Omniscient: John the Genius: Revolution

CHAPTER ONE

SECURITY HAD BUNDLED me off to a Gulfstream, but had allowed me to run into the bathroom at the hangar first. From there it was a two-hour flight to a small private airstrip and a long drive into a small town late in the afternoon on January 1st, 1990.

"This is where I'm hiding out?" I asked as I looked from the nondescript car window. "Shady Acres?"

"They've got room for you, a phone that can't be traced and American Wireless for the news," Jack said, handing me a laptop computer.

"We've got staff inside and the residents are harmless. They don't know who you are, except somebody's visiting Grandkid."

I took the laptop box, and the suitcase. My new Italian silk suit I wore for the announcement was back at the plane. I was wearing a Bart Simpson t-shirt, jeans and a unzipped hoodie.

"Better get going, you don't want to be late, it's meatloaf night," he said with a grin that promised he would be punished.

"Where will you be?" I asked him.

"Taking the plane to further disguise your trail. I'll be back in two days. If you see a guy in there working that's one of ours. All the ladies are nurses and caregivers."

I took a deep breath and got out of the car. It turned to thick steam as I blew it out, hurrying to zip my jacket up as I tromped through the snow to the cleared sidewalk.

Nick, a familiar face I hadn't seen in a while met me at the door. We passed an occupied table with what seemed like a rousing game of Skip-bo, but they weren't sure whose turn it was.

My room was small, a closet, attached bathroom with shower and a single bed. The window looked out on a blanket of snow covering the back yard, a frozen-over birdbath sitting in the center.

I closed the door behind me and let Max out of his carrier. He immediately went under the bed, a long leg sticking out to identify where he was hiding. I examined the TV. A 13-inch Zenith, with bent bunny ears wrapped with aluminum foil. Next to it on the dresser was a magnificently modern American Wireless receiver and remote.

I clicked the TV on to find static. The clunk of the dial sounded like I was beating it, as I tuned it to channel four and hit the power button on the Motorola receiver.

The screen flickered to life showing the Motorola logo and I slowly turned the knob to bring the volume up, before sitting back on the bed to watch. I punched in the buttons on the remote, 411 and jumping straight to WBN.

The WBN news desk was a hive of activity, even for a holiday evening. The 'crawl' at the bottom of the screen was already dominated by a single, bold title: THE SYNGAS REVOLUTION: DAY ONE.

"And joining us now is Marcus de Baun, who is still processing the fact that he was the only reporter today to get a literal thumbs up from the boss himself," the anchor, a man with hair so stiff it looked like a helmet, said with a smirk.

The camera cut to Marcus. He looked exhausted, his tie loosened, and he was holding a broken pencil as if it were a holy relic.

"Very funny, Bill," Marcus said, though he couldn't hide a small, weary grin. "But if you’d been in that room, you would have felt the air leave the building. We went in expecting a safety report on a nuclear plant or a bankruptcy announcement. We came out looking at the end of the 20th century."

"Let's talk about the markets for January 2nd," Bill said, his expression turning serious. "The 'Cook Opening' is what the floor traders are already calling it. We are seeing unprecedented pre-market activity. But Marcus, looking back at the ARCO acquisition now—it looks less like a debt-fueled gamble and more like a tactical masterclass, doesn't it?"

Marcus nodded, leaning into the camera. "In light of today’s announcement, the ARCO purchase was the most expensive insurance policy in history. If John Cook had tried to sell SynGas through the Seven Sisters, they would have boycotted him into bankruptcy before a single gallon hit the pump. By buying ARCO, he didn't just buy a company. He bought the plumbing. He secured a proprietary distribution network that ensures the cartel can't block his access to the American consumer. It was a checkmate move delivered months before the game even started."

"And the valuation on these solar plants?" Bill asked. "Fifty million gallons a day, out of the Arizona desert. What does that go for at auction?"

"The speculation is wild," Marcus said, tapping his notepad. "If the production cost is effectively zero because 'the sun doesn't send a bill,' you aren't just buying a factory. You are buying a mint. I’ve heard whispers of opening bids starting at five billion. And remember, Cook is keeping a twenty-five cent royalty on every gallon sold. He isn't just the inventor anymore. He’s the new Tax Man."

On the screen, the anchor started teasing a segment on the 'Cook Thumbs Up' being the new gold standard for financial analyst questions.

The rotary phone opposite the receiver on the dresser rang. I picked it up tentatively.

"Hola," I said disguising my voice.

"It's Matt," he said ignoring my greeting. "I hope you're sitting down. I just got a call from a lawyer representing a group in Riyadh. They want to know if you'd be interested in trading the SynGas patent for a small, uninhabited island in the Mediterranean and a fleet of gold-plated Boeings stuffed with young girls and cash."

I looked at the grainy black and white image of Marcus de Baun on the tiny screen.

"Tell them I'm happy to build them as many plants as they want. Just as soon as Bush gives the go ahead," I said, watching a moth flutter against the warm glass of the Zenith. "And tell them I have an island already and am allergic to gold. Anything else?"

"Yeah. Your Mom called. She wants to know if you remembered to pack clean underwear for the revolution."

"I'll have to check. I didn't pack, security did. No telling what I've got. If they just bought new stuff, I hope they washed them first. Otherwise I'm going to have to find a laundromat."

He finally chucked. "You'll never guess where I am," he said.

"A convent filled with yardstick wielding nuns?" I asked.

"No, they put me up at the New Ambassador. I've got everything from the San Diego office here, plus a private swimming pool and garden."

"Nice. Jack said not to tell anybody where I am, just after he forgot to tell me where I am."

"I'm not supposed to ask," he said. "Do you at least have a TV? I've got a projection system. A hundred inches."

I turned the knob for the volume further down. "Yeah, I've got TV and 24-hour news. Everybody's shocked that I did something brilliant. It's like they forgot my PhD or my IQ."

"Nobody trusts teenagers," he said with a chuckle. "You've got a few more years of that, but I heard the guys on CNN calling you the next Einstein and wondering what you'd invent next."

"Funny. I need to make some calls. Do I call the office to get you, or do you have a new number?"

"Office number. They did something funny with the phones. When somebody calls us, or we call them it hits an exchange that hides where the call is coming from, or changes where it's coming from each time. I don't remember I wasn't really listening."

"Okay, Matt. I'll call you tomorrow. We need to hit the ground running. I've got enough to get everything going, but I'll need Grandpa's funds to complete the Arizona plants. Keep an eye on his IPO. If someone figures out that's funding me, they might target it."

"Got it, Boss. You were brilliant today. It was a heroic speech. Sleep well, wherever you are."

"You too, Matt," I said, and set the heavy receiver back in the cradle.

I dug through my suitcase finding my clothes from San Diego, not new stuff wrapped in plastic from a store. I gratefully added them to the dresser as I unpacked. With the underwear question answered, I picked up the big heavy receiver and spun the dial. The click click as it spun back after each number caught Max's attention and he came out from under the bed to see if it was something fun.

"Hello?" Mom asked, as she picked up the family phone.

"Hi Mom!"

"Johnny! Are you on your way home?" she asked.

"No, security is going to keep me out of sight for a few days so the rest of the world can see it is not an instant economic Armageddon. Once things let up I'll be able to travel. I probably wont see you until the Oscars."

"When is that? Dad said we could go, but I don't remember when."

"March 26th," I told her. "It's at Grandpa's LA hotel, that's why we got invited."

"That long?" she asked, sounding unhappy already.

"Yeah. Security is taking things serious," I told her.

"Are you safe?" she asked immediately. The old 'mother mode' still worked.

"Very safe. I've got a private office to work out of," I told her, looking at the small room. "They are even making meatloaf for me tonight."

"Good. Well I know you're busy. We were all shocked when we watched the news. Your Dad still has the biggest smile, it is like he won the lottery."

"I'm glad. Tell them all I love them very much. Except Aunt Joan," I said. "Don't tell her anything."

She laughed. "I'll give your love to everyone, Johnny. I'm proud of you. We all are. You're simply incredible."

"Thanks, Mom," I said, my voice cracking for the first time that day.

"Be good, and call often or I'll hold a press conference that you've been kidnapped, and beg for your release on live TV."

"I'll call Mom! I promise."

"I know you will. Good night. I love you."

"I love you too, Mom."

I pressed down the on one of the two buttons that the receiver sat on, they both dropped, hanging up the phone. I lifted my finger and dialed again. I heard a buzz from the bathroom and leaned over as far as the twisted spiral of phone cord would allow, to look. I saw Max's automatic litter box as he watched it clean his mess. One problem solved.

I dialed the final number, and a happy voice answered.

"Petworths, tell me what you're raising and I'll tell you what you're pet's worth."

"Hilarious Dick, can you put Amber on?"

He didn't ask who it was, he just yelled "Amber! Phone!" as loud as he could.

A moment later there was a thump and she breathlessly answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hi Amber. It's John. I don't have much time. I've got assassins chasing me, but I wanted to check up on you."

She cackled a laugh. "John! I watched you on TV. We all did. You're absolutely brilliant. What's going on? Are there really assassins?" she asked with sudden worry.

"No. I'm just joking. I called because I've got some info for you. You can start sending out a list of official John Cook t-shirts with your membership applications. Just make sure they know it is for members only."

"Oh, let me get a pen. I've got to write this down this time."

There was a muffled slamming of drawers, followed by a faint shout, "Where are all the pens!"

A moment later she came back. "Okay. I'm ready. I've been writing the story of you and my cancer. I'll start sending that out in a few weeks. I got your check. I thought $5,000 was too much, but Mom thought it was about right. Now what do you want me to include?"

"I bought a small t-shirt company in Oklahoma City. They will make and ship all your t-shirt orders for you. You just need to give them the designs or slogans."

"Really? That's awesome. How do I contact them?"

"They are supposed to call you tomorrow. I wanted to give you some ideas."

"I'm ready!" she said.

"Here is your first slogan, 'It's a magnificent time to be alive.'"

"Oh, that's good," she said. "You said that at the press conference."

"Now the next one needs the right spelling. It should say, 'I'm feeling SynFuel.' or 'John Cook makes me SynFuel."

"Sinful? John, that's just weird."

"S Y N F U E L. Capitalize the S and the F," I told her.

"Oh, I get it. What's SynFuel?"

"Right. I didn't cover that at the press conference. SynGas is my gasoline. SynDiesel is obvious. SynA1 is for airplanes. These different kinds are all called SynFuels as a group."

"Oh, that's funny. What else?" she asked.

"Be creative. Have fun. Find a poster company that will do the same thing the t-shirt company will do. They won't make them until you have orders, so there is no inventory to worry about. The ones that are popular the company will sell to other places, but not for six months. You get to be first and exclusive for all official merchandise."

"Wonderful, John. I can't wait to get started. When can you tell me all about what should go in the March Newsletter?"

"You'll have to wait, but it'll be an exclusive," I told her.

We chatted a few minutes more until Nick knocked on my door. I said goodbye to answer the door and found him there holding a tray.

"Do I not eat with everybody else?" I asked.

"Tomorrow," he said. "Tonight, they want you to stay here."

"Alright. Bring it in."

He set the tray down to reveal hamburgers and french fries.

"That's not meatloaf," I told him.

"That's what I said when they showed me the food," he replied. "I just ran out and got you drive thru."

"Thanks, Nick. I need to pick your brains later. Jack thought this was much too funny. I need revenge, but something tasteful."

He got a wicked glint in his eye, and a half smile. "We'll talk," he confirmed. "Enjoy dinner."

I turned the volume back up, and switched to CNN to see what they were saying.

"It is the evening of January 1, 1990," the lead anchor began, his voice echoing in the small room. "And while most of the world is recovering from New Year's celebrations, the global economy is staring down what many are calling 'S-Day'—the start of the SynGas era. Joining us now is our senior financial correspondent and a panel of energy analysts."

The screen split to show a bustling newsroom.

"Let's be clear," the correspondent said, "what we saw today at Satsop was not just a press conference. It was a love letter for the internal combustion engine. Dr John Cook, at only thirteen years old, has effectively decoupled transportation from the oil well. By using the waste heat from his 'Intrinsically Safe' reactors to synthesize fuel directly from the atmosphere, he has created a closed loop. No drilling, no tankers and most importantly, no reliance on foreign cartels."

One of the analysts leaned forward, tapping a pen against a stack of charts. "The genius isn't just in the chemistry, it is in the business strategy. We all laughed when Cook took on thirty billion dollars in debt to buy ARCO. We called it a 'debt-fueled gamble.' Then we wondered if it was going to bankrupt him as he started selling off all the valuable assets he had just bought. We were wrong. He wasn't buying an oil company. He was buying the only thing that could stop him: the pumps. By owning the ARCO stations, he ensured that when SynGas hit the market, it couldn't be boycotted. He bought the plumbing before he turned on the faucet."

The anchor cut in, "But let's talk about the 'Arizona Auction.' Cook mentioned five solar-powered plants in the desert, each capable of producing fifty million gallons a day with near-zero operating costs. What does that do to the Stock Market tomorrow?"

"It breaks the scale," the analyst replied. "If the sun doesn't send a bill, the margins on those plants are infinite. I'm hearing pre-market speculation that bids for those five plants could start at ten billion dollars with no upward limit. Utility scale operations like that have a lifetime of at least fifty years. And remember, Cook is keeping a twenty-five-cent royalty on every gallon sold. Nationally that's around $45 billion a year if he's making all our fuel. He’s not just an inventor. He’s becoming a sovereign economic power. Tomorrow morning, when the bell rings on Wall Street, we expect to see the largest single-day shift in capital in the history of the New York Stock Exchange."

On the screen, a graphic appeared showing a map of the United States with glowing dots over Washington and Arizona. The anchor looked directly into the camera.

"In one day, Dr John Cook has moved the world from the fear of a Chernobyl-style meltdown to the promise of a fuel that literally cleans the air as it’s made. Whether you call him the 'Boy-King' or the 'New Einstein,' one thing is certain: as of tonight, the old rules of energy and power are officially obsolete.

"Let's go back to our panel," the anchor said, gesturing to a glowing map of the United States. "We've been talking about the end of the oil era, but what about the cars themselves? Earlier today, some were calling this a death knell for the automobile, but our lead energy analyst, Gene Randall, says it is quite the opposite."

The camera cut to Gene, who was holding a small model of a piston. "Bill, if anything, John Cook just gave the internal combustion engine a second lease on life. For years, we've been told the car was a dying breed—that smog and oil shortages would eventually force us all into buses or electric golf carts. But look at what Cook is offering."

He tapped a chart showing the chemical makeup of SynGas, just a single perfect molecule. "By stripping out the lead, the sulfur and the carcinogens like benzene, he's neutralized the environmental lobby's biggest weapon. He's taken the 'guilt' out of the gas tank. If you can run a 1965 Mustang on fuel that came from the air and produces oxygen as a byproduct of its manufacture, you've just made the electric car irrelevant before it even got off the drawing board."

"We know John loves cars. He was the brains behind the largest merger in European history," the anchor commented. "When the dust settle after the merger he publicly commented that the one thing he wanted out of it was a v-12 Aston Martin on his 16th birthday."

"Exactly," Gene replied. "It’s an obituary for the oil well. The engine stays. The gas station stays. But the guys in the Middle East and the North Sea just lost their best customers. John Cook isn't killing the car. He's liberating it and everybody who drives."

"Now we go to Panama, where the US military is holding a rock concert outside the Vatican Embassy."

I flipped the channel to 1111, and it displayed a blue screen. I punched in the six digit secret unlock code and the screen flickered and it returned me to channel 100, the TV guide channel. I scrolled through the list, seeing everything the network had, but didn't necessarily sell. I spotted the BBC satellite feed. A station that American Wireless was carrying, but didn't have permission to include in its lineup yet. I selected it to see what else the world had to say.

The familiar, rhythmic 'pips' of the BBC time signal echoed through the Zenith's speaker, followed by the sober, orchestral swell of the news theme. The blue screen dissolved into a wide shot of a wood-paneled studio in London.

"It is just after midnight in London, on Friday the second of January," the newsreader began, his voice a perfect, unruffled baritone. "The lead story tonight: as the sun rises over the City, analysts are bracing for what is expected to be a day of unprecedented volatility on the London Stock Exchange. The catalyst is a series of extraordinary claims made in the United States by the teenage industrialist Dr John Cook."

The screen shifted to a somber graphic of a North Sea oil rig silhouetted against a grey sky and a handsome image of me during the announcement overlaid it.

"Joining us now is Alistair Holm, our energy correspondent. Alistair, the mood in Whitehall is said to be one of profound concern. What are the specific implications for the United Kingdom's energy independence?"

The camera cut to a man standing outside the darkened facade of the Department of Energy. He looked cold, his breath visible in the London night.

"Profound concern may be an understatement, Peter," Alistair replied. "For over a decade, North Sea oil has been the backbone of the British economy, a literal and figurative wellspring of national wealth. If Dr Cook's 'SynGas'—a fuel synthesized from air—is as viable as he suggests, the Brent Crude benchmark could become little more than a historical footnote by the end of the decade."

"But surely the infrastructure costs alone provide a buffer?" the anchor asked.

"One would think so," Alistair said, a note of skepticism in his voice. "However, the Chancellor of the Exchequer is reportedly meeting with oil executives this morning to discuss the 'Cook Threat.' If the cost of production for this synthetic fuel is truly as low as the Americans are claiming, our offshore investments become 'stranded assets.' We aren't just talking about a drop in the price of a barrel. We are talking about the potential collapse of the tax revenues that fund our public services. There is a very real sense here that an American teenager has just signed a death warrant for the North Sea industry."

The anchor leaned forward. "And the environmental angle? The Americans are calling it a 'clean' revolution."

"That is the bitterest pill for the industry to swallow," Alistair noted. "By producing a carbon-neutral fuel, Cook has outflanked the traditional energy sector. He has made the argument for 'dirty' fossil fuels impossible to win. The question for Britain now is no longer how to drill for more oil, but how to survive in a world where oil drilling may no longer be necessary."

The BBC broadcast continued, the scene shifting from the cold London street to the warmth of the studio as the newsreader adjusted his notes.

"While the energy sector reels, the automotive world is facing a different kind of upheaval," the anchor said. "Dr Cook remains the architect of Euro Motors, the continental giant he formed by merging Austin Martin, BMW, Volvo, Saab, Renault and AMC. With SynGas now a reality, the company is expected to lead the charge in revising European fuel efficiency standards. If the environmental cost of fuel is neutralized, the pressure on manufacturers to downsize engines could vanish overnight."

The screen showed a sleek, hand-finished Aston Martin rolling through the gates of the rebuilt and modern Newport Pagnell factory.

"Ironically, despite his crusade for a cleaner planet, the young man appears to have a penchant for traditional British power. Aston Martin, now a subsidiary of Euro Motors, is reportedly preparing a bespoke, high-performance model for the Doctor's sixteenth birthday. It is a striking contradiction: the boy who saved the atmosphere has commissioned a vehicle with notoriously low fuel efficiency, simply because he likes cars with power and he wants one when he can finally drive himself."

"He certainly isn't planning to commute in a moped," the anchor remarked with a dry smile. "But the political ripples are already hitting the Elysee Palace. In Paris, the French government has confirmed an agreement with Cook to host the first European Intrinsically Safe plant. If President Mitterrand expands the project, France could pivot from nuclear-generated electricity to becoming the primary SynGas hub for the entire European Community."

"For a technical perspective on how this 'miracle' works, we are joined by Professor Elena Vance of the Imperial College."

The screen split to show a woman in a lab coat, surrounded by complex molecular diagrams.

"Professor, the Americans are calling this a clean revolution. Is there any historical precedent for what Dr Cook is claiming?"

"The chemistry itself is quite established, actually," Professor Vance replied. "The fundamental basis is the Fischer-Tropsch process, which was developed by German researchers in 1925. Historically, it was used to turn coal into oil. It was a vital technology for nations lacking petroleum reserves, though it was notoriously energy-intensive."

She tapped a diagram on the screen behind her. "What Dr Cook has done is a leap of genius in application. He isn't mining new coal. Instead, he is using the massive waste heat from his reactors to 'scrub' the atmosphere. He is effectively harvesting the carbon dioxide exhaust that has been accumulating in our air since the dawn of the Industrial Revolution. He is turning the very waste products of our past into the high-octane energy of our future. It is as if he is cleaning the slate of two centuries of pollution and refining it into gasoline."

"And the efficiency?" the anchor asked.

"That is the true marvel," Vance said. "If his claims are accurate, he has perfected a way to recycle the planet’s atmosphere. It is not just an energy revolution. It is a planetary restoration."

The BBC logo flickered back onto the screen as the news transitioned to a weather report for the North Atlantic.

I hit the buttons to turn the receiver off and the TV returned to static. I set the box with the three plain hamburger patties on the floor for Max, which he started to wolf down as I turned the TV off.

I pulled a side table around, setting the lamp on the floor and started unboxing my new laptop. The Toshiba T5200. The bright orange screen came up, showing I had 8 megabytes of RAM as it booted. I dug around in my bag for Civilization, and started a game. I also pulled out a pad of paper and pen from my bag.

I made notes on everything I needed. A bigger and color TV was at the top of the list, followed by a desk with a chair so I wouldn't need to sit on the bed. At the bottom of my wish list was a color VGA monitor to plug into the laptop. If I had time to relax, I had time to play video games.

CHAPTER TWO

SHADY ACRES HAD a surprisingly comfortable bed. I slept well, waking to the early morning noises of nurses making their rounds. I took the time to shower and get dressed. Max had marked something during the night, the odor strong but not unfamiliar at Shady Acres. I checked the cabinet but I was missing the spray we normally used to clean up after him.

I pulled open the dresser to see what to wear. I didn't have any dress clothes. It was all teenager stuff. Jeans, t-shirts and a couple button-up flannel shirts. I had hiking boots as well, but I put on my tennis shoes and went looking for breakfast with Max in his harness and on a leash.

"Timmy! You came to visit. You're such a good boy," she said, before engulfing me in a hug.

"Hi Grandma," I said playing along with the misidentification of the old lady. "I'm hungry, where do we get breakfast?"

"Come with me," she said, taking me by the arm and pulling me down the hallway. "Growing boys need to eat."

We found the dining room, and I grabbed trays for us both. As we went down the line she told them what she wanted as did I. I carried her tray for her as she took me to 'her' table.

"Good morning everyone. Look who's here. It's my Grandson Timmy!"

"Good morning," I greeted.

"Have a seat," I was told by the dapper-dressed gentleman at the head of the table. "Linda's family is always welcome at our table."

I ate and dug into the pancakes, bacon and sausage. I had recognized one of the guys from security behind the sneeze guard and he had winked as he piled up my plate with much more than the others.

The orange juice was cold but it had that odd tangy flavor of Donald Duck orange juice that I found unpleasant.

I saw the newspaper was on the table, so grabbed it to look at the headline. My picture was on the front page under the headline, 'Welcome to the Decade of Abundance.' I turned the page over to hide my picture, though without my suit I was unremarkable.

I finished eating and stood. Max having patiently waited on his leash, completely unnoticed.

Grandma Linda looked up at me. "Are you done Timmy?" she asked.

"I am Grandma. It was very good, thank you. I need to go get ready for school."

"Okay, dear," she said. "Run along and have fun."

I got nods from the others around the table. As I put my tray in the discard pile, I saw the food service guy wave for my attention.

"Here, for Max," he said, handing me a bowl filled with scrambled eggs. "No salt, so it's safe for him to eat."

"Thank you," I told him, and headed back to my room. As soon as we were in the room Max was twining around my legs, begging for me to put the bowl down. I did and turned on the TV.

It took a moment for the receiver to get the signal but soon it was playing WBN.

The grey light of the Zenith screen hummed with a high-contrast image of the WBN news desk. The ticker at the bottom of the screen was moving so fast the text was slightly blurred in the center of the tube.

"It is 930am in New York and the opening bell at the New York Stock Exchange has signaled what floor traders are already calling the end of the oil age," the anchor said. "The 'Cook Opening' has begun with a level of volatility unseen in the history of the exchange. Trading in the remaining major oil powers—Exxon, Mobil and Chevron—has been halted almost immediately as sell orders flooded the floor. Since Dr John Cook took ARCO private and delisted it last year, investors have been unable to hedge their losses with his distribution network and that is leading to a historic capital flight from traditional crude."

The camera cut to a grainy shot of Marcus de Baun standing on a balcony overlooking the trading floor. He had to shout into his microphone to be heard over the roar of voices below.

"Chaos is an understatement, Bill," Marcus said. "The Dow Jones Industrial Average has dropped one hundred points in the first minutes of trading. While the giants of the Seven Sisters are in freefall, the focus has shifted entirely to the licensing of the SynGas technology itself. Dr Cook's strategy of keeping ARCO private means the only way for the market to play this revolution is through his partners and the upcoming IPO for his family's company."

"Marcus, what are we hearing about international interest in the SynGas plants?" Bill asked.

"The interest is centered on sovereign energy independence," Marcus replied. "We have confirmed that the Japanese government and a consortium of German industrialists have both submitted inquiries regarding the purchase of their own dedicated SynGas plants to be built on their own soil. They aren't looking to buy American gasoline because they want the factories to make their own. Meanwhile, Grand Lux Hotel's IPO is being treated like gold. Owned by John Cook's Grandfather, Joseph Carpenter, it is currently oversubscribed by a factor of forty and won't hit the tape until the end of the month."

The screen flickered as it transitioned to a map of the world with dark shading over the North Sea and the Persian Gulf.

"Internationally, the 'SynGas Surprise' is hitting hard," the anchor said. "OPEC has called for an emergency summit in Vienna as the price of light sweet crude has plummeted to eleven dollars a barrel in shadow trading. In London, the FTSE 100 is struggling as analysts realize that the North Sea oil fields may be worth more as scrap metal than as energy reserves if John Cook's production costs are as low as he claims."

"And finally," the anchor added, "we have word from Detroit. While the energy markets are in a tailspin, the Big Three are seeing a massive surge. Investors believe that SynGas has saved the internal combustion engine. If fuel is clean and cheap, the era of the gas-guzzler isn't over, it is just beginning."

The phone started ringing, the strident tone of a physical bell being struck by an angry hammer. I turned off the TV as I answered.

"Hello," I said, not willing to give my name.

"John Cook?" the professional man asked.

"Yes," I responded.

"Please hold for the President of the United States," came the no nonsense voice.

There was a click and I heard the familiar voice.

"John! Is that you? I tell you the switchboard is lighting up like a Christmas tree over here," President Bush said and his voice was practically vibrating with excitement. "I have had everyone on the line this morning. They are all begging for a seat at the table. It is an absolute landslide, John. The whole world is looking at Washington and they are seeing a miracle."

He took a quick breath but I could hear him tapping a pen against his desk in the Oval Office.

"I am calling because we need to strike while the iron is hot. I want to get the cameras out to Arizona for a groundbreaking ceremony. We need to show the American people that those five solar plants are more than just a promise on a television screen. We need to see you and me with a pair of silver shovels. It is a magnificent time to be alive, just like you said. But we have a bit of a wrinkle with our friends south of the border."

The President's tone shifted just slightly, becoming more focused.

"President Salinas called me ten minutes ago. He has seen the news and now the Mexicans are looking to renegotiate. They know those plants in the desert are useless without the water from the Gulf of California. Now they are demanding a SynGas plant of their own on their side of the border in exchange for the pipeline rights. It is only fifty miles of pipe but they are holding the faucet, John. What do you think? Can we give them a plant to keep the water flowing to Arizona?"

"Good morning, Mr President," I said, a smile on my face at his animated voice. He was like one of my little cousins after too much sugar. "I'm not entirely in favor of giving them a plant. PEMEX is a government-owned oil monopoly. SynGas is a death sentence for oil companies that drill and refine. I don't know if I can trust what they say they will do."

"I understand the hesitation, John, I really do," President Bush said and I could hear him shifting in his chair. "PEMEX is a dinosaur and a corrupt one at that. But Salinas is trying to modernize. He is under enormous pressure. If he can tell his people that Mexico is part of the future rather than a victim of it, he can keep the radicals at bay. He is offering us a straight trade. The pipeline rights for the water we need in Arizona in exchange for a sovereign plant on their soil."

I heard the muffled sound of him taking a sip of coffee before he continued.

"Without that water, your five plants in the desert are just very expensive sculpture gardens. We could try to pipe it from the north but the environmentalists and the governors in the Rockies would tie us up in court for a decade. The Gulf of California is the only logical move. What if we put conditions on it? We provide the technology and the construction but we keep the maintenance and the technical oversight in American hands. That keeps them from tinkering with the hardware and ensures they don't go off the reservation. Does that sweeten the pot at all?"

"How about a pipe for a pipe?" I asked. "We'll keep the plant on our side of the border, but we will build a pipe for them to get the gas on their side. The original plan was for a gas-powered water pump. We'll just have to make a rule that they can't export it. It has to be for internal-use only. If we do that, then 50 million gallons is too much for them. Offer them 1/15th of every plant we build. That way they have a vested interest in securing the water pipes. We get water for a plant, they get fuel from that plant."

"A pipe for a pipe. I like the sound of that, John, I really do," the President said and I could hear the smile in his voice. "It is a classic win-win. We keep the crown jewels on our side of the fence and Salinas gets to tell his people he is fueling the country with the newest technology on the planet. If we control the tap, we control the leverage. It is prudent. Very prudent."

I heard a muffled conversation on his end before he came back on the line.

"I will have the State Department draw up the language for the non-export clause. We will make it clear that this fuel is for the Mexican people and the Mexican economy only. They can still export what they pump, but if they send SynGas to the market, we turn off the flow. Now, let us talk about that groundbreaking. I have the Secret Service looking at the logistics. We are thinking Friday. We will fly into Yuma and take the motorcade out to the site. It is going to be the biggest photo of the decade, John. You, me and the end of the oil crisis. Are you ready to be the most famous teenager in history?"

"Who's the competition?" I asked. "Joan of Arc?"

"Very funny, John, but the only fire this time is the one you have started under the oil industry," the President said and his laugh was short and punctuated. "The only competition you have is the history books. You are going to be right there next to Edison and Ford. This is about legacy. My staff is already talking to the Governor of Arizona and we want to make sure the site is secure. I will have the Secret Service coordinate with your security company."

He paused and I could hear the sound of a heavy chair creaking as he leaned back.

"I am serious about Friday, John. We need to show the world that we are moving. The American people need to see that the age of waiting in gas lines and worrying about the Middle East is over. I want you on that stage with me. We will announce the pipeline deal and the Mexican trade all at once. It is an absolute home run. Are you going to be able to make it to Yuma or do I need to send Air Force One to fetch you from whatever secret hole you are hiding in?"

"Have my security company arrange everything, Sir. If you call, I'll come. I do have one request. I'm hoping you're willing to wear the hard hat I'll be bringing for us both to wear."

"A hard hat? John, I will wear a tutu if it means we are breaking ground on those plants," the President said and his voice boomed with a jovial laugh. "I will have them coordinate with the advance team. We will have the hard hats and the shovels and enough cameras to melt the asphalt. This is the shot that defines the century. I will see you in the desert on Friday, John."

He hung up and the heavy silence of the room rushed back in to replace his energy. I stared at the receiver for a moment before setting it back in its cradle. I had just agreed to a big public appearance and I had done it while wearing a Simpsons t-shirt in a nursing home.

I looked over at Max who was licking the last of the scrambled eggs from his bowl. He seemed entirely unimpressed with the fact that I had just negotiated the energy future of Mexico.

"Well Max," I said, "it looks like we are going to Arizona. I hope you like the heat like I do."

I turned the TV back on, and switched to CNN, finding a green-painted Humvee on the screen with its windows rolled up, parked in front of the Vatican Embassy in Panama. Loud speakers were mounted to the roof.

The CNN reporter was standing with the vehicle behind him. The heat shimmer off the pavement was visible even on the old Zenith but the soldiers standing next to the matte-painted Humvees looked strangely comfortable.

"We have seen a revolution in tactical warfare play out in the streets of Panama and it has an unexpected origin," the reporter said. "The fingerprints of Dr John Cook can be found even here in Panama. While the world has been focused on his energy announcements, the United States military has been quietly deploying what can only be described as a suite of high-tech toys that are changing the face of Operation Just Cause."

The camera zoomed in on a Humvee idling near the Vatican Embassy. Unlike the standard open-air Jeeps of the past, these units were fully enclosed with thick windows.

"The most immediate difference is the environment," the reporter continued. "Panama is currently a sweltering 95 degrees with 90 percent humidity but the Rangers inside these vehicles are operating in sixty-five degree comfort. These are the first air-conditioned tactical vehicles in history. They aren't just for comfort though. Sources tell us the plating is a revolutionary lightweight armor provided by Corning, an exclusive high-strength variation of John Cook's graphene felt water filtration. AM General the maker of the Humvee has quietly rolled out several upgrades since it was acquired by Cook as part of the LTV Aerospace and Defense division during LTV's long-running bankruptcy. Like the commercial body armor that notably saved the life Euro Motors CEO Georges Besse, it is a thin-cloth like material that reportedly stops heavy machine-gun fire cold."

The screen cut to a narrow telescopic shot of a black sphere high in the clouds.

"High above the city, a line of what the military calls High Altitude Windmill Balloons or HAWBs is providing a persistent umbrella of observation. A new variation of the balloons that made Cook's American Wireless so valuable. These balloons utilize a windmill system at thirty miles up to power equipment on the ground. Between the windmill balloons and the ground a variety of new options for the military, all powered by the windmill balloons above, are strung along the long tether at various altitudes. In addition to a sophisticated communications balloon, a radar balloon offers coverage that is so complete that not a single Cessna can start its engine in this region without being tracked."

The broadcast shifted to a field interview. A man in dusty fatigues with the silver birds of a Colonel on his collar stood next to a idling Humvee.

"Colonel, tell us about the performance of these new assets," the reporter asked.

"It is a game changer," the Colonel said, his voice crackling through the small TV speaker. "Usually, my men are exhausted just from fighting the climate. Now, they step out of these Humvees fresh and ready to engage. The vehicle armor is the same kind of lightweight body armor my men are wearing. It adds less than ten pounds to the vehicles, but it is tough enough to give us a real sense of security. And those balloons? Having twenty-four hour radar without needing AWACS and communications that don't rely on ground generators with vulnerable fuel lines is something we have never had before. Combined with the new Predator surveillance drone from General Atomics we have a God's eye view of everything on the battlefield in real-time. There is no fog of war. This is technology that saves American lives, and we're glad to have it."

I leaned back against the headboard of the Shady Acres bed, watching the CNN special report transition from the tactical successes in Panama to a polished graphic of my own face. The title 'John Cook: Architect of Tomorrow' scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

"Who is the young man behind the energy revolution and the sudden modernization of the American military?" the anchor asked, his voice taking on a more serious, documentary tone. "To understand the present, we have to look back at a half decade of unprecedented achievement by a child who seems to have emerged from the heart of Oklahoma to reshape the world."

The screen cut to a grainy photograph of me at eight years old, standing on a stage in a graduation gown.

I turned off the TV. They needed better researchers, my Mom and Grandma had much better pictures. I especially didn't need to sit through a half hour 'this is your life' retrospective.

I reached for the phone and slowly circled the dial as I called GA.

"General Atomics. How may I direct your call."

"Hi Tina," I said recognizing her voice. "It's John Cook. What are you doing on the phone?"

"Everyone who can is answering the phone, Boss. We're swamped! Everyone wants us to build them a SynGas plant."

"Thanks for stepping up, and congratulations," I told her.

"Thanks, Boss. My guy gave me an emerald instead of a diamond. I'll show you next time you're here."

"I would enjoy that. I need to talk to Tim Meadows, can you transfer me?" I asked.

"Yes, Sir! Just a moment."

"Tim Meadows," he answered sounding harried.

"Hi Tim, it's John."

"John? Where are you? Are you back?"

"I'm at an undisclosed location," I told him. "I'm calling because we need to have a chat."

"I'm glad you called because we need to talk," he said at the same time.

I chuckled. "What's going on?"

"I've got orders coming from all over."

"For SynFuel plants?" I asked. "Shouldn't those be going to Dr Pilus or Dr Dancer?"

"No, not for that. Word has gotten around about the military equipment in Panama. The divisions have been inundated with orders. All of NATO and a lot of other places want what the US military is showing off."

"That's good right?" I asked.

"AM General has an total order book now of over half a million vehicles."

"That many?" I asked, leading him on.

"Yes, that many. They only have the capacity to make a hundred a day!"

"It sounds like they need to expand, what are the plans there?"

"They've located space to build a new factory, are in talks with GM to get production assistance and are looking at a nearby factory they can buy to increase production."

"What do you think they should do?" I asked him.

"I think they need to do all three at once," he said firmly.

"I agree. That's why I'm calling you. You're my Mr San Diego. From now on, unless you don't know what to do, you handle it. Getting back to San Diego is going to be difficult for the next year or longer as I work on getting SynFuel plants built. We will still do a monthly briefing, but it likely will be by phone. When I'm there, I'm the Boss. When I'm not there, you're my voice. Can you do the job?"

"Do I still report to Jennifer?" he asked.

"Everyone reports to Jennifer. Even me," I told him, with a chuckle. "The decision making is in your hands only when the divisions need answers to questions they don't know. I've got an excellent team of Presidents and Vice Presidents out there. Trust them to come to you when they have a problem. Jennifer is there for advice, and I am there for overall direction. I'm counting on you to know when to ask and when to make a decision yourself."

"I can do that, Boss."

"Good. Now what else is going on that I need an update on?" I asked him, and we began the January monthly briefing.

Just as I hung up, the phone rang.

"Hello."

"Boss!" Matt began excitedly. "Turn on CNN," he said and hung up again.

I turned the TV back on, the receiver still tuned to CNN. I could immediately recognize Olympia as I turned up the volume.

"…the term 'gridlock' has taken on an entirely new meaning," the reporter said, gesturing to the line of vehicles snaking around the block toward an ARCO station. Massive vinyl banners were draped over the station canopy, screaming 'The Future is Here' and 'SynGas Revolution' in bold primary colors. "The excitement isn't just local. People are reportedly traveling hundreds of miles to be among the first to fill their tanks with John Cook's synthetic fuel."

The camera panned with the reporter as moved to stand next to a massive, dual-rear-wheel pickup truck. Two large American flags were mounted in the bed, snapping in the wind. The driver, a man in a flannel shirt and a baseball cap, leaned out of the window with a wide grin.

"Sir, how long have you been waiting?" the reporter asked.

"Going on five hours now," the man said, patting the door of his truck. "I drove all the way from Idaho last night. I didn't want to hear about the future of America on the news. I wanted to feel it under my hood. If this fuel is as clean and cheap as Dr Cook says, then the folks in the Middle East can keep their crude. We've got our own now."

The reporter turned back to the camera. "The surge in demand is unlike anything seen since the 1973 oil crisis, but this time, the mood isn't one of panic. It is one of celebration. Every driver we have spoken to seems to view a fill-up with SynGas as a badge of independence."

The CNN anchor, Bernard Shaw, turned back to the studio camera with a thoughtful expression.

"Today a new ad campaign rolled out nationally, even though SynGas is only available at a few gas stations in Washington. This massive ad buy is ensuring that everyone who missed the breaking news yesterday, hears about it today. Let's look at this new commercial."

It opened with a soaring orchestral score. Sweeping shots of the Grand Canyon, the Chrysler Building and the rolling wheat fields of the Midwest filled the screen.

"SynGas—the revolution of freedom," a deep, resonant voice narrated. "Made in America. Made by Americans. Made for Americans. The end of the oil age isn't a threat. It is a promise."

The camera returned to Bernard Shaw, and he paused for a moment. With a quick nod he continued.

"That commercial is a masterclass in what analysts are calling high-octane propaganda," Bernard said. "It isn't just selling a new type of gasoline. It is selling a vision of American exceptionalism that we haven't seen articulated this clearly in decades. The music, the recognizable landmarks and the focus on 'freedom' are designed to bypass the technical skepticism of the energy sector and go straight for the heart of the American consumer."

The screen split to include a senior political analyst in Washington.

"Bernard, you're absolutely right," the analyst replied. "What is truly stunning is how well managed this roll-out has been. SynGas was a complete surprise to the markets just forty-eight hours ago, yet here we are seeing a fully realized public-relations juggernaut. This isn't a scramble. It is a synchronized launch. We’ve seen the banners at every ARCO and ampm station and now these cinematic commercials. Someone has been sitting on this marketing collateral for months, waiting for the exact moment Dr John Cook gave the word."

"And let's look at what's coming out of the White House," Bernard added. "The messaging is perfectly aligned. President Bush isn't just endorsing this. He is championing it as a national security victory. Our sources inside the West Wing are telling us that an official announcement for a groundbreaking ceremony is imminent. We are expecting the President and Dr Cook to appear together in the Arizona desert to break ground on those five solar-powered SynGas plants we’ve heard so much about."

"It is a political, social and economic trifecta," the analyst agreed. "By framing this as a 'Revolution of Freedom' they are making it nearly impossible for the traditional oil lobby to fight back without looking unpatriotic. They aren't just fighting a new technology. They are fighting a new American identity. The sheer scale of the long-range planning involved here suggests that Dr Cook is as much a strategist as he is a scientist."

"While the lines in Olympia continue to grow, the rest of the country is watching and waiting," Bernard concluded. "The message from the White House and the ARCO stations is clear: the future is no longer a promise. It is currently being pumped into a Ford F-150 in Washington State."

CHAPTER THREE

I SAT ON the edge of the bed at Shady Acres, staring at the screen of the thirteen inch Zenith. I despised the thing, especially since it only showed the world in shades of grey, but it was the only window I had into the chaos I had unleashed.

On the screen, Bill Griffeth was leaning into the camera with a look of intense concentration. With the markets closed he was at the beginning of the evening review. Behind him, a graphic appeared that made me grit my teeth. It was a line chart showing fuel consumption trends, but in the black and white reality of the Zenith, the red and blue lines had no meaning in shades of gray. It was a frustrating irony, I didn't just miss my big San Diego TV, I missed any TV in color.

"The surrender of Manuel Noriega in Panama continues to dominate the headlines in Florida," Griffeth was saying, "but here at home, the talk is still all about the gas pump. In an unprecedented move, the Washington State Legislature met in an emergency session today, January 3rd, to address what many are calling the 'Cook Loophole.'"

The screen cut to a grainy shot of the state capitol in Olympia. A reporter was standing in the cold, breath misting in the air as he gestured toward the closed doors.

"Bill, the legality of this session is already being questioned by constitutional scholars," the reporter said. "The Washington State Constitution mandates that the legislature convene on the second Monday of January, which would be the 8th. By meeting today, they are technically in uncharted territory. One commentator earlier today jokingly asked if any law passed this week is even worth the paper it is printed on if the members are essentially meeting as a private club instead of a legal body."

I chuckled to myself. They were terrified. They were so desperate to get their hands on the tax revenue from the SynGas being sold in Olympia that they could not even wait five days. Washington had two problems. A legal definition of gasoline for the tax code that didn't include SynGas, and a forgotten and unused environmental protection law that specifically exempted alcohol and other synthetic fuels from the gas tax.

"Meanwhile, south of the border," the reporter continued, "the Governor of Oregon has indicated that he has placed the SynGas tax at the top of his 1990 legislative agenda. However, he has stated he will wait for the regular session to begin, noting that since Dr Cook has not yet expanded sales into Oregon, there is no immediate 'bleeding' of the highway trust fund to stop.

"I recorded this interview via satellite just an hour ago with ARCO CEO Lodwrick Cook."

The camera cut back to the studio where Lodwrick Cook was appearing. He looked calm, sitting in front of an ARCO logo.

"Lodwrick," Griffeth asked, "the state is accusing ARCO of avoiding potentially millions in taxes because your fuel does not meet the legal definition of gasoline. How do you respond?"

Lodwrick gave a smooth, practiced smile. "Bill, we believe in corporate fiscal responsibility. While it is true that SynGas is a synthetic product not covered by the current tax code, we have no intention of starving our schools or our roads. I am announcing today that ARCO will voluntarily pay a sum equivalent to the state fuel tax for every gallon sold during this interim period, regardless of the legality of the current legislative session. We want to be partners with the people of Washington, not an obstacle."

It was a masterstroke. He was making the state look like a group of bickering children while ARCO looked like the adult in the room. By paying a tax he technically did not owe, he was buying the moral high ground for the price of 18 cents a gallon.

I reached out and turned the volume down until the TV clicked off, as the heavy old handset next to the TV began to ring. The black and white of the winter night was filtering through the curtains. I pulled them open and shut off the lamp on the table. The snow glowed in the dark outside. Holding the heavy handset against my ear, I said, "Hello?"

"Hello, John. You called?" came the joyful voice.

"Lodwrick, thank you for calling back," I said, my voice low. "Excellent job on TV. How are the stations holding up?"

"John, it is like a war zone out there," Lodwrick replied, and I could hear the exhaustion in his voice. "The twelve stations around Olympia are moving more fuel than I thought possible. People are queuing for miles. But we can only maintain this for so long. The rest of the two thousand stations are still selling the old stuff, and the Seven Sisters are starting to wake up."

"What does the Washington tax do to the price of SynGas now?" I asked him. "What is the profit on the 100,000 gallons a day from Satsop to to the stations around Olympia? If the profit there was 18 cents per gallon, the tax just ate it."

Lodwrick gave a short laugh that sounded like a cough. "It did eat a big bite of it, John. The transport numbers in Washington are very low. One truck can deliver three times in a day at the distances they are traveling. All those trucks the first day was just for the cameras, and immediate delivery. Our distribution and overhead for those 12 stations is only 3 cents. That leaves 4 cents a gallon profit after the tax."

"4 cents," I muttered, doing the math. "So on the first three days of 100 thousand gallons, you've made 12 thousand dollars."

"And Washington made 54 thousand," he said.

I leaned back, a small smile playing on my face. "You're paying 18 thousand dollars a day to buy the moral high ground, Lodwrick. It is the cheapest political bribe in the history of Washington state."

"I agree, it's completely worth it. I liked those early profit numbers. Do we raise it in response?" he asked. "68 cents a gallon is still half price of everybody else. But even 4 cents is double what we used to make."

"It's a hard decision. I know the goal is $1 a gallon after taxes. Bush's idea was a Federal SynGas tax that put 50 cents on every gallon, minus what ever the local state taxes are. There was some talk about a minimum price being set, that it couldn't go lower than $1 unless that amount was 90% of the local non SynGas average, but I don't know how that would work in reality.

"SynGas is new. Everybody else adds the tax in at the pump price, so the customer never even thinks of it. If we jump it 18 cents, then everybody will know that the emergency legislature meeting raised the price of gas."

"It's your choice, John," he said. "At the end of the day, you're still the Boss."

"That is exactly how we should do it," I said, my voice sharpening as the plan crystallized. "Do not bury the tax. Raise the price to 68 cents and put a sign on every pump in Olympia. Change the signs, 50 cents plus tax. Tell them the price of SynGas is still 50 cents, but the Washington State Legislature just added an 18 cent 'emergency' surcharge. If we eat the tax, we are protecting the politicians. If we pass it on, we are draft-shielding ARCO and putting the crosshairs on the statehouse."

Lodwrick was silent for a moment, likely imagining the phone calls he would get from the Governors office. "John, that is playing hardball. We will be public enemy number one in Olympia by tomorrow morning."

"No, the politicians will be public enemy number one," I corrected. "People are waiting in line for miles for this fuel. If they pull up to the pump and see the price jumped because of a secret meeting on January 3rd, they aren't going to be mad at me or ARCO. They are going to be mad at the people who met as a 'private club' to take their money before the constitution said they could. It makes the voluntary payment look like we are the ones trying to save the consumer while the state is trying to gouge them."

"I see your point," Lodwrick said, his voice lighter. "And at 68 cents, even with the tax, we are still significantly lower than the buck-fifteen the Chevron across the street is charging. Plus, that gives us back our full 22 cent profit margin on the local haul. 22 thousand dollars in profit a day instead of 4 thousand."

"Exactly. It keeps the public angry at the right people. What about California?" I asked. "Do we keep the fifty cent price there until the tax men catch up?"

"California is a different beast, but because there are so many cars the tax is lower. They'll have legislation to make sure SynGas is covered even before Oregon, just in case. We should do the same thing there. 50 cents a gallon plus tax. None of this 9 tenths of a penny stuff. You said when Bush passes his SynFuel tax it'll be an even $1 a gallon. I like that. Right now we have no federal tax. That's saving our customers 9.1 cents a gallon."

"The 1988 Federal Excise Tax," I agreed. "A 10 year exemption from the Federal highway tax for any fuel that was 100% synthetic, non-petroleum based and had significantly lower tailpipe emissions. We have until January 1st, 2000, or until they change the law. It was my guiding document while designing SynGas."

"I forget sometime that SynGas isn't something you discovered, it's something you designed."

"I did," I said. "I saw that the only alternatives the environmental hobbyists were trying was methanol and ethanol. Turning grain crops like corn into fuel. That's a terrible idea. You're taking food out of the mouths of hungry people to burn it for transportation, and it's more expensive not less."

"I still think the profits we will earn on 20 million gallons at 50 cents is it's best quality," Lodwrick said with a humorous tone.

"Lodwrick," I said, "it's going to be more than 20 million gallons. I've got full permission from the NRC now. WNP-3 and WNP-5 will both be doubled up. They were built to do that from the beginning. I'm contractually obligated to keep producing 2500 megawatts with WNP-3A, that's why the initial plant was only 100,000 gallons. That and it wasn't a scary number. The longer it takes everybody else to realize that the 20 million gallons is real, the better."

Lodwrick sucked in a breath in surprise. "You're going to expand Satsop to produce 60 million gallons a day? Who's going to buy it John? Are you going to ship it to Japan?"

"70 million gallons a day," I corrected. "I can bump up the 100,000 plant to 10 million and keep producing power too. But it won't be SynGas. It will be SynFuels."

"I thought we had to wait for the Arizona plants for those?" he asked excitedly.

"SynGas, SynDiesel and SynAV, all from Satsop," I told him.

He laughed a big hearty laugh. "John, I can't believe you kept that a secret. Texaco is going to flip. They called me in a panic yesterday morning. I promised them any SynGas ARCO couldn't sell. They are now planning on switching their refineries in Anacortes primarily to diesel production to make up for our providing them SynGas."

"Then tell me about the distribution of our full production. Do we use the Olympic Pipeline? Is a direct connection possible?"

I pulled down the map of the Olympic Peninsula I had pinned to the wall and sat on the edge of the bed. The moonlight through the window was just enough to see.

"The physical tap is there, but we have a volume problem," Lodwrick said. "The pipeline can handle the flow for Washington and Oregon, but it can't move the amount we need for California. If we want to move twenty million gallons a day, we have to go by sea."

"That's an easy trip. Satsop is only twenty miles from the Aberdeen port," I said, tracing with my finger the line of 101 from Elma to Aberdeen on the map.

"Exactly," Lodwrick replied. "I have the plans ready for a lateral pipeline out to the port. We can fill tankers there and sail them straight to our terminals in Long Beach and Richmond. Texaco is ready to assist with their shipping."

"So explain how it moves. 70 million gallons a day. How many tankers? Where do they go? What gets shipped via the 'short straw' to Aberdeen and what gets sent via the new connection to the Olympic Pipeline?" I asked.

"Seventy million gallons," Lodwrick whispered, the sound of a man doing mental math at the speed of light. "John, you are not just breaking the market. You are erasing it."

I leaned back against the headboard to listen as I watched the snow softly start to fall, filling the tracks someone had left earlier in the day.

"The Olympic Pipeline—the one we share with Texaco—can take about ten million gallons of 92 octane SynGas through that line to cover every single station, regardless of owner, in Oregon and Washington. We do that we own the market. It keeps the Pacific Northwest saturated and loyal."

"I know Diesel use is about the same as gas, give or take a few percent," I said picking up my notebook off the bed. "Can the Olympic Pipeline take 10 million gallons of SynDiesel too?"

"It can," Lodwrick said, his voice gaining a sharp professional edge. "The Olympic is actually a multi pipe system. They move gasoline, diesel, and jet fuel in separate 16-inch lines already. If we use the full manifold, we can push 10 million of the 92 octane SynGas and another 10 million of the SynDiesel through that corridor every single day. That effectively covers every truck stop and gas station in the Pacific Northwest. We will own the production of every drop of gas station fuel."

"That's 30 million gallons accounted for," I said, tracing the line on the map with my finger. "That leaves 40 million gallons a day sitting at the plant. We have to move that out of the state."

"30 million?" he asked.

"SynAV. The military will want all of the 10 million gallons a day I make at Satsop until there is a second larger supply available. When we build our connection to the Olympic Pipeline we'll build it to carry all three fuels. McChord can connect up to it for direct delivery, if they aren't already. The military can send tankers to Aberdeen for shipping SynAV to wherever they want it, at least until the Arizona plants open. In Arizona I'm planning on building a connection to the lines that run east and west just north of Yuma. That will let me move SynAV and everything from Arizona straight to LA or all the way back to Houston using existing distribution pipes. From Houston, fuel get's piped everywhere except the Pacific Northwest."

"What do you do with Satsop when the Arizona plant starts SynAV production?" he asked curiously.

"I start mixing it with SynDiesel so it's not quite so fantastic and then sell it commercially as SynA1. That should drop the price of flights from the West Coast significantly. The daily West Coast usage of commercial Jet-A is around 12.5 million gallons a day. With McChord getting just what it needs of the pure stuff, I can supply the whole West Coast with SynA1 from Satsop. The Arizona plant will supply the rest of the US military, and then I'll dilute that to cover what the rest of the country needs for commercial aviation fuel."

I could hear him sigh as he contemplated what I'd laid out. "Getting back to Grays Harbor, we'll need a big facility there to move 50 million gallons a day."

"Right," I said. "You said Texaco would take what we didn't. When we flood the Olympic Pipeline, who is getting pushed out, anybody else?"

"Just GATX and the smaller regional players," Lodwrick said. "They own a twenty five percent stake in the Olympic, but you and Texaco own seventy five. Under the current operating agreement, we have the right to prioritize our own barrels. When you flood the manifold with 20 million gallons of SynGas and SynDiesel, there simply won't be any room left in the pipe for anyone else. GATX will eagerly buy anything not used locally to ship by rail elsewhere."

"See if you can get the Olympic Pipeline to build the extension to Satsop themselves," I told him. "GATX will appreciate getting a piece of the action for every gallon we ship through that pipe. That takes it off my docket, as it makes it a joint ARCO Texaco GATX project."

"I'll get with them immediately," Lodwrick said. "Expansion plans already exist to run a line to Aberdeen to increase future port access. If I remember right, the right of ways are already set. We'd be able to start construction immediately."

"Good," I said with a smirk. "It sounds like Satsop was the perfect spot for a SynFuel production plant from the beginning."

"It is, John. You've got a local pipe network that is disconnected from the rest of the country so you can dominate it easily. One might think you planned it that way."

"I do try," I said, waiting for motion out the window.

"In Aberdeen," Lodwrick said, ignoring my comment, "the 'short straw' and ships are a conveyor belt of steel. To move 20 million gallons every twenty four hours, we will need at eight high capacity Jones Act tankers in a constant rotation. Three days down to the California terminals, one day to offload, and three days back. We are looking at a permanent fleet of about 25 ships just to keep the tanks from overflowing at Aberdeen when you hit full production."

"Where do we get the ships?" I asked.

"Texaco," Lodwrick replied instantly. "They have a massive fleet of US flagged tankers sitting idle because the crude market is twitching. I will tell them that if they want their share of the full production, they need to provide the hulls. We provide the fuel and the pipe to the coast, they provide the transport. We will run them in a loop between Grays Harbor and our terminals in Long Beach and Richmond and split the sales."

"And the profit, Lodwrick? What is the daily take for ARCO once we are moving our share of that volume? I can do the math for my end selling it to you at 25 cents a gallon, but after transport what kind of profit percentage do you get for selling it at fifty cents a gallon?"

"John, the numbers are going to look like a typo to our accountants," Lodwrick said, and I could hear him shifting in his chair as he settled into the math.

"Transport to Grays Harbor and the sea lift to California will cost us about 3 cents a gallon. Local distribution to the stations and overhead adds another 4 cents. That puts our total cost at 32 cents per gallon at the nozzle. When we sell it for 50 cents plus tax, we are looking at an 18 cent per gallon profit for ARCO."

"How does that compare? What is your normal per gallon profit?" I asked.

"2 cents a gallon, John. Most of ARCOs record profits were from things other than retail gas, like soda and hot dogs," he said with a chuckle.

"You said you'd split the full production of 60 million gallons of SynGas and SynDiesel with Texaco, that is $5.4 million a day in pure profit for the company if it's all shipped to California. How sure are you that you and Texaco can take 60 million gallons a day of SynGas and SynDiesel? Are you sure Texaco will move our gas for us at 3 cents a gallon on their ships? Is it worth it for us to reduce fees we charge them to strengthen the partnership?"

"The 60 million is easy, John," Lodwrick said, and I could hear the confidence in his voice. "California alone consumes 40 million gallons of gasoline a day. Between the ARCO network and the Texaco stations, we are looking at roughly 40 percent of that market share. If we provide a superior product for 50 cents before tax when the rest of the world is paying over a dollar, we will take all of it. People will drive thirty miles out of their way to save that kind of money. We could move 80 million gallons a day and still have people begging for more," he bragged.

"How many pumps do you have, could you actually sell that much if you had it?"

"Well, no," he said, understanding the question. "Realistically ARCO could sell 9, maybe 10 million gallons a day in California. The current numbers are around 8.4 million. But looking at what's happening in Washington, and what we could actually achieve at this price? Those are my numbers. Texaco sells about 5.6 million gallons a day in California, but they would see a significant bump as well at these prices."

"It sounds like we need to find more buyers in California," I told him. "Who can you contact there who would want to help corner the market on SynGas in California?"

"There are two names you should look into," Lodwrick said after a moment of thought. "First is Thrifty Oil. They are based in Downey and have over two hundred and fifty stations across Southern California. They are independent, aggressive, and they have been fighting the Seven Sisters for decades. If you offer them SynGas at a price that lets them undercut the Chevron station across the street by fifty cents, they will sign the contract in blood before you finish the sentence."

"Who else?" I asked.

"The independent jobbers," he replied. "There is a massive network of unbranded stations in the Central Valley and the Inland Empire. They buy whatever is cheapest on the spot market. If we set up a dedicated terminal in Long Beach just for the independents, we can bypass the major brand restrictions entirely. We would not just be selling fuel, John. We would be creating a whole new class of millionaires who owe their loyalty to you."

"I like the sound of that," I said, looking at the map of California. "A loyal army of independent retailers. What about the logistics for those unbranded sites? Can our terminals handle the extra truck traffic?"

"We will need to expand the rack capacity at the Long Beach terminal," Lodwrick noted. "But with the profit margins we are looking at, that is a rounding error. I can have a team scout the neighboring parcels for a new truck terminal by the end of the week."

"Do it," I told him. "And tell Thrifty we are interested in a strategic partnership. I'll sell ARCO all the fuel I make, you sell it on to everybody else. I want the revolution to be the little guys squeezing the big guys. ARCO will have it first, then Texaco, then Thrifty and the independents. We'll force the others to fight harder for the first Arizona plants so they can compete in the California market. We are not just looking for buyers, Lodwrick. We are looking for people who want to help us burn the old world down."

"I will make the calls, John. I have a feeling the California market is about to get very, very interesting."

"Now, once fully expanded I'm making 70 million gallons a day," I said trying to make sure I had it straight on the notepad in front of me. That's 10 million in SynAV for the military and later the commercial aviation users in California, Oregon and Washington. Then 10 million SynGas and 10 million SynDiesel for Oregon and Washington pumped straight into the Olympic Pipeline. Then you said California currently consumes 40 million gallons a day. Was that just gas, or gas and diesel?"

"That 40 million figure is just gasoline for the California retail market," Lodwrick clarified, and I could hear the rustle of reports on his end of the line. "Diesel is a different animal. California moves a staggering amount of freight. Between the ports of Long Beach and Oakland, plus the agricultural hauling in the Central Valley, the state burns more than 7 million gallons of diesel every single day. If you are producing 70 million total, you are just over current use. When the price drops demand will grow."

"That clarifies what I build at Satsop then. I need 2 SynGas plants, 1 SynDiesel and the half SynAV," I said and paused considering.

"Lodwrick, If Texaco has volunteered to move 40 million gallons a day for 3 cents a gallon to California for us, how do we know that's not a trap?" I asked. "What if they have sudden shipping issues and we have to stop production because there is nowhere to put the fuel? I asked before, should we cozy up more to ensure that supply line stays open?"

"It is a valid concern," Lodwrick said, his voice tightening with the weight of the logistics. "If they pull their fleet, we drown in our own inventory within forty-eight hours. We cannot afford to be that vulnerable. If you want to ensure that supply line stays open, we do not just cozy up to them. We build a cage around them."

"How?" I asked, looking at out at the snow glittering in the moonlight.

"We offer them a long term logistics joint venture," he explained. "We do not just lease their ships. We form a new entity, let us call it Pacific Marine. We put the Grays Harbor terminal and the new thirty inch 'short straw' into that company, and they put their dedicated tanker fleet into it. We keep fifty-one percent. That way, if they try to pull their ships, they are in breach of a partnership agreement that governs the very pipe they need to get their own fuel. They would be cutting their own throat."

"That is better," I said, nodding to myself. "But what about the three cents? If we want them to stay loyal when the Seven Sisters start offering them bribes to fail us, we need to make it more profitable for them to stay."

"Then we give them the same price as ARCO," Lodwrick suggested. "We keep the three cent transport cost but we don't try to make a profit from them. They put their idle ships to work in a new venture. It turns their shipping department into a massive profit center for their board of directors. They will guard those tankers like they are made of solid gold."

"And the partnership?" I asked. "Is it worth letting them into the Aberdeen facility as owners?"

"Only as minority owners," Lodwrick warned. "It combines the ships, land and the equipment. We both pay in the 3 cents a gallon transport fee to Pacific Marine. If there is a profit then we split it. It makes them part of the family, John, but you are still the father. It strengthens the tie enough that when the Saudi or Exxon reps come knocking with threats, the Texaco board will look at their three billion dollars in guaranteed annual savings and tell them to go to hell."

"I like it," I said, finishing the note on my pad. "Draft the Pacific Marine agreement. I want ARCO and Texaco joined at the hip. Pacific Marine will own and build the 'short straw' pipeline from Satsop. ARCO has the cash to do that all on its own, their share of the venture is the ships. We are giving them a future, Lodwrick, but we are making sure they have to sail through our waters to get to it."

"I will have the lawyers start on it immediately," Lodwrick said. "Between Thrifty, the independents, and a shackled Texaco, we will have the entire West Coast locked in a vice when you hit full production."

"Realistically, how much fuel from the first 20 million plant stays in the Pacific Northwest, and how much goes to California?"

"I want every ARCO in British Columbia, Washington, Oregon and California running the new fuel in the spring. Realistically, that's only 2.5 to 3 million gallons in the Northwest and 9 million in California. The deciding issue is really the size of the ship. The largest ship we can get into the port at Aberdeen is 15 million gallons. That gives you 5 million to share around up there and just one ship a day to fill. As production ramps up that will of course increase."

"Good, I want Texaco to be a happy partner eating our crumbs. It'll also give you extra to share out to the independents up there to build loyalty. Thank you, Lodwrick. I'm glad I kept you on. You're definitely the right man for the job."

"I'm wondering if I can keep the profits close on this, John. I think I might offer to go halvsies with Texaco on a couple solar plants and expand ARCO further east."

"Dream big, Lodwrick. The bigger ARCO is, the bigger your share is when we take ARCO public again."

He chuckled. "Dream big. I can do that, John."

"Still, it's going to be a while till we get that far. Tell me about the supply of fuel we have until everything comes online at Satsop," I said. "How did the meetings go with the buyers of our old refineries and leases?"

Lodwrick chuckled, a dry sound over the line. "I should have been an actor, John. I met with the reps from Koch and Exxon two weeks ago. I gave them the performance of a lifetime. I played the part of the broken CEO who had his company stolen by a kid with a chemistry set. I told them you were gutting ARCO to fund a thorium pipe dream. I actually squeezed out a few tears over the North Slope leases."

"Did they buy the sob story?" I asked, pleased with my choice of keeping him.

"They loved it. They were so busy feeling superior that they practically tripped over themselves to sign the one year fixed price crude contracts. They thought they were helping a dying company stay on life support. We have enough traditional fuel locked in to keep the entire network running and profitable for the next year. But they will realize the truth soon enough. They are going to see those traffic jams and realize they just handed us a bridge to their own extinction."

"Good. We need that breathing room," I said.

"We have it," he agreed. "I'm still wrapping my head around that surprise. 60 million gallons of gas and diesel with no pumping, refining or other expenses. Just transport and sale. It's fantastic."

"Glad you approve," I said with a grin.

I hung up the phone and felt the weight of the moment. The plan was moving from logistics to a full scale economic invasion. Between the Olympic Pipeline in the north and the independent network in the south, we were about to put a stranglehold on the West Coast fuel market.

I leaned back and continued to watch the snow fall outside the window of Shady Acres. A hint of movement caught my vision as I watched a huge stag with giant snow speckled antlers move gracefully through the snow. I watched him move almost delicately before he leaped over the bushes an out of the backyard of Shady Acres. Sometimes it's the little things that ease the heart. I sighed, relaxing and closing my eyes, totally worth waiting for. Every future gallon was accounted for and by April, the world would truly start to become a very different place.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE DAYS MOVED on at Shady Acres. I had email, phone calls and computer games. I stayed busy, but the stag didn't return.

Jack showed up on Thursday, as I closed my laptop. I'd just finished a series of emails with instructions for Dr Dancer, Dr Pilus, Matt and Tim. "John, ready to escape the asylum?" he asked as he came into my room.

"I am. What are the travel plans?" I asked eagerly, glancing at the tiny black-and-white TV that had never been replaced.

"You'll fly out tonight to Washington DC. In the morning you'll board Air Force One with the President for a trip to Yuma. There an armored motorcade will take you to the groundbreaking and the reporters."

"I've asked Matt to meet me there. He's bringing equipment for the show and tell."

"I know. I've asked him to stay in LA. I'll have my guys bring everything. I'm assigning Nick as your new personal shadow and assistant. Matt is your backup to keep things moving if you have to go incommunicado again."

"Jack, how serious is the threat? Is this a permanent part of my life, or short-term justified paranoia as everything shakes out?"

Jack grabbed the only chair in the room, the one thing on my wish list I had gotten and gestured for me to have a seat on the bed.

"Some people have offered a lot of money for your death," he said bluntly.

"I'm not surprised, but how tangible is the threat?"

"It's serious. Some of it is the knee-jerk reaction of those that are hurt immediately by the market shift. The hope is that when everyone sees the steady systematic rollout and the slow international growth they won't take it personally enough to blame you. Starting with just a tiny demonstration in Washington has been helpful. The market will realize that change is coming but it hasn't happen yet. When that realization happens then there will be less of a threat, but expect a constant presence of security for the rest of your life."

"I accepted that before this ever began," I told him. "Now how long do I have to get packed?"

The car ride from Shady Acres was longer as we traveled to a different airport. The flight, another Gulfstream, took me to Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland. There I found myself with accommodation and a couple boxes. The best find was a new suit, my trademark black.

In the morning I boarded Air Force One with my boxes and in my new suit. About an hour later George Bush arrived with his entourage.

After take off, I watched the President's expression as he looked at the two boxes sitting on the blue carpet of the cabin. There was a genuine, boyish curiosity in his eyes that reminded me of the engineers back at General Atomics.

"In the first box, Mr President, is the 'magic'—a portable SynGas Solar demonstrator," I explained, leaning forward. "It’s a scaled-down version of the plant we'll build in Arizona. I’m going to use it to pull carbon from the air right in front of the cameras and turn it into SynGas we can pass out to everyone present. They can light it right there. It’s the visual the world needs to see to understand that we aren't burning a finite resource anymore—we are recycling the sky."