by Pat Price
"So, we need to develop a charge capable of blowing the other projectile down the tube and into the target at about 550 miles per hour," he continued.
"How about a quarter stick of dynamite or some detonator cord?" I asked, trying to be helpful.
"That would probably be most peoples first choice but we have a problem with the speed the material releases the gases of combustion when they burn. Detonator cord burns at the rate of about 20,000 feet per second and dynamite at about half of that. At those speeds the gas will shatter the steel tube and the uranium slugs. This causes liquid steel and uranium to be sprayed all over everything. What we can use though is double base gunpowder like Unique. It burns at less than 3 thousand feet a second and the three inch steel walls can contain the pressures.”
"All right," I said to myself. "Now we are on my turf." I looked up and spoke to Jason. "I can work this problem. Do you have a calculator?"
Jason rose and walked around the end of the counter to the cash register and returned with a financial calculator with a paper roll attached to it. He handed it to me.
"Ok shooter, calculate the amount of powder necessary to accelerate half of twelve point five kilos of mass to at least five hundred and fifty miles per hour," Jason said as he handed me the calculator.
"Right,” I said. I thought for a few seconds then went to work on the calculator. A minute later I had the answer, “just over one pound of Unique,” I said, looking up at Jason.
"That's a lot of bulk isn't it?" Jimmy asked.
"It depends," Jason said. "We need about 18 inches of space between the target and the projectile at rest. We could actually get down to just a few inches before we start running into problems with free neutrons trying to start a chain reaction. We need some space just to be safe. So, the target and projectile combined are about 11 inches end to end plus six inches for the plugs which makes it 17 inches. We need 18 inches of empty space between the target and projectile so that gives us a total used length of 35 inches.
I thought for a second. "Unique can be compressed by about one third. A two-pound canister is about three or four inches in diameter and about nine inches tall. Let's say that
it's actually four inches in diameter, so, the compressed height of the powder canister is 5.3 inches. So, we round it up to 6 inches and add that to the 35 inches and we get 41 inches." I thought for a minute and looked up and said, "Man, even at 41 inches, that's going to be one heavy mother. No one would be running around with one of those on his back."
"They don't have to carry it on their backs," Jason said. "A van, truck, or any econo-box car will do. Don't forget, you could strap a parachute onto it, set an altimeter switch to detonate it at 3 thousand feet, and kick it out of a light aircraft at 12 thousand feet and you would be mostly out of the way with a fast airplane."
"Right, or ship it cross country and set it to go off when the package is opened, a la the Unabomber" Jimmy said.
We all looked at each other. Suddenly it was all too real.
"Don't go getting any ideas that anyone can do this in their garage," Jason said. "You still need some talented people and you need safeguards so you don't die later from radiation while you are machining the uranium. It can be done but there are risks involved. It's not impossible and remember, if they can make one weapon and they have the fuel to start with, it's just as easy to make four or five."
I looked up at him. "Someone with four or five bombs is probably going to try and blackmail the government. Someone with just one is going to kill a lot of people," I said.
-8-
After listening to Jason for two hours I was convinced I could put a reasonable low yield weapon together in the workshop at our industrial suite where we live. All I needed was the milling machine, a small induction furnace from a scientific supply house, and about 1,000 dollars in other supplies and materials. The surprising thing to me was that someone had not done this already. You don't need to duplicate the Manhattan project and you don't need to be a rocket scientist. All you need is a smart mechanical engineer and a general idea of how it's done.
Jimmy and I drove back down to the beach and parked in the office parking structure. It was 5:30, too early for dinner and both of us were overly caffeinated. We locked the car and walked over to the office.
"Want to go upstairs?" Jimmy asked. He stretched like a cat, rocking up onto the toes of his boots. He stretched his arms up and looked like he was hanging from an invisible bar. I knew he was probably wired like a spring and ready to be released. I looked around and took a deep breath.
"Let's walk around awhile first," I said. We started off heading west, along the boardwalk past the Newport Landing restaurant, past the 30 dollar T shirt store, and the fast food places that served animal fat sandwiches and had to be owned by cardiologists.
"The next thing we need is some hard intelligence from Mike Mendoza," Jimmy said.
His hands were pushed deep down inside his jean pockets and his head was tilted forward and down. This was his thinking stance. He was probably oblivious to everyone around him with the possible exception of me.
I knew that Jimmy and Mendoza went back a long way but I have an ingrained suspicion of the authorities, especially the Feds.
"Is Mendoza going to give us any real intelligence?"
"He will if we guarantee him being in on the collar."
"What about the property recovery? If we give the Feds the bad guys what's to prevent them from grabbing the fuel or the weapon and leaving us out in the cold?"
Jimmy stopped at the curb and pressed the pedestrian button. We waited in silence for the traffic light to change. We were at the intersection of Newport and 3rd, diagonally across from the old Balboa movie theater. Until the theater closed last year the schedule included the Rocky Horror Show, a cult favorite. The Rocky Horror Show was one of my favorites because it was the best spot in town for seeing strangely dressed women. The light changed and we crossed over Newport and continued walking west until we reached the base of the second Newport Beach pier. The first Newport pier was a mile back up the peninsula. It was also crowded and busy and it didn't have Ruby's.
Ruby's is a greasy spoon establishment located out at the end of the pier. It lacks several of the finer things most Newport Beach restaurants offer like rest rooms, running water, and metallic forks, spoons, and knives. We walked out to the end of the pier and stepped into Ruby's. Ruby's is decorated in mid-fifties style; all red and white vinyl booths along the window are facing the ocean. All of the booths had coin operated music boxes on the tabletops. The stools in front of the counter seats about 12 and decorated the same as the booths. Waitress' wear fifties vintage bobby-sox outfits consisting of skirts cut above the knees and buttoned shirts with high rolled collars unbuttoned halfway down the front and designed to emphasize the shape and size of their large American breasts.
Jimmy caught the eye of a waitress, which for him is easy to do.
"Anyone on top?" he asked.
Ruby's has a patio on the roof of the restaurant with four picnic tables, complete with benches. The waitress smiled and shook her head no. Jimmy nodded and winked. The waitress blushed.
We climbed what was a cross between a staircase and a ladder and came out on top of the building. A low rail white picket railing which had to violate a safety code somewhere surrounded the roof top area. We sat down and I looked out at the ocean. The view was breath taking. A light wind was blowing and the evening fog had yet to materialize. Catalina Island was visible 25 miles to the northwest. I always face the west with my back to the beach so that I can unwind and think pleasant thoughts. Jimmy likes to face the beach so that he can keep an eye on who is on the pier.
The sweet young waitress who blushed at Jimmy made the trip up the ladder to take our order. Never at a loss for words Jimmy smiled as she approached our table and said "Four bottles of Corona please."
The waitress scribbled something on her order pad and flashed a big smile back. The color was sti
ll in her cheeks. I watched her as she delayed her departure by asking if we wanted glasses for the beer then if we wanted water. Jimmy indicated that the beer by itself was fine. He kept the thousand-watt smile turned on, as did she. The darkness of the palms of her hands told me that her tan was probably built-in. Coupled with the observation that her cheekbones were set a tad higher than average told me that she was probably part or all Native American, the politically correct term for an American Indian. Her face was thin, typical of Indians indigenous to the northeast, and framed with long black hair that glowed when struck by the sunlight and illuminated. She had her hair parted down the middle and it fell to her shoulders. Her body was California thin with delicate arms and hands with long thin fingers and nails that were neutral in color, buffed to a sheen and less than a quarter inch past her finger tips. All in all, very attractively packaged. She finally ran out of questions to ask and turned and left.
"So," I said.
I knew that Jimmy remembered my question from before and would answer, eventually.
"Right," he started. "Mike will not put the screws to us. His boss or half the people he works with might, but he will be as good as his word."
"I guess that will have to do," I said, knowing that Jimmy was not going to say much else about the subject.
The relationship Jimmy had with Mendoza was strange. Mendoza, to the best of my knowledge did not really know where Jimmy lived. All of our addresses, including credit cards and drivers licenses showed a mail service that was separated by at least three other mail drops, one of which was located in Arizona and another in Las Vegas. Our office complex and condo in Huntington Beach were owned by out of state bearer bond holding companies, so we were almost non-persons. Locating us however would not be real hard if someone just followed us but that had never been a problem.
"So," I started again, intending to ask when he thought we might get a chance to talk to Mendoza.
"Tomorrow," he said with a trace of a smile at the corners of his mouth. "I spoke with Mike outside of the escrow office. He'll meet us on the pier about ten tomorrow morning."
"That easy?"
"That easy. The way I see it is that they have probably been trying to find the material for the past year or so and came up empty. The FBI does not like to admit failure so this is going to be handled on the quiet." Jimmy was sitting across from me and a little to my right so that he had an unobstructed view of the pier. His eyes were working across the few people who were fishing off of the pier or who were standing around smoking and joking.
About five minutes later sweet young thing appeared out of the stair well carrying four bottles of beer and a large plate of California style nacho chips, the mainstay of the Southern California diet. The tortilla chips were covered with enough melted cheese and jalapeno sauce to make the average person a candidate for a moderate double bypass operation.
"Compliments of the chef," she said, smiling at Jimmy.
We both knew that this was a joke because the chef was an eighteen-year-old kid that did not have a clue who we were and would have cared less if he had.
"Well darling," Jimmy said behind the radiant smile, "give our thanks to the chef and ask him if I could see him later."
"I'll do that," she said, dropping the check on the table as she turned and walked away.
The swing of her hips was more pronounced as she left than it was when she left the first time. I grabbed the check before Jimmy could snatch it off of the table. There was a series of seven numbers written on the bottom of the check.
"Oh, look," I said, "she wrote some numbers on the tear off piece of the check. Probably lotto numbers. No, wait a second, there must be a mistake, the lotto only has six numbers and she wrote seven." I handed the check to Jimmy. "I know, you want to pick this up." Jimmy folded the check along the perforated line and tore off the piece with the telephone number, folded it and stuffed it into the pocket of his white raw silk cowboy shirt.
"No, mister smart-ass white boy with the quick hands, you can pick it up," he said, laying the same thousand watt smile on me as he dropped the check in front of me.
He looked at me for a few seconds then the expression on his face turned serious.
"I suspect you are going to go into deep cover if Mike tells us what I think he is going to tell us tomorrow."
"And the reason for that would be?"
"The reason my young friend," he said, which I blew off because we are both the same age, "is if one or more of the militia groups are involved then the last person that could get inside of said groups is an Indian or more correctly, a native American. You know how the militia groups are with people of color and all."
"Right, throw the cracker to the lions,” I replied. I picked up my first bottle of Coronas and took a long pull on it, allowing the ice cold beer to burn its way down the back of my throat.
-9-
We drove directly to our meeting with Mendoza and parked in the City of Newport Beach parking lot in front of the pier where Ruby's was located. We buy yearly parking passes for Newport Beach every year so we left the Lincoln in the middle of the lot and walked about half way out onto the pier and waited for Mendoza. Jimmy was leaning against the railing and looking like part of the local color with his exotic red ell skin cowboy boots, designer jeans and sky blue linen western cut shirt. I don't wait well so I was busy swiveling my head around looking for Mendoza and the partially clad women on the beach, but mostly the partially clad women on the beach.
There were eight to ten other people on the pier, all men, fishing or at least giving the appearance of fishing. The pier is about a hundred yards long. The depth of water at high tide is about ten feet at the midway point on the pier, so that is where the fishermen start dropping their lines. I don't have the patience to wait for a fish to blunder onto a hook in murky water. I once went rabbit hunting with Jimmy and his father on the reservation located in Arizona. Jimmy actually chased down a rabbit on foot. I thought it took forever and was bored just watching him. I found the experience much like watching someone else play a video game. Jimmy's father, a tribal elder, spent at least an hour explaining to me that the point was not to catch the rabbit but to be like the rabbit to take on the character of the rabbit. It was too Zen like for me and I have to admit, it was all over my head.
Mike Mendoza showed up exactly at ten o'clock on the money. A typical anal-retentive FBI agent Mendoza came walking out onto the pier looking like a model for GQ magazine. He was wearing a Navy blue three-piece suit with a pale pink single thread pin stripe. Under the suit was a linen dress shirt accented with a blood red tie and gold cuff links. It was all topped off, or bottomed off depending on your point of view, with black loafers sporting a cute little tassel. His hair was fashionably long but well cut. All in all he could have been a banker, securities dealer, or a drug dealer.
"Jimbo," he said, striding toward Jimmy with his right hand stretched out with the palm facing down. This was a typical California power position handshake designed to force the other person to be subservient by placing his hand under the offered one. I would have ignored the obvious body language trick and taken his hand and stepped to the left rotating his hand over into a palm up position, putting him in the subservient position. Jimmy just cut to the chase and ignored the offered hand and turned and started walking toward Ruby's.
"Come on Mike" Jimmy said, "we have a lot of ground to cover."
Mendoza stood where he was with his hand hanging out in space and a dumb look on his face. He looked at me as Jimmy took off. I shrugged and started off following Jimmy.
"Hey Jimbo," Mendoza yelled over the sound of the wind.
"Get your ass in gear," Jimmy yelled back to him, "we're going to make you a legend in your own mind."
Having said that, Jimmy continued at his fast pace toward the end of the pier and Ruby's. He made it to Ruby's first and entered the restaurant.
"He doesn't let off at all, does he?" Mendoza said more as an observation than
a question.
Just before we got to Rubies, Mendoza was starting to breath faster which I found amusing because we had only walked and trotted about 25 yards. I figured he probably flew a desk and very little else. When Mendoza and I entered the restaurant Jimmy had already climbed the ladder/staircase to the roof. There were only three customers in the place. 1 man was sitting in a booth with a newspaper spread out and drinking coffee and two men were sitting at the far end of the counter eating their breakfast and quietly talking. I tapped Mendoza on the arm and nodded toward the staircase. He looked around and headed up the stairs.
"Holy Madre de Dios," Mendoza said as he exited out onto the rooftop patio. Jimmy was seated at a table with his back to the ocean.
"Sit down Mike," Jimmy said, his hand extended, indicating the bench seat on the other side of the table. Mendoza looked down at the bench. There were more than a few white spots of semi-dried bird crap. He glanced up with a look of distaste on his face. He pulled a handkerchief from an inner pocket of his jacket and spread it over a spot of the bench. He then stepped over the seat and settled down on the covered spot like a hen covering a nest.