side, what Jason figured must be the office complex, were five to six modern steel-and-glass buildings—two and three stories high—surrounded by a landscaped park. A slice of the river behind the park disappeared into the forest.
On the other side of the industrial park were about a dozen giant silver tanks like high-rises glinting in the sun. Steel-grated catwalks instead of glass skywalks connected them. A maze of pipes, some a foot in diameter, and huge electric coils snaked along the tanks and overhead—all a shining white as if the plant had only finished construction. All of the pipes eventually attached each of the tanks to the top of one building that took up the back side of the park, a massive corrugated steel structure with no windows and very few doors.
Jason had to admit he expected something else, something dingy and dark, considering the long line of tanker trucks—that he now realized were companions to the ones that almost ran them off the highway—were carrying either chicken guts or fuel oil. Yes, he was impressed and he looked to Senator Allen, hoping to see the same reaction only to find the senator sitting back against the soft leather car seat with…absolutely no reaction.
They approached the office complex, turning the final corner to the entrance. And that’s when Jason saw them. They were parked on sidewalks and filling the circle driveway, all jockeying for the best spot. Jason counted nine news vans. He didn’t bother to count the crowd surrounding the entry to the building. But when he glanced at the senator, he noticed the man was now sitting forward at the edge of the seat, rubbing his hands together like he was getting ready for a feast.
He gave Jason a rare but genuine pat on the back as he said, “Good job, son.”
5
Tallahassee, Florida
Jason Brill was pleased. It was just as he had anticipated. Put the senator in the middle of some hot-topic environmental issue and they will come. They, of course, being the media. Now Jason was glad he’d talked the senator into the navy-blue suit, crisp white shirt and red tie though the senator fought him on the shirt, insisting white was for ultraconservative pricks and definitely not moderate Democrats.
Jason made it sound like it wasn’t a big deal. He told the senator he could wear whatever he wanted, but for some reason the navy suit with a white shirt made him look taller. And on a photo op where they would be on their feet the entire time, Jason knew he didn’t have to say anything more. Without another word Senator Allen was peeling off his blue oxford and replacing it with the freshly pressed white shirt Jason had waiting for him on a hanger in the hotel closet.
The drive from Tallahassee was not one of Florida’s most scenic. The senator had shot Jason one of those subtle, furrowed-brow looks of disapproval that Jason knew so well.
It did look like the middle of nowhere. On the edge of the Apalachicola National Forest there were more pine trees than Jason ever expected to see in Florida. The limousine spent little time on the interstate, almost immediately taking a narrow two-lane blacktop with dirt shoulders that the car veered onto when meeting several large tanker trucks too wide for their own lane. The trucks barreled down the highway, obviously used to the locals giving them the space they needed.
Twice the limousine driver, who introduced himself as Marek Zelenski, ended what appeared to be a game of chicken by skidding off the concrete and into the dirt. The second time the car slammed to a full stop was followed by a diatribe from Marek, a slew of profanities in what Jason could only guess was Polish. He glanced in the rearview mirror with a quick apology in broken English and pulled the car back onto the road.
“Looks like they’re in dire need of a new road bill down here.” Jason tried to make light of the situation, but the senator shook his head.
“Other than those tankers we’ve seen very little
On the other side of the industrial park were about a dozen giant silver tanks like high-rises glinting in the sun. Steel-grated catwalks instead of glass skywalks connected them. A maze of pipes, some a foot in diameter, and huge electric coils snaked along the tanks and overhead—all a shining white as if the plant had only finished construction. All of the pipes eventually attached each of the tanks to the top of one building that took up the back side of the park, a massive corrugated steel structure with no windows and very few doors.
Jason had to admit he expected something else, something dingy and dark, considering the long line of tanker trucks—that he now realized were companions to the ones that almost ran them off the highway—were carrying either chicken guts or fuel oil. Yes, he was impressed and he looked to Senator Allen, hoping to see the same reaction only to find the senator sitting back against the soft leather car seat with…absolutely no reaction.
They approached the office complex, turning the final corner to the entrance. And that’s when Jason saw them. They were parked on sidewalks and filling the circle driveway, all jockeying for the best spot. Jason counted nine news vans. He didn’t bother to count the crowd surrounding the entry to the building. But when he glanced at the senator, he noticed the man was now sitting forward at the edge of the seat, rubbing his hands together like he was getting ready for a feast.
He gave Jason a rare but genuine pat on the back as he said, “Good job, son.”
5
Tallahassee, Florida
Jason Brill was pleased. It was just as he had anticipated. Put the senator in the middle of some hot-topic environmental issue and they will come. They, of course, being the media. Now Jason was glad he’d talked the senator into the navy-blue suit, crisp white shirt and red tie though the senator fought him on the shirt, insisting white was for ultraconservative pricks and definitely not moderate Democrats.
Jason made it sound like it wasn’t a big deal. He told the senator he could wear whatever he wanted, but for some reason the navy suit with a white shirt made him look taller. And on a photo op where they would be on their feet the entire time, Jason knew he didn’t have to say anything more. Without another word Senator Allen was peeling off his blue oxford and replacing it with the freshly pressed white shirt Jason had waiting for him on a hanger in the hotel closet.
The drive from Tallahassee was not one of Florida’s most scenic. The senator had shot Jason one of those subtle, furrowed-brow looks of disapproval that Jason knew so well.
It did look like the middle of nowhere. On the edge of the Apalachicola National Forest there were more pine trees than Jason ever expected to see in Florida. The limousine spent little time on the interstate, almost immediately taking a narrow two-lane blacktop with dirt shoulders that the car veered onto when meeting several large tanker trucks too wide for their own lane. The trucks barreled down the highway, obviously used to the locals giving them the space they needed.
Twice the limousine driver, who introduced himself as Marek Zelenski, ended what appeared to be a game of chicken by skidding off the concrete and into the dirt. The second time the car slammed to a full stop was followed by a diatribe from Marek, a slew of profanities in what Jason could only guess was Polish. He glanced in the rearview mirror with a quick apology in broken English and pulled the car back onto the road.
“Looks like they’re in dire need of a new road bill down here.” Jason tried to make light of the situation, but the senator shook his head.
“Other than those tankers we’ve seen very little
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