At 5:40 AM, Los Angeles Mayor Felipe Ramirez stared out the window as the light of early dawn illuminated sporadic columns of smoke rising from parts of his city. He rubbed his trademark goatee and stroked his carefully coiffed ebony hair, longing for the good old days when budget deficits, teachers’ strikes, and police misconduct were his biggest problems. In other words, any day before this inexplicable, multifaceted transportation crisis crippled his constituency.
“You think those are car fires or structures?” he asked his chief of staff Nelson Molton, one of the advisers gathered around him inside L.A.’s City Hall tower.
“Hard to say, Mr. Mayor. We’ve got reports of both all over town.”
Ramirez wondered how many were the result of gas leaks, and how many were arson. Setting things on fire seemed to be a natural human response to any breakdown in authority, and after a long night on the job, he knew Los Angeles was perilously close to anarchy. Virtually every road in the city was blocked by stalled vehicles, so even though many cars were still functioning, they had nowhere to go. Police and fire crews were paralyzed like everyone else. Ramirez hoped to God people didn’t start looting. He remembered how well-behaved New Yorkers were on 9/11 but didn’t expect as much from his fellow Angelenos. This crisis had stolen their mobility, and nothing was more likely to piss off a Southern Californian than taking away his freedom to hit the road.
“What’s the latest from LACMTA?”
“That’s the one bright spot in the picture,” Molton said. “The Transportation Authority confirms that light rail and subway lines are still operational. They’ve had to clear abandoned cars from some surface intersections, but the trains are moving. The crowds weren’t too bad during the night, but they’re expecting problems with excessive passenger loads today.”
“We need to secure those rail lines for use by emergency services,” the mayor said.
“Absolutely. As you know, sir, we mobilized the local National Guard during the night. One of their first priorities is to get troops in all the Metro stations. That’s happening as we speak.”
Ramirez stifled a yawn and emptied his cup of coffee. “Let’s give them another hour to get in position. Then we’ll have to decide who gets to ride, and who doesn’t.”
“It could get ugly, sir.”
“What do you mean, ‘get’ ugly? How many hundreds of people died in those plane crashes yesterday? More died in an ambulance, or at home, because they couldn’t get to a hospital.”
He pounded his fist on the desk. An Army veteran and only 42 years old, Ramirez was a vigorous leader who always preferred action over hesitation.
“What the hell is causing this? Who’s responsible? And how can we fix it?”
“LACMTA gave me another clue,” Molton said. “They checked their entire fleet of compressed natural gas buses, and the engines are working fine. Granted, they can’t drive anywhere because the streets are impassable, but no mechanical problems at all.”
Ramirez put his hands together. “Compressed natural gas,” he repeated. “More evidence that whatever is happening is linked to gasoline. Someone put something in our gasoline.”
“And jet fuel,” one of the advisors pointed out.
“Product tampering on an unprecedented scale,” Molton agreed.
“Fucking al-Qaeda, I’ll bet,” he said. “A dual-purpose attack. Massive economic disruption and an assault on a potent American symbol: the car, in Los Angeles. Homeland Security should’ve seen this coming.”
“You can ask the President. He’s supposed to call in about eighteen minutes.”
“What, you think I forgot? Christ. After I talk to him, I want a conference call with every oil company executive in town. They have to figure out what’s in the gas and how it got there. Then they better make a plan to purge the bad stuff and get fresh supplies from somewhere on the double.”
The telephone on Ramirez’s desk emitted a light pinging sound.
“The Prez checking in early?” Molton said.
Even though the meeting was over the phone, Ramirez automatically adjusted his tie before picking up. After half a minute of listening he said, “Hold on, I’m going to put you on speakerphone so my advisors can hear this.” He made the proper adjustments and said to the group, “Different president.”
A woman’s voice, powerful yet somewhat strained, came from the phone.
“This is Dr. Elaine Hampton, Chancellor of UCLA. I know what’s causing the city’s petroleum problem, and it’s worse than you think.”