AMERICA ONE (10 page)

“North or south?” VIN asked. “North is Salt Lake City, south is Las Vegas.”

“Too many ex-girlfriends in Salt Lake; I reckon Las Vegas could be a place to stay for a while. I spent less time at Nellis than I did at Hill Air Force Base, and I know of a great Italian restaurant in Vegas where the ‘Rat Pack’ used to hang out.”

“Who?” asked VIN.

“A bit before your time kid. Heard of Bogart, Sinatra, Dean Martin?”

“Sounds like a little before your time, too,” VIN replied.

“Yeah! I loved old Sinatra. When I used to catch rides on long trips I could hear the music playing from where I was hiding. The pilots used to tune in to a radio channel playing the old stuff. I was only fourteen or fifteen, but the pilots were from the Rat Pack era. Over many hours, I got to enjoy the music and they played it loud over the intercoms and aircraft speakers. I’ll find us a channel like they used to search for… and head south, kid.”

It didn’t take long for the satellite hundreds of miles above them to transmit what he was searching for and with the loud crooning of Frank Sinatra, VIN headed south on the straight dual-lane highway which never seemed to end.

By nightfall, with a burger, and a new tank of gas in St. George, Utah, they left the state and entered Nevada. It was the first day of October.

Do I see a C-5 Galaxy over there?

Ryan Richmond was busy. He worked fourteen to eighteen-hour days, going from one department to the other to assess the progress and spent half of every day in one meeting after another.

He spent hours in a golf cart driving from hangar to hangar; it often needed recharging before he did. With twelve hangars situated around the main asphalt apron where aircraft could be towed to, the distance was a good mile or more if he visited all of them, which he often did several times a day.

Ryan lived in one of the separate bungalows, built a little larger than the others. Why he had the crazy notion to build it with a large office, he never knew; he only slept and showered on the premises. His main office was in Hangar One, where his “Ground Control” was to be stationed, and where the ion thrusters were being built. He wanted to be near the power units, of which four were under production for the first trials into space, in seven months’ time.

The new addition to his plan, the C-5 Galaxy, had arrived on the last day of August, two weeks earlier, and with it a mature pilot and co-pilot on loan from the Air Force until he would return the aircraft.

The chief pilot, a full colonel who had a dozen years and only 2,000 flying hours under his belt, could certainly tell everybody how good he could fly, but when Ryan and several others took off on the company’s maiden flight, it seemed the co-pilot knew how to handle the aircraft far better than his superior.

It took time, but finally the Air Force brought Ryan up to date; the chief pilot hadn’t flown anything more than a desk for a decade, and the co-pilot, a twenty-five year-old captain, had spent his entire young career flying C-17s, and similar transport aircraft.

Ryan was in a predicament; he couldn’t send the pilot back as a minimum of two pilots were needed to fly the beast, and the Air Force had no interest in exchanging a new pilot. Also, Ryan had far more important issues that took up his time: getting federal permits to obtain reactor-grade plutonium-238 for a car-sized nuclear power reactor that a company in the U.S. had built for him for $24 million.

He had ordered it three years earlier, and now the reactor was ready to be shipped, but he needed federal authority to seal fuel into the reactor—whatever type of fuel the federal government would permit him to use.

Unfortunately, if it was a box of Cheerios, or a C-5 Galaxy, discussion was easy, but as soon as members of Congress heard about non-weapons grade and recycled plutonium-238 getting into the hands of a private company, even companies in the British/USA space race, they acted like donkeys and wouldn’t budge on the permits. The reason was more financial than threat.

Plutonium-238 was what NASA had used for its energy source in space for long-term missions. Even the car-sized robot running around on Mars had eight pounds of this exact grade of plutonium fuel that even a year or two earlier, was stated to be in short supply. NASA had relied on plutonium-238 to power robotic missions for five decades, but with supplies running low, scientists who wanted the government to make more, found out that it was easier to chart a course across the solar system than to navigate the budget process inside Washington, DC.

Ryan was an expert on space by now and knew that plutonium-238 gave off heat, which could be converted to electricity in the cold, dark depths of space. It was not the same plutonium used for bombs, but during the Cold War, the United States did produce this highly toxic stuff in facilities that supported nuclear weapons program; those facilities stopped making it in the late 1980s, decades earlier. With three loans from Congress, production of the fuel started up again, but the production cycle was five years, and the country wouldn’t have new supplies for another two.

Ryan had argued in Congress that without a space program—NASA only had plans to send out one or two discovery vehicles in the future—whatever supplies the country still had would not be needed for several years. He told them that if they wanted the U.S. to win the private space race and to be able to supply the space station, they needed to help him. However, his argument fell on deaf ears; their vision was that the race was to a lower space orbit where solar energy was enough to win. Why was he even thinking about plutonium-238?

When the British got ahead of the Americans, Congress suddenly wanted reports from him, and the other company participating in the race; “Earth-Exit Inc.” Why were the American companies being shown up by a rich Brit with an airline that was flying out of California, their very own country?

Ryan pleaded his case and went to the president himself who signed off on just two pounds of 238 instead of the five kilos (twelve pounds) he wanted. He was told by the president, a good and trustworthy friend of his and a fan of the space race that reports from the Energy Commission indicated they didn’t have what Ryan had initially asked for.

Congress finally agreed with the president; scientists from NASA saying that the amount was enough to power one nuclear space battery for space travel, and he would have to return it once he had completed his program.

“After all, plutonium-238 did have an 87.78-year half-life,” they reported, and would outlive the company owner, and the current space race.

For Ryan this was not enough to build a deep space unit. Naturally, this nuclear battery would have enough power for daily use, but not for his ultimate project and the longer term his future spaceship would stay in space; far longer than he had disclosed to anybody apart from his inner-team of thirty-six scientists.

Ryan looked unhappy leaving Capitol Hill, but inside he was satisfied with two years of bartering. He knew how much the government knew about his project, plus he could tell the reactor company in a year that he did have something to fuel the machine.

That wait was now over and he ordered the company to ship the one-ton reactor empty; he had his government-approved supply in two one-pound square anti-radiation chambers, each built with graphite and an inch of lead, which stored one pound of plutonium-238, and which Congress agreed to hand over with a permit and an additional fee of $10 million; and he would still have to return it within twenty-four months.

He was happy to get beaten up by Congress. Five years earlier, when he had negotiated contracts with the second group of Russian nuclear scientists he had employed, all three were happy to tell him that they knew of a person on the Russian black market who could sell him five kilos of pure unused plutonium-238 for $25 million. He didn’t blink and flew to Murmansk in a hired private jet to complete the deal.

$25 million U.S. dollars would fill twelve large suitcases. Instead, he picked up nine cases of British Sterling from his bank in Switzerland, so as not to break so many U.S. laws. He safely collected his purchase in a large lead-lined four-ton holding-unit a Russian company had built for him for another million dollars; it was loaded onto a Russian truck and, with all the necessary exit papers, he had it delivered to a safe warehouse he had purchased in Turkey. It was left there under the protection of one hired American nuclear scientist, and two private security guards until he was ready to ship it.

He was very close to the time when his project would need the secretly purchased fuel. As soon as he could get his hands on the six-foot high and six-foot wide reactor and move it to its new home, the fuel would be launched into space, and away from the ever-watchful eyes of the U.S. Government.

The rest of the massive project was progressing on time. He and many of his initial team had already worked for just over a decade on drawing up the plans. Sure, they scrapped ideas continuously, but out of the ideas came Ryan’s dream of going to space. Only few knew what he really wanted, and that was another two years away.

****

The silver bullet was parked in the underground parking lot of Mandalay Bay, sixty-plus miles east of Ryan’s airfield. It had been there for forty-eight hours, silently waiting.

The two men were twenty stories above. It was daylight, an hour before midday, and both men, in separate bedrooms of a mid-sized suite, were trying to get the blurry vision of their latest hangover out of their eyes so they could focus on the breakfast. Jonesy, more used to this type of living than the younger man, managed to get there first and help himself to eggs, bacon, hash browns and coffee. “Get out here, kid, I’m hungry enough to eat all this myself. Two eggs each? What is wrong with you? Two eggs are for wimps. Real men eat three or more.”

“Sorry,” replied a rough-looking former marine, a towel around his neck and his face still wet from getting his legs attached. Jonesy always forgot that it took VIN longer to get ready.

“Did you win last night?” VIN asked, helping himself.

“Nope. Was up a grand on roulette by midnight, but lost five on the blackjack table. I’m down four since yesterday.”

“That adds to the grand you lost on day one, or now ten percent of your part of the stash,” replied VIN.

“And you, Mr. Gambler?” asked the older man.

“I got back the 500 dollars I lost yesterday and now I’m up 500 bucks on my side. That pays for this room and breakfast for our second day. Today you had better win, or we are out of here before we get evicted. Stick to roulette, you suck at blackjack!”

“Kid, I think that you might be right for once in your life. If I’m up by dark, I’ll hand the winnings to you and maybe we get the largest steaks and margaritas this side of Texas for dinner.”

Unfortunately, that didn’t happen as planned. They got the steaks and Margaritas alright, but Jonesy was down another thousand dollars. VIN was up a thousand dollars and suggested that he might have to separate his side of the combined bank account. Jonesy stopped gambling after that and went after female companionship for the next couple of days instead.

VIN enjoyed the gambling. Although he had never played the game in his life, he learned and now understood craps. His first day’s winnings of 500 dollars gave him pleasure and he was up $7,000 over the next three days while Jonesy pursued other interests; the odd girl he brought back to the suite, was not always beautiful and young. One was a really striking girl, until the fifth day when she asked for her going nightly rate of $250, and he lost any interest in a permanent relationship.

“At least Jonesy is losing less money on women than on gambling
!” Vin thought to himself over breakfast as Jonesy complained to the pretty girl that he wouldn’t have spoken to her if he knew that he had to pay, gave her two Ben Franklin’s and impolitely told her to get out.

It finally happened; on the seventh day VIN’s total stash of winnings was reduced to a measly hundred bucks. He had paid for the room daily from his winnings, and had replaced Jonesy’s losses in the bank account. After a week of gambling and drinking, Vegas was getting old and it was time to move on.

Jonesy was still enjoying himself and didn’t want to leave. Nor did the blonde he had brought home earlier that morning, just when VIN had decided that enough was enough.

“If you want to stay, that’s fine with me,” stated VIN over breakfast at the usual time. “You get all your gear out of the car. You can have the room and keep Blondie here, and I’ll head out and pick you up in a year or two. I reckon you won’t last two weeks.”

“I’m staying,” stated Jonesy. The small pasty blonde woman, several years older than VIN, clapped her approval, hoping to get some of the breakfast. She wasn’t getting VIN’s half.

“We have to be out of here by midday, if we are leaving!” added VIN.

“You go, I’m staying. What else is there to see out there? Another few hundred miles and then we hit the end of the road west!” replied Jonesy keeping his share of breakfast away from the hungry-looking girl. This made VIN think a little harder. It was fine to leave Jonesy here, but the overgrown pilot wouldn’t last long. He might be a good pilot, but he sure couldn’t fly a casino.

“I’m heading over to Base 51, or whatever they call that secret military base around here. I‘ve always wanted to see where it is,” VIN responded after a few moments of thinking what would tempt his partner.

“Area 51, now that sounds a little better!” replied Jonesy, excited for the first time since they had arrived in Las Vegas. “It’s north…or northwest of here. I know we’ll get told to buzz off from the front gate security, but I‘ve heard that there are people out there all the time, civilians monitoring what is going on inside from the nearby hills.” He turned to the girl. “You, whatever your name is,” Jonesy stated to the blonde VIN was starting to feel sorry for, “get dressed. Here’s a Ben Franklin; go and find your own breakfast. You took a cotton to me, not the other way around, and I didn’t expect to see you this morning.”

VIN smiled as the now angry-looking woman took the money offered, found the rest of her clothing, told Jonesy what she thought of dogs like him, and quickly headed out of the door when he raised his breakfast knife to throw at her.