Washington in July, Duke Hauser stood in the West Wing of the White House at nine-fifteen in the morning. The air conditioning inside was strong.
Duke was wearing his best dark suit.
The Hacksaw Ridge team had assembled in a holding area outside the Oval Office, Duke, Gary Kurtz, Stanley Jaffe and several key crew members, and the film's star, Robert De Niro.
De Niro was the problem.
Not on screen, on screen, De Niro had delivered a performance that it had left Duke on shock, which was something that almost never happened.
His portrayal of Desmond Doss, the conscientious objector who saved seventy-five men at Hacksaw Ridge without firing a single shot was a masterclass, the kind of performance that reminded you why cinema even existed.
Off screen, in this particular building, on this particular morning, Robert De Niro was a grenade with the pin halfway out.
He stood apart from the group, arms crossed, jaw set, eyes moving across the portraits of former presidents. De Niro was twenty-seven years old, a product of Greenwich Village and the Stella Adler Conservatory, and a staunchly anti-war man.
Duke had known this would be a problem.
He'd discussed it with Kurtz on the flight from Los Angeles, and they'd agreed on a strategy, keep De Niro engaged, keep him moving, and under no circumstances allow him to be alone with a microphone, a reporter, or the President of the United States for longer than was required for the photo opportunity.
"Bobby," Duke said, approaching with the casual, unhurried stride he used when he was doing something extremely deliberate. "You doing alright?"
De Niro looked at him. "I'm standing in the house of a man who's bombing Cambodia," De Niro said, his voice low and tight. "How do you think I'm doing?"
"I think you're doing exactly what I asked you to do, which is showing up to support the film and the men it honors. That's what today is about. Not politics. Not Vietnam. The men of Hacksaw Ridge."
"Everything's politics, Duke."
"I know. But today, for ninety minutes, it's not. Today it's about a man who refused to carry a weapon and saved seventy-five lives. That story belongs to everyone, left, right, center, doesn't matter. The President of the United States wants to shake your hand for it. You can hate the man's policies tomorrow. Today, you smile, you shake his hand, and you honor Desmond Doss."
De Niro held Duke's gaze for a long moment.
"Ninety minutes," De Niro said.
"Ninety minutes."
"And if he says something about the war-"
"He won't. He's been briefed. This is a photo op about American heroism, not a policy discussion. He wants the positive press as much as we do."
De Niro uncrossed his arms, but didn't relax.
"Fine. Ninety minutes. But I'm not smiling."
"Nobody's asking you to smile, Bobby. Just don't glare."
"I'll do my best."
The Oval Office was smaller than most people expected. Television made it look ennormeous in person, it was an intimate room, almost cozy, with the curved walls and the heavy drapes.
Richard Milhous Nixon stood behind the desk, waiting.
He was not a handsome man. His features were heavy, slightly asymmetrical.
"Gentlemen!" Nixon came around the desk with his hand extended, and the handshakes began, the producer, the director Duke, the crew members, each one receiving the same firm grip and the same fixed smile and the same "Wonderful to meet you, wonderful work, wonderful for the country."
When he reached De Niro, Duke moved.
It wasn't obvious. Nothing Duke Hauser did in a room full of cameras and Secret Service agents was obvious. But he shifted his position, a half-step to the left, a slight turn of the shoulders, so that his six-foot-five frame was between De Niro's face and the nearest press camera.
The photographers could still see the handshake. They could see Nixon's practiced smile and the back of De Niro's head. What they could not see was De Niro's expression, which, Duke knew without looking, was probably not nice.
"Mr. De Niro," Nixon said. "Extraordinary performance. Truly extraordinary. The film captures something important about the American characte, the courage to stand by your beliefs, even when the whole world is against you."
De Niro shook the hand. "Thank you, Mr. President." He said the minimum.
"This is the kind of story Hollywood should be telling," Nixon continued, his voice carrying for the benefit of the press pool. "Stories about American heroism. American sacrifice. American values. Not the filth and the radicalism that some in the industry seem to prefer."
Duke could feel De Niro stiffen beside him. He put his hand on De Niro's shoulder as a reminder to calm down.
Duke noticed that Nixon threw a small glance at him when speaking about the filth and radicalism in the industry.
'Maybe he didnt like Midnight Cowboy?' He though.
"We're very proud of the film, Mr. President," Duke said, stepping smoothly into the conversational space that De Niro had vacated. "Desmond Doss's story is one that transcends politics. A man who stood for something bigger than himself. I think that's a message every American can get behind."
Nixon turned his attention to Duke, and nodded.
"You're Valentine's boy," Nixon said. "The one who's been shaking up Hollywood."
"Hauser, sir. Duke Hauser. And I wouldn't say shaking up. I'd say modernizing."
"Same thing, in my experience." Nixon's smile thinned slightly, still a smile, but with an edge. "I've been told you're quite the innovator. Not just in films. Electronics, too?"
"We're making some investments in consumer technology, yes sir. We believe the next great American industry is going to be built on the intersection of entertainment and electronics. And we want to make sure that industry is built here in America. By Americans."
The words landed exactly where Duke intended them to land. He could see Nixon's internal machinery engage, the gears of national interest, competitive advantage, Cold War anxiety, all turning in response to the magic phrase, 'By Americans'.
"I've heard there's been some... difficulty with the regulators," Nixon said, dropping his voice. The press people were still in the room, but Nixon had positioned himself so that this exchange was partially shielded by the desk. "The FTC."
"A preliminary inquiry, sir. Nothing more. We're cooperating fully. But I'll be honest with you, it's frustrating. We're building something new. Something that's never existed before."
"A whole industry, born from American innovation, employing American workers, generating American exports. And instead of encouraging that, certain people in the bureaucracy seem determined to slow it down."
Nixon's jaw tightened. This was a man who despised bureaucracies with a passion. He had spent his entire political career railing against the "permanent government", the entrenched, unelected functionaries who, in Nixon's view, existed solely to obstruct the will of the people and the policies of the President.
"American innovation shouldn't be punished," Nixon said, and there was genuine conviction in his voice. "We're in a race with the Japanese, the Germans, the whole world. And the last thing we need is our own government tying weights around the ankles of the people who are winning that race."
"I couldn't agree more, Mr. President."
Nixon held Duke's gaze for a beat longer than protocol required.
"Keep doing what you're doing, Hauser," Nixon said. "The country needs men like you."
"Thank you, sir. That means a great deal."
They shook hands. The cameras flashed. The press pool was ushered out. And Duke Hauser walked out of the Oval Office.
He found De Niro in the hallway, leaning against a wall.
"Ninety minutes," De Niro said.
"Forty-seven minutes, actually. You're a free man."
"I need a shower. And a drink. Possibly at the same time."
"I'll buy you both."
De Niro almost smiled. Almost. "You're not terrible."
---
The hotel suite was on the eighth floor of the Mayflower, overlooking Connecticut Avenue.
It was the kind of suite that Washington hotels kept for guests who required privacy, discretion, and a telephone line that didn't go through the front desk.
Duke sat in the armchair by the window, his jacket off, his tie loosened, a glass of ice water in his hand.
He picked up the phone and dialed the secure line to Connecticut.
Archie Goodwin answered on the second ring, which meant he'd been waiting by the phone, which meant he had news.
"Talk to me, Archie."
"Three things. All good. One of them is very good."
"Start with the one that's very good."
"Nolan wanted to let you know that the open patent pool is working."
Duke closed his eyes and let that sentence settle into his bones.
Millions of dollars of legal strategy, weeks of negotiation, a carefully orchestrated transformation of Atari from monopolist to standard-setter, all of it distilled into six words.
"How is it working?" he asked.
"Better than we projected. Amutronics was the first to sign, they came in within forty-eight hours of the announcement, which tells you how scared they were of the litigation. They also won't sell Pong clones anymore."
"Since then, we've had twenty-three additional manufacturers apply for licenses. Twenty-three, Duke. Small shops, medium shops, a couple of companies I've never heard of. They're paying the five percent royalty, they're agreeing to the quality standards, and they're building cabinets."
"Any holdouts?"
"A few. Some of the very small operators are still producing bootleg boards, but the economics don't favor them anymore. When you can get a legitimate license for five percent and access to our technical specifications, the cost of going rogue, the risk of litigation, the lack of warranty support, the reputational hit doesn't make sense. The bootleggers are migrating to the pool voluntarily, without us having to lift a finger."
"And the revenue?"
"Royalty income for the first thirty days is tracking at approximately Four hundred thousand dollars. That's from domestic licensees alone. When the international program goes live, and Lloyd Rich says the Japanese filings are on track, that number will probably multiply."
Duke opened his eyes. Four hundred thousand dollars in thirty days. Not from building machines. Not from placing cabinets. Not from collecting quarters. From pure, passive, intellectual-property income.
Own the gate. Charge the toll. Let the traffic flow.
"Second thing," Goodwin said. "The X-Men."
Duke's attention sharpened. "What about them?"
"The teasers are generating feedback that I've never seen before. We ran preview pages in PULSE Weekly last month, just three pages, a cold open featuring the new team. Storm summoning lightning. Colossus transforming. Nightcrawler teleporting. And Wolverine."
"What about Wolverine?"
"Duke, the fan mail for Wolverine is unlike anything in our history. We've received over six thousand letters specifically about that character in the last four weeks. Six thousand."
"For a character who's appeared in exactly three pages of preview material. The readers are obsessed. They want to know his backstory and want to know about the claws."
Duke thought about Chris Claremont, twenty-one years old, sitting in a corner office in Connecticut with his too-big suit and his trembling hands, pitching a vision of mutants as outcasts.
The kid had delivered.
"Third thing," Goodwin said. "And this is more of a question than a report. PULSE Weekly is at one point one million copies. We're the second-biggest comic publication in the country. We have a readership that is passionate, engaged, and growing. I think we're big enough to start building our own community infrastructure."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning a convention. A PULSE Convention. An annual event where the fans come together, meet the creators, see previews of upcoming books, buy exclusive merchandise. Not a booth at someone else's convention, our own event."
"And alongside it, a formal fan club. With membership cards, newsletters, early access to new issues, behind-the-scenes content. We bypass the hobbyist magazines and the third-party fan organizations and build a direct relationship with our readers."
"A direct pipeline," Duke said.
"Yes, with no middlemen."
"Do it," Duke said. "Start planning the convention after next year when we have liquid capital."
"I'll put it on the list."
---
It was past eleven when Stanley Jaffe knocked on the hotel suite door.
Duke opened it and found his CFO, Jaffe's tie was loosened and his leather portfolio was bulging with documents that had the particular density of high-tech market analysis.
"Come in. Drink?"
"Water. I've been staring at company valuations for six hours and I think alcohol might cause a system failure."
They settled into the sitting area. Jaffe opened his portfolio and spread a series of documents across the coffee table with the methodical care of a man who believed that presentation was a form of argument.
"You asked me to look into Intel," Jaffe said. "The cost of an outright acquisition."
"I did."
"I have an answer. You're not going to like it."
"I rarely like answers that require a preamble. Go ahead."
"Intel Corporation. Founded 1968. Headquartered in Mountain View, California. Primary business, integrated memory circuits, specifically, semiconductor memory chips that are replacing magnetic core memory in mainframe computers. Current revenue approximately twenty-seven million dollars, growing at roughly forty percent year-over-year."
"And?"
"They're about to launch something called the 8008 microprocessor. I won't pretend to understand exactly what it does, Bushnell tried to explain it to me over the phone, and I think he was speaking in a different language, but the short version is it's a tiny computer on a single chip."
"It will."
"You seem very confident about that."
"I am. What's the number?"
Jaffe took a breath. "Based on current market capitalization, projected growth, and the premium you'd need to pay to convince the founders, Gordon Moore and Robert Noyce to sell, an outright acquisition of Intel Corporation would cost approximately sixty to seventy million dollars."
The number hung in the hotel suite.
Sixty million dollars.
The Ajax Group's total liquidity, including the Shaft revenue, the Atari cash flow, the Sweetback distributions, and the projected income from the patent pool, was substantial.
But sixty million represented a commitment so large it would consume the majority of their available capital, leaving almost nothing for the Godfather production, the Atari expansion, the DC revival, the Ampex play, and a dozen other initiatives that were already in motion.
And Intel, in 1971, was still viewed by the broader financial community as a niche manufacturer of components that most people didn't know existed. Semiconductor memory was a specialized market.
The microprocessor, the thing that would ultimately transform Intel from a successful chip company into one of the most powerful corporations on Earth, hadn't even shipped yet.
The world didn't know what a microprocessor was. The world didn't know it needed a microprocessor.
Duke knew. But knowing wasn't the same as affording.
"Sixty million," Duke said.
"Sixty million. Plus or minus ten, depending on negotiations."
"And if I wait?"
"If you wait, the price goes up. Significantly. If the 8008 performs the way Bushnell thinks it will, Intel's valuation will at least double within two years. Maybe even tripled."
"So I'm either too early or too expensive."
"That's the paradox. You can see the opportunity, but the cost of seizing it would cripple everything else we're building. You'd be buying the future at the expense of the present."
Duke stood and walked to the window.
"Nevermind," Duke said. He turned from the window. "We can't buy it yet. So let's buy the memory."
Jaffe said to confirm. "Ampex."
"Ampex."
A smile spread across Jaffe's face. He reached into his portfolio and pulled out a second set of documents, thinner than the Intel packet but organized with the same meticulous care.
"I was hoping you'd say that," Jaffe said. "Because I've been working on this."
He laid the Ampex documents on the coffee table. Financial statements. Patent filings. Market analyses. Board of directors bios.
A timeline of the company's strategic missteps dating back to 1965.
"Ampex Corporation," Jaffe said. "Current market cap approximately twenty-five million, but trending downward. Revenue is declining. The diversification into data storage was premature and expensive. Management is... let's call it 'suboptimal.' The board is divided between factions that want to sell and factions that want to restructure."
"And the patents?"
"The patents are extraordinary." Jaffe pulled out a document that was thicker than the others, a summary of Ampex's intellectual property portfolio, compiled by Lloyd Rich's firm. "Magnetic tape recording, audio and video. Helical-scan technology. High-density recording formats. Every tape recorder, every video recording device, every data storage system that uses magnetic tape, all of it traces back to work that was either done at Ampex or derived from Ampex research."
"And the VCR?"
"Whoever builds the first successful consumer VCR, and someone will build it, they'll need to license Ampex's patents to do it."
Duke sat back down. He picked up the Ampex financial statement and studied it, the company's tangible assets, factories, equipment, inventory, had been written down to fire-sale levels. The intangible assets, the patents, the brand, the institutional knowledge were barely reflected in the market cap.
"This is a distressed asset," Duke said.
"This is a perfect distressed asset. The stock price reflects the operational failures, not the strategic value. The patents alone are worth more than the current market cap."
"And the manufacturing infrastructure, the tape production facilities, the recording-head fabrication plants, that's real, physical capacity that we can repurpose."
"Repurpose for what?"
"For everything. Tape for the VCR. Tape for data storage."
Duke set down the financial statement and looked at Jaffe. "What's the acquisition cost?"
"Depending on the approach, tender offer to the board, hostile bid to the shareholders, or a negotiated merger, we're looking at twenty-five to thirty-five million. A fraction of the Intel number."
"And unlike Intel, Ampex has physical assets and revenue-generating operations that we can optimize immediately. The turnaround playbook is straightforward, cut the failing consumer division, double down on the patent licensing program, and redirect the R&D toward the consumer video device that we know is coming."
"How soon can we move?"
"After the refinancing. After French Connection opens and the bank sees our Q3 numbers. That gives us the capital and the credibility. Let's target a January 1972 approach to the Ampex board."
Duke nodded.
"Stanley, I want a full acquisition plan on my desk by the end of the month. Structure, financing, timeline, integration strategy. Assume a thirty-million-dollar purchase price. Assume we fund it from operating cash flow plus a modest credit facility."
"I'll have it done."
___
I been having a horrible week, but im still posting so... give power stones