Closing Bell
by Ian Wilkes
The room went quiet. Ignoring our computers, we leaned back in our chairs, transfixed by the TV in the corner of the trading floor.
“Hey Joe, turn on the sound,” I called.
Joe worked the remote, and we could hear the newscaster.
“— none of the officials we’ve contacted have offered an explanation, although Senator Cotton has taken to social media to decry this as, and I quote, ‘an unprecedented attack by Chinese naval forces.’ I have to say, this doesn’t appear to be any kind of military force, nor have we seen evidence that it’s associated with a national government...”
The lady sounded excited, and worried, but then, didn’t they always? Cable news anchors could make a light drizzle sound like an apocalypse.
This time you had to wonder though. In one corner of the screen, a shaky video looped: an oil rig being dragged beneath the waves by something huge, glistening, irregular, biological and alive. Sure, in the past few years global warming went into overdrive and the oceans were officially fucked, but this was something else entirely.
Russo’s door flew open and he stormed into the room. I slouched lower in my chair, trying to sink below the coming fusillade of Wall Street bravado. But he wasn’t going to aim it at me anyway.
“What the fuck are you dipshits doing out here? Everybody hypnotized or what?”
“Uh,” somebody stammered. “Check out the news, boss.”
“Yeah. Big news. Super. Big news means big money for somebody, who’s it gonna be? Look at your screens, jerkwads. Anything moving?”
“Yeah, I mean—”
“Yeah, ‘cuz somebody out there is trading, which means they’re either a lot smarter or a lot dumber than all of you! What’s your bet?”
“I’m not sure—”
“I have to do all of this myself, don’t I? Hey quants! Shut it down. Take the rest of the week off.”
Simon, in charge of automated trading, spun to face Russo, surprised. “What, all of it?”
“Unless you wanna tell me your hot-shit algos know what to do about oil-rig-eating sea monsters?”
“Okay, killing the bots.”
“Right.” Russo paced the room, barking at full volume. “Securities! Who’s left holding the bag for that rig?”
Aarav ran energy-sector trades. “It’s Halpine-McAllister’s rig.”
“But it’s insured. Who’s actually gotta pay for this mess? A billion for the rig, plus the cleanup, lost revenue, a thousand lawsuits. Who’s underwriting those policies?”
“Uh… I’ll do some digging.”
“Good. Find out who’s on the hook and go short. Commodities! How much was it pumping?”
Every day, Peter bought and sold piles of stuff he’d never seen. “Probably a hundred thousand a day. Maybe two.”
“Not that much. But I bet oil’s going up,” Russo said. I smirked. You think? Every government on Earth was about to start stockpiling.
“On it,” Peter said.
“Okay,” Russo continued. “that’s the basics. Now let’s talk about the heavy shit. We don’t know what the fuck that was and I doubt we’re gonna find out. So, what are we gonna do? Talk to me.”
Random guys threw out ideas. “If it happens again, it’s gonna foul up shipping. Container ships stop sailing, half the economy grinds to a halt.”
“Say they blow up whatever that was, and there’s all kinds of collateral damage. Long construction, short insurance.”
“Could start a war. Huge for security contractors like Vanadium. Bad for everybody else.”
I kept quiet. Let the other guys speculate.
“Hey boss.” Peter in commodities again. “Funny thing. Far as I can tell, that rig was pumping zero oil.”
Russo looked at him. “What, like broken down? Well’s dry? What?”
Peter gestured at his display. “No, there’s no… I can’t find anything. They built it, but it never started producing. And Halpine-McAllister lists it as a partnership with some anonymous shell company. ‘Ongoing exploration and technology testbed,’ they call it. If this were a warehouse on land you’d say it’s for sure a front operation.”
Russo blinked. “Except it’s obviously an oil platform.”
“It’s… some kind of platform.”
“Shit. What the hell were they doing out there?” Russo said quietly. Then he started barking again. “I still say oil’s going up. Make your trades and then see what you can find out about this mysterious partner. Everybody else, spread your bets. The worse this turns out to be, the more money I want to make. You’re all earning your bonuses today. Got it?”
Amid murmurs of assent, the traders returned to work, the TV once again muted and ignored. Russo tapped my shoulder as he passed my desk.
“A word in my office?”
I got up and followed him. Once the door clicked shut he slumped into his chair, deflated. We’d worked together from the beginning of Russo Capital Management, and we trusted each other. In private, the bluster was gone. “This is messed up,” he said. “I’m starting to think they’re not gonna be able to pull the nose up on this thing.”
“This thing being…”
“You know. Planet Earth.”
“Oh, I think the earth will be just fine. Possibly improved.”
“Right. I find myself gripped by a powerful desire to get out of New York. You’ve got a house somewhere, right?”
“Wisconsin. Plenty of water. Good soil. Winter sucks, though.”
“All right, here’s what I propose. You go on the private payroll and move out there, full time. Your new job is to get me a place, get it all set up. Somewhere pretty for the wife and kids now, safe for them later, know what I mean?” He glanced out the window. “We don’t wanna be here for the next one.”
Anthony Russo was successful because he’d always had a great instinct for risk. That instinct was now telling him to leave New York City, head inland, and prepare for the worst. He’d never been wrong before. I nodded.
“Good,” he said. “I’ll email you the fine print. See you in Wisconsin.” He held out his hand.
“Bye boss,” I said and shook it firmly.