"So, the business part is done. Let me move on to the technical aspect. Please wait a moment."
Anderson Jr. Seely moved his fingers across the trackpad of his ThinkPad Lenovo T280, the motion fluid and precise, his focus unwavering as the large projection screen flickered to life, casting a crisp, high-resolution image of an aerial map across the conference room. At the bottom of the display, in a small, unobtrusive font, the words "Provided by Maxar Technologies Ltd." appeared, a quiet confirmation of the data's authenticity.
The map's scale read 1:100,000, meaning that every 1 cm on the screen represented 1 km on the ground, a level of precision designed not for casual reference but for those who understood that in the world of gold mining, a mere fraction of a coordinate shift could mean the difference between ruin and fortune.
Overlaying the base imagery, various layers of geological survey data formed a complex web of symbols, lines, and topographical markings, but what immediately stood out—what demanded attention—were the red "X" marks scattered across the terrain, their placement deliberate, their pattern not yet obvious but undeniably significant.
From his chair, William Smith's entire demeanor shifted.
The powerful, calculating man who commanded a mining empire with the silent authority of a Mafia boss—the man whose words were measured weapons, whose presence alone dictated respect and fear—was momentarily gone.
What remained was something more intense, more alive, more dangerous in its own way.
His eyes narrowed, not with suspicion but with technical focus, the sharp, detail-driven gaze of a man who had spent his entire life immersed in data, maps, and fieldwork. The business of gold—the manipulation, the negotiations, the silent wars fought in boardrooms and over contracts—was a necessary evil, but this—the science, the process, the relentless pursuit of understanding the land itself—this was his true obsession.
And that was the problem, wasn't it?
This was why he had never truly been a father to Kimberly Smith and his other children, why his presence in their lives had always been more like a shadow than a guiding force. He hadn't intended to neglect them; it was simply that when faced with the language of the earth—the intricate, unforgiving science of mineralogy, topography, and stratigraphy—everything else ceased to exist.
He was a man of the land, the numbers, the data.
Anderson continued, his voice steady, breaking through the thoughts that had momentarily consumed William's mind.
"I will conduct field surveys at these twenty-five locations," Anderson said, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had done the calculations, who had considered every variable. "Each 'X' represents a node in a systematic network of survey points." He turned slightly toward the webcam, locking eyes with William Smith, his expression calm yet unyielding.
"Mr. Smith, you'll likely recognize that some of these survey points coincide precisely with boreholes previously drilled under the supervision of Professor David. Now, I do not believe that Professor David could have fabricated every core sample, every record, every data point—but what I do believe, and what I am increasingly certain of, is that he shifted the coordinate system of the geological borehole network, either to conceal something or to mislead. My task is to verify this discrepancy on-site."
A pause.
William Smith's expression changed.
Something burned in his eyes—a flicker of pure technical excitement, a rare, almost forgotten hunger that had nothing to do with power or control but with the undeniable thrill of discovery.
A younger version of himself—before the empire, before the corruption, before he had learned to wield words as weapons—would have lived for this moment.
This was the kind of challenge that had once kept him awake at night, pouring over geological survey reports until his vision blurred, studying satellite imagery until the lines and ridges embedded themselves in his mind like a second language.
And now, after all these years, it was happening again.
Anderson was right.
Something was wrong with the data.
A subtle, deliberate shift—an almost imperceptible manipulation of the borehole network.
William inhaled slowly, steadying himself, reigning in the thrill before it showed too plainly on his face, "First, I've personally surveyed these locations," William finally said, his voice measured but sharper than before, faster, as if the weight of the realization had reignited something in him. "And I found nothing. Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely, you have access to all my records. Is another field survey really necessary?"
Anderson did not hesitate.
"The locations you surveyed were far more numerous than just these," he countered, his voice even, his words chosen with precision.
"Exactly."
"But there's something else…"
A flick of his laser pointer, and suddenly, the red 'X' marks on the screen were no longer isolated points—they were connected, thin red lines drawing between them, shifting the perspective until they no longer seemed random at all but instead formed a shape, distinct and deliberate.
A single, unmistakable letter 'D'.
The silence that followed was absolute.
William Smith leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the screen, his mind racing.
He had spent decades pouring over geological data, understanding the language of the land better than he understood his own children, and yet—he had never seen this.
On the other end of the call, in Anchorage, several of the meeting participants leaned forward, their attention now fully locked onto the projection, their expressions shifting from skepticism to something far more difficult to dismiss.
Anderson's voice cut through the silence.
"I believe this is the key to the survey."
A breathless pause.
Then, breaking it—
"You said 'First,' Mr. Smith," Anderson noted, his tone carrying just enough curiosity to suggest that he was no stranger to conversations where the most important detail was the one left unsaid. "So what's the second point?"
William Smith's lips curled, the barest hint of a knowing smirk forming, though his eyes remained sharp, focused, locked onto the screen as if, for the first time in a long time, he was looking at something that made sense.
"There's something you got wrong, Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely."
Anderson raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
William Smith's voice dropped, steady, controlled, but carrying the unmistakable undercurrent of anticipation, the kind that came not from uncertainty but from the moment just before action—before something set in motion could no longer be stopped.
"It's not just 'I.' It's 'we.'"
A pause, deliberate.
"Layla Smith and T.B. will be joining you in the field."