus. In return, he would ask them to keep quiet about the oil strike until he had a chance to buy up any other available oil exploration leases in the immediate vicinity.

*

To the west, high in the Rockies, the snow was also falling heavily in the remote alpine valley that Black Dog Running's people called the Cradle . Encircled by jagged mountains with sheer cliff faces, the valley was accessible only through a steep narrow gorge, which in places was barely wide enough for a horse to pass through. the Cradle had been the secret refuge of Black Dog Running's band of Blackfeet for over a hundred years, since the relentless encroachment of white men onto the plains of Western Canada.

It was early afternoon when Black Dog Running reached his village. He rode solemnly between the lodges with his son's remains draped over his pony beneath a blanket. Snow encrusted his long black hair. His weathered face with its high cheekbones and hatchet nose showed his grief. Slowly villagers emerged from their teepees to watch his passing.

Everyone knew Black Dog Running had gone in search of his pubescent son, who according to ancient Blackfoot custom, had gone to some lonely place to fast and self-torture himself to induce the vision of a great supernatural spirit who would guard and guide him into manhood and then throughout life. But from the bright red bloodstains on the belly of Black Dog Running's pony and the motionless form beneath the blanket, everyone knew the youth was dead.

When Black Dog Running reached his own lodge, his wife, Little Bird, and his young daughter Moonchild, stood outside the teepee. Tears streamed down their faces. When her husband didn't rein in his pony, Little Bird ran forward and reached for the bloodstained blanket but Black Dog Running gently pushed her away.

'Our son was taken by wolves, ' he said softly. 'Do not let your last memory of him be as he is now. Let it be of the strong, proud young man who left us six days ago to seek his sacred vision.' Black Dog Running urged his pony on. 'I must go now and prepare a burial place for him. When his earthly body is at rest, I will speak to the chief about what I must do to ensure his spirit will also rest in peace.'

Many willing hands assisted Black Dog Running to construct a crude scaffold in a small clump of pine trees on a rise just outside the village. His son's remains were laid to rest on it dressed in his best elk skin tunic and his favorite hunting bow and flint-tipped arrows were laid by his side. Then Little Bird and Moonchild, with their long black hair cut short as a mark of mourning, stood with Black Dog Running beneath the scaffold to pay their last respects.

Daylight was giving way to darkness when the family left their silent vigil. Little Bird and Moonchild returned to their teepee and Black Dog Running went to Chief Crooked Leg's lodge. The old white-haired chieftain was seated with a group of tribal elders. They sat around a fire in the center of the teepee drawing on a ceremonial pipe fashioned from elk antlers and encrusted with gold nuggets.

Crooked Leg acknowledged Black Dog Running with a barely discernable smile and waved him to an empty place beside the fire. Wrinkles around the old chief's toothless mouth deepened as he took a long draw on the pipe.

'We are saddened by the death of your son,' Crooked Leg said handing the pipe to Black Dog Running. 'Is it true he was taken by wolves?'

'Yes, and from the size of pieces of flesh ripped from his body with one bite and from the huge tracks I saw in the snow, I would say the leader of the pack was twice as big as any wolf I have ever seen.'

'Tribal law dictates that any animal that kills one of our people must itself be tracked down and killed,' Crooked Leg said, 'or the spirit of the deceased will never be at peace.'

'Then may I have the permission of the tribal council to hunt the great beast down?' Black Dog Running said.

'Of course,' the chief said. 'Hunting down and killing the wolf is your right and also you are duty bound to your son to do so.'

'Yes, but the attack took place not far from the entrance to the Cradle . I tracked the wolf pack to the mouth of the gorge and the sentinels there told me they saw the leader, a huge albino, leading his pack down to the Outside.'

The elders around the fire exchanged concerned glances.

'Then you want our permission to leave the Cradle ?' one of them asked.

'Yes.'

'We have only lived for so long in the Cradle undiscovered by the white eyes,'

Crooked Leg said, 'because our people have always been forbidden to go to the Outside. That is why there are guards posted at the mouth of the gorge. Tribal law calls for the death of anyone who attempts to leave the Cradle and also for the death of all his family members. It is harsh law but it has served us well for generations.'

'That is why I must ask the council's permission to go,' Black Dog Running pleaded.

Crooked Leg shook his head slowly. 'Anyone going to the Outside imperils the safety and well being of the entire tribe. Should white men learn of the Cradle because of you, we would soon be living like mangy dogs on a bad land reservation like our Blackfoot brothers on the Outside. Would you wish to bring that on the tribe?'

'Of course not.'

'Then it might be better to sacrifice your son's spirit to eternal unrest than to risk the loss of our mountain sanctuary to the white eyes. Remember it was they, who brought guns, firewater and death to our ancestors. With their guns they slaughtered the buffalo on which the Blackfoot depended for their very existence. With their firewater, they addled the brains of our hunters and stole their furs, leaving them and their families to starve to death. And of those who didn't die of hunger, many were wiped out by the white man's smallpox. That is what forced our band to seek refuge in these high mountains.'

'But I would not go far enough beyond the Cradle to be in contact with any white men before I killed the great wolf and set my son's spirit free.' Black Dog Running persisted. His moist dark eyes looked into the eyes of the elders imploring their consent to his request. 'With this fresh snow the pack will be easy to track. Please I beg of you, for the sake of my only son, let me go.'

Crooked Leg drew on the pipe again and stared thoughtfully into the fire.

'Go home to your lodge while we consider this,' he said after a few moments,

Black Dog Running left the council but an hour later he was summoned back to the chief's lodge.

'We have decided to let you go to the Outside,' Crooked Leg said. 'But only until the moon is full. If you are gone any longer, you might come in contact with white men and they could learn of the Cradle .' The old chief wagged a cautioning finger. 'If you do not kill the great wolf before the full moon, do not be tempted to keep searching, for if you do, the bodies of your wife and daughter will join your son on his burial scaffold.'

CHAPTER THREE

It was standing room only in the Gould Auditorium at the University of Utah when the moderator of the 'Career Opportunities in a Globalized World' symposium called on Helen Coffey to speak.

An attractive, tall, dark-eyed brunette in her late twenties, she was the last and the youngest of four highly successful alumni members who had been invited to address the audience of undergraduates from universities around the United States. All the students were high achievers and all were in their final year of degree courses in Business Administration and Public Relations.

Dressed in an immaculate light gray business suit, Helen looked confident and assured as she took the podium.

'Ladies and gentlemen. My colleagues have already spoken of the worldwide benefits of globalization. Unprecedented trade expansion throughout the world, fuelled by modern technological advances in communications, electronics, and transportation will generate fantastic opportunities for business administrators in the decades ahead. Many of you here today will take up senior management positions in those companies—not only here in the United States but all over the world. With governments and big business working hand in hand to break down old trade barriers, fantastic new wealth will be generated and you, the new wave of corporate executives, will have more power than your predecessors ever dreamed of.'

A murmur of approval at the prospect of the good times ahead, rippled through the crowd of undergraduates and Helen decided it was time to voice the changes she had made to her speech the night before. And to be sure that what she had to say would be reported as widely as possible, she had alerted all her media contacts telling them that she would be causing a bit of a stir at the symposium.

'But will you, the new generation of international corporate managers use that power wisely?' she continued, her voice rising accusingly. 'Will you realize that with great power comes great responsibility? Or will you choose to abrogate your responsibilities to mankind and the environment and become cheerleaders of obscene profits and questionable political interests, like so many company executives and elected officials today.'

Another murmur ran through the auditorium. This time it was one of surprise from Helen's young audience and there were startled, disapproving looks from the moderator and the other members of the panel.

'You don't have to look to third world countries for examples of blatant disregard for even the most basic standards of acceptable governance in both the private and public sectors. It's not just the mindless obliteration of South American rainforests I'm talking about here, or the ruthless plundering of the world's oceans, or the shameless exploitation of dirt-poor workers in the third world. The relentless pursuit of profits and the criminal disregard for humanity and the environment is going on every day right here in the United States.'

The condemnation of the unexpected nature of Helen's address was evident on the faces of the moderator and members of the panel. They looked at each other nervously, each one expecting someone else to put an end to it. Helen could see that after the dull, predictable discourses of the speakers before her, a lot of students were hanging on her every word and as she had planned, reporter's notebooks were out and television cameras were rolling.

'For those of you who may not be aware, radioactivity from a closed uranium processing plant near Moab in east-central Utah has been leaking into the Colorado River for years, killing fish and other water life. And the Colorado is the source of drinking water for much of this state as well as Arizona, Nevada and Southern California. Now, the federal government and a consortium of big electric utility companies are looking to increase nuclear contamination in Utah by offering tens of millions of dollars to a small band of impoverished Goshute Indians for permission to store used nuclear fuel in outdoor containers on their reservation in Skull Valley. The same thing is happening to Shoshone Indians at a proposed nuclear dump at Yucca Mountain in Nevada. Just like in the third world, big business and big government are throwing big dollars at the poorest of the poor in order to achieve their objectives. Needless to say none of the companies involved is based in the states where they plan to locate their nuclear dumps. Like the bureaucrats with the U.S. Department of Energy in Washington, they want this dangerous poison dumped as far away from their own backyards as possible.'

Helen continued her invective against the unbridled pursuit of profits by international corporations with the acquiescence of governments, at the expense of the environment and the exploitation of human resources, for the balance of her allotted time as a speaker.

When the seminar ended later in the afternoon, she drove directly from the university to her law firm's downtown office, knowing she would have to work late to make up for precious time lost during the day in her role as public relations director.

After several hours at her desk, Helen was about to leave for home when her telephone rang. It was the senior partner of the firm and he was angry.

'I just watched the late news, Helen,' he bellowed down the line. 'What in hell did you think you were doing at the university today?'

Helen was startled. 'I was just…'

The senior partner was in no mood to listen.

'Through your stupidity of venting your personal views at the expense of the hand that feeds you,' he cut in angrily 'you've probably cost us millions of dollars in billings. For some time, head office in New York has been in representation negotiations with the energy consortium that's developing the nuclear waste facility at Skull Valley. The deal was to be confirmed later this week. Now on account of you, we might lose the whole thing. You're finished as public relations director with this firm, Helen. I've already talked to security. You have fifteen minutes to clean out your desk before they escort you from the building.'

*

It was almost twenty-four hours since Lionheart had left Bermuda. The clear skies and fifteen knot westerly had held through the day and all through the night. But Lance Delano couldn't sleep.

Just before dawn he got up and made two mugs of coffee in the galley, as quietly as possible so as not to wake Lars Hansen who had just come off his three hour watch and was asleep in a forward cabin. The sun was just coming up out of the sea to starboard as Delano carried the coffees up to the cockpit where Bridgette Lindstrom was standing her watch at the helm of the yacht.

The blue-eyed, blonde-haired Swede smiled gratefully as Delano handed her one of the mugs.

'It is over two hours yet before your votch, Skippor,' she said as he sat down behind her on the cockpit seat.

Delano sighed. 'I know, it's just that I've got a lot on my mind at the moment, Bridgette. I thought I'd come on deck for a while and get some air.'

As he sipped his coffee, Delano's thoughts returned to the subject, which had been denying him sleep. Before leaving St. George he had called Dwight Furlong, his close friend and stockbroker in Denver. Furlong hadn't been as downbeat about the Nasdaq as Mark Mobius. He said that although for the first time there were more clients selling tech stocks than buying, he put that down to clients being unnecessarily spooked by Mobius. He said he saw the recent slide as only a correction in the market and advised Delano to wait until he got home before making any hasty decisions about selling anything.

Delano stared astern