The Hidden Truth: A Science Fiction Techno-Thriller

by Hans G. Schantz

  “A completed search is progress of a sort, sir,” I offered, “even if you don’t find what you were looking for. At least now we have fewer places to look.”

  “That’s looking on the bright side!” he acknowledged with a grin. “Sorry I haven’t called you earlier, but your father has this notion we should only discuss it in person.”

  “He’s just being careful,” I noted. “Dad thinks if there’s anything to this at all, it must be a modern cover-up from the folks at Omnitia. I think it’s more likely to have been something going on a hundred years ago.”

  “Hard to say,” Mr. Burleson said with a shrug, “but it was interesting to look into. If you do find out anything further, let me know. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I replied. “I appreciate all your help.”

  Dad and Uncle Rob were still talking off by themselves, sipping from small shot glasses of amber liquid as I approached. Bourbon, I presumed. Maybe Uncle Rob had aged some of his moonshine? I figured they’d respond best to directness. I squared myself in front of them, I looked Uncle Rob in the eye, and I asked, “So, what is this grand scheme you’re working on with my father?”

  Uncle Rob turned to address Dad, “He sure don’t beat around the bush much, does he?”

  “He’s got a determined streak to him,” Dad acknowledged. “Grabs onto something and won’t let it go. Must get that from his mother.”

  “Well, he might have gotten that from our side,” Uncle Rob speculated. “But at least he has better sense in his choice of obsessions than Grandpappy. You know…”

  “With respect, sir,” I cut him off, “I would appreciate it if you’d do me the courtesy of an answer.”

  Uncle Rob burst out with a laugh. “Real polite, too. Should I tell him?”

  “Go ahead,” Dad smiled. “I expect you’ll have no peace until you satisfy him. And it was your notion got us into this scheme, after all.”

  “Aren’t you the one always saying that the inspiration is only 1%? Well, OK then.” He turned to me. “You read up much on your history?”

  “Some,” I said cautiously, figuring Uncle Rob would have some obscure point on which he’d trip me up.

  “Do you recall the Whiskey Rebellion?”

  I’d read about that in Paul Johnson’s A History of the American People. “Sure. Frontier folk in Pennsylvania couldn’t get their corn to market because the expense of carting it in bulk across the mountains was too high. So, they distilled it to whiskey, which made it more portable. But then, the federal government started taxing whiskey and they rebelled. Washington sent the Army in to restore control.”

  “Yeah, that’s the gist of it,” Uncle Rob agreed. “That’s what gave me the idea. Up and down the Appalachians, there are natural gas wells. Not so many in these hills, but more up into Kentucky and West Virginia. Part of the Gore Tax included a heap of new regulations on how to transport natural gas. The regulators carefully designed the rules in collusion with Tolliver Corporation and some of the other large energy companies who were big campaign contributors. They engineered the regulations to make it very difficult for small independents to get their natural gas transported to market at any reasonable expense. So most of their wells are idle and their owners are losing their shirts. It’s the same problem as faced those frontiersmen with the bulky corn they couldn’t transport. How did they solve it?”

  “By distilling it down to a more compact form,” I answered. “You mean chilling and liquefying the natural gas?”

  “Sharp kid,” Uncle Rob said to Dad. “But, not quite there yet,” he said to me. “Liquefied natural gas, chilled and compressed to make it more compact is a standard technique. But, the energy companies and their lobbyists thought of that. They forbid shipping liquefied natural gas by tanker truck except for very short distances. And somehow, while it is perfectly safe and acceptable to truck gas from a rail depot or a distributor to a customer, when the gas is being moved the other direction from a gas field to a rail depot or to a distributor or directly to an end user, it suddenly becomes too dangerous to transport on a truck. The upshot of it is, if you don’t have a rail spur to your gas field, you can’t ship your gas in compact liquefied form which means it just isn’t economical to ship.”

  “So how do you ship it?” I asked.

  “You don’t,” Uncle Rob grinned. “That’s the beauty of it. If you can’t bring your natural gas to your customer, you bring your customer to your natural gas.” I was confused. Uncle Rob continued. “Your Mom and Dad engineered a mobile system in a cargo container for compressing, liquefying, and distilling air. It burns natural gas to drive the compressor and chiller. We truck our rig on up to a natural gas field, and we tap into what would otherwise be an idle well for a few hours. We burn the natural gas and collect the liquefied compressed air into tanker trucks: about four tanker trucks of liquid nitrogen for every tanker truck of liquid oxygen. We have a small tank that collects the residue of argon and heavier gasses. Our production method isn’t as efficient as big fixed plants, but our energy costs are much lower. The small independents are happy to get a market for natural gas they otherwise couldn’t sell, and we’re able to get a steep discount. The rules for trucking compressed liquefied oxygen and nitrogen are still much less stringent than for liquefied natural gas.

  “We’re building a nice customer list that’s happy to get cut rate liquefied gases. Welders use oxygen and argon, for instance. Many folks use nitrogen for cooling. There’s a restaurant in Knoxville that uses it to make the creamiest ice cream you ever tasted. We even have a couple distributors we’re working with, now that our volumes are getting high enough. They’re willing to buy our compressed gas in bulk and sell it to end users.”

  “So, effectively, you’re ‘bootlegging’ liquid air,” I said.

  “You could say that,” Uncle Rob acknowledged with a smile. “But nothing we’re doing is the least bit illegal.”

  “For now,” Dad said ominously. “The point of the regulation was to shut down these small natural gas producers in the name of safety and the environment so they couldn’t compete with the politically connected elites. If those elites found out we were providing a legal mechanism for small producers to sell their gas, they’d likely concoct some kind of excuse to shut us down. That’s why it’s important this not get out.”

  “Is there any particular safety hazard?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Uncle Rob offered, “if you splash the stuff on yourself you get freeze burns. That’s why doctors will use liquid nitrogen to burn off warts. If you let liquid nitrogen evaporate in a confined space, you could asphyxiate if it replaces too much of the oxygen. Liquid oxygen isn’t particularly flammable in and of itself, but pure oxygen gives a much more intense fire than normal air. That’s why welders like it. I’ve been using it in the welding jobs I’ve been doing for your dad.”

  Ah-ha. Now I knew where Dad had found a reliable and trustworthy welder for Mr. Kreuger’s refuge project. And, I’d already figured out we were standing right on top of the testbed where he and Dad had prototyped the underground refuge concept using buried cargo containers. I kept my epiphany to myself.

  Uncle Rob continued, “So there are certainly dangers and things we have to be careful about, but the technology for storing and shipping the stuff is well established.”

  “What happens if you get shut down?” I inquired. “Won’t you take a big loss?”

  “The business model is the tricky part,” Dad observed. “We have to minimize our capital investment in case we get regulated out of business on short notice. We have to rent all our trucks and gear and only buy used hardware that will retain a decent resale value. Fortunately, there are lots of out-of-work truckers and idle rigs around. We’ve nearly recouped the initial investment and the margins are solid. We’re at a point now where we’d at least break even if we were shut down.”

  “You always were the inquisitive kid,” Uncle Rob noted. “Any more questions?”
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  “It comes of being in a family with an awful lot of secrets, sir,” I replied. “So, Mr. Garrety is working for you? Oh, and that reminds me, he bought me a coffee the other day, by way of thanks. He also asked me to convey his thanks to you in person.”

  Uncle Rob looked concerned “He didn’t say anything about the work, did he?”

  “No, sir,” I confirmed. “Which was remarkable, because he seemed to think I knew all about it. Only, I was even more confused after we talked than before.”

  “Good,” Uncle Rob said with a smile. “He’s not actually an employee. Mr. Garrety and some other truckers work for me part-time as contractors. They haul the stuff to the distributors and customers, but your Dad and I do most of the actual production,” Uncle Rob explained. “It’s time for some fireworks, so you’ll have to settle for one last question.”

  I pondered what I should ask. I might not get another opportunity like this for a while. “I see you have an antenna just like Dad’s, but how do you communicate using amateur radio? Don’t you need a line of sight or a repeater to make it work?”

  Dad noted, “He just got his Technician Class license.”

  “Oh, congratulations, kid,” Uncle Rob smiled. “Now if you study for your General Class License, you’ll learn that lower frequencies, like below 30 megahertz, tend to bounce off a high layer in the atmosphere called the ionosphere. We’re using ‘Near-Vertical Incidence Skywave’ or ‘NVIS,’” he explained. “The signals go straight up to the ionosphere and back down over an area as much as a couple hundred miles wide.”

  This was puzzling to me. “I learned about the ionosphere when I was studying for my exam, but I thought it was only for long distance communication.”

  “Same phenomenon, different application,” Rob explained. “Instead of bouncing signals at an angle so they hop around the world, we bounce them straight up and back down. Your dad can probably explain it better than me. Gotta run.” With that, he departed to prepare the fireworks, and Dad followed him, leaving me with yet another admonition to keep family business private.

  The fireworks were spectacular – not as big and elaborate as you might get in a professional big-city show – but the proximity and intimacy of the pyrotechnics had a greater emotional impact. I watched the show with my sister Kira and her boyfriend. He seemed like a jerk, and I wondered what Kira saw in him. He wasn’t at all interested in hanging out with Kira’s kid brother. After the fireworks ended, Dad and Uncle Rob lit a big bonfire. I left Kira in peace.

  Uncle Rob had a variety of logs arrayed in a broad circle around the fire. I walked a slow circle around the dancing flames. Uncle Rob had gone over to chat with a couple of his friends. Mom and Dad were sitting together, Mom with her head on Dad’s shoulder. I didn’t want to interrupt their privacy by joining them.

  Amit and Emma were off to the side sitting together on a log. As I approached them, I heard Amit explaining to Emma why Women’s Suffrage was such a bad idea. What? Yes, I’d heard him correctly. “Women are too emotional on average to make the hard rational decisions needed to responsibly exercise the vote,” he was saying. Emma was clearly not happy with him. Was he deliberately provoking her to make her mad, which would then be evidence in support of his thesis? That would be just like him – always the debater. Or, was this just part of another convoluted tactic on his part? Probably. I made a mental note to ask him about it later, and left him to his “game.”

  Then I saw the Kruegers and their attractive daughter. She was sitting with her family. I probably would have left well enough alone but Amit’s influence had rubbed off on me. I approached the family, “Guten Abend Herr Doktor Krueger und Frau Krueger. Wie geht es Ihnnen?” I think that was more or less correct for “how are you,” but I wasn’t sure if it was right for formal plural usage.

  “Sehr gut meine junge Freund und guten abend zu Ihnnen!” Doktor Krueger said cheerfully. I think I caught the gist, but anything other than the most basic greetings were beyond me. Fortunately, he switched to English. “But we here are the Hessians in this history drama of your father and uncle, ja? You would still speak with us?”

  “I understand we got many of our best and hardest working patriots from the Hessians who decided to change sides, bring their families over from Germany, and make a go of it as Americans,” I said to Doktor Krueger. “I hope you and your family will decide to stay also.”

  He cracked a broad smile at that, “I think we will. Please have a seat.” The girl had been sitting next to her father and quickly slid down the log to make room for me. I remained studiously focused on her father as I sat down and he continued speaking. “Please thank your father and uncle for the invitation. This has been great experience. Like Oktoberfest but with guns and fireworks!”

  “Did you have any experience with guns before, sir?” I asked.

  “In the Bundeswehr. I was drafted. Not since. Carl and Frank, they like your teaching,” he said.

  “They’ve both got good eyes and steady hands.” I noted them both smiling. “They’re excellent shots.”

  “You have met my daughter, Eva?” he asked. He pronounced it “AY-va.”

  “No I haven’t had the pleasure.” Finally! I turned to face her, took her hand, and held it as I introduced myself. “You seemed to enjoy learning how to shoot this afternoon.”

  “Very interesting. We have nothing like that in Germany,” she said with only a mild accent. “America is very different.”

  “This is your first time?” I asked. She looked confused. “You hadn’t shot a gun before?” I added.

  “Oh. No,” she said. “I just came here with my mother and brothers last month.”

  “Eva will start eighth grade in fall at school,” Doktor Kreuger offered. I’d thought she was older. I was feeling a bit awkward. “Carl and Frank are in fourth and sixth grade.”

  “I hope you all enjoy the rest of your summer vacation.” I tried not to sound too lame. “I understand I’ll be seeing you again soon, helping my father with your project,” I said to Dr. Kreuger.

  “Yes, it goes well the work,” he replied. “Tell your father and uncle thanks again for us all. We had a wonderful time.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said, standing. “A pleasure meeting you all,” I added to the family and excused myself. That was a bit uncomfortable, but I survived. I hoped Amit was right that approaching girls got easier with practice.

  I stood by myself a way out from the circle of light and watched the happy people. Eventually, the party faded out as folks departed and headed on home. Amit got a ride with Emma’s family. Mom, Dad, and I followed the path of light sticks away from the bonfire, our shadows dancing in the dim light ahead of us. It had been a busy day of celebration, a day to recall our history punctuated with guns, barbeque, bourbon, bonfires, and fireworks. I would not see its like again for many years.

  Chapter 6: A Vacation

  “‘Is this your first time?’ Seriously?” Amit was vastly amused as I recounted my experience with the Kreugers. Leave it to Amit to note the possible sexual connotation. I felt mortified. Hopefully if I’d missed it, the Kreugers would have as well. Amit continued, interrupting my reverie. “That was slick. And right in front of her dad, too. No wonder she was flustered.” Argh. He might have a point. Eva may have noticed it, although her English wasn’t the best. I hoped that she was just confused, and had missed it like I did. “Way to go,” Amit added. “Did you get her number?”

  “In front of her father? Are you crazy? And she’s only fourteen.”

  “Hey, lots of the wildest girls have daddy issues,” Amit opined as if he were an actual expert instead of a compulsive reader of pick-up artist blogs. “You set yourself up as the bad-boy rival to his authority and she’ll swoon for you.”

  “I seriously doubt she has any ‘daddy issues,’” I said. This was getting tiresome. “She seemed like a very well-adjusted girl.”

  “I bet there will be daddy issues when he finds a sixteen-year-old boy chasing af
ter his fourteen-year-old daughter,” Amit observed with excessive enthusiasm. “That’s mathematically out of bounds. He’ll overreact for sure.”

  “I am not chasing, merely being friendly,” I said insistently. “And you mean to tell me there’s a mathematical formula?” Now Amit had to be pulling my leg.

  “Half your age plus seven,” he assured me. “You’re still sixteen, right? So fourteen-year-old girls are out of bounds for you. But when you’re seventeen in September and she’s turned fifteen, then she’s fair game.”

  Yes, his math worked out but was there actually some exact rule? “That’s got to be general social guidance, not a fundamental law of nature,” I countered. I’d had enough of his insinuations, so before he could dispute me, I added, “Why have you become an anti-suffragette?”

  “Oh you heard that?” he looked smug. “Just keeping Emma off balance.”

  “You know,” I observed, “if you like the girl, you might consider being nice to her.”

  “Of course,” he acknowledged. “But you have to mix it up some. If you’re nice all the time, a girl won’t respect you.”

  I didn’t get it. Amit had one of the most attractive girls from school as his girlfriend. Emma certainly had other options. I was surprised she put up with his antics. But then, I found Amit annoying at times too, and I put up with him.

  Whatever.

  Amit and I continued our search throughout July, but progress was scarce. In a couple of additional weeks of searching, we’d only found one more possible omitted mention of Heaviside – this one in Sir Edmund Whittaker’s A History of the Theories of Aether & Electricity, printed in 1910. It, too, was frustratingly vague. Those couple of sentences from William Suddards Franklin about bouncing waves remained our best hope of understanding what was going on.

  With the lack of progress in finding new clues, I spent more effort understanding the history and personalities behind the evolution of Maxwell’s theory. I read Hunt’s The Maxwellians and Nahin’s book on Heaviside. Dad had managed to acquire a copy of the Nahin book for me on a visit to McKay’s, a used bookstore in Knoxville. Maxwell’s premature death, in 1879, left the field in some disarray. Many of his contemporaries doubted there was an electromagnetic basis to light. FitzGerald wrote a paper “On the Impossibility of Electromagnetic Waves,” in the early 1880s. He was only barely persuaded at the last minute to strike out the “Im” and retitle his paper “On the Possibility of Electromagnetic Waves.” This skepticism deterred many who were following in Maxwell’s footsteps.