by Kat Duncan
"Anton is my half brother, you know," Valter huffed.
"Yes. And nothing like you, Valter," Kem apologized. "I didn't mean to imply that you and Anton are similar in any way other than birth."
Valter nodded and his face relaxed.
"Is he not active in your bank?" she asked. "His resume gives his title as Assistant Director."
"He is active if he is around long enough. My father has tried to keep him engaged with various titles and duties. But he is always running off on some adventure, cooking up another scheme that typically serves to embarrass the bank."
"Ah," she said with sudden understanding, "and it is your appointed role to rescue the bank from these situations."
"Not my appointed role, no, but a role that I feel is my duty to perform."
She nodded and looked away. "Your father," she took a tentative breath, feeling as if she was treading into matters of a deep personal nature, "will be retiring soon?"
"That is what he says."
"So he has made you the Director General of the bank."
"Acting Director General. Until he finalizes his decision."
"Who else is being considered?"
Valter said nothing.
"So you will become the Director General and not Anton?"
"Perhaps," Valter's lips tightened.
"You seem - angry."
"Yes, as I should."
Kem leveled him in her gaze and gave him a warm smile. "I'm listening."
"Anton is so...." His nostrils flared. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."
"Please, continue," she coaxed. She reached to him, a delicate pat to his hand to indicate interest. A moment later she realized she hadn't removed her hand. She left it.
"Anton and I were born on the same day. I in Munich, he in Prague."
"So far apart."
"Not that far. Only a few hundred kilometers."
"I don't mean the cities."
"My father's bank was very active in Eastern Europe. Until the Iron Curtain. Then he moved Anton and his mother, Maria, to Munich."
"How did he keep it a secret from your mother?"
"He never did. My father was open about the whole affair from the very beginning."
"Your father sounds like a very colorful person."
"Colorful? Yes. That is one possible word for him."
"As colorful as your brother?"
"Half brother. Perhaps Anton is a hue stronger."
"Who was born first?"
"Anton. By two hours."
"I see. Continue."
"My father was always trying to get his two sons together. But we never got along. We were so very opposite. Anton was always scheming and planning. Never showing responsibility."
"But your father liked him and his brash ways."
Valter snorted.
"I see," she said.
He looked away. "What about you, Kem?"
"I was born on Madura Island. The soil is poor, and everyone struggles. Including my family."
"Let me guess, you are just like your mother."
"So I've been told, but I don't know. I've never met her."
Valter's brows pinched.
"She died in childbirth with me."
"I'm sorry."
"Thank you."
Valter looked out the window as the jet tilted upward and its wheels left the runway.
"Did you," Valter hesitated, "ever blame yourself?"
"My older sister, Hijau, has always resented me. But, no, I don't feel that way. I do feel the need to continue my mother's legacy."
"Why?"
"It is the flow of life."
"What is the legacy you need to continue?"
"To help others."
Valter nodded. "Well you are certainly doing a good job of that. What about your father?"
"My father was a brilliant teacher. He was even offered a full professorship at the university in East Java. However, he said our people needed us where we were. So we stayed, struggled, and kept near our Madurese culture. During the 1998 Asian Financial Crisis, he went to Jakarta to join in the protests. He was killed just before General Suharto resigned."
"That is why you are so worried. If the last economic crisis brought down the dictatorship, the next one could bring down the democracy."
Kem didn't answer. A storm of worry gripped her and she had to look away.
"My country," she whispered, "my democracy is - everything. My father died to give it to me." She heaved a stressful sigh. "My grandfather is still very active in politics."
"Pangbar?" Valter mused. "I don’t recall another Pangbar in Indonesian politics."
"We don’t have a family name."
"Yes. Very common in Indonesia."
"Also because my father and grandfather didn’t get along. My father took the name Pangbar to separate himself."
"What is your grandfather’s name?"
"Sunda Cloud."
***
The sweltering humidity of an Alabama summer blew into the limo when the driver lowered his window at the guard shack. The sprawling Halobuxton campus of low buildings spread before him. As a contractor to the US Navy, they could afford the very best. This was the only place like this in the world where engineers could test their creations under simulated conditions. From the deepest oceans to the heights of outer space, they could poke and prod. Without killing anyone.
Most of the buildings were off limits to a foreign national like Anton. He only cared about one building, the Arctic Simulation Facility. Today there would be a special exception made for him.
The limo pulled up to the building and slid into a VIP parking slot. A moment later another limo pulled in next to him. Plastered across its side in flamboyant lettering were the words Global Phoenix. Anton chuckled. He wasn’t the only foreigner for whom VIP treatment was being given.
Nikolai stepped from the car, standing with arms crossed, feet firmly apart. Behind him came a big man. Young, maybe early thirties. Several inches taller than Nikolai, even broader in the shoulders. His snake skin cowboy boots clacked on the pavement. A black cowboy hat sat on top of his head, complete with a turquoise and silver concho brooch studded in its center. He pushed back the hat and examined Anton.
"You must be the famous Anton Zelman," the man greeted in a long Texas drawl, extending a ham-hock of a hand to shake.
"You must be Thomas Lukeson," Anton returned.
The man took Anton’s hand and shook, crushing his fingers into a crippling wad.
"My friends call me Luke." Luke continued to pump Anton’s hand. "So do my enemies." With a snort of satisfaction he released him.
"You're a bit young to have too many enemies yet, Luke," said Anton.
The younger man turned back and stared down at him. "And you're too old to be playing around with young bucks like me."
Anton smiled. "I've got at least twenty years of experience on you. On more continents and in more countries than you can count. We'll see who wins this one," he challenged.
One side of Luke's mouth turned up. "You're right. This is just one corner of a global battle. The whole financial world is our battleground. And I'm one of the few men in the world who can do battle with you. I know what you're doing in In-Do-Nee-Sia. I cut my baby teeth on currency manipulations."
"Gentlemen," an eager voice enthused, breaking the stare-down. "Dan Furlong. I’m team coordinator for the combined Arctic ice testing of the Novshesta-8 and Innov-8 drill platforms. I’m glad to meet you at last, Mr. Zelman. And you Mr. Lukeson and you, Mr. Brosnarov."
Dan seemed genuinely happy to meet him. He should be. At fifteen million dollars for Anton’s half of the test, he should be happy to meet the devil himself. Anton made an inward chuckle. Little did the young man realize that he just had. Three of them.
"Shall we proceed?"
Dan led them across the blistering pavement toward a small entryway. By the time they reached it, Anton’s shirt was clinging to his sweaty torso. Luke was
dry as a bone.
Luke reached over and placed his heavy hand on Anton’s shoulder. "Word of advice," he whispered, "Never let 'em see you sweat."
At the door was a sign, "Warning: Frostbite Hazard". Only the Americans would put an arctic simulation facility in a place like this.
Inside the door was a dressing room. Cold, but not the stinging temperatures that lay deeper inside the building. In the room, hooded ski jackets, snow pants, boots, and gloves of all sizes hung in meticulous order.
When everyone was suited, Dan gave them a once over. "Mr. Lukeson. If you would, please remove your hat and put your parka hood up and around your face."
Luke reached into his pocket, pulled out a plug of chewing tobacco, placed it in his cheek, and walked through the door.
The main testing room was three times the size of a hockey rink. The cavernous, brightly lit room seemed to swallow them. The tank in front of them was completely covered in ice, its thickness scaled to match that of the arctic winter. An array of cables and sensors hung from the high ceiling down to the ice to measure and record its every motion.
Near the middle of the tank, surrounded in ice, was a round vessel, fifteen feet in diameter, a scale model of Innov-8. Its hull was fluted with a series of ice-cracking ribs around its perimeter. A miniature drilling gantry extended upward, cranes hung over its edge, a helicopter pad cantilevered out over the ice. All decorated in Trans-Sea blue, dotted with miniature Swiss and Canadian flags.
A short distance away from Innov-8 was a similar prototype, the Russian Global Phoenix Novshesta-8. Except for the red color and American and Russian flags, it was identical to Innov-8. Anton knew this because their hull design had been stolen from Trans-Sea.
Both vessels were not designed to sail around the arctic. They were drill rigs built to stay in exactly one location over the seabed. Arctic ice could shift and attack from any direction, pushing the rig off position. Shallow water rigs had legs that attached themselves to the sea floor. But in deep water, another method was needed to keep the rig rock hard stable.
Inside the platforms were powerful drive units that could thrust against the ice in any direction. Forwards, backwards, even left and right, all with equal ease. In actual operation, Innov-8 would have miles of fragile drill shaft extending down. If the vessel moved, the drill would snap, and the Arctic would drown in suffocating oil
This test would prove that would not happen.
The real technology was not the boat itself, or its motors. It was the software that could make split-second decisions to combat the ice, no matter how cleaver its assault.
"You ready to lose, there, Anton?"
These pompous Americans were easy to deal with. Just a bubble of hot air that would pop with the first pin-prick. It was the quiet Americans you had to be careful with. They were the ones who built the Panama Canal, invented the nuclear bomb, and landed a man on the moon. Anton had made sure Innov-8’s software was written by quiet Americans.
Around the perimeter of the test tank were large hydraulic rams to push and pull on the ice to simulate the natural motion of the Arctic. The goal of the test was simple. Move the ice, but not Innov-8. If Innov-8 moved, it failed.
Ditto for Novshesta.
Above the visitor's platform was the control room occupied by a half dozen technicians behind pane glass windows. A row of computer mainframes behind them would record every nuance of the test. Dan raised his walkie-talkie and gave the order to start.
The groaning strain of yielding ice echoed around the cavernous room. Dotted across the ice-field, yellow and black crosshair reticules showed the steady movements of the ice.
A readout in front of Anton displayed the operation of Innov-8's thrusters, a series of green bars that danced up and down as it responded to the ice. Its scaled-down motors revved in a synchronized ballet, choreographed by the software. Anton didn’t need the computer screen to tell Innov-8 was holding position perfectly. But so was Novshesta.
Then the groaning stopped, followed by a new set of sounds as the ice flow reversed, exposing the platforms to ice from a different direction. Around both vessels the ice buckled and yielded as they adapted to the change. Again the groaning stopped. Two of the four possible directions were completed. The test resumed with another set of rams pushing from a third direction. Within fifteen minutes, both vessels had successfully completed all the testing.
"Well congratulations there, Anton," Luke drawled. "The pathway to the Arctic is now open to both of us. Too bad for you that with my buddy Nikolai’s more powerful arctic fleet, it’s more open to us. But don’t worry there, Anton. We won’t shut you out completely." Luke chuckled to Nikolai. "Just yet." Luke gave out a deep belly laugh and slapped Anton on the back. He turned to leave.
"Run two sets of rams simultaneously," Anton ordered.
"What?" Dan replied, not understanding the request.
"If you use two sets of rams at the same time, the ice will move diagonally. You can do that, can’t you?"
"Well, ah, yeah," Dan stammered.
"Now, hold your horses, there Anton. That is not in the test agreement."
"It is now."
"You can’t go flip-flopping every which way whenever the wind changes."
"What’s the matter, Luke? Are you afraid?"
The big man glared.
"But the extra fees," protested Dan.
"If big-guy here doesn’t have enough, I’ll pay for it," Anton challenged.
"You’re on." Luke held out his hand to shake and confirm the deal.
"Save it for your ‘buddy’." Anton turned his back.
Dan squawked into his walkie-talkie.
The ice started moving in a new, unplanned direction. The computers and drive motors in both prototype platforms responded.
Without warning, Novshesta began to shimmy, unable to respond to the unexpected conditions. The green indicator bars on Luke’s display flailed wildly, flashing red. Slowly, the platform rolled, its software unable to maintain its bearing, cutting through the ice in the wrong direction. Had it been drilling, everything would have been lost. An ecological and financial disaster worst than Deep Sea Horizon in the Gulf of Mexico.
Anton smiled in victory, forcing himself not to break into an outright grin at Luke's expression of fury. "Don’t worry, Luke. Someday you’ll get it right." He turned, nodded politely to Nikolai, and headed for the door.
***
Valter stood and stepped to the jet's galley.
"Are you hungry?" he asked Kem.
"Yes. Dinner would be good."
He opened the small freezer. "Would you like chicken or beef?"
"Do you have anything vegetarian?"
"Let's see." He rummaged for a moment. "You are in luck. But it has a butter cream sauce."
"That is fine."
He placed their meals in the oven. "You're a vegetarian?" He opened the wine cabinet and selected a Riesling.
"Yes. The flow of life. It is my belief."
Valter nodded. "Can you tell me more…about Sunda I mean…How do we stop him?"
"Sunda's goal is to destabilize the new Indonesian government by collapsing the rupiah. He's buying rupiah on the international market. Enough to inflate its value. Meanwhile, Anton is buying futures, selling rupiah currency he does not yet own today, promising to deliver in the future. If the currency value drops, he will make a fortune."
"The more he buys," Valter added, "the bigger the panic, compounding his gains. Sunda marches on Jakarta, and Anton makes billions."
"Yes, and my predecessor foolishly added to the problem by printing excess rupiah, increasing the bubble and causing inflation."
Valter handed her a glass of the Riesling. "So stop printing."
"We have. That is making the problem even worse, by causing a budget shortfall. It is a perfect storm of factors all triangulating in on the rupiah."
"A fire storm always takes a number of factors to create it. Has Anton actually bought enough
futures to trigger the panic?"
"A panic, yes. And a run on the banks. However, it appears he can only sustain this for a day at best. Then this crisis will all blow over, leaving an ugly scar on the lives of my people."
"This doesn’t make sense. Anton will make billions today, only to loose them tomorrow."
"And my grandfather's political gains as well. By tomorrow things will bounce back and the present government will look like heroes for saving the country. Neither Anton nor Sunda are stupid. So what is going on?"
"Yes. Very confusing." Valter stared out the window, the clouds aglow in orange crimson as the jet plunged eastward into the approaching night. He checked his watch. Early morning in Tulsa. He pulled out his cell phone, and put it on speakerphone.
"Hello."
"Professor Jones. This is Valter Mahler. How are you this morning?"
"Valter. You scared me."
"How could I have scared you, Professor Jones?"
"This new phone. It never rings. I finally got it to stop playing music, but now it buzzes when ever someone calls."
Valter shook his head at the eccentric but brilliant old man. "I have Dr. Kemuning Pangbar here with me."
"Ah, yes. How are you Kem?"
"I am well, Professor Jones. We have a puzzle for you."
"Oh, good, I like puzzles."
"The Indonesian rupiah," Kem explained, "is being over-inflated by Anton Zelman. He wants to make a fortune by short selling. But he hasn't bought enough futures. What is going on?"
"Anton Zelman. He is Valter's brother, isn't he?"
"Half brother," Valter interjected.
"Yes. Yes."
"What is going on with Anton?"
"Paraguay."
"I don't understand, Professor Jones."
"In 1954 I was a summer intern with the World Monetary Fund when a wealthy shipping magnate, Hugo Ignacio Taborda, tried the same thing. He started by buying huge amounts of the national currency, the Guarania. This created a bubble. He simultaneously bought futures. When he finally reached critical mass, he dumped the Guarania. This started a run on the banks. The ensuing panic created a bigger drop, creating a downward spiral that seemed to be without end. We immediately put in supports to prop up the Guarania. Within a day the currency stabilized."
"And that saved the economy?"
"It should have, but no. Taborda had anticipated we would do that, and he followed it with a massive short sell of corporate stocks. The only way to save the economy was to provide price supports to the stocks. However, as the entire local stock market collapsed, we couldn't tell which stocks he was dumping."
