Power Surge

by Ben Bova

  Standing between Tomlinson and his father, Jake said, “There’s another problem, though. The fossil fuel lobbies.”

  Alexander Tomlinson drained the last of his glass and said, “Jake, you’d better tell me what this plan of yours is all about.”

  Glancing toward the senator, Jake replied, “Okay.”

  “Over dinner,” said Amy, and she headed for the dining room.

  The Plan

  Wishing he had been prescient enough to bring his notebook, so he could show them the details of his plan, Jake spent the whole dinner explaining it from memory, point by point.

  The four of them sat at one end of the long table in the elegant dining room, beneath a lavish chandelier, while the same young butler served them salad, roast beef, and a fruit cup dessert. And poured wine for them.

  Sitting at Tomlinson’s left, across the table from Amy, Jake ran through the energy plan, starting with MHD power generation. Tomlinson’s father was seated beside Amy, eating with a determined efficiency while he listened in silence, hardly glancing at Jake all through the meal.

  But when Jake began to talk about the space solar power idea, the elder Tomlinson’s head snapped up.

  “Satellites in orbit that beam energy from space to the ground?”

  “That’s the concept¸” Jake said.

  “Drop it,” the old man demanded.

  “Drop it?” His son looked mildly surprised.

  “But it’s a valid idea,” Jake protested. “A little far out, maybe, but—”

  “Drop it,” Tomlinson senior repeated. “Too big a giggle factor.”

  “Giggle factor?” Amy asked.

  “You keep that in the plan and all the damned news media will talk about is that space cadet idea. You’ll be laughed out of town. Drop it.”

  “He’s got a point, Jake,” said the senator.

  Thinking of Isaiah Knowles’s reaction, Jake said, “But it’s only a minor point in the plan, something for future consideration.”

  “Drop it,” insisted the elder Tomlinson.

  “I agree, Jake,” said his son.

  Jake bit his lip and nodded.

  “What else?”

  “I see the plan as an integrated entity,” Jake said. “It’s not coal versus natural gas or renewables versus fossil fuels. It includes everything, and they all mesh together. There’s a place for everybody, just about.”

  “You want to move away from fossil fuels and toward renewables,” said Tomlinson senior. “That’s political suicide.”

  Jake defended, “It’s a gradual move. And it’s inevitable, in the long run.”

  The senator looked at his father, who was glaring at Jake.

  Amy broke the silence with an impish smile as she quoted John Maynard Keynes, “In the long run, we’re all dead.”

  “The plan helps the long-term transition away from fossil fuels, but it’s very gradual,” Jake explained. “We’re not going to shut down the coal and oil industries.”

  “As if you could,” the elder Tomlinson muttered.

  Jake went on, “For example, if we shift to electric automobiles in a major way, we’re going to have to build a lot more electricity-generating capacity. That’s where MHD can be a big factor. And we need to upgrade the power grid and its transmission lines.”

  “That’s for sure,” the senator agreed.

  As they talked, the butler cleared the table and brought out four bottles of various after-dinner liqueurs. Amy reached for the cognac and poured a snifter for her father-in-law.

  “So that’s the whole thing?” the old man asked, as he accepted the drink from Amy’s hand.

  “I think it covers the waterfront,” Jake said, feeling defensive. “I’ve been trying to make it come out revenue neutral, but there’s just no way to get around the big investment the government’s got to make.”

  “It’s a good plan, Jake,” said Senator Tomlinson.

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “But it’s missing something. Something important,” the senator’s father said.

  Feeling more than a little nettled, Jake asked, “What’s that?”

  Turning toward his son, Alexander Tomlinson said, “It’s missing something that will make Santino fall in love with it.”

  “He ought to like it just as it is,” Jake grumbled.

  The elder Tomlinson fixed him with a stern gaze. “Young man, the best way to succeed with any plan is to make the victim a party to the crime.”

  His son grinned. “I get it. Make Santino an offer he can’t refuse.”

  Jake felt his brows knitting.

  “There’s nothing in your plan that gives Santino something he can take home to his constituents,” said Tomlinson senior.

  “But it’s a comprehensive national plan,” Jake protested. “It’ll make him a national hero.”

  “Bushwah,” snapped the elder Tomlinson. “What’s in your plan that benefits the voters in Santino’s home state?”

  “Rhode Island, isn’t it?” asked Amy.

  “You’ve got to give him a bone he can bring back to his people,” the senator explained.

  “His people,” Jake growled, “are the coal and oil lobbies. And the plan covers the fossil fuel industries.”

  With a shake of his head, Senator Tomlinson said, “Jake, you’re being rational. What we’re talking about now is Santino’s ego.”

  “His ego.”

  “We’ve got to give him something that will make him happy. Make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

  “You said that before.”

  “What can your plan do for Rhode Island?” Tomlinson senior asked.

  “Windmill farms?” Jake suggested.

  “For god’s sake, no,” said the old man. “Don’t you remember what Ted Kennedy did when somebody tried to build a windmill farm off Hyannisport?”

  “It ought to be something more specific,” said the senator. “Something that would particularly benefit Rhode Island.”

  Jake shrugged. “It’s such a little state. Most of it is coastline.”

  The elder Tomlinson suggested, “Didn’t I read something someplace about generating electricity from the ocean?”

  “Tidal power,” said Jake. “You put turbines on the seabed and let the ebb and flow of the tides turn them to generate electricity.”

  “That’s it!” said the senator. “Add that to your plan, Jake.”

  “But it’s not a viable idea.”

  “I understand there’s enormous energy in the tides,” said Tomlinson’s father.

  “There’s a lot of energy, yeah,” Jake countered. “But it’s too diffuse, too spread out to be an efficient source for generating electricity. Except in a few special places where they have tidal bores that’re ten feet or more.”

  With a grin, the senator said, “It doesn’t have to be efficient, Jake. It just has to make Santino happy.”

  “But it’s not a good idea. It’ll just be money down the drain.”

  Tomlinson senior waggled a hand. “So you throw a couple hundred million in Santino’s direction. He’ll appreciate it.”

  Jake held his tongue. And remembered an old-time politician’s dictum: a few hundred million here, a few hundred million there, pretty soon you’re talking real money.

  With an inner sigh, he decided he’d have to dig up all he could find about tidal energy research and patch a few pages on the subject into his plan—near the front, where it would catch Santino’s eye.

  If the Little Saint deigned to read the plan at all.

  San Diego

  The pressure got to him. The week after his dinner with the Tomlinsons Jake suddenly decided he had to get out of town once again. Washington’s heat and humidity were draining the energy out of him. No matter that he went from air-conditioned apartment to air-conditioned automobile to air-conditioned office, the atmosphere of the city was squeezing the juices out of him. He had to get away.

  He knew it wasn’t the weather; it was his work. The en
ergy plan loomed before him like a block of implacable granite. He had tried to put into it something to satisfy everyone, even Santino, and the effort was turning what had started as a balanced, sensible plan into a picnic basket for special interests. This for the coal industry, that for the windmill people—on and on for more than a hundred pages. Only the space solar power concept had been discarded, and Jake knew that its deletion would make an enemy of Isaiah Knowles.

  Can’t be helped, he told himself. The elder Tomlinson was right: keep the space power idea in the plan and you’ll get laughed out of town.

  That’s when he realized that he wanted to get out of town. He had to. This week. Tomorrow. Now.

  And go where? he asked himself. Not back home. He’d been there and couldn’t bear to go back again, so soon, as if he were running away from Washington with his tail between his legs. Well, aren’t you? he demanded of himself. Big-shot science advisor. You’re in over your head. Admit it.

  Thinking about his last visit to Montana, Jake remembered Bob Rogers telling him about the methanol work being done in San Diego. What the hell, he thought. I might as well go see what they’re doing. Get myself out of town for a few days. He made a couple of phone calls and went home to pack a travel bag.

  He slept most of the way on the flight to California, waking with a start with the noise of the plane lowering its landing gear. Houses were flashing past his window. We’re going to crash! Jake screamed silently. Then he saw the concrete of the runway and heard the wheels screech, touching down. Hills dotted with houses ran along the side of the airport. One of the flight attendants announced, “Welcome to San Diego, where the local time is…”

  Jake sucked in a deep breath. Goddamn airport’s tucked in among the hills, he realized.

  A young black man was waiting for him at the baggage pickup area, holding a neatly printed sign saying DR. ROSS.

  Towing his rollalong bag, Jake went up to him and said, “I’m Jake Ross.”

  The youngster smiled, almost shyly. “I’m Vic. Your luggage is arriving on carousel—”

  “No luggage,” Jake said. “Just this one bag.”

  Vic couldn’t be more than twenty-five, Jake judged. He was a short little kid, a little pudgy, the kind who must have been the butt of the bigger kids’ pranks. Roundish face, dark skin, pleasant bright smile. He was wearing a white short-sleeved shirt hanging loosely over tan corduroy slacks. And tennis shoes.

  As he led Jake to the parking lot, Vic said, “We’re all very happy you asked to see our work. I didn’t think anybody in Washington would show any interest. Not yet.”

  His car was a sleek-looking silver convertible. Jake couldn’t recognize the manufacturer.

  “Built it myself,” Vic said when Jake asked. “Sort of a hobby of mine. Runs on methanol.”

  Of course, Jake thought, with a grin. What else?

  But he asked, “Doesn’t methanol burn out your engine? I read somewhere that it’s very corrosive.”

  “Could be,” Vic said easily as he slid behind the wheel. “But I sprayed the cylinders with a corrosion-resistant compound we developed. Works fine.”

  So far, Jake thought. Then he looked at the dashboard odometer. More than seventy thousand miles.

  “How long have you had this car?”

  With a laugh, Vic answered, “Hey, we run this baby night and day. To see if we’ve got the corrosion problem licked. We do plenty of testing in the lab, as well.”

  Jake was impressed.

  Vic drove the convertible toward the waterfront, explaining, “Rents are cheaper down here. ’Specially when you need a lot of room. Lots of old warehouses available.”

  The harbor was busy, and rows of mothballed Navy ships lined the docks and stood anchored out in the deeper water, looking gray and businesslike.

  They pulled up in front of a single-story structure that must have been a warehouse at one time. Now it had a spanking new coat of white paint and a sign over its main door: WAKEFIELD LABORATORY.

  Vic hopped out of the car and led Jake to the door, assuring him that his travel bag would be perfectly safe, locked in the convertible’s trunk. Jake worried that somebody might steal the car, but the kid seemed unbothered by that possibility.

  Inside, they went down a hallway. Through the open doors on either side Jake could see men and women bent over desks and computers. Most of them were black, like Vic.

  “This is the business side of the company,” Vic explained. “Gotta pay the bills—and the salaries.”

  They went through a double door into an expanse that looked to Jake like a maze of pipes and tubes and vats holding liquids that qurgled and sloshed. Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory, Jake said to himself.

  “Well, this is it,” said Vic, with pride in his voice. He pointed to a row of cylinders. “Carbon dioxide feed is over there, in the next stage we introduce the hydrogen, and”—he walked Jake to the far end of the bewildering rig—“the final product is methanol.”

  Jake looked over the rig. “You produce methanol from carbon dioxide.”

  With an enthusiastic nod, Vic said, “Sure do. We could take the CO2 that power plants and factories puff out their smokestacks and turn it into a clean, efficient fuel for cars, trucks, anything that moves, even planes.”

  “But you have to add hydrogen.”

  “Which we get from electrolyzing water. Split water into its components, oxygen and hydrogen. Feed the hydrogen to the CO2 and you get methanol. We could sell the oxygen to Linde or some other company that deals in industrial gases.”

  “Electrolyzing water takes a lot of energy, though.”

  “Naw. We do it the way Mother Nature does, use genetically modified bacteria to do the job. They run on sunlight and chlorophyll, up on the roof.”

  Jake looked around at the apparatus with new respect. “You can turn waste carbon dioxide into methanol fuel by adding hydrogen that you get from water.”

  “Clean and efficient,” said Vic, his smile gleaming. “What more could you ask for?”

  Jake nodded agreement. “I’m impressed. I’d like to meet this man Wakefield.”

  Vic looked surprised. “That’s me. I’m Victor Wakefield.”

  “You’re … this is your operation?”

  “It surely is.” His smile became radiant.

  Jake tied hard not to frown. But he was thinking, Jesus, this guy is younger than I am!

  * * *

  Vic Wakefield took Jake to his home for dinner. It was a modest clapboard house on a winding street atop a windy hill. One of the houses I saw zipping past when we landed, Jake realized.

  His mother was a pleasant, roundish woman who never got farther from the kitchen than the dining room table, where she delivered platters of fried chicken with heaps of vegetables. No one else seemed to be in the house.

  “My dad died from cancer when I was twelve,” Vic explained. “I’m an only child.”

  “How did you raise the money to start your laboratory?” Jake asked.

  With a shy grin and a glance at his mother, sitting at the head of the table, Vic said, “Local bank. They had faith in me. Wanted to see one of our own make good.”

  “They didn’t loan Victor all that much money,” his mother interjected. “He’s been running his business on a shoestring, really.”

  As the evening unfolded, Jake realized that Vic’s story was a lot like his own. Bright kid, picked on by the bullies in school. Smart enough to do their homework in exchange for their protection. Won a scholarship to a state university.

  “I was always interested in chemistry,” Vic said.

  His mother added, “He damned near blew up my kitchen once.”

  They all laughed.

  The next morning Vic showed up at Jake’s hotel to drive him to the airport.

  Over the noise of the wind and the other cars and trucks on the freeway, Jake asked, “Would you mind if I sent a guy to your lab to look over what you’re doing? I need a second opinion, and—”

 
“Mind? Hell no.” Vic was grinning from ear to ear. “The more people learn about what we’re doing, the better off we’ll be. Might even attract some of those big-time venture capitalists.”

  Jake nodded happily. “Yeah, you just might, at that.”

  The Reaction

  All through the flight back to Washington Jake bent over his notebook, folding the material on Wakefield’s work into his plan.

  With growing excitement, he saw that the methanol concept could make his plan revenue neutral, or close to it. Instead of the expensive chore of burying the carbon dioxide produced by burning fossil fuel, power utilities and manufacturing factories could sell their waste CO2 to companies that would produce methanol from it.

  The oil companies would have to switch from producing gasoline to producing methanol, but that could be phased in gradually, the way they now did with biofuels such as ethanol. And the savings from fueling transportation vehicles with methanol—which emitted half the carbon dioxide that gasoline did—would be a major factor both economically and ecologically.

  By god, Jake thought, we could get the EPA backing this!

  * * *

  After another week of intense work, Jake set up a meeting in the conference room to show the finished project to Senator Tomlinson and his inner staff. On the day of the meeting, he was prepared with a presentation that included PowerPoint visuals and an executive summary.

  Once he’d shown the last slide and turned the overhead lights on again, the staff sat uneasily around the conference table. No one said a word. Nineteen men and women, ranging from a bald corpulent veteran of Beltway insider politics to an eager twenty-something blonde in a short-skirted navy blue outfit. And not one of them had a word to say.

  Just like a class of freshmen, Jake thought. Nobody wants to be the first to speak. Nobody wants to stick his neck out.

  They all looked toward the senator, at the head of the table. Even Kevin O’Donnell, sitting at Tomlinson’s right.

  “Well,” Tomlinson said, almost sternly, “what do you think?”

  The blonde—a recent graduate in ecology—broke their silence. “I think it’s environmentally sound, especially the part about recovering carbon dioxide from burning fossil fuels and not letting it get out into the environment.”