Power Surge

by Ben Bova

  Before Jake had time to think of an answer he heard Tami say, “Jake ran afoul of Senator Santino.”

  “Really!”

  “That’s not for publication,” Jake said quickly. “It’s strictly off the record.”

  “Oh Jake,” Cecilia said, “you know that nothing’s off the record with Power Talk. But don’t worry, I won’t attribute you as my source. Now you’ve got to tell me what happened!”

  Without a word to the women she’d been talking with, Cecilia led Jake, Tami, and Fairweather away from the bar and through a door into a quiet room that was almost bare except for the desk and flat-screen computer monitor atop it. The room was lit by a single lamp on the table beside the only other piece of furniture: a long, angled couch.

  “I’d heard that there’s some sort of trouble between Senator Tomlinson and Santino,” she said, sitting herself on one side of the couch and gesturing for her guests to sit on the other side, facing her.

  “It’s actually a conflict between Santino and Senator Perlmutter,” Jake said.

  “Ahh,” said Lady Cecilia, with a knowing smile. “The Little Saint and the blimp from Nebraska.”

  Tami giggled and Fairweather grinned. But Jake asked, quite seriously, “Did you read the speech that Senator Tomlinson gave at Lehigh University last week?”

  “Read? A speech?” Cecilia looked aghast.

  “It lays out the relationship between our current energy situation and the worldwide price of food.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about it.”

  Jake glanced at Tami, who nodded.

  Lady Cecilia purred, “Don’t worry, Jake, your name won’t be mentioned in any way.”

  Fairweather urged, “It’s okay, Jake. She’ll keep your name out of it.”

  Jake said, “It’d be better if you heard this from the senator himself.”

  “I’d love to!” Cecilia said. “I’d adore doing an interview with him. He’s very sexy. But until now I didn’t think he’d have anything interesting to say.”

  Fairweather said, “You know, Jake, your senator comes across as a dumb blond.”

  You’re the blond, Jake retorted silently. Frank’s got dark hair.

  “He has a lot to say,” Jake told Lady Cecilia, “but until now he’s been sort of muzzled by Santino.”

  “He needs a good PR rep,” Fairweather said.

  “Maybe,” said Jake.

  Sitting primly on the couch, Lady Cecilia coaxed, “Why don’t you explain the business to me, so I won’t appear a total ignoramus when I meet your senator.”

  Mission accomplished! Jake thought. She wants to interview Frank. The ultimate DC blog is going to be Frank’s megaphone.

  So he began explaining the energy plan, its relationship to food prices, and the struggle between Santino and Perlmutter.

  Tomlinson Residence

  Jake was only mildly surprised when Kevin O’Donnell phoned him at WETA the following morning.

  “He wants to see you,” said the senator’s chief of staff.

  “Okay,” Jake said guardedly.

  “His house, this evening. Can you do that?”

  “Can I bring a date?”

  O’Donnell’s voice snarled, “This isn’t a party, Jake. It’s business.”

  Thinking that he’d have to break his dinner date with Tami, Jake asked, “Will he at least feed me?”

  He could hear O’Donnell huffing angrily. “Oh, so you get Lady Cecilia to call him and you think you’re a big cheese, huh?”

  “Not me,” said Jake. “I’m just an expendable nobody.”

  “Will you be there tonight or not?”

  Surprised at how resentful he felt, Jake said, “I’ll be there. Seven o’clock okay?”

  “Seven will be fine.”

  No sooner had Jake replaced his desk phone in its cradle than it rang again. This time it was Earl Reynolds.

  “Hello, Earl,” he said pleasantly.

  Reynolds’s tone was not pleasant. “The senator got a call this morning from some dude at Norton and Ingels.”

  “Bill Fairweather,” said Jake.

  “Right. So now you’re a PR consultant?”

  Jake puffed out a breath. “No, I’m just returning a favor.”

  “And you’ve got the senator onto Power Talk, too.”

  “I guess I did.”

  “I could have gotten him onto Power Talk, you know. We didn’t think he was ready for that, not yet. We were staying low, out of Santino’s way, and now you bust in and make a mess of everything.”

  Holding on to his rising temper, Jake replied evenly, “Sorry if I trod on your toes, Earl. I thought I was helping, not hurting.”

  “If Frank wanted your help, he wouldn’t have fired you.”

  As mollifyingly as he could manage, Jake said, “Yeah, I suppose so.”

  “Just stay out of my turf,” Reynolds said. Jake got the mental impression that he was trying to sound like one of the teenaged toughs in West Side Story.

  “I’m only trying to help Frank.”

  “Yeah. And we don’t need any damned Norton and Ingels, either!” Reynolds hung up with a bang.

  Jake held the phone for a moment, then shook his head. No matter what I do, it’s wrong, he thought. At least, that’s what they think.

  * * *

  Late that afternoon, as Jake was tidying up his desk before leaving for home, one of the news producers popped his head through his doorway.

  “Got a minute?” she asked.

  Jake tried to remember her name. Gloria something, he thought. Tall and lank, with stringy dark hair falling past her shoulders.

  “A minute,” he said.

  Stepping into his office, she said excitedly, “There’s a tropical storm gathering strength in the Gulf of Mexico. The Weather Service’s named it Belinda. They say it could become a hurricane and—”

  “Isn’t it kind of early for a hurricane?”

  She shrugged. “Season began June first, but, yeah, they don’t usually spool up so soon.”

  Before Jake could ask why she was talking to him about the storm, she explained, “Looks like Belinda’s heading for the offshore oil rigs off the Louisiana coast. By the time it hits them it’ll be a full-fledged hurricane. Maybe category three.”

  “Like Katrina,” Jake breathed.

  Nodding, the producer said, “So what happens to those oil rigs if the storm hits ’em?”

  Jake said, “They’re built to withstand a pounding.”

  “Yeah, but they shut down, don’t they?”

  “For a day or so.”

  “Maybe more?”

  “Could be. Depends on how much damage the storm does.”

  “So what does that do to gasoline prices?”

  He saw at last what she was driving at. “Gas prices go up, naturally. For a few days. Maybe a week.”

  “More than a week?” she asked eagerly.

  “Depends on how much damage the storm does to the rigs, how quickly they can get back on line after it blows over.”

  “Gas prices spike for a week or longer,” she said, looking pleased.

  Jake nodded minimally. “Could be.”

  “Okay. Great. Thanks.” And she left his office.

  Jake shook his head. News people. The more it’s burning or bleeding, the more they like it. Or drowning.

  * * *

  As he drove toward Tomlinson’s house, Jake realized why O’Donnell was ticked off. I’m showing him up! Frank ditched me, but I still got Lady Cecilia to call him for an interview on Power Talk. O’Donnell didn’t do it, I did.

  And Reynolds, too. He’s afraid I’m invading his turf. Almost, Jake smiled to himself. Behold the lowly turtle, he thought. He can’t make progress unless he sticks his neck out. O’Donnell and Reynolds don’t want to stick their necks out; they’re afraid of getting their heads chopped off.

  Maybe I ought to be afraid of getting my head chopped, Jake told himself as he parked his Mustang behind the azaleas. But what the
hell more can they do to me? I’ve got nothing to lose.

  The senator opened the front door himself, looking serious, almost somber, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, his tie pulled loose, and his collar unbuttoned.

  “Hello, Jake,” he said, gesturing Jake into the foyer. With an almost apologetic grin, he explained, “Butler’s night off.”

  Jake followed him down the hallway to the library. O’Donnell was already there, sitting in one of the armchairs with a tumbler of whiskey in his hand.

  “Amy’s out, too,” Tomlinson said, heading for the bar set up on the rolling cart. “She’s at some charity dinner in Alexandria.”

  “Just us guys,” Jake said, following the senator to the bar.

  “Help yourself,” said Tomlinson, as he splashed scotch into a lowball glass. Jake poured himself a glass of water, thinking, Better keep a clear head.

  Tomlinson sat on the sofa, Jake took the chair by the coffee table, opposite O’Donnell.

  “I’ve agreed to do an interview on Power Talk,” the senator said.

  Jake nodded.

  “Santino’s not going to like it,” said O’Donnell. “I think we shouldn’t do it unless we clear it with the Little Saint first.”

  “But suppose we ask him about it and he says no,” Tomlinson asked. “What then?”

  “He won’t say no,” said Jake. “Not if you make him understand that you’ll be cutting Perlmutter’s legs out from under him.”

  “Cutting Perlmutter…?” O’Donnell looked disgusted. “Get real, Jake! You can’t hurt Perlmutter.”

  “I can’t,” Jake shot back, “but Frank can.”

  “By attacking the ethanol mandate?”

  “That’s right. Frank can come across as the senator who cares about how ethanol production causes hunger in the poor areas of the world. How it raises the price of bread in your neighborhood supermarket. And the price of beef.”

  “So you want Franklin to take on the farm lobby?”

  Leaning forward, toward O’Donnell, Jake said, “I want Frank to show how his energy plan can help farmers—and everybody else.”

  Before O’Donnell could react to that, Jake turned to the senator and said, “You’ve got to make Santino see that your energy plan can get him elected Majority Leader in September.”

  Tomlinson clasped his drink in both hands. “So I’ll have to tell Santino that the energy plan can hurt Perlmutter.”

  “No!” Jake snapped. “Show the Little Saint how it will help him. He’ll understand that anything that helps him hurts Perlmutter.”

  O’Donnell muttered, “I don’t like this one little bit. Franklin, you should be keeping your head low and staying out of the spotlight. Hell, I could’ve gotten you onto Power Play, but we agreed you didn’t want to get Santino pissed at you.”

  Grimly, Tomlinson said, “He couldn’t be more pissed with me than he is now. Maybe Jake’s right, maybe it’s time to fight back.”

  “It’s a mistake,” O’Donnell insisted. “A big mistake.”

  Tomlinson broke into a grin. “Maybe. But it’s better than doing nothing. Set up a meeting with Santino for me, Kevin, would you please?”

  “You’ll be committing political suicide.”

  “Maybe. But that’s better than being buried alive, like I am now.”

  Jake said, “Why don’t you bring me along when you meet with Santino? You can blame the whole situation on me.”

  Tomlinson glanced at O’Donnell, then said, “Not a bad idea, Jake.”

  The expression on O’Donnell’s face could have etched steel.

  Senator Santino’s Office

  Santino blinked three times as Tomlinson and Jake stepped into his office.

  “Dr. Ross,” he said, without getting up from behind his desk. “You seem to be everywhere these days.”

  The office was so big it took Jake and Tomlinson almost a dozen strides to reach Santino’s desk. As they approached, Tomlinson said, “Jake’s an old friend. He’s much more than a staffer to me.”

  “So I see,” said Santino. “So I see. Well, sit down. Tell me what I can do for you.”

  Jake realized Santino had decided to see them alone, without any of his staff present. Is that a good thing or a bad one? he wondered. Is he recording what we say?

  As Senator Tomlinson settled into one of the chocolate brown leather chairs in front of Santino’s desk, he said, “I’ve been asked to appear on Power Talk.”

  “Appear?”

  “Lady Cecilia wants to interview me, on camera, for her blog.”

  Glancing at Jake, Santino said darkly, “About your energy plan, I presume.”

  “About how the energy plan can get you elected Majority Leader,” Jake blurted.

  Santino leaned back in his desk chair and smiled, like a snake. “And just how will your plan accomplish that, may I ask?”

  Tomlinson said, “The ethanol mandate has raised food prices around the world.”

  “I know that. Regrettable—unless you’re in the agribusiness industry.”

  “The energy plan will encourage farmers to resume producing food,” Tomlinson went on, “and at the same time lower their costs with cheaper fuel and cheaper electricity.”

  “In ten years or so,” Santino countered.

  “Less than that,” Jake said. “In three years the cost of gasoline will be ten percent lower than it is today. Maybe more than ten percent.”

  “And you think that will balance the income farmers will lose if the ethanol mandate is eliminated?”

  “You don’t have to eliminate the mandate,” Jake said. “Just subsidize methanol production for five years. Let the farmers and everybody else buy gasoline that’s mixed with methanol. Let the free market do its work.”

  Pointing a lean finger at Jake, Santino said, “With government subsidies for methanol? That’s hardly a free market.”

  “The subsidies will be temporary. Five years.”

  “Young man, there’s no such thing as a temporary subsidy. Once a subsidy is in place, it’s practically impossible to get rid of it.”

  Jake countered, “The ethanol mandate has been reduced several times over the past few years by the EPA, hasn’t it?”

  Santino pursed his lips before answering. “That’s true. Support for the mandate is weakening. That’s why Perlmutter is defending it so fiercely. He knows he’s vulnerable there.”

  Tomlinson broke in. “So by backing the energy plan you can show the world that you’re acting to lower global food prices. It wouldn’t take much to show that most of the farmers in the United States actually work for agribusiness corporations. You could expose Senator Perlmutter as a tool of the agribusiness industry, a man who doesn’t care how much a loaf of bread or a slice of meat costs the American taxpayer. To say nothing of the hungry people in the poorer nations of the world.”

  Steepling his fingers as he leaned back in his desk chair, Santino asked mildly, “That’s the line you intend to take on Power Talk?”

  “I don’t intend to attack Perlmutter,” said Tomlinson. “But I think the viewers will be able to put two and two together.”

  Santino lifted his eyes to the ceiling and said, so low that Jake could barely hear him, “But will the members of the Senate get that message?”

  “Their staff aides will,” said Jake. “And they’ll realize that you’re the man they want as the next Majority Leader.”

  “Really.” Santino’s tone was halfway between skepticism and ambition.

  Tomlinson said, “Of course, I’m only a very junior senator. But I think that this energy plan could help you a lot, sir.”

  “Really?” Santino repeated.

  Silence fell over the room for several agonizingly long moments.

  “I think my appearance on Power Talk could be the first step in your campaign against Perlmutter,” Tomlinson said. “Of course, I wouldn’t mention the senator by name, but—”

  Raising a hand, Santino said, “I understand. I see the picture. You
’d better not mention my name, either.”

  Tomlinson nodded. “But I should mention that the energy committee is reviewing the plan.”

  “Yes. Of course. And mention that the committee is very much aware of the relationship between energy prices and food prices. Tell them that our plan will help the farmer and the consumer.”

  Barely able to contain his delight, Jake added, “And poor people around the world!”

  Santino closed his eyes briefly. “Yes, that too.”

  Power Talk

  It was pouring rain as Jake drove to Lady Cecilia’s house. Belinda had hit the Gulf Coast hard, and this storm was a spinoff from the hurricane as it made its way inland from the Louisiana coast. It’s supposed to get weaker as it moves inland, Jake thought. If it can generate this much rain here in Washington, it can’t be all that weak.

  There was no place to park; the curbs were bumper to bumper with cars. As he drove slowly along the puddled street, windshield wipers swishing, Jake searched for an open spot. He spotted a space, but it turned out to be a driveway. He didn’t see Tomlinson’s black sedan anywhere along the block. Of course, he thought, Frank didn’t have to park. He had his driver let him off; when he’s finished he’ll call for the driver to pick him up again.

  At last he found an open space, two blocks from the house. Jake backed into it carefully, then reached behind his seat to pull his foldable umbrella out from the seatback pocket.

  Umbrella or not, by the time he reached Lady Cecilia’s house Jake was wet and miserable. A servant in a dark suit opened the door for him, then jumped back as Jake shook the dripping umbrella over the doorstep.

  With a disdainful look, the servant took the umbrella from him, deposited it in a half-filled stand, then hissed, “This way, sir.”

  Jake was led through the living room, his shoes squishing on the carpeting, to the sparsely furnished room that Cecilia used as an office. This morning it had been turned into a TV studio. A chunky bearded fellow was sitting on a rickety-looking swivel chair with laptop computer open on his knees, staring intently at its screen. Senator Tomlinson and Lady Cecilia were chatting amiably, facing each other on the angled couch. Kevin O’Donnell was standing by the door, arms folded across his chest, like a grim-faced security guard.