The Last Canary

Perry Lovell stared skyward. Shielding his eyes from the brilliant morning sun, he counted the steps of the soaring ladder a second time. Having just emerged from the warmth of the foreman’s trailer down below, he shuddered from the icy blast that was already cutting hard across the drilling platform. Hesitating a moment longer to scrape the mud from his boots on the galvanized metal stair that led to the deck of the towering rig, he offered up a silent prayer. The wind was blowing November cold and he rubbed his calloused palms together rapidly in anticipation of the arduous climb ahead. With this final anxious act complete, he couldn’t put it off any longer.

He gave a nod to the boys who were huddling in the lee of the tool shed. His lead hand, Chet Billings, flashed a quick smile and offered up the empty thumb of his grease stained work glove. Like every other seasoned roughneck, he couldn’t manage a ten count with the fingers that remained. At the same time, the rest of the guys turned and studied Lovell nervously. Perhaps they were afraid he was going to ask one of them to do the deed this time. But it was his idea and his crazy custom. Some of them occasionally rode the lift assist to the very top of the derrick, but not Perry Lovell. The tool pusher was strictly old school and he was the one who had decided on this particular talisman. Now it belonged to him to see it through.

Having captured his crew’s attention, the veteran engineer grabbed hold of the ladder. The cold steel shot a current through him as he paused to snap on his safety harness. A climb of a hundred and ten feet took a lot of courage at this time of year—especially with his winter overalls hanging on him like lead. Tentatively testing the first slippery bar, he raised himself by a single rung. Then he continued upward one patient step at a time; making sure both feet were steady on the previous rail before slowly lifting his heavy boot onto the next. As uneasy as he was, he felt a familiar rush of adrenaline.

Stare straight up and try not to look down. Just keep your eyes on the prize, he reminded himself. No matter how many times he performed this particular ritual, it never got any easier. This was the moment when all of the geologists’ geeky estimations met the hard truth of production drilling. Damned fool, he was sure the roughnecks down below were thinking. But this was the time when they needed Lady Luck in their corner most and Perry Lovell was prepared to do whatever it would take to guarantee her appearance.

Despite what the seismic reports said. Regardless of what the profiles or the core samples from the other nearby wells indicated, drilling was always hit or miss. It was that way in the Permian where he and this crew had first come together. And it was proving to be the same here on the Marcellus. Even with the bold claim that there was five hundred trillion cubic feet of natural gas locked up in the Devonian shale that stretched from upstate New York and on down through West Virginia, there was no guarantee they were going to strike it big every time they went looking here in Washington County, Pennsylvania. The only way to find out was to drill down a mile or so, fracture the hell out of it, and hope.

He took a few more labored steps. Fifty feet up he was able to study the scar of the freshly cleared drill pad below him. The big bulldozers had plowed nearly four acres bald at the work site and scraped another ugly gash for an access road across the prime pastureland that backed the Medgar’s ancient farmhouse. There was no pretending that it was a pretty sight. Now the excavators were busily gouging out the impoundment pit that would hold the flowback from the frack. A dozen bales of thick black Poly stood ready at the edge of the gaping hole waiting to be installed.

That was what made it all possible. Horizontal drilling and hydraulic fracturing. It was these innovations that had taken the trillions of cubic feet of natural gas discovered in the National Geological Survey two decades before and, overnight, turned them into proven, recoverable reserves. So what if it took millions of gallons of water and chemicals to flush the gas from the stone? Who cared if there might still be a few unanswered environmental questions? There always were. What mattered was that it was America’s energy and it was available now. At least that was the way that Lovell had always thought about the mission.

Over to his right the heavy piles of drill stem and production casing were being offloaded and stacked. The rattle tap of the idling Kenworths and Peterbilts and the warning sounds of the fat-tired forklifts reversing off the flatbeds filled the site with a hive-like din—the cold morning air clouded with spiraling exhaust plumes and choking diesel soot. It wouldn’t be long before the endless trailers of fracking fluid would arrive and then their portable drilling complex would be fully operational. With a little luck and some decent weather they would be tying in the finished well early in the New Year. Then there’d be only one more to go—the most daunting hole of all—Northfield #6.

A few steps higher and his view encompassed the entire valley. He paused to rest among the cross beams of the super structure, steam now rising from his sweat dampened parka and the effort of the climb. Standing high above the autumn bare treetops he could see for miles. At this elevation he was nearly level with the top line of Swallow Ridge and the rim of the Precambrian crater that had managed to get the geologists and seismologists so excited the first time they saw it.

It was hard to imagine that where he now stood had once been the floor of an immense prehistoric ocean—a warm tropical sea teaming with plant and aquatic life. The vast Iapetus Ocean covered virtually all of the eastern United States. Yet it was as a result of this remarkable fact, that there was an equally vast reservoir of natural gas buried deep in the ground beneath. Manufactured by tectonic forces and the passage of time, the fecund residues of the ancient sea were now an enormous untapped energy source to be used to power industry and fuel America’s hopes for the future. That this essential resource was trapped in a clastic wedge of porous rock five hundred feet thick, and spread across sixty million invisible acres, was the challenge that Perry Lovell and his team currently faced.

He had been working the Marcellus for three seasons now. His wildcat outfit, Rifle Drilling & Down Hole Services, had been subcontracted by Deacon Energy to do some of the very first serious production drilling in the area. Rifle had been one of the pioneers in horizontal recovery in west Texas and their reputation had carried them north. As the site manager assigned to the project, Lovell had since punched nearly fifty holes in the gas rich formations buried deep within the hills and valleys of this picturesque part of Pennsylvania.

When he and his crew had first arrived they were greeted like Martian visitors, their big truck-mounted rigs, seismic vans and heavy tankers as foreign to these parts as the prosperity that they brought with them. Back then they had been welcome guests in town—even if what they were up to was a total mystery to the curious residents who would occasionally follow them out into the fields to find out. But lately, as it became clear who was getting lease money and receiving royalty checks and who wasn’t; and who truly understood the full impact of the drilling, the reception they were receiving was decidedly less friendly. Jobs, it appeared, only counted for so much.

As he got still higher up the mast, the wind whipped at his face and tears streamed across his cheeks. The crimson tips of his wooly ears, unprotected by the Texas-issue tin hat that was permanently perched atop his balding head, stung from the biting cold and his gray temples pounded from the exertion of the climb. From here he could see Northfield #1 and #2, the first wells in the drilling sequence. They were flowing strong. If he leaned hard to his left, over his near shoulder, he could still see the drill pad for #4—another open wound in the forest that was now plainly visible through the leafless limbs. When #5 was up and running and #6 was completed next spring, they would have nearly all three hundred acres of the Fahn property surrounded.

That hadn’t been the plan in the beginning. Initially, the drilling was supposed to take place on the gently sloping pastureland below. Based on the preliminary seismic and refractory data, the thickest and richest part of the reservoir was located less than a quarter of a mile from the back door of the Fahn’s pretty little place and it spread for nearly a mile in every direction. But when the talks broke off, they had been forced to consider other options. Their neighbors, the Medgars, whose adjacent land now hosted five of the six wells in this phase of the project, had been eager to sign a lease—even if it had poisoned fifty years of friendship between the families. But not Ethan Fahn.

If only he had been willing to negotiate, he would have been a rich man. For generations his family had been sitting atop a secret treasure buried deep beneath their struggling dairy operation. But with a potential bonanza nearly within his grasp, the old bugger had let it slip away. When Fahn walked out on the bidding, Deacon had been willing to pay ten thousand an acre for the lease alone. And Mike Williams, the land man, had told Perry in confidence that he had permission from head office to go as high as twenty-two percent on the royalty payments as well. But the stubborn fool, Ethan Fahn, apparently just didn’t get it.

Sure he had made the play a little more difficult. But one man couldn’t stand in the way of Deacon Energy. If they didn’t go through you, they’d go around you. Or, in this case, they’d just drill right under you. That was the amazing part of horizontal drilling technology. Even though they were still weeks away from the frack at this particular location, they were already siphoning nearly fifteen million cubic feet a day from beneath the unwilling farmer’s feet. If the next two wells came in the way everybody was hoping, the combined flow would top out at nearly twice that much.

Still, it bothered Lovell to no end. A single drill site with wells fanned out in a half dozen different directions from a pad on Fahn’s back forty would have been so much easier. They would have cut through the top load there like butter. The whole thing could likely have been done for a few million bucks. Instead, they had been forced to work up on the ridge that surrounded the stubborn holdout’s property and push through nearly a thousand extra feet of sand, limestone and shale.

Perhaps that was why Northfield #3 had come up inexplicably empty—an extra layer of over burden probably pushing down hard on the fragile layers beneath and squeezing out any gas they contained. Sometimes the pragmatic engineer wished they could just expropriate the land that they needed. Most of these people just didn’t seem to understand how important the work of finding energy was. Everybody wanted cheap fuel, but few were prepared to pay the price.

Now, as he rose to within an arm’s length of the crown block, he unfastened his safety belt and hooked it around the last cross section of the narrowing scaffold. With his free hand he pulled at the zipper of his billowing bomber and reached into the warm inner pocket at his breast to extract the tightly folded package that he had carried aloft. Threading the nylon chord through the shiny brass grommets with his nearly numb fingers, he had to briefly let go and hold onto the ladder using only his legs. Another shot of adrenaline ran through him when his heavy Carhartt overalls slipped a few inches before the safety harness took his full weight. But it was the only way he could complete the dangerous maneuver.

Once he was satisfied that the tightly knotted halyard would hold and the big red, white and blue banner was securely fastened, he let go of the flag and it unfurled spectacularly. With Glory snapping smartly to attention in the freshening breeze, Lovell did as he always did when a new hole was christened. He looked to the east, far beyond the oceans that divided them, and raised his frozen middle finger to the oil rich countries and strange foreign lands five thousand miles distant. Salute this he smiled grimly. Let this be the beginning of the end of you. Then he placed the tips of two thick fingers into his mouth and gave a sharp, wet whistle. A moment later the big diesel engine that drove the powerful drill head growled and snorted to life.

Chapter 1

We best be going soon, Ethan Fahn hollered up the slanting back staircase to where the two women had been dressing for much of the morning. Probably going to take an hour and a half, or more, if we get stuck behind one of those trucks.

He mumbled the second half of this suggestion to himself since there had been little acknowledgement of his initial request other than more scurrying footsteps and the squeaking protest of the floorboards from the ceiling above.

Fahn tugged at the stiff collar of his shirt and loosened the tightly knotted tie that Ellie had laid out for him. He wasn’t exactly sure why he needed to get dressed up to meet his son at the airport. They had already been to visit him several times at the VA hospital up in Arlington since he had gotten back. There were a thousand chores to be done now that it was spring. Wasn’t it enough that he was taking the time to drive all the way into Pittsburgh with the ladies to pick him up? She knew he hated putting on Sunday clothes.

Pacing about impatiently, Ethan paused to poke at the freshly baked loaf that was cooling on a rack atop the big old Magic Chef that anchored their crowded kitchen. The golden brown crust rose up nearly ten inches tall and he knew that it would be delicious. His wife made the best bread in the county. He was tempted to try and shave off the heel, but he knew it wasn’t worth the scolding he’d receive. Instead, he lifted the clanging lid from the stew pot on the stove’s back burner and treated himself to a spoonful of the delicious contents simmering within.

There was still no sign of the ladies. He looked down at his badly scuffed Oxfords and pulled out his handkerchief. Raising first one tired shoe and then the other onto the fender of the stove, he gave each a hasty wipe. If the traffic was good and there were no delays at the airport, lunch would be on the table by two. As far as Ethan Fahn was concerned, the trip that Ellie had insisted that they should all make together couldn’t be done with soon enough. He had no appetite for the city and even less for the hectic drive back and forth.

His wife was the first down the stairs. Her arrival was announced by a clatter of unaccustomed heels and the fresh smell of the lavender water that had sweetened her bath. She wasn’t one for fancy perfumes. It had no place on a farm, Ellie had always contended. But she did allow herself a few little indulgences on days such as this one. She had pulled her graying hair back practically and pinned it with the tortoise shell combs she had inherited from her mother and that she reserved for special occasions.

She is still beautiful, Ethan thought as he watched her fuss around the front room, plumping cushions and straightening the floral slips that covered the sofa and chairs and gave new life to their faded furniture. As she bent over to punch another pillow into shape, she caught his glance and returned it with a smile that lit her pretty face and erased all five years of worry from her weary eyes. Jordan was coming home. Finally. It was the answer to her prayers.

Upstairs, Jenny was still fussing. But she probably has a right, Ethan decided grudgingly. She hasn’t seen Jordan but twice in the past six months and that was just after the surgeries. Before then, there’d only been that brief R&R visit and even it had been cut short by his outfit’s redeployment to Afghanistan. Still, his son’s patient fiancé had been a frequent and welcome visitor while Jordan was away. Jordan had wanted it that way and Ellie had insisted. The pretty young woman truly had been a blessing for as long as their son was overseas. At least there had been somebody else with whom his wife could share her fears and loneliness.

But Jenny Gustafson had earned a place in Ethan’s heart as well. She’d been a very helpful sounding board as he weighed the deals that Deacon Energy had pushed at him for drilling rights. It was Jenny who had coached him to ignore the first offer that was presented and she’d been absolutely right about their willingness to go higher—a fact made clear when they nearly doubled their initial bid. In the end, it had also been Jenny who had reminded him, as he weakened in the face of the last tempting contract that Deacon dangled, just how much he loved his home and his farm and the simple life that they all enjoyed there.

She was a smart girl. Pretty and sensible like Ellie, he had eventually concluded. She had been so solid when Jordan was hurt. And it looked like she would continue to stand by him still—even after he had been so difficult during the rehab. Indeed, his soon-to-be daughter-in-law had proved herself to be a pretty good judge of most things—especially after it became clear what the war had done to Jordy and how much damage was being done to their beautiful little valley now that all the work was underway next door.

That was the tragedy from Ethan Fahn’s perspective. It was not that he was adamantly opposed to the drilling. He understood the arguments and he appreciated the importance of getting the gas out of the ground. You would have to be a fool not to want the country to be energy independent. But that’s what had really gotten his back up. Didn’t they understand that he had already made his sacrifice? Hadn’t they known how hard it was to see his only boy over there fighting for the damned oil and almost coming home in a box?

Nobody seemed to make this connection as they tried to bully him into giving up his land; that Jordan had already paid a price with his leg and, very nearly, his life. The worst among them was that fool of a land man from Deacon. But Nick Pagonis, the greedy Greek in town, hadn’t been much better. Now, seeing the scars that were being raked across the Medgar’s property after they’d been signed up, his doubts were confirmed. When the gas was gone, the drillers would all disappear just as quickly. And the Fahn’s precious valley would be spoiled forever. Ethan was proud of the stance he had taken, even if no one else in Washington County seemed to understand.

Maybe it was because the Fahn farm was such a postcard. It was so pretty that people driving by were always wondering who lived there and some even stopped in to ask. There was a long shady lane, a century old gingerbread farmhouse, a sturdy red barn with a silver domed silo and a laundry line that stretched from the back stoop to the driving shed. Long ago, Ellie had planted scarlet gladiolas and day lilies all the way down the drive and a thick plot of rose heart peonies up by the front porch. In June and July, when they were all in flower, there was nothing prettier. Three summers ago Ethan had spruced up the outbuildings with a fresh coat of crimson Valspar. With its pretty gardens and a spreading chestnut tree decorating the lawn out front, it truly was a picture.

To be sure, you occasionally smelled the farm first, but not in an unpleasant way. There was just enough of a bloom in the air to remind you that the Fahn’s kept livestock—a hundred head of handsome Holstein Friesians. Or at times of year like now, when the rich peat got turned early and the fertile ground signaled that it was alive and ready for planting. In that respect, it was like a thousand other family farms that used to dot this part of Western Pennsylvania and that spilled out across the big river into Ohio. Or at least, it used to be, until hard times, and then the gas rush, had begun changing things forever.

Ethan wondered what Jordy would think about the unruly mess across the way and the changes taking place everywhere in the county. He’d know soon enough. Ever since it started, there were few places you could turn that some evidence of the big drilling projects weren’t in ample evidence. You saw them, heard them and, occasionally, you felt them. At least that was the case when the big thumpers were out in the fields gathering up seismic data. They literally shook the ground beneath your feet. Whatever your feelings were about the booming natural gas play, you were forced to live with it, whether you wanted to or not.

Once the Medgars had said yes to that pushy land man from Deacon Energy, the worst of it had landed right on their doorstep. For nearly fourteen months now, work had been going on around the clock. There was constant noise and activity—the heavy equipment belching smog and soot and the trucks stirring up dust everywhere. Ellie could hardly put the laundry out. The forgotten side road on which they had lived undisturbed for three generations was now a busy connector with steady traffic rolling past at every hour of the night and day.

Jenny … Jenny! Ethan called up one more time. Come on honey, we really got to be going, he coaxed, while checking his watch one more time.

Professor Neil Fischer was a bona fide favorite among the undergraduate population at William Pitt University. His two hundred level course, ‘Rock Talk: An Introduction to Geology’, was a hit with freshmen and sophomores alike. Not only did the Rock Doc, as the popular professor was fondly referred to, eschew an end of semester exam, but the earnestly dedicated educator’s lectures were also generally regarded as some of the finest entertainment available on campus.

Among the First and Second years it was agreed that, if you had a science requirement to fulfill, there were few more enjoyable options available than the engaging syllabus that the whip-smart but playful geologist had concocted. In fact, his program had become so popular that it was virtually standing room only every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, even after moving into the Earth Sciences department’s largest lecture facility in Dyck Hall—a name with which the irreverent instructor had no end of fun.

That was where Dr. Fischer was standing on this late March afternoon, preparing to deliver his final lesson prior to the break that everyone was anticipating eagerly. It had been a long and determined winter and even the enthusiastic professor was looking forward to the holiday. Not that he was going anywhere. In fact, the next ten days would be consumed almost entirely by the consulting project that he had recently been retained to contribute to. But at least the work dovetailed nicely with his current instructional unit, he was thinking to himself, as the lecture hall began to fill with boisterous, vacation-ready students.

It was practically serendipitous that he was going to be speaking to his class today about the Marcellus Shale. That was the subject of this current gig—the long-term impact and sustainability of large scale production drilling. While much of the work was outside of his specific domain of expertise—pertaining itself more to issues such as habitat destruction and ground water concerns—it was surprising how much of the study relied on basic geology. That was the point he wanted to make with his students this afternoon. That rocks and what was inside them did, occasionally, matter. For his part, Fischer had always favored knowledge over blissful ignorance and it was hard not to be impressed by the instructor’s ardent enthusiasm for his material.

Actually, his talk on the potential bounty of this unusual geological formation was one of the highlights of the term—a vivid, real life demonstration of the relevance and importance of geology to every person in the room and every resident of the great state of Pennsylvania. And these days it was a topic about which nearly everyone had a point of view. Whether you were for or against the exploitation of the vast Marcellus natural gas deposits, it was extremely unlikely that you had no opinion at all. The professor was counting on this interest to help carry him through his final lecture before break.

Shuffling his loose notes together and plugging in his laptop, the avuncular educator shared friendly greetings with the students who were settling into the early rows of the big lecture hall. For a Rock Doc presentation, the front seats usually filled up first. There was no shame, and definite benefits, to enjoying the action up close.

Anything special on the program today, Dr. Fischer? asked one young keener as he stowed his backpack beneath a fold down chair and settled in for the show.

Maybe … maybe not, Fischer teased. He was a warm and naturally affable man—very comfortable in his forty-something skin. Standing barely more than five-foot-four, his diminutive stature was even more pronounced in the vastness of the cavern-like lecture facility. No telling what surprises might be in store, he added, his eyes lit with a merry twinkle.

Another of the smiling students who had overheard this remark cringed in mock horror. This earned a wink from the mischievous professor. The approachable educator was extremely generous with his time and his office hours were nearly as popular as his classes. In a rarity among most professors who taught to underclassmen, he had learned and remembered a thousand names.

Are you ready for break, Stephanie? he asked of one of his favorites who had claimed her usual spot to the right of the lectern. Beach?

Gulf Shores, she beamed back, delighted to be asked.

Not afraid you’re gonna end up covered in oil? Fischer teased.

She laughed politely. The truth was, the kids had chosen Orange Beach because it was still a bargain after the spill.

Well, pack plenty of sunscreen, he offered. His concern was as genuine as the man was kind.

What about you? she asked on behalf of the group down front.

Going underground, the professor responded good-naturedly. Unfortunately, no caving though.

This earned a knowing smile from the young woman. His teasing answer had been an allusion to the fact that Fischer was also the head of the university’s chapter of the West Pennsylvania Speleological Society. He was a devoted spelunker—a caveman, as he liked to tell his students, many of whom couldn’t resist joining him in this most peculiar of hobbies. The club was among the most popular on campus, a near cult really, that offered regular weekend trips to Kentucky, West Virginia and countless other subterranean destinations that were found commonly here in the western part of the state.

Now it was time to begin. As the class came to order, the professor dimmed the hall lights theatrically. The bright kliegs from the rack above the lectern flooded the stage on which he now stood in a luminescent glow. It was a trademark of Dr. Fischer and all eyes immediately focused on the front of the room. The students would not be disappointed for their devotion.

No sooner had he shimmied onto the tall wooden stool that stood behind the lectern, than it erupted with the sound of a magnificently manufactured fart—its depth, breadth and full flatulent horror magnified a hundred times by the Lavalier microphone looped below the professor’s close trimmed beard and the hall’s rich natural acoustics.

Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, Fischer announced gleefully as he pulled a fat rubber Whoopee cushion from beneath his seat, In case some of you were wondering, today we’re going to be talking about gas … methane gas to be specific … and the history of the Marcellus Shale.

By the time the gales of laughter that greeted his clever little audio stunt finally subsided, he had successfully captured the full attention of the restless student audience and he held them rapt for the entire informative hour that followed.

Holding the freshly copied flyer tight against the utility pole while her companion paused to refill the staple gun, Anna Beth Tull checked her phone again for messages. The texts were piling up by the dozens and her voicemail light was blinking rapidly. Too busy to respond, instead she held the crowded screen up for her partner to see and flashed a wide smile.

Look, was all she said, encouraging the other girl to acknowledge this remarkable development.

Unbelievable, the big girl approved. If we get half of them, we’ll have nearly a hundred and fifty.

At least three hundred, Anna Beth countered excitedly. The tonic of leadership was intoxicating to the young woman and she flushed with its heady effects. To attract this kind of interest in one of her protests was unprecedented. Maybe more, she enthused.

For a group that typically succeeded in counting its supporters in handfuls, she was delighted with the way plans for Sunday’s demonstration were coming together. She was particularly pleased with how many from her own group, Grads Against Gas, had confirmed their participation despite the pending spring holiday.

We’re gonna kick some ass, added her rough spoken friend. Maybe we ought to make some more signs?

Anna Beth Tull’s most trusted lieutenant was a girl she had met at a Pride parade two years ago. While she, herself, was not a lesbian, a sense of sisterhood had compelled her to take to the streets against the unfairness of the sorority rush process at William Pitt and big Leslie had been a devoted follower of hers ever since.

Have you finished the statement yet? the leader now demanded of her loyal disciple. No more signs until we get it done, she instructed sternly.

Anna Beth was fond of preparing manifestos—grand statements of purpose that had to be hand-delivered to the Post Gazette and Tribune Review, but that only the campus newspaper, The Pitt U Press, ever picked up. Even then, she’d had to sleep with the student editor to get things published with any kind of regularity.

Okay, moaned her disappointed supplicant. But you’re gonna help me, right? I don’t know all that much about fracking.

Anna Beth shot her a withering look. It was hard to imagine that this young woman was also an Environmental Science major. The rape of Pennsylvania’s prime farmland and the poisoning of its groundwater was the story of the century, yet somehow this poor girl had managed to miss these most important details.

Oh, come on Leslie, you’re just being lazy, she chastised the poor uninformed soul. We’ve already been over this a dozen times. Just write the damned statement. I’ve got too much to do already.

It was an honest rebuke. As protest groups went, GAG was better organized than most. Part of this was, no doubt, attributable to seriousness of the cause they were rallying against. But more accurately, it was a direct result of the fiery determination of its leader. Causes were Anna Beth Tull’s opium and she was seriously addicted to this one.

We need to get it to the papers before press time on Friday, she coaxed.

Green-eyed, milk-skinned, with a raving mane of red hair and jutting breasts that regularly rubbed their unrestrained glory raw against the linen peasant blouses that she preferred, Anna Beth Tull was a rare beauty determined to deny her