by Paul Lally
“Yes.”
Tommy computes this then slowly nods. “My compliments, Ms. Devillar. Looks like you got all your ducks lined up, including a bona fide sheriff, Glock pistol and all. By the way, Sam you do know how to use that thing, don’t you?”
“I’m range-qualified.”
“Excellent.”
Devillar tries looking even more sympathetic. “Mr. Riley, please...face the facts: maybe it’s time for the breakers. I mean, what have your attendance numbers been like?”
“Could be better.”
“Try; nobody’s shown up here for ages, except volunteers like you and Mr. Albertini. Your battleship’s had its time in the sun. But that sun has set.”
Stanley says, “So the lock on the gate is yours, right?”
She rummages in her Gucci handbag until she finds the key and brandishes it.
Stanley growls, “Your father granted us dockage rights forever.”
“Verbal agreement. Nothing about it in the will. When you read it—and I’ll be only too happy to share it with you—as sole heir, all assets and properties devolve to me. As such, I have the right to do what’s in the best interest for our company and its employees.”
She looks around the sprawling property and frowns, as if examining a steaming pile of horseshit.
“Based on less-than-optimistic economic forecasts from reliable sources, my best action will be to dissolve Phillip’s Metals Incorporated and seek other opportunities.”
Tommy says, “Such as?”
Devillar makes a face. “This place may not look like much now. But once the scrap metal’s gone, the sorting sheds, the grinders the choppers—and that rusty old battleship of yours—it’s going to be prime real estate.”
“That’s what I figured. Who’s buying?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“I can keep a secret.”
A bright smile. “I will say this much; what they have in mind is exciting... for the city.”
Tommy rocks back and forth on his heels, the same way he does when interrogating a witness on the stand. “I can only imagine.”
“You’ll do more than that soon.”
“How soon?”
“When the city council signs on the dotted line—and they’re this close.” She pinches her fingers together, her fire engine-red nail polish almost glows. “After that, you’ve got thirty days to weigh anchor, or—”
“—or you sink our ship.”
She smiles sweetly. “Exactly.”
How Vice-Admiral James J. Lewis, USN, Retired, managed to commandeer a team of Portsmouth Navy Shipyard civilian employees to fully restore four MK 12 Bofors 40mm anti-aircraft guns mounted in a “gun tub” will remain a mystery forever.
But it happened, nonetheless.
Such are the mysterious powers of Navy admirals, even long after they’ve left active service. They always “know somebody.” Or know somebody who does.
At one point during Stanley Albertini’s time during WW2, the Rock had twenty of these anti-aircraft mounts to fend off Japanese aerial attacks. Then, as she got “resurrected from the dead” to fight in more modern-era wars, the anti-craft gun mounts disappeared one by one, replaced by Tomahawk cruise missiles, Harpoon anti-ship missiles, CIWS Phalanxes, and chaff launchers.
A year ago, Lewis rescued one of The Rock’s Bofors twin mounts from a fate worse than death as it rusted away outside the Navy’s Surface Warfare Center in Jacksonville, Florida.
It took a lot of finagling, but JJ got the Navy to transport the gun mount back to Portsmouth Naval Shipyard for “heritage restoration” (he invented that phrase, BTW). For the past year, he and shipyard volunteers have been transforming the falling apart weapon into factory-like new condition.
All it needs is ammunition.
This morning, JJ’s sporting a navy-blue wool sweater over an open-collar sport shirt as he oversees one of the shipyard’s single-boom cranes preparing to hoist the completed unit onto a lowboy trailer for transport over Memorial Bridge to the New Hampshire side, and then up the street to Battleship Memorial Park.
Never married except to the sea, JJ’s retirement path has closely matched Tommy’s. He too, has become an enthusiastic docent. One of his specialties is giving tours of the Rock’s flag bridge, where once he served as a newly commissioned “butter-bar” ensign so long ago that it’s becoming harder and harder to remember he ever was that young. Especially, when he shaves in the mirror every morning and counts more and more liver spots on his forehead.
Right now, Tommy Riley’s memory of their time together on the Rock is all he can think about as he navigates his way across Portsmouth Naval Shipyard. Cluttered here and there with confusing shapes and objects, the yard’s primary mission is refurbishing nuclear submarines—and the occasional “gun tub.” thrown in for good measure.
The thought looming in Tommy’s mind pains him deeply. How the hell can he break the bad news to his lifelong friend?
Today was supposed to be “the big day” for installing the gun tub on the Rock. The plan—until Munroe Devillar changed the locks this morning and threw a gigantic wrench into the works—was to hoist JJ’s beloved gun tub onto the after deck, directly on top of Turret 3, where during WW2 an original one had fought the good fight.
To add insult to this morning’s injury, Tommy’s got a mysterious pain in his lower abdomen that won’t go away. He wants it to be some kind of intestinal thing, but it’s been going on long enough that his new cancer doc ordered up some tests.
Treated years ago for colon cancer, he’s lived to tell the victorious tale. What that tale might now be is anybody’s guess. He’s got an appointment tomorrow up at Dartmouth Hitchcock Hospital’s Cancer Center.
But that’s tomorrow.
Enough on his plate for today.
JJ spots Tommy coming his way and beams with pride as he waves. No words needed between these guys. Such are the luxuries of a long-term friendship. But the admiral’s smile quickly fades at Tommy’s exasperated look. And by the time he finishes briefing the admiral on Munroe Devillar’s lockout situation, JJ’s face matches his.
“She can’t do it,” he says.
“She can and she will. Our dockage rights were legal as long as Walter was alive. But...”
“But what?”
“Phillips Metals, LLC is a family-owned company. The wording in the revocable trust is such that once it becomes irrevocable—which it is now—it grants her the legal right to do whatever she damn well pleases.”
“You’re saying Walt’s wishes for the Rock went to the grave with him?”
“Affirmative.”
JJ regards the workmen fiddling with the lifting straps attached to the gun mount. “I will be good goddamned if that woman gets away with it.”
“She already has.”
“Are you one-hundred percent certain?
“Admiral Lewis, while you were busy adding stars to your shoulders, I founded the largest elder law practice in the state of New Hampshire. I know my estate and trust business the same way you know yours—whatever the hell it is that you did as the head cheese of half the navy.”
“Two districts, actually.”
“I repeat...”
“Belay, belay, let me think.”
JJ chews on this fact until he swallows it, albeit reluctantly. “What the hell are we going to do?”
“Clueless at the moment.”
JJ turns away and looks upriver. From where he’s standing on the far end of the pier, he can just spot the Rock’s mainmast towering over the city’s skyline and her bow jutting out from her anchorage.
“You think maybe...” he hesitates.
“Think what?”
“If maybe your Jack could... you know....”
“My son is not a magician. That said, he is a multi-billionaire bear who lives in the woods and shits gold bricks with great regularity.”
“He’s helped us out in the past, especially with Veterans’ Park.”
“And for that we give thanks. But this is different. We don’t need a couple thousand bucks for paint, or ten-grand to do rust corrosion prevention. We lost our lease. Period. You know the Navy much better than I do. The Rock’s heading for the scrap pile unless we find her a new home.”
“We both know the chances of that are zero.”
“Roger that.”
“I’m not going stand for the Rock being pieces in a scrap pile—or worse, a live fire target like the way they sank the America. Nossir.”
“Them’s fighting words. But they’re just words.”
While the two of them have been talking, the rigging crew continues their preparations. The foreman turns to the crane operator and twirls his finger clockwise to give the lift signal. As the crane engine revs, the throaty roar pulls the men back from their anxious conversation to witness the moment.
The lifting straps tighten as the crane takes up the twelve-ton load. Once a foot off the ground, the crane operator pauses like a weightlifter does; to get a “feel” for the mass before performing the lift.
“Looks fantastic,” Tommy says, trying to shift attention away from the hopeless to the beautiful.
JJ grunts. “The boys know their business.”
“So do you.”
“How so?”
“Whatever strings you pulled to make this restoration happen, they were the right ones.”
“After thirty-four years and three stars, I guess I know my way around this man’s navy.”
“This women’s navy too, don’t forget.”
“How could I?”
Tommy pulls out his smartphone and takes a photo. “Jack loves shit like this.”
The crane engine revs and the Bofors quad mount rises about twenty feet, then slowly swings over to the lowboy trailer. Two riggers stand there, holding guide ropes attached to the gun tub.
Slowly, ever so slowly, it descends until it rests firmly upon wooden blocks bolted to the trailer bed aligned to match the tub’s deck mounting brackets. The multi-tire trailer sags from the heavy weight but holds it securely.
Tommy says, “Where the hell are we going to put it, now that we’re locked out?”
“It can’t stay here. I’ve used up all my favors with Captain Duvall and his guys.”
A long pause while the men stare at the riggers fastening down the load. Then JJ turns to Tommy. “Want to know why God invented parking lots?”
“Why?”
“So that people could park things there.” He nods his head in the upstream direction.
“You mean?”
“I do. Let Cruella DeVille figure out how to move a twelve-ton gun tub from her god damned parking lot. And do it on her own dime.”
He turns away and signals to a man standing by the tractor trailer. “Saddle up, Billy!”
The man salutes, turns and climbs into the cab. Seconds later a plume of black smoke rockets from the chrome-plated stack as the truck engine starts.
Tommy laughs. “Your SEAL nickname used to be ‘Mainiac’ as I recall.”
“You recall correctly. And still is.”
“Turn around and face me—quick.”
“Huh?”
“Do it.”
Tommy takes a photo with the gun tub in the background. “Sending this to Jack, too.”
“So, you are going to talk with him...about all this?”
“If time allows. We’re getting together tomorrow. Got an appointment up north.”
“What’s up?”
Tommy hesitates. “Personal.”
“You doing okay?”
“Never better.”
JJ’s cold blue eyes narrow. “You can’t bullshit the bullshitter. I repeat my last transmission: what’s up?”
Tommy shakes his head, beams his best courtroom smile, and says, “Can I give you a lift?”
“Negative, Lieutenant Riley.” He smiles, turns and walks toward the lowboy. “Follow this gun to the parking lot.”
“Time for a little lunch?” Munroe Devillar coos into her phone, making sure she gives just the right amount of emphasis to imply she has a different kind of meal in mind.
“Twenty minutes, and I’m all yours.”
“Going to eat you up, councilman.”
“You know where to start.”
A brief pause as both ponder what’s to come.
Then Portsmouth City Councilman Charles Stein breaks the silence. “How’d it go, baby?”
“A breeze. Eviction notice posted; old man Riley pissed off—not to mention his loyal geezer sidekick.”
A low whistle of appreciation. “Mrs. Devillar you have got one gigantic pair of balls.”
“Much prefer yours.”
“That’s on today’s menu?”
“Your wish is my command, King Charles the First.”
“Your place or mine?”
“Yours. David’s working from home today. No rest for my weary day trader. Such a hard-working hubby I’ve got.”
“Busy hands are happy hands.”
“Mine will be when they get hold of you.”
A brief pause. “Give me time to make the bed.”
“Why bother?”
Even though the Duracell factory floor is as spotless and pristine as a NASA assembly hall, it seems that Jack Riley can taste the graphene in the back of his throat. Not in reality, of course. It’s just that he’s been around this remarkable substance used in his “Super Cap” capacitors for so many years that it’s become part of him.
In case you don’t know (and most of us don’t) what a capacitor is and does, it’s a “passive two-terminal electrical component used to store energy electrostatically in an electric field.”
They have the ability (“capacity”) of storing that energy quickly and discharging it just as fast. They’ve been around forever; tiny little things, from the size of your little finger up to shipping container-sized ones that keep power-plants running when something goes wrong.
Conventional “caps” are made with two parallel conductive plates separated by air or an insulating material like waxed paper, mica, or ceramic.
Ho-him stuff. Been around forever, like I said.
But then along comes curved graphene.
Now we’re talking.
It’s the “Holy Grail” of capacitor energy storage. And Jack Riley’s the “Sir Lancelot” who’s scaled it up in a way that nobody thought could be done—at least in our lifetime.
Curved graphene’s honeycombed sheet of carbon atoms is harder than diamonds, tougher than steel, lighter than aluminum. It’s the strongest known material. And when used in a capacitor application, its electron conductive mobility is 100x faster than silicon.
Repeat: one hundred times.
At the moment, Jack’s observing—with no small amount of pride—a complicated machine the size of an SUV massaging and pressure-squeezing dark black graphene into impossibly thin sheets.
Then it’s fed onto a winding machine that spools the substance over and under sets of rollers and sandwiches it between sheets of paper. Married together, they’re rolled tight and inserted into cannisters ranging in size from a beer-can to a 55-gallon drum.
After a good soak in liquid electrolyte, they’re capped, their electrodes laser-welded, and—ta-da!—they’re ready to change the way the world gets from here to there.
But it didn’t happen overnight. Nothing important ever does.
Ten years ago, when the Rock first dropped anchor in her new home in Portsmouth to cheering crowds and smiling city officials, Jack signed a multi-million licensing deal with the Tesla folks to integrate his super-efficient supercapacitors into their cars’ drive trains.
That was just the beginning.
Fast forward ten years ago, to today....
All those gas stations you see in your hometown and along the highways and byways coast to coast with those Plug ’n Go islands along with their regular gas and diesel pumps? Thank Jack Riley for them. Same for his Super Plug n’
Go stations too. They’re popping up like dandelions after a summer rain.
He doesn’t own a single one of them, though. Much the same way John D. Rockefeller owned Standard Oil and leased gas stations by the tens of thousands, Jack holds exclusive patent and licensing rights on “Enhanced Graphene Supercapacitor Mass Storage Systems.”
He leases his “tanks” in ground-buried capacitor “farms,” packed with “Meso-semi-porous nano graphene electrodes” (US Patent number US89232048B2) to the highest bidders.
By quickly dispensing stored electricity during the day, and then re-charging from the grid at night during low demand, his SuperCaps have revolutionized automobile travel not only in the United States but around the world.
Where once the oil industry had a vice grip on petroleum fueled automobiles, gas stations equipped with Jack’s Plug ’n Go islands energized by his SuperCap storage tanks have made electric-powered cars a healthy—and happy—competitor.
That same eighteen-year-old kid who looked up at the stars that night in the middle of the New Mexico desert and dreamed up his first invention (a vapor compression distiller, remember?) hasn’t changed a bit—correction—some grey hair at his temples (a tad early for a 47-year-old) and the beginnings of a pot belly (he’s trying to lose that). But otherwise, Jack Riley’s still the same kid. Just older, wiser, and by now a billionaire twice—some say three times—over.
He’s lost count.
You wouldn’t know it to look at him, though.
Faded Levi jeans, unbuttoned blue denim shirt, and black T-shirt. That’s it. All he ever wears. His bedroom walk-in closet in back in Portsmouth has fourteen of these outfits “pre-loaded” on hangars. A two-week supply. Ditto for footwear; fourteen pairs of black Rockport “World Tour” sneakers and fourteen pairs of Ralph Lauren red socks. According to Jack, not having to spend time thinking about what to wear gives him more time to ponder the long list of topics that rotate through his mind like a high-speed merry-go-round.
This singular focus allowed him to dream up better battery chemistry a few years earlier, which led to cobalt-free, lithium iron phosphate “super batteries” with triple the energy density.
