Chương 144: Book 5 - Chapter 1

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

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

"Shady Acres?"

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

"We've got staff inside and the residents are harmless. They don't know who you are, except somebody's visiting Grandkid." I took the laptop box, and the suitcase. My new Italian silk suit I wore for the announcement was back at the plane. I was wearing a Bart Simpson t-shirt, jeans and an unzipped hoodie.

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

"Where will you be?" I asked him.

"Taking the plane to further disguise your trail. I'll be back in two days. If you see a guy in there working he's one of ours. All the ladies are nurses and caregivers." I took a deep breath and got out of the car. It turned to thick steam as I blew it out, hurrying to zip my jacket up as I tromped through the snow to the cleared sidewalk. Nick, a familiar face I hadn't seen in a while met me at the door.

We passed an occupied table with what seemed like a rousing game of Skip-Bo, but they weren't sure whose turn it was. My room was small, a closet, attached bathroom with shower and a single bed. The window looked out on a blanket of snow covering the back yard, a frozen-over birdbath sitting in the center. I closed the door behind me and let Max out of his carrier. He immediately went under the bed, a long leg sticking out to identify where he was hiding. I examined the TV.

A 13-inch Zenith, with bent bunny ears wrapped with aluminum foil. Next to it on the dresser was a magnificently modern American Wireless receiver and remote. I clicked the TV on to find static. The clunk of the dial sounded like I was beating it as I tuned it to channel four and hit the power button on the Motorola receiver. The screen flickered to life showing the Motorola logo and I slowly turned the knob to bring the volume up, before sitting back on the bed to watch.

I punched in the buttons on the remote, 411 and jumping straight to WBN. The WBN news desk was a hive of activity, even for a holiday evening. The 'crawl' at the bottom of the screen was already dominated by a single, bold title: THE SYNGAS REVOLUTION: DAY ONE.

"And joining us now is Marcus de Baun, who is still processing the fact that he was the only reporter today to get a literal thumbs up from the boss himself," the anchor, a man with hair so stiff it looked like a helmet, said with a smirk. The camera cut to Marcus. He looked exhausted, his tie loosened, and he was holding a broken pencil as if it were a holy relic.

"Very funny, Bill," Marcus said, though he couldn't hide a small, weary grin.

"But if you'd been in that room, you would have felt the air leave the building. We went in expecting a safety report on a nuclear plant or a bankruptcy announcement. We came out looking at the end of the 20th century."

"Let's talk about the markets for January 2nd," Bill said, his expression turning serious.

"The 'Cook Opening' is what the floor traders are already calling it. We are seeing unprecedented pre-market activity. But Marcus, looking back at the ARCO acquisition now—it looks less like a debt-fueled gamble and more like a tactical masterclass, doesn't it?" Marcus nodded, leaning into the camera.

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

"And the valuation on these solar plants?" Bill asked.

"Fifty million gallons a day, out of the Arizona desert. What does that go for at auction?"

"The speculation is wild," Marcus said, tapping his notepad.

"If the production cost is effectively zero because 'the sun doesn't send a bill,' you aren't just buying a factory. You are buying a mint. I've heard whispers of opening bids starting at fifty billion. We are talking about the kind of yearly production that comes from oil rich countries like Kuwait. And remember, Cook is keeping a twenty-five cent royalty on every gallon sold. He isn't just the inventor anymore. He's the new Tax Man."

On the screen, the anchor started teasing a segment on the 'Cook Thumbs Up' being the new gold standard for financial analyst questions. The rotary phone opposite the receiver on the dresser rang. I picked it up tentatively.

"Hola," I said disguising my voice.

"It's Matt," he said ignoring my greeting.

"I hope you're sitting down. I just got a call from a lawyer representing a group in Riyadh. They want to know if you'd be interested in trading the SynGas patent for a medium sized uninhabited island with a resort mansion in the Mediterranean and a complete set of gold-plated Boeings stuffed with young girls and cash." I looked at the grainy black and white image of Marcus de Baun on the tiny screen.

"Tell them I'm happy to build them as many plants as they want. Just as soon as Bush gives the go ahead," I said, watching a moth flutter against the warm glass of the Zenith.

"And tell them I have an island already and am allergic to gold. Anything else?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm not supposed to ask," he said.

"Do you at least have a TV? I've got a projection system. A hundred inches." I turned the knob for the volume further down.

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

"Nobody trusts teenagers," he said with a chuckle.

"You've got a few more years of that, but I heard the guys on CNN calling you the next Einstein and wondering what you'd invent next."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hi Mom!"

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

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

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

"March 26th," I told her.

"It is at Grandpa's LA hotel, that's why we got invited."

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

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

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

"Very safe. I've got a private office to work out of," I told her, looking at the small room.

"They are even making meatloaf for me tonight."

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

"I'm glad. Tell them all I love them very much. Except Aunt Joan," I said.

"Don't tell her anything." She laughed.

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

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

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

"I'll call Mom! I promise," I said, having no doubt the threat was real.

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

"I love you too, Mom." I pressed down the on one of the two buttons that the receiver sat on, they both dropped, hanging up the phone. I lifted my finger and dialed again. I heard a buzz from the bathroom and leaned over as far as the twisted spiral of phone cord would allow, to look. I saw Max's automatic litter box as he watched it clean his mess. One problem already solved. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

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

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

"Hilarious Dick, can you put Amber on?" He didn't ask who it was, he just yelled "Amber! Phone!" as loud as he could. A moment later there was a thump and she breathlessly answered the phone.

"Hello?"

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

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

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

"Oh, let me get a pen. I've got to write this down this time." There was a muffled slamming of drawers, followed by a faint shout, "Where are all the pens!" A moment later she came back.

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

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

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

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

"I'm ready!" she said.

"Here is your first slogan, 'It's a magnificent time to be alive.'""Oh, that's good," she said.

"You said that at the press conference."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Be creative. Have fun. The T-Shirt company has a name of a contact at Brockum. They will do the same thing the t-shirt company will do. They won't make them until you have orders, so there is no inventory to worry about, and buyers send funds mail order to them direct. The ones that are popular the company will sell to other places, but not for six months. You get to be first and exclusive for all official merchandise."

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

"You'll have to wait, but it'll be an exclusive," I told her. We chatted a few minutes more until Nick knocked on my door. I said goodbye to answer the door and found him there holding a tray.

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

"Tomorrow," he said.

"Tonight, they want you to stay here."

"Alright. Bring it in." He set the tray down to reveal hamburgers and french fries.

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

"That's what I said when they showed me the food," he replied.

"I just ran out and got you drive thru."

"Thanks, Nick. I need to pick your brains later. Jack thought this was much too funny. I need revenge, but something tasteful." He got a wicked glint in his eye, and a half smile.

"We'll talk," he confirmed.

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

"It is the evening of January 1, 1990," the lead anchor began, his voice echoing in the small room.

"And while most of the world is recovering from New Year's celebrations, the global economy is staring down what many are calling 'S-Day'—the start of the SynGas era. Joining us now is our senior financial correspondent and a panel of energy analysts." The screen split to show a bustling newsroom.

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

One of the analysts leaned forward, tapping a pen against a stack of charts.

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

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

"It breaks the scale," the analyst replied.

"If the sun doesn't send a bill, the margins on those plants are infinite. I'm hearing pre-market speculation that bids for those five plants could start at fifty billion dollars with no upward limit. Utility scale operations like that have a lifetime of at least fifty years. And remember, Cook is keeping a twenty-five-cent royalty on every gallon sold. Nationally that's around $45 billion a year if he's making all our fuel. He's not just an inventor. He's becoming a sovereign economic power.

Tomorrow morning, when the bell rings on Wall Street, we expect to see the largest single-day shift in capital in the history of the New York Stock Exchange." On the screen, a graphic appeared showing a map of the United States with glowing dots over Washington and Arizona. The anchor looked directly into the camera.

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

"Let's go back to our panel," the anchor said, gesturing to a glowing map of the United States.

"We've been talking about the end of the oil era, but what about the cars themselves? Earlier today, some were calling this a death knell for the automobile, but our lead energy analyst, Gene Randall, says it is quite the opposite." The camera cut to Gene, who was holding a small model of a piston.

"Bill, if anything, John Cook just gave the internal combustion engine a second lease on life. For years, we've been told the car was a dying breed—that smog and oil shortages would eventually force us all into buses or electric golf carts. But look at what Cook is offering." He tapped a chart showing the chemical makeup of SynGas, just a single perfect molecule.

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

"We know John loves cars. He was the brains behind the largest merger in European history," the anchor commented.

"When the dust settled after the merger he publicly commented that the one thing he wanted out of it was a V-12 Aston Martin on his 16th birthday."

"Exactly," Gene replied.

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

"Now we go to Panama, where the US military is holding a rock concert outside the Vatican Embassy." The mechanical clock on the dresser flipped over and I flipped the channel to 1111, and it displayed a blue screen. I punched in the six digit secret unlock code and the screen flickered and it returned me to channel 100, the TV guide channel. I scrolled through the list, seeing everything the network had, but didn't necessarily sell. I spotted the BBC satellite feed.

A station that American Wireless was carrying, but didn't have permission to include in its lineup yet. I selected it to see what else the world had to say. The familiar, rhythmic 'pips' of the BBC time signal echoed through the Zenith's speaker, followed by the sober, orchestral swell of the news theme. The blue screen dissolved into a wide shot of a wood-paneled studio in London.

"It is just after midnight in London, on Friday the second of January," the newsreader began, his voice a perfect, unruffled baritone.

"The lead story tonight: as the sun rises over the City, analysts are bracing for what is expected to be a day of unprecedented volatility on the London Stock Exchange. The catalyst is a series of extraordinary claims made in the United States by the teenage industrialist and physicist Dr John Cook." The screen shifted to a somber graphic of a North Sea oil rig silhouetted against a grey sky and a handsome image of me during the announcement overlaid it.

"Joining us now is Alistair Holm, our energy correspondent. Alistair, the mood in Whitehall is said to be one of profound concern. What are the specific implications for the United Kingdom's energy independence?" The camera cut to a man standing outside the darkened facade of the Department of Energy. He looked cold, his breath visible in the London night.

"Profound concern may be an understatement, Peter," Alistair replied.

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

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

"One would think so," Alistair said, a note of skepticism in his voice.

"However, the Chancellor of the Exchequer is reportedly meeting with oil executives this morning to discuss the 'Cook Threat.' If the cost of production for this synthetic fuel is truly as low as the Americans are claiming, our offshore investments become stranded assets. We aren't just talking about a drop in the price of a barrel. We are talking about the potential collapse of the tax revenues that fund our public services.

There is a very real sense here that an American teenager has just signed a death warrant for the North Sea industry." The anchor leaned forward.

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

"That is the bitterest pill for the industry to swallow," Alistair noted.

"By producing a pollution free, carbon-neutral fuel, Cook has outflanked the traditional energy sector. He has made the argument for 'dirty' fossil fuels impossible to win. The question for Britain now is no longer how to drill for more oil, but how to survive in a world where oil drilling may no longer be necessary." The BBC broadcast continued, the scene shifting from the cold London street to the warmth of the studio as the newsreader adjusted his notes.

"While the energy sector reels, the automotive world is facing a different kind of upheaval," the anchor said.

"Dr Cook remains the architect of Euro Motors, the continental giant he formed by merging Aston Martin, BMW, Volvo, Saab, Renault and Jeep/AMC. He also remains its single largest shareholder. With SynGas now a reality, the company is expected to lead the charge in revising European fuel efficiency standards. If the environmental cost of fuel is neutralized, the pressure on manufacturers to downsize engines could vanish overnight."

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

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

"He certainly isn't planning to commute in a moped," the anchor remarked with a dry smile.

"But the political ripples are already hitting the Élysée Palace. In Paris, the French government has confirmed an agreement with Cook to host the first European Intrinsically Safe plant. If President Mitterrand expands the project, France could pivot from nuclear-generated electricity to becoming the primary SynGas hub for the entire European Community."

"For a technical perspective on how this 'miracle' works, we are joined by Professor Elena Nance of the Imperial College." The screen split to show a woman in a lab coat, surrounded by complex molecular diagrams.

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

"The chemistry itself is quite established, actually," Professor Nance replied.

"The fundamental basis is the Fischer-Tropsch process, which was developed by German researchers in 1925. Historically, it was used to turn coal into oil. It was a vital technology for nations lacking petroleum reserves, though it was notoriously energy-intensive." She tapped a diagram on the screen behind her.

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

"And the efficiency?" the anchor asked.

"That is the true marvel," Nance said.

"If his claims are accurate, he has perfected a way to recycle the planet's atmosphere. It is not just an energy revolution. It is a planetary restoration." The BBC logo flickered back onto the screen as the news transitioned to a weather report for the North Atlantic. I hit the buttons to turn the receiver off and the TV returned to static. I set the box with the three plain hamburger patties on the floor for Max, which he started to wolf down as I turned the TV off.

I pulled a side table around, setting the lamp on the floor and started unboxing my new laptop, a Toshiba T5200. The bright orange screen came up, showing I had 8 megabytes of RAM as it booted. I dug around in my bag for Civilization, and started a game. I also pulled out a pad of paper and pen from my bag. I made notes on everything I needed. A bigger and color TV was at the top of the list, followed by a desk with a chair so I wouldn't need to sit on the bed.

At the bottom of my wish list was a color VGA monitor to plug into the laptop. If I had to sit around in hiding I had time to relax. If I had time to relax I had time to play my favorite video games.