Margaritifer Basin (Margaritifer Trilogy Book 1)

by Gregory Gates

  “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 p
ilot. 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?”

  “Oh, raised near the beach in southern California; surfer, diver, water polo at UCLA, chemistry major. EOD just sounded interesting.”

  “You ever get to play with the real thing?”

  “Yeah, I was in Kuwait in ’91.”

  “The oil fires? You were disarming unexploded ordinance in the middle of all those fires?”

  “Yeah. Great fun.”

  “You’ve got my respect, sir. Tell me, what does an EOD captain do on drill weekends?”

  “I’m the Reserve CO of EOD Operational Support Unit Seven in Coronado, the Reserve component of EODGRUONE.”

  “Nice title. And what do you do in that capacity?”

  “Sit around and drink coffee.”

  Abby laughed. “Sounds exciting. You gonna make flag?”

  “Not bloody likely. Surprised the hell out of me when I was selected for captain. I’ll probably call it quits in another year or so. I’ve got plenty of points and better things to do. You in the Reserves?”

  “Yeah. VFA-154.”

  “154? Uh… Black Knights?”

  Abby smiled and nodded in approval. “Very good.”

  “Aren’t they up in Lemoore? Nice little drive once a month.”

  “I like flying jets, and it’s the only game in town.”

  “That’s good. You’re what? Lieutenant commander?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You mentioned Citations. Are you rated in anything else?”

  She laughed. “Uh, yeah. Lears, Gulfsteams… 747s. If it flies, I can fly it.”

  “Damn!” He nodded and smiled. “Okay. Abby, look, I’m rich, very rich. I own an aerospace corporation and I’m financing a private manned-mission to Mars, and I need somebody who can teach the crew to fly. Not the mechanics, I can get that at any local flight school, but I mean… fly! I need someone who could pilot a paper airplane into the furnace of Hell, kick the devil in the ass, and come back – preferably alive.”

  Abby dropped her glass on the table and coughed violently, “Holy shit! Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  She poured the rest of the Scotch down her throat and waved frantically at the waitress while pointing at her empty glass. “Uh, wow. Okay, I’m a decent pilot and I’ve been accused from time to time of kicking a bit more butt than was maybe in my best interests but, jeez! Shouldn’t you be talking to NASA?”

  “If NASA was really interested they would have already done it. But they aren’t and they won’t. This is a private operation. We’ll eventually negotiate launch facilities and deep space tracking and communications with NASA, but for all practical purposes the government is out. We’re on our own.”

  Abby’s refill arrived and she took a sip. She set the glass down, furrowed her brow and looked Jeff unblinkingly in the eye, “Can you do this? Can you really do this?”

  “I wouldn’t be sitting here ready to pour every last dime I have into this project, $400 million dollars, if I didn’t believe it could be done.”

  She exhaled loudly, unbuttoned her jacket, took it off, tossed it on a nearby table, and took another healthy swig of Scotch, “It’s getting warm i
n here.”

  “You keep tossing down that rocket fuel like that and it’s liable to get a lot warmer,” Jeff grinned.

  Abby smiled wryly, “Who’s on your crew?”

  “Myself and three others yet to be named.”

  Her eyes widened, “You’re going?”

  “Hell yes. There’s no way I’d go through all this just to watch it on TV. But beyond that, look, Steve Fossett repeatedly ventured into the unknown and pushed the envelope. He could have easily afforded to pay somebody to take the risks for him, but he didn’t. Eventually it cost him his life. Was it worth it? I dunno. But if we could ask him I’ll bet he’d say ‘Yes.’ Let’s be honest, there is a certain degree of risk involved. Frankly, the house odds aren’t favorable. So, if I’m not willing to go, what gives me the right to ask anyone else?”

  Abby stared at her glass, flicking the rim with her finger, “So, you’re still shopping for a crew?”

  Jeff nodded slowly, “Yeah. Why? You want to go?”

  She turned her head away from him and stared blankly across the room, her distant gaze unflinching though, clearly, the wheels behind were turning furiously. Jeff sipped his drink and said nothing.

  “When do you plan on launching?”

  “Four years. March, 2016.”

  “How long’s the trip?”

  “Two and a half years. Seven months out, eighteen months on the planet, seven months back.”

  Abby closed her eyes and tilted her head back, slowly stretching her neck left and right, then turned back to Jeff, “My calendar seems to be clear. Yeah, I want to go.”

  “Okay. Obviously I can’t make any promises just now, but I’m having a little get together of, um, interested parties at my place in Rhode Island in a couple weeks. Why don’t you come? We’ll talk more. It’s on me.”

  She calmly nodded her head, “Yeah, alright.”

  Jeff smiled. “Great! Say, they have a restaurant here? I’m hungry.”