This book was originally published starting in 2018 and continued into 2019. But it began much earlier than that.

Around 2010 my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. No real surprise, it runs in the family, and there had been signs the preceding five years or so. That led me on a journey reminiscing with him about my earliest memories and gave me an idea:

What if someone could remember the future?

What if they could remember every possible permutation of the future they could conceivably experience?

That led to extensive research over the next decade as I compiled a timeline and hundreds of browser bookmarks. From technologies to important people and dates. Special thanks to Wikipedia for this.

Writing finally began in 2018 as my Dad continued to decline. The person he was had mostly left us, but there were still glimmers of the old him there.

He passed just as the series was coming to an end, a full eight novellas. The last part was unfortunately shorter than I had intended, as I found it impossible to write for a time after his death.

Beginning in 2025, I dusted off this early work, and revamped it, adding significant amounts of dialog and story. I've also broken it down into chapters, as the original novella was just continuous text.

From an original novella of just over 25,000 words, this segment of the story has been hugely expanded. It is now the third of seven novels based specifically on the original Deadlines novella and is just over 99,000 words.

This sixth novel in the new series is entitled, War & Rainbows.

While it may be inspired by my own memories, the people mentioned are entirely fictional characters, with no relation to reality. Especially where historical figures are used. Every effort has been made to follow the rules of Alternate History, where real life characters, living and dead, are used for the verisimilitude and world building, not cheap laughs or as critical commentary.

I hope you enjoy this story, it means very much to me.

❖

PT Brainum

pt.brainum@gmail.com​

At the beginning of June, 1990 I hosted a meeting, using one of the higher floors of the Mid. It was an impressive meeting place, and I had, with Jennifer's advice, leaned into the 'leather and bourbon' decor of the Texas oil industry for the event. The attendees were a collection of oil industry Texans with a connection to Bush. They were worried about their future, and pleased with his introduction.

"Welcome to the Mid-Continent Tower," I said, wearing my trademark black suit and a pink pocket handkerchief. "And welcome to this special meeting about SynFuel, the oil economy and the future of oil production.

"As I'm sure you know, I'm Dr John Cook. First of all, I'd like to introduce the other members of this panel. On my right is the CEO and President of ARCO Lodwrick Cook, next to him is the President of SynSolar, Dr Picker. On my left is my right-hand man and assistant Matthew Preston," I said to some chuckles. "And next to him is Jennifer Parz, my lawyer from Sterling, Malley & Associates."

There were nods as they recognized the long time Dallas firm.

"We are here to discuss America's need for SynFuel, what our production goals are and where there are opportunities for investment. We will also endeavor to answer all your questions as best as we can."

One of the men stood up. "I don't care about that stuff, I'm here to invest while I've still got some money. I know you're going to put me out of business. I'm not going to keep making buggy whips when you're making cars."

There was a general murmuring of 'hear, hear' and a few whistles and applause.

"All right, I'll jump to the investment plan then but a few things I need to say so you understand the talking points to use with the media," I told them. "First of all, SynGas is cleaner than natural gasoline. It doesn't require refining which wastes oil and causes air pollution. In every way it is less expensive. That includes removing the effect of foreign oil on the price of local crude, because we will produce it here in America, meeting the complete national fuel needs.

"That means the money people pay for gasoline stays here too. Finally, to keep the oil providers going until we can fully switch over, it is heavily taxed by the government to fund needed infrastructure, primarily transportation infrastructure like bridges, canals and roads. It is also a managed roll out, which is why we are starting with you. The Arizona plants will be auctioned to the big guys, but there is plenty of room in the new fuel economy."

I paused to look across the room. "Everybody understand the talking points?" I asked, getting nods in return. "These are the things to keep mentioning when you talk about how proud you are to have invested in and built America's fuel revolution."

There was some polite clapping but I could tell they were impatient. I smiled and continued. "Now, here's the investment plan. A solar plant needs about $6 billion dollars to be built, not including the land. The entire facility needs about five square miles, and a supply of water of at least 60 million gallons a day."

I could see their surprise, but powering with the sun took a lot more space compared to powering with thorium.

"The three ingredients are sun, water and air. The air is the same basically anywhere, though places with higher levels of industry are actually more suitable, because of the higher levels of CO2," I said and paused. I could see I was losing them again.

"The investor puts up the money for the plant, land and facilities. We'll divide the income from the plant into 51 shares. General Atomics through SynSolar will build and manage the solar plant for a share. The remaining 50 shares each go to an investor."

"How much is that for each share?" I was asked by one of the gathered men.

"That's just $120 million for each share before land and water costs," answered the one woman in the audience.

I smiled, as she was the only one in the group already wearing a pink ribbon. "You are correct," I told her. "With a yearly return of at least $40 million per share."

"I saw my Dad go through booms and busts. I've done the math," she said. "This is steady income for the rest of eternity."

I gave her a nod, in agreement. then I surprised them. "If it goes over $6 billion because of construction costs I'll cover the difference. If it's under, I'll pocket it for the next plant. Land and water rights are an additional expense, so keep that in mind. The water requirement is crucial, so waste scrub land in the desert isn't the best option. That only works in Arizona because we have a fifty-mile water pipe running to the ocean. That was very expensive, more than $6 billion all by itself, plus continuing operations and maintenance costs. It is only feasible because we are building five plants next to each other."

"Where do we put our plant?" a man asked.

"I don't know. I'm going to leave it my investors, Lodwrick Cook and Dr Picker. Dr Picker can identify the areas with the best sun, and Mr Cook knows the industry just like you but has experience in the distribution and sale of SynGas. Building pipeline connections to get that much fuel to market is an additional expense, but it is partially covered under that $6 billion figure."

"Fifty million gallons from one plant?" came a shocked voice of disbelief.

"That's right. The demand is there, and it'll be a rare day to ever see fuel demand dip. Producing in smaller amounts just doesn't make economic sense."

"Even a gusher is only a 1,000 barrels a day! You're talking a whole 'nother level of production."

"I am," I agreed. "Bush wants SynFuel to be at an even $1 per gallon. The new tax on it, SIDRA, means that the station can sell it for 50 cents plus tax. Production cost is my royalty of 25 cents a gallon. There's 25 cents a gallon profit there to divide up between you and the customer who retails it. If you figure your customer buys it for 35, thats 10 cents a gallon, or five million dollars a day. There's enough demand to build more than ten 50 million a gallon a day plants for US consumption. These will be done one at a time, so if you can't make it on the first one, there will be more.

"You should know that Canada is discussing whether they want to import from the US or build a nuclear based SynFuel plant. If they choose to import, the number of plants to build will just go up. There may be export opportunities as well to the Caribbean. I certainly don't want to build a solar plant where it'll get destroyed by a hurricane."

"Isn't that too much gas? Five in Arizona, and our five?" the woman asked.

"If it was just SynGas, yes. Plants can make a mix of fuels. SynGas, SynDiesel, SynAV and an even higher octane SynPro for high performance use. Arizona will produce multiple types of fuel."

"Can we chip in together for a share?"

"Sure, but that's a private agreement between the investors. I just care that we have 50 fully subscribed shares at $120 million each."

"And we split the profit equally among the shares?"

"Correct, all profits get split into 51 parts, and given out to each shareholder equally. SynSolar has been training the new workers to build and run the plants, and will continue to do so. Those workers will work for SynSolar, the GA subsidiary created to build and manage the plants. Those workers are practically the only ongoing expense for the plant once it is built. The 51st share pays for all of that."

I paused, letting the sudden silence of the room emphasize the weight of what I was about to say.

"You aren't just buying a factory," I told them, my voice dropping to a calm, authoritative level that made the room go still. "You're buying an annuity signed by the sun itself. The 51st share handles the grease, the filters, and the payroll. You don't even have to show up. You just own the light, and the light turns into money."

"Alright, son. We're convinced. Sign us up!"

There were cheers and applause. I smiled, and sat back down. I looked at a bemused Lodwrick. "Told you it wouldn't take all day."

❖

The oil guys were gathered around a table talking location. Dr Picker didn't like the idea of hurricanes on the coast shredding his expensive mirrors.

I pointed at the Permian Basin. "You know, all the water you need is right there, underground."

I got an odd look from my new investors. "That's all nasty salt water son. We have to pay to get rid of it already when it comes up with the oil in our wells."

I gave him a look, and leaned my head to the side. "You do know all of the Arizona plants run on seawater, right?"

I got a blank look instead of a reply.

"How much water do you have to dispose of?" I asked.

"Across the whole basin, it's millions of barrels a day," one of the men answered. He looked at me with a skeptical squint. "But that water isn't usable. It's got minerals, salt, and oil residue. It eats through steel pipes in a year if you aren't careful."

"Exactly," I said, leaning forward. "You're paying to pump that waste back into disposal wells. I'm telling you to give it to the plant instead. My graphene felt filters don't care how salty or oily the water is. They'll strip it down to pure H2O for the converters and give you back a concentrated salt you can sell for minerals if you're bored."

I stood up and walked to the large windows, looking out over Tulsa. "The Capitan Reef Aquifer is sitting right under your feet in West Texas and New Mexico. It is a fossilized reef from the Permian period, thousands of feet thick and full of brackish water that no farmer can use. It is a giant, continually replenished underground tank that nobody has a use for. Except us."

"If we build in the Permian Basin, we aren't competing with the Pecos River," I continued. "We aren't fighting New Mexico over water rights or drying up some farmer's cotton field. We tap the reef, use the sun that's already baking your lease holds, and plug the finished fuel directly into the Waha Header. You already own the right of way for the pipes. You already have the roads built to the well pads."

The woman with the pink ribbon stood up and walked over to the map. She traced the horseshoe shape of the reef with her finger. "He's right. If we use the reef water, the environmental impact studies will pass in a week instead of a decade. Nobody is going to sue us for taking water that kills cows."

"That's the plan," I said. "We don't just build a plant. We upgrade the entire Permian Basin. Every one of those old vertical wells becomes a potential feeder for the plant. We'll turn a waste product into the highest grade fuel on the planet."

Lodwrick Cook gave a slow nod. "It solves the hurricane problem too. A storm in the Gulf might knock out a refinery in Houston, but it won't touch a mirror field in Midland. This provides a secondary energy spine for the whole country."

"Alright," the man who had spoken first said, holding out a weathered hand. "I've got a flat six square miles near Mentone that aren't doing much but collecting dust and salt water. Let's see if your filters are as good as you say they are, Dr Cook."

I shook his hand, feeling the rough calluses of a man who had built his world on crude oil. "They're better. Jennifer will have the paperwork ready by the time you finish your drinks."

As they began to huddle with Dr Picker and Lodwrick to look at topographical maps, I walked back to my seat. Matt leaned in close. "You just sold fifty shares of a future they were terrified of an hour ago."

"I didn't sell them a future, Matt," I whispered, watching the sun catch the edge of the Mid-Continent Tower. "I sold them an exit strategy. Now they get to be the heroes of the revolution instead of the villains of the past."

Jennifer stepped up beside me, her briefcase already open. "I'll start the filings for the new subsidiary tomorrow. We'll need a name."

"SynVest has a nice ring to it," I suggested. "It'll work for the company that sells the shares and builds and operates the plants. We'll headquarter it here at the Mid. But let's stick with PermTex#1 for this plant. It reminds them exactly where the fuel is coming from."

Jennifer gave me that look—the one she always gave me when I named things. It was a mix of pity and professional endurance. She hadn't been there when I named the Arizona projects Yuma#1 through Yuma#5. She probably would have suggested something better if she had. I waited to see if she'd suggest something better, or if she thought I was on a roll.

"PermTex#1," she repeated, her voice flat. "Captivating, John. Truly. It really captures the romance of a billion-dollar energy revolution."

I shrugged, hiding a small smile behind my glass of water. "It's descriptive. People like descriptive," I said, knowing it would be called Mentone#1 eventually.

Matt snorted from his chair. "People like things that don't sound like a line of code in a spreadsheet, John. But hey, it's your six billion dollars."

"I'm glad we got this done," I said, looking out at the view. "Because after my birthday, things are going to get very busy."

"Happy early birthday, John," Jennifer said softly.

"Thanks, Jen," I replied. "No party at the lake this year, I'll be out of town."

❖

I had just come out of the shower, after watching the sunrise while doing five miles on my treadmill from my penthouse apartment at the Mid. I was ready for breakfast when there was a knock at the bedroom door. Wrapping the towel around myself, I answered.

"Morning, John," Nick greeted. "Secure call from the White House. Are you available?" he asked, seeing my covering.

"Yeah, give me a minute to put clothes on. I have to use your security office for that, right?"

"You do," he said. "I'll wait by the door."

"Sure, just a minute," I said closing the door.

I quickly dressed, and headed out of the bedroom. Nick was waiting, and he led me to a particularly blank wall. As we neared, the wall pivoted open into the hidden security room.

"Morning, John," Jack said, looking awake and chipper. "The phone is there, just pick up the extension," he said, pointing at a small desk against the wall with a single phone on it.

I gave the room a quick look. It was only my second time in this space, and a significant part of the penthouse remodel to keep it hidden. Security had instant emergency access to my living space without ever being seen. The cargo elevator in the corner was their way to move from their private floor down on level 20 throughout the building without ever being noticed.

I picked up the phone, hearing a series of odd sounds before I got the normal operator at the White House.

"Good morning, Madison," I told her after her cheerful answer.

"Good morning, John. He's in a good mood today. Give me a moment while I patch you through."

My eyebrows went up at that. I waited for a moment, then I heard the familiar cadence of George Bush.

"Good morning, John," George said, and I could hear the distinct sound of a pen tapping against a wooden desk. "It's been quite the week, but the Soviets are gone, and I finally have a moment. I wanted to call and thank you. That Texas solar plant deal you just offered? It was a hell of a political assist. Having the Texas oil men on board—and giving them a future—has been a great political boost. They've already promised to support my reelection bid with the first funds from the plant."

I shifted the phone to my other ear, leaning against the edge of the small desk. "I'm glad it helped, Sir. How did the Gorbachev visit go?"

"Mixed," he admitted, his tone turning more reflective. "We signed the chemical weapons accord, which is a win, but the economic side... well, that’s why I’m calling. I shared your advice. I brought up the restructuring plan where they separate management from the state and transition the quotas. I even dangled the asset-backed loans using the twenty percent government stock as collateral. I thought it was a slam dunk."

I heard him sigh, the sound of a man who had spent three days trying to sell a miracle to a skeptic.

"The sticking point isn't the math, John. It's the pride. Gorbachev liked the efficiency, but his hardliners? They’re terrified of Step Three. The idea of selling forty percent of 'the people's' companies on the open market sounds like an American annexation to them. They called it 'capitalism by the back door.' They’re also hung up on the employee-owned stock. They think giving the workers a direct voice in management will lead to the same kind of labor unrest that started in Poland with Solidarity. They want the fuel, and God knows they need the payroll help, but they’re terrified of letting go of the leash."

He paused, and I could hear the tapping stop.

"And there’s another problem. You warned me about Jeffrey Sachs, but the man is persistent. He’s been in Gorbachev's ear, and apparently, he’s got several of the younger Soviet economists convinced that your phased approach is too slow. Sachs is pushing 'Shock Therapy'—total price liberalization and immediate privatization. It’s the exact opposite of the methodical transition you laid out. Gorbachev is caught in the middle. He sees your plan as a way to survive, but Sachs is promising him a shortcut to a Western-style economy that the hardliners might actually prefer because it looks more like a surgical strike than a long-term restructuring of their power base."

He lowered his voice slightly. "On a brighter note, I’ve been looking at the electoral map. If we’re going to push these ISPBR plants domestically, I’ve got some locations in the north that would be... helpful. I’m thinking the Rust Belt. Pennsylvania, Ohio, maybe Michigan. We bring cheap power and a mini-Houston to those areas, and the 1992 conversation becomes a lot easier for me. I'll have the list of specific sites sent over to your office by the end of the week."

He paused and cleared his throat. I wondered when did I become such an important part of domestic policy that I needed a briefing like this. At least I had the permission and direction I needed to keep him part of the team. I'd need that for the next few plays I'd make.

"Anyway, that's the state of play. Mikhail is heading home to a hornets' nest, and I'm sitting here wondering if we can actually plug that economic hole before the hardliners decide they'd rather have a collapse than a steady landing. What's your read on it, John? Are we moving too slow, or is Sachs going to blow the whole thing up before we even get the first reactor on a train to Moscow?"

"I've been looking at the Soviet pipelines," I said. "I think that a solar plant on the Black Sea makes much better sense than an ISPBR that's going to get pulled apart by curious scientists and people hoping to make a buck selling the diamond pebble, thorium filled or not. Structurally it has a much bigger footprint, but politically a sun powered plant is much more palatable to the West, especially if it is making them money shipping fuel into Europe."

"That makes sense," George said, the tapping of his pen starting up again. "A solar plant is a lot easier for the State Department to explain than shipping reactor technology to a collapsing superpower, even if those reactors are 'safe' by your standards. But how does that solve the Sachs problem? He is promising them the moon and the stars by the weekend if they just flip the switch on privatization."

"Sachs is a theorist," I told him, looking at the blank concrete wall of the security room. "If they go with Shock Therapy, they'll get the shock, but they won't get the therapy. Prices will skyrocket, the black market will become the only market, and the hardliners will use the resulting chaos to justify a return to an iron fist. It's their choice, and their funeral. Helping Ukraine is more important to me, than saving the last heartbeat of the Soviet system."

"Spoken like a true Texan," George said, though there was a note of caution in his voice. "I understand the sentiment, John. Believe me, I do. But a total collapse of the Soviet system overnight is not just a funeral for them, it is a security nightmare for us. We're talking about thirty thousand nuclear warheads and a military that might stop taking orders if their paychecks turn into wallpaper. If Ukraine goes its own way, we need it to be a stable divorce, not a bloody one."

He cleared his throat, moving back to firmer ground.

"I'll have my team look at the Black Sea proposals. If we can frame it as a joint venture for 'European Energy Stability,' we might be able to slide it past the hardliners. And I'll get those Rust Belt sites to you. We need to show Pennsylvania and Ohio that the new energy economy isn't just a West Coast thing. If we can break ground there before the '92 cycle really kicks off, it'll be a landslide."

"I'll look for the list," I said.

"Thanks, John. If they go for the solar plant, I'd like you to go and explain it to them. They need to see the brains behind the build. I know you can convince them they need it."

"You call, I'll go, Mr President," I said repeating my old promise. "I'll need to get my plane out of storage at McChord," I told him.

"It should be safe enough. Crude is back up, so things should be better now. I've had a firm talk with Exxon, Chevron, and Mobil. They're going to set aside their prejudices next week, when they sit down with you. I promise they'll listen long enough that you might get through. I don't think they've really believed anything you've said in public. It has just all been panic."

"It'll be a different meeting compared to your Texas oil friends."

He laughed. "There's no comparing them John. Hopefully I'll have a date for you soon. Try to stay out of trouble," he said and hung up.

I set the phone headset back down.

"Everything good?" Jack asked from across the room.

"As good as can be. Remember what Berlin was like?" I asked him.

"I do. I didn't understand why we were there until the wall fell. It was just the beginning wasn't it?" he asked, having heard part of the conversation.

"Yeah. They won't listen. It'll be bad, but it won't be terrible," I told him. "I'm going to go get dressed for breakfast, thanks for letting me borrow the phone."

"No problem. Let me know when you want to me to call McChord about your plane. I can have it here in about five hours."

"Thanks, Jack. Soon, I think. I don't want it sitting around at the Tulsa Airport, it's not secure yet. So when I need it, we'll just fly it in, I'll get on, and we'll head out."

"Enjoy breakfast, John. I know you've got a busy day," he said as I headed towards the secret entrance.

"If I'm not working hard, it feels like I'm letting too many people down," I told him as I walked through the hidden door back to into my home.

❖

Three floors down from my penthouse was my office. A nice corner spot with windows that looked out over the Arkansas river. The Mayo sign shining red was a reminder of where home was, even if I lived elsewhere.

Charles Munroe, the future Mr Tulsa, gave a soft knock on my door and stuck his head in. "Phone call, Boss. General Haddock, at McChord."

"Oh, excellent," I said. "Send him through."

My desk phone gave a soft low trill, and I picked it up. "General Haddock. How's the fuel?"

"It's a win, John. We can't wait to get more. I've got two tankers sitting in Grays Harbor waiting for the day they can dock and pick up the first full loads."

"That's great!" I told him. "I know it's not as much as you need yet, but I'm glad it's working out."

"It is more than working out. We're having to rewrite our maintenance schedules. The first few Starlifter tests came back with engines cleaner than they came from the factory."

"No trouble with the higher ignition temps?" I asked. "I was worried that it would be harder to start the engines."

"No trouble at all. The fuel injection atomizes it just fine, and they light up on the first try. The F-16 pilots who tried it are saying the afterburners are 'Cooking,'" he said with a chuckle. "They are thrilled. I've got Admirals calling me and offering the most scandalous bribes to be the first Carrier to get a tanker of it."

"Good. And my baby in the hangar?" I asked.

"Your 767 is just fine. We've got her under guard in the hangar. No worries there. Whenever you need her, we'll send her on the way."

"Thanks, General. You should know I've made some production changes to the Yuma#1. I'm hoping to have another 16 million gallons of SynAV from there just as soon as possible."

"Well that's fantastic news," he said. "I'll have to warn the commander at Kelly. He won't believe the performance boost he'll see in his C-5's but I'll enjoy the 'I told you so.'"

"One tiny favor, General? Any chance you can top off my baby with SynAV before you send her home?"

"We can do that, John. No problem."

"Thanks. I'm prepping for a polar flight and that extra cold resistance is appreciated."

"Sure, John," he laughed. "Cold resistance for a polar summer. Are you sure you don't mean performance boost?"

I laughed too. "You got me, General. I'd like to see how much time we can save at full throttle using the new fuel."

"Be careful," he warned, "but have fun. Safe flight, John."

"Thanks, General. You too," I said, and hung up.​

The floor I had used for the Texas oil guys and gal had been adjusted. It still smelled of expensive leather, and now included the sharp, ozone scent of the new air filtration system Jack had installed. Outside, the Tulsa skyline was beginning to glow with the orange light of a mid June sunset. Inside, the atmosphere was considerably colder.

President Bush had kept his word. These weren't the mid-level lobbyists or the angry middle managers. These were the titans. The CEOs of Exxon, Chevron, and Mobil sat on one side of the long table. They were men who were used to being the most powerful people in any room they entered, but today they were sitting in my building, on my terms.

"Gentlemen," I said, taking my seat at the head of the table. I didn't have a briefcase. I didn't even have a notepad. I just had the memories of ten thousand futures where this meeting went very wrong. "Thank you for coming to Tulsa. I know you'd rather be in Houston or New York, but I find the air here much clearer."

"Let's skip the pleasantries, Dr Cook," the CEO of Exxon said. He was a man named Lawrence Rawl, and he looked at me like I was a glitch in his spreadsheets. "The President says you have a roadmap that doesn't involve us filing for Chapter 11. We've seen your Rose Garden speech. We've seen the market reaction. We appreciate the bump in crude, no matter how many new billions you made on it. Now we want to see the path."

I leaned forward, the black graphene felt of my suit silent against the chair. "The path is simple. The energy density and chemical makeup of SynGas is better in every way. The production cost at scale is less than 10 cents a gallon. I'm selling it to ARCO and Texaco for 25. They are selling it for 50 plus tax. You are currently spending billions to find oil in deep water and hostile deserts. I am pulling it out of the air in Yuma and Satsop.

"You have the pipelines," I continued. "You have the tankers. You have the corner gas stations in every town from Maine to California. I have no interest in building my own gas stations. I am a scientist and I promised to auction off the first five plants. I asked you here to tell you the terms of the auction on January 1st, 1991."

Rawl leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he processed the numbers. Beside him, the heads of Chevron and Mobil exchanged a look that was more about tactical retreat than surrender. These were men who measured success in decades and cents per barrel, and I had just threatened their entire vertical integration.

"Ten cents," Rawl repeated, his voice like gravel. "Including the overhead of a billion-dollar facility and the cost of pulling carbon from thin air. You're claiming a margin that hasn't existed since the Spindletop gusher."

"The sun is free, Mr Rawl," I said simply. "And the carbon is a waste product. I'm not claiming it. I'm doing it. Yuma is already proof of concept. Before the auction the plant will be up and running. There will be no doubt of the quantity or the quality. Do you want that fuel? Five plants to start with, room there for ten. That is potentially 500 million gallons of fuel a day, safely guarded by the US military at no additional cost."

The CEO of Chevron, Kenneth Derr, spoke up. He was a man known for being a strategist, and he didn't look angry so much as deeply curious. "You mentioned an auction, Dr Cook. If you're producing it for ten cents and selling it for twenty-five, you're making a killing. Why let us in at all? With your capital, you could build the stations yourself. You could starve us out in five years."

"As I told Bush more than a year ago. It's too much power for one man. I could do it all myself. I'd become the next Rockefeller, right up until it got broken up. If I played my cards right that might not happen for a decade or more.

"But I don't want to run an oil company," I told him. "And I don't want to spend the next twenty years in court with the FTC and the DOJ over monopoly laws. I also don't want to singlehandedly destroy every oil company on the planet. You already have the infrastructure. You have the pipelines, the tankers, and the loyalty of the American driver. I'm offering to turn your hardware from expensive, polluting liabilities into high-margin distribution hubs."

I let that sink in. It was 1990 and the environmental regulations were starting to tighten like a noose around their necks. I was handing them a knife to cut the rope.

"The auction on January 1st will be for the first complete plant in Arizona, Yuma#1," I said, placing down a single sheet of paper showing fifteen columns. Five were crossed out.

"The plant at Yuma has 15 separate production points. Five will be SynGas, five will be SynDiesel and five will be SynAV which the military has already spoken for. The plant will be run as a non-profit. The only cost for the fuel will be what it costs to produce, plus my 25 cent royalty. The auction will be for all the production from one synthesis plant inside the building, for the life of the complex. That's one fifteenth of fifty million gallons each day. My engineers tell me that with proper maintenance that's more than a hundred years of full volume production."

I had their complete attention now. I was practically giving them money at these prices.

"My goal is to move the world off crude. I'll keep building plants and selling them until there is no longer an economic reason to drill and pump for fuel. I'll build fastest here in the United States. I want to eliminate crude imports and then crude production entirely."

Rawl looked at the sheet of paper as if it were a legal summons. He was a man who had spent his life dealing in the tangible weight of oil drums and the geopolitical chess of the Middle East. The idea of a 'synthesis plant' replacing a sprawling refinery complex seemed to offend his sense of scale.

"Let me be clear, Dr Cook," Rawl said, his voice dropping into a low, predatory tone. "You are proposing to auction the rights to a resource that doesn't technically exist yet in the volume you're promising. You're asking us to bid on a phantom. What happens if your January deadline slips? What happens if your 'non-profit' structure runs into a Federal wall? We have obligations to our shareholders. We can't just pivot on the word of a fourteen-year-old with a high IQ."

He leaned in, his shadow stretching across the table. "And what about the price of crude? You've been buying up futures, effectively betting on the very industry you claim to be killing. If we agree to your terms, we're giving you the keys to the entire energy sector. How do we know this isn't just a massive pump-and-dump scheme to inflate your own holdings before you pull the rug out from under us?"

"I've got billions in the bank and over 60 billion in stocks. Why do I need more money? I'm not doing this for the money. I'm doing this because it makes the world a better place. I considered all my options. This plan gives you record consistent profits until the sun stops shining. No more oil spills, no more worries that a nationalist government somewhere takes all your stuff. No more environmentalists protesting, no one predicting that the end of oil will force everyone to walk to work or pay fifty dollars a gallon at the pump."

I slammed my hand down on the table, and they jumped. "I could invite anybody to come bid on these plants and people would throw money at me. I'm coming to you, because you know this business. You should be jumping up and down in excitement. Free money for a hundred years, with minimal work. If there is no production at my plant, then don't bid. The auction is six months from now to give me time to get it completed and running perfectly."

Rawl leaned back as if the physical force of my hand hitting the table had pushed him there. The aggressive posture he had been holding softened, replaced by a calculating stillness. He looked at the other two men. Derr was staring at the sheet of paper with a new intensity, while Murray was slowly rubbing his chin, his eyes darting between me and the window as if he were trying to see the future written on the Tulsa horizon.

"A hundred years," Murray repeated softly. He wasn't sneering anymore. He was doing the mental math of a man who realized his great-grandchildren would still be collecting dividends on a deal signed today. "Dr Cook, we aren't used to people handing us 'free money' without a catch that involves a coup or a civil war. It's an occupational hazard."

He looked back at the table. "You're offering us the ultimate hedge. If the crude market stays strong, we make money there. If it collapses or gets choked off by some madman with a missile, we have your Arizona output to keep the lights on and the trucks moving. It is a guaranteed floor for the entire industry."

Derr finally looked up. He seemed to have reached a conclusion. "The bid for Yuma#1. If we win a production point, we own that output for a fixed cost plus your twenty-five cents. But you mentioned the military has already spoken for the SynAV. How much of the remaining capacity is actually up for grabs on January 1st?"

"The math is fun," I said. "50 million gallons divided by 15. Right now the military wants the SynAv, five production points is 16.666 million gallons a day. Each production point will be about 3.333 million gallons each, every single day, for the next hundred years, minimum."

"There will be ten points total available at the auction," I continued, leaning back as the numbers hung in the air like a physical weight. "Five for SynGas and five for SynDiesel. That is 33.33 million gallons of high grade fuel hitting the market daily from a single facility. If one of you sweeps the auction for all five gas points, you control roughly 16.6 million gallons of supply that your competitors cannot touch. At a fixed cost."

Kenneth Derr of Chevron didn't look at his colleagues. He was staring at the sheet of paper, his pen hovering over the margin as he scribbled. "And the bidding process? Is this a straight cash offer for the rights, or are you looking for infrastructure commitments?"

"Cash," I said simply. "Highest bidder for each point wins the contract for the life of the plant. You pay for the right to the output. After that, you just pay the production cost plus my royalty as the fuel moves. It is the cleanest deal you will ever sign. No hidden fees, no environmental kickbacks, and no surprise taxes from a foreign parliament."

Rawl cleared his throat. The skepticism was still there, but it was being eaten alive by his competitive instinct. He couldn't let Derr or Murray get a stranglehold on 33 million gallons of twenty-five-cent fuel.

"You said January 1st," Rawl noted. "That is six months of volatility between now and then. If the price of crude continues to drop because of your rhetoric, our bidding power might be hampered. If it spikes, we might be too overextended to meet your price."

He paused, looking me in the eye. "Are you prepared to guarantee that the US government won't intervene and nationalize Yuma if the Middle East goes up in flames? Because if we bid billions and then the Feds seize the plant for 'national emergency' reasons, we’re out the cash and the fuel."

"Bush sent you here to talk to me. He has known these prices and this plan for more than a year. Nationalizing the fuel? In America? I guess it is possible. But that is your problem and mine, because all I want after I build my plant is the money to build more and my royalty. I can't guarantee the future, but I would fight nationalization just as hard as you would, except I have an army of 'pinks' that would fight with me."

Rawl and Derr looked at each other. The term 'pinks' brought an instant distaste, but it was the final nail. They knew I wasn't just a scientist or a businessman. I was a new populist with a dedicated following that could make the 1960s look like a tea party. If the government tried to seize Yuma, I could have a million people surrounding the facility in forty-eight hours.

"That army is exactly why we're here, Dr Cook," Derr said, leaning back and finally capping his pen. "We've spent the last decade being the face of every environmental disaster and price hike. You've managed to turn a pink ribbon into a shield. If we partner with you, we get behind that shield."

Rawl nodded, though he still looked like he wanted to argue about the math. "The auction is a gamble, but in this business, we're used to wildcats. We'll be in Arizona on January 1st. But I want to see that plant running at full capacity before I authorize a billion-dollar bid. I want to see the 50 million gallons a day with my own eyes."

"You'll see it," I promised. "By December, Yuma will be the brightest spot on the planet. You'll be able to see the glow from space."

Murray, the quietest of the bunch, spoke up one last time. "And the other five plants? You mentioned there was room for ten. That’s ten plants total by when?"

"And what happens if the demand for SynAV—the military fuel—spikes? Does the Pentagon have the right to preempt our civilian shares if a conflict breaks out?"

"The US military has committed to paying 75 cents a gallon for SynAV. That means that if they demand it for some reason, we take a week to shift production, and instead of paying 25 cents and retailing it for 50 you sit back and collect 75 cents for the duration of the conflict. I'll ask for volunteers, because I can't imagine a conflict that takes fifty million gallons a day. The second plant is coming along rather rapidly as well, so if they really need the fuel, I'll give them the production from that first," I said, with a shrug.

"Anyway, that's all hypothetical. As for plant construction, that keeps going. I'm pushing everybody right now to do two as fast as I can, but with international commitments that's going to slow down."

"International commitments?" Murray asked, his eyes narrowing. "You're talking about France, or is there more on your plate? If you start building these plants in every country on the map, you aren't just giving us a hedge, Dr Cook. You're creating a global surplus that makes our current infrastructure look like a collection of backyard sheds. How fast is this 'global' rollout going to happen?"

"And if you are building in other countries," Rawl added, his voice regaining its edge, "what's to stop a foreign government from nationalizing those plants? We might be protected here behind your 'pink shield' in the US, but our international refining margins are what keep our dividends high. Are you planning to sell shares to the locals in France or the Middle East too?"

"France is buying the ISPBR I'm building for them as soon as it is up and running. The rules are similar. They get to sell the fuel where they want at the price they want. For the first 10 years GA's new subsidiary SynPower will be hired to run the plants as they learn how to manage the technology. Total and Elf have already agreed to take it all. I have commitments from Japan, Germany, the Soviet Union and Australia. A combination of ISPBR and Solar depending on local conditions. If you want to own a piece of those plants you're welcome to negotiate with the countries involved. They are all handling it differently. I offered to sell Saudi Arabia as many plants as they wanted at fair price when they asked for my patents in exchange for fifty gold plated planes stuffed with cash and women. So far they haven't gotten back to me about my counter."

Rawl actually choked on his bourbon. The image of the Saudi Royal family being rebuffed by a teenager was clearly more than his worldview could handle in a single sitting. Murray just shook his head, a look of grim amusement finally breaking through his professional mask.

"Gold plated planes," Murray muttered, sounding like he wished he had been there to see it. "I bet that rejection went over like a lead balloon in Riyadh. But the Soviet Union? You're building an ISPBR for the Reds? Dr Cook, the Cold War might be thawing, but you're talking about giving our primary geopolitical rival the same energy floor you're giving us. That doesn't exactly sit well with the Pentagon, does it?"

Derr leaned forward, his focus shifting from the math to the map. "He's right. If the Soviets stop bleeding money on energy production, they can sink those billions back into their military. You aren't just changing the economy. You're shifting the entire global balance of power. Are these international plants also subject to your twenty-five cent royalty?"

He paused, his eyes fixed on me. "And what's to stop the Soviets or the French from exporting their surplus back into our markets and undercutting the very shares we’re bidding on in January?"

"One little line in SIDRA. Imports of Synthetic fuels are banned. We can export it, but no imports. As far as the Soviets, they are done no matter what. I can't build a solar plant on the Black Sea fast enough to save them, even if I shipped everybody over there today.

"Besides," I added, glancing toward the window where the fading sun was hitting the glass. "They are going through the same thing you are. They rely on oil and gas exports for hard currency. When the price drops because of what we are doing here, their economy will collapse under its own weight. I am just giving them a way to keep their people from freezing in the dark while they try to figure out what comes next. It is humanitarian as much as it is business. As for my 25 cent royalty, that is for everyone. I've got 20 years of international patent protection. I'm not going to waste it."

Rawl set his glass down with a heavy thud. The humor of the Saudi story had evaporated, replaced by the realization that I was playing a game of chess where the board was the entire planet.

"SIDRA protects the domestic market, fine," Rawl said, leaning back. "But you are still talking about a world where energy is no longer a weapon. You're taking away the leverage that has kept the peace—or at least kept the status quo—for fifty years. If the Soviets have no reason to sell oil, and the Middle East has no customers, the whole world becomes a powder keg."

He looked at me with a grim sort of respect. "You're a very dangerous young man, Dr Cook. You're tearing down the pillars of the world and telling us to be happy about the view. But the math doesn't lie. We'll be at your auction."

Murray stood up, smoothing his suit. "One last thing. You said you're building two plants as fast as you can. If Yuma#1 is the January auction, what happens to Yuma#2? Is that for the public market, or are you keeping that one for yourself to manipulate the margins if we get too comfortable?"

"I made a public commitment to only keep Satsop. That's mainly for the science involved in the ISPBR. GA wants to build a lot of them, all perfectly identical copies. Satsop lets us be sure that they really are as perfect as we think. There will be more auctions, but I like to know everything is working perfectly before that happens. There will be plenty of data and time to plan your SynFuel layout. Just remember if I don't like your pricing, I just build more plants."

"A threat and a promise," Murray said, a ghost of a smile finally appearing as he picked up his briefcase. "You really are a businessman at heart, John. You're offering us a seat at the table while keeping your hand on the thermostat. It's a hell of a way to run an industry."

Rawl stood up as well, looming over the table. He didn't look like he was smiling. He looked like a man who had just realized the mountain he had been climbing his whole life was actually an active volcano. "We will have our technical teams at Yuma the day after you start production. If the flow meters show what you say they show, we'll see you in January. But don't think for a second we aren't going to be looking for any strings you've attached to those mirrors, Dr Cook."

I watched them file out, their footsteps heavy on the expensive carpet. They were already conferring in low, urgent tones as the doors thumped shut behind them. The room felt lighter the moment they were gone, but the ozone scent remained.

Matt let out a long breath he seemed to have been holding since the Saudi story. "You know, for a second there, I thought Rawl was going to have a stroke. You realize you just told the biggest oil companies in the world that you're going to bankrupt their biggest rival and their biggest supplier in the same afternoon?"

"I didn't tell them I was going to do it, Matt," I said, turning back to the window. The skyline was a deep, bruised purple now. "I told them it was already happening. I'm just the one providing the lifeboats."

Jennifer was busy tucking papers back into her folder, her expression unreadable. "The auction details are going to be leaked within the hour. By tomorrow morning, every energy analyst on Wall Street is going to be trying to figure out how to value a 'production point' for a hundred-year asset. We're going to be flooded with inquiries."

"Let them wonder," I said. "The more they talk, the higher the bids go on January 1st."

"And if the Middle East does go up in flames like Rawl mentioned?" she asked, pausing with her hand on the latch of her briefcase. "You were very specific about that January date. Is there something about the fall that you aren't telling us?"

"I've got Vought building some great fireworks to celebrate New Year's," I said with a small smile.

❖

I looked around my plane with a happy heart. It was unchanged, but I felt like I was experiencing it for the first time all over again. Max remembered his perch and was immediately up into the wall mounted net that let him look out the window.

"My crew went through it looking for bugs or sabotage before it left the hangar at McChord," Jack said.

"Then let's go. I've got an appointment in Bonn," I told him. I saw security carrying boxes in from the rear hatch.

"Into the office guys. I've got a project to work on for the flight," I told them, and they moved past to drop the boxes on my office desk.

I gave Jack a big smile. "You're going to love what I'm doing with the Amiga," I told him.

"Is that why we have a box of Predator 2's in the cargo hold?" he asked.

"It is," I confirmed.

He got a wide smile. "I take it that security will be allowed to fly the drones?"

"They will," I confirmed.

❖

Just after take off I started to unbox the new computer. A letter opener sliced the tape holding the largest box closed.

"What's the plan, John?" Nick asked, nodding toward the 'Commodore' logo on the side of the box. "I thought you were done with the computer games."

"This isn't just a game machine, Nick," I told him, carefully pulling the sleek, marble-grey Amiga 3000 from its foam inserts. It was heavy, much denser than the old Mac 128 I had used back in 1984 to write 'Civilization.' I set the CPU on the desk and pulled out the 1950 monitor. "This is the first true 32-bit workstation from Commodore. It's got a Motorola 68030 running at 25 MHz and a 68882 math coprocessor. This is the closest thing to a supercomputer you can fit on a desk."

I plugged in the heavy-duty power cables and the keyboard. When I flipped the switch on the back, the internal 40 megabyte hard drive spun up with a soft, high-pitched whine that I found strangely comforting. The screen flickered to life, showing the new Workbench 2.0 'Kickstart' screen. Instead of the old bright blue and orange, it was a professional grey and blue.

"I'm going to build a miniature version of CITADEL," I explained, my fingers already flying over the keys as I opened the CLI. "The full version uses a Sun SPARCstation to track thousands of assets. I don't need that for this flight. I just need to monitor the three Predator 2 drones we have in the hold."

"The inflatable ones?" Nick asked, coming closer to look at the screen.

"Exactly. The Predator 2 is a game changer. It is made of the same non-breathable graphene felt as the GNAT balloons, so it can hold air at 90 PSI. It is super light, which means it can fly with a tiny gas motor that is practically silent."

I reached into the smaller box and pulled out a stack of 3.5-inch floppy disks labeled 'Object Pascal' and a second stack marked 'Top Secret - Vought.' Pascal had undergone transformations as the hardware had improved, this was version 9. It was a structured language that let me build complex objects for things like 'Camera' and 'FlightPlan' without the messy memory leaks you got with other languages. It had been indispensable when building the first CITADEL, letting us prewrite much of the software before we even had the hardware.

"Enjoy," he said. "I'll bring your lunch, you don't look like you'll want to pause otherwise."

"Thanks, Nick. Whatever Chef Peter wants to make is fine with me."

Nick stuck his head in a few hours later, holding a tray piled with food.

"How's it going?" he asked as he tried to figure out where to set the tray. My desk was covered in notepaper and floppy disks.

"I'm writing the interface now," I said, the clicking of the keyboard filling the quiet office. "I'm using the Amiga's custom chipset to handle the video feeds. Most computers would choke trying to show one high-definition stream. The Amiga can handle three because I can assign the 'Denise' chip to manage the bitplanes for the video while the 68030 handles the math for the GPS waypoints."

I was coding the way-point system. I had the original source code we had used for the MERCURY and ARGUS systems back at McChord. I needed to take the GPS data from the drones, which the Predator 2 carried, and provide a MERCURY compatible link back that would assist the GPS and increase positional accuracy. The trick was having the Amiga calculate what satellites were in the sky. In turn it would then match the surveillance images it received back and plot it on a 2D map.

Nick finally settled on just setting the tray on my disks and notes, next to me. As he looked over my shoulder I showed him what I was doing.

"See this, Nick?" I pointed to a window I had just created on the screen. "This is the tactical map. I'm setting it up just like the real Predator command station, so you can just click on the map to give the drone a flight path. The official version is one drone per operator, this one will run all three at once."

"And the cameras?" Nick asked.

"That's the best part. The Predator 2 has multiple high-definition cameras. Color video, zoom cameras and thermal. It can even auto-track anything marked as an 'Enemy' or 'Neutral' target based on the thermal signature."

I hit the compile button. The Amiga 3000's math coprocessor chewed through the lines of code in seconds. I felt a surge of pride. I had gone from clicking pixels for a 24x24 spearman to building a mobile command and control center while flying across the Arctic.

"There," I said, leaning back as the three empty video windows appeared on the screen, ready for the drones to be deployed. "Mini-CITADEL is live. Once we get to Bonn, we can launch those Predators. You'll be able to watch the whole German landscape from right here in this office."

Nick shook his head, a ghost of a smile on his face. "John, I think you're the only person in the world who would spend a private jet flight to Europe writing a war-room on a computer that just came out this week."

"Well," I said, looking out the window at the endless blue of the sky that met an endless white below. "We're headed to the Soviet Union next. I want you to have the practice you need before it is required."​

The white expanse of the Arctic had given way to the deep, dark green of the German forests. As we began our descent, the Amiga 3000 chirped a soft confirmation. The GPS unit plugged into it was helping it crunch the orbital calculations of where each satellite was exactly in the still incomplete constellation. Wires snaked from the back of the Amiga plugging into a radio connection. I headed out to the mid plane seating area, where Max immediately demanded I sit so he could lay in my lap. He didn't fit, even more so now than he had when I first got him, but he didn't care. His long back legs dangled onto the leather couch as I waited to arrive.

"We're entering German airspace," Jack announced over the intercom. "Cologne Bonn Approach is asking why our ground speed was clocked at Mach 0.92 over the North Sea. I told them we had a favorable tailwind."

Nick and I chuckled at the announcement. "The SynAV is definitely doing its job," I told Nick.

Below us, the Rhine River snaked through the landscape like a silver ribbon. This was the heart of the old world, a place built on coal, steel, and a thousand years of history. I was arriving with a pen and a blueprint that would make half of that history obsolete.

"You ready, John?" Nick asked. He was already dressed in his charcoal suit, looking every bit the professional shield. "The West Germans don't usually do things halfway. They’ve got a motorcade waiting and enough protocol to make a Royal wedding look like a backyard barbecue."

"I'm ready," I said, checking my own deep black suit in the mirror. No wrinkles, no dust. I looked exactly like the nearly fourteen year old Dr Cook the world expected to see.

As the 767's tires chirped against the runway at Cologne Bonn, I felt the slight shudder of the airframe. We taxied past a line of Luftwaffe Transalls and a few Lufthansa jets, finally coming to a stop where a line of black Mercedes-Benz 600s waited.

"The 'SynKraft' era starts today," I said to the empty cabin as the stairs began to lower.

The air in Bonn was humid and smelled of river water and diesel exhaust. As I stepped onto the tarmac, I could see the flashbulbs of the press corps. The Germans were famous for their engineering, but today, they were welcoming the boy who had out-engineered them all.

I saw a tall, imposing man in a dark suit walking toward the plane. It wasn't Kohl yet, but one of his top advisors. He looked at the 767—a plane that shouldn't have been able to make this trip as fast as it did—with a look of intense, professional curiosity.

"Dr Cook," the man said, bowing his head slightly as I reached the bottom of the stairs. "Welcome to the Federal Republic. The Chancellor is expecting you at the Palais Schaumburg."

"Thank you," I replied in fluent German, watching his eyes widen slightly at the lack of an accent. "I am excited to sign the contract that makes the future."

❖

"Dr Cook, you must be joking. Is it even possible? It would be like an ancient castle fort atop the hill," Chancellor Helmut Kohl said with dismay when I rejected his proposed location.

"I'm not joking. I am an environmentalist. I want to put the ISPBR plant at the top of the Halde Oberscholven. The revolution of global energy should sit atop the slag heap of the old world. It's poetic," I told him.

I looked around the Chancellor's office, taking in the weight of a century of European history. The Palais Schaumburg was a masterpiece of white neoclassical architecture. Inside, it felt more like a fortress of tradition. Thick, dark wood paneling lined the walls, and the air carried a faint scent of beeswax polish and old paper. Heavy velvet curtains framed the tall windows that looked out over the manicured gardens of the park, where even the grass seemed to grow with German precision.

On the wall behind Chancellor Kohl hung a large portrait of Konrad Adenauer, the first Chancellor of West Germany, looking down at us with a stern, paternal gaze. To my left, a massive desk was cluttered with official documents and a set of heavy, silver-capped inkwells that looked like they hadn't moved since the Marshall Plan.

I turned back to the Chancellor. He was standing near a large topographical map of the Ruhr Valley that had been brought in for the meeting. The map was detailed, showing the intricate web of canals, rail lines, and the sprawling industrial footprint of Gelsenkirchen. I walked over to it and placed my finger directly on the high point of the Halde Oberscholven.

"Poetic, and practical," I said, tracing the steep contours of the slag heap. "Look at the elevation, Chancellor. At over two hundred meters, we are above the industrial haze. My CCP padding needs clear, moving air to reach maximum efficiency. From this height, we can utilize a gravity-fed system that would save millions in pumping costs."

I could see the gears turning in his head. Kohl looked at the map, then back at me, his eyes narrowing as he tried to reconcile the image of a nuclear heart sitting atop a mountain of coal waste. Through the window, the late afternoon sun was hitting the Rhine, turning the water into molten gold.

"The German people expect a nuclear plant to be a cathedral of concrete and steel, hidden away in a forest or behind high walls," Kohl said, his voice lowering as he stepped closer to the map. "You are suggesting we place it on a pedestal in the middle of our most famous industrial city. It will be visible for thirty miles in every direction."

"Exactly," I replied, meeting his gaze. "It shouldn't be hidden. It should be a beacon. SynKraft is the light of mankind. I'm not just building a power plant, Sir. I'm building the tallest lighthouse in the world. Instead of light, it will radiate the energy that powers and frees the new Germany."

I looked around the room once more, seeing the history of the old world in the heavy furniture and the silent portraits. Then I looked at the blueprint in my hand. The two worlds were about to collide, and when I was done it really would be a lighthouse.

❖

I spread out the plans GA engineers had delighted over in designing. The core of ISPBR remained identical, the implementation of the synthesis plant that the ISPBR ran was completely rearranged.

"The altitude makes it easier for the lungs to breathe in the CO2. Production requires over 50 million gallons of water each day. Using the heat of the reactor we will turn the water at the base of the hill into steam. At the top it meets the CO2 and becomes fuel. From there, no pumps are needed and it can flow straight into the CEPS pipeline at the bottom."

He frowned at the plans, so I lifted up the top sheet of blueprints so he could see the drawing I did of the finished plant.

"Mein Gott!" he said. "It's stunning."

"It is," I agreed. "A fairy tale castle wrapped in trees and graphene concrete. A tourist attraction for sure," I told him.

"If that's where you want to build it, it will certainly save us on land acquisition costs," the Chancellor said.

"It's where I want to put it," I confirmed. "Don't worry the build contract is very clear. You don't pay a penny until it is fully working. Even then I've made arrangements for a loan to cover the purchase cost."

"Yes, your build to own model is a gift from heaven," he said. "The jobs it will provide turning West Germany into an oil exporter is simply irresistible."

"Think about it, Chancellor," I told him as we reviewed the image. "You are buying a machine that turns the wind and the waste of the past into the currency of the future. The fuel isn't the product. The stability of the German Mark is the product."

Kohl looked at the numbers and then at the topographical map of the Halde Oberscholven. He saw the 40 million gallons a day not just as fuel, but as a way to power the reunification without bankrupting the country with heavy taxes.

"You are not just a scientist, Dr Cook," Kohl remarked, signing the final page. "you are a financier of the impossible."

❖

We moved the ceremony outside to the steps of the Palais Schaumburg where a podium had been set up for the international press. To his surprise, I handed him a bright pink hard hat, settling my own on my head. "It's good luck," I told him, "and very fashionable with world leaders these days."

Kohl looked at the plastic helmet and then at me with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"In Germany, we have a saying that the future is built with bold colors," he whispered to me as he pulled the pink strap under his chin. The sight was absurd, a massive Chancellor and a teenage inventor in neon pink safety gear, but the message was clear. We were breaking the mold of the gray, coal-stained past.

Kohl stepped to the microphone and adjusted his notes. He looked out over the crowd and his voice took on that formal, rhythmic cadence typical of a high-level German address.

"Friends and citizens of the Federal Republic," Kohl began, his hands gripping the edges of the podium. "Today we stand before a turning point of the times, a true Zeitenwende. For many years, the Ruhr has been the soot-covered heart of our nation. We have lived by the coal, and we have breathed the smoke of the thousand fires. But today, with the help of the young Dr Cook, we begin the great Aufbruch into a new era."

He turned to gesture toward me and the pink hat I was wearing. "Many have asked why we choose the slag heap of Gelsenkirchen for this LichtWerk. They ask why we place a nuclear heart upon a mountain of waste. I tell you it is because we are a people of Wiederaufbau, of rebuilding. We do not hide our progress in the forests. We place it upon the pedestal of our history so that the entire world may see the Wirtschaftswunder is not over. It is merely changing its fuel."

The Chancellor leaned in closer to the microphones. "This SynKraft plant will produce 40 million gallons of energy every single day. It will turn the very air of our valley into the strength of our currency. It is a work of high-technology that honors our tradition of Vorsprung durch Technik. With this contract, we secure the future of a unified Germany. We prove that through innovation, even the rubble of the past can be made to shine."

He stepped back and looked at me, then down at the heavy leather folder containing the agreement. "Dr Cook, let us sign. Let us show the world that in Germany, the impossible is simply a project that has not yet begun."

I stepped forward to the table beside him. The flashbulbs were a constant white noise now. I took the heavy pen and placed my signature next to his. As the ink dried on the parchment, I knew the 175-meter drop from the summit of the heap was now officially the most important hill in Europe.

"To the future, Chancellor," I said as we shook hands.

"To the Zukunft, Dr Cook," he replied, his grip like iron.

❖

With the contract signed, I headed for Kiev. As the 767 climbed away from Germany, I settled back into my seat where Max immediately brought me his favorite toy. The purple mouse was looking raggedy again. This was his third, but he wasn't quite ready for his fourth. When we leveled off, I started tossing it for him, trying to make it a difficult chase. He loved bounding over chairs, under tables and across laps.

I knew that the Soviet block was crumbling sandstone with only days to live. For SynFuel, the edge of the steppe was the goal, but Kiev was the heart.

I touched down in Ukraine on Monday July 2nd, 1990. The air was hot and carried the scent of an incipient thunderstorm. It had been years since I stood on this soil to stop the radiation of Chernobyl, and the welcome I received was unlike anything in the West. There were no protesters or skeptical advisors here. To the Ukrainians, I was the boy who had kept their capital from becoming a radioactive wasteland.

The motorcade through Kiev was a blur of cheering crowds. We pulled up to what was once called the Palast Hôtel, a grand building that stood as a testament to a fading empire. But the real surprise was waiting in the square outside.

"John, look at that," Nick said, pointing out the window.

In the center of the plaza, a massive metal structure had been erected. It was a ring of steel panels surrounding a central burner. I smiled as we got out of the car, recognizing it immediately.

As we stepped toward the hotel entrance, they triggered the ignition. The flame  roared to life, and the spinner started to move. The flames rose quickly, angling through the air into a tight, rushing vortex. A pillar of fire erupted, twisting and climbing more than fifty feet into the summer sky.

"They remembered," I whispered. I had described the fire tornado I built in Tulsa to the engineers here during the Chernobyl trip, and shown them photos. They had built this one as a birthday gift, a controlled, terrifyingly beautiful vortex of flame to welcome me back. The heat washed over my face, a reminder that in this part of the world, power wasn't just a utility. It was a force of nature.

The interior of the Palast Hôtel was draped in Ukrainian colors. I was ushered to the top floor where the government had spared no expense. Max stretched out on the thick rug, instantly making himself at home, while I looked out over the Dnieper River.

The next morning I got to tour all the things I had missed on my first visit. Here, I was far from the influence of the Sisters, though security had eagerly launched the Predators during the night. From the roof they had put up a GNAT to act as a relay for their own communications, but the radios on the plane were sufficient for contact with the three Predators.

Tuesday evening I was invited to a banquet. The banquet hall was filled with the smell of roasted meats and heavy floral arrangements. I sat at the head of a long table, surrounded by men in medals who had been on the front lines of the liquidator teams at Chernobyl. They didn't see a fourteen year old boy, they saw a partner from the crisis.

When the toasts finally subsided, the Chairman of the Council of Ministers stood up. He wasn't a tall man, but he moved with a gravity that demanded silence. He gestured to a small wooden box sitting on the white tablecloth in front of me. It was carved from dark bog oak, polished until it shone like glass.

"Dr Cook," he said, his voice echoing in the sudden quiet of the hall. "Four years ago, you gave this city its life back. We are a people of the soil, and we do not forget a debt. This gift is not from the state, but from the history of Ukraine."

I opened the box. Resting on a bed of crimson silk was a heavy gold ring. It was a Scythian archer's ring, over two thousand years old, pulled from the royal burial mounds near the Dnieper. The gold was soft and pure, etched with the figures of griffins and stags in mid-leap. It was a piece of the ancient world, a symbol of the eternal guardians of the steppe.

"It is the ring of a protector," the Chairman said, his eyes meeting mine. "We have held it in our museums as a relic of the past, but it belongs on the hand of the one who secured our future. It is a hero's gift for the hero of Kiev."

I slid the ring onto my finger. It was cold and surprisingly heavy, a physical weight of responsibility that felt more real than any contract I had signed in Bonn.

"Thank you," I said in perfect Ukrainian, knowing the room would remember their surprise of my knowledge of the language during my first visit. "I will wear it as a reminder that I will always be a friend to Ukraine, and that Ukraine will always be a friend to me."

The room erupted in a standing ovation. As I sat back down, I looked at the ring. It was a beautiful, ancient anchor in a world that was about to change forever.

❖

The July 4th banquet was a strange collision of worlds. I sat in the heart of the dying Soviet empire, surrounded by men who toasted my health with more sincerity than I had ever felt in a boardroom. They didn't care about the politics of Washington or the trade wars of the West. They only cared that when the radiation had threatened to swallow their land, I had stepped into the breach.

The fire tornado outside the Hotel continued to roar as the night deepened, its orange light flickering against the heavy drapes of the ballroom. Max had found a spot beneath the head table, his body resting on my shoes as the speeches grew longer and the vodka flowed more freely among the guests.

"You look tired, John," Nick whispered, leaning in as the Chairman began a long-winded story about the reconstruction of the sarcophagus.

"They want something to celebrate," I told him. "So I have to stay and let them. I see the fear and uncertainty in their eyes."

I looked at the ring again. The gold was soft, warmed by the heat of my hand. Once, long ago, a protector was judged only by the strength of his bow and the clarity of his vision. The more I examined the ring, the more meaning I found in it.

"Tomorrow we have a day of rest," I told him, looking out at the fire tornado. "But Friday is SynFuel. I want the print out of the aerial photography of the region ready to go. I need to point at the exact spot where I can build an 8 square mile solar plant."

Nick nodded, his expression shifting back to his professional 'shield' persona. "I will have everything prepped for an early departure on Friday. For now, try to enjoy being a hero for a few more hours. It is your birthday, after all."

I stood up to offer a final toast in Ukrainian and Russian, thanking them for the gifts and the welcome. As I spoke, I could see the reflection of the fire tornado in the windows. It was a pillar of light in a darkening world, a symbol of the energy I was about to unleash. The Soviet Empire had made itself my enemy, and they didn't even know.

❖

The energy in the Hotel was electric on the morning of Friday, July 6th. While the banquet had been a celebration of the past, the meeting in the grand conference room was a battle for the future. The local Ukrainians were no longer the compliant subordinates the Kremlin expected.

I sat at the center of the long table, Nick standing directly behind me like a stone sentinel. To my left sat the Ukrainian delegation, led by Leonid Kravchuk. At this moment, he was the Chairman of the Supreme Soviet of the Ukrainian SSR, having just taken the position a few days ago. He was a shrewd, silver-haired man who had spent decades as a top party ideologue, but I could see in his eyes that he had sensed the wind of change. He was no longer looking to Moscow for permission. He was looking at me for a way out.

Across from us sat the hard-liners from Moscow. They were gray men in gray suits, led by a Deputy Minister who looked like he had been carved out of Soviet concrete. They didn't want the SynFuel plant in the Southern Steppes. To them, putting such a massive strategic asset on Ukrainian soil was a security nightmare.

"The central planning committee has not authorized a facility of this scale outside the Russian SFSR," the Deputy Minister snapped, his voice tight with a frustration he couldn't quite hide. "Energy security for the Union must be centralized. We have proposed a site near Rostov. It is much more... stable."

Kravchuk didn't even look at the man. He kept his eyes on the blueprints I had spread across the table. "Rostov does not have the deep-water access of Odessa, and it certainly doesn't have the industrial workforce," Kravchuk said, his Ukrainian accent intentionally thick. "Dr Cook has already provided the solar irradiance map. The Southern Steppes are the only choice that makes scientific sense."

"Scientific sense is not political sense," the Russian retorted. He turned his gaze to me, trying to use his height and age to intimidate a fourteen year old. "Dr Cook, you are a guest of the Soviet Union. You should understand that your 'SynFuel' will be property of the State. It is not for the Republics to decide where it is placed."

I leaned back, let the Scythian ring catch the light, and gave him a calm smile. "With all due respect, Minister, I am offering to build a solar utility plant as a long time friend of Ukraine. It needs sun that you can't find Rostov. It needs access to the Friendship pipelines, and a seaport for international export.

"I picked the location that works best. I'm offering the same deal that I gave France and West Germany. I build the plant, and provide access to a thirty year loan for you to buy it from me when it is complete. If Moscow cannot agree with the local authorities, then perhaps I will find the Turkish coast more accommodating."

The room went silent. The threat of losing the fifty million gallons a day to a NATO member like Turkey was a hammer blow. Kravchuk hid a small smile behind his hand. He knew that in exactly ten days, on July 16th, his parliament would vote on the Declaration of State Sovereignty. He wasn't just fighting for a fuel plant, he was fighting for the economic engine of a new country.

"Ukraine," Kravchuk stated, his voice firm as he looked at the Russian delegation. "The plant will be built in Ukraine. It will use Ukrainian water, Ukrainian sun and it will be protected by the sovereignty of this land."

The Russian Deputy Minister's face turned a mottled red, but he had no moves left. Moscow was broke, and I was the only one offering a way to turn their collapsing economy around. He looked at the blueprints of the square shaped 8 square mile solar array and the synthesis factory it powered, then back at Kravchuk.

"This is not over," the Russian muttered, though he reached for his pen.

"I know," I said, my voice echoing in the large room. "But the future is usually quite persistent."

As we signed the preliminary papers, I caught Kravchuk’s eye. He knew what was coming on the 16th. I was the only person in the room who knew that within eighteen months, his title would change from Chairman to President of an independent Ukraine. The 'SynFuel' era wasn't just starting in Germany. It was becoming the foundation for a nation's birth.

❖

The tension in Kiev didn't break after the meeting, it just migrated to the Verkhovna Rada. On the morning of July 16th, 1990, the air felt thick with the kind of heat that comes before a massive storm.

I watched from the gallery as the deputies debated the Declaration of State Sovereignty. Leonid Kravchuk was at the center of it, his silver hair catching the light under the massive glass dome. He moved with the practiced grace of a man who knew he was about to jump off a cliff and was simply waiting for the right moment. The Moscow minders looked like they were sitting at a funeral, their faces frozen in masks of disapproval as article after article was read aloud, claiming Ukraine's right to its own laws, its own economy, and its own future.

When the vote finally passed, the roar that filled the chamber was deafening. It wasn't just a political victory, it was the first cries of a newborn nation. In the midst of the celebration, Kravchuk looked up at the gallery, found me, and nodded.

A few moments later, a protocol officer ushered me down to the floor of the parliament. The chamber fell into a sudden, expectant silence. Kravchuk stepped to the podium, a hand-lettered scroll in his hand.

"Today, we have declared that this land belongs to its people," Kravchuk announced, his voice booming through the hall. "But a nation is more than just laws. It is the friends who stand by it in its darkest hour. Four years ago, when the poison of Chernobyl threatened our very existence, a boy from across the ocean came to our aid. He did not come for politics or for profit, but because it was the right thing to do."

He beckoned me forward. "By the unanimous decree of the Verkhovna Rada, for his service to the people and his commitment to our future, we name Dr John Cook the first honorary citizen of a sovereign Ukraine."

The applause was a physical force. As I stood at the podium, looking out at the sea of faces, I felt the weight of the Scythian ring on my finger and the eyes of history on my back. I took a breath and looked at the microphone.

"Thank you, Chairman Kravchuk, and thank you to the people of Ukraine," I began.

"Congratulations to the people of Ukraine. We meet again at another momentous but far happier time. Congratulations on your achievement, you've joined the world as a reborn nation ready to embark on the world stage.

"Your choices of relinquishing nuclear weapons, military neutrality and economic independence show that you wish to face the future without fear or aggression. I'm proud to be counted as one of you, for today you have said that I am not just a friend, but an adopted child.

"Today, you have done something that many thought was impossible. You have reclaimed your voice. In the West, they talk about the 'balance of power' as if it is a game played by men in distant offices. But true power doesn't come from a desk in Moscow or a bank in New York. True power comes from the sun that warms your fields and the wind that sweeps across your steppes.

"With the solar SynFuel plant, you aren't just getting a factory. You are creating a shield. You are taking the free energy that grows your crops and turning it into the fuel that will sustain you. You are proving that a nation's sovereignty isn't just a piece of paper, it is the ability to provide for its own people without asking for permission.

"I am proud to be a citizen of this new Ukraine. I am proud to stand with a people who choose the light of the future over the shadows of the past. Together, we will show the world that the era of energy dependence is over, and the era of Ukrainian growth under the sun has just begun."

As I finished, the deputies began to sing. It wasn't a Soviet anthem. Instead, it was a song of the land, ancient and haunting. I stood there, a fourteen year old with a gold ring and a new citizenship, watching the birth of a nation from the inside. The Russians in the back of the room were already packing their bags. They knew that once the fuel started flowing from Ukraine, there would be no going back. They had no idea the end would come before the first drops could start to flow.​

The drive from Kiev towards the coast was a long journey through the endless gold of the Ukrainian wheat fields. We arrived at the site near the two rivers on a morning where the sky was filled with a yellow haze that made it look painted. The air was contaminated here, and the flat expanse of the steppe stretched out toward the horizon, pollution from the nearby industrial heart of Ukraine and the wind catching the dust from the Steppe. It was the perfect canvas for the eight square miles of glass and concrete I was going to install.