Chapter 11: Oil & Water
Hawaii Incorporated ~ Paradise Gained
If you missed:
Chapter 1 (A Call to Arms), please click here.
Chapter 2 (Papa George), please click here.
Chapter 3 (Brothers in Arms), please click here.
Chapter 4 (East by West), please click here.
Chapter 5 (Sally), please click here.
Chapter 6 (The Scrimshaw Incident Part 1), please click here.
Chapter 6 (The Scrimshaw Incident Part 2), please click here.
Chapter 7 (Pilgrimage), please click here.
Chapter 8 (Damage Control), please click here.
Chapter 9 (In the Rough), please click here.
Chapter 10 (Integration), please click here.
Hawaii Incorporated ~ Paradise Gained
For db
Our little systems have their day.
—from "In Memoriam A.H.H."
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Chapter 11: Oil & Water
Created by AB Cooper
Narrated by Michael Smith
Michael Smith here.
Friday, 05 May 1972
Penguin Bank, Molokaʻi
As our Maritime SDF Sikorsky H-34 Choctaw banked hard over the Molokai Channel, my nausea had nothing to do with the turbulence. The cramped metal cabin vibrated around us; its bench seating pressed against bulkheads and its small rectangular portals framing the disaster below. Bobby Goddard, fifteen and grinning ear to ear, leaned into the port-side window beside me, his headset slightly askew on a mop of sandy blond hair. For him, this was the ultimate field trip. For me, it was an environmental nightmare unfolding in real time.
Across the narrow cabin, Jope sat stiffly. His eyes were fixed on the cabling overhead, already assessing whether this was another Sand Island. Beside him, Bill Hegner hunched forward, scribbling notes into his weathered notebook while glancing in and out of a portal. Chief Petty Officer Paul “Pickle” Meyerkord stood braced against the starboard door frame, one hand on the bulkhead, the other adjusting the intercom. His nickname was well-earned. If you were in a pickle at sea, Chief Pickle was the guy you wanted circling overhead, ready to drop a hoist or dive in himself to pull you out.
The intercom crackled with the pilot’s voice from the raised cockpit just ahead. “Mr. Smith, sir, Kanaloa in position.”
“Roger,” I replied. “Bingo state?”
“Thirty mikes. Time for one more spin.”
I looked at Hegner. He nodded.
“Proceed, Maritime One,” I said.
The pilot leveled off as we flew over La`au Point, at the southwest tip of Molokaʻi. I couldn’t see them from the air, but I knew about fifty housing activists were camped down there, protesting Keller Goddard’s plans for a luxury subdivision.
“We’ll stay here as long as it takes,” William Ritte, one of Damien Blackwood’s Workers’ Party members, had declared. “Even if it means laying down our lives to keep KG Pacific bulldozers out.”
Ritte and his comrades lived by subsistence hunting and gathering on Shipwreck Beach, a stretch of shoreline named for a sailboat half-buried in sand about thirty feet inland. Rob had told Home Affairs Minister Li to give them a few weeks to blow off steam, then send in ISA to round them up for trespassing on private land.
The protesters were probably livid with what was happening offshore. But so was Rob. We had left Thomas Worthington practically cowering beneath Rob’s conference table while expletives bounced off the walls.
“I’ve never seen Dad so mad,” Bobby had said as we waited for Chief Pickle’s Sikorsky to pick us up at The Republic House. “Is Dad going to arrest him?”
“We’ll see,” I had told him. “Depends on what the investigation finds.”
The pilot banked west, and I got a clear look at the mess below. Normally, these waters were pristine. Penguin Bank was a submerged shelf stretching about twenty miles from La`au Point. A rich fishing ground, it teemed with sea life and coral reefs and served as a prime breeding area for humpback whales. I felt sick as I took in the wreckage. The Monterey was aground. Thick crude oil covered the azure water in an iridescent sheen. It shimmered with a rainbow of petroleum catching the morning sun.
The Maritime SDF had responded fast. Thankfully, the seas were calm, and the wind was low. Admiral Sunao “Sunny” Wakisaka’s containment vessels had formed a rough circle around the spill, deploying floating booms like a giant net unfurling across the surface. Inside that perimeter, skimmer ships moved with slow precision. From above, their long collection arms looked like the spindly legs of water striders. But instead of catching prey, they funneled oil-slicked seawater into onboard holding tanks where separation would begin.
The helicopter dropped lower, giving us a closer view of the tanker. The Monterey’s bow was firmly wedged on the bank, her stern still afloat in deeper water. Worthington Shipping’s blue and gold livery stood out on her smokestack, though streaks of oil had already smeared her white superstructure.
“What’s floating on the water? Birds?” Bobby asked through his headset, his face still pressed against the portal.
I looked out and saw dozens of seabirds struggling in the slick.
“Probably boobies and frigatebirds,” said Chief Pickle. “They dive for fish and can’t spot the oil in time. Before this is over, monk seals and all kinds of fish are going to surface and wash up. The oil clogs their gills, coats their fur. They can’t regulate body temperature. Green turtles too, if any were feeding nearby.”
Bobby’s face fell. His voice over the intercom was equally grim. “All these dead animals…”
Chief Pickle looked to me for direction. “Should I continue, Mr. Smith?”
I gave him a thumbs-up. “No holds barred, Chief,” I said into my headset. “Bobby’s aboard to witness the good, bad, and ugly of government service.”
Bobby’s field trip had been my idea. I’d come up with it a few weeks earlier and called it “bring-your-kid-to-work day at The Republic House.”
This morning, I had been set to host a dozen high schoolers for a tour of The Republic House, to give them a peek at a Parliamentary committee meeting, and to eat with them at what was being promoted as “Lunch with the PM.” But just as the kids were trickling in, half-asleep and bleary-eyed, I got word that the Monterey had run aground. My first instinct was to send them home.
Rob had a different view. “Absolutely not,” he said. “There’s no better education than a real-time crisis.”
So, I paired each student with a staff member. I assigned Bobby to shadow me.
“But that’s just what we can see today,” Chief Pickle went on. “The real damage starts when this stuff hits the reefs. Oil smothers coral polyps. They can’t photosynthesize or feed. It can take decades for a reef to recover—if it ever does. And if this slick reaches the spawning grounds off Molokaʻi…” He shook his head. “We’re talking about wiping out entire fish populations. Mullet, ulua, even the deep-water ono that migrate through these channels.”
“How long before it reaches shore?” Bobby asked. His voice had dropped. It was more focused now, almost solemn. For the first time, I heard a tone that didn’t belong to the youngest Goddard child, but rather to someone stepping into his own.
“Depends on the currents and wind. But see how it’s spreading toward Lānaʻi? Oil’s lighter than water. It follows the surface currents. If the Maritime SDF can’t contain it, it could hit the beaches within twelve hours. And once it gets into the tide pools and mangrove areas, you’re looking at contamination that could last for years. Crabs, sea urchins—all the little creatures that feed the bigger fish—gone.”
“Chief,” I asked, “do you think the SDF will be able to contain it?”
“I sure hope so. I’m cautiously optimistic, Mr. Smith.”
The helo climbed sharply and banked west. The copilot’s voice cut in, “Mr. Smith, switching comms to pilot. Stand by.”
A few crackles, then: “Maritime One, this is Monterey Officer of the Watch, over.”
“Monterey, this is Maritime One, go ahead, over.”
“Maritime One, this is Monterey Officer of the Watch. Standing by to receive passengers on stern helicopter deck. Ship stable on bank, monitoring list and stress levels. Winds northeast ten to twelve knots. Recommend minimal time aboard. Over.”
Our pilot banked the H-34 toward the massive tanker’s stern. Her superstructure towered above the deck, and I could see the unnatural angle of the vessel. Her bow was hard aground on the reef, and her stern dangled over deeper water. She had a noticeable starboard list, probably about fifteen degrees. The hull plates were visibly stressed. She looked like a wounded whale.
“Gentlemen,” Chief Pickle announced, “we’re putting you down on a dangerous, oil-contaminated vessel with stability issues. Underneath your bench, you’ll find safety equipment—life preservers and hard hats. They are mandatory. The orange vests have CO₂ cartridges for inflation, and the hard hats are rated for shipboard operations. Give me a thumbs up to confirm your understanding."
We obediently gave him the thumbs up. I glanced Bobby’s way and noted a steeliness as he donned his life preserver and hard hat. He secured the bulky bright orange vest to his body and tightened the strap of his helmet with great purpose. Gone was the dopey, youngest-kid-in-the-family persona. In its place stood a young man, steady and resolved.
The helicopter shuddered as we entered the tanker’s wind shadow. Below us, merchant seamen in hard hats and life jackets stood ready to receive us on deck.
“Mr. Smith, you and Mr. Goddard are first down,” Chief Pickle called out. “Jope and Mr. Hegner follow on the second lift.”
We each stepped into a harness. Chief Pickle sidestepped over to me and checked my safety gear. He yanked down on the straps until the chest and leg harnesses were snug.
“The harness distributes your weight,” he explained. “Arms crossed over your chest, feet together.
“Don’t try to help—trust the gear,” he shouted as he clipped Bobby and me to the hoist.
Then he told us to step off.
“Going down!” he shouted after us. I had no time to think. The deck of the Monterey rose instantly to meet us. The moment our feet touched down, merchant seamen unclipped us and pulled us clear of the hoist cable.
Bobby and I watched as Jope and Hegner came down next. Same drill. They were detached from the hoist and hustled over to join us. By the time they reached our side, the H-34 was already climbing away, returning to base.
~
A Maritime SDF officer approached me and extended his hand. His arms and face were tanned a deep brown, and his neatly trimmed mustache matched the reddish tone of his hair. He had a square jaw and wore the gold oak leaves of a Lieutenant Commander on his collar. His working khakis were open at the neck, and his boots were steel-toed. His hard hat bore the Kanaloa ship crest, with “XO” stenciled in bold black letters.
“Mr. Smith, I’m Tom Reid. Kanaloa’s exec.”
“Pleasure to meet you, XO,” I said, shaking his hand. His grip was strong, and he looked me square in the eyes. I introduced him to my companions and then asked, “Where do we stand?”
“Making progress, but still not out of the woods, I’m afraid.”
I nodded.
“I’ve got a team of boatswain’s mates patching up the ruptured hull plates, and my machinists are transferring oil from the damaged starboard tanks to the intact port tanks—”
“There’s spare capacity on the port side?” Hegner asked.
“No, sir,” replied XO Reid. “We’re first pumping the intact port tanks into empty fuel barges running alongside. This will create capacity. Once the port tanks are empty, we’ll transfer the remaining oil from the damaged starboard tanks to the port side, away from the hull breaches.”
“I didn’t see any barges when we were hovering,” said Jope.
“Yes, sir. That’s because we’ve filled every spare barge. They’re either offloading the good port oil at Sand Island or the contaminated oil into separators at Kahoʻolawe Port. We hope to have them back this afternoon to finish the job and pump her dry.”
“Are we still polluting?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, yes—but at a relative trickle. One hundred fifty gallons per hour, down from two thousand.”
“Per hour?!” Bobby exclaimed. “Holy shit.”
“Yes, sir,” said XO Reid. “It’s beyond bad. We’re still losing oil through compromised hull plates below the waterline. My guys are working hard to patch them up by noon.”
“What’s the plan to get her off the bank?" I asked.
XO Reid hesitated, brushing his mustache with his fingertips. “I’m still working that out with Admiral Wakisaka’s staff. There are two options. One is a controlled refloating during high tide. The other is to use a bunch of tugs to pull her off.”
“But that’d destroy the reefs,” Bobby said critically.
“Yes, sir,” XO Reid agreed. “You’ve hit on a huge consideration the Admiral’s weighing right now. But here’s the tradeoff—we wait for high tide to avoid reef damage, but if we wait too long, the ship could break apart on the reef. That would be even worse than using the tugs to pull her off.”
“When’s high tide?” I asked.
“The earliest high tide that we’d be ready to float her is tomorrow morning at 0347 hours. The problem we’re facing is the ship’s hull is currently supported by the reef rather than buoyed by water displacement. That’s creating stress fractures that worsen by the minute. Port Authority engineers estimate we have between ten and fifteen hours before metal fatigue could cause catastrophic hull failure. That puts us right up against the window to refloat her tomorrow morning.”
“That’s cutting it close,” Hegner observed. “If we wait too long to make the call, we could have the worst of both worlds. Monterey could start breaking apart just as we’re trying to float her.”
“Damn straight,” replied XO Reid. “The Admiral needs to make his recommendation to the Prime Minister sooner rather than later. I have a call with his staff in about fifteen mikes.”
“How can we help?” I asked.
“Sir, I don’t want to bypass the chain of command, but if you were to check in with the Admiral in an hour or two—and if you felt the need to encourage a timely decision…”
I nodded and gave him a wink. “What about evacuating the crew?”
"We've identified twenty-three non-essential crew members for immediate evacuation to the Kanaloa. This includes galley staff, off-duty ratings, and anyone not directly involved in damage control or salvage operations. An essential crew of twelve will remain aboard, including Master Carroll O'Connor, Chief Engineer Martinez, and the senior deck officers needed for navigation and pumping operations."
He pointed to a detailed crew manifest. “Evacuation of non-essential personnel will proceed by helicopter in groups of four, as soon as ISA and Maritime CIS are done interviewing them.”
“I suspect they’re slowing your repair efforts,” Jope commented.
XO Reid sighed. “Yup. You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting one of those guys. They’re crawling all over the ship and a complete pain in my neck. I can’t make a move without their permission. Before my guys can do anything, I need the head spook to sign off. If I could get him off my back, maybe I could hit the earlier high tide.”
“When is the next one?” I asked.
“Around 1600 hours.”
“If we can get ISA off your back, could you float her this afternoon?”
He thought about it. “It’d be tight—we do need another eight to ten hours minimum—but it’s possible if everything were to go perfectly.”
“Who at ISA are you dealing with?” Jope asked.
“Agent Brown. Real tight-lipped. Treats every rivet like evidence in a murder case.”
I grinned. “Welcome to my world. They weren’t issued a personality at ISA boot camp.”
“I know him,” said Jope. “Let me speak with him. He’s had enough time to do his job. It’s time to prioritize the environment over evidence gathering.”
~
We split up to divide and conquer. XO Reid left the stern to call the Admiral’s staff and plead for reinforcements to meet the new 1600 hours deadline. Bill Hegner went with Kanaloa’s chief boatswain’s mate to inspect aft steerage. Jope left to find Agent Brown.
Bobby and I were introduced to Petty Officer Third Class Jones, a young CIS agent on his first big case. “Sir, follow me, and I’ll take you to meet the Master.”
As we moved toward the ship’s superstructure, I asked Bobby how he was holding up.
“Good, Big Mike.”
“Lots of things to juggle,” I commented. “Environmental concerns, an investigation…”
“Watch the oil residue,” Agent Jones warned. “With the ship’s list, even the nonskid is slippery.”
The superstructure loomed above us as we approached the accommodation ladder. The steep metal stairway, normally level, now angled sharply due to the ship’s list.
"The bridge is four decks up," Agent Jones said, gesturing skyward. "The Master’s day cabin is one deck below that. He’s waiting for us there."
As we climbed the tilted stairway, the vessel’s overstressed metal groaned. Through portals in the superstructure, I glimpsed crew quarters where personal belongings had tumbled to the low side of the compartments, creating chaotic piles of books, clothing, and equipment.
“Agent Jones, how do you fit into this investigation?” I asked, probing for any insight he might offer.
“I’m just a gopher,” he replied. “Assigned to escort bigwigs like you around the ship.”
“Who else have you escorted?”
“A minister. He was with the ISA guys.”
“Minister Li from Home Affairs?”
“I don’t know. Short guy with glasses.”
“Studious—looked like a school principal?”
“Yes sir. He was wearing a coat and tie. Couldn’t believe it.”
We reached the third deck, where the captain's accommodation area was located. Here, the corridor tilted so severely that we had to use the bulkhead handholds to maintain our footing. Emergency lighting cast eerie shadows that swayed with each slight movement of the vessel.
Agent Jones brought us to a door marked “MASTER” in brass letters. It was guarded by two Kanaloa sailors with side arms.
“Why the guards?” I asked Agent Jones.
“Precaution, sir. XO Reid assigned them to ensure the Master’s security.”
Just then, the Master opened the door.
~
He stood there in the dim light, framed by the crooked door like a portrait that hadn’t been hung straight. The first thing I noticed was how tightly he held himself, as if his bones were strung too tight inside his skin. He was lean. His uniform, pressed to the point of creasing, wasn’t just regulation. It was armor. And it signaled that, even under scrutiny, the Master arrogantly projected the trappings of command.
In one hand, he rolled a pair of steel ball bearings. Click. Pause. Click.
His voice was dry and deliberate. “This door is thin,” he said, tapping it with the oversized class ring on his wedding finger. “Neither watertight nor fire safe.”
“Mr. Smith,” he added, stepping back to let us in. “I’ve been expecting you.”
The cabin tilted at the same sickening angle as the rest of the ship. Charts and logbooks were secured to his desk with elastic bands. A coffee cup sat in a gimbal mount designed to stay level, though even that couldn't fully compensate for the list. The space felt cramped, not because of its size, but because of the weight of expectation hanging in the air.
"Master O'Connor," I said, extending my hand.
He shook it briefly. His grip was firm but distracted. The steel bearings never stopped their rhythmic clicking.
"Class of ’43, Kings Point," he said, noticing my glance at his ring. "Graduated straight into the North Atlantic run. Liberty ships, Mr. Smith. We lost two vessels on my first Arctic convoy to Murmansk."
His eyes shifted to Bobby. "And who might this young man be?"
“I apologize, Master,” I said. “This is Bobby Goddard. It’s bring-your-child-to-work day at the Republic House. He’s shadowing me to see how government works during a crisis.”
O’Connor’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Goddard? As in the Prime Minister?”
“His son, yes. If you’d prefer to speak privately—”
“Not at all,” O’Connor said, settling into his desk chair. “I’d be happy to have the Prime Minister’s son join our conversation. Educational for the boy.”
Bobby remained quiet, but he was absorbing everything.
“Master, I understand you’ve had a difficult morning—”
“Difficult?” He let out a dry laugh. “Mr. Smith, I’ve been running ships in these waters for fifteen years since I moved to Hawaii. I know how the game works here—the politics, the territorial sensitivities, the way private companies get blamed when things go wrong.”
Click. Pause. Click.
“I assume you’re here to assess the political implications for the Prime Minister.”
I felt his trap closing, but I pressed forward. “Master, I’m here to understand what happened. Nothing more.”
His pale eyes studied me for a long moment. “We’ll see,” he said. “Let me tell you exactly what happened—mechanically speaking.”
He paused. Click. Pause. Click.
Then he said evenly, “We departed Long Beach bound for the island of Kahoʻolawe with a full load of California crude—thirty-two million gallons. Standard routing brings us through the Moloka‘i Channel, splitting the islands of Oʻahu and Moloka‘i.”
He set the ball bearings down briefly to indicate the route on a chart. “At 0540 hours, we were in the Moloka‘i Channel on course two-three-five degrees—southwest for you landlubbers—making our approach toward the southern end of the channel.”
The ball bearings resumed their rhythm. Click. Pause. Click.
"Standard procedure calls for a course change to one-eight-zero degrees, due south, to clear Penguin Bank before turning southeast past Lāna‘i toward Kahoʻolawe. I ordered ‘left standard rudder’ to begin the turn.
“The helmsman acknowledged the order and turned the wheel. Then boom. We heard what sounded like a massive pipe bursting and felt a violent shudder through the deck plates. The rudder had jammed hard left. The ship lurched into the turn—sharper than normal.
“The helmsman called out, ‘rudder not responding, sir!’
“We couldn’t stop the turn. The ship kept coming around in what we call a racetrack turn.
“I immediately ordered ‘all stop’ on the engines and initiated emergency procedures—manual steering from the emergency station, backup hydraulics, even tried to steer with the engines using differential thrust. Nothing worked.
“Instead of steadying up on one-eight-zero degrees south, we kept turning. We passed through one-eight-zero, then one-three-five southeast, then zero-nine-zero east, and finally zero-four-five northeast.”
He paused. The ball bearings stopped.
“When I realized we were going to hit Penguin Bank, I ordered ‘full astern’ and sounded general quarters. But thirty-two million gallons of crude oil doesn’t stop on command. By the time we struck the reef, we were heading zero-four-five degrees—northeast—at about six knots.”
“What did the impact feel like?” I asked.
O’Connor’s eyes went distant. “Like hitting a concrete wall. The whole ship shuddered, then lurched upward as the bow rode up onto the reef. You could hear the hull plates buckling, metal tearing. The bow climbed until it was wedged solid on the bank—maybe fifteen degrees out of the water. The stern settled back into deep water, giving us that starboard list you saw.”
“That’s when the oil started flowing?” I asked.
“Immediately. The impact ruptured the starboard hull plates below the waterline. Eight of our eleven cargo tanks were breached. Dark crude started pouring out like blood from a wound.”
Click. Pause. Click.
“Captain, what are those?” Bobby asked, pointing at the ball bearings.
O’Connor held them up between his thumb and forefinger. “Ball bearings from the primary hydraulic pump. Found them in the steering gear compartment after the failure. When the pump seized, these little beauties popped out like buckshot.”
Click. Pause. Click.
“Physical evidence of mechanical failure, son. The kind investigators catalog, photograph, and use to build their case.”
“Had you experienced any steering problems on this voyage?” I asked.
“None. Full steering gear inspection in San Francisco six months ago. Routine maintenance in Long Beach a month ago.”
“What could cause all the steering systems to fail at once?” I asked.
O’Connor’s eyes shifted between Bobby and me. “In thirty years at sea, I’ve never seen a complete failure like this. The redundant systems are built precisely to prevent this kind of outcome."
“But it happened,” I said.
“It happened.”
Click. Pause. Click.
“Which is why those ISA fellows and your CIS people are crawling all over my ship like ants on spilled sugar. They’re looking for criminal activity, Mr. Smith. In their minds, I’m guilty until proven innocent."
"Is there anything that suggests criminal activity?"
He leaned back, studying me. “That’s an interesting question from someone who claims to only want the truth. Are you asking as a government investigator, or as someone trying to gauge political liability for the Prime Minister?"
“I’m asking as someone trying to understand how millions of gallons of oil ended up in Hawaiian waters.”
Bobby was silent beside me, taking it all in.
“Fair enough.” O’Connor set the ball bearings on his desk. “The investigators will find what they want to find—a mechanical failure caused by corporate cost-cutting and deferred maintenance.”
“You sound resigned to that outcome.”
“Mr. Smith, I know how these local politics work. Worthington Shipping is Hawaiian, but it’s old Hawaiian. It isn’t tied to Aloha Cap—and worse, it competes with Aloha Pacific Carriers.”
Click. Pause. Click.
“When you accept command of a vessel, don’t you inspect it?”
I waited.
“Of course you do,” he continued. “But as any Master will tell you, all shipping companies cut corners—even your precious APC. If we only accepted pristine vessels, we’d never put to sea. Our job is to take what we’re given, hold it together with string and chewing gum, and pray that when a mishap occurs—and it always does—we can contain it.”
“So, you bear no responsibility for this disaster?”
His jaw tightened. “I bear the responsibility of command, Mr. Smith. But responsibility and fault aren’t the same thing. Right now, my crew and the Maritime SDF are working around the clock to save this vessel and contain the spill. I’m confident we’ll succeed in both.”
Click. Pause. Click.
“The investigators will write their reports, the lawyers will assign blame, and the politicians will use it however it suits them. But my job is to save my ship and protect these waters. Everything else is just noise.”
He brought the ball bearings to a halt and scowled. “I believe we’re done here, Mr. Smith. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a ship to save.”
I realized he had ended the conversation on his terms. He had offered grievances to deflect responsibility. This was a man who had learned, through war and thirty years at sea, how to navigate more than just ocean currents.
“Thank you for your time, Master.”
“Mr. Smith,” he said as we reached the door, “give my regards to the Prime Minister. Tell him some of us still remember when government investigations were about finding truth, not political advantage.”
As we walked back down the tilted corridor, Bobby was quiet until we reached the fantail.
“He made it sound like it wasn’t his fault,” he said. “But isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
~
The rhythmic thrum of Chief Pickle’s rotor blades filled the cabin as we left Monterey behind. Through my portal, I watched the damaged tanker shrink below us, her unnatural angle a stark reminder of how quickly things could go wrong at sea.
XO Reid adjusted his headset and pointed toward a formation of gray ships on the horizon. “There’s the U.S. Navy—Rear Admiral Morrison’s task force. Two destroyers, a cruiser, and our salvation—fleet oilers."
Bobby pressed his face to the portal, studying the distant vessels. “They look like they’re in a hurry.”
“Damn right they are,” XO Reid replied. “Morrison was playing cat and mouse with a Soviet submarine pack about two hundred miles northwest."
"And they just abandoned their mission to help us?” I asked.
He grinned. “Environmental disaster trumps Cold War games, Mr. Smith. Besides, helping Hawaii’s Maritime SDF makes good politics now that Nixon’s in charge."
"What's their capability?"
"Each oiler can pump 1.5 million gallons per hour through her transfer systems. Combined with our barges, we’re looking at roughly four million gallons per hour capacity. With the help of the U.S. Navy, the Monterey should be light enough to float by 1500 hours, as the tide is rising to its peak around 1600 hours."
Jope’s voice crackled through the intercom. “I’ve got good news on the investigation front. ISA and the Maritime CIS team got what they needed. They’ll stand down for salvage operations and continue interviews once the crew’s back in port."
"What did they find?" I asked.
"Mechanical failure, just like the Master said. Catastrophic hydraulic pump failure, backup systems compromised by the same root cause. They've got photographs, measurements, samples of the hydraulic fluid."
Bill Hegner looked up from his clipboard, where he'd been scribbling notes throughout the flight. "I spent two hours in the steering gear compartment with the tanker’s Chief Engineer. Everything the Master told you checks out—hydraulic pump seized, ball bearings scattered everywhere, backup systems failed in sequence."
"Sounds straightforward," I observed.
Hegner shook his head slowly. “That’s the problem, Mike. It’s too straightforward. Complete steering failure requiring the failure of primary hydraulics, backup hydraulics, emergency manual steering, and engine differential steering. Each system has redundancy built in. The chances of all four failing simultaneously…” He trailed off, staring out at the task force.
"What are you thinking?" I asked.
"I'm thinking about what the Master said—that he's never seen anything like this in thirty years at sea. Neither have I, and I've investigated maritime casualties from here to Hong Kong."
Hegner tapped his pen against his clipboard. "It's a perfect storm of mechanical failure, Mike. And I don't believe in perfect storms."
The Kanaloa loomed ahead of us, her gray hull cutting through the swells as she maintained her station near enough to the spill site to control the disaster response, but far enough to let the Maritime SDF, Honolulu Port Authority, and now the U.S. Navy get on with the job at hand.
Tuesday, 21 November 1972
The Chambers of Honorable Justice James Daniel Jeyaretnam
High Court of the Republic of Hawaii
Royal Courthouse, Honolulu
Six months had passed since the Monterey ran aground on Penguin Bank.
The cleanup had been a rare ecological success. Admiral Wakisaka’s Maritime SDF, working alongside the U.S. Navy task force, had contained the spill before it reached the critical spawning grounds off Lānaʻi. The final damage assessment: 2.1 million gallons spilled, 847 seabirds affected, 23 monk seals treated and released. The coral reef damage was heartbreaking, though limited to twelve square miles. It took forty-seven days and cost the Republic eighty-nine million Hawaiian dollars, but an ecological catastrophe had been averted.
The Monterey had been successfully refloated on the afternoon high tide at 1600 hours, just as XO Reid had hoped. But the stress fractures from her time on the reef eventually doomed her. Six months later, she was declared a total constructive loss.
The true victory was still on the horizon. Parliament was finalizing debate on what would be called the Environmental Protection Act of 1972. The Tripartite had modeled it closely on Nixon’s EPA, but with a distinctly Hawaiian twist: the Republic would eliminate its dependence on oil by the year 2000.
The proposed legislation was audacious. Three additional nuclear reactors were scheduled for Kahoʻolawe by 1985. Solar installations would be mandatory on all government buildings by 1975. Wind farms were slated to rise on Maui and Molokaʻi by 1980. Aloha Cap’s Hawaii Battery Company and the local startup Tyba Energy would work together to develop the battery technology to make it all possible.
But the real revolution lay in transportation. Phase One required all government vehicles to be hybrid gas-electric by 1980. Phase Two mandated that half of all new car sales be hybrid by 1990. Phase Three was the moonshot: one hundred percent electric vehicles for all new sales by 2000.
It was an ambitious plan. But as I sat in Justice JDJ’s chambers that gray November morning, I knew the legislation would only pass if the oil spill became a powerful enough symbol to make the public demand that the polluters atone—publicly and painfully—for their sins.
~
The koa-paneled chambers felt different from the formal courtroom. Smaller, more intimate, but no less imposing. Justice JDJ sat behind his mahogany desk, reading glasses perched on his nose as he reviewed the case files. Behind him, tall windows looked out onto the courthouse grounds, where the morning trade winds bent the royal palms.
Davinder Raj sat ramrod straight in his chair, his white turban a striking contrast against the golden wood. At twenty-seven, he carried himself with the confidence of someone undefeated, and he knew it.
Across from him, Damien Blackwood also sat straight in his chair. He was thirty-five, the same age as me, and the lines around his eyes had deepened. Without the distraction of formal court dress, his Eurasian features stood out even more. He had a square jaw, dark hair, and the kind of confidence that explained why Molly hadn’t taken her eyes off him during People v. Mau and Taumalolo.
Beside Blackwood, at a conference table attached to Justice JDJ’s desk but positioned perpendicular to it, sat the three defendants. Thomas Worthington, CEO of Worthington Shipping Company, looked like he’d aged a decade since I’d first imagined him cowering under Rob’s conference table the morning Monterey ran aground. Master Carroll O’Connor had the good sense to leave his ball bearings at home, but the arrogance of command showed in his default expression. The general counsel of Pan-Pacific Petroleum (Triple-P) was a middle-aged man in an ill-fitting but expensive suit who kept glancing at the door as if he were late for tee time.
I sat next to Raj.
Justice JDJ looked up from his files. “Gentlemen, before we begin determining facts in dispute, I note that Mr. Blackwood has objected to the presence of a government representative at this conference.”
Blackwood rose smoothly. “Your Honor, the presence of the Prime Minister’s private secretary during a Judge’s PTC creates an improper appearance of executive pressure. It risks undermining the separation of powers that protects judicial independence.”
Justice JDJ’s expression didn’t change. “Mr. Blackwood, please be seated. No need to be so formal in my chambers during a PTC. That’s why we call it a pre-trial conference and not a trial. As for your objection, you’re welcome to file an interlocutory application on that issue.”
“Your Honor—” Blackwood began.
“Of course,” Justice JDJ said, his tone perfectly neutral, “such an appeal would take approximately two to three months to adjudicate.”
Blackwood’s jaw tightened. I could see him calculating the costs as he sat back down. Financial, political, and otherwise, he was weighing whether a delay was worth it.
“In the interest of judicial efficiency, Your Honor, this conference should proceed.”
“How accommodating of you, Mr. Blackwood.” There was the faintest trace of dryness in Justice JDJ’s voice.
The judge opened the thickest file and adjusted his glasses. “Gentlemen, before we can proceed to trial, we must distinguish between facts not in dispute and facts that require adjudication. The law of evidence is quite clear on this framework."
His voice settled into the cadence of someone who had explained these principles hundreds of times but never lost appreciation for their precision.
“Facts not in dispute—what we also call agreed facts—are those both parties accept as true through stipulations or admissions. These save the court’s time and the Republic’s resources. Facts in dispute are contested and require evidence to resolve. Among those, we have facts in issue—the central questions that will determine the outcome. We also distinguish between material facts that affect legal liability and immaterial facts that, while possibly interesting, do not influence the verdict.”
My head was spinning trying to keep the distinctions clear. I looked to Raj, who was stifling a yawn. In contrast, Blackwood appeared to be listening intently, as if he were in the front row of first-year Contracts, buttering up his law professor or plotting his next move—or both.
“Ultimate facts,” Justice JDJ continued, “are the final conclusions that determine guilt or innocence. Evidentiary facts are the building blocks we use to prove or disprove those ultimate facts. All evidence must meet the standards of relevance and reliability. Relevance means the evidence has a logical tendency to prove or disprove a material fact. Reliability means it is trustworthy and properly authenticated.”
He paused and removed his glasses to clean them.
“This being a criminal case, the burden lies with the prosecution to prove disputed facts beyond a reasonable doubt. Mr. Raj, I trust you understand that standard.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Excellent. Let’s begin with the facts both parties can stipulate."
Without consulting his notes, Raj spoke with crisp precision. “Your Honor, the People propose the following as facts not in dispute:
First, the tanker Monterey ran aground on Penguin Bank at approximately 0557 hours on 5 May 1972.
Second, this grounding caused the release of approximately 2.1 million gallons of crude oil into Hawaiian waters.
Third, a complete hydraulic pump failure in the ship’s steering system preceded the grounding.
Fourth, ball bearings from the failed pump were recovered from the steering gear compartment.”
Justice JDJ looked to the defense. “Mr. Blackwood, any objection to those stipulations?”
Blackwood looked up from his legal pad where he had been jotting notes. “No objection to the first three, Your Honor. However, the defense disputes the characterization of ‘complete failure.’ That language suggests a level of negligence we do not concede.”
Justice JDJ turned back to the prosecution. “Mr. Raj?”
“The People will accept ‘hydraulic pump failure’ without the qualifier, Your Honor.”
“Very well,” Justice JDJ said, making a note. “Mr. Blackwood, what else can we stipulate?"
Blackwood said with theatrical calm, “The defense agrees that Master O’Connor followed standard emergency procedures once the steering failure occurred. We also stipulate that Worthington Shipping’s maintenance records were in compliance with all applicable regulations at the time of sailing.”
Raj’s head snapped up. “Objection to the characterization of compliance, Your Honor. Whether the maintenance met regulatory standards is a conclusion of law, not a fact.”
“Sustained,” Justice JDJ said. “Mr. Blackwood, you may stipulate that maintenance records exist, but their adequacy is clearly a fact in issue.”
I watched this verbal chess match unfold with fascination. Each attorney was working to frame the undisputed facts in ways that reinforced their broader theory of the case.
"Let's move to the central facts in dispute," Justice JDJ said. "Mr. Raj, what ultimate facts must you prove?"
Raj didn’t hesitate. “Your Honor, the People must prove that each defendant’s criminal negligence caused the environmental disaster.
“Against Worthington Shipping and Master O’Connor, we must prove negligent maintenance and operation of the Monterey.
“Against Triple-P, we must prove they were criminally negligent as cargo owners—specifically, in selecting an unseaworthy vessel and failing to supervise the transport of hazardous materials.
“The specific facts in issue include whether Worthington’s deferred maintenance created unreasonable risks, whether Master O’Connor should have anticipated the steering system failure, whether Triple-P failed in their duty to ensure the safe transport of thirty-two million gallons of crude oil, and whether all defendants’ cost-cutting measures constituted a gross deviation from reasonable care.”
"Mr. Blackwood, your response?"
Blackwood said evenly, “Your Honor, the defense disputes every element of criminal negligence.
“We contend that a mechanical failure—however unfortunate—does not constitute criminal conduct unless there is proof of a gross deviation from reasonable care.
“The ultimate fact before this court is whether an unforeseeable equipment failure can support criminal liability.”
Justice JDJ shook his head slightly. “That’s a question of law, not fact, Mr. Blackwood.”
“With respect, Your Honor, foreseeability is a factual question. It requires expert testimony on mechanical reliability and prevailing industry standards.”
Justice JDJ made a note. “We’ll address expert testimony later, Mr. Blackwood.
“Mr. Raj, what evidence supports your case?”
Raj straightened his papers but didn’t glance at them. “The People will introduce maintenance logs showing Worthington’s systematic deferral of hydraulic system repairs, inspection reports from six months prior identifying potential steering issues, and contracts between Triple-P and Worthington indicating that Triple-P selected the lowest bidder despite known concerns about vessel condition.
We’ll also present expert testimony that proper maintenance and responsible cargo-owner oversight would have prevented the failure.”
Blackwood jumped to his feet. “Objection to the relevance of any maintenance logs outside the specific hydraulic system. Broader history creates unfair prejudice without proving that this failure was foreseeable.”
Justice JDJ didn’t look up. “Mr. Blackwood, you’re welcome to make objections from your chair. No need to leap to your feet in chambers.”
Blackwood sat, jaw tight.
“Your Honor,” Raj said, unfazed, “maintenance patterns are directly relevant to establishing a course of negligent conduct. They’re evidentiary facts supporting the ultimate fact of criminal negligence.”
“I’ll allow the evidence, subject to limiting instructions,” Justice JDJ ruled. “Mr. Blackwood, you may introduce evidence of industry standards for comparison.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. The defense intends to show that Worthington Shipping’s maintenance practices met or exceeded those standards. We’ll also present expert testimony that this type of hydraulic failure is exceedingly rare and unforeseeable—even with perfect maintenance.”
Justice JDJ turned back to Raj. “Any hearsay issues with the maintenance logs?”
“They fall under the business records exception, Your Honor. The logs were created in the regular course of business by personnel with direct knowledge of the events recorded.”
Blackwood, still seated but clearly agitated, spoke up. “We don’t dispute authenticity, but we object to multiple hearsay layers. Several entries reference verbal reports from technicians who are not identified, let alone available for cross-examination.”
“Noted,” said Justice JDJ. “We’ll address the admissibility of specific documents at trial. What other evidence, Mr. Raj?"
"The People will call Master O'Connor, Chief Engineer Martinez, and several crew members who were present during the emergency. We'll also present testimony from Maritime SDF investigators and environmental damage experts."
Blackwood leaned forward. "Your Honor, the defense objects to any testimony about environmental damage beyond its use to establish the scope of harm. The extent of ecological damage doesn't prove criminal negligence in seamanship."
"Mr. Raj?"
"The environmental testimony goes to the materiality of the defendants' actions, Your Honor. It's directly relevant to the severity of consequences flowing from their negligence."
"I'll allow limited environmental testimony for context," Justice JDJ ruled. "Mr. Blackwood, your witnesses?"
Blackwood didn’t miss a beat. “The defense will call Master O’Connor, maritime engineering experts, and industry representatives to establish that equipment failures can occur even when reasonable care is taken.
“We’ll also present evidence that Triple-P reasonably relied on Worthington Shipping’s certifications, and that cargo owners cannot be expected to personally inspect every vessel.
“We may call character witnesses to speak to Master O’Connor’s thirty-year safety record and to Triple-P’s corporate safety policies.”
Justice JDJ adjusted his glasses. “Character evidence is generally inadmissible to prove conduct, Mr. Blackwood.”
“We’re not offering it to show they acted carefully in this instance, Your Honor,” Blackwood replied. “We’re establishing Master O’Connor’s professional competence and Triple-P’s safety culture, so the court can evaluate the credibility of their decisions.”
Justice JDJ gave a short nod. “I’ll allow limited character evidence relevant to professional competence and corporate policy. But I won’t entertain reputation testimony aimed at proving they did—or didn’t—act negligently.”
The air in chambers grew tighter. Both attorneys had outlined their strategies, and the room settled into a tense equilibrium.
Then Blackwood shattered it.
“We also intend to present evidence,” he said, voice steady, “that this prosecution is politically motivated. It is a selective enforcement action designed to eliminate competition with the government-backed Aloha Pacific Carriers.”
The room froze. Raj’s pen hovered mid-sentence, and suddenly, I understood why Blackwood—Mister Opposition Leader—had taken this case.
Justice JDJ’s voice was measured. “Mr. Blackwood, the prosecution’s motivations are generally immaterial to your clients’ guilt or innocence.”
“Not when those motivations compromise the fairness of the proceedings, Your Honor. We have evidence that other shipping companies with similar maintenance issues were never investigated. We also have documentation showing that government officials hold financial interests that benefit from the destruction of Worthington Shipping.”
Raj remained calm. His voice was crisp. “Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Blackwood is grandstanding. Prosecutorial discretion isn’t reviewable, absent clear evidence of vindictive intent. Speculation about political motives doesn’t meet that threshold.”
“Mr. Blackwood,” Justice JDJ asked, “do you have specific evidence of prosecutorial misconduct?”
“We do, Your Honor. The government holds substantial investments in APC, a direct competitor. It stands to benefit from my clients’ conviction."
“Your Honor,” Raj replied, voice still steady, “the law applies equally to all maritime operators. The People have a constitutional duty to enforce environmental protections regardless of political considerations. Mr. Blackwood’s desperate attempt to politicize this case cannot disguise the environmental crimes his clients committed.”
“Desperate?” Blackwood’s voice rose. “Your Honor, my clients are being crucified on the altar of the Prime Minister’s political ambitions. This isn’t justice—it’s revenge prosecution dressed up as environmental protection.”
“Mr. Blackwood—”
“Your Honor, the People’s entire case depends on characterizing normal industry practices as criminal negligence while giving government-backed competitors a free pass for identical conduct!”
“Gentlemen!” Justice JDJ’s voice cut through the chamber like a blade. “You are officers of this court, not politicians debating in Parliament!”
But the dam had burst.
Raj was on his feet, his turban slightly askew. "Mr. Blackwood's inflammatory rhetoric cannot disguise the fact that his clients poisoned Hawaiian waters through gross negligence!"
"And Mr. Raj's sanctimony cannot disguise the fact that he's prosecuting a mechanical failure to advance his political masters' economic interests!"
"Counsel will resume their seats immediately!" Justice JDJ was livid. "I will not tolerate this circus in my chambers!"
The two lawyers slowly sat down, but the tension crackled like electricity. Justice JDJ removed his glasses and cleaned them with deliberate slowness, a gesture every Hawaiian lawyer recognized as a very bad sign.
“Gentlemen,” he said finally, his voice carrying the weight of judicial authority built over twenty years on the bench, “you are both accomplished barristers. Yet you're conducting yourselves like first-year law students arguing over hornbooks.”
He replaced his glasses and fixed both lawyers with a stare that could freeze lava.
“This is a pre-trial conference to establish evidentiary parameters. It is not an opportunity for political theater. I need to know what evidence will be presented so this court can conduct a fair trial. I do not need lectures on prosecutorial discretion or political conspiracies.”
The silence stretched until it became uncomfortable. Justice JDJ’s reputation for fairness was matched only by his intolerance for courtroom nonsense.
“Can anyone in this chamber simply tell me what happened on the morning of 5 May 1972? Not legal theories about foreseeability or industry standards. Not political arguments about governmental favoritism. What actually happened when a fully loaded tanker ran aground and spilled oil into our waters?”
The question hung in the air like incense. I could see both lawyers struggling with how to respond. Justice JDJ wasn’t asking for legal arguments or strategic positioning. He was asking for simple truth.
Blackwood rose slowly, his expression thoughtful. When he spoke, his voice had lost its theatrical edge.
“Your Honor, with the greatest respect to this court and its search for truth, it is not our job to tell you what happened.”
You could hear a pin drop.
“Our role as advocates,” Blackwood continued, “is to present our clients’ version of events as persuasively as possible, using only evidence that meets this court’s standards for admissibility. Your Honor’s role is to determine what actually happened by weighing conflicting evidence and assessing witness credibility.”
He paused, letting his words settle.
“This adversarial process protects my clients’ constitutional rights and ensures that justice emerges from the clash of competing narratives. We advocate zealously within ethical boundaries. You adjudicate impartially based on admissible evidence. That is how our legal system works, Your Honor. Each party presents their strongest case, and the court discerns truth from the competition of ideas.”
Justice JDJ stared at him for a long moment, then removed his glasses again. He cleaned them with the same deliberate slowness, but now I could tell he was thinking, not just collecting himself.
When he finally spoke, his voice carried a note of resignation mixed with professional respect.
“You are, of course, entirely correct, Mr. Blackwood. The adversarial system depends upon zealous advocacy within proper bounds.”
He replaced his glasses and opened his files.
“Very well, Mr. Blackwood. You’ve spent considerable time alleging prosecutorial misconduct, selective enforcement, and what amounts to malicious prosecution. If you genuinely believe the People have committed actionable misconduct—rather than merely exercised prosecutorial discretion—then file a counterclaim. Sue the Republic for malicious prosecution, abuse of process, or civil rights violations. Put your evidence before this court through proper legal channels instead of delivering speeches about political conspiracies.”
He looked up again.
“But I will not allow this pre-trial conference to become a forum for unsubstantiated accusations. Either submit formal motions supported by evidence or confine your arguments to evidentiary matters and the facts in dispute.”
“You have three weeks to file your counterclaim. Understood?”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
“This conference is adjourned.”
~
Tuesday, 12 December 1972
The Republic House, Diamond Head, Oʻahu
Three weeks after Justice JBJ’s Judge PTC, I was working late in the bullpen outside the Prime Minister’s office. I was deep into the procedural notes for the EPA Act ahead of tomorrow’s parliamentary vote. The result was a foregone conclusion. Rob’s Hawaii Liberal Democratic Party controlled every seat in the Republic House. While the members would rubber-stamp the legislation, my job was to choreograph the “debate” so each one got five minutes of fame. It was just enough time to hitch themselves to Rob’s broader theme of energy independence by the year 2000.
Mine was the only light on, so the knock on the bullpen door startled me. I was relieved to see Jope’s familiar face, but then I caught the shine of Hegner’s bald head behind him and thought, oh no.
“This can’t be good news at this hour,” I whined to Jope.
“Well, boss, I’m cutting you a break. I’m bringing good with the bad. Which do you want first?”
“The good news.”
“I thought so,” he said, dropping his big, national rugby union frame into the chair beside my desk. “The good news is Blackwood has nothing on the government. He was bluffing.”
Hegner stole the dictation secretary’s chair and sat across from me. His face was grim. It gave me a chill. For a second, I thought about skipping to the bad news, but I figured I’d better stretch out the good a little longer to steady my nerves.
“Bill and I checked out the story he gave the judge,” Jope said flatly. “Blackwood’s grasping. The defendants know they don’t stand a chance in our legal system, so they’re playing the only card they’ve got—accusing the whole thing of being some kind of systemic corruption."
I hesitated, but these were my buddies, my confidants. “The thing that’s scary is he isn’t far off,” I said. “Our legal system will always protect the government over corporations.”
“Maybe so,” said Hegner, “but Thomas Worthington and Triple-P are big boys. They know the rules. I’m not shedding any tears for them.”
“The public would agree with you,” I said to Hegner.
Jope shifted in his chair. “And that’s where the bad news comes in. I was approached by one of the cleanup crew on Kahoʻolawe. A welder named Tommy Akamu. Cousin of a cousin—you know how it goes. He was cutting into some of the fuel systems on the Monterey when he found something suspicious.”
“Suspicious how?”
“Residue in the hydraulic oil that didn’t belong,” Jope said. “Strange chemical compounds. Tommy’s been working ships for fifteen years—he knows what hydraulic fluid should look like, smell like, feel like. This was different."
Hegner opened his folder and pulled out a small glass vial filled with dark, viscous liquid. “Tommy brought this to Jope, who brought it to me. I discreetly ran it past some colleagues at HIG who specialize in petroleum chemistry. They confirmed the hydraulic fluid was contaminated with foreign substances.”
“What kind of substances?”
“Compounds that would accelerate metal corrosion,” Hegner said, lowering his voice, “cause premature seal failure, and—here’s the kicker—make any resulting oil spill exponentially worse for the environment.”
“Worse how?”
“There were accelerants in the mix that could have spread contamination faster and deeper into coral reefs—if we hadn’t contained it so quickly.”
“What are you guys saying?” I asked. “It was sabotage, not mechanical failure?”
“Possibly,” said Hegner. “But I can’t say for sure without further tests – sophisticated tests that only – that maybe the SDF or ISA has – or maybe they don’t. Jope and I wanted to bring this to you before we explored our options-”
“Yeah, I appreciate it,” I said. “We’re screwed if this gets out.”
“To get answers, it’ll get out,” Jope said. “We’ll have to talk to a lot of people just to figure out who can do the testing.”
“Whoever did this had to be a state—or at least backed by one,” Hegner added. “Which means we risk everything just by asking questions. With our luck, the agency we turn to might be the one behind it.”
I leaned on my elbows and rubbed my temples. “Give me a sec to think,” I said.
I actually needed several minutes to reflect on the huge dilemma facing me, facing Rob’s government, and facing the Republic. Jope and Hegner gave me the time. They sat quietly as I considered the decision point: pursue justice or bury the evidence.
The cascade of events that would follow if we pursued justice was obvious. But the outcome wasn’t. Opening an investigation would put People v. Worthington Shipping et al. on hold. Public anger at the corporations would fade. Momentum for the EPA Act would collapse. And our goal of energy independence by 2000 would die with it.
I thought about Bobby Goddard’s face, pressed to the helo portal, watching oil-slicked seabirds struggle in the water. The look in his eyes when he grasped the scale of the destruction stayed with me. In my mind at the time, clean energy independence was the only way to prevent more disasters like the Monterey.
Burying the evidence achieved our goals. The evidence would disappear with the scrapping of the Monterey. The EPA Act would pass tomorrow. We’d scapegoat Worthington Shipping, Triple-P, and the arrogant Master O’Connor to keep the momentum going. We’d do it loudly and publicly. Energy independence by 2000. Aloha Cap, the Commercial Corps, the Hawaii Battery Company, and Tyba Energy would deliver it with the efficiency the Goddard government was known for. Yes, Thomas Worthington would have to be sacrificed. But it was for the good of the nation.
I stopped rubbing my temples and looked up. “The EPA Act passes tomorrow,” I said. “By 2000, Hawaii will be completely energy independent. No more oil tankers in our waters. No more opportunities for this kind of accident or sabotage or whatever.”
“And if anyone ever asks about the Monterey investigation?” Jope asked.
“Criminal negligence,” I said. “Pure and simple. Three defendants who cut corners and caused an environmental disaster. Justice served.”
The three of us shook hands. “This stays between us.”
As they left my office, I turned back to the EPA Act procedural notes. Tomorrow's parliamentary theater would change everything but for reasons none of the legislators would ever know.
Next on the docket: Ruck Over.
© 2025 Kora Leadership Company LLC
All rights reserved.
This chapter is part of Hawaii Incorporated and is protected under U.S. and international copyright laws. No part of this content may be copied, reproduced, or distributed without prior written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in reviews or as permitted under fair use.
This is a work of historical fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
For permissions or inquiries: admin@koraleadership.com
Thank you for reading! For the next chapter, stay tuned on hawaiirepublicinc.substack.com