The propulsion system and mass-to-energy convertor were transported to a classified underground testing facility in North Wales.
The site was an abandoned mine, closed in the early 1960s and later acquired by the Ministry of Defense. Deep inside the mountain, engineers had created a reinforced test chamber. It was sealed by a massive blast-proof door. There were no windows. No viewing ports. Only instrumentation, microphones, and multiple high-speed cameras relayed what happened inside.
The astronaut team was already on site. They worked under the supervision of Helmsley Flight engineers to install the propulsion system and convertor inside the chamber, securing them firmly to the rock floor.
A second thrust-vectoring system, designed by Helmsley, had been built for the underground trial. It was installed with precise alignment, and strain gauges were fitted on all axes to measure force, torque, and vibration.
Once everything was in place, the chamber's cameras and instrumentation were powered on and tested.
“All instruments working. Clear and seal the chamber,” the test director commanded.
The heavy door rolled shut and locked.
The control room lights dimmed.
“Initiating convertor startup.”
Warning lights turned red. After five tense minutes, they turned green.
“All nominal. Thrust nozzles set for forward vector.”
“Commence drive startup.”
Again, the sequence was slow and deliberate. Red lights blinked, then turned green.
“Minimum power output selected.”
The data feeds confirmed it.
“Strain gauges registering forward thrust.”
“Switching to reverse.”
“Strain gauges registering backward thrust.”
The sequence was repeated for all six directions—forward, backward, left, right, up, and down.
“Pitch, yaw, and roll vectoring confirmed. Stable.”
Power was gradually increased in stages. At 75% of the safe test limit, the system was still operating well within tolerance.
“Test complete. All systems functional. Powering down.”
The team powered off the systems and vented residual energy.
Once the chamber was safe, the astronaut team re-entered, disassembled the drive, and packed it into reinforced crates for delivery to Scotland. The second vectoring system was sent to a secure storage facility for future use.
The astronaut team returned to base. They would soon begin training in a Neutral Buoyancy Pool—an underwater facility designed to simulate zero gravity. There, they would rehearse the final assembly of the ship in conditions as close as possible to working in orbit.
When the astronauts completed their training, they were flown to the airfield in northern Scotland. Everything was ready. The final phase—assembly in space—was about to begin.
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A second platform for the elevator had been constructed and tested. Unlike the first, which handled transport, this one would remain in orbit permanently. It would serve as the assembly dock and loading station for the spacecraft. It had its own control system, and the ship would be docked to it during construction. Components would be lifted up on the first platform, then transferred to the assembly platform just below the edge of space.
And so began the transport and assembly phases.
With the first platform loaded and everything secured, the astronauts climbed aboard and tethered themselves to the frame.
“Enjoy the view, chaps.”
“Wow! What a view.”
As the elevator rose, the Earth fell away beneath them. When it reached orbit, they began work.
Working in zero gravity was another matter entirely. Nothing stayed where you left it—because there was no such thing as down. A screwdriver floated off the moment you released it. Everything drifted. Everything had to be tethered or magnetized. Their only dependable ally in space was the humble magnet.
Progress was slow and painstaking, but methodical. They adapted. They improvised.
Each evening, they descended and returned to Earth.
“Same again tomorrow, chaps.”
It took a full week to complete the assembly of the spacecraft.
The final component to be installed was a remote destruct device.
This was considered a necessary safety measure. The test flight would be unmanned—it was simply too risky. If the drive malfunctioned and the ship went rogue, it could enter a decaying orbit and re-enter the atmosphere, possibly with catastrophic consequences. The destruct device was a last resort, to prevent that.
**********************************
RAF Fylingdales
The test flight would be remotely conducted from RAF Fylingdales.
Perched 820 feet above sea level on Snod Hill in the North York Moors, Fylingdales had been a watchful sentinel since 1962. Originally part of the Ballistic Missile Early Warning System, the station's three iconic radomes once looked like enormous golf balls on the moorland. By 1992, they were replaced by squat pyramidal structures—functional but, to many, far less charming.
“Pyramids? Surely those belong in a desert.”
Visitors used to joke that the golf balls matched the Scottish landscape better—bristling with heather, grouse, and wind-sharpened sheep.
A team from the British Space Program in Swindon had arrived to observe the test.
The countdown began.
“Powering up mass-to-energy convertor.”
“Green light.”
“Undocking.”
“Undocked. Drive on. Minimum reverse thrust.”
“Moving away. One kilometer. Turning to starboard. Engaging forward thrust.”
“Increasing thrust.”
On the monitors, the ship moved cleanly and silently, a silver bullet gliding against the black.
“Looking good. All systems responding.”
“Attitude and direction tests complete. All systems go.”
A course for the Moon was programmed and engaged.
“Increasing velocity.”
“Velocity now 16,092 kilometers per hour.”
“Maintaining velocity.”
The ship was away.
“Nothing else for you to see until tomorrow,” one of the engineers told the visiting team. “You might as well head back to your hotel.”
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
But the team weren’t staying in a hotel.
They had taken rooms in a guest house overlooking the harbour in Whitby.
That evening, they wandered through the ancient port town, breathing in salt air and history. They climbed the famous 199 steps to the ruins of Whitby Abbey and the old graveyard, the headstones leaning at angles like frozen waves. They passed through the jawbone arch of a whale and gazed at the statue of Captain James Cook, who had first sailed from Whitby in 1747.
“Did you know this is where Dracula landed? In the form of a hound, no less.”
The scent of oak smoke curled from nearby sheds, where fish were being smoked to make kippers.
“I fancy a Whitby kipper for breakfast tomorrow.”
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They returned to RAF Fylingdales the following day.
Exactly 24 hours after the ship had launched, the flight controller announced:
“Passing the Moon. Commencing return maneuvers.”
The ship began to arc back toward Earth.
“Velocity 16,092 kilometers per hour, holding steady.”
Once again, the British Space Program observers were told:
“Nothing more to see until tomorrow. Might as well head back to your hotel.”
“Time for fish and chips in Whitby, chaps.”
While strolling around the harbour, admiring the boats and the gothic skyline, a rogue seagull made a direct hit on one of the team members.
There was a moment of shocked silence, then someone burst out laughing.
“Thank God elephants can’t fly,” said the unfortunate target, dabbing at his suit with a tissue.
The group dissolved into helpless laughter.
Back at Fylingdales the next morning, the ship was approaching Earth.
“Reducing thrust. Commencing deceleration.”
“Velocity decreasing.”
The seconds ticked by.
“On approach. Slowing.”
“Final approach—dead slow.”
Just over 48 hours after launch, the ship docked smoothly with the elevator’s orbital assembly platform.
“Welcome home, Saucerful. Powering off.”
A round of applause broke out in the control room.
********************************************
The Moon Drop Test
The following day, a second test commenced.
The elevator platform was loaded with jettison containers; each filled with iron ingots to simulate the weight of nuclear waste. The astronaut team joined the mission and rode the platform skyward. Once at orbit, they attached the containers to the ship’s external rack.
“All secure. Lock confirmed. Time for our return.”
The elevator descended, and preparations began for the test flight.
At Fylingdales, the control room was again fully manned.
The ship undocked and set course for the Moon.
“Beginning approach maneuver.”
“Jettison point in ten seconds.”
“Jettison now.”
“Commencing return.”
The containers—solid metal proxies—impacted with the far side of the Moon, carving out a noticeable impact crater.
Later that week, satellite images would identify the fresh scar on the lunar surface.
It was dubbed “Saucerful Crater.”
The ship completed its return leg and docked successfully.
“Mission accomplished.”
One of the RAF techs turned to the Swindon observers:
“Over to you. Your turn next time.”
The British Space Program team returned to Swindon, deeply impressed.
***************************************
Target: The Sun
There had been talk of moving the elevator and operations to Sellafield, closer to the UK’s main nuclear waste storage.
This was firmly rejected.
The Scottish airfield—an RAF base—was already secure, in a remote, sparsely populated area. Sellafield, on the other hand, was ringed by towns, villages, and crucial air routes. Establishing a no-fly zone there would disrupt flights to Dublin, Manchester, Newcastle, Liverpool, and transatlantic routes to Heathrow. Not worth the chaos.
Four days later, two heavily guarded trucks rolled out of Sellafield, flanked by armed police. Every road along their route was sealed off to civilian traffic.
Upon arrival at the airfield, their cargo was unloaded and transferred to jettison containers.
The containers were raised to orbit via the elevator and attached to the ship.
“We’re off to the Sun today.”
The ship launched, broke orbit, and began its long journey.
Three months later…
“On approach.”
“Jettison point in ten seconds.”
“Jettison now.”
“Commencing return.”
The containers, pulled inexorably by the Sun’s gravity, plunged into the heart of the star and were annihilated in a burst of atomic fire.
“Mission accomplished. Well done, chaps. Time for tea and biscuits, everyone.”
****************************************
World Reaction
Although rumours had been swirling, there had been no official confirmation—until the British Space Agency held a press conference at its Swindon headquarters the next day.
The story exploded onto the world stage.
It made front-page headlines in virtually every major newspaper across the globe.
“WASTE TO THE SUN: BRITAIN SOLVES NUCLEAR NIGHTMARE.”
“EARTH TO SPACE: THE FUTURE OF CLEAN-UP IS HERE.”
“THE BRITISH ARE BEAMING—AND SO IS THE PLANET.”
James Teesdale was over the moon—figuratively this time.
“It worked. I knew it would.”
He quietly decided that all his employees would receive generous Christmas bonuses this year.
The environmental community was jubilant.
One prominent green group issued a statement:
“A brilliant use of technology. The world must rid itself of this menace to life—both now and for future generations. There is no moral or fiscal justification for any nation with nuclear waste not to adopt this method. It’s not just about engineering; it’s about ethics. The funds must be made available now. The time has come. The world should celebrate.”
And for once, it did.
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Over the Atlantic, the news of Britain’s successful nuclear waste disposal mission was already making waves. One particular ripple reached the Secretary of Homeland Security, who had been watching the press conference from Swindon with growing interest—and not a little alarm.
He picked up the phone and started making calls.
Within hours, a thick folder landed on his desk. It contained the details of an old plan: to bore deep into the Rocky Mountains and construct a vast underground chamber to store America’s own stockpile of nuclear waste. The cost estimate was on the final page.
The Secretary stared at the figure. Then he whistled softly.
“Wow.”
Without hesitation, he called the White House.
“I need to see the President. As soon as possible.”
The return call came less than an hour later. The President would see him at 8 p.m.
That evening, the Secretary was ushered into the Oval Office. The President looked up from a pile of papers and gestured toward a seat.
“Good evening, Mr. Secretary. You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, Mr. President. There was a story on the news this morning—you may have caught it. The British have developed and successfully deployed a system for permanently disposing of nuclear waste. It involves launching the waste into space using a beam elevator. The waste is loaded onto an unmanned ship, flown toward the sun, jettisoned, and incinerated in solar plasma. The ship then slingshots around and returns for reuse.”
The President nodded. “I saw something about that—sounded almost too good to be true.”
“It isn’t. And here’s why we need to act.” The Secretary spoke clearly, confidently.
“We have over 80,000 tons of nuclear waste stored across various sites in the U.S. The security risks are significant. Terrorist groups—foreign or domestic—would love nothing more than to get their hands on even a small quantity. A dirty bomb made from just a handful of this material could shut down a major city.”
He placed a document on the President’s desk.
“Here’s the cost of the old proposal: a secure repository inside the Rocky Mountains.”
The President flipped through the figures, eyebrows rising.
“Holy cow. That would blow a crater in our budget.”
“Indeed, Mr. President. Now here’s the estimated cost of the British system.”
A second document was passed across. The President scanned it, blinked, and looked again.
“That’s a bargain.”
Sensing an opening, the Secretary leaned forward slightly.
“Yes, sir. It’s a matter of national security. And there are other advantages. The British system is disposal, not just storage. Once it’s gone, it’s gone—for good. No need to guard or maintain underground vaults for centuries.
“And there’s more. With this elevator system, our Space Force could launch payloads without relying on civilian contractors. No delays, no commercial entanglements. Just point, load, and lift. It would give us strategic independence in orbit. And we’d be working directly with the British Government, not chasing contracts through private intermediaries.”
The President sat back in thought, then asked:
“How many would we need to start with?”
“Two elevators and a dozen unmanned ships should suffice for Phase One.”
The President nodded slowly.
“Alright. I’ll get the ball rolling.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mr. Secretary. This could be one hell of a game-changer.”
The Secretary of Homeland Security left the White House a much-relieved man.
And somewhere in the bowels of Washington, a brand-new folder was opened, stamped with the words:
TOP PRIORITY – STRATEGIC INITIATIVE: SOLAR DISPOSAL PROGRAM.
Using a gravity assist from the Sun, the ship completed its return journey in just under six weeks. During its voyage, a new automated loading system had been developed. Now, robotic arms would transfer the containers of nuclear waste to the ship. The astronauts, while still on call, were no longer essential to daily operations.
The returning ship was fully inspected and declared in perfect working order. Software updates were uploaded and tested. The systems passed flawlessly. The ship was refuelled, reloaded with another cargo of nuclear waste, and once again departed—silent and unmanned—toward the Sun.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Back in Newcastle, James Teesdale was in his office when the phone rang.
It was Hugo Barrington.
“Can you come down to London tomorrow, James? There are some matters to discuss. Meet me in my office at Whitehall—10 o’clock.”
“Certainly, Minister. I’ll be there.”
James hung up, turned to his secretary and said:
“Clear my diary for tomorrow. I’ve got a meeting in London.”
The next morning, James arrived at Hugo’s Whitehall office promptly.
“Come in, James. Take a seat.”
James sat. Hugo, always one to skip pleasantries when the news was good, began immediately.
“Firstly—congratulations. That project of yours has stirred quite a buzz. Some official orders have come through. Today you’ll receive a formal order for five elevator units and thirty-five propulsion systems.”
James raised his eyebrows.
“That’s quite a jump.”
“It’ll jump again. More will be on the way, no doubt. Aerospace firms are already quoting for a couple of dozen ships. Helmsley Flight’s great for prototypes, but they’re not mass production material. We’ve cast the net wider.”
Hugo leaned back slightly, eyes twinkling.
“Secondly, we’re going for a little drive. Someone wants a word with you.”
James blinked.
“Who?”
“Number 10.”
James nearly choked on his breath.
“Heck,” he muttered. “What does the Prime Minister want with me?”
Soon after, they were being shown into the Prime Minister’s office at Downing Street.
The Prime Minister stood and extended a hand.
“Mr Teesdale. Good to see you again. Congratulations. You've achieved something remarkable.”
“Thank you, Prime Minister. I’m grateful for the support.”
The Prime Minister gave a modest smile.
“You’re here because His Majesty wishes to express his appreciation personally. Your name will appear in the New Year Honours List. You’re to be made a Member of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire.”
James froze.
“An MBE? Whatever for?”
“‘Services to the Environment’ seemed appropriate. Has a good ring to it, don’t you think?”
James nodded, still stunned.
“Yes. My deepest thanks.”
“There’s also an ex-gratia award. ￡2.5 million. Tax-free.”
For once in his life, James had absolutely nothing to say.
Outside Number 10, Hugo gave him a pat on the back.
“Come on. We’ll have lunch at the club. And do try not to faint. That wouldn’t do in Pall Mall.”
Over lunch, Hugo raised his glass.
“Told you we wouldn’t make the same mistake as with Frank Whittle. You're no footnote, James. You've made history.”
James returned to Newcastle that evening, still in shock. He said little on the train back.
“Best keep shtoom,” he thought, “don’t want to piss the palace off.”
The next morning, he went out and bought a brand new Jaguar—just like Hugo’s, but in blue.
Hugo was delighted.
“About time! A chap can’t turn up at the palace to collect an MBE in a rattly old diesel. You’d have set off every alarm in the royal garage.”
James did feel a flicker of guilt about the ex-gratia award. Not for long. He made generous donations to several local charities across Newcastle and Northumberland.
It felt right.
And in due course, James Teesdale was summoned to Buckingham Palace.
There, beneath the gilded ceilings and the stern gaze of past monarchs, His Royal Majesty the King pinned a medal to his chest and thanked him, in person, for services to the planet.
James was still wearing the same grin when he got back home.
