Margaritifer Basin (Margaritifer Trilogy Book 1) (22 page)

Abby looked puzzled, “Why do you
think there will be so much opposition?”

“An endless array of personal,
political, philosophical, and even scientific reasons. For one thing, I think
there will be a lot of folks in Congress and NASA that will be very upset at
the thought of some local yokel that won the lottery beating the United States
government to Mars. That is not going to go over well. So one thing I’ll start
working on immediately is finding some influential cooperation in a few House
and Senate subcommittees, so that when the battles start we’re not alone.
Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Gabe said, “We’ll need a
CAD system, Computer Aided Design. We’ll probably want to farm out most of the
engineering, but we’ll need something for basic design work, something more
than cocktail napkins.”

Jeff smiled, “I dunno, an awful lot
of good engineering has been done on cocktail napkins. Wasn’t the original Atlas
drawing done on a cocktail napkin, or something like that?”

“Okay, then we’ll need a large
supply of cocktail napkins.”

Jeff grinned, “Nah, just kidding.
Make up a list and we’ll get it. Oh, and that reminds me…” Jeff reached into
his pocket and pulled out a stack of credit cards. “Here’s some business
plastic for each of you, American Express and VISA. Use your heads, please.
And, Abby, no, diamonds and furs are not business expenses.”

“Damn.”

“Though I will be happy to pop for
a swimming suit.”

Everyone laughed.

“Why?”

Jeff smiled and reflected for a
second, “Uh, good question. Never mind. What else?” Everyone sat silent. “Okay
then, let’s go to work.” As he started to get up from the table he paused, “Oh!
Dang, there’s one other thing. Before we hit the books, let’s all go into town.
There’s something we need to pick up.”

“What?” Chrissie asked.

“You’ll see. Come on.”

Jeff parked in front of Grenon’s of
Newport.

Abby peered out the window and
frowned, “A jewelry store? I though you said diamonds were out.”

Jeff laughed, “We’re not shopping
for diamonds. Come on.”

Inside they were met by Raymond
Grenon, the owner. “Hi Jeff.”

“Hi Ray. Let’s see what you’ve
got.”

“Sure, just a second, they’re in
back.” He retrieved a large black felt jewelry case from his office and
presented it to Jeff at the counter. “This is just some of them. There’s
another batch at the factory for refurbish and recalibration per your
specifications. And I still have a few more to find. After all these years,
finding these in serviceable condition is not easy.”

“Understood. I have complete
confidence in you.” Jeff opened the case. Inside were seven Omega Speedmaster
wristwatches with the caliber 321 movement in factory-fresh like-new condition.
“Ah, very nice.” Jeff picked up the case and turned around, “Everybody take
one. These are the original Omega Speedmaster moon watch, the exact same model
worn by Neil Armstrong and virtually every other Apollo program astronaut. Like
I said, ‘tested and proven’.”

“Me too?” Chrissie asked.

“Of course. The reason I brought
you all along is so that Ray can adjust the bracelet size to fit. Ray, if you
would? And, Susan, why don’t you observe this surgical procedure, so you can
manage it in the future.”

Susan smiled, “Sure.”

“You’ll note that the crowns are
blue, that’s not original. These are calibrated for a 24-hour Earth day as we
know it. There is another set that will eventually be here that is calibrated
for a 24-hour day that’s actually 24 hours, 37 minutes and 22.7 seconds in
duration – the length of a Martian day. The crowns on those will be red. And by
the way, these are all over forty years old. They’re the real deal.”

Gabe held one up and turned it in
the light, “Cool. Thanks boss.”

Tuesday, July 31,
2012 (T minus 1330 days)

Abby met Jeff at the front door,
excited. “How did it go?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so
scared in my life, but it went fine.”

“You soloed? Congratulations!”

“Thanks. I need a drink.”

“Just remember, any landing you
walk away from is a good one.”

“Yeah, that’s what I keep hearing.
But four years from now we’re gonna have to do a whole lot better than just
walk away from it.”

Abby’s smile faded. “That’s a fact.
Come on, I’ll buy you that drink.”

Friday, August 3,
2012 (T minus 1327 days)

Jeff found Abby in her office
downstairs. “Hey, sorry to drag you away from whatever you’re doing, but I have
to go to San Diego this weekend, a friend of mine is retiring.”

“No problem. Who?’

“Captain Ralph Dillard,
COMNAVSPECWARGRU 3.”

“A SEAL?”

“Yeah.”

Abby’s eyes lit up. “Oooo, ought to
be lots of handsome men around there. When do we leave?”

Jeff laughed. “As soon as you’re
ready. Bring your Full Dress Whites.”

“Okay. Uh, we gonna be back in time
for the MSL landing?”

“Oh yeah, have to be. The
retirement’s at ten tomorrow morning and there’s a reception afterwards at the
Kidd Club. I imagine the grog will be flowing, and you’ll want to take the
opportunity to try and drink a few SEALs under the table.”

She grinned. “You think?”

“Uh, yeah. So, we’ll stay the night
and leave at oh-dark-thirty on Sunday, and should be back here, what? About
mid-afternoon?”

“Uh huh.”

“Okay, that’s plenty of time. The
landing’s not till after midnight.”

Following a stopover in Wichita for
fuel and lunch, Jeff and Abby finally landed at Long Beach Airport a little
past 5:00 p.m., parked the plane at the AirFlight terminal and caught a cab for
the two mile ride over to Jeff’s house in Bixby Knolls.

“This is cozy,” Abby said, entering
the front door.

“Yeah, it’s a comfortable little
place. Had it for years.”

“This is your wife’s house?”

Jeff smiled softly and nodded. “Uh
huh.”

“So this is hallowed ground?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

She turned to him and smiled. “I’m
honored.”

“Eh, Marsha would’ve liked you. And
you would’ve liked her. Anyway, come on, spare room’s back here.”

Jeff showed Abby to the spare
bedroom at the back of the house. “Just drop your stuff and we’ll go get some
dinner.”

“Okay.” Abby peeked out the back
window. “You have a pool!”

“Yeah, help yourself. Uh, word of
warning: you’ll probably have an audience, the old guy next door, Ed. You wear
anything too skimpy and you’re liable to give him a heart attack.”

“Hmmm, I didn’t bring a swimsuit.
Maybe I should wait ‘til after dark.”

“Probably be a good idea. Come on,
let’s go eat.”

Abby followed Jeff to the garage.
“Whoa! Nice car.”

Jeff grinned. “Yeah, it is nice.
Very first thing I bought after winning the lottery. Couldn’t think of anything
else to buy.”

“Nice choice.”

“Hasn’t been driven much over the
past few months. Mostly just sits here and gathers dust.”

“What a crime.”

“Hop in and we’ll blow the cobwebs
off.”

Jeff drove sedately over to
Atlantic Boulevard and south to the San Diego Freeway. As he turned onto the
onramp he looked around, checking for police cars and, seeing none, floored the
gas pedal of the S65 AMG.

“Jesus!” Abby howled, squashed back
into her seat. “That’s like a cat launch.”

“604 horsepower.” Jeff grinned.
“The mother of all passing gears.”

“Holy shit! How fast will this
thing go?”

“The computer limits it to 155. Bypass
that and I dunno, probably pretty close to 200.”

“Wow.”

Jeff backed off a bit and took the
Long Beach Freeway south to the marina district and Gladstone’s, where a small
gratuity got them a patio table, without a reservation.

They ordered drinks and when the
waitress came to take their order Jeff looked at Abby. “Trust me?”

“Implicitly.”

He turned to the waitress. “We’ll
start with a Rainbow Harbor Roll and follow that with a Gladstone’s Clam Bake
for two.” The waitress nodded and left. Jeff suddenly glanced back at Abby,
“You’re not allergic to shellfish, are you?”

Abby shook her head and smiled.
“No. I think that’s a violation of Navy Regs.”

Jeff laughed. “Never thought of it
that way.”

“So, how did you get to know
Captain Dillard?”

“Met him in Kuwait in ’91. Our EOD
unit there was pretty small and we looked around for somebody to hang out with
and concluded we had more in common with the SEALs than the SeaBees. And Ralph
and I got to be good friends and just stayed in touch. He’s a good guy, you’ll like
him.”

Abby nodded and winked at Jeff.
“Any friend of yours…”

Saturday, August 4,
2012 (T minus 1326 days)

A little before eight in the
morning Jeff called down the hall, “You about ready? We gotta go.”

Abby came out of the spare room,
sparkling in Navy Full Dress White uniform. “All set.”

“Good. Help me with this damn
collar. I hate these things; half wish we all had your uniform.”

She walked down the hall toward
him. “You’d look pretty funny in a skirt.” As she approached Jeff, she stopped
in mid-stride, staring at the medals on his chest. “Holy shit! A Navy Cross?”

Jeff grinned sheepishly. “Yeah.”

“What the hell did you get into?”

“Eh, I’ll tell you about it on the
drive down. It’s a long, boring story.”

She helped him with the hooks on
his collar. “It may be long, but I’ll bet it’s not boring. They don’t hand
those out for shoveling shit in Louisiana.”

Jeff twisted his neck in the choker
collar, “Thanks,” then glanced at Abby’s chest. “Distinguished Flying Cross? I
don’t think I’ve ever seen one of those on a woman.”

Abby rolled her eyes. “Oh great,
we’re gonna be swapping sea stories all the way to San Diego.”

Once on the freeway and headed
south, Jeff went first, and related the story of he and Gar Stewart in Kuwait,
for which he had been awarded the Navy Cross and Purple Heart. “And thus endeth
the tale.”

Abby stared at him and shook her
head. “Wow, I don’t know what to say. But if I’m ever in a minefield, I sure
want you with me.”

Jeff grinned. “I vote we avoid
minefields, we’ll live longer that way. Alright, your turn.”

“Uh, after that story, I’m
embarrassed.”

“Come on, let’s hear it.”

“Okay. In 2003 I was flying
long-range close air support off the
Nimitz
, mostly around northern
Baghdad and Tikrit. We were returning from a mission and some son of a bitch on
the ground had managed to find himself a leftover SA-8
Gecko
and took a
shot at me. Damn near got me. It scorched the paint and scared the pee out of
me. We were out of ordinance and low on fuel, so couldn’t do anything about it,
but he sure pissed me off. We landed and I wanted to refuel, rearm, go find the
bastard and return the compliment, but my squadron leader wouldn’t let me.
Ordered me to stay clear and let the ground-pounders deal with them. Well, I
was having none of that; nobody shoots at the Bitch and lives to talk about
it.”

Jeff laughed.

“So the next day I got the red
shirts to load me a HARM in addition to my usual bomb load, and went back. I
figured they’d be about in the same place and there were some hills about
twenty klicks north. I left my wingman flying high and just out of range as a
decoy – which he was none too happy about – and while the rags were trying to
get a radar lock on him, I rolled in right on the deck behind the hills. Shit,
I was so low I was kickin’ up sand. I popped up over the hills, acquired,
launched the HARM, peeled off and called ‘Magnum’. They never knew what hit
‘em. That was the only time I ever got to do that. What a rush! Then I swung
around and gave ‘em a couple 500-pounders just for spite. We returned to the
birdfarm and my squadron leader promptly grounded me and threatened to
court-martial me for disobeying a direct order. Eventually the wing commander
decided that discretion was the better part of valor and gave me the DFC
instead. Better publicity.”

Jeff howled. “That’s hilarious.
Good for you. I can never understand that. Target of opportunity, you kill it,
and some son of a bitch upstairs wants to lock you up and take away your
birthday. Jesus!”

“Yeah, well, that was one of
several areas in which the canoe club and I just didn’t see eye-to-eye.”

“Is that why you got turned down
for Test Pilot School?”

“I dunno, probably had something to
do with it. When they said I had an attitude problem, I didn’t argue with them.
But it never stopped me from killing things that needed to be killed. But, you
know how it is, attitude’s all fine and well on the front lines, but when you
get into something like Test Pilot or NASA, it’s a whole different ballgame.
They want team players, company men, not loose cannons.”

Jeff glanced at her and smiled.
“Well, Commander Nolan, it would be my privilege to fly with you any time, any
place.”

Abby returned the smile. “Thanks.”

Arriving at the NAB Coronado
auditorium, Jeff found a parking space and he and Abby headed for the front
door.

Master Chief Stewart met them at
the head of the walk. He snapped to attention, saluted both officers, and
snidely remarked, “Nice of you to make it, sir, they’re about to start.”

Jeff and Abby returned the salute
and stopped. “Morning Master Chief, nice to see you too.” He turned to Abby.
“Commander Nolan, may I introduce
Master Chief Explosive
Ordinance Disposal Technician Garland Stewart. Master Chief, this is Lieutenant
Commander Abigail Nolan.”

Master Chief Stewart held out his
hand. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”