Margaritifer Basin (Margaritifer Trilogy Book 1) (8 page)

Gabriel swirled the coffee in her
cup, clearly contemplating an almost endless list of questions, trying to
figure out which one to ask first. “Hmmm. Okay, commercial launch,
off-the-shelf hardware… the old ‘Mars Direct’ approach, something like that.
Right? So, what do you need me for?”

“Because you know it’s not that
simple.”

Her head snapped up, “Yes, I do.
But do you?”

Jeff smiled and leaned forward
resting his elbows on the table and his chin on his clasped hands, “Yeah,
believe me, I know. Look, it’ll take days to go over all the details, many of
which are far from being cast in stone, and I can’t possibly answer all your
questions now. And in any case, if I had all the answers, we wouldn’t be having
this conversation. I understand your skepticism and incredulity, I get that a
lot. All I ask is that you keep an open mind and give me the opportunity to
show you the whole plan – the easy parts, the hard parts, and the parts for
which there are no parts… yet. Come to my headquarters in Rhode Island for a
couple days – all expenses paid – and let me show you what I’ve got. No
obligation.”

“My thesis defense is next week. I
couldn’t possibly do it before then.”

Jeff leaned back in the chair,
stretched his arms over his head and breathed deeply. She’s interested, and curious.
“Understood. How about the week after? Say, Friday, June 15? I’ll even treat
you to a celebration dinner, Doctor Frederick.”

Gabriel laughed. “Rhode Island,
huh? Are you from there?”

“No. Actually I’m from Long Beach,
just across town from here. But I have this place in Rhode Island, just outside
Newport. It’s quiet and comfortable and a good place to work and think. Will
you give me a chance to prove to you that this can be done and that we’re gonna
do it?”

She stared at the table, gritting
her teeth and drumming her fingers on the now half empty coffee cup, “Okay.”

“Most excellent,” he beamed. “Give
me your email address and I’ll send you the airline reservation.”

Jeff and Gabriel stood and shook
hands again, exchanged business cards and he headed down the hall. As he was
nearing the door he heard her shout from behind, “How many people work for your
company?”

He stopped and turned with a broad
smile, “Including you and me? Two.”

Tuesday, May 29, 2012
(T minus 1393 days)

Jeff found a parking space for the
new Mercedes in front of the StarFlight Charter terminal at Bob Hope Airport in
Burbank. He’d spent a number of hours on the phone over the past few weeks
quietly beating the bushes at charter bizjet companies – trying hard not to
look like an employee raider – searching for just the right pilot. At first he
thought it would be easy, the world was awash in pilots, but he soon discovered
that wasn’t exactly the case. So while he was in the neighborhood, Jeff decided
to drop in on one of the largest charter firms in hopes of finding a pilot in
the industry whose brain he could pick.

His desire was to find a pilot with
‘the right stuff.’ A military test pilot or current astronaut would be
preferable, but prying one loose from the government presented more than a few
near-insurmountable challenges. An ex-Navy or Air Force ‘jet jock’ was Plan B.

StarFlight’s terminal certainly
seemed to fit the company identity, lavishly appointed befitting their ‘rich
& famous’ clientele, though, at the moment, sparsely populated. Alone
behind the rosewood and onyx counter, across the broad expanse of marble
flooring stood a young lady, crisply attired in a navy blue suit, but appearing
none too happy. As Jeff approached the counter he learned why. From an office
behind the counter, and in spite of the closed door, came the shrill voice of a
woman, clearly perturbed about… something.

“You don’t pay me anywhere near
enough for this crap! I’m a pilot, not a goddamned twenty-dollar whore! That
son-of-a-bitch wanted to hump me on the fucking plane just so he could join the
Mile High Club!”

Then there was silence, the other
participant in the debate apparently attempting to display some restraint. The
young lady behind the counter managed to muster the faintest of embarrassed smiles
as Jeff approached, but otherwise appeared frozen in terror. Jeff returned a
smile that was somewhere between knowing father and Cheshire cat, and stopped a
few feet from the counter. Waiting out the storm seemed to be the better part
of valor.

“I don’t give a flying fuck what
the goddamned band calls themselves! Who cares? They’re just a bunch of doped
up grungy fuck-heads that, for reasons passing all human understanding, make
money by the barrel generating random noise! That fucking freak of nature is
lucky I didn’t rip his balls off and feed ‘em to him.”

Jeff stood stoically, suddenly
thankful that he’d just got a haircut and was wearing an Armani suit, while the
counter attendant nervously rearranged a stack of papers in a manner that
demonstrated an uncanny appreciation of the term ‘random.’

“Look at me, asshole! I’m a Naval
Officer with more time in jets than any of these other dickheads you’ve got
crawling around here and I’ll be goddamned if I’ll have a slimy little twerp
like you pimping me out to the dregs of humanity just so you can make a buck!”

Jeff’s ears perked up. She
certainly sounded like the Tailhook variety of a Navy airdale, definitely had
command of the vocabulary.

“Blow it out your ass! I’m done!”

And with that the door flew open and
out stormed an elegantly proportioned young lady wearing a suit similar to that
of the counter attendant’s and sporting a flash of fiery red hair tied up in a
neat bun. She hurriedly walked to the end of the counter, nearly tearing the
counter door off its hinges, and then broke into a trot as she made for the
front door. Jeff gave the horrified counter attendant a smile and hurried off
on the redhead’s trail.

Outside the building he raced to catch up. “Excuse
me! Would you hold up a second?”

She ignored him and continued
trotting into the parking lot.

“Please! If I could just have a
word.”

She finally slowed a bit and half
looked over her shoulder, “What?!”

“I need a good pilot and it seems
you need a job.”

She stopped in her tracks and
turned to face him, brilliant emerald eyes flashing. Jeff trotted up to her,
smiled, and offered his hand, “My name is Jeffrey Grey. I’m the owner and
Chairman of Grey Aerospace and I’m looking for a pilot with the right stuff. I
wonder if I might have a moment of your time?”

She glared at him for a moment then
relaxed just a bit and took his hand. “Abigail Nolan.”

“Pleased to meet you Ms. Nolan. Is
there someplace around here we can sit down and talk? I’ll buy you a cup of
coffee, or a stiff drink, your choice.”

She laughed softly, “Yeah, I could
use a good stiff drink about now. There’s a bar in the general aviation
terminal down at the end of the lot. It’s a short walk. And, it’s Abby.”

Jeff smiled and gestured in the
general direction, “Lead on.”

#

They took a corner table in the
dimly lit bar. When the waitress arrived Abby didn’t hesitate, “Scotch, rocks.
Make it a double.”

Jeff grinned, “I’ll have the same.”

“Well Mr. Grey, I’ll give you
points for exquisite timing. What’s on your mind?”

Jeff surveyed her for a minute.
Early thirties, maybe five foot eight or nine, physically fit, confident,
rebellious, and an alabaster complexion that belied the granite beneath.

The drinks arrived and Abby wasted
no time draining half her glass.

“It’s Jeff. Uh, I can see you’ve had a, um,
difficult morning, so I’ll cut to the chase. But first, tell me a bit about
yourself. The abridged version will do.”

Abby smiled softly and shrugged,
“Not a lot to tell. Thirty-two, Naval Academy class of 2001, B.S. aeronautical
engineering, eight years active duty in F/A-18s, carrier qualed, two
deployments to the sandbox, close air support missions in Iraq 2003 and 2005.
Punched out cause the bureaucracy and I didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye on my
career path and I thought I could do better in commercial aviation. I may have
been wrong.”

“Wow. You flew the Hornet?”

“Super Hornet. F/A-18E.”

“I’ll be damned. What was your
callsign?”

“Bitch.”

Jeff choked on his drink and
laughed. “You’re kidding?”

“Nope. Got tagged with that after
an incident at Advanced Strike School, and it just stuck. I kind of liked it,
made a good first impression.”

Jeff grinned. “I love it. What was the dispute over
your career path?”

“I was turned down for test pilot
school.”

“Why?”

“They said I had an attitude
problem.”

Jeff laughed. “Really? I can’t
imagine why. I thought a bad attitude was a prerequisite for test pilots?”

“Yeah, well, times change. Jeff,
I’m a damn good pilot but, uh, you might say I’m a little short on discipline.”

“Hmmm. It’s been my experience
that’s not always a major fault. What inspired you to attend the Naval Academy,
and fly jets?”

“My grandfather. He was retired
Navy, Annapolis, and a pilot. Flew F-4s in Vietnam.”

“Was?”

“Yeah, he passed away last year.”

“I’m sorry.”

Abby shrugged.

“And your father?”

“Never knew him.”

“That’s too bad.”

Abby shook her head. “Given what
mom has to say about him, maybe not.”

“Oh? No, sorry, check that, it’s
not my place to ask.”

“No, it’s okay. Mom was one of
those pathetic teen-pregnancy sagas. She got pregnant with me when she was
seventeen, a junior in high school. Dad was a year older and after he graduated
they got married. But at eighteen and just out of high school, responsibility
wasn’t his strong suit. Four months after I was born he went off to work one
day and never came home. Mom didn’t remarry until I was in my second year at
the Academy. She and her parents raised me not to make the same mistake.
Grandpa always wanted a grandson but never got one, so I got the job. He got me
involved in all manner of sports, taught me to fly, to shoot, and, when the
time came, got me an appointment to the Naval Academy. The only thing I got
from my dad was his name.”

Jeff smiled. “Sometimes it’s funny
how things work out.”

“You have no idea. It gets even
stranger. Mom’s now on her fourth and, my guess is, final husband. I think she
finally got it right. But here’s the supreme irony: they dated in high school
before
she met my father. Probably would have been the perfect couple if they’d stayed
together, except that I wouldn’t be here.”

“That would be a real pity.”

She chuckled. “Depends on who you
ask.”

“Just speaking for myself. How’d
your mom and her husband manage to get back together after all those years?”

“They were reintroduced a couple
years ago at dinner with mutual friends from high school. They instantly fell
head over heels in love and got married.”

“So the story has a happy ending.”

“Yeah. For them, a very happy
ending.”

“That’s nice to hear. I like happy
endings.”

Abby smiled and nodded. “You ever
hear of the novelists, Catherine Delacourt and Bradford Walsh?”

“Yeah, sure. Haven’t read anything
of hers, but I have Walsh’s space trilogy, though I haven’t read all of it.
Really good stuff.” He took a sip of scotch, then let out a small gasp. “No
way!”

She grinned sheepishly. “Uh huh.”

Jeff smiled broadly. “That’s too
cool!”

“Yeah. Catherine Delacourt is just
mom’s pen name, her real name’s Diane. Mrs. Bradford Walsh.”

“I’ll be damned.” He shook his
head. “Huh. So… beautiful, educated, talented, experienced, and famous parents?
Is there anything you don’t have?”

Abby shrugged. “Um, a job.” She
frowned. “Oh, and a husband.”

“Well, I may be able to help you
with the former. The latter, probably not. Any prospects?”

She shook her head. “No. There
aren’t a lot of men around fearless enough to marry a redhead fighter jock that
everyone knows as ‘Bitch’.”

Jeff laughed. “I see your point.
Eh, somebody will come along.”

She sighed softly. “I’m in no
hurry.”

He nodded. “When did your
grandfather start teaching you to fly?”

“As soon as I could reach the
pedals. I think I was eleven or twelve. But I had to wait until I was sixteen
to get my student license. Got it on my birthday and soloed the next day. Got
my private license on my seventeenth birthday and by the time I graduated from
high school I was flying turboprops, had my instrument, complex, and
multi-engine ratings, and got my commercial license on my eighteenth birthday.”

“Wow.”

“By the time I got to flight
school, I was already type rated in Citations and had more hours than the rest
of the class combined. In fact, I had more hours than some of the instructors.”

“Good grief. And that’s how you got
into fighters?”

“Yeah. I graduated first in my
Primary class. Asked for and got the Tailhook syllabus. Graduated first there
and, try as they might, the Navy just couldn’t come up with an excuse to turn
me down for the Advanced Strike Pipeline. I could outfly anybody there, so when
I asked for F/A-18s, they didn’t have much choice.”

“Impressive.”

She sipped her drink and smiled. “I
just love to fly. Did you serve?”

“Yeah. Navy.”

“Oh, yeah? When?”

“Went to OCS after I graduated from
college in ’85. Still a weekend warrior.”

“You’re still in the Reserve? Jeez,
what are you? A commander?”

“Captain.”

“Wow. What’s your designator?”

“EOD.”

“Damn! Bomb squad, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“What got you into that line of
work?”