01 - The Opportunity

“Why do I bother?” Rod Hastings had a daily, almost self-abusive ritual of reviewing job opportunities sent by headhunters.  It wasn’t that he needed a job.  He had saved more than enough money for an early retirement and lived quite comfortably in the Delmar loop of St Louis, Missouri. It wasn’t that he longed for companionship; he didn’t care for interacting with people.  Hastings found the required ‘small talk’ frustrating and a waste of time.  Maybe it was curiosity, or a need to stay current.  He had invested most of his adult life to this industry and could not just walk away.  Whatever the reason, on this particular day, the practice was taking a toll on his patience.

Hastings’ reputation was that of a maverick project manager.  As a results-driven, independent thinker, he broke paradigms without hesitation.  At the peak of his career, he was the ‘Go To’ person for jobs in trouble.  He had a penchant for customizing practices by combining diverse methodologies.

Hastings created unimagined solutions to solve impossible challenges. His peers teased him with the name ‘St. Jude’ because he specialized in rescuing ‘lost cause’ projects. The nickname wasn’t appreciated but the reputation was. Nearly every week, Hastings received a call from a desperate project owner, offering free reign over a project rather than face the consequences of failure.

At age 55, Hastings leaned towards retirement.  Results no longer drove his industry. ‘Job One’ was covering management’s reputation.  Though the endgame remained successful project completion, all trace of errant decisions by project owners had to be erased.  Eliminate any record of a problem or re-assign the blame to a ‘patsy’.  The choice was either incorporate plausible deniability for project owners as standard practice, or don’t work.  Unable to hide his disgust for these ‘fast track’ executives, Hastings planned to leave the profession he truly enjoyed.

On the off occasion he attended an obligatory industry event, business acquaintances would ask about his planned early retirement.  Hastings simply replied, “I’ve had enough.  My BS detection has increased while my BS tolerance has decreased.”

Truth be told, he felt conflicted about his decision.  On one hand, he missed the challenges presented by work, but on the other, he was much happier not suffering the many selfish neophytes he encountered.

Hastings lacked the prowess in political gamesmanship required for retaining employment.  His dry wit caused him trouble on more than one occasion, and his refusal to acquiesce to the ‘new’ business norms made things worse.  He was a pariah in his industry.

As part of his evening ritual, after Hastings read each potential job posting, he took a minute to glance at the television as he sipped Irish coffee.  He enjoyed watching the evening news and prided himself on his knowledge of current events.

The news segment on the screen caught his attention.  A reporter at a climate conference in Chicago was interviewing a young woman, identified in the chyron as Dr. Dagna Larson of the Norges Teknisk-Naturvitenskapelige Universitet (NTNU).  The graphic occasionally changed to the English translation, Norwegian University of Science and Technology.

The interview sounded more like an argument.

“It’s all here,” she pointed to a voluminous document on the table in front of her, “The facts are undeniable.  We have seven years, tops, and then CO2 concentrations in the earth’s atmosphere will be great enough to set into motion a runaway greenhouse effect, making much of the planet incapable of supporting life as we know it.”

Hastings detected just a hint of an accent in Larson’s voice.  She managed to maintain her composure, but it was a battle she was slowly losing.

“Dr Larson,” the reporter queried, “Are you saying it’s the end of the world?”

Larson responded, “Over time, say a millennium, the world will heal.  It is, though, the end of us and nearly every living thing on Earth.”

A smile formed on Hasting’s face.  It was the first time he smiled that day.

The flustered reporter continued, “What’s your proof?”

Larson struggled to lift a hernia-worthy document, “I have correlated information from the most recent reports issued by the US Global Change Research Program and the United Nations Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change.  Though I concur with their conclusions, I greatly disagree with their timeline; it is off by a considerable number of years.  Per these reports, we have 12 years to stem catastrophic climate change.  That is incorrect.  We are well past the point of no return.  There is not enough time to fix the problems that plague us.  Global emissions of CO2 last year were 53.5 gigatons, the most ever released into the atmosphere.  The damage, in the short term, is irreversible.”

Seeing an opening, the reporter pressed hard, “Dr Larson, if you’re correct, what do your conclusions infer about the scientists who authored these reports?  Are you saying they’re incompetent, or worse, lying?”

“Sir,” Larson responded, “I mean these honored colleagues no disrespect.  I worked on both reports.  Their consensus is that global emissions need to be 25% lower in 12 years in order to successfully limit warming to 2º Celsius.  My analysis proves we no longer have sufficient time to achieve that goal.”

“Please explain, Dr Larson.”

“For sake of discussion, let’s assume we have the time to fix the problems that plague our planet.  2º Celsius assures survival only for humanity, some plants and some animals.  Global emissions need to be cut by 55% to limit planetary warming to 1.5º.  That assures survival for all fauna and fern, both on the land and in the sea.  The necessary cutbacks in fossil fuels can no longer happen fast enough.  We, as a global community, increase emissions every year.   Each year we fail to solve the problem adds another year to fix the problem.  All the while, the damage to the planet compounds. With each succeeding year, humanity’s odds for survival became worse. Twelve years ago, we squandered our last chance for a short-term recovery.”

“This picture you’ve drawn,” said the reporter, “isn’t this just an exaggeration?”

“What?”

“A deception designed to dupe our government into adopting costly green initiatives?”

“That’s a lie!”

“We’ve used fossil fuels for over two centuries and yet we haven’t disappeared.  We’re still here.  The smog once experienced in major US cities is gone or significantly reduced. It appears our world has a much greater tolerance than your conclusions would have us believe.  How do you respond?”

“Sir,” Larson spoke with curt politeness, “Humanity exists solely on one planet with one atmosphere.  The air we breath is part of a finite resource with limited abilities for recovery.”

Larson moved closer to the reporter, poking her finger into his chest.

“People like you treat this world as a septic tank.  Humanity is in this precarious situation because your so-called tolerances were exhausted years ago.”

Larson saw a five-gallon bucket used by the camera operator as an improvised toolbox.  She calmly reached down, emptied the bucket’s contents onto the sidewalk and lifted it up.

“Let me give you a tangible analog of a finite resource.”

Larson shoved the bucket over the reporter’s head.

“Why don’t you see how much waste you can place in that bucket while still managing to breathe.  Good day, sir.”  Larson turned and walked out of frame.

The reporter, his voice muffled by the bucket, asked the camera operator, “Did you get all that?”

The operator chuckled, “Oh yea.”

Hastings spat out his coffee as he alternately choked and laughed.  On screen, the reporter just stood there, the bucket still over his head, milking the moment.  After a pregnant pause, he brought the microphone to his mouth under the bucket and sarcastically said, “Thank you Dr. Larson, for a truly immersive experience.  Dan, back to you.”

Having regained his composure, Hastings turned off the television.

“Good for you Dr. Larson.  The jerk had it coming.”

He walked to the counter to get more coffee, then paused in mid-step.

“Dagna Larson … ?”

Hastings was certain he had seen her name recently, but where?  He grabbed his smart pad and re-opened his email.

He performed a search using, ‘Larson’ as the criteria.  Up popped one email; a job posted by Adsberry Financial Group, LLC.  They were looking for a project director ‘… intimately familiar with both Waterfall and Agile, to oversee work on construction and programming jobs at Fermilab’.

Upon further scrutiny, he found a list of project participants.  There, on the list, was the name, Dr Dagna Larson.

“That’s peculiar,” Hastings thought, “No one includes a personnel list in a job posting, and why at Fermilab?”

He reviewed the complete list of participants and another name, Jenifer Almony, rang familiar to him.  It was a name he associated with a project from several years ago.  He recalled there was something odd about that person but couldn’t put his finger on it.

Hastings called up his past projects files and performed a search on the name ‘Almony’.  A single entry displayed on the screen.  He opened it and reviewed the information.

“Jenifer Almony.  Human Resources manager at Adsberry Financial.”

The file indicated the project was twelve years ago.

He read the entry aloud, “… Implementation of information technology upgrades for Adsberry Financial Group, LLC, a venture capital company owned by Bebe Adsberry …  I remember her.  Unusual name.”

Hastings considered the information.  Why was a climatologist involved in a project for a financial organization at, of all places, an ‘atom smasher’ outside of Chicago?  He returned to the email and read further into the body of the document, hoping for additional clues, but his thoughts returned to the name.

‘Almony’. “Almony?  Al-mony … All money?  That’s it!”

The tumblers fell into place.  He knew there was something peculiar about that name.

‘Jenifer Almony’ was an alias used by Adsberry when directly involved in hiring decisions.  She had done the same twelve years ago.

As Hastings recalled, she acted as project owner on that job.  To Adsberry, information was power.  Its criticality warranted her personal attention.  The task was challenging but her team, like the pay, was excellent.  Both attributes he sought in a job.

Returning to the email, Hastings searched for additional information.  All he found a hot link.

“What the hell …”

He clicked the link. It took him to a web page with information identical to that in the email, save the inclusion of a phone number.

“Nothing ventured, I suppose …”

Hastings clicked on the number and placed the call.  There was but a single ring.

“Hello,” It was a young man’s voice.

“Yes, I’m calling about the job posting for a project director at Adsberry Financial.”

“Very good, sir,” the man responded, “You have reached their answering service.  My instructions are to secure your full name, email address and cellphone number. You will be contacted by the Adsberry organization if you are deemed a potential match.”

“Okay,” replied Hastings, “May I have an email or postal address so I might send them my resume?  Better still, a phone number I could call.”

“No,” was the curt response, “As previously stated, I am to only secure your full name, email address and cellphone number.  A representative of Adsberry Financial will reach out to you.”

Hastings pressed the gentleman further, “But how can anyone evaluate my qualifications without my resume?”

“Sir,” said the exhausted gentlemen, “I’m only the answering service.”

His polite veneer vanished, “They tell me what to say and I say it.  You can either give me the information or hang up.  Makes no difference to me ‘cause I get paid by the call.  So, what’s it gonna be?”

“Okay,” Hasting sighed and proceeded to provide his reach information.

“Thank you,” the man responded with forced politeness, “You will be contacted if deemed a fit.  Good day.”

“But …”

“Click.”

“How rude,” he thought, “I wonder if I’ll hear back?”

He pondered the whole experience as he prepared dinner.