Chương 138: Book 4 - Chapter 17 A

I arrived back to a 70-degree San Diego having escaped on the last Wednesday morning of a 30-degree Tulsa November. I was settling back in at my home, getting things unpacked and binning dirty laundry for the staff when the cellphone rang.

"John Cook," I said, answering the phone.

"It is Martin, John," he said, his voice sounding like he had finally caught his breath after the IPO marathon.

"I hope you had enough turkey to last you through December, because the feeding frenzy for the rest of ARCO is officially on."

"I'm ready, Martin. Give it to me straight. Where do we stand on the liquidation?"

"We are moving into the final phase. Let's look at the inventory," Martin said, and I could hear the rustle of a spreadsheet on his end in New York.

"You started with $30 billion in debt. We cleared the coal and metal mines in September for $10 billion. That got us down to twenty. Then the Chemical IPO on the 15th brought in $7. 2 billion. That left us at $12. 8 billion." I leaned against the counter, my mind already running the numbers.

"And the rest of the hardware?"

"Exactly. Between the Koch deal for the West Coast refineries, the Sunoco and Valero bids for the rest of the plants, the crude pipelines, and the drilling leases, we are looking at roughly $11. 3 billion in final asset sales. If I close all of that by December 31st, we are looking at a total liquidation of $28. 5 billion." I stood still, the math clicking into place with a terrifying clarity of ecstasy.

"Martin, if we sell $28. 5 billion against a $30 billion loan... that only leaves $1. 5 billion in principal."

"That is exactly what I am telling you, John," Martin said, his voice dropping to a whisper of pure awe.

"On January 1st, you will have done more than just 'survive' the ARCO acquisition. You will have paid off ninety-five percent of the debt in less than six months. At 12. 6% interest, your monthly payment on $1. 5 billion is only about $15. 7 million. You'll be making more than that in profit from the ampm stations every single week."

"It's a bit more than that Martin," I reminded him.

"My initial loan was 50% of 65. 5 billion. I've got $4. 25 billion remaining debt, but I've also got $2. 2 billion of that left in my cushion fund."

"You are a nearly debt-free mogul with a national retail footprint and a technology that is about to make the oil we just sold obsolete," Martin laughed.

"You just performed the most successful corporate strip-mine in history and kept the only part that matters."

"Good. Keep the pressure on Sunoco and Valero. I want that $1. 5 billion number to be the only thing I see on my balance sheet when I go to sleep Christmas Eve."

"I'll have the first papers on your desk by Friday. Enjoy the sunset, John. You've earned it." I hung up the phone and looked out at the ocean. I had ended 1988 wondering if I could save Amber, and I was ending 1989 by hitting a new deadline with a perfect bullseye.

"Hey Matt!" I whooped toward the kitchen.

"I made it! We're down to $1. 5 billion!" I'd been back for two weeks at GA. I'd tried to keep busy with reprogramming seeker software for Vought missiles. Eliminating every redundant loop and streamlining it to integrate with MERCURY and ARGUS. It hadn't been enough and Dr Agnew got cross with me.

"You're hovering again," he accused.

"I'm sorry, I'm just excited about this project," I said.

"I've put every penny I can get into the initial build out program, and have even arranged TV time on January 1st after the Rose Parade for the announcement."

"Go do something else," he said.

"Go find your family and spend time with them."

"Sure, but let me double check everything is going okay first?" I begged, giving him puppy dog eyes. He sighed and gave me a small smile.

"All right, Dr Cook, what are your questions."

"Has the CO2 fabric from Chris Craft met the specifications?" I asked, ticking off my worry list.

"Yes we have the full length of that material and it is capturing exactly the correct amount of CO2."

"Are the diamond fabricators getting stuck still?"

"No. We fixed the buildup problem, everything is working smoothly."

"Have you received the graphene felt filter fabric from Corning?"

"Yes, and it has all been tested." If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

"Anything I should know that I didn't ask about?" I asked, getting the main items covered.

"Tina in accounting is getting married," he said, with a snort.

"Oh that is great," I told him.

"She has been worried that her guy wasn't going to pop the question when he learned that she works at the place that makes the big diamonds." He blinked at that, not expecting me to be in on the company gossip circle.

"Well," he said, shifting to the technology of the rumor mill, "the diamond industry has a new laser etching tool, so all mined diamonds are getting a serial number for authentication that they are real diamonds."

"Like I can't put numbers on my diamonds, too," I scoffed.

"They're idiots. Okay, I'm off. I'll be back in Satsop after Christmas, and be there until the announcement."

"See you then, enjoy your time off. And thank you for going!" he shouted as I headed out the door. I headed back to the house to finish packing. Max seemed to sense the change in energy, pacing around his travel carrier and letting out a low, protesting hiss-growl.

"You're going back to the Mayo, Max," I told him as I zipped my bag.

"You get to see Mattie again." He stopped growling and actually climbed into the carrier. Apparently, the promise of hotel carpets and a high-energy eleven-year-old was better than a quiet house in San Diego. Matt was waiting for me in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a stack of folders.

"I heard you're heading back to Tulsa early. Agnew finally kicked you out?"

"He did. He says I'm hovering. But Matt, the math from Martin... it makes everything for 1990 almost perfect. But, we need more than simply building a demo plant at Satsop. We need a global headquarters. I plan to run SynFuel from Tulsa." Matt nodded, scribbling a note.

"I had a feeling. You do better around your family."

"I promised Mom I'd be there for Christmas. She let me leave after Thanksgiving because I hinted I might move back. I'm taking the 767 today. It can handle a little snow." I flew out of San Diego that afternoon. By the time we crossed the Rockies, the sun was setting, casting long, purple shadows across the snow-capped peaks. Surrounded only by the hum of the engines and the 41, 000 foot view, I didn't do any work. I didn't practice my speech.

I just looked out the window with Max the whole flight, appreciating the stillness of the moment. The landing at Tulsa International was bumpy. A cold front had pushed down from Canada, dropping the temperature into the low twenties and whipping the wind into a frenzy. It didn't matter that it was 60 in San Diego, I didn't care. I left the security team at the garage and took the elevator straight to the fifteenth floor. When the doors opened, I wasn't met with the usual chaos.

It was quiet, the only sound being the crackle of the fake fireplace and the low hum of a Christmas carol coming from the stereo. Mom was sitting on the sofa with a book in her lap. When she saw me, she dropped the book and stood up, her face lighting up with a smile that made the last six months of stress vanish.

"You're early," she whispered, pulling me into a hug.

"I'm home, Mom," I said and buried my face in her shoulder.

"And I'm staying for a week."

"Your Dad is in the kitchen with Grandpa," she said, pulling back to look at me.

"They're trying to figure out how to fry a turkey for the staff Christmas party tomorrow. You might want to go save them." I laughed and headed toward the kitchen as Max trotted happily beside me. I basked in the warm cinnamon smells of the holiday. I pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen and stopped dead. The large prep table, usually pristine, was covered in a chaotic spread of stainless steel parts, a propane regulator and a thick instruction manual that looked like it had been through a war.

"No, the burner ring has to go under the stand, otherwise you're just heating the pavement," Dad said, poking at a piece of metal with a screwdriver.

"If we put it under the stand, the legs won't reach the ground," Grandpa countered, squinting through his bifocals at a brass fitting.

"It's a design flaw. I'm telling you, the engineers at the factory were drinking on the job."

"Need a hand?" I asked, leaning against the door frame. They both looked up at once, their faces shifting from frustration to immediate relief.

"John! Thank God," Grandpa said, waving me over with the screwdriver.

"Come here and look at this. We're trying to get this rigged up for the staff party tomorrow. We're going to take it up to the roof and fry a couple of birds, but this regulator won't seat right." I walked over and looked at the assembly. It was a standard outdoor fryer, but Grandpa had managed to thread the gas line backward.

"You've got the support frame reversed. If you'd turned the gas on, you would have had a flamethrower, not a fryer."

"See?" Grandpa barked, nudging Dad.

"I told you it didn't look right. Fix it, John. You're the one with the PhD." I went to work on the fittings, my hands moving by instinct. It felt good to deal with a simple mechanical problem that didn't involve radiation or carbon-capture fabrics.

"Why are we doing this on the roof?" I asked them as I pulled it apart and put it together.

"Better ventilation," Dad explained, watching me work.

"Plus, the staff will get a kick out of seeing the owners actually cooking. It's a new tradition in the making."

"Just make sure those turkeys are completely defrosted before you drop them in," I warned, tightening the last nut on the burner.

"If there's even a little ice inside, the water will flash to steam instantly and spray boiling oil everywhere. It'll basically be a fuel-air bomb on top of the Mayo." Grandpa chuckled, patting my shoulder.

"A fuel-air bomb. Listen to him. The boy comes home for Christmas and the first thing he does is give us a safety lecture on explosives."

"I'm serious, Grandpa. It'll explode."

"We'll defrost them, John, I promise," Dad said, smiling as he admired the now-correctly assembled burner.

"It's good to have you back. We were about ten minutes away from just ordering pizza for sixty people." I basked in the warmth of the room and the hug as Dad put one arm around me. Here, I wasn't the man saving the world or the mogul destroying ARCO. I was just the son who knew how to fix the fryer. I'd join them on the roof tomorrow, despite the cold. The helpful son was a role I could play this week with joy.