1984 May
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May 1984 was a rough month for Jack. High school was almost over, but that just meant more pressure. His check ride for the Bell Jet Ranger was coming up, and it was all he wanted think about, but he didn't even have time for it. On top of that, Marilyn kept bugging him about flying out to Colorado to visit some of her friends. He didn't have a problem with flying—he loved it – but he just didn't care about her friends. And his schedule was already packed.
When he wasn't busy with his own stuff, he had to drive Graem around because Graem was still too young to get behind the wheel. Then there was his dad's latest project—two new hydraulic fracturing units for the oil fields. They'd been delivered a couple of weeks ago, but Jack hadn't even had the time to get out there and check them out. There was always something else that needed doing.
Just as he was getting ready to head out for the evening, the phone in the house rang. It was his dad, calling from the office in Burbank. There'd been an accident at the fields. He couldn't leave, not with investors in the building, so he'd slipped out of a meeting to let Jack know, keeping it quiet.
Jack scrapped his evening with Marilyn—she wasn't happy, but it didn't matter (of course, he also couldn't tell her why he cancelled, because Ron wasn't supposed to know about the accident)—and got on his bike, heading straight for the oil fields. What he saw when he got there was worse than anything he'd expected.
As Jack arrived at the oil fields, the acrid smell hit him like a wall, sharp and overpowering. The accident had happened at the two new fracturing pumps, which had been installed in place of the old rigs, right in the heart of the Palmdale field. This was where Philip's business had first started to grow, two decades ago. Jack had practically grown up in this part of the fields—back when the operation was simpler, before it expanded into the sprawling enterprise it was now. But today, nothing about the place felt familiar.
Even though the sun had set about half an hour ago, there was enough chaos to see by. Machinery lay broken and scattered, the aftermath of something violent and uncontrolled. Workers stood around, their faces grim, unsure of what to do next. Jack headed straight to Sergio's office container to find out what had gone wrong.
Sergio, normally calm under pressure, looked worn out, tired. He told Jack the news quietly, almost like he didn't want to say it out loud again. Manuel, one of the most dependable guys on the team, had been working the shift at the fracturing pumps. A chemical tank had ruptured, and the explosion tore through everything. Manuel didn't stand a chance—he'd been killed instantly.
Something had gone wrong while mixing the chemicals for the borehole injection. Three other men had tried to help Manuel but got caught up in the chaos, suffering burns from the chemicals that spilled. The whole thing had happened so fast. Before fracking, they hadn't dealt with chemicals like these. The crew wasn't trained for this kind of danger—this was new territory for everyone.
Jack scanned the list of chemicals that had been set for injection. Glutaraldehyde. Fumaric acid. 2-Butoxyethanol. Sodium persulfate. That last one stuck out, with its long list of safety warnings: Forms combustible mixtures with organic materials. Do not store in sealed containers. It got clear to him what part of the root cause was: all the safety instructions were written in English.
"¿Cuándo llenaron los tanques?" (When did you fill the tanks?) Jack asked, already piecing things together in his head.
"Alrededor del mediodía" (Around noon), Sergio replied. "Tuvimos algunos retrasos porque las bombas de alta presión no funcionaban. Hubo fugas en las líneas hidráulicas." (We had some delays because the high-pressure pumps wouldn't work. Leakages in the hydraulic lines.)
Jack went to check the pumps himself. He was no stranger to the dirty side of this business. He'd spent enough time out here covered in crude oil, fixing busted seals and broken lines. It was a tough job, but not one that normally killed you. This was different. With the pumps now off, Jack stayed back from the equipment, keeping a distance from the area where the hydraulic lines had ruptured earlier. These chemicals were something unfamiliar, something he didn't want to come close to.
It didn't take long for Jack to connect the dots. The sodium persulfate had been sitting in the tank since noon, probably mixed with some remains of other organic fluids. While the crew had been scrambling to fix the pumps, that mixture had turned into a bomb, waiting to blow. By the time the pressure built up enough, the tank exploded, sending shards of metal and chemicals across the field. The blast took out nearby tanks, spreading the spill further.
The smell of chemicals still lingered, harsh and biting. Jack wasn't entirely sure what had leaked from the other tanks, but one thing was clear: they needed to start the cleanup, and fast.
Even though the men looked exhausted and shaken from the accident, Jack knew there was no time to waste. He ordered three trucks with sealed containers, and they began loading up the damaged tanks and barrels. Toxic, corrosive, hazardous—everything had to be contained before things got worse. The sooner they cleared this mess, the better.
The police arrived soon after, but Jack was ready. A gust of wind had blown the worst of the chemical stench away from the site, giving them a little breathing room. Jack spun a story about the power being down, keeping the site too dark for the officers to properly inspect. They promised to return first thing in the morning for a full investigation, but for now, they were satisfied. Jack nodded as they left, but inside, his mind was racing. They had ten hours to get this place cleaned up.
He jumped into one of the wheel loaders and started helping move the ruptured barrels. The chemicals made everything more dangerous than usual, and Jack knew it. The crew had no idea what they were handling, but Jack's high school chemistry classes were enough to make him uneasy. Still, there was no time to second-guess. They had to get this done, and fast.
Three hours later, his father and Graem arrived. Jack expected Graem to pitch in, but he wasn't much help. Graem disappeared into the office, buried in paperwork and phone calls, leaving Jack and the others to deal with the mess. Philip wasn't much better. After a few quick decisions, he came back with a new plan: get three dump trucks, clear away the contaminated sand, and replace it with clean sand from another part of the oil field.
Jack didn't like it. Moving the contaminated sand out of the area just meant hiding the problem, pushing it out of sight. He knew this was about more than just cleanup—this was about keeping things quiet. If the police or safety inspectors saw the mess, the company could be in deep trouble. And worse, if Ron, Philip's partner, found out about the fracturing equipment being brought in from one of Ron's competitors, the fallout could be even bigger.
Therefore, Jack didn't argue. His adrenaline was running high, and his focus was on saving the company from disaster. This was their first shot at fracking, and it couldn't end like this. He knew he should push back, but the cleanup had to come first.
Not long after, Jack found himself behind the wheel of a dump truck, hauling the contaminated sand away. His father made it clear: no one else could know where the sand was going. Jack understood. He wouldn't have wanted to force anyone of the workers into doing this. The oil field was huge—hundreds of acres of desert—and no one would find the spot where he was taking it.
Driving through the dark, unlit terrain, Jack knew this was risky. But he also knew this land better than anyone else, even better than the workers who usually stayed close to the few roads and the pumps. He'd grown up riding dirt bikes out here, knowing every dune and path. They couldn't afford to get the dump truck stuck in the open terrain, not with this load. Jack had a place in mind where he could bury the sand and cover it with some more clean sand, somewhere no one would ever think to look. It wasn't the best solution, but it was the only one they had for now.
Audrey listened intently as Jack recounted the events. She could sense the sadness in his voice, how it still bothered him to talk about the lengths he had gone to in order to save the company—how his father had pushed him into dumping that toxic load in the very place that had once been his sanctuary, his childhood playground.
She had initially wanted to ask him why he hadn't just refused the task, but she held back. The more she thought about it, the more she understood the position he'd been in. The company was at risk, he had already lied to the police, and his father was pressing him to finish the job before Ron found out about the accident. Saying no wouldn't have been just disobedience—it would've been outright rebellion, the kind that had no turning back.
"Did anyone ever find out about this 'cleanup'?" Audrey asked carefully, knowing the answer might be hard to hear.
"No," Jack replied, his voice low. "If they had, I would've been behind bars." Another confession. It reminded him of the one he'd made the day before, telling Audrey about Father Finnegan.
Audrey's thoughts mirrored his. Circumstances had left him with no real choices.
He was trusting her, deeply. What he had shared with her so far could put him away for a long time, yet she understood why he had done it. She felt honored that he trusted her so much.
"Did you ever regret it?" she asked, her voice soft.
"Every second," Jack sighed. "That was where I grew up. But it was already too late, the moment they brought in that new equipment."
Audrey smiled, trying to lift the mood a bit. "You almost sound like one of your beloved tree-huggers now," she teased lightly, hoping to break the tension. But it didn't work. She could tell by the silence that followed that she'd hit a nerve.
Jack continued, telling her about the morning after the cleanup. After working through the night, his father, Philip, sent him home. Jack was a mess—dark circles under his eyes, clothes filthy, exhausted. Philip didn't want him anywhere near the police or the safety inspectors looking like that. The rest of the crew was sent home too, replaced by men who knew nothing about what had happened the night before.
Philip even offered to call Jack a cab back to L.A., worried about him riding his bike in his condition. Still, Jack chose to ride back, though he kept to the speed limit for once, too tired to push it.
As he hit the main road, the morning rush was in full swing, traffic thick with cars. And sure enough, the Greenpeace activists were out there again, catching the morning crowd with their signs. Jack had no choice but to stop this time—the traffic was too heavy to blow through like he usually did. They surrounded his bike almost immediately.
"Fracturing kills," their signs read. "Not here. Not anywhere." "No jobs on a dead planet." He read the slogans begrudgingly, the traffic giving him a few seconds to take it all in.
Surprisingly, the protesters weren't as aggressive as he thought they'd be. They didn't block his way. Maybe they'd learned by now that Jack wasn't the type to stop—he'd made that clear enough with the dust clouds and near-misses on previous encounters. He took a moment to glance at their faces. They were about his age, maybe a little older. Students, most likely. A few guys, more women. One girl held out a flyer, but Jack turned away, finding a gap in the cars to pull through and leave them behind.
His leg ached. He'd been wearing his black denims all night and couldn't quite remember when the pain had started. He hadn't taken a fall, hadn't been hit. But when he got home to change for school, he saw it—a large red patch around his knee, a chemical burn. He must have knelt in some contaminated sand at the site. Jack stared at the burn, realizing he didn't even know what it had been exposed to. He tossed the jeans, took a quick shower, and hoped the burn would heal on its own.
"The worst part was Marilyn," Jack said, shifting the conversation.
"Why?" Audrey asked, curious.
"Well, because Ron still wasn't supposed to know about the accident. Marilyn kept asking why I ditched her that night, and for the next ten days, I couldn't undress in front of her. She would've seen the burn and asked questions."
"Did they ever find out about the fracking equipment your dad bought?" Audrey asked.
"Of course they did," Jack said, his tone resigned.
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1984 June
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Jack hadn't spent much time in the oil fields lately. The days following the accident had been tense, but he was relieved that the cover-up had worked out as planned. Only later did it hit him just how lucky he was that no one had uncovered the truth of what he'd done—he'd committed a federal crime, and the consequences would've been severe. As the weeks passed, the turmoil slowly settled. Ron still hadn't caught wind of anything, though Jack wasn't sure how long they could keep it hidden. Ron made occasional visits to check on the pumps his company supplied, and it was only a matter of time before he stumbled across the fracturing equipment.
Jack's knee had healed by now. He had also made up with Marilyn, and in the midst of it all (or because of his absence from the company), had found time to take that trip to Colorado with her. The change of scenery had been much-needed, and the trip was better than he'd expected. Her friends had stocked up on beer, and by Friday night, Jack had gotten thoroughly drunk (thankfully not Saturday, as he had to fly back Sunday morning). He hadn't contributed much to their conversations, though. He just sat there, mostly quiet, smiling or laughing when the group did. His mind was elsewhere.
Ever since the accident at the oil fields, he couldn't stop thinking about his uncle, Jack—the man he was named after—who had died in a similar workplace accident. Or at least that's how the story went. Jack had been only seven at the time, too young to fully understand. People got killed. It was part of the business. Oil drilling was dangerous work, and sometimes people didn't make it out. Thinking of Uncle Jack brought back old memories. Bad memories, that he drowned in beer that night, much to Marilyn's dislike.
In the weeks that followed the accident, Jack kept his distance from the company. His father probably thought it was because Jack didn't want to risk running into safety inspectors, the police, or even the workers who might recognize him as the guy who had been there the night of the accident. That wasn't entirely wrong. But staying away also meant he spent more time with Marilyn, which had its own set of complications.
Ron was around often. Every conversation felt like a minefield, a constant balancing act of what to say, what not to say. When to lie, when to change the subject—anything to keep Ron, or anyone else, from getting suspicious. Jack was tired of it. He wished Philip would just come clean to Ron, admit that if Ron wouldn't provide the fracturing equipment, they'd buy it elsewhere. It would have saved them all a lot of stress.
One night at dinner, the subject of fracturing came up. Ron casually asked Jack what he thought about it. Caught off guard, Jack played it safe, giving a noncommittal answer. That was all Ron needed to launch into a long-winded lecture—one that quickly turned into a full-blown rant. He went on about why his company would never manufacture fracturing equipment. It was too dangerous, he said. Unethical. Contaminating the little water L.A. had left. As if Jack didn't already know every argument by heart.
What bothered Jack more was that Ron's words echoed the same sentiments he'd heard from the activists—the "tree-huggers," as he still called them. Just two weeks earlier, on his way home from school, he'd found one of their flyers tucked under his windshield wiper. They'd plastered the parking lot with them, and every car had one. He had taken it home, thinking it was good to know what the opposition was up to. But the more he thought about it, the more surprising it was that Ron seemed to agree with those same people.
In June 1984, Jack was finally done with high school, and he couldn't have been more relieved. It meant the promise of a peaceful summer ahead before heading off to UCLA. He hadn't fully decided on a major yet—his father had initially pushed for business, but that was clearly Graem's path now, so they'd somehow agreed that Jack would focus on engineering. He wasn't entirely sure about that, though, and avoided bringing it up at home. He didn't want anyone deciding for him, which he knew would happen if he did.
That evening, Philip called him down to the living room. Graem was already there, sitting by the table. Philip poured them each a Scotch, which took Jack by surprise. Graem was only fifteen, but Philip was pouring him a glass as well. It didn't sit right with Jack. Scotch was a mark of approval in their household, something his father reserved for moments of respect. The fact that Graem was getting it, too, made Jack uneasy.
"We need to show you something," Philip said proudly.
Jack noticed a set of large plans laid out on the living room table. They were rolled up and far too large for any office desk. Graem unrolled them, revealing a detailed map of the oil fields—familiar contours of land Jack had known all his life. But there were new lines drawn in. They looked like dams, enclosing what seemed to be lakes.
"What is this?" Jack asked.
"The future," Philip replied, his voice filled with pride.
"Hydraulic fracturing, large scale," Graem chimed in, clearly eager to show off his knowledge. "We're replacing the old pumps with injectors here, here, and here," he pointed to different spots on the map. "And we'll widen the boreholes here and here for extraction."
Jack's eyes narrowed. "What about the lakes?" There hadn't ever been water – it was a desert.
"Flowback water storage," Graem said, almost smugly. Jack realized at that moment that Graem had been involved in these plans for far longer than he had. This was Philip's way of bringing Graem into the company, into the big projects, into strategic planning.
The term flowback water was a euphemism, Jack knew that all too well. It was a cocktail of chemical waste and used water that came back up from the wells, the same stuff that had burned his knee weeks ago. The knot in his stomach tightened.
Philip's tone shifted, a touch more serious now. "We need to know where you dumped the sand," he said, tapping the map. "I can't have geologists taking samples there if it interferes with these plans."
Jack hesitated for a moment before pointing at the location. "Don't worry. It's here," he said. It was far enough from the areas marked for the new dams and lakes.
Graem grinned, clearly feeling like this was his moment. Nothing was in it's way now. This was his project, and he could sense his father's approval. Jack could see the pride in Graem's face.
"The testing phase is over. We'll do it right this time," Philip said, confidence dripping from his words. "Large scale."
"After these 'test' results?" Jack asked, the skepticism obvious in his voice. To him, the test had been a disaster. A man had died. Three workers had been hurt. The company wasn't capable of handling this kind of process.
"Of course we'll make adjustments," Philip replied, walking around the table. "The workers screwed it up because they couldn't even read the safety instructions."
Jack nodded. That much was true. He had seen it himself. "We need to translate them."
Philip laughed dismissively. "No. Replace them."
The words hit Jack hard. Part of what he loved about the oil fields was speaking Spanish with the workers. "Do you even realize how many of them only speak Spanish?" Jack asked, his voice hardening. He couldn't believe what his father was suggesting.
Philip sneered, his tone mocking. "Then you'd better start tomorrow, Jack. I'm sure you can them all in your beloved Spanish that we need to let them go—give them the news in a way they'll understand."
Jack felt the anger rise in his chest. He gripped the glass of Scotch tightly, barely resisting the urge to toss it back onto the table. "What about the guys who got hurt in the blast?" he asked, his voice strained.
"All of them," Philip said coldly. "They fucked up. That night cost us ninety grand."
Jack had finally reached his limit. All these years, he had followed his father's lead, done what was expected of him, but this step… he couldn't. He couldn't be part of this anymore.
"I won't," Jack said firmly, setting the glass down with a thud.
"I beg your pardon?", Philip hissed. He saw the anger flash in his father's eyes, the same kind of rage that used to fill their house years ago when Philip had beaten his wife and son. For a brief moment, Jack thought Philip might strike him, but then Graem stepped in, eager to defuse the situation.
"I'll do it," Graem offered, his voice calm but eager. He was more than willing to go to the fields and handle the dismissals.
Jack shot him a look that could kill. He had rarely ever felt so betrayed, so utterly alone. He was outnumbered, one against two. There was no point in resisting. If he didn't do it, they would. There was nothing he could do to stop it. His father's decisions were final, and Jack realized that he didn't have any real say in the company. It would always be Philip's company, and Graem was quickly becoming his father's perfect extension.
Jack turned and walked out of the house. He heard Philip's voice calling after him, sharp and unfriendly, but he didn't stop. He expected the worst—maybe even a blow from behind—but nothing came.
Jack mounted his bike and sped off, forcing himself to focus on the road. The last thing he needed was to crash because he was too stirred up.
He felt aimless. It had been nearly a decade since he'd last stormed out of the house like this. He remembered that night well. A lot had changed since then. Back then, he'd had nothing but five dollars in his pocket. Now he had his bike, his ATM card, actually everything he needed.
He could have gone to Marilyn's. But he didn't feel like it. She'd be nice, as always. She'd probably want to cuddle or talk about her day. Right now, though, Jack just wanted to punch a hole in the wall.
He drove aimlessly for a while, letting the road take him wherever. Stopping at a red light, he watched a truck rumble by and suddenly remembered the night of his mother's car crash. She'd been driving around aimlessly too, trying to escape something she couldn't.
Eventually, Jack found himself at the oil fields. It was 1 a.m., and the place was deserted. Even the activists—the "tree-huggers"—weren't there. For the first time, Jack felt a pang of sympathy for them. He had never really considered their point of view before, but now… he couldn't deny it. Maybe it was simply because the enemy of his enemy—his father—felt like his friend. They hated what his father and his company represented, just like he did right now. Perhaps it wasn't about agreeing with them, but more about sharing the same anger and contempt.
He didn't go through the main gate. Instead, he took the back route, the dirt road he'd found years ago. It was still there, leading into the fields like a secret passage.
The pumps worked steadily in the darkness, nodding their heads in a slow, mechanical rhythm. Jack kept his bike's engine quiet, not wanting to wake up the security guard who probably slept in his office container. This place had once been his refuge, the one place where he had felt free. But tonight, it felt different. Philip's power over this place was undeniable. He had been blind to it as a kid, but now he saw it for what it was.
He parked his bike near one of the small stone hills he used to jump off with his dirt bike when he was younger. Sitting down, he let the memories wash over him—memories of a time that seemed simpler but never truly happy. Even the good days had been tinged with fear. He remembered watching his mother cover up her bruises with makeup, trying to pretend everything was fine.
The good times weren't coming back. Be honest. There had never been good times.
Soon these hills would probably be flattened and turned into lakes of chemical waste. It broke something inside him. This place wasn't a natural reserve anyway. Big parts of the desert sand had become contaminated with thick black crude oil already. So why did he care so much about a place getting even dirtier?
The oil fields had been his escape, the one place where he didn't feel trapped. But during the past years, especially the past months, they had become another part of Philip's cage.
That night, Jack cried. For the first time in years, and he wasn't even sure why. It was a sudden wave of emotions, of memories that he had suppressed during the past years of adjusting for the sake of peace. He was completely alone out here in the dark, so he just let it happen.
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