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  In April of 1958, President Eisenhower secretly met with the leadership of the House, Senate, Department of Defense, the director of Central Intelligence, the secretary of state, attorney general, and Joint Chiefs of Staff. Eisenhower paid careful attention to the public outcry of fear of the Russians spying on the US and possible plans for an invasion. He declared his belief in the strategy of ‘maintaining the high ground’ and urged his staff, quietly and discreetly, to devise a long-term solution to the new set of problems the Ruskies presented. Ike gave them until the end of the year to come up with, and present, their best and most viable ideas.

  During the winter recess of 1958, President Eisenhower met with his team once again in the Oval Office to hear their plans and ideas for combating the progress of the Soviet Union. He sat behind his desk sipping coffee as he listened tentatively to the eager-to-please pitchmen. Some thought the best strategy was to invade Russia and dismantle it from the inside out. A few leaned towards the proposal of bombing Moscow with nuclear missiles. One actually suggested that the US and Soviet Union actually merge the governments to create the first multicontinental superpower. President Eisenhower was not impressed with his limited options. He rose to his feet looking sternly at the carpet and began pacing behind his desk. Eisenhower let out one long breath, parked himself in front of the windows, and began rubbing his chin and scratching his head just above the ear.

  “If this is all you’ve got and this is your absolute best, then gentlemen, we’re in for a heap of trouble,” he said gruffly.

  The president turned to face his think tank and stated, “Unacceptable!”

  The faces of the quiet collective sank with embarrassment and disappointment. As if having just received a terse scolding from their fathers, the men lowered their eyes in self-afflicted shame.

  “Mr. President?” Samuel Davis spoke up.

  Samuel, who served as President Eisenhower’s private driver during World War II, was now serving Ike as the White House assistant deputy director.

  “Sir: in ancient Greek mythology, Zeus ruled over all of the gods on Mount Olympus. He’s referred to as the ‘God of the Sky’ and the ‘God of Thunder.’”

  The other men stared at Samuel in disbelief for what he just said. They looked at the president then back at Samuel. The generals and other men of power gazed upon Samuel as if he had Spam on his head.

  “Go on,” said the president.

  “Well, Zeus displayed his judgement for all of Greece to see. He would roll out of the clouds and whoever he felt was in the wrong … zap!”

  Seated next to President Eisenhower was Secretary of Defense Neal McElroy.

  Without hesitation, the secretary stated “I’m assuming the ‘zap,’ as you like to call it, is our forward deployment of the SAC Detachment at Incirlik Air Base in Turkey?”

  “What does the detachment consist of?” asked Samuel.

  “SAC has more than forty B-47s and B-52s, both capable of delivering ten to twenty thousand pounds of conventional and nuclear bombs on seventy predetermined cities, military installations, utilities, and governmental offices, including the Kremlin.”

  “What else?”

  “SAC also has a squadron of U2s that are used in conjunction with the CIA to monitor the movement and telemetry of Soviet missiles and aircraft at Kasputin Yar and Tyuratam. Interceptors, fighters, tankers for midair refueling … we got everything to contain the Soviets.”

  “What are you driving at?” asked the president.

  Samuel quickly rose to his feet and walked a few paces to the corner of the desk. He briefly looked at the ceiling to gather his thoughts, then addressed his commander in chief.

  “Mr. President, Mr. Secretary, gentlemen. It’s wonderful that we have the means, the tools, the technological know-how to defend ourselves. SAC, the bomb, NORAD … the United States is the supreme world power in all aspects of military capabilities. But in my opinion, Mr. President, we will, as a country, be paranoid and forever looking over our shoulder for fear of not knowing what the enemy is doing and not knowing what they have developed.”

  “Every country feels that,” said the secretary.

  “Agreed. But when we dropped the bombs, everybody backed off. We can discuss military strategy against every other country all day long. And for every country, every simulated situation in naval combat, each hypothetical infantry interaction and struggle for establishment of air superiority, the process of engagement and ending the engagement will be different.”

  “You’re telling us what we already know!” Secretary of State John Foster Dulles said curtly.

  “No one challenged the US after we showed the world that we had the bomb,” Samuel proudly announced, “That was the single most important and constant threat that we had in our arsenal to keep everyone in check. Now the ally we relied on thirteen years ago has got a hold of the magic lamp and is toying with the idea of rereleasing the genie!”

  Allen Dulles, the director of Central Intelligence, shifted in his seat as he addressed Samuel, “That’s why we have all this. Tools like the U2 help us acquire information and tools of weaponry like the B-52 and the nuclear bomb help us maintain order throughout the world, not just with the Russians.”

  “What are we going to do when the Soviets sell a shipload of nuclear bombs to Korea?” Samuel inquired.

  “Well, I think that we’ve gotten…,” Neal McElroy attempted to redirect the conversation, but Samuel persisted.

  “Cuba? What about nukes ninety miles off the coast of Florida? Do we establish a military base in every country? Who’s gonna go and stand up to Germany again?”

  “Samuel,” the president said softly but firmly, “Why don’t you just tell us what you’ve got on your mind.”

  “Yes, sir. Well, a buddy of mine from VMI is a correspondent in Africa. In ‘43, he was a tank driver during Operation Husky with the Italian Campaign. He was right behind Patton when he marched on Sicily and rode into Messina with the Seventh Army. He and I were talking about Hiroshima, specifically about when he went there and photographed the damage. Jackson, my buddy, said the buildings simply exploded. Except for those structures made of reinforced concrete and furthest from ground zero, everything else was splintered and vaporized. Jackson is really interested in the pyramids and Middle Eastern culture and said that if Italy or Germany took control of Egypt and we bombed Cairo, the city would be obliterated but the pyramids wouldn’t move.”

  Ike and his inner circle couldn’t quite grasp the idea Samuel was trying to convey.

  “You want us to construct a pyramid?” asked Fred Seaton, Secretary of the Interior.

  “No, no, no. We don’t want a pyramid. We want something higher. We want … Olympus. Jackson said that had the Egyptians changed the rise and run ratio they used to construct the pyramids, they could have possibly gone as high as half a mile. As it is, the Egyptians didn’t even excavate to bedrock. If a bomb were dropped on Cairo, the shock wave would go up and over the pyramids; they wouldn’t explode or implode—they’re solid.”

  The room of once quiet and somber men suddenly sprang back to life. As Samuel elaborated on his scheme of a man-made Mt. Olympus, men were pulling out notepads and began creating rough sketches of their own versions of what the mountain might look like.

  The president opened a desk drawer and retrieved his own pad of paper.

  As he was sketching, he paused and said, “Neal? Allen?”

  The director of Central Intelligence and secretary of defense stopped talking to each other.

  Everybody stopped talking.

  “Yes, Mr. President?” the men replied.

  “You’re testing the Atlas ICBMs right now. Correct?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Neal McElroy firmly answered. “We anticipate the testing phase will be complete before the end of January with construction and deployment taking place no later than summer. Convair, General Dynamics, and Lockheed Martin have all assured us that deadlines will be met and performance re
quirements and expectations will be surpassed.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” said the president.

  He resumed his drawing and casually asked, “Allen, what’s the anticipated range of the Atlas?”

  “Maybe ninety-five hundred miles, Mr. President. But at least nine thousand for sure.”

  “Tell me…,” the president began, “given what you know about the Atlas, can it be, or for that matter, can any ICBM, be launched horizontally from a fortified structure, say … like a tower?”

  ***

  The Nevada desert, 2019.

  In 1964, the United States Department of Defense began storing blood specimens and recording the genetic code for all members of the armed forces, including the Coast Guard and National Guard. The nineteen-eighties and nineties were witness to a breakthrough in genetic cloning. The latter half of the twentieth century and first half of the twenty-first century saw a global, exponential increase in technology, warfare, disease, political unrest, scandal, fraud, terrorism, corporate bankruptcy, ethnic cleansing, fuel consumption, famine, and genocide. The bombing of the World Trade Center and Pentagon in 2001 ushered in a whole new era of heightened anxiety, mistrust, intolerance, media manipulation, finger pointing and bureaucratic, political correctness.

  Inside the Engenehem corporate headquarters, Dr. Cain Wyczthack III was presiding over an energetic press conference. He held his hands in front of his chest and with confident, yet elegant authority, spoke to the crowd of journalists, “Please, please, ladies and gentlemen … one at a time, one … at … a … time.”

  Cain stood behind the podium and slowly cast his ominous glare from one side of the room to the other. When the yelping finally subsided, he inspected the reporters’ faces and chose one individual to set the tone of the questions. The man was sheepish, pale, thin, almost gaunt, and unkempt. Cain raised his arm and pointed a bony finger directly at the prepubescent-looking man. With a dry crack in his voice, he said “Yes … you.”

  “What will the completion of the space elevator do for interplanetary travel?” the reporter asked.

  “For over fifty years, we have been working in close conjunction with the likes of NASA, McDonnell Douglas, Boeing, Microsoft, Intel … Texas Instruments, Tesla, SpaceX, Rockwell, Raytheon, Lockheed Martin … numerous corporations and friendly governments to develop deep space exploration and other projects of special interest.”

  “And by the way,” Cain continued after clearing his throat, “we at Engenechem have now renamed the elevator. I would like to introduce to you the new face of lunar and interplanetary space travel … the SUBOS. The world’s first Static, Umbilical-Based, Orbital Station.”

  Dr. Wyczthack stepped back and waved his arm behind him. Two of his assistants pulled back a black silk curtain to reveal a large glossy picture of the tower. A thunderous roar of applause filled the atrium.

  Cain silenced the reporters before continuing.

  “From here we will launch all future spacecraft, both domestic and foreign. Satellites. Storage vessels for waste material ejection into deep space. Because the SUBOS height reaches into the lower mesosphere, we’re at a gravitational pull that’s thirty-five percent less than that of the normal pull on the Earth’s surface. No longer will we need large external fuel tanks for launching purposes. No longer will we run the risk of exploding gases, burning up on reentry, falling debris and failing O-rings. All craft can now be safely built in the outermost reaches of our atmosphere. Prefabricated pieces of a rocket, or any other craft, can be elevated safely through the bowels of the SUBOS and gently launched into a close proximity orbital pattern to await construction on a docking port.”

  The brood of hungry information junkies hung on Cain’s every word and wrote feverishly in their notebooks, trying desperately to keep up with the outpouring of plans and ideas for the future.

  One blogger was typing away on his computer and, without so much as raising his hand, began to speak, “Deep space ejection? What will that entail?”

  Just as if he were using a teleprompter, Cain swiftly responded, “Spent nuclear fuel and other waste materials from power plants across the country, and, perhaps, around the world, will be sent to the receiving grounds at the SUBOS, loaded into the elevators, and ejected either into deep space or towards the sun, where they will burn up harmlessly.”

  “How many staff will it take to run this? Where’s the money coming from?” shouted a reporter.

  “The SUBOS will have the best and brightest from all over the world working on this project. We foresee the necessity to employ no less than twenty-five thousand military and civilian personnel to see to the security, performance, and progress of this great endeavor. I and the Enenechem Board of Directors will be the principal party responsible for overseeing those day-to-day operations with help, of course, from our nation’s military, specifically, the Navy, Air Force, and Marines. We also have the backing of some of the worlds most respected and secure companies, as well as many donations from the private sector. More important, ladies and gentlemen, is that we continue to lead and secure the interests, prosperity, and future of the finest nation on Earth. Thank you!”

  Cain stepped away from the podium as camera flashes illuminated the platform. Cheers, applause, and questions from reporters still echoed throughout the massive rotunda as he walked away from the stage with his entourage in tow.

  “Are they all here?” Cain asked his secretary as she joined him by his side.

  The tall and slender, impeccably dressed woman did not look at Cain when she handed him a black leather portfolio and firmly stated, “Yes, Mr. Wyczthack. All are present and waiting for you.”

  Cain and his army of secretaries, assistants, publicists, lawyers, and bodyguards, moved through the maze of hallways and meeting rooms like a bulldozer. The slow-moving stampede approached the corridor designated for governmental affairs. At the end of the corridor was Cain’s personal conference room. The gargantuan double doors were monitored by two men in black suits, one on either side of the doorway. The muscle bound gorillas stood and reached for the door handles as the entourage approached. Cain simply waved his index and middle finger on his right hand and the polished, mahogany doors parted.

  Cain was first to enter the austere and intimate auditorium, followed by Bianca Doyle, his very private and personal assistant. Bianca was tall, blonde, and exotic, a stickler for detail, and hated being late or deviating from one of her carefully crafted itineraries almost as much as Cain did.

  An uneasy hush fell upon the room as hundreds of foreign dignitaries, lobbyists, and bureaucratic officials stood and waited for Dr. Wyczthack to make his way to the elevated podium. However, Cain began his oratory as he slowly passed the attendees.

  “I’ve grown too tired of it all I must admit,” he groaned. “In two-thousand one, there were three thousand, four hundred and seventy-five homicides in the United States alone. Suicides reached almost two thousand that year. Drug-related deaths passed the thirteen-thousand mark in twenty-twelve. Terrorist-related deaths escalated from four thousand, two hundred twenty-nine to eleven thousand-plus last year alone.”

  He arrived at the base of the short staircase that led to the stage and podium. Cain took slow, exaggerated steps up the stairs. He rubbed his eyes with his right hand while motioning for everyone to be seated with his left, then tossed his binder on the first long banquet table with an abrupt slam.

  “Fuel shortages. Terrorism. Disease. Bankruptcy. Religious intolerance and ethnic cleansing. Genocides. Famine. Politics. It’s not working. I have grown weary of my existence on this planet.”

  He put on quite a show. Pacing back and forth, running his hands through his long grey hair, shaking his head; Dr. Wyczthack was a very good actor. Everyone at that meeting, as far as outward appearances were concerned, bought into the idea that the man truly meant what he was saying. He paused briefly to glance over his right shoulder in Bianca’s direction. She rose from her seat, turned to her right, stepped past
a stage curtain, and exited the meeting through a side door.

  Cain continued with his sermon.

  “I’ve summoned you … specifically … from all over the world … to help me with my plight. Our plight. My grandfather, the first Dr. Cain Wyczthack, was considered a brilliant man, but also a dangerous and delusional man. He had some amazing ideas … some revolutionary for his time. Others crazy for his time. Whether you label him genius or crazy, his plans were … .well, genius or crazy.”

  A moment later, Bianca returned with a man in a blue running suit who appeared to be in his early to mid-thirties. Bianca and the young man stood behind the stage curtain, out of eyesight, waiting for the right moment to step out into the light. She waited for that one perfect moment during Cain’s speech to reveal the identity and purpose of the man standing by her side.

  “I’d like to show you the two ideas that bring us here together today,” Dr. Wyczthack announced.

  Bianca and the man stepped out from behind the curtain and a bright spotlight immediately shone on their faces. Not one person spoke or applauded as Cain met them halfway and shook hands with the man. Bianca made an about-face and took her seat at the side of the stage.

  The two men held each other in their gaze as they brought themselves before the audience of several hundred people.

  Cain leaned towards the microphone and proudly stated “I want to introduce you to my grandfather’s first idea … his love … his pride and joy. Ladies and gentlemen, meet Evan Alpha One.”

  The mass of unimpressed visitors sat quietly and stared at Cain. He was still smiling when he asked “Evan, how old are you?”

  “I’m three years, five months, and two days old,” Evan replied.

  He stood there, innocent and unintimidated, watching the members of the audience gawk at him. They whispered to each other and pointed at Evan.

  Cain placed his hand on Evan’s shoulder and said, “Evan is but one of almost six hundred male clones generated from a single, cryogenicized blood specimen from nineteen eighty-six.”