by Larry Bond
Oh shot him a puzzled look, then shrugged and gestured toward the door. She said, “Security will watch your bags until you get time to settle in.” Biff was hoping he wouldn’t even have to unpack.
The office annex of Building 151 was four stories high, and, after they left the security area, she led him up two floors. The stairwell opened out to a long passageway that was more than bustling. With LCDR Oh in the lead, they threaded their way around a knot of workmen and people discussing a circuit diagram they’d taped to the wall. The noise level was enough to make casual conversation challenging.
A stack of office furniture created a choke point, narrowing the corridor and forcing traffic into two opposing lanes. As they finally reached a door with a sign taped on it marked TECHNICAL DIRECTOR, Oh mentioned something about “getting better,” but he wasn’t sure if she meant the traffic would get better or that the traffic was better than it had been. She knocked twice, but, given the background noise, she didn’t bother waiting for a reply before opening the door.
McConnell’s office was large, which was good, because there were a lot of people in it. A navy lieutenant was seated next to his desk, speaking with him about something, while a trio of civilians was bent over a diagram at a large table in one corner. Barnes spotted another smaller table with the obligatory coffeepot and a toilet kit sitting next to it.
Ray looked up from his discussion as Jenny and Barnes came in. He nodded to Barnes and shot a quick smile to Jenny, who said to Barnes, “I’ll leave you here,” and then left. Ray raised a finger and said, “Give me one moment, please,” quickly finishing his business with the lieutenant. As the officer stood to leave, Ray called to the other group, “I need the room now, Hugh. I’ll find you in fifteen minutes.”
They quickly rolled up the large diagram and left, leaving only the background noise in the hall as a reminder of the furious activity. McConnell came around from behind the desk to shake Biff’s hand, greeting him warmly.
“Captain Barnes, you don’t know how pleased I am to have you as part of the program.”
Biff didn’t feel particularly a part of anything, automatically shaking Ray’s hand, but definitely not smiling, and biting back the first harsh question that came to mind. He settled for a milder version, one that wouldn’t start a fistfight. “Why have you brought me out here? How do you think I can help with this—circus?” Barnes’s tone was hostile, almost angry, and his expression matched his tone.
Ray paused, then shrugged and went back to sit behind his desk. He motioned to a nearby chair, and Barnes sat as well. “Captain, after seeing your brief, I knew you believed in the Defender concept as much as I did, and then I examined your background and experience. I believe you’d make a valuable addition to the project team. Your brief on Defender was impressive, and you made some changes to the design that I wanted to discuss with you.” He stood and went over to the coffeemaker and brought back two cups.
As Barnes accepted one, he frowned and shook his head. “I believed in turning Defender into an air force program. Or a navy program,” he quickly added. “But creating a separate service for it? And then giving you a little over two months to fly? That’s nuts. You have no resources, no infrastructure, and an impossible task. It’s possible Defender might eventually lead to a separate Space Force. After all, that’s how the air force was created. But not right off the bat.”
“It wasn’t exactly my idea, either. If you remember, Captain, I was just as surprised as you were,” Ray responded. “But since the president made that decision, he’s also given us permission to use any resource in the federal government, and that ‘infrastructure’ would only slow us down. Consider carefully, Captain. Would either service be able to get Defender launched in seventy days?”
“No way,” Barnes answered firmly.
“Then there’s no harm in us being on our own and trying something new. The services have their own ways of doing things, and they take too long. Even a fast-track program takes too long because of the massive bureaucracy. A small group can think, decide, and move faster than a large one. That’s my mantra for this project.”
“It still doesn’t make sense,” Barnes protested. “We researched your background while we were studying Defender. No disrespect, but you’re not qualified to be the technical director of this project.”
“I agree,” Ray replied honestly. “I’m also not qualified to build a house, either, but I can get it done by hiring the right people. One of which I want to be you.”
“What do you need me for?” Barnes demanded. Frankly, he was curious about what this madman wanted him to do.
“Doing what you already did, but more so. You’re assigned to the Rapid Capabilities Office; you’re familiar with advanced technology for spacecraft, both in the civilian and the classified worlds. Your first job is scouring the aerospace industry and the black compartments for anything that will help Defender fly and fight.”
“Oh, is that all?” Barnes was amused and horrified at the same time. “That’s a tall order. I assume I don’t have the several months to a year such a task would normally take.”
“The timeline calls for locking down all the technology in a week.”
He almost laughed. “A week?” Barnes couldn’t believe what he’d heard. McConnell obviously had no clue as to how the Department of Defense operated.
“You included several new technology programs in your brief to the JCS. Start with them and build on that.”
Barnes sighed. McConnell sounded so positive. “I’m briefed into three black programs, none of which were relevant to Defender. And you’re right—I was able to get sanitized information on a couple of others for the brief. It would take weeks to get clearance for just those programs. I can’t imagine how long it will take to get cleared into every black program, or whether they will even give me clearance.” He looked thoughtful. “I have no idea how many black programs there actually are, which is sort of the idea, I guess.”
“You’ll have blanket access tomorrow,” Ray stated flatly. “Every program.”
Barnes stared at Ray with stark disbelief. “I’ve never heard of such a thing!” he exclaimed.
“Nobody had ever heard of the Chinese shooting down GPS satellites before, either. It’s just a bunch of rules people made up. Rules can be changed,” he said with intensity.
“Admiral Schultz has promised both you and me universal access to all compartmented programs by zero eight-hundred our time tomorrow. You, so you can make the search. And me, so you can tell me what you found. Anything that could be of use will be moved out of its compartment. That happens in week two, by the way.”
Barnes sat thoughtfully for a moment. “I came in here intending to tell you that I wanted nothing to do with the program—that I wouldn’t work on it. General Warner as much as promised me a command billet, ops officer in a fighter squadron, when I finished my tour at the Pentagon, which is fifty-three days from now, but who’s counting?”
“So you’ve changed your mind?” Ray asked hopefully.
“No, I still think you are bound for a failure of biblical proportions, and I don’t want to be anywhere in the vicinity when this program implodes. But my curiosity is piqued. I’ll stay at least long enough to do your survey. Maybe when you see the enormity of just this one task, you’ll understand how hopeless all this is.”
Ray smiled. “Maybe when you see how much can be done in just a week, you’ll change your mind. We are recertifying the SCIF. Once that happens, your office will be here on the third floor, a few doors down from me. Until then, you’ll work out of the C-20 parked in the hangar. It’s got secure communications, and we’re running it on ground power. It’s unconventional, but it works.”
“Where do I sleep?” Barnes asked. “Assuming I get time to sleep, that is.”
“Did you see that row of trailers being brought in? One of those is yours.”
“I’m living in a trailer?”
“Courtesy of FEMA. It has more roo
m than what you’d get in the BOQ, and the commute is a lot shorter.”
“Thus saving time,” Barnes concluded.
“My other mantra.” Ray answered. “I suspect a lot of the classified programs we’re interested in will have offices here in Southern California. If you have to travel, the air force has loaned us a helicopter, and I want you to use it.”
“Who is paying for all this?” Biff asked.
“Admiral Schultz has a big barrel of money next to his desk. We give him the receipts.”
“Seriously,” Biff persisted. “Congress would have a field day if you start spending money like that.”
“Compared to the cost of a GPS satellite, jet fuel is peanuts. Every week we shave off the launch date saves the government a half-billion-dollar satellite, which works out to just under fifty thousand dollars a minute. Time is as much an enemy as the Chinese.”
“Then I guess I’d better get going.”
National Aeronautics and Space Administration
Washington, D.C.
October 12, 2017
Dr. Harold Matheson was irritated by the knock on the door. His assistant, Helen, opened the door a little. “Doctor, I know you’re in an important meeting, but John Alvarez is calling from Houston. He says it’s urgent, and a classified matter.”
Matheson harrumphed a little, which he was quite good at. “It must be the day for it. Barbara Alwyn and I are discussing an ‘urgent, classified matter’ as well.”
Helen said, “He’s ready to teleconference, if you want.”
“Then it must be serious,” Matheson remarked. He turned to the woman seated across from his desk. “Please excuse me, Barbara. Let me find out what this is about.”
She started to get up, but Matheson said, “No, please stay. You’ve got the same clearances I do, and this will just take a moment. Whatever his problem is, yours is more important. He can wait. I’ll just set up a time for him to call back.”
The flat screen came on with the image of a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a neatly trimmed beard. The camera was looking up, which distorted the image a little, and was centered on the bolo tie he wore. His expression of concern matched his tone. “Dr. Matheson, we’ve got to do something about this VentureStar project.”
Matheson began to tease him, “Hello, John, it’s good to see you, too…,” but then stopped in midsentence. “VentureStar,” he repeated, looking over at Barbara Alwyn, and then turning back to the screen. “Is this regarding a request for personnel and equipment to be shipped to Edwards Air Force Base?”
“It’s not a request, more like a requisition. They want my best people, and two of my simulators. I was told crews and aircraft are already en route to remove the simulators and take them to California!”
Matheson absorbed the news calmly. “John, you remember Barbara Alwyn, don’t you?” She shifted her chair a bit so she was within the camera’s field of view. “Barbara and I were just discussing a similar issue. She’s head of the Software Assurance Technology Center. The VentureStar people are asking—no, requiring—her to send her best four people to Edwards—immediately! They’ve gone home to pack and they’re on a morning flight. Not even enough time for a proper turnover to their supervisors.”
Alvarez nodded sadly. “And it’s probably doing to her schedule what this is going to do to mine. We received no warning. Did you know about this?”
“I did, and thought I’d put a stop to it,” Matheson replied. “I received information about the program last night, and a list this morning of all the resources that NASA was directed to send to this new program. It was flagged as highest priority, and I responded immediately with questions about how were we supposed to complete our programs on time and how we were to be compensated for the transfer of all this equipment from one federal agency to another.”
“We got our list this morning as well,” Alvarez commented. Alwyn nodded agreement. “It treated the requisitions as an established fact. The division managers here involved received messages as well.”
“They’re completely ignoring the chain of command,” Matheson fumed. “I can’t manage NASA if I can’t control what’s going on.”
“When do you expect a response?” Alvarez asked.
“The orders came from Secretary of Defense Peck’s office. They haven’t responded to my queries yet. Since we’re an independent federal agency, we don’t take orders from any of the cabinet secretaries. On the other hand, since both NASA and the DoD are in the executive branch, I’m pretty sure Peck will have cleared this with the president before sending it. But NASA is not some aerospace warehouse that other agencies can raid at will. If Peck can’t or won’t answer my questions, then I’ll make an appointment to see the president.”
Matheson seemed to sit up a little straighter as he spoke. “John, Barbara, on my authority, refuse any requests for personnel or equipment from within NASA until you hear from me, via the chain of command. After all, that’s the way this should have been done in the first place. I’ll have a NASA-wide directive ready shortly for Helen to distribute that will say the same thing.”
“What about the people coming to remove my simulators?” Alvarez asked.
“They can go back to Edwards or wait, hopefully the former. They don’t belong to me. It’s VentureStar’s problem for sending them out half-cocked. Like I said, if they want to complain, they can call here. I may even take the call. I’m curious to see what these empire builders in California are up to.”
Space Force Headquarters
Edwards Air Force Base
October 12, 2017
General Carl Norman found Ray McConnell that evening at dinner. For the moment, meals were being served in the hangar, still awaiting VentureStar’s arrival. A buffet line had been arranged along one side, with the diners seated at what looked like brand-new patio furniture. Although there were dozens of tables, the dining area didn’t fill a fifth of the cavernous hangar floor. The evening was still pleasantly warm, but the doors at one end of the hangar had been closed to block a chilling breeze.
As Norman’s guide, an army colonel named Evans, pointed out Ray McConnell, Ray spotted the pair and hurried over. “General Norman, welcome to the U.S. Space Force headquarters. I’m Ray McConnell, technical director.”
As he shook McConnell’s hand, Norman replied, “I wanted to speak with the ranking officer, but Colonel Evans here says you’re the man I should be talking to.”
“About your Marines?” Ray guessed.
“Exactly,” the general answered. The man didn’t waste time.
Ray nodded and pointed to the buffet. “Will you join us for dinner, General? They just started serving, and if you’ve come up from Pendleton, you haven’t had time to eat.”
The colonel added, “By the way, General, this is what your men assigned here are eating tonight.”
Norman smiled. “Well, that almost makes it mandatory. By all means,” he said, gesturing for them to lead the way.
As they got into the line and waited for their turn, Ray explained, “We’re using the base kitchens at Edwards, and the food is brought over here. We’ve hired a civilian chef to make sure the food’s top quality. He supervises a staff that handles all the purchases, the cooking, and the transportation.”
Norman was favorably impressed. Although it was obviously improvised, it looked more like a hotel’s buffet than a cafeteria-style serving line. There were three main dishes, one meatless, sides, and condiments. He saw other small details: flowers in bare spots on the table and a rope barrier that provided some separation from the rest of the hangar, even if it was just psychological.
McConnell continued. “We serve dinner from sixteen hundred until twenty hundred, and there are sandwiches and fruit available from then until breakfast.”
Norman loaded his plate with as many different selections as possible. He took his responsibilities seriously and wanted to see how the food matched what his Marines got back at Pendleton.
A c
ivilian at the end of the line was supervising the servers. Ray introduced him to Norman. “This is Geoffrey Lewes. He handles morale and welfare for the project.” Lewes was a sandy-haired man in his midthirties. Large glasses on his round face made his head seem large for the rest of his spare frame. While most of the civilians wore jeans and polo shirts, Lewes was dressed in khakis and a sport coat. As he shook the general’s hand, Norman thought he caught a whiff of cologne.
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” Norman joked.
Lewes beamed. “Thank you, General. By tomorrow, I’ll have screens along one side”—he gestured—“and a sound system for music. I’ve got volunteers organizing playlists…”
Ray said, “Geoffrey and his staff take care of the people here. Run errands, provide basic amenities, reduce their distractions. A laundry service, for example. This lets the engineering staff focus all their time on the mission.”
“I’ve never had to sign a top secret security form to be a concierge before,” Lewes joked.
Ray grinned. “And you’ve never had army quartermasters as your staff. But our people have all had their lives and jobs interrupted to work here. Do as much as you can to take care of their personal needs.”
Lewes smiled. “I’ve got plenty of ideas…”
Ray broke in: “Gotta go, Geoffrey. It’s great work.” And they headed for an empty table.
As the group sat down, Norman explained. “When I got the call three days ago asking for a company of Marines to be assigned to ‘temporary security duty’ up here at Edwards, I approved it automatically. We’ve done such things in the past, and while this China business is keeping us busy, I can spare the men. Then, yesterday, you folks asked for another company, which I approved, but if I hadn’t been in the field, I would have come down with them right then. What are you doing with my Marines, and how long do you need them?”
Ray was chewing and looked to Evans, who answered. “You saw them manning the gate jointly with my MPs. They’re also patrolling the area until we can get the security fences up. Edwards barely has the personnel to handle their own security requirements. There was no way they could give us the support we needed.”