Phoenix Rising pr-1 Page 7

  “Are you ready to see the Reds beat the Cardinals ?”

  “Ha!” Jake replied returning to the living room carrying the two soft drinks. “In your dreams. The Cardinals have the Reds’ number, and always have.”

  “What time does the game start?”

  “At seven,” Jake said, putting the drinks on the coffee table. “I’ve got it on the right channel. The clicker is on the lamp table right beside you. Just turn it on.”

  This is Carl Wilson with World Cable News. We are waiting for an address from the President of the United States. In the eighty-eight days since President Ohmshidi took office, he has given seventy-three televised speeches. He will be speaking from the Oval Office shortly, and we are told that the address will be only three minutes long.

  “Damn, has that man ever seen a television camera that he wasn’t in love with?” Jake asked. “What did you get?”

  “Hot wings and potato logs. I was in the grocery store and walked by the deli. It smelled good, so that’s what I got. Hope you approve.”

  “Oh, yeah, it looks and smells great. Now, if we could just get this idiot to stop going on TV every day.”

  “Supposedly he is only going to talk for three minutes. We may as well hear what he has to say,” Karin said.

  “Why? Whatever he says, it is just going to make matters worse.”

  We at World Cable News, along with all other television networks, have been given a transcript of the president’s speech, but were told that we cannot say anything about it prior to his address. I can tell you this, however. It will be, to say the least, a stunning announcement. Afterward, we will discuss the address with our distinguished panel of news analysts.

  “That’s what we need,” Jake said. “Another stunning announcement.” Jake picked up a hot wing, separated it, and began eating.

  The picture on the screen showed the president sitting behind his desk in the oval office. Behind him were two flags, the flag of the United States and a white flag, bearing what had been his campaign logo but had since replaced the flag bearing the presidential seal as the image of the Ohmshidi administration. It was a green circle enclosing wavy blue lines that represented clean water, over which was imposed a stylized green plant.

  “I know you aren’t supposed to hate,” Jake said, “but every time I look at that man, I come as close to hating as you can get.”

  “Remember,” Karin said, “that’s our commander in chief you are talking about.”

  “How can I forget?” Jake asked with a growl.

  “Shhh,” Karin said. “He’s about to speak.”

  “Whoop-de-doo,” Jake replied.

  Ladies and gentleman, the President of the United States, an off-camera voice said.

  My fellow Americans. For too many years now, we have been dependent upon fossil fuels to meet our energy needs. This dependency has been the cause of nearly every problem we have faced, beginning in the late twentieth, and continuing into this, the twenty-first century. It has poisoned our environment, caused cancer and countless other health problems. It has destroyed our ozone layer, leading us toward irreversible global warming. It has created severe economic problems, and it has been the cause of international hatred and war.

  For the last fifty years, there have been discussions of moving to a green economy with alternative, clean, and renewable energy as our nation’s engine. And while other presidents before me have announced that as their goal, they have all failed.

  I will not fail because I am taking a bold, and admittedly very difficult, step. It is, however, a step that I must take. I am, today, ordering an immediate cessation to all drilling and refining of domestic fossil fuels. In addition, we, as a nation, will no longer import fuels. We will have only that fuel currently extracted, refined, and in our inventory. When that is gone there will be no more. My analysts tell me that with strict rationing of the kind used during World War Two, our fuel supply should last about six months.

  Now, while this may seem like a draconian step to many of you, it is, I believe, a way of spurring our scientists and engineers into committing to a twenty-four-hour-per-day, seven-days-per-week effort to find a sustainable alternative energy program. Will it be hydrogen? Will it be cold fusion? Will it be some scientific breakthrough that we have not yet imagined?

  We of course have no idea as yet what this new source will be, but our future is exciting because I have absolute faith in our scientists to find a solution. Until then, all Americans will have to tighten their belts as we embark upon this great adventure together.

  Thank you, and good night.

  “He can’t be serious!” Jake shouted. “He has lost his mind! He has finally lost his mind!”

  “You have won me over, Jake,” Karin said in a quiet, hesitant voice. “I think he has lost his mind.”

  “Do you know how much jet fuel we use in just one week at Fort Rucker?” Jake asked.

  “I know it is a lot.”

  “We use three hundred thousand gallons per week. That is, we were using that when we were operational. Now if just we were using that much, how much fuel do you think our whole country uses? Everything, and I mean everything, is going to come crashing to a halt.”

  “How long do you think before that happens?” Karin asked.

  “The last time you filled up, what did you pay for gasoline?” Jake asked.

  “I don’t know, around three twenty-five I think. Or something like that.”

  “You mark my words, tomorrow gasoline will be ten dollars a gallon, and that’s only the beginning.”

  “I don’t mind telling you, Jake; I’m getting a little frightened, now.”

  “Only idiots aren’t frightened now,” Jake said.

  Thursday, May 17

  In the weeks following the president’s announcement that he was halting all acquisition of fossil fuel, either by domestic drilling, or importation, the price of gasoline began to increase, jumping at the rate of at least two dollars per day. The cost of fuel was beginning to be a problem for Jake and he was making a good salary. He couldn’t help but wonder how others were dealing with it.

  It was ten miles from Ozark to Fort Rucker and Jake drove it every day. This was Friday morning and, as he did every Friday morning, he stopped his two-year-old Volvo at the Busy Bee Quick Stop service station to fill his tank. Though this was normally a “fast in, fast out” stop, this morning he saw several cars waiting at each fuel island. This had become routine in the last few weeks, and Jake was prepared for it. He was in no particular hurry and he sat listening to Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” on the satellite radio as he waited.

  “You son of a bitch! You pulled in front of me!” someone yelled to the driver of a car in the next line over. The shout was followed by the incessant honking of a horn that did not cease until a couple of policemen arrived.

  “That asshole pulled in front of me!” the driver yelled to the police.

  “Both of you,” the police ordered, “out of line.”

  Grumbling, both the aggrieved, and the aggrieving driver were ordered to leave.

  “Find somewhere else to get your gas,” the policeman said. “And don’t both of you go to the same station!”

  Jake watched the two cars drive away. There was a time when he might have been amused by the little drama, but he had been seeing television reports of similar incidents all over the country. People were afraid, and the more frightened they got, the more uneasy the situation was becoming.

  After a wait of about fifteen minutes, Jake pulled up to the pump and saw the price of gasoline, then gasped. It was thirty-six dollars per gallon.

  “What?” he shouted. Thinking it might be a mistake, he checked some of the other fuel pumps.

  “It’s no mistake, sir,” said a sergeant on the next island over, when he saw Jake checking the prices. “I stopped here yesterday and it was thirty-four dollars a gallon. I thought that was too much, but if we aren’t going to get any new oil, this is just going to get worse.
I should have bought gas yesterday.”

  “You had better fill your tank, Sergeant,” Jake said. “At this rate, it could be fifty dollars a gallon or more by this time next week.”

  It cost Jake four hundred and thirty-two dollars to fill his tank. He was still frustrated when he reached his office. There were now more soldiers at Fort Rucker than there had been at any time since the Vietnam War, but because all training operations had stopped, except for normal housekeeping duties there was not one soldier who was gainfully employed. Jake knew that it could not last like this.

  When Jake reached his office, Sergeant Major Matthews was waiting for him.

  “Good morning, sir,” Clay said.

  “Sergeant Major. How are you coming on your requisitions?”

  “I’ve added something to the list. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, not at all. If you can think of something else we might need, by all means, acquire it if you can.”

  “I already have,” Clay said. “I have twenty barrels of Mogas.”

  “You have twenty drums of gasoline?” Jake asked in surprise.

  “No, sir, barrels, not drums. Drums hold only fifty gallons, a barrel holds fifty-five gallons. I figured it might be good to have.”

  “You figured correctly,” Jake said.

  “I know gas is expensive now, but I don’t think we should use this until we have to,” Clay suggested.

  “I agree,” Jake said. “We need to put it somewhere safe.”

  “I thought I would hide it in a hangar out at Hanchey Field.”

  “No, too many people out there. We need a more remote place than that.”

  “How about one of the stagefields?”

  “Yes, excellent idea,” Jake said. “And I know where to go with it. TAC-X. It’s thirteen miles away, has four buildings, and is totally abandoned.”

  “All right, I’ll get a truck from the motor pool.”

  “No,” Jake said. “You would have to get a trip ticket for TAC-X and since it is no longer being used, that might arouse some suspicion. I think you would be better off renting a truck.”

  Jake wrote a check for two thousand dollars and handed it to him. “I hope this covers your expenses,” he said. “But I would cash it immediately. And use it up as quickly as you can. The way the value of the dollar is plummeting, it may be worth only half as much this afternoon.”

  “I hear you,” Clay said. “By the way, Captain Gooding is the POL Officer. If you would happen to get a telephone call from him, maybe you could cover my ass with a bit of a runaround.

  “I’ll do it,” Jake said.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll leave it in your capable hands, Sergeant Major.”

  “I’d better go find a truck.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dale County Truck Rental, Ozark, Alabama—Thursday, May 17

  “You do realize that all I want to do is rent this truck, don’t you? I’m not trying to buy it,” Clay said to the proprietor. “And it is a local move, I’m not going anywhere with it.”

  “You’ll have it back today?”

  “I’ll have it back by six tonight.”

  “Fifteen hundred dollars. And the gas tank had better be topped off.”

  “All right. You’re robbing me blind, but I have to have a truck today.”

  “You got a beef, Sergeant Major, take it up with President Ohmshidi. It’s his dumbass policies that have gotten us into this mess.”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t argue with you there,” Clay said. “That sonofabitch has been a disaster.”

  “Well, why didn’t you tell me you hated Ohmshidi as much as I do? Tell you what. I’ll take two hundred fifty dollars off. You can have the truck for twelve hundred and fifty.”

  “Thank you,” Clay said.

  When Clay drove through the Ozark Gate he was stopped by the MP.

  “You’ll have to get a visitor’s pass for that truck,” the MP said. “And I’ll need to put down where you are going.”

  “I’m moving out of my quarters,” Clay replied.

  The MP entered the destination into his log, then handed Clay a visitor’s pass with instructions to put it on the dash so it could be seen through the windshield. From there he drove to the POL center.

  “I don’t know, Sergeant Major,” a specialist said. “I don’t feel right about loading military fuel into the back of a civilian truck.”

  “What difference does it make what kind of truck you load it in?” Clay asked. “I have an authorized and approved requisition document.”

  “Maybe I should call Captain Gooding and ask him what I should do.”

  “Go ahead and call him if you want to. His name is right here on the requisition form,” Clay said.

  “I just don’t feel right about putting the fuel onto a civilian truck,” the specialist said.

  “What would make you feel right about it?”

  “Well, I mean, when you figure how much gasoline costs right now . . . I’ve got a leave coming up, but I can’t go home because I can’t afford the gas.”

  “How many gallons would it take you to get home?”

  “About forty gallons.”

  “So, what if you had enough fuel to get home, plus say, oh, about fifteen gallons more so you could run around a bit when you got home?”

  “That would be fifty-five gallons,” the specialist said.

  “Interesting coincidence, isn’t it, that you need fifty-five gallons of gasoline, and that is exactly the amount that is in one of these barrels?”

  “Yes,” the specialist said. “Very interesting.”

  “So, are you going to help me to get my nineteen barrels loaded onto this truck or what?”

  “Nineteen barrels?”

  “Nineteen,” Clay said.

  The specialist smiled. “They are on pallets, five to a pallet. I’ll get a forklift.”

  Clay pushed one of the barrels off one of the pallets. “Only four on this one.”

  “We’d better hurry,” the specialist said, going toward the forklift.

  Stagefield TAC-X

  There are thirteen stagefields located around Fort Rucker. A stagefield is a facility that is somewhat remote from the main base, allowing student pilots to conduct flight and tactical operations there. TAC-X, or tactical operations training field X, was one of the thirteen, and though many Army aviators had trained here, it was no longer in operation.

  When Clay approached the entrance to the stagefield, he saw that a double chain-link gate blocked the road. The gate was locked by process of a chain and padlock. A sign on the gate read:

  U.S. GOVERNMENT PROPERTY UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY PROHIBITED!

  Clay got out of the truck and, using a pair of bolt cutters, cut the lock. A moment later he swung the gates open and drove the truck through. Stopping the truck, he got out and closed the gates behind him, passed the chain back through, and reset the lock so that it looked as if it was still secure. Then he drove to the largest of the four buildings, this one a hangar, and went through the same process of cutting that lock and swinging open the hangar door.

  Something scurried past his legs, startling him, and he let out a little shout until he realized that it was nothing more than a raccoon. He backed the truck into the hangar, then rolled the barrels down the tail ramp. It took less than an hour to off-load every barrel of gasoline, roll them over into the corner, and set them upright. When every barrel was off-loaded he covered them with an old tarpaulin. With the tarp in place, he went around picking up trash from the hangar, a solvent bucket, some paint cans, an old oil pan, a couple of wooden boxes, and some Plexiglas and sheet metal, which he placed on top of the tarp. His crowning achievement was finding six empty barrels, which he placed in front of his handiwork.

  He examined the area when he was finished. Even if someone came into the hangar and looked around, they would have no idea that there was a little over one thousand gallons of gasoline here.

  Clay closed the hangar d
oors, then locked them shut with his own padlock. Leaving stagefield TAC-X he did the same thing at the front gate, replacing the old lock with one of his own.

  As he drove back to Ozark to turn in the truck, he called his daughter, who was a student about to graduate from Northwestern Louisiana University in Natchitoches, Louisiana. Although Clay had helped out as much as he could, she had held up her end by working as a waitress.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Jenna. This is your dad.”

  “Hi, Daddy. I hope you are calling to tell me you can come to my graduation.”

  “Darlin’, there’s nothing I’d like more,” Clay said. “But with the cost of fuel now—that is, when you can even get fuel—I just don’t think I’ll be able to. You can thank your president for that.”

  “I know you don’t like him,” Jenna said. “But that’s because you haven’t given him a chance. He is trying to do some things to make a real difference in the world.”

  “Yeah, like bringing all transportation to a halt.”

  “You aren’t being fair. Mom and I are going to a pro-Ohmshidi rally tonight.”

  “Your mother still trying to save the world, is she?” Clay asked.

  “Daddy, be fair. Just because you are a dinosaur doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate what Mom is trying to do.”

  Clay chuckled. “I will confess that your mother never met a cause she didn’t support, or a movement she didn’t join.”

  “And you never met a war you didn’t love.”

  “I don’t love war, darlin’.”

  “That would be hard to prove by me. You went to Iraq under the first President Bush, you went to Bosnia for Clinton, then two more times to Iraq and once to Afghanistan for the second President Bush. And you got medals for every one of them.”

  Clay lowered the phone from his ear and drummed his fingers on the dashboard for a moment. Why did Jenna have to sound exactly like her mother? Fortunately, she also looked like Carol, who was a beautiful woman.