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THIRTEEN                                                       

U.S.S. Iowa, Naval Destroyer

Outside the Straits of Hormuz

Same Time, Wednesday, June 17

"Captain, we have got something on radar, and it is big!"

"Tanker?"

"Almost certainly, Sir."

"Close on them."

"Yes, Sir!"

#

"Captain, Sir, they are running!"

"It appears to be Iranian, Sir!"

"Just our luck!  Well, we have our orders.  Get on the two-way and tell them we are going to detain and board."

#

"Sir, they will not respond!"

"Fire across her bow, and train all our guns on her.  That should do it!"

#

"She is slowing down, Sir."

"I want six armed men to board with plenty of back up, if she wants to fight!"

"Captain, Sir, what exactly are we looking for?"

"You are not looking for anything.  Just open the hatches and check if it smells like crude oil."

"But, Sir, how will we know?"

"If it smells like hell, it is not crude.  It is what we are looking for!"

"What is that?"

"Proteus."

"Come again, Sir?"

"Proteus.  That is all we know.  But believe me; it is big, because the Admiral says that the President is involved!"

"That is all we need to know, then."

"Yes.  Do not blink at these sons of bitches, huh Jake."

"Yes Sir!"

#

Jake’s group boarded the tanker and was met by the Captain.  "I am Captain Motlagh of the Iranian Marines, and I must protest!  These are international waters, and you have no right to board and search!  This is an act of war!"

"I am First Mate Jake Slomkowski, and I have my orders.  If you have nothing but good old crude on board, we will be gone.  Captain Motlagh, open this hatch."

"I must resist!"

"Then, we will do it ourselves!"

Captain Motlagh looked around to see if he had any support among his men.  In view of the overwhelming American firepower, he stepped back and stared sullenly at the deck.

Jake went to the first hatch and turned the large wheel lock.  "Hey, John, come help me lift this heavy son of a bitch!"  The hatch fell against its hinges with a loud clang, almost breaking off.

"Jake, it smells like hell!  Oh no, I cannot stand it.  What do they have here?  It sure is not oil!"

Captain Motlagh stated categorically, "It is oil."

John glared at the Iranian, pointing his finger down the hatch and daring him to come over and examine the tank.  Captain Motlagh warily walked to the open hatch.  One could easily surmise from the Iranian's demeanor, that his belief that he was carrying oil had been seriously shaken.

"Captain, this is Jake.  It is an affirmative.  This is not crude.  It smells like hell.  It must be that 'Proteus' stuff."

"Jesus, the Admiral was right!” thought the American captain.  Shit, we have run smack into it.  I have to force this rust bucket back to the Persian Gulf.  I cannot believe this.  We may start a war here."

"Jake, order the Captain to take his ship back to his port of origination, or at least to park his scow in the Gulf, and if he resists, we will arrest him and his crew and put our own sailors on it.  His ship must go back into the Gulf, I repeat, back to the Gulf!"

Jake turned to Captain Motlagh.  "Captain, Sir, you have contaminated oil.  We have orders to escort you back to your point of origin."

"I cannot obey your orders.  This is an act of international piracy!  I will not yield command of my ship!"

"Captain," Jake cracked into the two-way, "I think you better get over here!"

#

"Captain Motlagh, this is Captain Andersen.  Captain Motlagh, you have refused to return to your port of origin.  I must under the circumstances place you and your crew under arrest.  This ship will not be allowed to proceed with contaminated oil."

"Captain Andersen, we have already sent a distress call.  The Iranian Navy has acknowledged us.  They are dispatching…."

"Jake, ask Comm to confirm this."

"Sir, affirmative.  Someone is responding in Iranian.  We do not understand the conversation at this time, Sir."

"Jake, have Comm talk to Admiral to see if he detects any unusual Iranian naval activity.  Captain Motlagh, you and your crew will accompany me to my ship.  Jake, search the ship for crew.  Use force, if necessary.  I want them off this ship pronto!"

"Yes, Sir!"

"John, find those among us who can sail this thing, not too many, and not indispensable men."

"Yes, Sir!"

"Captain, Sir, Admiral says we have got problems!  The Iranians have two aircraft aloft and en route . . . and three ships are headed this way.  We have got the aircraft on our radar, but the ships are out of range."

"Range on the aircraft?"

"Three-zero nautical miles and closing."

"Speed?"

"One-two-zero."

"Not fixed wing," said the Captain, "Must be rotor wing.”  Captain Andersen then remembered that Iran had signed an agreement on weapons supplies with the Russians to form a common defense to the Taliban along the 577-mile Iranian-Afghan border.  The Russians had supplied Iran with fairly formidable and sophisticated attack helicopters.

Jake, request a couple of Fourteens from Independence to back us up.  Shit, they do not have much fuel to stick around, do they?!"

"Long enough," stated John.

"Sound full battle alert," shouted the Captain, whose adrenalin was definitely pumping at this point.  "We better be ready for anything.  Radar, use the computer.  I want to know what is coming, and if they have anything that can hit us before we hit them.  Verify with the Fleet.  Jake, have you found all the tanker crew?"

"Yes Sir, I think so, Sir."

"Do not think so Sir, know so Sir!  If we send this tub to the bottom, I do not want any unfriendlies onboard.  Verify the numbers with Captain Motlagh.  Tell him it is truly a matter of life or death."

"Yes, Sir!"

"How fast can we get the anti-sub mines onto the tanker's decks," asked Captain Andersen?

"I do not know Sir; we have never done that sort of thing before . . . twenty, maybe thirty minutes."

"You have got ten minutes.  I want two mines on top of each hold, close together.  Can we detonate by radio?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Do not stand there, get those mines placed.  Use as many men as you need."

"Yes Sir!"

"Captain Sir, Admiral says that if things get hostile, just send her to the bottom.  'You will not need excess baggage in a fight', he says."

"Great!  Just great!  I am going to go down in history as the man who started another Gulf War."

"Sir?"

"Forget it!"

#

"Sir, the mine placing is taking time.  The seas are getting heavier."

"Where are those Iranian choppers?"

"ETA eight minutes, Sir."

"Damn!  We are not going to be finished.  Are those Tomcats on the way?"

"Yes Sir, they will be here in about five minutes."

"Good, at least we will have them outnumbered."

"Wait a minute, Sir . . . Radar says the Iranians are holding at seven minutes out."

"How long can those Tomcats stick around?"

"They said about 'ten minutes', Sir."

"How long can the Iranians hold their position and still complete their mission?"

"The computer says seventy-six minutes total, 30 minutes each way, leaves sixteen minutes, Sir."

"Shit, they can wait those Tomcats out!  Ask the Admiral if the Tomcats will take out the Iranians on their way back."

"Negative, Sir.  The Tomcats are not to fire first.  And Sir, neither are we!"

"Just wonderful!"

"The Tomcats are visual, Sir!"

"At least we will get those mines placed before the Iranians get here."

The Tomcats stuck around as long as they dared and then wished the crew "good luck" with a seesaw motion of their wings on the way out.

"Is everything ready?"

"Yes, Sir!"

"Stick around Jake.  I do not want you to detonate, unless you hear my personal order."

"Yes, Sir."

"Captain, we have established contact.  They have at least one English."

"Plug me in."

"I am speaking on behalf of the Admiral of the Iranian Navy.  You have detained a ship not belonging to you.  I must insist that you release it and its crew immediately."

Captain Andersen responded, "I have been ordered to search this ship.  It contains contaminated oil.  I am under further orders to escort this ship back to its port of origin.  However, your captain has refused, and I have placed him under arrest.  We will sail it back ourselves."

"Under what authority are you performing this illegal international act?"

"The United States Government."

"Is the Iranian crew still aboard?"

"No, we have them here.  You may take them, if you wish."

"We do not have room for them, Captain, as you know!"

No sense of humor there.  "We will put them ashore as soon as possible."

"You will put them on board their ship and allow them to leave!"

"Negative."

"Are any of your men on board?"

"No."  The Captain wondered what prompted this question.

The choppers started for the tanker!

"Do not board that ship, or it will be destroyed."

The Iranians continued towards the ship without responding.

"Jake, detonate quickly, before they get too close.  I do not want them to get hit with shrapnel."

The mines all blew almost simultaneously.  There was a noticeable hesitation, and then the oil ignited with the onrush of oxygen.  It looked to all around like a small nuclear explosion.

The Iranian choppers disappeared behind a huge black cloud.  When they reappeared, each was coming around separate sides of the black smoke.

"All weapons trained as ordered.  Hold your fire."  The Captain thought that this was it for sure.  He could not fire first, and if the Iranians fired everything they had first, he and his men would be in deep shit for sure.  He was determined to take the Iranians down with him nonetheless.

One of the choppers took up position amidships the starboard side, the other on the port side, each about one ship's length away.  They were now big, black, and menacing.  You could see the Iranian flight crews' faces and their guns and missiles trained on the ship.  It was all the Captain could do not to scream "Fire".

"There is nothing left to fight over", stated the Captain matter of factly over the radio to the Iranians.

Silence.

"You had better get back home.  We know you are low on fuel."

Silence.

All of the ship's weapons were trained on the two choppers.  It must have been scary to see it from the Iranians' point of view, also.

Silence.

The choppers just hung there in the air, not moving.  Fingers were getting itchy on triggers everywhere.

The Captain thought to himself, "Shit, what are they going to do?"  Then he spoke directly into the microphone, "I will buy you all a drink in Tehran someday and explain this all to you . . . how about it?"  As soon as he had said this, he remembered that these were Islamic people, and alcohol was against their religion.  “Shit”, he thought to himself, “How undiplomatic of me.”

Silence.

Then, one of the choppers began to rise, slowly, now coming directly overhead.

The Captain thought to himself, "What are they going to do, drop a bomb on us?  I hope our weapons work straight up!"

The chopper overhead continued to where the other chopper was.

Just then, two more Tomcats came screaming past.

"Captain, may we be of any assistance here?"

"Glad to see you fellas, but I think we have got things under control.

Hang around awhile though, just in case, but not too close.  We do not want to unnerve them any more than they are now!"

"That is a big 'Roger'.  Congratulations, Captain."

The choppers were turning to leave.

"You would not want a bunch of pissed off Iranian sailors by any chance?"

"Love to have them, Captain, but we really must be on our way."

Chuckles all around.

FOURTEEN                                                     

Internet Joke

www.yukyukyuk.com

Wednesday, June 17

“The good news is that Proteus is giving us pristine oceans without a trace of oil therein.  The bad news is that none of us will be around to enjoy it.”

FIFTEEN                                                         

Villa Al-Fallal

Jeddah, Saudi Arabia

Thursday, June 18

Ralph Potter was an American expatriate.  He was an American who lived and worked outside of America.

"Once an expatriate, always an expatriate."  This was a common phrase among expatriates, or "expats" for short.  Ralph was proof positive.  He was in his third decade of expatdom.

Ralph had been around.  Saudi Arabia had been his home, since he had been run out of Iran after the fall of the Shah in the 70’s.  Over the years Ralph had proven his loyalty and value to an older and wealthy Saudi businessman named Mohamed Al-Fallal.

Mohamed Al-Fallal had long ago enamored himself of the Royal Family of Saudi Arabia.  Consequently, he had a special priority status, when it came to Aramco's voracious contracting needs.

If Aramco needed another parking lot, and Mohamed had no motor grader, then Aramco gave Mohamed a contract, which also included the purchase of a motor grader.  The contract provided that the grader would be "consumed" by the work and therefore would not have to be surrendered to Aramco upon completion of the works.

Of course, one parking lot would not "consume" a grader.  By way of many such contracts, Mohamed had amassed quite an inventory of equipment, as well as quite a fortune.

Now, Mohamed did not know how to purchase graders, nor did he know how to construct parking lots.  Ralph Potter, a seasoned construction manager, did.  Mohamed had grown to depend on Ralph to manage his contracts.  Increasingly, Mohamed depended on Ralph to manage his personal affairs, particularly those that involved any contact with the world outside Saudi Arabia.

As opposed to the outside world, earning interest on money is evil according to the Koran and therefore illegal in Saudi Arabia.  As a result, much of the mountains of money that flowed into Saudi Arabia during the heyday of the OPEC cartel ended up in mattresses, thobe boxes and in the case of the occasional paranoid in large safes.

Mohamed had a built-in full-length closet safe.  Ralph had occasionally seen the safe open while visiting Mohamed's villa.  It would be filled to overflowing with cash.

When the safe could not obviously hold a single additional bill, whether US or Saudi, Ralph finally prevailed upon Mohamed to put some of his hoard in the bank for safety sake.  He had carefully explained to Mohamed that Swiss banks were safe, anonymous, and without referring to "interest", would pay their customers service charges for keeping money in their banks.

Ralph had not long ago flown with Mohamed to Geneva to deposit about one million dollars.  It was "a test" according to Mohamed.  The deposit required a couple of hours of individual attention from the bank's president and repeated assurances of safety and a tour of the bank vault to show Mohamed that there was indeed large amounts of cash, and security therefor, in the bank vault.

Ralph would never forget one of his many early morning telephone calls from a then distraught Mohamed.  Mohamed had just opened his mail.  One of the envelopes had contained a check from his Swiss bank in the amount of $14,838.  Mohamed was simply beside himself.  According to Mohamed, the Swiss bank had sent him $14,838 and "stolen" his other hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Ralph attempted in vain to tell Mohamed that his money was still in the bank, and that the check was merely an installment of the bank's "service fee".  Mohamed would have nothing of it.

Ralph and Mohamed took the very next flight to Geneva and after another two-hour session with the bank president, Mohamed had finally been convinced that his money was still safe and secure in the bank.

Therefore, it was not overly shocking to Ralph, when Mohamed again called in the middle of the night to announce that they were taking the next flight to New York.

"What happened, Mohamed?”

"Oh, not much.  We need to go to the States to purchase some equipment in New Orleans."

Ralph was perplexed.  Why had Mohamed waited to call him at this hour?  This was not adding up.

"Ralph, can you get over here soon.  I want to make the 747SP to New York at 7:40 this morning."

"I'll pack and be there within the hour."

What Mohamed had not told Ralph was that he had just got off the phone with one of his many Aramco contacts who had advised him that the Aramco tanks were being purposely set on fire . . . for reasons his contact had not been able to determine yet.  To Mohamed it meant only one thing.  The Iranians had commenced an amphibious invasion and were on the way to the Saudi oil fields.  The Saudis would, of course, burn the oil fields before they let the Iranians have them.

It was time to get out and get out now . . . with as much as Mohamed could take with him.

Mohamed was worried that the flights out of Jeddah would be sold out by now, but Mohamed knew that Saudia Airlines would bump expats off the flight to accommodate a Saudi entourage.  It had happened many times in the past.  Perhaps, however, the news had not leaked out yet.

Ralph turned into Mohamed's driveway as the sky was starting to lighten.  There seemed to be a more than normal pall of smoke in the air.  Through the window, he spied Mohamed closing the safe door.

Once inside the villa, Ralph saw many suitcases and briefcases strewn around.  He surmised that Mohamed had utilized all of the cases he could find, which for the average Saudi was many.  They had a reputation for traveling quite heavy.

Nevertheless, this was another story.

"Mohamed, why all of the suitcases and stuff?"

"Ralph, I think I might stay for awhile in the States.  I have been meaning to do it for some time now.  I have always wanted to see the Mississippi River "up close and personal", as you Americans like to say.  Since we will be in New Orleans, this seems as good a time as any.

"But Mohamed, I have only packed for a few days."

"Oh, don't worry, Ralph.  I'll buy you anything you might need along the way."

Ralph could rely on that.  He had long since lost his shame about such things.

Mohamed was always true to his word.  After all, he had given Ralph a Mercedes 560 SEC upon the occasion of the breakdown of his Chevrolet.  He had also given Ralph a gold Rolex watch from his large collection of same in his safe, when Ralph had accidentally smashed his Timex crystal against a backhoe bucket.

Once an expat, always an expat . . . especially in Saudi Arabia.

Ralph did not relish the flights to New York, most especially the nonstop Saudia Airlines flights.  Alcohol was prohibited.  And there was that mysterious compass on the plane's ceiling, which turned out to be an arrow that always pointed towards Mecca, so that the Moslems could perform prayer in the proper direction, in the aisles of course, even upon a modern jet airplane.

Thirteen hours "up close and personal" with Arabs was not a pleasant experience for Ralph, even as seasoned an expat as he was.

He could always tell when they were about to reach New York.  Those ubiquitous robes and headdresses would somehow mysteriously all disappear.  And the notorious black veils would vanish, leaving Parisian fashions and cosmetics in gaudy overstatements.  Ralph was not quite sure which way he preferred the Saudi women.

Once inside New York's John F. Kennedy Airport, it proved to be a long wait at the luggage carousel.  One bag of twenty-three proved to be the culprit.  Then, mysteriously, it appeared, straggling down the conveyor.

Ralph certainly hoped that US Customs would not be checking closely this morning.  Hopefully, it was early enough that the graveyard shift was still on with thoughts only of getting off work and into bed, rather than nailing smugglers and false declarants.

This did not prove to be the case, however.  They confronted the dayshift, supercharged with coffee and eggs, ready to catch every furtive eye movement, forever watching those voice stress analyzers they had hidden under the counter, while asking questions guaranteed to press guilty consciousnesses to the wall.  Mohamed had drawn a big, black woman, whose manner suggested caution.  Her nametag just said "Cora".

Mohamed was, however, passing with flying colors.  He apparently had done a decent job of listing his declarable items.  Once the nineteen suitcases had been passed, Inspector Cora peered over at four briefcases, now standing conspicuously in an island by themselves.

"Those yours?"

"Yes.  They are my briefcases."

"Well.  What's in em?"

"Excuse me?"

"Bring over that first brief case.  We have already punched your whole ticket.  You better not have anything declarable in them."

"There's money in that one."

"How much?  You know you got to declare over $10,000."

"Oh."

"Well, how much money you got in there, honey?"  A note of expectancy had crept into Cora's voice, like she had finally caught this one in the act.

"I do not know."

"What do you mean you don't know?  You come to the United States of America with a briefcase of money and you don't know how much?"

"I do not know."

Ralph intervened.  "Mohamed, you have to declare the money you brought with you."

Mohamed pulled Ralph aside and whispered.  "I just filled the briefcases up with money.  I didn't have time to count it."

"You filled up all four briefcases up with cash?"

"Yes."

"Oh my God!"

Ralph Potter was beside himself.  He did not know exactly how much money four briefcases could contain, but he knew it must be considerably in excess of $10,000.

"Honey, why don't you just open up this briefcase here, and let's see what's in it.  What's the combination?"

"It's not locked."

Ralph Potter almost fainted.  Mohamed had apparently checked, not carried on, four briefcases full of money and not even locked the cases.  These briefcases had gotten through JFK baggage services intact.  It was a miracle.

Inspector Cora almost fainted when she opened the case and gazed upon row after row of $100 bills.  This was more money than she had ever seen in all of her life put together.  Scenes like this only occurred in the movies.

"How much money did you say was here?"

"I didn't."

"He didn't," added Ralph gratuitously.

"Man, you better know how much money is in here.  I gotta know how much money is in here.  It would take a week to count this money.  You gotta be shittin me.

"What did she say?"

"Never mind."

Two hours later, they had managed to count the contents of the briefcase.  It came to just over One Million Dollars.

Inspector Cora duly marked her currency block, glanced at Mohamed and said, "Let's see the next case."

Mohamed placed the next case on the counter and opened it.  It looked more or less like the first case.  Cora was obviously in a panic.  She had images of counting money all day in her head, and missing lunch.

Mohamed opened his overcoat, displaying many gold Rolex watches.  He pulled one out and offered one to the astonished Inspector.

"Mohamed . . . you can't do that.  This is America."

Inspector Cora had finally met her match.  She was not prepared for this.  She threw the gold Rolex into the briefcase, slamming it shut with a loud report.

"Mohamed," she said, "You better be outa my face in five seconds or I'm gonna call the entire US Customs Police down on you.  You understand me?"

"What?"

Ralph understood.  He quickly collected all four briefcases and grabbed Mohamed by the arm on his hasty retreat out of there.

SIXTEEN                                                         

Alternate Energy Policy Institute

Chulalongkorn University

Bangkok, Thailand

Sunday, July 17

Working on Sunday, Kukrit Supsampantuwongse (Thai’s have unbelievably long last names) emerged from the Sky Train into the normally steamy, almost stifling, morning air.  It was full of its normally exotic aromas, some pleasant and coming from the many indigenous flowers, but some not so pleasant, a constant reminder of insufficient drainage and septic systems.  The recent, but powerfully acrid, smell of Proteus added to the cacophony.

As Kukrit descended the many steep stairs leading down to ground level, he noticed not only the chaotic tangle of electric lines and cables strung among the eclectic collection of buildings, but also a new emerging chaos on the streets, caused by the mass abandonment of vehicles there.  These vehicles had simply all run out of gasoline.  Since there was no more gasoline, the vehicles were simply left were they ran out.  From there they were pushed out of the way by future drivers, who wanted to get through the mess with their dwindling reserves of fuel.

There was no gas in the gas stations.  There was no gas in the tanker trucks, which also could be seen abandoned on the streets.  There was no gas in the gasoline tanks or the gasoline distribution lines.  The reason . . . there was simply no oil coming to the oil refineries.  Proteus had invaded Thailand.

Kukrit Supsampantuwongse was a 35-year-old executive of a so-called private institute of Chulalongkorn University in Bangkok.  The University provided expertise to the government of Thailand . . . for a fee, of course, through many such operating entities.

He had risen quickly through the ranks and had been given a coveted Volvo to drive.  It now sat in his garage in the suburbs with a few liters of gasoline remaining in case of an emergency.  He currently was limited to walking or taking the Sky Train, which ran on electricity.

Kukrit was a graduate of Chulalongkorn University, the largest and by far most prestigious university in Thailand.  If you were anyone at all in Thailand, you were a graduate of Chulalongkorn University.  You could not be a Minister or friend of the Royal Family without coming from this University.

Kukrit’s institute was named the Alternative Energy Policy Institute.  His normally hectic job had become infinitely more so, since the invasion of Proteus.  He worked every Sunday now, with no days off anymore.  No more golf.  No more Sunday outings with his children.

Thailand had relatively small oil reserves, and consumption was greater than production.  Thailand only produced about 20% of its petroleum requirements.  The country was highly dependent on imports.

Oil was imported mainly from Malaysia.  Malaysia had stopped exporting oil two months ago, when it appeared that Proteus had infected its oil fields and supplies to the point that Malaysia needed to ration what it had left for its own survival.

The state-owned Petroleum Authority of Thailand (PTT) dominated the oil industry in Thailand from top to bottom.  PTT was now for all practical purposes defunct.  The government of Thailand was desperate for energy alternatives to oil.  The country was dying before Thai eyes, as evidenced by the vehicular graveyard of the streets.

Soon, the presence of Proteus would effect the production of electricity, as the government-sequestered supplies of oil were quickly drawn down, especially if Proteus gained a foothold in any of the guarded tanks.  Kukrit and others would no longer be able to ride on the Sky Train, and thus they would be denied their workplaces.

Rolling blackouts would soon become black.  There would be further chaos in the streets as people took remaining scarce resources into their own hands, and there was no viable enforcement of law and order to prevent it.

The Thai government had prevailed upon Kukrit to drop everything else and concentrate upon the immediate development of alternative energies, which was his expertise.  He had been working essentially day and night on this challenge, and now his mental and physical condition was falling apart.

Thailand had been a world leader in alternative energy, due in part to their cultural creativity, and due in part to pure economic necessity.  Thailand had never quite lifted off economically into the First World.

Kukrit had been directly involved in the design and feasibility studies for producing biogas from pig farms.  Biogas turns pig shit from millions of pigs into commercially usable gas to produce heat and electricity.  Many pig farmers had actually started making more money producing and selling electricity than pigs.

He had also been involved with “Biodiesel”, a mixture of diesel oil and palm or coconut oil.  There were millions of palm trees on the long coastline and plantations of Thailand, and a farmer had spiked his diesel tractor oil to extend his meager supplies about seven years ago.  It had worked very well.  Thailand had since become the world’s largest producer of Biodiesel.  Without oil, however, there would be no diesel, and without diesel, no Biodiesel.

Ethanol had also become a leading alternative fuel in Thailand, using expertise gained from the United States.  But all of these alternative energy sources were a mere drop in the bucket compared to the pre-Proteus energy usage of Thailand.

Kukrit had to find ways to quickly boost these energy sources.  This was hard enough in itself, but to do so in ways that did not involve the use of oil made it at least doubly difficult.  He worked through the day, stopping only to walk down the 15 flights of stairs and cross the street to have a quick Khantok Khong Wang lunch and to call his wife, Wan, to check in on the day’s events.

He informed his wife that he would be there another six hours.  After filling him in on the children’s shenanigans, she put up her usual protest to no avail.  Her husband was an up and coming executive in Thailand, and he simply had to put in the time and do the work.

“Oh, and honey,” she said, “There is news on the television about the military being upset about the way the government was handling the Proteus Crisis.  It seems they think there is not enough security, and they believe they need first rights to what oil is left.  I thought you would be interested.  It might affect what you are doing.”

“Yes, absolutely, sweetheart, I will take that into account in my planning effort.  Thanks.”

He considered the options, factoring the military’s concern into the mix and performed the myriad calculations for each of the options for hours.

“Thank Buddha for computer spreadsheets.  Thank Buddha for electricity,” thought Kukrit.  Upon that very thought the lights suddenly went out.  This was surprising, as it was not yet close to 10:00pm, the time when all lights, except streetlights at major intersections, went out in Bangkok.

He usually stopped at about 9:00 each evening to descend the stairs to the street and walk several blocks to the Sky Train in order to get home before the almost total blackout.  He wondered if the Sky Train was still running, as he was not able to discern any light coming from outside his office window.

“We haven’t run out of oil already have we?” Kukrit thought, as he rose from his seat to grope around for his briefcase.

He knew he could probably find his way down the convoluted stairways, which incorporated eight lower levels of car parking, now empty, in the darkness, since he had been down these stairs so many times before after the elevators had closed.

He even thought he could manage the nonstandard, unfinished, non-code tangle of streets and sidewalks, complete with holes, water puddles, protruding pipes and wires, designed to take the knees and heads off of unsuspecting persons and tourists, on the way to the Sky Train.

However, would the Sky Train be running?  What if it were not?  Kukrit shuddered at the thought.  Maybe he ought to spend the night at the office.  He was very hungry, though, and made up for his hard work with gourmet eating habits.  He usually ate somewhere on the way home, somewhere with nice food, such as Shark Fin Soup.  The thought made him salivate.

Maybe he ought to call his wife to discuss this situation and maybe learn what was going on.  He flipped open his digital cell phone and hit Program, 1.  He waited and waited past the appropriate time for connection . . . nothing!

“Shit, the cell phone companies are down,” he said aloud to himself, his blood pressure raising another notch.

He picked up the telephone.  Same effect.

“Damn, doesn’t anyone in Thailand believe in Uninterruptible Power Systems . . . otherwise known as batteries?!” in a much louder voice.

“I wonder if my wife knows what is happening.”

“I wonder if she wonders how I am going to get home tonight?” this time much softer.

Kukrit decided he should wander out into the streets, perhaps as far as the Siam Square Sky Train Station, to determine what had happened and whether the train was running.  Perhaps the power would return, while he was out there.

Bangkok was not particularly dangerous at night during normal times.  There were the indigenous pickpockets that preyed upon tourists in the crowded areas, such as the Chatuchak Weekend Market and the Patpong expatriate night market and sex bars.  Nevertheless, armed robberies were rare.

However, these were different times.  No lights.  No traffic.  No police.  General panic.  Survival worries.  Things could be getting nasty on the streets of Bangkok at night without light, people and police.

Kukrit had no weapon.  Thais were not weapons types.  Thai boxing was quite popular among some Thai men, but Kukrit had never had such training.  He was more the intellectual type, what Americans would call a “nerd”.

He did spot, however, two possible weapons before him on his desk - one heavy leaded glass spherical paperweight and one fairly sharp letter opener.  He stuck the letter opener into his back pocket, placed the paperweight into his briefcase, and started out the door.  He almost forgot to lock the glass doors at the front of the Institute.

Kukrit emerged into the building lobby.  He called out for Chai Son, the night guard, but there was no response.  Chai Son could have been anywhere in the building, when the lights went out.  He also might be wandering about in the dark city streets.  He had no weapon, either, however.

Stopping just outside to survey the situation, Kukrit observed that the lights were still out everywhere.  He could hear and see some light from a few vehicles making their way through the vehicular graveyards in the streets.  It seemed that some of these vehicles were heavy trucks by the sound of it.

He could not make out the Sky Train by sound or sight.

He smelled the air.  It was stagnant, but fragrant . . . with all sorts of pungent odors, including Proteus.  Also, there seemed to be more diesel fumes than usual, particularly lately.  The afternoon rains had made everything wet, but nothing more unusual was apparent in the air.

Trying to devise a plan, Kukrit decided he should determine probable islands of safety . . . areas where there might be people he was used to . . . friendly shops and restaurants and the like.  He, like many government and quasi-government types in Bangkok had developed small businesses on the side.

On Kukrit’s part, he had developed a fruit juice franchise with several booths on sidewalks around Bangkok.  He also had a foot massage shop near the popular Patpong district.  It was possible even that his wife would be at one of these establishments, although it was getting late to be hauling their young son and infant around.

He must make his way to each of these shops along the way home, if he chose to do so, after determining whether the Sky Train was operational, and whether it was safe to travel on the streets of Bangkok.  He decided to head first for the Novatel Hotel, which was roughly on the way to Siam Station and about six blocks from where he stood, and which would obviously have many safe people, and perhaps emergency power.  His favorite Chinese restaurant resided in this hotel.  If only the situation were normal enough for him to stop in and have dinner, for he was getting hungry.

Kukrit stepped off the high curb into the dark street.  He could barely make out the outlines of familiar buildings.  He went by intuition, gained from years of walking these streets.  He virtually knew when to step back up on the sidewalk, where to avoid a hole, miss a stream of water, or turn a corner.  He made a few mistakes and paid the price with scuffed shoes, a painful shin or sudden, unexpected drop.

A couple of more corners, and he would be at the Novatel.  Coming around the next corner, he walked right into a flashlight in the face, which snapped on as he hit it.  Kukrit jumped backwards a couple of feet and waited for something to happen.  He did not know who or how many were in front of him . . . or beside him . . . or even behind him now, but he felt there were more.

The flashlight looked Kukrit up and down and ended on his briefcase.

“What ya got there, buddy?”

“Just a briefcase with work in it.”

“Yeh?  Let me see that.  Someone ripped the briefcase out of his hand and attempted to open the briefcase.  One latch opened, but the second did not, as Kukrit had a habit of flipping the combination on one latch each time before he went out with the briefcase.  The briefcase flew back into Kukrit’s legs and fell to the sidewalk.

“That briefcase is heavy.  What is in it?  Gold?”

Kukrit remembered that he had put the heavy leaded crystal paperweight into his briefcase.

“No . . . it’s a paperweight.”

“Sure thing, buddy.  Why don’t you open the briefcase for me?”

Kukrit wondered whether the reference to “me” meant he was a loner.  He certainly hoped so.  But how would he react, if there was nothing in the briefcase.  He undoubtedly had a weapon, if he was a loner.  His mind raced, as he fumbled with the combination in the chaotic light of the flashlight.

“Nice watch, buddy.”  He had spotted Kukrit’s watch, while he was working the lock.  “What else ya got there?  I could use some nice shoes and clothes, too, come to think of it.  How much money ya got on ya?”

Kukrit had hardly any money on him, and the demands coming from behind the flashlight were concerning Kukrit.  The tone of voice was not indicative of a reasonable, or even sane, person.  He was not sure he was going to get out of this in one piece.

He slowly opened the briefcase, sensed where the paper weight was, made a grab for it, pulled it out, and threw it as hard as he could about a foot and a half directly above the flashlight, where he thought the man’s head might be.  He heard a distinct thud, as the paperweight found its mark.  The flashlight dropped, and there was silence for a moment, but no further thud, indicating the man had fallen down.

“Damn you, my friend.  You are going to die.”

Kukrit quickly remembered the letter opener in his back pocket.  He pulled it out and stuck it out in front of him in the direction of the man rushing at him.  The man ran at full speed right into Kukrit’s makeshift weapon, and Kukrit believed it penetrated the man, since he did not hear it hit the sidewalk, when he released it.

“Oh shit!  You stabbed me.  I’m hurt.”  Silence.  Darkness.  Kukrit did not speak or move.  Then, the man shuffled, apparently away from Kukrit.  Kukrit did not move.  The footsteps receded into the night.  An occasional gasp or moan could be heard.  Kukrit had no idea how he had injured the man, but at this point, he frankly did not care.

Kukrit noticed that the flashlight still lay on the ground, pointing nowhere in particular.  He picked it up, first to determine where his briefcase had ended up, because it contained his energy plans and calculations, and second to see his way, as he quickly continued onto the Novatel.  He threw light here and there, as he went, to determine whether further violent surprises awaited him in the darkness.

He wondered why he had not stayed at the office.  He also realized that he was not going to risk getting back to the office, as he was much closer to the hotel than the office now.

As Kukrit drew close to the Novatel, he could see a few dim lights on inside, indicating that the emergency generators and lights were on.  However, he didn’t see persons resembling businessmen and tourists walking around in the lobby.  He did see persons begin to resemble military types, wearing camouflaged uniforms.

The military!  What was the military doing in the Novatel in such numbers?  Something unusual was going on.  He decided that he did not want to risk getting involved in an unknown military situation.  He thought he would be safer continuing on to Siam Square and the Sky Train.  Certainly, someone there would know what was going on.

He remembered his cell phone and dialed his wife.  No connection.  Terror was beginning to creep into Kukrit’s consciousness.  He forced himself to relax, something Buddhists were quite renowned for, and made off for Siam Square.  At least he had a flashlight.

Kukrit fairly ran to the train station, the adrenaline pumping in his veins providing a ready energy source.  He climbed the many concrete stairs, two at a time, high up into the elevated train station.

Just as he reached the top stair, he heard a strong voice, “Hey, you, stop where you are!”  Kukrit stopped, just as a rifle barrel found his stomach.  He followed the rifle barrel up in the dim light to a soldier in full night camouflage.

“What do you think you are doing?”

“I am merely trying to get on the Sky Train in order to get home to my wife and children.  Are you Thai?”

“There is no Sky Train.  You are not to be on the street.  You are violating curfew.  You are under arrest.”

Kukrit strongly protested, but to no avail, as several more soldiers arrived, and he was roughly dragged back down the stairs and thrown into a security van.  There were a few other persons in there, mostly younger men and women, who looked very fearful.

Kukrit realized that a military coup must have occurred while he worked away for hours in his office, and a curfew had been declared soon thereafter.  The Thai population still regarded the armed forces as an institution that could be relied on when political stability was needed.

The Thai population also accepted the military’s presence in civilian life.  Military officers, particularly in the army, participated in Thailand’s governmental and business operations much more than their counterparts in the West.  As in Kukrit’s and other governmental type’s cases, high-ranking military officers commonly pursued business activities while pursuing military careers.

The power outage was a tool of the military to gain control of the population.  The diesel trucks he had heard and smelled upon emerging from his office were the military personnel carriers taking soldiers to secure various installations throughout Bangkok.

He did not know where he was going, but he believed he would probably be spending the night in jail.  At least he would probably be safe . . . and he might get a bed . . . and he might even get some food.  Hopefully, they would allow him to call his wife.

He was optimistic.  He was Thai.

Click Here for Chapters 17-20

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