Page 67 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

ChapterSeventeen

DAWSON

Bealer’s projectmanager Glen Townlee greets us on the screen from their Toronto conference room, all smiles. Two colleagues flank him. I already know the lead engineer, Dr. Krauss—aka Dr. Important—but not their head of the legal department, a slender woman in a cobalt-blue fitted dress and long, French-manicured fingernails named Ellie Caldwell.

Glen clears his throat with a loud snort. It’s abrasive, though he doesn’t seem to realize this.

“First, Ellie, please give us an update,” he says.

Ellie levels me with a serious gaze. “Alaska Wild’s litigation threat has been withdrawn.”

“How’d you manage that?” I say.

Ellie points a remote to the projector. An aerial image of a giant pit in the ground flashes to life on the screen. “The usual way. We offered to decommission one of their contested projects.”

“You can do that?”

Ellie gives a one-shoulder shrug. “Its lifespan is ending, so it was a straightforward offer.”

Sounds shady as fuck to me, but if it keeps us out of the courts for the next three years, I’m all for it.

“Good,” Quinn says. “Now what about our solution?”

Glen leans in. “We have that too.”

For the next twenty minutes, Glen runs us through his edited version of the project details that addresses the possibility of higher rainfall levels due to projected climate changes. Even though Bealer’s mine will be in operation for twenty-nine years, the pond will sit up there forever.

“We’ve added four feet of height in the retaining wall,” Dr. Krauss says.

“I thought that would destabilize it,” I say, resisting the urge to loosen my collar.

“A slight reconstruction and the use of alternative materials eliminated that possibility, lowering the risk of failure to 2.7 percent,” Glen says, relaxed in his high-backed chair.

“Huh,” Quinn says. “What about the glacial soil? What’s the risk of contamination?”

“From the results of our careful survey, we’ve chosen the best possible site for the collection pond. Risk of seepage is less than six percent.”

Goosebumps race up my arms. “Six percent.”

Quinn glances at me, a worried look in his eyes. “Lessthan six.”

“This is hardly what we asked for,” I say, tossing my pen on the desk.

Glen and Dr. Krauss stare back at me. Finally, Glen clears his throat again, making my stomach roll. Maybe he has a sinus problem, but it’s offensive.

“You wanted a higher wall,” he says. “That’s what we’ve done. You wanted to reduce leaching. We found the best location. I can assure you the measures we are taking are well above industry standards.”

Quinn said the same thing to me a few days ago, but my feelings haven’t changed. “I asked for a guarantee this mine isn’t going to fuck up one of the most pristine watersheds in the world.”

“D.J.,” Quinn warns.

I ignore him. “Do you have that figured out or not?”

Ellie leans in. “Mr. James, to guarantee zero failures would put Bealer-Vollbrecht International at risk for legal retribution.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose to ground me. “Quinn and I have been busting our balls here lining up the permits, creating solutions for the delivery and the energy sources and the roads and wastewater. How is it we’ve been able to secure their guarantees, but from you, I get excuses?”

Quinn gives our hosts a tight smile. “Give us a few minutes, please?”

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