The Duke of Oil – Chapter 1

The following is a work of fiction.

It is the third in a series of sci-fi novels of the type known as alternate history. What’s different is that this series takes place in our time, with characters familiar in your real life.

The first book in the series, The Chinese Century, was written late 2004. Its table of contents is here. The second,  The American Diaspora, was written in 2005. Its table of contents for that book is here.

Once we have a few chapters set up, I’ll create a table of contents for the book and keep it near each chapter as it is written.

Meanwhile, settle down and relax. Any similarity between the characters in this book and real people is purely coincidental, purely a product of imagination, and not meant as real in any way.

I am currently planning a third book in this Alternate History trilogy, to be called The Duke of Oil.
It will be published, as these books were, online. If you are an agent
or publisher, and would be interested in killing trees for these books,
please contact me.

Otherwise, just enjoy.

The cellphone in my office chirruped, the old Genesis hit “Squonk,”  and Jenni nudged me awake. I looked over at the alarm clock.

“It’s 1 o’clock in the blessed AM!” I cried. Then, with a sigh, I padded out of the room and picked up the phone.

“You want to come upstairs a moment?” The British accent was both friendly and all-too familiar. Branson!

“Be there in a moment,” I said in the friendliest way possible. I grabbed a shirt, pants, socks and sneakers, went in to kiss Jenni goodnight, placed my cardkey in a pocket and headed for the up elevator.

What is it about Great Men that they have so much energy? Richard Branson is more than 10 years older than I am, yet he runs rings around me. If I don’t get 8 good hours at night, I’m asleep by the middle of the day, but our boss is a regular Energizer Bunny. How many times has he done this just in the last month…3? 4?

Nothing for it. (The longer I’m here the more British my mind gets.) Look what I was before I met the man, an obscure Atlanta blogger with delusions of literary grandeur. Now I’m a multi-millionaire living in a replica of the World Trade Center. So when Richard Branson suggests I jump, I smile and ask how high.

“Tea?” Branson asked as soon as I entered his office, which like mine is adjacent to a sumptuous apartment, only higher and far more sumptuous than my own. “You like the green stuff, as I recall.” He motioned toward a tray where a small pot was already prepared.

On the wall beside Branson a flat panel TV was tuned to CNN International, the sound muted. Somehow, my boss was keeping one eye on me and the other on the set 180 degrees away. “Sorry to do this, but it’s something you should see.”

On the TV screen was the familiar, smirking figure of George W. Bush, walking down the long hall toward the East Room of the White House, alongside an actor I recognized from TV. Branson mashed the mute button. The sound came on.

“Good morning,” said the President. “It is my sad duty to report that, due to illness, our Vice President and my good friend, Dick Cheney, has decided to resign his office. Under the authority of the 25th Amendment I have decided to appoint former Senator Fred Thompson as his replacement, and am forwarding that nomination to the Senate where I expect him to be confirmed quickly. Brit?”

FoxNews anchor Brit Hume stood up from his place front-and-center in the crowded room. “Mr. President, can you elaborate at all on Mr. Cheney’s condition and treatment?”

“Brit, all I can say is that the former Vice President has chosen a doctor outside the country, and he is presently en route for treatment. I am certain that when he or his family choose to make a statement you’ll be among the first to know.” Bush smiled that crooked smile of his.

“If I may follow up and ask the Vice President designate,” said Hume, but Branson cut him off with a wave of his remote.

He turned to me then, with his famed 1,000 kilowatt smile, the one that always put me in mind of Fred in Kiss Me Kate, my mom’s favorite musical. I’d taken her to New York to see it, at the height of the dot-boom, I recalled. Maybe it’s distractive thoughts like this that make the difference between business geniuses like Branson and the common herd, men like me.

“Theory?”

“Maintain the succession?” I tried. “Thompson can run for re-election. Cheney wasn’t going to.”

Branson shook his head. “You’re missing it.” Once again, as so often, I felt like a C student in Branson’s strategic master class. “Where do you think Cheney’s gone off to?”

I shrugged. “Bet you know.”

“Dubai,” said Branson with a nod of his head. “And he’s no sicker than he ever is.”

“Why? I’ll bet you can tell me.” Not sucking up, but I know when his mind is working.

“Remember what brought us here,” Branson said, smiling again. “Opportunity. We created our own little market here, unregulated, secretive, where hedge funds and government equity can swim free from public snooping. All this around you is built by the few pence that fall out the bottom of every huge trade made here.

“It was a grand coup, but there’s no patent on it. And the Emirates want it.”

“What can we do about it?” I asked, a little helplessly.

“Why compete, of course!” said Branson brightly. “Brainstorm a little on that overnight. I’ll get the gang together say, around 2 this afternoon. We’ll talk it over.”

Feeling dismissed, I took a single slug of tea and headed back to bed.