Day 23. Cutting Loose
He’d been working for a month straight and when he worked, esophagitis he worked. He’d sleep just enough to keep his body from involuntarily shutting down. Otherwise, ed his mind was entirely dedicated to the task. And anyway, no rx on a military base you were either working or sleeping. There wasn’t much else to do. And after the amount of effort it took to get the doc back, he just needed to cut loose. Too bad he was about as isolated as someone could get without visiting the south pole, or the moon. The nearest night club was about ninety miles to the south. It didn’t matter, he needed to get out. So, he’d made a few calls and managed to convince a buddy to fly out from New York and chaperone his DB9 all the way to McCarran. Of course he paid his friend to fly first class both ways, with a generous per diem for his trouble.
“It’s what I call natural-state anti-gravity,” Rock said.
“You mean, like a permanent magnet as opposed to an electromagnet?”
“Exactly. An electromagnet acts like a permanent magnet so long as there’s current flowing through it. Shut it off and no more magnet. Relying on current flow for an anti-gravity device would be a disaster. Instead, I alter the state of a material so that it naturally negates the effects of gravity.”
“Rock, you’re a genius,” Kyle offered, with a smile. They’d just finished dinner and were chatting over coffee in the Army mess. A Private approached their table.
“A message for you sir.” The Private handed him a piece of paper and walked off.
Like all personnel at this facility, military or civilian, he wasn’t allowed any personal communications gear. So in lieu of a cell phone, he’d get his messages through the base switchboard. He unfolded the note. Car’s at McCarran, like you asked. Your stuff’s in the trunk. I’ll be at the Bellagio for a couple of days, if you want to hang. Have a good one. Gary. “If you’ll excuse me, Rock. I’ve got to go,” he said as he rose from his chair.
“No problem, my friend, I’ll see you later.”
Kyle made his way to the civilian barracks to grab a quick shower and brush his teeth. A half hour later he was cleaned up and climbing into his Cessna. “Tell Baines I’ll be back on base by noon tomorrow,” he told a member of the ground crew as he was shutting the cabin door.
The flight to McCarran was uneventful. He was happy to see that the ground crew had repaired his fuel gauge. Twenty-five minutes after taking off from runway 30, he was taxying up to the Las Vegas Executive Air Terminal. He parked the plane and walked over to the terminal parking lot. There it was, his baby, a titanium silver Aston Martin DB9. He popped open the trunk and found his travel bag. It was packed with everything he’d asked. He shut the trunk, got into the driver’s seat and fired up the the DB9’s twelve cylinder engine. A moment later he was merging onto East Tropicana Ave, heading north toward his Fairway Apartment at the Wynn tower suites. The only five-star, five-diamond resort in Vegas.