were one of the things that kept his company here in what some considered the far end of civilization – the plains of west Texas. He returned his gaze to the Chinese man. “I’ll need a contract.”
The Chinese man turned to the briefcase sitting beside him on the cushioned bench of the booth. Opening it, he removed a short, but simple and complete agreement and passed it to Tom.
Tom studied the pages, reading them through. It took him all his cup of coffee and another. Completed, he looked out the window again, not really seeing the street this time, but men working, his men. Men who had trusted and followed him all over the planet.
In his mind’s eye he saw oil fields his men had drilled and made productive in sand, rock, desert and ice. Envisioning the future and more wells, more of the same hard work, but this time with a good home, good schools run for the benefit of his men and their families. Heck, the men home with their families. Vacations these families probably would not be willing or able to take otherwise. College for all his families’ kids.
Displacement? Yep. Could they handle that? Probably; the oilman’s life was where he worked – that’s what made him an oilman in the 21st Century. It wasn’t as though oil cared about national boundaries.
He looked back at the man across the table for a long moment. The man returned his gaze unblinkingly. Tom nodded and stuck out his hand.
“I’ll need to run this by my team and my lawyers,” he said, nodding at the contract, “but I think it’ll work for us.”
The Chinese man shook the offered hand.
The last man and his wife boarded the aircraft, following their children up the jetway. Tom watched and then looked at the Chinese man, who returned his gaze with a small, almost intimate smile on his face.
Tom raised an eyebrow at the man, who said, “I am glad, we are glad, you and your men and their families have joined us. Seriously, Tom.”
It was the first time in the weeks of close contact that the man had used his Christian name. “I will see you in China,” he said, and put out his hand.
Tom smiled back at him, nodded, and shook his hand. Then he turned and strode up the jetway and onto the airplane.
5
Chicago
Wednesday, 10 April, 20:00 hours GMT (15:00 Local)
Tim Lowe had been an Account Representative for Boeing for nearly his entire 30-year career in business, following graduation from the USAF Academy and a stint in the Air Force in the late-1970s as a cargo pilot. Young dreams of flying high-performance jets against adversaries had run up against an inability to really stick a hot landing and, of course, the end of the Vietnam War and no adversaries against whom to fly and fight. Consequently he had driven C-141 Lockheed Starlifters around the Pacific route for his five-year post-Academy commitment.
Based out of the now-closed Norton Air Force Base he had studied and completed assignments as a graduate student at the University of California, Riverside, as he crossed and re-crossed the empty oceans thousands of feet below. When on the ground he attended classes. After four years he achieved an MBA to add to his Academy degree in Aeronautical Engineering. Following his release from active duty he had headed to Boeing as a salesman.
With all his multi-engine time, he’d had lots of offers from airlines, but he wanted more than just driving an airborne bus full of businessmen and tourists around the country.
Tim had been successful as an aircraft salesman for Boeing; not a star, but working his way there. Then he’d gotten a call in the late 1990s from an old roommate who seemed to have the ear of some decision makers in the People’s Republic of China. They’d wanted a half-dozen 747s and a dozen mid-range jets. He’d closed the deal, the largest for Boeing thus far from the PRC, and promptly been promoted to the new position of Account Executive for China.
Late last year China had ordered another several billion dollars worth of Boeing aircraft through him, this time nearly all 737 short-haul aircraft. This had been mentioned as a precursor to a far larger order, one now about to come to fruition.
When the enormous size of this deal first was mentioned, he’d nodded, then gone to his boss to ask about production capacity – could he sell this order? What would it do to other customers?
“Our job is to close business,” the Sales Vice President had reminded Lowe gruffly. “It’s manufacturing’s job to make the planes. Go close the deal.”
Relaxing after a late lunch, watching Chicago work in the afternoon sun, feet up on the desk, he awaited the final confirmation of that order.
His phone rang. “Lowe,” he answered, picking it up. Listening, he nodded and looked over to the screen of his PC. He navigated the mouse over a new email, clicked, and saw that he’d done just what his boss had told him to do.
“Yes, Sir,” he said simply. “Thank you. I’ll process this and get going on the remainder of the paperwork,” and he hung up the phone. He sat still a moment longer, looking out across the view. Finally, he said to himself, “Cool.” He downloaded, saved and then printed the email, and walked over to the printer to pick it up. Admiring it, he walked it into his boss’s office.
Firm orders for 250 jets of various sizes and ranges, and options for 600 more. The single largest order in Boeing’s history, over twelve billion dollars for the firm-order portion, over ninety-five billion for the option, should it be exercised in-full.
“Cool,” he repeated, thinking of the size of the commission check.
Down the street from the Boeing corporate offices sat the Chicago Mercantile Exchange, the “Merc.” As Tim Lowe read his emailed order to his boss up the street at Boeing, a sudden flurry of trading at the Merc spiked the prices of basic livestock and grain purchases, for 30-, 90- and 120-day futures. Enough foodstuffs were purchased to feed a small country or two.
A few senior traders muttered to one another, then went on about their business, trying to figure out how best to profit from this run-up. It wasn’t explained by any weather of which they were aware, nor shipping, nor opposing belligerents anywhere they could think of.
The traders made their moves, hoping their gut instincts were right.
Across the country in Texas, emailed orders suddenly began filling the in-box of Bill Dyer, head of a large oil technology and equipment manufacturer. The orders were for larger quantities than he had ever seen of all types of oil field equipment, from derricks to drilling pipe to boring bits. Delivery was to China.
Dyer began reading the arriving emails and quickly found that he could not keep up. Once they all arrived, he sorted and forwarded them to the various units of his organization. Not sure he could handle this much business, he also picked up the telephone and called an old friend – and his oldest competitor. “I need to share some wealth,” he said when he call was answered.
6
Washington, DC
Wednesday, 10 April, 21:00 hours GMT (17:00 Local)
Premier Fang Wi Long, the leader of the most populous nation on earth, the People’s Republic of China, looked
