Chương 115: Book 4 - Chapter 7 B

A few days later, Dr Dean found me at my General Atomics office. He was wearing an expression that was half relief, half panic.

"Happy Birthday!" he announced, dropping the paperwork on my desk.

"You're a week early, but what is this?" I asked picking up the papers.

"We have permission for Satsop WNP-5," he said with a big smile. I paused what I was doing.

"That is excellent news. The full 5, 000 megawatts?" I asked.

"No, just the 2, 500 megawatts of reactor A. And no expansion or upgrade of WNP-3. They stipulated on the BoP request for WNP-3 that we can only run the synthesis experiment at production rate of 100, 000 gallons per day for at least the first six months." I laughed, and smacked my hands together above my head in celebration as I did a little dance.

"That's perfect. They didn't question what the synthesis was?" I asked him.

"No, they seem to think it is to prove the ammonia and fertilizer production plant technology for Ocean Island."

"We designed the demonstrator plant at WNP-3 for exactly 100, 000 gallons a day. Their limit is the initial production capacity!"

"I know! Your plan to announce and deliver on the first day of 1990 is completely approved. There is an issue though."

"What's that?" I asked.

"WNP-5 will require complete demolition then reconstruction. That and other factors pushes completion out past nine months." I considered for a moment.

"I factored that in. I've been there with you. The 16% that's complete is just a concrete ring. We're just knocking it down and replacing it."

"Even if you factored it, all the estimates I have say that even if we started today, it would take 18 months."

"That's not acceptable," I said.

"The demonstration plant is only a demonstration. I need it done as quickly as possible. A 2, 500 megawatt WNP-5 will produce 20 million gallons a day. I need to be able to point at its continuous production to get permission to bring WNP-5 and WNP-3 to a full five thousand megawatts. Once we are producing something more than electricity, they will be forced to approve anything we want to build. It's the simple politics of the situation," I explained.

"I don't know what to say, John. We likely will save some time if we use the graphene fiber reinforced concrete instead. It goes up quicker. We started the construction of the reactor core months ago, same with the pebbles. They aren't the bottle neck, building just takes time." I paced to the window overlooking the GA campus.

"GrFRC will definitely save time, we proved that when we poured the foundation for the Nevada storage lot in '88. We need to shrink the build time to nine months." I turned back to Dean, a mad glint in my eye.

"I had a thought while riding my inflatable surfboard last weekend. What if we made inflatable forms? The graphene felt we use for balloons is exceptionally strong. My surfboard uses it and is inflated to 100 PSI, even 500 PSI wouldn't be a problem." Dr Dean's eyes lit up. He was already doing the calculations.

"The initial construction does use slip forms. If we had a set of them that we could transport easily it would make building future copies of the plant even easier to build," he said with a big smile.

"We could potentially have an inflatable form for every part of the building greatly reducing build time. That saves money and might just get us to your March deadline."

"Exactly. Get the engineering and design team on this immediately. Tell them time is the only budget constraint." The NRC had given me their blessing to build a 2, 500 megawatt reactor that would come online years too late. I was going to use their permission to build a nuclear reactor that delivered a revolution on my schedule. Matt and I had packed our luggage and were bringing it to the door for security to pack for the trip to the airport.

I was heading back to Oklahoma for my annual birthday celebration, and was looking forward to it. Matt's cell phone rang and he pulled it from his holster with a puzzled look on his face. When he answered his eyes went big and he handed me the phone.

"It's the White House," he whispered as I took the phone.

"This is John Cook."

"Please hold for the President, Dr Cook." It was a few moments before he came on.

"Hello Dr Cook. I got your letter and its predictions have gotten the people at the Pentagon in a tizzy."

"It's just what I see happening, sir."

"Well I've got a few things to talk to you about. When can you come to visit?" The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"Just give me a date, sir, I'm on my way to Oklahoma for my birthday party, but after that I can rearrange my schedule."

"Happy Birthday then. How soon will you be free?" he asked.

"My Mom will be upset if I'm there for anything less than a week, sir. How about the tenth?" I offered. The sooner the new President understood that my Mom had veto power on my schedule the better.

"I'll make arrangements for that big plane of yours at Andrews," he said agreeably.

"Thank you, sir. I look forward to it." He hung up, and I hit the off button on the phone, handing it back to Matt, glad he carried it so I didn't have to.

"Well?" he asked excitedly.

"President Bush wants me for a chat, July 10th. I'm sure he'll call back with a time. Let security know and arrange a flight from Tulsa leaving on the evening of the ninth. He said we could land at Andrews." I stepped off the plane in Tulsa just after lunch on July 1st, blinking in the bright Oklahoma sun. The 767's cabin door was wide open and stairs fully deployed. Matt followed me down the steps, scanning the perimeter, and two members of the flight security team were already deploying on the tarmac.

But no one was looking at them. Everyone was looking at my Mom, who stood by the matte black Humvee—a single, immovable figure of maternal determination. She didn't use her words. She just moved. She wrapped me in a tight, crushing hug that lifted my feet off the tarmac. The smell of her perfume—a classic floral scent—was the most grounding thing I'd experienced in months.

"Oh, John," she whispered, burying her face in my shoulder.

"I swear, I am never letting you leave again. Never. You're nearly thirteen and I haven't seen you since Christmas. I just want my son back." I squeezed her back, feeling a genuine surge of relief.

"It's good to be home, Mom. I've missed you." I let the moment linger until I could finally address the inevitable.

"About that leaving part," I admitted, pulling back just enough to look her in the eye.

"I got a call right before I left San Diego. It was the White House. I have an appointment with President Bush on July 10th." Her eyes, still wet from the hug, widened in alarm.

"The tenth? But that's just a few days away! You said you would stay for a week, John!"

"And I will," I assured her, giving her another quick hug.

"I fly out on the evening of the ninth. We have a full week, Mom. Eight whole days." I held up eight fingers.

"We're going to spend it all on the lake and having fun together. I promise." She sighed, her expression softening into resignation, a look I'd seen a thousand times.

"You always do this, don't you? You come home, and immediately there's a President or a country calling." She smoothed my hair back, the gesture pure Mom.

"Fine. But you'd better call me when you land in Washington, and you're telling me everything about this meeting when you get back."

"Deal," I promised. With the emotional hurdle cleared, she finally broke out a smile.

"Now come on. Your Dad's trying to set up the new ski boat, Mattie's driving everyone crazy with excitement, and I think one of your cousins is going to drown himself." The July Oklahoma heat was thick, but the water of Lake Eufaula offered a reprieve. I'd missed Fountainhead last year to go to Disneyland instead. It felt good to be back. My thirteenth birthday party felt less like a formal celebration and more like a chaotic, sun-drenched family reunion, which was exactly how I liked it.

I stood on the dock, the fiberglass hull of the new ski boat gleaming in the sun. But Dad's new boat wasn't the star, the prototype lying next to it was: my newest inflatable surfboard, now equipped with a dedicated power unit. The board was built from the same hyper-strong graphene felt as the previous, inflated to a rigid 100 PSI. It was nearly nine feet long but only weighed four pounds when inflated. Matt was strapping a small, jet-drive motor to the stern.

"Ready to test the thrust limits, Boss?" he asked, wiping sweat from his brow.

"I'm so ready! The guys at GA designed the impeller to be virtually silent and to manage the thrust for a near-instantaneous plane," I explained, running my hand over the smooth, tough surface.

"I only got a quick test at the pool at GA. It's about making surfing accessible, not just for the pros. It has to feel like flying." I launched the board onto the water. The electric jet drive was barely audible above the light chop from a boat that had passed by only minutes earlier. I rose to my knees, then stood, feeling the subtle surge of power. The board was exceptionally stable. The sheer rigidity of the inflated design meant there was no flex and no power loss to vibration as it moved through the water.

I clicked the handheld controller to 'Boost.' The board shot forward, gliding effortlessly over the water. It wasn't hydroplaning, it was simply skimming. The super light graphene hull barely displacing water, slicing through the lake surface like a hot knife through butter. I carved sharp turns, the jet drive adjusting instantly to the drag, throwing up perfect rooster tails. It was pure, exhilarating fun. I could hold this speed all day, or at least 25 minutes before the silver-zinc batteries had to recharge.

After a few laps, I eased back to the dock where my sister, Mattie, was waiting, tapping her foot with impatient excitement.

"My turn, John! That looks awesome!" she demanded, already pulling on a life jacket. Mattie had discovered the joys of raw speed and preferred it over finesse.

"Be careful, Mattie. Mom will kill me if you crash," I cautioned, though I knew it was useless.

"I'll be fine," she promised, leaping onto the board with surprising grace. She fiddled with the controller, instantly finding the boost setting. She let out a whoop that echoed across the lake as the board accelerated, leaving a crisp, narrow wake. Watching her, I knew I had a success on my hands. But a powered board was only half the equation. I brought out the second prototype: a kite-sail. The inflatable wing was attached to a graphene cable that ran to the board just forward of the center.

The rectangular shape of the black graphene sail offered a massive surface area to catch the wind. Vertical inflated ribs separated the open cells that would catch the wind. Mattie, after Matt had to go get her in the boat after the battery died during her initial run, was immediately drawn to it.

"What's that one?" she asked, gesturing at the matte black wing.

"That's for when you want speed without batteries," I said.

"We'll need some wind, but you can ride this thing over huge distances." Matt rigged it up, and Mattie, a natural, was sailing the board within minutes. The single long handle gave her control of the pitch and yaw. Pulled across the lake by the wind like a tiny, determined speedboat. The joy on her face was a confirmation: this simple technology, combining lightweight graphene felt strength with tailored power or wind, was going to change personal watercraft.

I pulled out my camera, using the new zoom lens I had picked up in Japan, snapping photos as she screamed in delight.