Ark (11 page)

Finally, after almost a half hour of stony silence from the driver, the limo pulled into an elaborately landscaped and gardened driveway and stopped before a huge wrought iron gate. Jimmy pressed a button on the leather dash and the gate swung open. Beyond it a huge lawn dotted with topiary and blooming azalea bushes reminded Jim of estates he’d seen in the pricy outer burbs of Philly.

“This place looks like home,” Jim quipped happily. “Was that the plan?”

“Uh huh,” said Jimmy. “The boss doesn’t like the desert much.”

A gray haired man stood waiting between the tall columns that dominated the antebellum-styled mansion. When the limo pulled to a stop on the bricked cul-de-sac Jim opened the door and stepped out without waiting for the driver to do it for him. The man walked casually toward Jim with an outstretched hand. Even in civilian clothes he looked military. His gray hair was thick but cut short to match his modest but well groomed mustache. “Mr. Wilcox?” said Jim. “I’m Jim Wilson. Friend of your son’s?”

“Call me General Wilcox,” said the man, stone-faced, with his hand still extended. He laughed explosively when he saw Jim’s expression change.

“My friends call me Max,” said the General. “I was just brassin’ you.”

Jim was already confused. “Max? I thought your name is ...”

“Lawrence? Yes, that’s right, but you can still call me Max. Folks have since I was a kid.”

Jimmy stood at the opened door the limo, waiting for orders. “By the way,” said Jim, glancing at him, “I like your driver. We had a nice talk on the way. Dodger fan. Right, Jimmy?”

The driver smiled and bobbed his head enthusiastically.

“We’re lucky to have found him,” said Max, acknowledging the driver with a reflexive salute.

“Great talking to you, Mr. Wilson,” said the driver. “Hope you have a good time while you’re here.” He tipped his cap to his boss and got into the car.

Wilcox didn’t waste time. “Jim,” he said, “I understand you’re the designer of the ark. Right?”

“I drew the pictures and diagrams, but I think it was God who designed the ark, Sir,” he said with a carefully added chuckle.

The General looked Jim over for a moment and smiled. “Of course.”

When they entered the house, the interior disappointed Jim. He’d half expected southwestern décor, but what greeted his eye was a Victorian palace more suitable to Boston than to Santa Fe. Jim found it strangely disquieting. From the elaborate inner foyer to the mahogany paneled dining and living rooms, everywhere his eye attempted to rest Jim saw ornamental overkill. It almost gave him a headache. Gracing several wood paneled walls were mementos, plaques, and animal heads, many of the things Jim had felt were missing from John Wilcox’s rustic mansion. “No Southwestern décor?” he asked.

“Anything but,” said General Wilcox. “That’s a house rule. Every god damned house around here is damned adobe, steer skulls and Indian blankets all over the walls,” he said. “I came here because of sinus trouble.” He paused and adjusted the cuff of his white linen shirt. “Took me years to get a Sandia post for that. Now I’m stuck here.” He glanced at Jim to see if he’d been heard.

“Can’t get another transfer?” offered Jim.

The General stiffened a bit. “I’m having a ball at Sandia. Besides, why risk giving up all this? Took me years to collect this stuff.”

“A half hour ago, I figured I’d be in staying in a Southwestern hotel or Pentagon south.” Jim peered into the Victorian living room and pointed to a large stone fireplace full of glowing logs. “I didn’t expect this. That’s for sure.”

“Well, it’s good you’re not here to study Southwestern architecture,” offered the General. “You’re here as our guest. Part of the project, Jim.”

“The project?”

“Hell, yes. It’s your big idea, isn’t it? It’s only gonna cost around twenty mil. We’re getting the gold right now from Sharkley at Knox.”

“Knox? Fort Knox?”

“That’s where all the gold is,” said Wilcox.

“Isn’t that gold, well, tied up?”

Max winked at Jim. “Sure,” and then laughed when he saw Jim’s expression. “That got your attention, huh?”

Jim felt like a rookie in the big leagues, and was shocked that his knees weakened a bit. “Begging your pardon, General,” said Jim, “will I be staying here?”

“No. At Sandia,” said the General. “I’m buying your services at double your standard fee. I want you to go to work tonight. I brought you here so we could meet.”

“Is the project a rush job?” asked Jim.

Max shook his head. “Some microwave techies want to see you. Heading back to Alaska tomorrow. Sorry about that. I wanted to welcome you, give you a chance to stretch your feet. Don’t worry. There’s time to have a drink with me before you have to get back into that limo.”

#

The room at Sandia was pleasant, and actually had a cactus on a nightstand. Jim wondered if he could take it with him. Souvenir of Sandia, ‘the nuclear nuts of the nation’, as it was described by Lieutenant Ned Bloom when he’d greeted Jim in General Wilcox’s suite somewhere deep in the bowels of Sandia Mountain.

Jim had been quickly ushered to his room and given an hour, at his request, to collect his thoughts and go over his notes. He lay back on a large cot, closed his tired desert-dried eyes, and began to doze off as he listened to the steady hum of the air conditioning. The brief visit with the senior Wilcox had spooked him. After it he’d been happy to rejoin the Dodgers controversy with Jimmy all the way back to Albuquerque. He was also eager to see for himself the mythic Sandia Laboratories.

The telephone in his room rang at eight p.m. sharp.

“I hear you’ve met the loony,” said the voice of John Wilcox. “How’d it go with Dad?”

Jim laughed. “Greetings, John. It was fine, thanks. I wondered if you’d show up.” He turned on the bedside lamp.

“Yeah, greetings and welcome. So? What did you think?”

“I wouldn’t call him a loony,” Jim yawned, “but it sure sounds like he wants to push the project ahead, and fast. He asks the right questions. Made my head swim, but maybe that’s just jet lag.”

John laughed. “He’s a loony. Anyway, I have Gene here. We’re at The Pit. Ned will bring you here in a half hour, if that’s okay?”

A half hour later, Jim found himself going deep underground, following Lt. Bloom through corridors with lit wall panels that imitated picture windows showing Southwestern scenery. He stopped and studied one closely. Not only was there a southwestern backdrop with plants and small aspen trees filling gap behind the glass, but there was also a trickling imitation waterfall with a few birds flitting around it.

“Isn’t this a bit extravagant?” Jim asked the lieutenant who was waiting for him a few yards down the hallway, tapping his foot impatiently.

“Keeps us from feeling like moles,” Ned replied. “Waterfalls and birds. Nice, huh?”

Jim wasn’t sure. To him it was just another bizarre detail in an alien environment. Without comment he quickly rejoined his guide. Soon they entered an empty bare bones conference room. A long folding table and eight chairs were its only furniture. Behind the chair at the far end of the room was a large movie screen. Two spotlights spilled onto it from above, filling the room with a soft glow. Ned excused himself and left Jim alone in the room.

A few minutes later the door opened and two officers in flight suits entered, followed by Gene and John Wilcox. The greetings were cordial but brief because everyone seemed eager to get started. John introduced Jim to Lieutenants Irwin Bush and Dean Williams. “These are the techies I was telling you about, Jim,” Gene explained.

“General Wilcox says you need our help with a project?” asked Lieutenant Bush.

Williams nodded. “Not to rush this but we have a plane to catch in,” he looked at his watch, “forty-six minutes.”

Jim reached into the case he was carrying and took out his drawings. “We’ve seen your sketches,” said Bush. “We’ve got copies.” He pulled a seat away from the table and sat down. “I’ve looked over them.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Up front, here. I happen to be a religious person and have a small problem with this, but I’ll let it pass and concentrate on the mechanics.”

John Wilcox raised an angry eyebrow, but made no comment.

“That’s okay,” Jim said. “It’s all theory. None of us are sure that those drawings will tell us anything.”

Gene raised his finger. “Right. Like Jim says, this isn’t a religious debate. As we told you guys before, we want to get some data correlation. That’s all.”

Bush’s critical eyes revealed an unshakable skepticism as they studied Jim. “Well, your drawings seem to describe a simple resonator and a crude wave guide, but the resemblance is superficial. According to your sizes this, uh, resonator would modulate FM band, maybe a meter in bandwidth.”

Jim noticed that Lieutenant Bush was doing all the talking while his companion sat stoically with a dubious expression. Presumably Williams didn’t agree with Bush.

“Then you agree that this is a resonator. And it will work?” Jim asked.

“It’s the Ark of the Covenant,” said Lieutenant Bush.

“It’s nothing but theory,” echoed John.

“Yes, Sir,” Williams replied obediently.

John Wilcox looked down at the tiled floor. “Let’s all stick to microwave theory.”

“Sure,” said Bush, folding his hands politely in front of him. “You told me before about the computer simulations at two universities. They failed. May I ask why?”

“We don’t know,” Gene answered, looking dubiously at John.

Bush nodded professionally. “I’ll admit the configuration of those twin parabola interests me.”

“Why?” asked Wilcox.

“Because they would focus energy and store a charge.”

“How can it store a charge if the thing is sitting on bare ground?” said Gene. “Isn’t that called grounding?”

“Not necessarily,” replied Lieutenant Bush. “It’s possible that in this configuration, with all that gold on top, and sitting on dry ground, it might leak the charge slowly.”

“Gold is weird stuff,” added Williams. “It likes to hold a charge.”

“If it held a big charge of electricity, how could it be carried?” asked John.

“It couldn’t,” said Bush.

“I don’t know,” said Jim. “The Levites carried the ark wearing special outfits. Maybe they were protected.”

“Levites?” said Williams.

“Moses’ kin. Like Aaron, Moses’ brother,” offered Jim. “God gave them responsibility for taking care of it all. They were the priests.”

Williams shook his head but said nothing.

“Stick to the subject,” ordered John. Everyone stared at him silently and he added, “We haven’t much time.”

“That’s going to be a continuous problem with this project, I think,” said Jim. “Maybe we should get used to it. I’ve been trying to separate the mechanics of the ark from its Biblical aspects for a long time and I’ll tell you, John, it’s impossible.”

“I understand that, Jim,” John answered. “Right now, we have limited time for debate.”

Lieutenant Bush stood up. “Tell you what,” he said looking down at Williams. “Let me take copies of these drawings and study the matter. I’ll let you know if I discover anything. Right now, though, you’ve only got superficial similarities with microwave technology. I think you’re wasting your time. Unless you plan to rebuild the ark to test it,” he added with a laugh.

The two officers looked over the paperwork one more time and asked Jim a few detail questions; the thickness of the wood, any rounded corners, etc. Unfortunately Jim could only provide guesswork in his answers. Finally, after a moment of silence, John stepped forward and held out his hand to Bush, who took that as a cue and rose from his chair.

“Thanks, Irwin,” John said. “You and Dean have been a great help.”

“Help with what, Sir, if I may ask?” asked Williams.

“Our research, of course,” said John. He handed his set of drawings to Bush. “Take these extra copies, and please let me know if you find anything. I’d also appreciate your confidence in this matter.” He winked knowingly. “Dad’s a stickler for keeping secrets. Old school commie hater.”

The officers nodded somberly and walked out the door, clutching flight helmets with dangling wires.

John went to his chair and sat down. “That could have been better.”

“I’m afraid to ask this,” said Jim, “but was THAT the reason I came here?”

“Part of it, I guess,” said Gene, looking at John. He and Jim chose seats at the table opposite one another.

John remained at the end of the table, facing the door. “And you had to meet the loony,” he said, grinning. “If anyone can get the money, it’s Dad.”

“Maybe calling him the loony isn’t such a great idea, John,” Gene said cautiously. “I mean, if this gets rolling...”

“A son’s prerogative,” John answered, still smiling. “But you’re right, Gene. I should be more respectful.”

Later that night, the three of them dined at the General’s house. To Jim’s surprise, the fare was authentic Mexican. “You said you wanted Southwest,” explained General Wilcox. “I couldn’t redecorate the house for you, but I hope you like the Mexican food.”

“That’s more than thoughtful of you, General,” said Jim.

The enchilada told him this was truly authentic cuisine, hot as the locals like it. The first bite served as fair warning and Jim carefully sampled all the food before taking normal bites. Halfway through the meal he had already drained his water glass twice. “This is good,” he offered politely. “Spicy.”

All through dinner the General railed against liberals and conservationists and how they were dismantling America and spending money on the dole, as he called it. He seemed to think that being a host required proffering his personal version of the American dream. Jim listened and nodded politely at all the appropriate times, forcing himself to detach his own viewpoint long enough to get through dinner. Thankfully, the overly spiced food was enough to distract him. At the end of the meal Jim was pleased to see that he wasn’t the only one to leave a fair portion of his enchiladas uneaten.

Later, after cognac, which Jim hated, and a quadraphonic rendition of an obscure Gilbert and Sullivan opera, which had Jim drinking more cognac, old Max finally went off to bed.