The Rubicon Effect

Chapter One

Kyoto, Japan

December 11, 1997

Sam Albright wandered the manicured gardens and religious temples of Kyoto for two straight days. Confident in his scientific findings, he didn’t allow fools and doubts into his life. However, two days of roaming the meditative gardens did not soothe his thoughts. Indecision was not for him .

He celebrated the world’s coming together and acknowledging global warming. One hundred and eighty countries discussed an issue that until today was considered voodoo science, a convenient fantasy created by environmentalists. How could he come to terms with the elation of seeing science finally validated, not by a few but by an entire world, yet know unequivocally that the goals that came from Kyoto were doomed to failure? The world’s newspapers all announced that thirty-eight industrialized countries had agreed to cut greenhouse emissions by five point two percent below 1990 levels by the year 2012. What the headlines did not reveal was that it was never going to happen.

As a pragmatist, Sam realized and deplored that the political will to attain these goals was absent. To reach those markers, lost jobs meant lost votes. Yes, every study ever done had shown those who lost their jobs could be retrained and therefore find employment in the new economy. Car salesmen could sell solar panels just as easily as the internal-combustion engine. However, the little secret those politicians knew was that change meant a shift of political loyalties. The status quo might be upset, so why would those in power do anything to cause that?

Having these countries cut carbon dioxide, methane, nitrous oxide, hydrofluorocarbons, perfluorocarbons, and sulphur hexafluoride was not like asking the junkie to give up heroin, but more like asking their dealers to voluntarily take a cut in profits for the good of the world. It wasn’t going to happen.

The world’s largest polluter, the United States, arrogantly declined to sign the agreement. Sam understood that when February 16, 2005 rolled around, the finger-pointing and petty bickering between nations would begin. That was the date that the Kyoto Accord was to go into effect. Between now and 2005, very little would actually change. However, on the good side, Kyoto had happened, ending the debate of whether global warming was real or not. Climate change was now accepted as fact.

Sam stared hard at the giant red maple leaves falling upon the perfectly manicured gray sand of the Zen garden. All around the contemplative grounds, a thousand years of moss carpeted temples and trees, inducing a silence that only time and nature could create. As a scientist, he knew baby steps were good and maybe the only substantial way to move forward. Accept the Accord, have it fail, then have the predictable finger pointing, and accept another Accord, always pushing in the direction of saving the environment.

Maybe that was how the human species accomplished anything. They had not gotten into this predicament overnight. It had taken a few thousand years. Once the Industrial Revolution began, however, a movement was accelerated that inevitably led to this time and place. Sam also knew something that was not included in the equation and never mentioned in Kyoto.

What if a Second Industrial Revolution occurred? It could happen if the right circumstances fell into place. If China, India, and most of the third world countries all took on some form of capitalism at the same time, and if those economies forged ahead, the price paid in pollution would be catastrophic.

The failed policies of Communism had been good for ‘Mother Nature’. Industry never reached its full potential, but if capitalism took hold everywhere, then unrestrained industries would make the Kyoto Accord null and void. It would be too late to stop the inevitable disaster.

It helped that China was against capitalism—at least on the surface and, although India had dabbled in the free market economy, it was too unwieldy a giant to set a course and follow it. Imagine if all those people who now rode bicycles could afford an automobile. He doubted all the little third-world societies would ever affect the global economy.

Time was still on the planet’s side, but the environmentalist in Sam sensed the clock ticking.

He took a deep breath of pure clean air and remembered why he had become a scientist. At six foot two and unable to jump, he had never been prime basketball material. His knee operations, slow reflexes, and inconsistent outside shot all led him towards science. If not for those small details, he could have been in the National Basketball Association. Granted, not many professional basketball players were drafted out of MIT, but he could at least dream.

Science had always fascinated him. Even as a twelve year old, his analytical mind was fascinated with the Mayan civilization. At that age when boys were interested in dinosaurs and girls fascinated by horses, Sam Albright imagined himself as a Mayan warrior. He read books and talked to his dad, a clerk in a bank with a clever mind that was always searching for a good mystery. Together, they had learned about the Mayan civilization and the accuracy of its famous calendar, a calendar centuries ahead of its time, more accurate than the yet-to-be-invented European Gregorian version, and completely dependable for harvests many hundreds of years into the future.

Even as a youngster practicing foul shots in his driveway, his mind was lost to the Mayan culture. To replicate the pressure of a game, while standing before the hoop in his backyard, he fantasized thousands of Mayans watching, their heads bejeweled in colorful feathers and bright beads. With war clubs in hand and their faces painted blood red, they demanded he make the shot. Strange war cries heckled his concentration. A missed shot meant that Sam Albright would be taken up the temple steps, where he and his head would part company. After the ball inevitably rattled off the rim and bounced away, he imagined that it was his head that rolled down the driveway. It was those late afternoon practice sessions in his backyard, as well as the mind-expanding conversations with his dad, that led him away from basketball and towards science.

Now, in the intimacy of this Zen rock and sand garden, Sam contemplated perfection. His analytical mind studied what disturbed him. The Accord had happened, which was a good thing but doomed to failure, a bad thing. Yin and Yang, good and bad, one needing the other for existence.

Like waves on a great sea, the meticulously raked sand held his imagination. A flat sentinel stone and two smaller vertical rocks were purposely placed, encouraging the observer to contemplate what was there and what was not. Within this shrine, he could not lie about what really caused his conflict. The most important meeting in the history of the world, the Kyoto Accord had chosen the year 2012 for the countries to meet their quotas. He smiled, realizing that was the exact year that the Mayan calendar ended.

Inspired by the meticulously raked garden, his thoughts grew darker. His youthful fascination with Mayans had inspired him as an adult to explore most of South America. The Inca culture had led him to several visits to Machu Picchu, and those ruins had led to the strange man who had slipped a jade key into his hand. It was no longer than three inches and shaped like a jaguar.

The old man’s skin looked so wrinkled and leather-tough that Sam could not guess his age. He discounted the one hundred and ten years the spry gentleman claimed. Still, he saw something in the old man’s eyes which spoke truth.

When they struck up a conversation in the shadows of the UNESCO World Heritage ruins, Sam had thought he was talking to a fellow tourist, but when the man grasped his arm and guided him through tunnels closed to tourists and opened doors only caretakers could, Sam realized this gentleman was someone of authority.

The old man stopped beside the crumbling wall of a small veranda and stood unseen by the thousand tourists who believed they took in every part of the archeological wonderland. This veranda was not on any guided tour and was out of sight, yet had an open view of the main courtyard. Sam imagined Incan royalty observing Machu Picchu from it.

Here Sam learned the elder was called Older Brother, and called Sam Younger Brother.

Now, standing in one of Kyoto’s most historic gardens, Sam touched the jade key he always wore. On this day, the Kyoto Accord finally sanctified all of his hard work and beliefs, Sam stared at the green jaguar and wished he had never heard the old gentleman’s prophecy for humanity.

Chapter Two

Dallas, Texas

Boardroom of the Texas Oil Company

6:30 AM, Present Day

W ell, gentlemen, it’s unanimous. We’re at war. The chairman of the board knocked the ash off his one-hundred-and-fifty-dollar Cohiba, and smiled. Cuban cigars were still banned in America, but fortunately this was Texas. He let his words penetrate his subordinates’ minds. Americans loved declaring war—Vietnam, the War on Drugs, Iraq (twice), the War on Poverty, Afghanistan, the list was almost endless .

Personally, he disliked emergency meetings. He especially did not like early morning meetings. They meant his allies were reacting, and that was for others. Still, he enjoyed the power to make these leaders of industry jump.

The assembly took place in an office smaller than the ones he used to impress international corporations. It still exuded power with displays of original art works by Audubon, Caitlin, and Karl Bodmer, and authentic Remington statues, including Mountain Man, Bronco Buster, and Trooper of the Plains. However, the Gustav Stickley Arts and Craft furniture gave it a relaxed, somewhat intimate feeling.

He exhaled a plume of blue-gray smoke. We haven’t had to worry about competition since we got rid of those little electric cars back in the sixties. However, if those toy-makers want another fight, by God, we’ll give them a good, old-fashioned, Texas ass-kicking. The answering applause wafted cigar haze around the room.

He kept fit and looked much fitter than the bloated bodies around the table. It annoyed him that his chosen vice presidents and senior staff all looked like stuffed turkeys. They were ex-Green Berets, Navy Seals, and Army Rangers all, yet not one of them could do his daily exercise regime.

Just behind The Old Man, as everyone respectfully called him, but never to his face, was a picture of the last Republican president. Here, time leaped from Republican president to Republican president.

War it is, gentlemen. We either fight the damn solar companies and electric wave people now—that phrase always got a good chuckle from the power brokers sitting around the table—or we might as well buy some tents and join our Saudi friends in the desert.

Hands pounded the heavy table in agreement, their oversized rings—signifying one secret society or another—clacking on the hard surface. The applause grew louder, and cigar smoke drifted around the room.

The die was cast. It was crush or be crushed. Every man in the room had fought and seen friends die for their country. They judged their manhood by war medals, and knew each other not by first name but by military rank and the wars fought. They were ready to win any battle with the ‘Environmentalists.’

Like the tree huggers, they fought for their families, their future, for their children’s children, and for the world itself. Not one man in the room doubted for one second that if they did not win this war for the United States of America, a more committed group of people would be fighting and winning the exact same war for China, Russia, or, God forbid, France.

These wars had been fought before. Maybe they had never really stopped. Sometimes the focus and energy, both in manpower and funds, increased. Their strategy was elimination. From trolleys in Vancouver, Canada to experimental engines in Tokyo, Japan, from new business incentives for solar power in Recife, stopping Brazil from converting old factories to state-of-the-art battery manufacturers in Essen, Germany. This company had acted in closing down these companies and ideas.

Behind the scene manipulations, flat out bribery and intimidation, even the occasional assassination, had been instrumental in the closing of factories for hybrid cars in Canada, Korea, Italy, and even the United States. This was Texas and if anything wasn’t in the best interest of Texans, oil Texans, then it was not in the best interest of America.

In this very room in the late fifties, they had discreetly decided to force the Canadian government to close down production of the first delta-winged interceptor in the world. Their reason was patriotism and profit or, as they liked to call it, ‘Profit is patriotism.’ The jet fighter known as the Canadian Arrow would have been able to fly the skies over North America with impunity. Nothing the American air force flew could have touched it until well into the sixties and maybe even the early seventies. If this industry could be closed, then the American taxpayer wouldn’t have to fund a new fighter until some undetermined time, and thus could afford higher gas prices.

Sadly, the lack of improvement in jet fighters cost many American flyers their lives during the early years of the Vietnam War. As soon as the military-industrial complex fast-tracked better interceptors, the lines at the gas station grew.

In this room politics and patriotism collided and mutated into a weird version of the religious right-wing, hand over the heart, flag in the lapel of your blue jacket Republican Party. It destroyed the two-party system when they began their campaign of victory at all cost. Being Republican was now more important than being American. The Democrats responded with the same agenda, win at all costs, but they weren’t successful. The morality of the victory could be fixed later by the winner. The Old Man didn’t mourn the loss of a third party to balance the political environment and represent the middle of the political spectrum. He supported the Texan philosophy, Texas and oil first, everything else didn’t matter, especially that crap in Kyoto.

Chapter Three

Twenty Miles West of Jackson Hole, Wyoming

Home

January 1998

It took all the power of the four-wheel drive Jeep to travel the final distance to Sam’s ranch. He always enjoyed those last five miles, especially in heavy snow like this, because he knew if he got stuck, he was fit enough to easily hike the distance. He was within the borders of his private ranch now, and at this time of year there were no other tracks to follow. The big wheels slipped, then grabbed, as the jeep lurched forward.

His mind wandered to Kyoto. Sam had picked up a red maple leaf, dry and crisp to his touch: an engineering marvel. The tree, its roots, the cycle of losing its leaves, the new buds forming as the sun warmed the planet. The process was all so perfect. Even on the other side of the globe, the same rules of nature applied.

He had often wondered what changes would occur if the earth was just a few miles closer to the sun or, for that matter, farther away. What if the sun itself was just a bit bigger, or smaller? A small degree of tilt turned landscapes from ice caps to desert. It was all so damned fragile. He shook his head. Even for someone with three advanced degrees, it really just came down to that maple leaf. The scientist in him saw an engineering marvel, while his environmentalist side perceived a miracle.

It was snowing harder now. He hit the button activating his wipers as large flakes grabbed at the windshield. The only sound was the growl of the jeep’s powerful engine. Sam never listened to the radio when he drove because this was his time to relax and let his mind wander. At the crest of a small hill the jeep grunted the last few hundred yards, and then the reason Sam had bought this homestead came into view.

The Grand Teton Mountain Range formed a backdrop while in the flat foreground, still two miles off, stood his house. Inside that 150-year-old cedar log home were the loves of his life: Mickey, a yellow Lab named after the great New York Yankee Mickey Mantle, and Lou, the black female named after the legendary Lou Gehrig. Despite being twenty pounds lighter than Mickey, Lou dominated.

Predictably, as he got out of the jeep, Lou greeted him first as she shoved the larger Mickey aside and powered through the snowdrift. She demanded first hugs and pats. Mickey bounded about, happy just to be among the pack, snapping merrily at the snowflakes that wafted down. As playful as any dog could be, Sam knew that if anyone bothered his third love, Mickey would turn on them in an instant.

At the door stood his beautiful wife Lisa, exuding the healthy lifestyle of the ranch. She wore no makeup. Faded jeans, work shirt, and cowboy boots suited her. Her auburn hair was longer than when Sam last ran his hands through it, and he liked that she wore his Yankee cap. She was thirty years old but looked twenty, and Sam always worried that marrying someone younger by a decade would make him look even older. Despite the cold, she wore only a fleece vest for warmth.

They approached each other cautiously, not because of any coolness between them but because Sam had been away. Any sudden movements towards Lisa would send Mickey into a growling attack posture that seemed foreign to the puppy that now bounded about. However, if you watched him carefully you could see that he never took his eyes off Lisa.

Once Lou’s ‘love tank’ was full, Sam said hi to Mickey, and his familiar smell and voice now allowed him to finally greet his wife properly. Sam and Lisa’s long embrace and passionate kiss was something the dogs always interpreted as a pack hug, and soon flailing paws and lapping tongues almost knocked over the two lovers. This greeting replayed anytime Sam was gone even for the shortest of time.

His trip to hyperactive, overcrowded Japan had made him ache for the blue skies and white clouds of his wide-open Wyoming. The only thing that allowed him to survive in that environment was the Zen Gardens. Somehow, those quiet shrines captured the freedom of his ranch.

Sam the scientist had been victorious, but Sam the environmentalist had failed, catastrophically.

Wind River Mountain Range

Early October

Sam found the view breathtaking as Lisa skinny-dipped in the pristine high-country lake. He always enjoyed seeing his wife naked. In his eyes, her body was one of the great natural wonders of the world. Lithe and fit, she jumped bare-assed off the cliff, entering the water with only the slightest ripple.

Gazing at the lake, and the mountains, he saw miles and miles of privacy. No other humans for five hundred miles. He watched as his wife’s bottom breached the lake’s surface, and then dive deep into the crystal-clear water. He stripped, stretched, and wondered if leaping from the thirty-foot rock cliff would hurt his erection. Deciding he had a better use for it than cliff-jumping, he gingerly climbed down the rock face. He swam out and embraced his wife. The coolness of the water kept both lovers invigorated for an unusually long time.

Weak-kneed, they eventually collapsed on the sandy white beach. Naked, exhausted, and sexually fulfilled, they let the sun’s rays dry their bodies. Sam stared up at the cobalt blue sky.

I’ll be damned, he muttered. What is that?

What, honey? Lisa purred.

Just off the peak, at the far end of the lake. Do you see it?

After searching for a few moments, Lisa nodded. Never shy about her body, Lisa pretended to hide behind her husband. Oh Sam, maybe it’s a spy satellite watching us make love. Want to have me again? she added in her throatiest voice.

An object looking very much like a tiny silver balloon hung stationary in the sky.

Sam just chuckled, and his erection returned. That woman could make him hard anyplace, anytime. What if it’s a secret spy camera, and they’re filming us right now?

Lisa laughed. God, you so know how to turn me on. She kissed him passionately.

Sam smiled and rolled her on top of him. If you want to go again, you’re on top. I did most of the treading water out there last time.

No problem, Lisa whispered hotly in his ear.

This time their lovemaking was much less athletic, but somehow slower and more intimate with more kissing. Sam always envied his wife’s ability to have multiple orgasms. God had really cheated men on that one.

Satiated, they basked in the warmth of the sun, their bodies so relaxed, their skin and bones melted into the tepid sand. What is that, hon? Sam mumbled.

Lisa slapped his bare ass. That’s how the last time started. She moaned softly and ran her hand gently over his naked body. Sam groaned and made the international sign for a timeout in basketball, his hands forming a T.

No, honestly. You love astronomy, so what is that object?

"Fine. What