AMERICA ONE - NextGen (Book 5) Read online

  Ryan discussed the needs with his engineering and pilot crews down in the well-lit and semi-clean underground cavern. Less than a tenth of his supplies would be brought above ground and fed into the gigantic cargo hold for the first flight. In two C-5 flights he could fly out a maximum of 260 tons of supplies, 130 tons per load, and in total more than half the weight of the entire mother ship above them.

  The most valuable supply Commander Joot needed was the alcohol for powering his two craft. There might even be a third spacecraft inside the “Pig’s Snout,” the nickname they called the commander’s base. Ryan had placed 50,000 gallons of the alcohol inside his secret underground cavern a decade earlier as fuel. All his old vehicles had been reworked to run on alcohol in case there was no fuel on Earth when he returned. Unfortunately, four of the smaller mobile tanks, each holding 5,000 gallons, had leaked. They were half-empty, and he was sure their contents had decayed. He anticipated it was evaporation for the last ten years, as nothing else had been touched inside the large cavern.

  Only the larger tank he had purposely constructed out of the same material as the walls of America One had held up, keeping the liquid pure for the time period. The entire 30,000 gallons was possible to take with them, but the tank was far too large to fit into the aircraft’s cargo hold.

  Ryan had been given five 1,000-gallon flexible rubber fuel bladders by the Air Force. These bladders would fit into the cargo hold and take up very little room.

  Four thousand gallons would weigh around 24 tons, less than 20 percent of the C-5s full cargo weight. Commander Joot had said that 30,000 gallons, when he had been “spirited” down into the cavern and saw the size of the tank, was more than the Matts had produced in their whole lives, and Suzi added to the equation that with alcohol-producing equipment and materials taken up into space, her team could give the commander enough fuel for the future, and hopefully appease Herr Jones at the same time.

  One thousand gallons of alcohol/Ethanol was the possible tally on each of the two flights, as the pilots had suggested that jet fuel aboard might be more valuable than the alcohol as backup. Two tons of the alcohol fuel could go up with the shuttles per launch, as the cargo holds of all three shuttles had declined from four tons to only two with their modifications the last time they were on Earth.

  He could use some, but not all, of the ammunition he had stored below ground, except to destroy the Matt base in the Sahara when they finally said goodbye. VIN suggested that they could also get explosives flown in from another country for that nasty deed. Ryan didn’t want this base blown off the map once they were out of here, as he might need it on a future return, so the more explosives taken out the better.

  Apart from his own security guards on base, the rest of the temporary staff were Air Force personnel, and he was sure some had been sent to keep tabs on him, so he moved nothing out of his underground cavern until all the other personnel were in their accommodations, windows closed and doors barred after 10:30 p.m. each evening. Only then did the pilots man the couple of forklifts and head down into the hole, or drive the vehicles out to load into the massive Dead Chicken.

  The two military jeeps would be the last to be driven aboard. One of the Bradleys, close to half the maximum load weight of the C-5, went in during the second night. Weighing in at 29 tons, it was driven into the middle of the cargo hold with 5 tons of its ammunition placed around it.

  While the men were moving supplies, Suzi, Saturn Jones, Mars and a few others checked the underground long-term dry food supplies. She and Ryan had stashed away deep-frozen meat, seeds and other biological samples just in case. Thirty tons of dried, frozen meats and seeds were planned to be flown out on each flight.

  Half of the 100 tons of meat Ryan had stored in dozens of walk-in freezers, and in the large chest-style 50-cubic-foot freezers he had made on site, still looked perfect. Unfortunately, many of the 100 chest freezers showed temperatures above minus 20 degrees. Some had broken down, and even the stink of rotting meat in them had subsided in the decade of time. Like the dead bodies found in space, the piles of meat in malfunctioned freezers were nothing more than dust.

  Ryan realized, looking over the older versions of his hydrogen thrusters, that he had a dozen of these fully operational and virtually new motors in one area of the cavern. They could be fitted onto the Matt craft, and actually replace their ancient alcohol motors if needed, an idea he realized would decrease their need for alcohol. It was better to produce liquid hydrogen in space than ethanol.

  He discussed the possibilities with Igor, Boris and the crew on America One during the twenty-minute periods the ship was above them each night. The ship flew over them every hour or so for the allotted time, and with his build crew sitting on the bridge with Captain Pete, he got his answers. Ryan decided to accept the alcohol/Ethanol quantity at 1,000 gallons per load, which would give him the room for extra jet fuel for the flight. He would also load in all his mobile storage Dewars of liquid hydrogen, argon, nitrogen and helium.

  Even at low cruise, the C-5’s range, fully loaded with 85 percent cargo weight, would be about 2,700 nautical miles. As backup, four of the rubber fuel bladders were to be filled with 4,000 gallons of jet fuel and connected to the aircraft’s fuel tanks from inside the cargo hold. In an emergency, this could increase her range by another 300 miles.

  The U.S. Air Force, in the agreement with the U.S. government, was to refuel the C-5 heading out over the Atlantic, but as Jonesy and Allen Saunders had suggested, their problems would mount quickly if somebody changed their minds about giving them fuel while in midair, miles out over water.

  “What politician could be trusted in this new government?” VIN added when he had learned that even he wasn’t a U.S. citizen anymore.

  Over a few nights the C-5 was filled, its hold crammed full of vehicles, liquid rubber bladders filled to the brim, dozens of freezers connected to the aircraft’s electrical connections and the several large diesel generators stored a decade earlier.

  Even though the first flight was loaded and closed up, and the C-5 towed back to its hangar for shade, Ryan and his crew still pondered their route. The Dead Chicken was a powerful bird, but very thirsty, and a maximum 3,000 mile range wouldn’t get them far heading over the U.S. continent and then the mighty Atlantic.

  It would be Bob Mathews who would save the day for Ryan. The Aussie had needed rest, as he was jet lagged, and hadn’t taken part in the nights’ loading. While the crew who had worked all night headed off for a few hours’ sleep, the Air Force personnel were allowed out of their apartments by security, Bob Mathews headed over to breakfast, and an hour later he found Ryan alone and still pondering his problem.

  “G’day, Ryan. You look exhausted and puzzled all at the same time,” Bob Mathews said, knocking on the semi-open door to the conference room, the same room in which Ryan had met with the President. It was the beginning of day four. The President had given him ten more days to get out of Dodge.

  “Our first load is 110 tons, 85 percent of full load. With full fuel, the Dead Chicken, Jonesy reckons, has a maximum 3,100 mile range, including 4,000 reserve gallons, four full bladders of jet fuel in the hold,” replied Ryan, looking up at the aging pilot.

  “And?” asked Bob, grabbing the ever-present cup of coffee.

  “Washington has guaranteed us air refueling on our route to North Africa and back,” said Ryan deep in thought. “I need two C-5 cargo flights to get everything I want out of here. It can be done, but this new President has already threatened that he might blast us out of the sky before the second flight, and Generals Jones and Saunders think the refueling aircraft might not appear on time, even on our first outbound flight. This new American government cannot be trusted.”

  “Easy,” replied Bob. “We get a backup refueling rig set up around Cuba, or any country who doesn’t like the USA. I’m sure Britain or one of the European countries will be glad to help. Actually, Australia has offered anything you want. There is a new worldwide allianc
e, and it might just work.”

  “Go on,” said Ryan.

  “The Aussie Air Force still fly six old C-17s purchased from the United States. The most recent one I believe is only 15 or so years old…”

  “C-17s are not refueling tankers,” Ryan interrupted.

  “No, but the Aussies have Airbus 330s which must have been adapted to refuel the 17s, and the air refueling system on a 17 is the same as on our Dead Chicken.” Bob smiled.

  “I get it,” replied Ryan, smiling. “I can test the honesty of this government by asking the Aussies to station a refueling aircraft on our route. If the U.S. Air Force supplies us, all well and good, but if they don’t, and before we have to parachute out, our backup will give us fuel to go on.”

  “Precisely,” smiled Bob.

  “Can you organize that?” Ryan asked.

  “For what you have for sale up there in America One, mate, you could purchase anything you want on this planet,” Bob Mathews smiled.

  Six hours later, Jonesy and Maggie said goodbye to their daughter and the rest of the crew, and SB-III lifted off for its second return flight to space. Ryan did not want to have two laser-armed shuttles down on the planet anymore. One more laser gunner up above would make him sleep better at night.

  Apart from a ton of alcohol in two tanks, half fore and half in the aft hold, SB-III carried one of the old shuttle spaceflight simulators from the underground cavern for the next generation to begin learning on. The cargo manifest consisted of frozen meat, fresh coffee, milk, butter, fresh vegetables and anything else Suzi could purchase from Las Vegas and get delivered. Ryan’s credit was still good.

  Among the supplies was 100 pounds of chocolate for Mr. Rose, who was still on Mars. He was rather partial to Hershey’s, Almond Joys, Snickers, Mars, etc., which Suzi didn’t like. She preferred Swiss or German chocolate.

  SB-III had gone through a complete outside skin and insulating tile check before liftoff. Allen Saunders had brought down four of the flight engineers when he had returned, and now they were going over the outer skin and heat-protection bricks underneath his craft, SB-II, for the first time in atmospheric conditions since they had left Earth. Jonesy and Maggie would return in SB-I for its ground checkup in 72 hours, with the Pitt family aboard to fly her back.

  Only once they were out of the USA would Ryan allow more people down on planet Earth. Nobody was an American citizen anymore, and that technically made them “aliens.” He had also decided that none of the shuttles would be on the ground when the Dead Chicken took off for Africa on its first flight. He wanted every available gun cocked and ready, and he didn’t intend to bring her back if they weren’t refueled. The U.S. didn’t seem to want the Dead Chicken anymore.

  Jonesy and his wife expertly flew the shuttle into space for the umpteenth time, and it only took two orbits and six hours after reaching the Kàrmán line before they could see the glinting and familiar shape of America One, a hundred or so miles ahead of them, and still in a Low Earth Orbit, 150 miles above.

  Jonesy and Maggie were strong again, compared to the others who hadn’t yet tasted Earth’s gravity, and Jonesy’s mind kept going back to whether he actually wanted to stay on Earth for the rest of his life, or whether he wanted to become a Martian. His parents did, not something he had never thought possible.

  Chief Astronaut Jones had managed to contact his parents on the second day after Saturn had arrived down at the base. Jonesy used a prepaid cell phone in the security office, and his mother had answered the call, not believing that he was her son. She told the man on the phone that her son had died out in space somewhere years earlier.

  After several attempts, he persuaded her to listen to reason, then put Maggie on the phone, and after Maggie tried a few times, gave Saturn the chance to say hi to her grandmother.

  Jonesy could hear his mother crying as she still kept asking Saturn if she was actually alive. Saturn, now eleven, told her that they were all fine, and that her grandparents should visit her in Nevada. Jonesy was handed the phone back and he asked where his father was.

  “Still on the porch, where he stays most of the day,” she replied. “If that is really you, son? We are fine, and live a very quiet life. We are pretty old now. We stayed aboard ship for five years before we got tired of sea travel.”

  “Can you still travel, Ma?” Jonesy asked.

  “Sort of. We drive into town once a month to get groceries, Junior. My eyesight is getting bad, but I can still drive. Your father has good eyesight, but is getting pretty deaf, but yes, I can still drive.”

  “We can’t leave here, Ma. Maggie and I have to fly in a few days. Why don’t I get VIN, remember VIN, Ma? He could come and get you. I’m sure Ryan will let him. Would you two like to come over and come with us on out the next flight to Mars? There is room at the Retreat, and it would be real flying, and something different for Dad for his final years, and you could spend some time with your granddaughter.”

  Jonesy heard his mother take the phone away from her ear and scream loudly, wincing at the volume he assumed in the direction of the porch. “Joseph Jones, Junior is on the phone. He wants to know if you and I want to go to Mars. We can look after Saturn as well.”

  Both Maggie and Saturn could hear the loud-pitched question through the phone, and the Jones girls smiled.

  “I hope the government isn’t listening, Jonesy. They will commit your mother if they are,” smiled Maggie. Only Jonesy could hear the reply. It was faint, but it was his father all right.

  “Tell that good-for-nothing kid that……yes, we’re ready for Mars, if that gives me time with Maggie and Saturn. Do they have any food and beer up there?”

  “Yes Ma, we have everything Dad needs, and free health care,” said Jonesy.

  “Junior says free health care is included. Do you want to go, Joseph?”

  “Damn woman, how many times must I say yes? We can vegetate here in Colorado, or vegetate up there. Who the hell cares?”

  “It seems that your father and I want to go, Junior,” was her reply.

  Jonesy smiled at the way his parents hadn’t changed. He told them to ready only one suitcase each. The base would supply them with what they needed, but first they were going fishing for a few months. Yes, fishing on Earth and no, not in Colorado, and somebody would be coming to get them in the next ten days.

  Ryan just about coughed up a whole mouthful of coffee when the Jones family excitedly told him of the two new passengers on the crew manifest a few hours later. He had learned that as long as the Jones and Noble families were taken care of, then everything else seemed to slip into place around him. There would be ten times the amount of room at the Martian base than aboard America One, and why not? VIN, he and Suzi had no more family alive, and so far only Lieutenant Walls, his two family members, and now Mr. and Mrs. Jones were added. There was still a lot of room in the new Martian “Hotel California,” as Jonesy called the new base in space.

  Maggie docked SB-III on its usual docking port inside the shield that Captain Pete had told the incoming astronauts was now partly full of atmosphere. The approach to the docking port had been slightly different, as there had been bubbles of air whizzing around them. Enough to nearly put the astronaut off her aim.

  They only had a 12-hour turnaround time. SB-I was ready to fly almost immediately, but the astronauts needed a 12 hour break between flights. Orders from both doctors.

  To both, the weightlessness and pale faces of the crew aboard was something to get used to again. To the crew, the suntanned complexions reminded them of beaches, hot summer sun, and vacations.

  For Maggie, she was now separated from her daughter, something that she wasn’t that used to yet, and she would have returned immediately if it was possible. It seemed nobody in Ryan’s crew trusted the U.S. government and its word to leave them alone.

  Captain Pete looked worried after Jonesy and Maggie had headed up to the bridge for debriefing. The Captain, Igor, Boris, Fritz, Michael Pitt and Roo were wait
ing for them. The bridge had Ryan on the radio. It was time to employ new tactics to gain time to get out of the country. Captain Pete was worried because Maggie Jones had told him over the intercom, while she was trying to dock, that filling the inner shield with oxygen was a bad idea.

  “High quantities of oxygen can explode if rockets, missiles or even laser beams hit the shield,” she said, her hands on her hips.

  Sometimes it took a real woman to make men listen to reason. “There is no need for an atmosphere around this ship until we are back orbiting, or the ship has landed on the red planet itself. All you are doing is turning the vacuum around the ship into a deadlier explosive force by adding air with high amounts of oxygen.”

  After several comments agreeing with her, Ryan asked Captain Pete to either recapture the valuable atmospheric air, or let it go. Then they got on with the briefing.

  “Since we tracked Air Force One back to Washington, there has begun a buildup of military tractor transporters in the direction of Nevada,” began Captain Pete, relaxing again. “Through our eyes out there, and our astronauts are getting tired, we have spread our cameras on China and the U.S. as each ship passes over. Once we see any mass movement, especially military air or ground units, it is recorded into the computers and the computers relay the locations to the next craft arriving over the horizon. Much like the old military surveillance done by the old military satellites, any recorded movement is followed and tracked to its destination.”

  “Can you track so much in two massive countries, Captain?” asked Ryan from Nevada, “And what about the other countries we should be keeping tabs on?”

  “With difficulty, boss,” Captain Pete responded. “The monitoring is beginning to cause long hours and lack of sleep, but luckily there is not much to record in China or the other countries right now. There are only small movements in North Korea and Iran. Both countries are beginning to repair the damage we caused, and Russia seems totally asleep. Therefore, I have given orders to spend 80 percent of our recording capabilities on the U.S., and especially on the states around you in Nevada. Please remember, boss, we have only just started to see ground troop movements. There have been several fighters, F-22s and 35s, we believe, heading west from Texas and the East Coast during the last twelve hours. The Nevada base is tiny.”