Breathing wildly, the major forced a small smile and burst into tears. “I'm alive, I can't believe it,” said the bewildered and still swollen Frank Nash.
“Believe it, son,” a voice called. There, in the corner of the room, sat a man with three stars embroidered on his lapels. Frank sat upright in his hospital bed and gave the admiral a slight nod. They watched each other intently, not saying anything.
“Hospice bot, give us a minute alone, please.” The robot rolled into the corner of the room and powered down.
“Vice Admiral Masanai, it's a surprise. A good surprise,” Frank said.
“We are just thankful you are alive, Frank. You gave us all quite a scare these last few weeks,” the admiral said, picking the lint from his cufflinks.
“Weeks?!” Frank blurted. He still could not remember anything from after the plane crash.
“Yes, you have been in a coma now for two weeks. You actually woke up a few times in the last two days,” Masanai said. “The doc called us at HQ and I flew here as soon as I could.”
“What about my kids, my wife?” A concerned look came over the major’s face.
“Your wife was here last week. I told her we would get you to her as soon as your physical therapy ended.” A look of concern came over the admiral’s face.
“Therapy?” Frank asked. A sense of dread overcame him. He tried to move in the bed but something was off. “It sure is difficult to move. Was I injured badly?”
The admiral’s face turned to stone. He moved around uncomfortably in his chair, waiting for the proverbial bomb shell.
“Sir?” Frank grabbed the blanket and tossed it away from his body, and began to sob.
“They tried to save them, Frank,” the admiral said. “When rescue crews got to you, your legs had been mutilated. There was nothing anyone could do.”
Frank's face was pale and he struggled to stay rational. He turned and vomited on the floor. The hospice bot, which had been in a power save mode, came back to life, called for the doctor, and cleaned the excretion.
“What happened?” Frank asked.
“You lost your legs, son. You were in a coma for two weeks while Navy doctors operated on you.”
“No . . . I mean, what happened? I don't remember anything,” inquired Frank.
“After you heroically rammed that missile with your jet, your AI Vivica overrode the computer and ejected you. It's a miracle you're still alive.”
“What about the ships? Any casualties or damage?” Frank asked, wiping the tears from his face. “Did we win the war?”
“Everyone is fine. The war is over,” Masanai said somberly. “What's important is your health and getting back on your feet . . . err. . . . ” The admiral winced. “No pun intended, Frank, honest.”
Frank appeared exhausted. The stress of the last few months and the weight of his situation was surreal. How can anyone bounce back from this? he thought, glancing out the hospital window at the blue sky.
A rush of emotion swept over him, and he let loose another round of projectile vomiting.
This time the admiral got up and came to his bedside. He put his hand on the major and set a silver oak leaf insignia in his right hand.
“What's this?” Frank pried.
“That is your battlefield promotion. You earned it, colonel.”
“I don't know what to say.” Frank let out a series of burps, struggling to keep down his bile. “I am honored, sir, thank you,” Frank said sheepishly.
The door of the hospital room swung open and an army of nurses entered to examine the newly appointed colonel. They swarmed his bedside and began getting vitals while typing notes on tablet computers.
“Do you know where we are?” asked the doctor in the room. His name tape read “Dr. Burke.”
“Well, from the musty smell of the hospital and the bland room scheme, I would have to say Brooke Army Medical Center,” Frank guessed.
Dr. Burke glanced over to Admiral Masanai and back to Frank, giving out an excited laugh.
“I had a list of questions to ask you, but you're sharp as a tack, colonel. Congratulations on your STEP promotion. Welcome to San Antonio.”
As the tests gradually came to an end, more and more staff departed the room, until finally only Frank and Masanai were left. They conversed for hours about Frank's Purple Heart ceremony, physical therapy, their wives, and medical retirement.
The bright afternoon sun gave way to a tangerine haze as evening set in. Frank couldn't help but talk as the oxycodone Dr. Burke prescribed intravenously was making him very amicable.
“Listen, Frank, I have to get going,” the admiral said. “I will stop by again in the morning before I head back to Corpus.”
Frank gave a slight nod in acknowledgment. He felt the pain of loneliness surge.
“Before I go, I want to give you something.” Admiral Masanai stood. The admiral handed over a pamphlet. It had Japanese lettering. Frank opened the pamphlet, revealing pictures of space ships launching into orbit and scientists conducting experiments.
“What's this?” Frank asked.
“A job opportunity. You know, I was the commander of the Pacific Fleet years ago.” The admiral pointed to a picture of an important-looking Japanese man wearing a suit and toasting with sake.
“That is Mr. Nao Tajika, a longtime friend of mine in Tokyo. He is the CEO of Nagoya Industries,” the admiral said. “I can get you a job as a pilot if you're interested.”
“Even without legs, they would still hire a guy like me?” Frank asked.
“Let's just say Nao owes me a favor or two. I can make it happen,” Masanai insisted.
“I know nothing about space,” Frank said.
“Doesn't matter, they specialize in mining of asteroids and planets, usually hiring people with specific skills instead of just scientist types,” Masanai said.
“I will take a look at it, sir, thank you . . . for everything.” Frank produced a meek smile. His emotions started to get the best of him again and his eyes began to swell.
“I will be back in the morning to say goodbye.” With that the admiral shook hands and gave Frank a solid salute.
That night was a long one for Frank. The pain from having missing limbs was insurmountable. Every time he adjusted in bed, burning sensations would intensify around severed nerve endings. Sometimes he could even feel himself move as if his legs were still attached.
Around midnight, a new round of morphine kicked in. Frank welcomed the feeling and began to drift. The hospital walls and floors wobbled and melted into darkness.
Frank could feel the ground beneath him turn to rocks and dust. His face pressed against the sand, choking on granules, he began coughing uncontrollably.
“Get up, private, move your ass!” came the screams of his old, grizzled squad leader.
He put both hands on the cold, early morning desert and pushed himself up, feeling the burden of hundred-pound ceramic armor. The air was thick with white smoke and automatic gunfire snapped all around the shallow foxhole.
Frank could see the faces of old squadmates, locked in an eternal scene of combat, forever etched in his consciousness. The sky was a blue canvas, vapor trails zigzagging in all directions. American Air Force jets screamed past Marine infantry.
Private Nash grabbed his rifle and got up out of the foxhole. In the distance an immense flash broke the horizon, covering everything in hot light. Closing his eyes he could feel the light infiltrate his mind and soul. There was nowhere to hide; it was enveloping.
The light slowly dissipated. The ground shook and thundered.
“Hit the dirt!” yelled the squad leader.
Marines rushed for cover anywhere they could, but for some it was too late. The shock wave came with tremendous force. Like a whirlwind, it picked up men and machine, tossing them like rag dolls. Those that made it to cover gasped to find air to breathe in the suffocating dust. The mushroom cloud, now clearly visible, loomed in the foreground. It could be seen from many miles
away.
“They nuked Tehran! They nuked it!” someone shouted. “They nuked Tehran, they nuked it!” The voices faded, waned until there was nothing—nothing but the steady breathing of Frank. That, and the feeling of morphine, like a warm blanket.
Frank woke with a fright. Covered in sweat, he struggled to fight anxiety and panic. The early morning light pierced through the hospital window as someone knocked at the door.
“Come . . . come in,” Frank said while attempting to collect himself.
“It's Lieutenant Anderson, sir?” called a voice from the door.
“I said come in!” Frank shouted.
The door cracked slowly, and a pair of eyes gazed inside.
“What do you want, lieutenant?” Frank asked in a more civilized tone.
“The admiral has put me in charge of your personal affairs.” The door swung open all the way, revealing a very young-looking man.
“Did he now?”
“Yes, sir. I had knocked a few times before, but you were asleep.” Lieutenant Anderson's eyes wandered around the room. “Your wife called this morning. She says she can't make it because of bad weather in Denver,” Anderson said.
Frank's face turned to indifference at the remark. “I checked the weather forecast in Denver and there wasn't any bad—”
Frank cut the lieutenant off mid-sentence. “What’s on the agenda for today?” he said loudly.
“Right . . . well, you have a pre-surgery appointment with the surgeon this morning, and . . . the admiral will stop by to say goodbye later,” Lieutenant Anderson said with a glowing, goobery smile.
“Do me a favor, kid.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You see this number?” Frank pulled out the brochure for Nagoya Industries and pointed to the contact information. Lieutenant Anderson gave a slight nod. “I want you to call them and schedule an interview for me. Tell them Admiral Masanai is requesting it.”
Chapter 3
A lone commercial shuttle descended delicately into metropolitan Tokyo from an altitude of 104,000 feet. Its crew made final preparations to land at Haneda Airport.
The coastline of Japan came into view as Frank awoke from napping in zero gravity. He peered longingly out the window. Towering above the cold morning fog, giant nanocrystalline steel trusses interlocked to form the Shimizu Mega-City Pyramid.
The world’s largest man-made architectural endeavor and constructed almost entirely out of nanomaterials, it spanned the entirety of Tokyo Bay and greeted all passengers as they arrived in Tokyo.
Frank had read the entire Tokyo attractions pamphlet during the four-hour flight. He read about the Shimizu Corporation and their massive 90 kilometer wide, 1.6 kilometer high arcology building project. It took the company and Japanese government over twenty-five years to build and had a condominium population of one million people.
Power generation was achieved by an integral cooperation of nuclear energy and government-controlled artificial intelligence called “Ani,” or “Big Brother” in English.
Colonel Nash—now Mr. Nash since being medically discharged from the military—sat quietly as the small space shuttle of thirty-six passengers shook from mild turbulence. Hanging below his seat, a set of new nanotitanium prosthetic legs glistened in the overhead cabin light. Frank couldn't help but fidget with his new appendages, his anxiety increasing the closer they got to ground.
Neatly folded on his lap was a magazine showing the products and people of Nagoya Industries. Frank had circled and highlighted names and places, trying to get ready for his interview with the company.
“Gotojo itadaki arigato gozaimasu,” said a female Japanese flight attendant over the intercom. The landing gear deployed and met the pavement with a bump and a scoot, burning rubber against the tarmac.
The shuttle taxied to the gate and passengers disembarked into the main terminal. Families greeted each other with hugs, kisses, and rounds of respectful bowing. Frank hurried past the crowds, still getting used to his new legs as he walked rigidly with a slight limp. The cane the Navy doctors had given him was useless and he threw it out first chance he got.
His whole life he had projected a sense of power and strength, someone people could emulate. His newfound disability made him insecure, a feeling the retired pilot wasn't accustomed to.
The airport terminal at Haneda was like nothing he had ever seen in America. It was quite big and spacious. Flags of every nation on earth graced the scaffolds and large skylights on the ceilings projected large amounts of sunlight during the day.
The floors were made of a hard plexiglass one meter thick. Below, solar panels collected light from the outside which was magnified in intensity from the glass and used as electricity for the airport.
Frank proceeded to the baggage claim and then to find transportation. Outside, a middle-aged Japanese man held up a sign reading “Welcome Mr. Nash”.
“You must be my ride!” Frank proclaimed with nervous excitement.
“Ome ni kakarete ureshii desu Nash-san!” the man replied, contorting himself with respect.
Frank's gaze turned blank, unsure of how to respond. He grabbed his phone and opened a translator, but the man stopped him with a chuckle.
“It is quite alright, I am well-versed in English. It is my pleasure to meet you, Mr. Nash. My name is Haru.”
Frank returned the laughter and patted the man on the shoulder.
“Haru, Haru,” Frank said, trying to imprint the name into his memory. “The pleasure is all mine!”
“Please, sir, right this way.” Haru motioned to an alternate path away from all the automobiles and heavy airport traffic. “Can I carry your bags, sir?” He insisted without waiting for an answer, grabbing the heaviest bag he could reach for. Frank had little time to say no and just accepted.
They left the airport parking lot behind and an open space with helipads came into view. “Have you ever been in a gyrocopter, Mr. Nash?” Haru prodded. “Oh, who am I to ask. Of course you have, you are a pilot, yes?”
Frank grinned and nodded at the question. He had, in fact, never flown in a gyrocopter before. They had them in the States but automobiles still ruled.
Frank and Haru toured a long line of multi-colored gyrocopters until finally reaching one with “Nagoya” stenciled on both sides. Frank noticed the gyrocopter was a mix between a helicopter and a large electric car. Two semi-enclosed rotary blades sat horizontally adjacent to a four-seat cockpit. A small tail rotor sat behind a short tail boom
Haru put Frank's luggage into a locked container on the side and fired up the engine to a faint purr. The rotary blades began to spin as Frank fastened his safety harness.
“Pretty nifty machine, Haru. How does it work?” Frank asked.
“It is a very efficient process,” Haru replied while applying his headset. “You see, you have the battery that starts the engine.” Haru pointed to the touchscreen interface, showing the craft’s current power levels. The rotary blades began to twirl, slowly at first. They picked up speed. “Once in the sky, the aerodynamics act on the gyro's wind tunnel, which spins an aerofoil generator.”
“An aerofoil generator?”
“Wind turbine,” Haru explained. “That wind turbine converts the kinetic energy from the wind into electric power.”
“Almost like a semi-perpetual motion machine,” Frank stated.
“Precisely!” Haru said.
The gyrocopter lifted off of the ground and proceeded away from Haneda’s airspace.
The aircraft's gauges displayed engine power generation. Small green arrows showed the wind’s kinetic energy being converted by the turbine into electricity.
“What degree did you say that you had?” Haru asked curiously.
“Mechanical Engineering,” Frank replied.
'Oh . . . yeah, that’s a good one! You did not know what aerofoil generator was?” Haru asked sarcastically.
Frank gave Haru a smile and shook his head. He gazed out the window and admired the scen
ery of Tokyo. Large cranes and construction equipment littered the ground below. The evening sunset cast an annoying glare on the cockpit window.
“I’m just busting your balls, Frank!” Haru lightly punched Frank's shoulder. “Watch this. Computer . . . polarize!” The glass of the cockpit windshield darkened and changed, reducing the suns glare.
“Like putting on a good pair of sunglasses,” Frank said.
Haru used holographics to project digital lanes on the gyrocopter windshield. This system helped gyro pilots navigate the skies over Tokyo, providing order to aerial transportation.
Skyscrapers and megastructures gave way to mountains and sleepy villages as the gyrocopter soared towards the imposing Mount Fuji. Its summit was illuminated by a fiery sunset of oranges and shades of pink.
“Ever been to Japan before, sir?” Haru asked.
“Yes, I was in Okinawa for a few weeks during the war.” Frank could not remove his eyes from the majestic volcano.
“You know what they say about Fuji?” Haru asked. “They say that if you visit Japan and do not climb the mountain, you are a fool.” Haru pressed a button on the touchscreen interface and heat filled Frank's side of the cockpit.
“Is that so?” Frank said.
“Yes, and they also say that if you climb it twice, you are a fool.”
“Looks like I'm a fool then,” Frank said with a laugh. He pulled back his pant legs so Haru could catch a glimpse.
“Nonsense, Mr. Nash!” Haru piped with seriousness. “My grandmother is eighty years old. She makes the climb once a year as a tribute to my father and our ancestors. My father passed away many years ago. You are only limited by the size of your heart,” Haru went on.
The craft ascended above the mountain peaks. A slight turbulence shook Frank's seat. “Computer, stabilize,” Haru said. “Not long now, Mr. Nash. Please enjoy the view, ok!”
Tucked deep in the mountains, within a sea of trees, was what looked like a large industrial complex with an airstrip. A rocket body sat on a launch pad and helicopter traffic was heavy.
The gyrocopter circled for a bit as Haru spoke with air traffic control. It circled some more and descended, gracefully touching down at one of many helipads.
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