by Tom Grace
“As to the matter of my family’s wind farm, if the President has any evidence that my parents and I are cheating the electric company he ought to bring it forward and have charges filed against us. Now if you’ll follow me.”
Egan led the reporters to a bank of utility meters that stood just outside the fenced enclosure.
“The electric company uses these meters to measure how much power we’re delivering so they can calculate how much money to pay us. These are the electric company’s meters and they verify every month that the readings are accurate.
“The President’s accusation against my family and me is based on the assertion that there is no way that our windmills could generate the amount of power that we’re selling to the electric company. Given the President’s support of green power sources and all the subsidies the government provides for wind farms—of which my family has taken none— I find it ironic that his charge against me is rooted in the inherent inability of wind generators to provide a steady flow of power. If the wind doesn’t blow, the electricity doesn’t flow.”
One by one, the blades of the wind turbines in the distance slowed to a stop.
“I have to admit that the President is absolutely correct—our wind turbines are not providing the power that we are selling.”
Egan smiled as he let his admission sink in.
“Are you admitting to charging the utility for more power than you delivered?” a reporter asked pointedly.
“No, I simply agree with the President that wind turbines are an unreliable power source. There is no way our turbines could provide the steady, reliable flow of power that we’re delivering. In fact, if you look closely at these meters, you’ll see that only one has stopped. That’s the one connected to our wind farm. The rest are still spinning away and clean, reliable power is still flowing out into the grid.”
“If not wind, then how are you generating this power?” another reporter demanded.
Egan smiled. “The how is my life’s work, the product of exercising my individual right to pursue happiness.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
Sandra Gifford sat in the passenger seat of a black SUV bearing government license plates. The vehicle sat idling on the shoulder of the main road that led to the Egan family farm, one of several in the strike team deployed for this operation. The in-dash display carried a live feed of Egan’s press conference.
The cell phone in Gifford’s hand purred with an incoming message: RAID IS A GO! She clipped the phone to her belt and switched on her throat mike.
“All right people, we’re going in. Watch yourselves—these folks own firearms and may react badly.”
The black panel truck containing a detachment of agents from the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team (HRT) pulled out first to lead the assault. A trio of matching SUVs filled with FBI and EPA field agents immediately followed suit. A second panel truck brought up the rear— this one containing EPA hazardous-materials gear and equipment.
Gifford’s cell phone vibrated and she quickly answered.
“Egan’s security detail has been notified that you’re in play,” the FBI Director said. “Tread lightly. Everything you do in the next few minutes will be on national TV.”
“Got it. We’re heading onto the property.”
The convoy raced along the two-lane road and turned up the gravel drive onto the Egan property. Police lights flashing, the five vehicles roared down the wooded drive toward the clearing.
Egan looked past the reporters gathered around him and the utility meters at the rapidly approaching vehicles.
“Ross,” Niki said with concern.
“I see ’em. Don’t know what this is about, but just keep shooting pictures.”
Niki nodded and trained her camera on the unexpected intrusion. Secret Service agents moved into protective position around the candidate. Robin Boyd, the lead agent, drew close to Egan.
“Sir,” the woman said softly, “there’s no need for concern over your safety. This is a joint FBI/EPA operation regarding your power source. Their authorization checks and it’s been cleared with my superiors.”
“No advance warning?” Egan asked.
“None, sir. We just got word now.”
As the vehicles closed in, they fanned out to form a perimeter. The lead truck remained on the driveway, gravel crunching under its tires as it came to a stop. The rear doors on the truck flew open, and eight figures clad in black riot gear and armed with combat assault rifles leapt out.
Boyd motioned for her team to remain with the candidate while she conferred with the FBI lead agent. Weapons drawn but pointed down, the detail moved Egan to the far side of the Humvee.
News cameras recorded the unfolding scene. Live feeds of the raid on the Egan farm streamed out to the twenty-four-hour news channels and the Internet. Encountering no resistance, the strike team quickly assumed a defensive posture, securing the area around the fenced building.
“Special Agent Boyd,” Gifford said as she assumed command of the scene. “I’m Special Agent Gifford. I understand that you were just notified of our arrival.”
Boyd curtly shook Gifford’s offered hand. “Washington was a little light on the details. Why is the FBI coming down on a presidential candidate like a Mexican drug lord?”
“Standard procedure when securing a location where the occupants are known to be armed.”
“A couple of hunting rifles hardly makes this Ruby Ridge. And these folks are about as supportive of law and order as any you’ll find.”
“That may be, but I have a warrant to search these premises.”
“We both know this stinks,” Boyd said.
Gifford shrugged. Boyd motioned for her team to escort Egan over. She then introduced the candidate to the FBI special agent.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Egan asked politely.
“Sir, I have a warrant to search this property and all structures located on it for an illegal power generator.”
Gifford handed Egan the search warrant, which he quickly reviewed.
“What you’re looking for does not exist,” Egan said flatly.
“With all due respect, sir, you admitted to possessing an unknown power generator during your press conference.”
“True,” Egan said, “but my generator is not illegal.”
“That is for the experts to decide. Will you now show us your generator?”
“No.”
“Are you refusing to comply with a lawful search?” Gifford asked sharply.
“You miss my point. Your search does not cover legal power generators. I am under no obligation to show you technology that I am within my legal rights to own.”
“The Attorney General and a federal judge aren’t so sure. The installation of test wells on your property indicates a concern over groundwater contamination. We are seizing the annual reports for those wells from the testing lab. Illegal discharges into the groundwater fall under the purview of the federal and state environmental regulators.”
“Again, my energy-related activities on this property are not governed by any state or federal regulations and are therefore legal,” Egan replied. “But let’s cut to the chase, Special Agent. You are welcome to the test reports, which show no contamination of any kind. I will not cooperate with your illegal search. If you want to see my generator, you’ll have to break the door down in front of all these cameras.”
Egan nodded his head toward the pole barn.
“Clear a perimeter around that building,” Gifford ordered as she turned away from Egan. “Cut the lock on that gate and get that building opened. EPA, suit up to go inside.”
Gifford had Egan and his security detail moved behind the EPA’s panel truck. Bolt cutters made short work of the padlock on the fence. The HRT agents found the inconspicuous door to the pole barn a bit more daunting. After several blows with a battering ram, the locked steel panel sprang free of its hinges. Several of the reporters gasped as a roiling gray cloud billowed out from t
he barn’s interior.
“Pull back!” the leader of the breaching unit ordered.
“What the hell?” Gifford spat.
“Don’t worry,” Egan said nonplussed. “It’s mostly steam.”
The door fell through the haze and clanged loudly against a concrete slab. Through the opening, the pole barn’s interior appeared dark and shrouded in fog. EPA agents dressed in tightly sealed, orange chemical suits cautiously approached the building. An LCD monitor in the back of the EPA truck displayed a live feed from the camera mounted to the lead agent’s helmet.
In the distance, an engine loudly coughed to life.
“Another surprise?” Gifford asked suspiciously.
“Emergency generator,” Egan replied matter-of-factly. “My folks don’t like it when we lose power—messes up their DVR. First time we’ve had to run it for real in years.”
“Why’s that?”
“Your men will have the answer to that question shortly.”
In single file, the four men stepped toward the open doorway. The lead man entered the barn with a Geiger counter. He slowly swept the air in front of him with the external probe for any sign of radiation.
“Only normal background radiation,” the man reported.
The rest of the EPA team filed into the barn. Each carried sensors for a variety of toxic or volatile chemicals. A dull hum filled the interior of the barn, the deepening sound of rapidly spinning equipment slowly winding down. As the vapor dissipated, the team saw a pair of steam turbines bolted to the floor. Piping ran from the generators to the rear of the building. There, they found a red-hot puddle of molten metal and a perfectly circular hole cored through the floor. The leader crouched over the twelve-inch diameter opening and aimed a flashlight and helmet camera down the shaft.
“Are you seeing this?” the agent asked.
“Roger that,” Gifford replied.
The powerful beam cast by the EPA agent’s flashlight was simply swallowed by the deep void. For as far as he could see, the interior lining of the shaft was as smooth as glass.
The agent noticed the remnant of a stainless-steel bolt on the floor. He picked up the fragment with his gloved hand and dropped it into the hole. It quickly disappeared from view and, if it reached bottom, it made no sound.
Egan’s iPhone vibrated against his hip and he checked the screen. It was his father.
“Can I take this?” Egan asked Gifford.
Gifford nodded. Egan accepted the call and set the phone on speaker mode.
“Yeah, Pa?” Egan answered.
“I’m watching your press conference—very exciting.”
“I know.”
“Just thought you should let those FBI folks know that the head of the electric co-op called and a good bit of the eastern UP just lost power.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
NEW YORK CITY
The President smiled as he watched the video monitors in Peter Sturla’s well-appointed suite overlooking the trading floor of the New York Climate Exchange. All of the cable news channels carried the unfolding story of the raid on the Egan family farm. A spokesman for the Justice Department had delivered a brief statement regarding the search, followed by a terse “no comment” from the White House Press Secretary.
“An interesting development, don’t you think, Mr. President?” Sturla asked.
“I love the optics, especially Egan in handcuffs as the FBI hauled him away for questioning.”
“That clip will be in the next round of ads from my political action committees, starting tonight. They will juxtapose you as the stalwart environmentalist versus Egan the polluting eco-terrorist.”
“I look forward to seeing them,” the President said.
“We first need some footage of you opening the climate exchange.”
“I really do like the acronym—NYCE,” the President offered, pronouncing the four letters as a word.
“It will be very nice indeed to those invested in the exchange,” Sturla quipped.
The President smiled warmly at the thought of his part ownership in the privately held bank that would process all of the exchange’s transactions. That single asset in his blind trust would make him a billionaire many times over before the end of his second term.
“Mr. President, the Chinese ambassador has arrived,” the aide cheerfully reported. “And everything is ready for your opening remarks.”
“Thank you, Lindsey. We’ll join him shortly.”
Ambassador Long stood with the chairman of the exchange and a small entourage in the anteroom to the balcony overlooking the trading floor. The President arrived with his security detail and a group of aides. Both men moved to the center of the room and shook hands.
“Ambassador, it is a pleasure to see you again,” the President said warmly. “Thank you for being here today.”
“I am pleased to meet with you as well,” Long replied. “And it is indeed my honor to represent the People’s Republic of China on this most important occasion—important both for the relations between our two countries and for the future of the world.”
“I couldn’t agree more. China’s commitment to partnering with the Unites States in curbing greenhouse gas emissions bespeaks your nation’s leadership role on the global stage. I believe China’s participation in the NYCE will allow this exchange to flourish where previous efforts have failed.”
“It is truly fortunate when national and international interests coincide.”
“Gentlemen, it’s time,” the chairman of the exchange announced.
The chairman opened a sliding glass door and led his distinguished guests out onto the balcony. They were met by applause accompanied by a recording of the Marine Corps Band playing “Hail to the Chief.” LCD screens mounted to the railing glowed with images of the US and Chinese flags.
The NYCE trading floor was a cavernous two-story space populated with islands of workstations and flat-screen displays. Laid out with an efficiency of purpose, the room employed LED lighting and various recycled and renewable materials in keeping with the environmental mission of the exchange.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the chairman announced into a microphone, “it is my great honor to present the President of the United States.”
Traders cheered from the floor, thrilled to share the moment with the man whose political will made the NYCE a reality.
“As many of you know, I am a firm believer in capitalism,” the President said. “Capitalism, when employed correctly, can be a tool for good. I believe this exchange will be a shining example of capitalism as a tool for social and environmental justice.
“I wish to thank Ambassador Long and the People’s Republic of China for their partnership with the United States in the founding of this exchange. Both our great nations recognize the dangers of climate change and our responsibilities as citizens of the world to address a problem largely of our own making. With that, I am proud to declare this exchange open.”
The President motioned for Ambassador Long to join him in pressing a large ceremonial button. Automated bells built into the balcony railing rang loudly, provoking another cheer from the brokers and environmentalists on the trading floor. The President shook the ambassador’s hand for the cameras recording the historic event, both men smiling broadly.
In an exclusive agreement, NYCE acquired the entire annual allotment of emissions permits from the governments participating in the climate exchange at a fixed price. The exchange opened with the permits offered to emitters at a higher, initial public offer price of $25 per metric ton of carbon dioxide emitted.
As the sole, legal market in which this peculiar pollution commodity could be acquired, the owners of NYCE hoped to recoup much of their initial investment during the day’s trading and turn a profit on every trading day that followed.
The President glanced at the big board as he left the balcony and saw that bidding had already driven the price-per-ton up forty-five cents. NYCE was his proudest accomplishment, and no
t because he had any delusions about its potential impact on the global climate.
“Gentlemen,” the chairman said enthusiastically as they returned to Sturla’s suite, “it may still be morning but I believe a toast is in order.”
A cart draped in white linen had been rolled into the suite during the opening bell ceremony and a uniformed steward was filling slender glass flutes with champagne. Starting with the President and the Chinese ambassador, servers distributed glasses around the room.
“To the New York Climate Exchange,” the President offered with his glass held high. “May it prove to the world that capitalism can be an instrument of good.”
“Hear, hear!” the gathering responded.
As the President mingled with guests and donors in the suite, Daniel Page waited, taking in the scene and imagining how he would describe it in the book he would eventually write. The video monitors switched from coverage of the opening bell back to the unfolding story of Egan’s apparent arrest by the FBI.
“What’s happening?” the President asked softly as he moved next to Page.
“Egan’s on his way to the FBI office in Traverse City for questioning. Whatever he was doing in that barn was more powerful than anyone considered.”
“How so?”
“The good news is that, fortunately, that part of Michigan is lightly populated. Bad news is most of those folks are without electricity. Something happened when the FBI kicked down the door to Egan’s barn that cut the power to thousands of homes. The sudden loss of power triggered a cascade failure that’s spread to adjacent sections of the grid, including Canada. Since this wasn’t weather-related damage, power should be fully restored in a few hours.”
“Any big cities lose power?” the President asked.
Page shook his head. “It didn’t make it as far as Madison or Detroit. We’ll spin it to make it look like the power failure was Egan’s fault, but there’s a catch.”
“Which is?”
“With the loss of power from Egan’s farm, the local utility has been forced to increase output from one of its older coal-fired plants.”