Chương 132: Book 4 - Chapter 14 B

My plane was wheels-up from Vandenberg less than an hour after the SET-1 reached apogee. On the ground, the Air Force was still debriefing the radar technicians, but in my cabin, the celebration was already in high gear.

"Gentlemen," I said, standing at the head of the table as the plane banked steeply over the Santa Barbara coastline.

"To George, Bevin, and Jim. Today, you didn't just launch a rocket. You launched a new industry." Chef Peter had outdone himself. In honor of the successful hybrid motor, he had prepared a 'Cryogenic Coastal' menu. There were chilled oysters on beds of dry ice that sent thick white plumes of vapor across the table—a nod to the LOX venting on the pad—and perfectly seared Wagyu beef. George was slumped in one of the deep leather chairs, a glass of vintage Cristal in his hand.

He looked like a man who had finally been allowed to exhale after four years of holding his breath.

"John, I still can't believe the telemetry. It was a perfect burn. Not a single glitch in the centrifugal grain."

"The Learning Channel feed was spectacular," Jim added, hitting rewind on the remote for the TV in the corner. He was going to wear out the VHS tape if he kept playing back the onboard camera footage.

"The shot of the Earth falling away... that's going to be on every news cycle for a month." I looked out the window. The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the Pacific in shades of bruised purple and gold. Below us, the sprawling lights of the Los Angeles basin began to twinkle like a fallen galaxy.

"Look at the horizon," I said, gesturing for them to join me. As we descended over the Hollywood Hills, the silhouette of the New Ambassador rose from the Wilshire district like a monument. Even from several thousand feet, it was unmistakable. I had instructed the engineering team to install high-intensity graphene flake beams on the roof, pointing straight up. They looked like four pillars of light holding up the sky.

"It's twice the size," Bevin whispered, staring down at the massive Mediterranean-style complex.

"It looks like a palace."

"It is a palace," I replied.

"And tonight, it's yours. The Cocoanut Grove is staffed, the orchestra is tuned, and every major player in aerospace and media is waiting at the front door to meet the men who beat NASA at their own game." The landing at Burbank was a mere formality. My security detail, led by Jack, was waiting on the tarmac with a fleet of six matte black humvees. We didn't even stop at the terminal.

The motorcade swept through the private gate and onto the streets of LA, the siren-less lead cars clearing a path through the Friday evening traffic with practiced efficiency. When we pulled up to the porte-cochère of the New Ambassador, the scale of the reconstruction finally hit them. The archway was sixty feet high, draped in deep red bougainvillea and flanked by marble lions that were exact, upscaled replicas of the 1921 originals. A crowd of photographers was held back by a line of my private security.

As I stepped out of the lead vehicle, Max was already there, held on a heavy leather lead by Matt. The Savannah cat looked regal in the cool October air, his large ears twitching at the sound of the flashbulbs. Matt looked unhappy playing pet sitter.

"Dr Cook!" a reporter from the LA Times shouted.

"Is it true the New Ambassador cost more than a billion dollars?" I didn't answer. I just turned to George and Bevin and gestured toward the grand entrance.

"After you, gentlemen. The future is waiting inside." The doors swung open, and we were met with the sound of a forty-piece swing band playing 'Fly Me to the Moon.' The lobby was a sea of gold leaf, hand-painted murals, and the elite of Los Angeles. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

"John," George whispered as we stepped onto the thick Persian rug of the foyer.

"How did you get the earthquake permits for a chandelier that big?"

"I bought the company that designed the dampening system, George," I said with a wink.

"I told them if it fell, they were fired." The party was in full swing, and the New Ambassador was a triumphant replica of 1920s opulence reinforced underneath with late-80s engineering. We moved through the crowd toward the Cocoanut Grove, the legendary nightclub that I had expanded into a forty-thousand square foot masterpiece of Art Deco design. As we walked, the heavy hitters began to peel away from the bar to intercept us.

There were two VPs from the Lockheed Skunk Works division in Palmdale, wearing standard-issue gray suits and looking deeply uncomfortable that a private startup had just achieved a perfect hybrid burn. Beside them was a senior director from Boeing's space division who kept glancing at the active-matrix LCD screens I had installed in the lounge areas.

Those screens, which were incredibly rare and expensive, were looping the SET-1 launch footage in a way that made traditional CRT monitors look like relics of the past.

"Dr Cook," one of the Lockheed men said, stepping into our path.

"Incredible show today. We were looking at the plume color on the playback. That is a very clean burn for a rubber grain. What is the secret to the injector manifold?"

"The secret is that we did not have to wait for a Congressional sub-committee to approve the design," I replied, not slowing my pace.

"George, tell them about the O-ring tests we did at the Vought lab." George beamed, his glass of champagne catching the light of the massive chandeliers.

"We used a cryogenic pre-chill system that Dr Cook's Vought team suggested. It kept the seals at a nominal temperature right up until the internal heaters kicked in at T-minus ten." The Lockheed man blinked as he realized that I was not just the money man. I was an engineer who had integrated my own defense subsidiaries into the AMROC workflow. The Boeing director chimed in then, trying to sound casual as he suggested a technology sharing agreement or perhaps a joint venture for the orbital vehicle.

I stopped and looked him in the eye. I told him plainly that I was not looking for partners who wanted to slow us down with cost-plus contracts and decade-long development cycles. I explained that if they wanted in, they could buy B-class shares on the open market when we were ready, but the management would stay with George and his team. We reached the center of the Grove, where the orchestra was now playing a brassy, upbeat version of 'In the Mood.'

The artificial palm trees—saved from the original hotel and painstakingly restored—rose toward the high ceiling. George leaned in and whispered that I had just turned down the biggest aerospace company in the world.

"No, George," I said, watching Max lounge on a velvet settee near the bandstand, his large ears twitching as he watched the crowd.

"I just told them that they are the ones who have to catch up to us." The music tapered off to a soft, rhythmic snare beat as I climbed the three marble steps to the bandstand. The room fell into a practiced silence. These were people who understood power, and they knew when a pivot in history was being announced.

I looked out over the sea of tuxedos and evening gowns, seeing the faces of senators, studio heads, and the engineers who had spent their lives told that space was too expensive for anything but a superpower to touch.

"In 1921, this room was built to celebrate the glamour of the moving picture," I began, my voice carrying clearly through the high-fidelity sound system.

"It was a place for dreams. But tonight, we are not here to talk about dreams. We are here to talk about hardware." I gestured toward the LCD screens where the white needle of the SET-1 was frozen at the moment of liftoff.

"Today, a group of dedicated men and women proved that the gate to the stars is no longer locked by bureaucracy. They proved that with enough grit, a bit of rubber, and a lot of liquid oxygen, we can provide a ladder to the heavens that is safe, sustainable, and most importantly, private." I caught George's eye in the front row. He looked exhausted but triumphant.

"To George Koopman and the team at AMROC," I said, raising my glass of Dr Pepper.

"You have shown us that the future doesn't belong to the organizations with the biggest budgets, but to the individuals with the clearest vision. Tonight, we celebrate the New Ambassador and the new era of space. To the stars, on our own terms." The roar of "To the stars!" echoed back from hundreds of throats, followed by a thunderous ovation that seemed to vibrate the very foundations of the hotel.

As I stepped down after the toast, I was immediately swarmed by a senator from the Armed Services Committee and a prominent director who was already asking about filming on the 767.