Chương 121: Book 4 - Chapter 10 A

The three Humvees were idling at the curb when we emerged from the clinic. Jack slid the carrier into the back of the lead vehicle with a grunt and climbed into the front passenger seat. I followed Max into the leather interior, settling into the seat as the heavy door shut with a solid, pressurized thud. The matte black wrap of the hoods swallowed the afternoon sun as we pulled away from the curb in a tight, synchronized formation.

"Straight to the Hyatt," Jack said into his radio.

"Check the perimeter at the Bayshore entrance and have the elevator standing by." The drive was short, but the intensity of the security team was palpable. We moved through the Burlingame streets like a dark shadow, the low rumble of the engines echoing off the office buildings. As we turned onto Old Bayshore Highway, the Hyatt Regency loomed ahead. It was a massive, futuristic structure of concrete and glass, its ten story atrium rising like a monument to the new decade.

We bypassed the grand main entrance and swung around to the side valet area. The two trailing Humvees peeled off to block the access points while our lead vehicle pulled up to a set of glass doors where two men in suits were already waiting. Jack was out of the car before we even stopped, his eyes scanning the rooftops and the lobby windows.

"Floor is clear, Dr Cook," he said, holding the door for me.

"The tenth is entirely ours." I carried Max's crate through the lobby, my shoes squeaking on the polished stone. We didn't wait for the glass elevators that climbed through the atrium. Instead, we were ushered into a service lift that had been keyed for our exclusive use. The ride up was silent and fast. When the doors opened on the tenth floor, a guard was already standing there with a gun tucked under his blazer. The penthouse suite was at the very end of the hall.

It was a sprawling expanse of plush beige carpet and dark wood, but I barely looked at the decor. My focus was on the wall of glass at the far end of the living room. Beyond the balcony, the world opened up. The blue expanse of the San Francisco Bay stretched out toward the horizon, and the runways of SFO were laid out before us like a giant model. I set the carrier down near the window and unlatched the door. Max didn't bolt this time. He crept out slowly, his long, spotted body low to the carpet.

He looked up at me with those golden eyes, gave a single, quiet chirp of forgiveness, and then leaped onto the wide marble ledge of the window. I picked up the house phone.

"This is Dr Cook in the penthouse. I need one pound of sliced, rare prime rib and a bottle of mineral water. No garnish, no seasoning. And send up a club sandwich and a Dr Pepper for myself." I hung up and sat on the ledge next to Max. Outside, the sky was beginning to turn a pale violet. A United 747 began its roll down the runway, its massive engines leaving a faint shimmer in the air as it lifted off over the water.

Max's head whipped around, his ears forward, his pupils dilating until they were giant black voids. He was mesmerized. The rhythmic pulse of the airport became our background music. Every few minutes, a set of landing lights would appear in the distance, growing larger and brighter until a silver bird screeched onto the tarmac. A knock at the door signaled dinner. One of the security team checked the tray before bringing it in and setting it on the coffee table. I moved the prime rib to the window ledge.

Max didn't even look at me. He began to eat with a mechanical efficiency, his gaze never leaving a departing DC-10 that was climbing into the sunset. We sat there together for an hour in the fading light. The newly minted teenager and the prehistoric kitten, both of us silenced by the sheer scale of the machines moving through the California sky. Friday the 14th was an auspicious day to try to buy a rocket company. The drive from the Hyatt Regency took less than five minutes.

The three Humvees looked out of place idling in front of the low-slung professional building at 847 Mahler Road. Burlingame felt more like a quiet suburb than a space port, but inside this office, the future was being assembled. I walked into the conference room with Jack looming behind me. He gave the room a quick look and exited to guard the door. George Koopman sat at the head of the table, looking every bit the charismatic leader.

To his left was Bevin McKinney, the quiet engineer who looked like he'd rather be back at the hangar in Camarillo. Jim Bennett sat on the right, his eyes sharp and analytical as he watched through the conference room glass the rest of my security detail take their positions in the building.

"AMROC would love to have you as an investor, but we aren't selling the company," George said, leaning forward with a polite but firm smile.

"How much for a twenty-five percent stake?" I asked, skipping the pleasantries. George glanced at Jim, then back to me.

"$10 million," came the quick reply. He clearly expected that number to start a long afternoon of haggling. I didn't blink. I pulled out my checkbook, wrote a $10 million check with a steady hand, and slid it across the white draped table. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. George picked it up, his eyes widening as he stared at the ink.

"This is for $10 million!?" he gasped in surprise.

"That's what you said, right?" I asked innocently.

"Usually there's negotiation, and lawyers, and paperwork," George stammered, his usual polish momentarily slipping.

"Oh, we'll do that, but if you need the funds for something urgent, there they are," I said. George took a breath and looked at his partners. Bevin looked stunned, while Jim was already calculating the shift in their cap table.

"Oh, well. Thank you, Dr Cook. Welcome to the team."

"Glad to be here," I said, leaning back.

"Let's take a look at your designs and see if I can suggest some improvements. Also, the guys at Vought Missiles love rockets. I've told them that you can call them and get their expertise day or night, no charge." Bevin looked up, his interest finally piqued.

"How do you know them?"

"I own them," I said simply.

"The guys who designed and built the ASM-135 ASAT are still there, and they are eagerly waiting to talk to you about your project."

"What's the ASM whatever?" Bevin asked, leaning toward the blueprints spread out on the table.

"Anti Satellite Missile," I explained.

"An F-15 carries it up and it launches into space to destroy a satellite. It's a three stage rocket. They successfully tested it back in '85, but the Pentagon canceled it last year." Jim Bennett frowned slightly.

"Well, that's good. There's enough space debris already. We don't need more bombs going off up there."

"Oh, it was kinetic only, no explosives. It worked great. So when we start building satellites, they've got the tech for autonomous navigation and target tracking. Great if we send a probe to an asteroid to prospect." George let out a small laugh.

"That's kind of far off in the future, Dr Cook."

"Not if the test flight in October works," I countered.

"I appreciate that you are all great aerospace enthusiasts. Your safe rocket system is a great technology, especially after that report on how dangerous shuttle flights really are. But here's the thing. I've got money and technology access. There's no need to redesign the wheel just to build a better go-cart. Ideally, this is human flight technology. Rockets that don't explode. I like the safety aspect, but we 'boldly go' for a reason, right?"

"Right," George agreed, his eyes shining with the vision I was laying out.

"That reason is to extend mankind's reach beyond the pale blue marble we call home. You are now part of my organization as much as I'm an investor in yours. Whatever you need that I have, it's yours to keep the program moving."

"Thank you, Dr Cook," Jim said, his voice taking on a new level of respect.

"I don't think we knew what kind of companies and experts you had access to."

"Yeah," I laughed, "I keep it quiet. They probably told you there was some rich kid who likes rockets and wants to buy the company, right?" The tension in the room broke as they laughed with me.

"By the way," I continued, "I've got a cryogenics expert at Vought who you should talk to in addition to the rocket club. He's the one who designed the original liquid oxygen first stage of the ASM. If you're going to have problems, it'll be with your cryogenics. According to him, that's where your failures will be ninety-nine percent of the time."

"We will definitely contact him before our October launch," Bevin promised, already reaching for a notepad to jot down the contact info. Bevin reached across the table and unrolled a large blueprint of the H-500 motor. I leaned in, my eyes scanning the tolerances and the manifold designs. I could see the elegance in their work. It was a clever piece of engineering, but it was still a prototype.

"This is the core of the SET-1," Bevin said, pointing to the combustion chamber.

"The fuel grain is a polybutadiene based synthetic rubber. We cast it with a multi-port geometry to maximize the surface area for the liquid oxygen to react with."

"I've spent plenty of time in machine shops and assembly lines," I told him, tracing the line of the injector plate with my finger.

"I'm interested in how you're handling the casting process. If you have voids or delamination in that solid fuel, your thrust curve is going to look like a mountain range." Bevin's face lit up. It was clear he was used to talking to venture capitalists who didn't know a nut from a bolt.

"You're exactly right, Dr Cook. We've developed a proprietary centrifugal casting method at the factory to ensure density. You really should come down to Camarillo and see the hardware for yourself. Seeing the H-500 in the test stand is a lot different than looking at it on paper."

"I'd like that," I said.

"I'm actually headed up to Washington State this afternoon to check on a building project of mine. I've got a deadline on some specialized infrastructure up there. But I can be back here on the morning of the 19th." George checked his calendar, his expression shifting from businessman to enthusiast.

"The 19th works for us. We were planning on heading down there anyway to oversee the final systems integration."

"How were you planning on getting there?" I asked.

"Usually we just drive," George said with a shrug.

"It's a long haul down the 101, nearly six hours if the traffic in Santa Barbara is bad. We've spent half our lives on that highway lately."

"That's an awful drive," I told them, shaking my head.

"I've got the 767 sitting over at SFO with a full crew and a galley stocked with better food than you'll find on the road. Why don't you all meet me at the private terminal on Wednesday morning? We can fly down to Point Mugu. It's a forty-five minute hop, and my security can have a car waiting to take us the five miles to the airport." George looked at Bevin and Jim. The idea of trading a six hour slog in a hot car for a private wide-body jet was an easy sell.

"We'd be honored, Dr Cook," George said, standing up to shake my hand again.

"We'll meet you at the airport on Wednesday morning."

"Excellent," I said, signaling to Jack that we were moving out.

"I'll see you on the 19th. Don't worry about the paperwork for the stake. My legal team will handle it from here. Just remind them that I agreed to $10 million for a 25 percent stake, everything else but that is negotiable." I walked out of the office and back to the idling Humvees, already thinking about the flight north. I'd need to get Max first. He was still at the hotel, probably still staring out the windows.