It was John Clark's fifth time at the International Petroleum Innovation Conference. The convention takes place at a hotel ballroom in a strip-mall covered monstrosity city that was unidentifiable from the next. The gathering had morphed in recent years; it became less of a venue to discuss technological advancements in the industry but rather a site for suits from different firms trying to court industry regulators and clients.
John Clark was one of the suits. He was 49, heavyset, with a balding head and discolored teeth from years of smoking. John worked for Forth & Towne, a collection of engineers who served as middlemen in the off-shore drilling trade. He was an over-qualified member of their Reservoir and Exploratory department.
For years Clark's career had remained stagnant, and promotions would go to even less-qualified men. It was an open secret in parts of the industry that John used liquor and young women in excess. Management had no interest in rewarding a person with such afflictions. So here he was alone, camped up at a hotel bar sipping scotch.
John's concentration on his drink broke when a man tapped him on the shoulder. "May I sit here?" he asked politely. The man was tall and imposing and sported a blue suit and a military buzz cut. "Of course," John said, gesturing at the seat next to him. He sat down and ordered a drink for himself.
At first, the social dynamic was awkward, but it loosened with liquor and the chance for John to drunkenly rant about his boss. A favorite pastime of his. The man explained to John that he was a recruiter who was at the conference searching for talent.
Somewhere before the third and fourth drink, the recruiter seeing John's evident dissatisfaction, mentioned he might have an opening. John pounced and pressed for details. The employer was confidential but needed someone with exploratory experience, a bill that he filled. The pay was double what he made now, and the recruiter casually mentioned it came with a signing bonus, company car, assistant, and full benefits. Forth & Towne didn't even pay mileage.
Between sips of scotch, John was already spending his newfound fortune in his head. At 2 AM, the bar closed, and John, the recruiter, and any other stragglers shuffled out. John heavily intoxicated stumbled his way into the elevator, and pressed floor 3. The recruiter followed him.
The doors slowly closed, and in-offensive music played over the speakers. Now was the time. The recruiter significantly larger swept out John's feet, and he fell to the floor. After this, he jumped on top of him and subsequently injected John with three shots. The recruiter dragged John to his room and dressed him in shackles. John was tied up physically and chemically.
The next morning an unusually heavy suitcase was put into a grey station wagon, and John officially had been smuggled out of the hotel. Next came the real fun, getting him to the real destination. The agent slipped John into a small sound-proof compartment of a shipping container that was concealed by a false wall. It took two weeks for the shipment to reach its final stop — the port of Swiaji.
The port of Swiaji resides in Acrea Harbor. The harbor itself was created by nature with an average depth of 30 fathoms and is broad and deep enough to cater to any size ship or vessel but mainly just services fishing trawlers and the rare cruise ship in need of refueling. Terminal E was the exception; it was a restricted operation directed by the secret police for covert shipments. That is where the boat carrying Mr. Carter, the Costa Arabica, was headed. Following orders, the officers moved the container to the first boat bound for Ganram Island.
Gram Island is bleak. It is a 460-acre mosquito-infested tropical island. In the early 19th century, it served as a sanctuary for whaling ships to replenish on freshwater; besides this, the island has little note in recorded history. It would become John Clark's home for the next nine months. The island held three buildings, a dormitory, a laboratory, and the hole.
John's job here was simple. Develop extraction options and research on the Shawlin Reservior. The Shawlin Reservoir was an untapped and unstudied oil opportunity in the heart of Swiaji waters. An attempt to begin the development of it was attempted in 2016 but halted after a report on Swiaji human rights, and torture of political prisoners was released. International commendation and sanctions followed, and the study of it was banned.
But that was 2016, and a new member of the Wasiu clan was in charge, Gbeminiyi Olaide Wasiu. Gbeminiyi was young, taking power at age 37. He was educated in elite foreign boarding schools, held a degree in economics, and had been groomed from a young age to take over for his father Toke Wasiu, the murderous dictator that had ruled Swiaji with an iron first for 20 years.
Gbeminiyi wanted to turn this developing nation into a mecca of wealth and prosperity, that would all start with tapping the liquid gold under the ocean.
Clark's day would begin at sunrise. He slept in the hole, a metal bunker that locked from the outside. Guards would escort him out and bring him to the ocean to bathe. Afterward, he would go to the laboratory and study water samples and imaging data with third rate equipment. Around 1 AM, his work received an inspection. If John failed to ascertain "good data," he would be awoken and receive a savage whipping or waterboarding.
It was a rainy day; John's entire body had gruesome sores from the constant abuse. As he left the hole, the rain landed on his wounds, causing sharp bouts of pain. The guard walked behind him, and they made the way to the lab.
This day would be his eureka moment, and he had been close to it for a week. At noon, he printed off the final document and tendered the report to the nearest guard. It was done; nine months of research was over. The guard gave John a smile and a cigarette and stepped into his office.
He dialed up a number on his satphone and then gestured for John to come into the room. He had never been in this room before, but it was far more luxurious than the lab as it had air conditioning. The guard handed John the satphone.
"Hello," John managed to croak out. His voice was weak and sounded fearful.
"Hello, John. My name is Gbeminiyi Wasiu, and I am the leader of Swiaji. I assume you know who I am." His voice was smooth and arrogant.
"Yes," John said. He had seen his name on many documents.
Gbeminiyi continued, "You have changed the direction of life for a million people who call this nation home. I am proud of the work you have done, and I thank you for your sacrifice. As of now, your services are no longer needed, and my men will leverage this human capital circumstance effectively." With this, Gbeminiyi terminated the call.
When John returned to the lab, three more guards were there. They shackled him and marched him deep into the woods. There, John smoked a final cigarette and underwent a quick beheading.
Gbeminiyi Wasiu's office slowly leaked the report to the world press; a tiny developing nation now had an oil reserve beyond the world's wildest dreams. Swiaji is open for business.
