Chương 134: Book 4 - Chapter 15 A

The morning after the market recovered from the Friday the 13th 'mini-crash,' I sat in the glass encased home office looking at a faxed summary from Rollins in the Caymans. The short positions had been closed with surgical precision. The three-billion-dollar bet had yielded a profit of roughly four hundred and eighty million dollars in a single afternoon. It wasn't enough to pay the debt, but it was enough to build the structure of a French plant. I looked at the master ledger.

With the ten billion dollars Martin had cleared from the mining and international sales in September, the principal on the ARCO loan had dropped from $30 billion down to $20 billion. My monthly interest burn had plummeted from $315 million to roughly $210 million. I'd spent $525 million in interest in the past two months. I was still knitting the parachute, and my cushion had dropped to $2. 2 billion, and ten months of breathing space. The intercom buzzed.

"Yes, Jack?" I answered.

"Martin Davis is landing at Lindbergh Field in twenty minutes. The motorcade will meet him on the tarmac," he told me.

"Thank you," I told him. I turned to Matt who had paused what he was doing to hear the conversation.

"Remind Dr Agnew to meet me at the GA secure room. It is time to let the shark see above the water," I instructed, before returning to my own work. Martin Davis did not look like a man who had spent five hours on a plane. He stepped out of the black Humvee in the driveway looking crisp, though he immediately squinted against the brutal San Diego sun. He was carrying a slim aluminum briefcase, his eyes already darting around the property, calculating the square footage of the glass and cedar.

"You live in an amazing house, John," Martin said by way of greeting as I met him at the door.

"Most people with your money buy a castle. You bought a glass box."

"It helps me see what's coming," I replied, shaking his hand.

"How was the flight?"

"Unbelievable! Your 767 is the only way to travel. I can't believe you sent it all the way across the country to pick me up."

"It's the airline miles," I joked.

"If I don't use them I lose them." I led him into the dining area where Max was perched on the back of a leather chair, his golden eyes tracking Martin with a predatory stillness. Martin stopped dead, staring at the Savannah.

"Is that a leopard?" he asked.

"It's a Savannah cat. His name is Max. He's the CFO of the operation—he only likes people who bring good news." Martin chuckled and sat at the table, popping open the latches on his briefcase.

"Then he's going to love me. The ARCO Chemical IPO is oversubscribed. Goldman is fighting to get a bigger slice of the forty percent we're floating," he said with excitement.

"Give them what they want. I'm fine keeping just 40%," I told him. He grinned in response.

"We're going to hit the market at a valuation that will net you $7 billion in cash, maybe more. The IPO is November 15th. That brings your total debt down to roughly $13 billion." I nodded, pouring him a Dr Pepper.

"That buys me fourteen more months without breaking a sweat. I'm safe through all of 1990. You've done well, Martin."

"I've done my job," Martin said, his face turning serious.

"Now you do yours. I've sold the chemical company. I've sold your mines. I've made the market believe you're a 'clean energy' visionary. But I'm flying blind. I need to know why we're actually liquidating the third-largest oil company in America."

"Drink your soda, Martin," I said, standing up.

"We're going to General Atomics. I have a room there that doesn't have windows, and it is the only place I'm going to tell you the truth." The drive to the General Atomics campus from the house on Spindrift was short and silent. Martin watched the passing scenery of Torrey Pines, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on his briefcase. When we arrived, Dr Agnew was already waiting at the elevator.

The three of us descended into the core of the facility, passing through three separate security checkpoints before reaching the heavy, unpainted concrete door of the secure room.

"This is Mr Droust from the White House, he has paperwork for you to sign, before we take the conversation further," I told him as Mr Droust handed him the paperwork.

"What is this?" he asked, looking it over.

"I'm not the only one who wants this secret kept until it is time," I told him as he reviewed the paperwork. Martin scribbled a signature, and handed it back to the man.

"I understand I learn what the secret is on January 1st?" Mr Droust asked.

"You and the rest of the world," I told Mr Droust, who showed a curiosity for the first time.

"Martin is an exception. He needs to know." Mr Droust shrugged.

"Your choice, his funeral if he talks." This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Security took Martin's briefcase, and I led a wide eyed Martin and Dr Agnew inside. The heavy armored door thudded shut, sealing the three of us in a world of silence and stark white graphene flake battery powered shadows. Martin Davis was tense, his eyes darting to the concrete walls. He looked like he wanted to check for a pulse in the room.

"Alright, John," Martin said, his voice tight.

"We're in the bunker. No Agnes, no microphones. Now tell me why I'm selling the North Slope leases to the competition. Those are the crown jewels of ARCO. Why am I giving them away?" I gestured to Dr Agnew. In this windowless concrete box, my backyard solar demonstrator would be nothing but a silent pile of glass. I needed the President of General Atomics to bridge the gap between a tabletop toy and industrial reality.

"Martin, this is Dr Agnew," I said.

"He is here because while you might think I am a dreamer, General Atomics deals in thermodynamics and balance sheets. He's been the President of GA since long before I bought the company." Dr Agnew stepped into the light of the battery-powered lamp, holding a fluffy white cloth. It resembled the kind of batting you'd find in a torn throw pillow.

"Mr Davis, what we are building at Satsop is an industrial revolution. We are using the high-grade thermal heat from our ISPBR nuclear reactors to drive a chemical reversal." Martin frowned.

"A reversal?"

"We are recycling the industrial age," Agnew explained, his voice clinical and undeniable.

"John has created four miracles, and then woven them together to create something simply amazing. The ISPBR uses thorium encased in manufactured diamond. You know about his water filters, they are everywhere these days. This is something less known, a plastic fiber that absorbs CO2 directly from the air and releases it when it gets wet," he said, handing him the fluffy, white material. He held up a glass box holding what looked like steel wool.

"The heat from the reactor, the CO2 from the plastic, the water from the filter. They all meet in this, a revolutionary catalyst." Martin took the box in his other hand, peering at the material inside.

"The catalyst combines them," Dr Agnew explained.

"It takes free air, water and heat and makes gasoline." I stepped forward, taking the glass box from Martin before he could drop it as he stumbled in shock.

"On January 1st I'm announcing the completion of the prototype plant," I told him.

"It will produce 100, 000 gallons of SynGas every day, for pennies a gallon. The goal is that by March or April, we'll be producing twenty million gallons a day using the full power of the new reactor under construction next door. Both are using waste heat from our power plants. The feedstock is literally the air we breathe."

"How much will ARCO be selling it for, John?" Dr Agnew asked me.

"I promised to sell it from the plant to ARCO for 25 cents a gallon. They'll likely bring it up to 50 cents, maybe 75. I'm leaving that up to Cook." Martin stood up straight, his face going pale as the math hit him.

"You're going to make every oil well on the planet a hole in the ground filled with worthless sand."

"Precisely," I said.

"I bought ARCO for the pipes and the pumps, Martin. I don't need their oil. In fact, I want the other companies to buy those 'crown jewels' now, while the price is high. By January 1st, when we announce the SynGas rollout, those assets will be worth pennies on the dollar. You're selling them a sunset, and they're paying you noonday prices for it." Martin stared at me, his mouth slightly open.

"John, you're talking about selling the North Slope to Exxon and BP. After the year Exxon has had with the Valdez and the environmentalists, they are desperate for stable reserves. They'll pay a premium just to show the market they're still in the game." He stepped closer, his voice dropping.

"If we sell them those leases knowing they'll be worthless the day you flip the switch at Satsop, that's not a divestiture. It's a swindle. It's predatory. The SEC will have our heads, and every board member from Houston to London will want us in a shallow grave."

"We're standing in a cold concrete box for a reason, Martin," I said, reminding him why we were here.

"Anyway, it's the market. I'm not lying to them. I'm selling them oil. They want oil. I'm just not telling them I've rendered it obsolete. By the time they realize the world has changed, their checks will have cleared and our debt will be gone." Martin let out a sharp, jagged laugh.

"How long will it take you to build out enough plants to cover the daily use in the US? How long until they are all bankrupt?"

"It depends on how much capital I get from my Grandpa," I told him.

"The January IPO of Grand Lux?" he asked, immediately making the connection.

"Grandpa's giving me the 80 percent he's selling. That will fund the construction of the first few plants. Once I get enough built, it is self funding. From there, it is just build and sell. If they want in on the revolution, they can buy one of my plants." He nodded in understanding. The IPO of Grand Lux had already made just as many headlines as the ARCO Chemical IPO.

"That's the production capital," I explained.

"Between the $10 billion you already cleared and the $7 billion coming from the Chemical IPO, we've cut the ARCO debt in half. The Grand Lux IPO on January 31st will provide the final multibillion-dollar push to make SynGas self-sustaining."

"You're already the richest guy on the planet, why risk it all to do this?" he asked, setting the fluffy cloth back down on the table.

"Timing. It's all about timing. The roll out will be slow enough for the world to adapt. But by the end of 1990 everyone will understand that the new reality is something every country must have for itself. If we can decouple energy from resource extraction and the global vagaries of a hostile world market, we free everyone," I said.

"I'll get the BP and Exxon negotiators on the phone tonight. I'll make them feel like they're robbing you. It'll be the easiest sell of my life. Expect another $11 billion after the Chemical IPO."

"Good," I said, putting my hand on the heavy door handle.

"Let's go get some dinner. My home cook, Angella, is making lasagna, we'll sit on the deck, eat good food and watch the sun set on the oil industry." I sat in the plush leather seat of my 767-300ER as the engines hummed with a deep resonance that I felt in my bones. It was November 6th and the world was shivering on the brink of a collapse it didn't yet understand was coming. I looked down at Max who was curled in my lap. Even so his long legs hung well past my knees.

He liked to cuddle but had a hard time fitting as he grew older. Born back in April he was now seven months old and already a lean muscular marvel of golden fur and midnight-black spots. His golden eyes tracked the movement of a flight attendant with a predatory focus that reminded me I wasn't the only one in this cabin with an edge. As we crossed the Atlantic at forty thousand feet I felt the strange duality of my life.

My own body was betraying me with the slow heavy ache of puberty—my voice cracking at the worst moments and my limbs growing faster than my coordination could keep up. I was a boy becoming a man while I watched an empire of oil prepare to become a relic. In less than two months I would stand before the cameras and announce the death of the fossil fuel era. But before I killed the old world I wanted to watch it tear down its own fences. The landing at Tegel was a descent into a city of neon and gray coal smoke.

As we taxied past the Allied hangars I could smell the distinct sharp scent of East German lignite coal and the oily blue haze of two-stroke engines drifting over the wall. It was the smell of a dying half century.