by Larry Bond
Ray said, “Tell Sandy thank you.”
“It’s not Sandy. I’m calling Sue Langston in the graphics shop. Your illustrations suck!”
Rayburn House Office Building
Washington, D.C.
September 28, 2017
Congressman Tom Rutledge watched images slide across the flat screen as his aide briefed him. “There are—or were—twenty-six satellites, with twenty-four active and two in reserve. The new Block III birds cost 543 million dollars each. The older ones in orbit were less capable and less expensive, but to replace the ones that have been lost, that’s the price tag. Lockheed Martin is the prime contractor for the satellites. The air force runs the GPS system out of Schriever Air Force Base in Colorado.”
Anticipating the congressman’s question, the aide added, “Lock Mart has an office in Papillon with about eleven thousand jobs. It’s not involved in the GPS program. Offutt Air Force Base is not involved in the program.”
“And neither of those are even in my district,” Rutledge remarked, half-complaining.
“Space-related industry in Nebraska accounts for less than two percent of the state’s economy, sir.”
“Which is why I spend so much time looking at hogs and harvesters,” Rutledge groused. “Put the brief on my tablet, Tim. I’ll go over it later.”
“I’ll give it to everybody,” Tim Stevens replied, broadly hinting.
Heads nodded around the room. All Rutledge’s senior staff had assembled in his congressional office “to sound out this GPS business.”
“Doesn’t sound like we should be all that concerned,” Ben Davis observed. Davis was Rutledge’s chief of staff and had been with the congressman since his days in Kearney. Stevens, the senior legislative assistant, had joined the congressman’s staff when Rutledge was first elected to the 3rd district seat, six years ago, and the two didn’t always get along.
“Tim, what’s going to be the effect on the streets of Kearney?” That was Rutledge’s favorite phrase, and everyone had learned to be ready for it, as well as not to wince.
“Economically, very little. Civilian GPS won’t be affected that much because they don’t need the same precision as the military does. Planes need a fix in three dimensions, but plain folks usually only care about two, and they aren’t using smart bombs that have to hit within a meter of the aim point. And a lot of civilian GPS sets can now use the Galileo system as well, the constellation the Europeans put up. It’s more accurate than ours, actually.”
“There’s a European GPS?” Rutledge was surprised. “Well, can’t the military just switch to the Galileo satellites?”
Stevens shook his head. “They’d need to modify the receivers in each weapon, and it uses a different antenna.”
“Can we buy some smart bombs from the Europeans, then?”
“Sorry, Congressman, you have to modify the aircraft’s GPS receiver as well. It’s not a quick fix, and it wouldn’t be cheap.
“Besides the U.S. system, which is actually called NAVSTAR, and Galileo in Europe, there’s the Russian GLONASS and Chinese Beidou constellations”—
Davis cut in. “Tom, the biggest effect will be perception. The folks back home won’t like China shooting down U.S. satellites, but they already have China pegged as a bad actor. They’ll throw it in the same hopper as the hacking attacks and currency manipulation. With no bodies, and no personal impact, Joe Citizen will expect the government to do something, but he doesn’t want to go to war over it.”
“The last polls in your district showed that public support for the U.S. defending Vietnam was lukewarm, no more than forty-eight percent. In some spots it was as low as thirty-seven percent. If China invades Vietnam, that man on the street in Kearney is going to say, ‘That’s too bad,’ and then see if his latest Idol contestant was voted off the show.”
Rutledge said, “This all makes sense, but set up a new poll on attitudes about space and China. Make it statewide.”
While Davis took notes, Stevens, twenty years Davis’s junior, pressed his point. “Congressman, if GPS goes away, the U.S. military becomes less powerful, maybe a lot less. A lot of our influence overseas is based on that power. We could find ourselves dealing with crises around the world.”
Rutledge straightened up in his chair and said, “You’re absolutely right, Tim, which is why I want Bill to write a series of speeches condemning administration inaction on this latest Chinese outrage.” Bill Hamilton, Rutledge’s “communications director,” nodded and made his own notes.
“Hit on the administration’s lack of foresight,” Rutledge directed. “And also how they’re soft on China. Rather have China’s trade dollars than stand firm against their human rights abuses, that type of thing. Be sure to get some solid numbers in there.”
Rutledge had a reputation for lacing his speeches with figures, and he’d rarely been challenged. If you picked the right topic, you could find the numbers that made you sound like an authority. You didn’t have to stretch the truth.
“There’s no sense wasting a perfectly good crisis,” Rutledge continued. “This is a national issue, which is just what I want to be dealing with, and since it doesn’t affect Nebraska, I’ve got some flexibility in my message.” He smiled in anticipation.
Davis matched his smile. Rutledge had been aiming for a VP seat, or at least a cabinet post, after the 2016 elections, but he didn’t have the name recognition. The congressman had dedicated himself to making sure that would not be a problem in three years.
Naval Air Weapons Station China Lake
China Lake, CA
September 29, 2017
Tom Wilcox worked in the test and evaluation shop at China Lake. The entire base’s mission was to evaluate new weapons systems for the navy, but his shop was the one that did the dirty work. He spent a lot of time in the desert and would be out there at dawn, half an hour from now.
Wilcox looked like someone who’d spent a lot of time in the desert. Lean, tanned, his face showed a lot of wear, although he joked that was just from dealing with the paperwork. He’d been in his current job for twenty-five years and insisted he was good for that many more.
This morning, he had to inspect the foundations for a new test stand. Before too long, they’d be mounting rocket motors on it, and he didn’t want a motor with the stand still attached careening across the landscape.
First, though, he always checked his e-mail. Working on his danish and placing his coffee carefully out of the way, he said, “New messages.”
The computer displayed them on his wall screen, a mix of personal and professional subjects listed according to his personal priority system. The higher the rank of the sender, the less urgent the message had to be. Anything from an admiral went straight to the bottom of the pile.
He noted one unusual item. Ray McConnell had sent a message with a medium-sized attachment. He’d known Ray for quite a while as a colleague, but he hadn’t seen him since Wilcox had been to SPAWAR for a conference last spring, about six months ago. They’d exchanged some notes since then.
Wilcox noted that it had a long list of other addressees, and it had been sent out at four this morning. He recognized a few of the addressees. They were all at official DoD installations.
The cover letter was brief: “I think you’ll know what to do with this. It’s completely unclassified, but please only show it to people inside the security system. Thanks.”
Well, that was mysterious enough to be worth a few minutes. He downloaded the attached file, waited for the virus and security checks to finish, then had a look.
It was a hundred-page document. The cover page had a gorgeous image of a wedge-shaped airfoil rendered in 3D. It had to be a spacecraft, and the title above it read, “Defender.”
Wilcox’s first reaction was one of surprise and disappointment. He almost groaned. Engineers in the defense community receive a constant stream of crackpot designs from wannabe inventors. The unofficial ones were ignored or returned with a polite letter
. The official ones that came though a congressman or some other patron could be a real pain in the ass. Why was Ray passing this on to him?
Then he saw the name on the front. Ray was listed as the lead designer! What is this? It’s not an official navy project. McConnell must have put some real time into this, and he’s no flake, thought Wilcox. Or at least, not until now.
He opened the cover and glanced at the introduction. “We are completely unprepared for the Chinese attack on our satellites. Even if the source of the attacks is found and destroyed, the technology now has been demonstrated. Others, hostile to U.S. interests, will follow the Chinese example.
“Defender is a vehicle designed to protect spacecraft in orbit from attack. It uses proven technology. Please consider this concept as an option to protect our vital space assets.”
Below that was a long list of names, presumably people who either endorsed the idea or who had helped him with the design, probably the latter. Wilcox scanned the list. He didn’t recognize any of the names, and there were none with a rank attached.
He skimmed the document, watching the clock but increasingly absorbed in the design. Ray had done his homework, although his haste was obvious. At least the art was good. Diagrams were important for the higher-ups. They had problems with numbers and large words.
The phone rang, and Wilcox picked it up. “We need you in five,” his assistant reminded him.
“I’ll be there,” Wilcox replied, and hung up.
He sat for another ten seconds, thinking and staring at the screen. All right, Ray’s got a hot idea and he wants to share it. In fact, Wilcox realized, he wants me to share it, to send it up the line. He’s trying to jumpstart the design process.
Wilcox knew, as did anyone else who worked for the DoD, that it took years of effort just to produce an approved requirement for such a design, and only then did the acquisition process get started. It was supposed to be a carefully crafted document that took into account the needs of the military services as described by law, future enemy capabilities, U.S. manufacturing capabilities (current and future), etc., etc. But sometimes the U.S. didn’t have time for such a deliberate and agonizingly slow process.
Wilcox quickly skimmed the file. It was all there. Wilcox saw several pages he’d want to study later in depth, but it looked reasonable. The United States had no way of protecting its satellites. This could do the job.
Taking the few minutes needed, he found ten names in his address book. Most were senior engineers, like him, but a few were military officers of senior rank. Let’s see if they’re still capable of recognizing an original idea when they see it, thought Wilcox.
* * *
That morning, Ray had sent his document out to thirty friends and colleagues. All had clearances, and all worked in some area of defense. By lunchtime, eight hours after its transmission, over a hundred and fifty copies existed. By the close of business, it was over five hundred and growing.
Air Force Rapid Capabilities Office
The Pentagon
Arlington, VA
September 29, 2017
Captain “Biff” Barnes was more than ready to leave for the day. His skills as a pilot were supposed to be essential for this project, but he spent most of each day wrestling with the Pentagon bureaucracy.
Biff’s given name was Clarence, after his grandfather, but he’d acquired the nickname, any nickname, as quickly as he could. He hated Clarence. Barnes was only five foot eight, but average for a pilot. He kept in very good shape, counting the months and weeks until his desk tour was finished. His thin, almost angular face showed how little fat he carried. His hair was cut as short as regulations would allow. The air force didn’t like bald pilots, but he’d have shaved his head if he could.
He understood the work he’d been assigned to do was important but, for him, doing anything other than flying was a comedown. Biff loved being active, always moving, but nothing provided a more satisfying rush than fighting, or at least matching his skills against an opponent in the air. Sports had been an outlet when he was younger, soccer and karate when he was small, then baseball and football in high school. He’d never been a star, but he’d lived to get out on the field, whatever the game was. A wise uncle had taught him chess, another type of conflict, but it lacked the kinetic element Biff needed.
And if you wanted to move, nothing beat a jet aircraft on afterburner. Biff had worked like a madman at the academy, and he’d made the cut. He’d flown F-22s before being assigned to the Pentagon, and he’d been promised an ops-officer billet in an F-22 squadron once this tour was complete.
His Pentagon job was interesting, when he got to actually do it. Assigned to the Air Force Rapid Capabilities Office, he helped design the payloads that were carried into space by the X-37B space plane. The “X” was supposed to mean it was an experimental vehicle, designed to test new aviation or space technology. And the X-37 had started out that way, with NASA, back in 1999, as a reusable unmanned spacecraft. Two would fit in the payload bay of the space shuttle. After riding the shuttle into orbit, the X-37s would be deployed and would maneuver with their own engines, deploy or recover cargo with their own robotic arm, and return to earth, landing automatically.
With the shuttle program gone, the X-37 had been adapted to ride a Delta booster into orbit, which worked well, as did the entire concept. After several successful test flights in the early 2000s, the air force had ordered an improved X-37B from Boeing. The air force hadn’t bothered to give it a new designation, like Secret Spaceplane One, or anything. They just called it the “orbital test vehicle.” Right.
The air force had needed its own vehicle, since they couldn’t use the shuttle anymore, and the X-37B was it. And it was all in-house, which simplified everything.
Only one problem: If the shuttle had been called a “space truck,” the X-37B could be described as an “orbital duffle bag.” The shuttle could carry a payload of twenty-eight tons and was big enough to hold two X-37s in its bay. The X-37’s payload had to fit in the same space as the bed of a pickup truck—a long bed, maybe, but it was a small fraction of the size and weight.
Biff’s degree in aeronautical engineering had been helpful, but he’d spent most of his tour learning new ways to make things smaller and lighter. He also spent a lot of time searching for new materials and technologies that could help the air force do that. He’d gotten to look at a lot of exotic hardware up close and visited more labs than he cared to count. It was important stuff. It was the future. But it still wasn’t flying.
And he spent way too much time futzing with paperwork, especially now, when anything connected to space was under a microscope. More than one congressman wanted to be briefed on the project. Could it be used to protect the GPS satellites? Why not? Could it be used to launch more satellites? As a substitute for one? What are we spending all our hard-earned tax money on, then? And then it turned out the congressman was angling for contracts in his district.
And that was just the beginning. Some other agency didn’t want to provide information he needed. That took some doing to finally pry it loose. The Government Accountability Office wanted to review their phone records. Or some reporter on a fishing expedition filed a Freedom of Information Act request. That had to be dealt with immediately.
Because the project was classified and only a limited number of people could be cleared into the program, everyone involved had to do double or even triple duty. The junior troops, like Barnes, drew most of the nasty jobs.
He couldn’t have dodged the latest flap, anyway. A government office concerned with equal opportunity needed to know if Barnes, who was African American, felt his “capabilities were being fully utilized,” and it had given him a five-page form to fill out. He’d put it off because of the congressional GPS flap and then spent too much of the afternoon finally filling it out. Biff had used the comments section to share his feelings about his “utilization.”
Barnes sat at his desk, closing up files and locking his
safe, but still reluctant to go after an unproductive day. He checked his e-mail, at this point even willing to read Internet humor.
The page opened, and the first things he noticed were another two copies of the Defender document, from separate friends at Maxwell and Wright-Pat. He’d also gotten one that morning from a pilot buddy at March Air Reserve Base in California—three altogether. He’d ignored it then, far too busy, but his mind was ready for a distraction now.
He opened the file and almost laughed when he saw the cover. Someone had taken the old VentureStar, a prototype single-stage-to-orbit space vehicle, and tried to arm it. It was obvious why his friends had sent him so many copies. The introduction touted it as a way of defending the GPS satellites.
A worthy goal, although Barnes had no expectation that this lash-up was anything more than a time-wasting fantasy. Still, he was motivated by curiosity to see what this McConnell guy had done.
Barnes flipped to the section labeled “Payload” and started to read. Whoever this McConnell was, thought Barnes, he didn’t write science fiction. He hadn’t made any obvious mistakes.
But what about weapons and sensor integration? What about power? Or just flight controls? He started working through the document, answering questions and becoming increasingly impressed with McConnell’s idea.
He knew about spacecraft, not only because of his degree, but because he’d actually been selected for the Astronaut Corps after his first squadron tour. He’d flown one mission but then left the program. He hated the constant training, the public relations. And what he really hated was the lack of flight time.
Barnes’s stomach growled, and he looked up from the screen to see it was 7:45. He’d missed the rush hour, anyway. Biff said, “Print file,” and pages started to fill the hopper. He wanted to show this to his buddies.
Then Barnes pulled himself up short. His friends would be interested, but they didn’t all have security clearances, and the cover message had explicitly asked that it not be shown to anyone who wasn’t cleared. Respect for the design made him want to respect the author’s wishes.