“Also, freedom from insects at destination without using spray.
“Also, same measurement to be made in apartment at destination without our man spending any time therein other than the momentary period in the region just inside the front door necessary to measure temperature and check absence of insects.
“I definitely want to leave no later than Tuesday,” added Hughes, quite confident now that he had scouted ahead for bugs and bad weather, “and prefer Monday in order to have a day of leeway in the event of some unforeseen circumstances.”
But the circumstances he had not foreseen always required more leeway than he had anticipated. And no wonder. The world outside seemed like one vast conspiracy aimed at preventing his getaway.
“Please give this message careful consideration, as I am on the verge of making a decision concerning our departure,” he wrote days later, ready to go but sensing real danger.
“It seems to me the most important issue is the event scheduled for Wednesday. There is going to be a huge anti-Vietnam affair next week, and if the far left crowd should get wind of the fact I am in transit on this trip at that particular time, they might attempt some kind of public demonstration to protest, due to my symbolic representation of the military-industrial complex, etc.
“It seems to me it would be highly desirable for us to arrive before this affair,” he continued, not at all eager to head smack into a mass of angry demonstrators.
“If we are en route, it could add to the problem should the press learn that I am on the way and where we are going. I can just visualize some bitter publicity by the leftist factions pointing to our destination and suggesting that it is a pleasure trip—which it is not, but I am sure they would use that approach.
“So I want you to please weigh carefully advantages of an earlier arrival,” he concluded, analyzing the calendar like an astrologer looking for the propitious day, “and balance that against the disadvantages of the Friday night departure versus the Sunday night departure, and give me your opinion based on all these conflicting considerations as to which is the better choice, and please describe carefully the various factors which lead you to make such decision.”
When the report came, however, Hughes was not at all happy with the chosen day.
“Have you taken into account the fact that Sunday night is a time when the news gathering people come back to work after the weekend and start searching about for something to fill the Monday newspapers?” he inquired, alert to all hidden dangers.
“I admit the hotel is more crowded over the weekend. However, it is not the public or the crowds who pose a problem for us, it is the press, the columnists, newscasters, publicity men and related people who would be the threat to maintenance of this trip in an unnoticed state.
“One thing is certain, I do not want a situation where the press is going to learn I am en route and descend on the train en masse at the end of the trip and insist on seeing me. This could develop to a point where they might demand to see me and really press the issue.”
Trapped in his penthouse, trying to summon up the courage to make his daring getaway, Hughes could only picture himself trapped in his private railroad car, surrounded by swarming insects, angry antiwar demonstrators and hordes of reporters ready to expose him to the entire hostile world.
And it was hostile. He could see that even from his blacked-out bedroom, watching warily through his TV screen.
“Every news broadcast seems to suggest increasing fear over the risk of prominent Americans being molested while travelling,” he noted with alarm.
“Today, for the first time, reference was made to the potential kidnapping and execution of tourists as well as diplomats.
“I know the easiest thing for you to do is to say to me, ‘Well, lets play it safe and forget the trip.’
“But this is not what I want,” added Hughes, although he made no move to go.
“What I want is the very most careful and dilligent all-out effort to advise me of the extent of the risk and what can be done about it, and all this without discussing it with anyone whomsoever, and I mean this in the very strongest terms.
“The surest way to encourage somebody to dream up some wierd plot like this would be for even the slightest trace of a hint to leak out, suggesting that we have been talking about this or that I might be concerned.”
Hughes was, of course, concerned. Yet even as he sat naked on his unmade bed compiling a catalog of the dangers outside his closed world, he continued just as feverishly to plan his escape from the dangers within.
By now he had a vast array of getaway vehicles on stand-by. Chartered jet planes under special guard at remote airfields. Private railroad cars pulling in to obscure junctions. Yachts being appraised at distant ports. Mobile homes being outfitted for cross-country travel. Whole fleets of unmarked cars and limousines and customized vans waiting for his “go” signal.
Train schedules and flight-condition reports, weather reports and road maps littered his bedroom.
And his loyal Mormons stood on alert, packed to go ever since Hughes first decided to make his escape.
But the billionaire would not, could not budge.
August 1970. Howard Hughes lay sprawled on his bed watching the eleven-o’clock news when the utter and complete desperation of his sorry situation suddenly crystallized on the TV screen. Hit him as it never had before.
Almost a year had passed since Hughes first planned his big getaway, month after month of frantic stop-and-go preparations, but at last he was actually ready to escape Nevada and set off for paradise—Paradise Island, in the Bahamas.
Not one, but two entire floors in two different hotels were reserved, sealed, under guard, and awaiting his arrival. Hughes was, in fact, about to close a deal to buy the whole enchanted island.
But now, late on the evening of Friday, August 7, right there on his television, came the shocking news. Nerve gas! Sixty-six tons of lethal nerve gas, one-ninth of the Pentagon’s entire poisonous stockpile, 12,500 decomposing old M-55 rockets encased in concrete “coffins,” all being loaded onto trains at army depots in Kentucky and Alabama, hoisted by derricks into open freight cars guarded by soldiers wearing gas masks, trains headed for U.S. Navy ships in North Carolina, ships that would carry the thousands of leaking canisters south and dump the entire deadly cargo into the Atlantic Ocean, sink it all right off the coast of the Bahamas—just 150 miles from Paradise Island.
Hughes watched the incredible spectacle in stunned horror. What he saw was beyond his worst paranoid vision.
Tons of GB and VX gas—the same gas that had killed the sheep!—gas so lethal that a few pounds could kill thousands in minutes, gas so deadly that one-ten-thousandth of an ounce could destroy the central nervous system, simply dissolve the enzymes that transmit nerve impulses, leave a man twitching horribly and choking for air until he just stopped breathing and died, all that gas was right now headed straight for his secret safe haven.
The one place fit for his exile was about to be irrevocably poisoned by another invisible plague. A plague fully as terrifying as atomic radiation, indeed somehow even more insidious, more threatening to a man obsessed with the purity of fluids.
Hughes grabbed his bedside legal pad and scrawled an urgent allpoints bulletin to all his key aides and executives.
“Bob—
“Chester—