Power Failure Page 9

  “What?” Jake sat up straighter in his swivel chair.

  “Yeah. Apparently the bean counters want to amend our contract for ferrying cargo and personnel to the ISS to include missions to the Moon. That’s unacceptable!”

  “I agree.”

  “But they tell my people it’s a part of your plan,” Quinton said, his face and his tone accusatory.

  “No,” said Jake. “We want to bring NASA into the plan as a technical resource, a partner, not the head of the whole operation.”

  “Well, somebody ought to tell them that!” And the phone screen went blank. Quinton had hung up.

  Mending Fences

  Jake sat at his desk, staring off into space, wondering what to do. After a few minutes he called O’Donnell to ask his advice.

  The staff chief said he was busy, but he could spare Jake a few minutes around five o’clock.

  Just before five, Jake went to O’Donnell’s office.

  Once Jake explained his problem the staff chief broke into a rare chuckle. “The bastards can move fast when they want to,” he said. “Threaten their position and they can move damned fast.”

  “But that isn’t what we want for the program,” Jake protested. “We want NASA in the program as a partner, not an overlord.”

  O’Donnell shook his head sadly. “They don’t want to be a partner. They want to run the show.”

  “But that will screw up everything! It’ll ruin the whole plan. Quinton and the other private firms don’t want to go to the Moon under contract to the government.”

  With a shrug, O’Donnell said, “Then you’ll have to get NASA to see things your way.”

  “How?”

  “If I knew, Jake, I’d tell you.”

  Jake sat in front of O’Donnell’s desk, sunk in a puddle of gloom.

  “This is going to screw up everything,” he muttered. “We want private enterprise to go to the Moon, not a government program that comes out of the taxpayers’ pockets. Congress would never vote the funds.”

  “What you want, kid,” said O’Donnell, “and what you get are two different things.”

  * * *

  Jake headed back to his own office. Most of the staff workers were closing up shop for the day, heading for the door, for a drink at a local cocktail lounge or a quiet dinner at home with the family.

  Tami won’t be home for another two hours, at least, Jake told himself. Maybe I should find a friendly neighborhood bar and drown my troubles.

  Instead, he phoned Roland T. Jackson.

  As soon as Jackson’s face appeared on his phone screen Jake blurted, “I’ve got troubles.”

  The former NASA engineer listened to Jake’s plaint sympathetically, his large dark eyes blinking now and then. At last he said, “That’s just the kind of thing you’d expect them to do.”

  “I didn’t expect it,” Jake admitted.

  Jackson’s thin, almost gaunt face smiled patiently at Jake. “You’ve got to think of the agency as a biological organism, Jake. It feels threatened by your Moon plan, so its first reaction is to either kill it or try to take command of it.”

  Jake said, “Or kill it by trying to take command of it.”

  “Now you’ve got it.”

  “So what can I do about it?” Jake pleaded. “Senator Sebastian’s scheduled a meeting of his subcommittee for Monday morning to discuss the plan.”

  “And NASA’s top management will be there, ready and willing to testify.”

  Jake nodded.

  Jackson pulled in a deep breath, then let it sigh out of him. “Let me make a couple of phone calls, Jake. Maybe I can get you and the agency’s chief administrator together over the weekend. Maybe you can present a united front at the hearing.”

  Maybe, Jake thought. He doubted that anything much could be done, but it was better than nothing.

  * * *

  Jake parked at Reagan National Airport’s special lot for congressional personnel. After a glance at his wristwatch, he hustled into the terminal building and down to the security post where passengers from Tami’s flight were coming in.

  And there she was, bright, perky, and smiling as she pulled her roll-on suitcase behind her. But as soon as she saw Jake, her smile disappeared.

  Jake rushed to her and took her in his arms. Her lips felt warm and wonderful to him, but as they disengaged Tami asked:

  “What’s wrong, Jake?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “You look as if the Washington Monument fell on you.”

  Taking her suitcase in his hand and walking with her toward the exit, Jake said, “NASA’s trying to take over the space plan.”

  “Well, don’t let them!”

  Shaking his head, Jake replied, “Easier said than done, Tami.”

  She listened patiently as Jake explained NASA’s maneuvering while they walked out of the terminal and toward the congressional parking lot.

  Jake prattled on, never once mentioning his abortive dinner with Amy.

  NASA Middle Management

  “Now, remember what I told you, Jake,” said Rollie Jackson. “NASA is not the enemy. Think of the agency as a trapped animal, fighting for its life.”

  Jake and the retired engineer were riding in Jake’s convertible toward a meeting with Hideki Noruyaki, NASA’s associate administrator for human exploration and operations. It was early Sunday morning; Washington’s normally jam-packed streets were relatively free of traffic.

  Without taking his eyes away from his driving, Jake replied, “Isn’t that a little overly dramatic, Rollie?”

  Jackson shook his head and explained, “No, not at all. For nearly a generation, now, the agency has wanted to send astronauts to Mars. Neither the White House nor Congress gives a damn about Mars. They’re just willing to fund missions to the International Space Station, and every year they squeeze down a little more on that. They’re starving NASA, a little more every year.”

  Jake glanced at Jackson, saw that he was dead serious.

  “The greatest collection of intellect and talent in the world,” the engineer went on, “and it’s being starved to death.”

  “NASA’s budget is damned near twenty billion this year,” Jake objected.

  “Yes, and it’s being spent mainly on paper studies and makework programs, without any real goals.”

  Before Jake could reply, he went on, “And now you come along with the private rocket companies and a program that puts NASA on the sidelines. The agency feels endangered, and I don’t blame them.”

  Which side is he on? Jake wondered.

  His tone lightening, Jackson said, “At least our timing is just about perfect this morning. The religious folks are already in church and the heathens haven’t gotten out of bed yet.”

  Jake couldn’t help smiling as he drove his convertible, top down, through the quiet, sunny morning. He had picked up Jackson at his town house in the Capitol Hill neighborhood, not far from Lady Cecilia’s home. Jackson didn’t drive, Jake had learned to his surprise.

  “Never found a need to get a license,” he admitted cheerfully. “I’ve just about always lived in a city with public transportation.”

  “And taxicabs,” Jake added.

  Jackson nodded. “You know, Johnnie von Neumann, the genius of geniuses, did most of his best work in taxicabs. He’d hire a cab in the morning and have the driver tootle around town all day while he worked on his math.”

  “No interruptions,” said Jake.

  “Right.”

  “Expensive, though.”

  “Johnnie was wealthy. Hungarian nobility. Lived in hotels most of the time.”

  And invented game theory, Jake recalled, computer operations, helped create the first atomic bombs. Genius of geniuses, all right.

  Jake turned onto E Street SW and pulled up in front of the NASA headquarters building. He even found an open parking space halfway up the block.

  As he climbed out of the convertible, Jackson pointed to the curbside sign that warned that
parking was prohibited—on weekdays.

  “Score another point for the Lord,” he said, with a grin.

  Jake tapped the button that started the convertible’s metal roof rising. Once he got the roof firmly attached to the windshield’s frame, he slid out of the car and locked it.

  “So what kind of a guy is this Noruyaki?” he asked.

  Jackson shrugged. “Never met him. But my buddies who know him say he’s a decent type, not an old agency paper shuffler.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Jake.

  “He’s taking the time to talk with us on a Sunday morning,” Jackson added. “That says something.”

  Jake thought it might just mean that the man had nothing better to do until the football season began.

  There was only one guard in sight in the building’s lobby: middle-aged, pudgy. He waved them through the X-ray scanner without getting up from his stool.

  Noruyaki’s office was on the top floor of the building: “officer country” in Jackson’s parlance. “This is where the big brass hang out,” he told Jake as they walked along the empty, silent corridors.

  Up ahead, a youngish man in a Seattle Mariners T-shirt stood next to an open door. Jake had looked up Noruyaki’s dossier: he was from Seattle, his degree was from Washington State University, in business administration.

  “Dr. Noruyaki?” Jake called as they approached.

  He grinned boyishly. “Dr. Ross, I presume.”

  “Jake.”

  Noruyaki extended his hand. “And I’m Hank. Come on into the office.”

  He was much younger than Jake had expected. Short, solidly built without being chubby. Dark straight hair, almond-shaped eyes of light brown.

  As he led them through an outer office, Noruyaki said, “And you must be the revered Roland T. Jackson.”

  Jackson said lightly, “Call me Rollie.”

  “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

  “Rollie,” Jackson repeated.

  Noruyaki’s office looked comfortable, not stuffy. There was a desk in the corner by the windows, but he gestured Jake and Jackson to a deep leather sofa set against the far wall and pulled up a small padded chair to face them.

  “So,” he asked, “what’s the problem?”

  Jake swiftly outlined how NASA was moving to take over the space plan. “And if the agency wants to be in charge,” he concluded, “the private firms will walk out on us.”

  Jackson added, “And the agency will need a big boost in its appropriation, which Congress won’t vote for, and the plan will be dead.”

  Noruyaki nodded sympathetically, “Ah, the bean counters. They think they run the agency.”

  “So do I,” Jackson said, “unless somebody has the guts to get them under control.”

  Noruyaki seemed to ignore that suggestion. Turning to Jake, he asked, “You think you can get your program funded from private sources? Without any tax money at all?”

  “That’s our aim,” said Jake. “We’ve got to get Congress to agree to backing the long-term loans, of course.”

  Cocking his head slightly to one side, Noruyaki murmured, “It’s an ingenious plan. But will it work?”

  Jake answered, “Not if your bean counters want to turn it into another NASA operation.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Look,” Jake went on, “we want NASA on the team. We need your expertise, your experience. But we need you as a partner, not a boss.”

  “And Sebastian’s subcommittee meets tomorrow morning,” Noruyaki muttered.

  Jackson said, “May I remind you that the Mariners were oh-and-two against the Yankees in the playoffs last year, and they still beat New York?”

  Noruyaki broke into a huge grin. “And went on to win the World Series.”

  Smiling back at the younger man, Jackson said, “What was the motto of the old Seabees, back in World War II? ‘The impossible we do right away; the miraculous takes a little time.’”

  Jake said, “The subcommittee hearing starts at ten a.m. tomorrow.”

  “Just enough time to do the impossible,” said Jackson.

  Still grinning, Noruyaki said, “Let me make a couple of phone calls.”

  NASA Top Management

  “A couple of phone calls aren’t going to do us much good,” Jake grumbled as he and Jackson left Noruyaki’s office.

  “Not much time left to pull a rabbit out of a hat,” Jackson agreed.

  The corridors were empty and silent. As far as Jake could tell, Noruyaki and the two of them were the only people in the building.

  Plus the security guard in the lobby, who had his phone to his ear as Jake and Jackson stepped out of the elevator.

  “Here they are now,” said the guard. Still clutching the phone, he asked, “Which one of you is Dr. Ross?”

  “That’s me.”

  Wordlessly, the guard handed the phone to Jake.

  “Dr. Ross?” Noruyaki’s voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you free for lunch this afternoon? William Farthington would like to talk with you. And Mr. Jackson, of course.”

  “Farthington? The head of NASA?”

  “Yes.”

  “When and where?”

  * * *

  Where was Farthington’s home in Alexandria. When was noon.

  As Jake followed his GPS’s calm female voice over the Arlington Memorial Bridge into Virginia, Jackson said lightly, “High noon. Hope this isn’t going to be a shoot-out.”

  “From the little I know about Farthington,” Jake said, “he’s a career bureaucrat, a born paper pusher.”

  Jackson nodded. “Yes. There were a lot of very disgruntled people in the agency when the president nominated him to head up NASA. But he sailed through the congressional confirmation hearing like a breeze.”

  “They say he’s a caretaker, not a space advocate.”

  Jackson’s tone turned darker. “Everybody thinks he’s there to preside over NASA’s shrinkage.”

  Jake mulled that over as he drove slowly along a tree-lined street in an upscale residential neighborhood. Shrinkage, he thought. Maybe Farthington could see the space plan as an advantage to him.

  Then Jackson added, “But he’s a wily old coot. After you shake hands with him, count your fingers.”

  * * *

  William Farthington reminded Jake of a caricature of a high school math teacher: short, a little paunchy, with gunmetal blue-gray eyes and a deceptive smile. Almost entirely bald, he had the straight-backed, square-shouldered posture of a soldier—which he had been most of his life, according to the Web sources Jake had tapped on their way to this noontime meeting. Farthington had been a major general in the United States Army Quartermaster Corps, a logistics genius, not a battlefield leader.

  NASA’s chief administrator met them at the door to his substantial redbrick home wearing a shapeless sky-blue bathrobe over swimming trunks. He smiled politely as he shook hands with Jake, then turned to Jackson.

  “Hello, Rollie,” he said, his grin widening. “How’s the museum business?”

  Jackson grinned back at him. “I’m just trying to avoid being turned into an exhibit myself.”

  Leading them into the handsomely furnished house, Farthington said, “I thought we’d have lunch by the pool, out back.”

  “It’s a nice sunny day,” Jackson agreed.

  As they stepped out into the sunshine by the kidney-shaped swimming pool, Farthington said to Jake, “Hank Noruyaki tells me you’ve got a problem with the agency?”

  “Yessir,” Jake replied.

  “Welcome to the club,” Farthington said, morosely.

  They sat on beach chairs under gaudily striped umbrellas while a dark-skinned butler in tan slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt brought them a tray of beers, ice cold.

  Jake briefly outlined his space plan, and the NASA bureaucracy’s move to co-opt it.

  “Senator Tomlinson, eh?” Farthington murmured. “Bright young fellow. He’ll go far.”

  “Not if NASA scut
tles his space plan.”

  “Well, you are stepping on the agency’s toes, you know. You’ve got some of the old-timers scared shitless.”

  Jake nearly choked on his mouthful of beer. Jackson seemed to be suppressing a guffaw.

  Completely serious, though, Farthington said, “Listen, I know what they think of me up on the Hill. And in the White House, too. Harmless old Farthington. Retired Army fart. Bloviating Billy, the old windbag: just the man to preside over NASA’s downsizing.”

  “Bloviating?” Jake asked.

  Farthington explained, “Bloviate. According to Webster’s it means to speak or write verbosely, windily.”

  “Oh.”

  With a bitter smile, Jackson said, “Maybe they think you can join me over at the museum.”

  “Like hell I will. They think NASA’s an expensive toy for the scientists and a handful of retired astronauts. They’re waiting for the ISS to fall apart; then they’ll close up shop.”

  Jake stared at him. “Is it that bad?”

  “It’s worse,” said Farthington. “Our enlightened Congress has imposed a hiring freeze on NASA. People—good, smart people—reach retirement age and they’re out the door, with no replacement. Our talent pool is evaporating.”

  “But the science work,” Jackson objected. “NASA’s sent probes out to Pluto, for god’s sake. Europa, the Mars rovers. NASA’s led the greatest wave of exploration since Columbus and Magellan.”

  “Unmanned missions. Robots, not people. They don’t generate public support. The taxpayers want to see astronauts—what did that old TV show say? ‘To boldly go where no one has gone before.’”

  “Manned Mars missions,” said Jackson.

  “Which the White House won’t ask for and Congress wouldn’t appropriate the money for even if she did.”

  “Back to the Moon,” said Jake. “And this time we stay. This time we build bases and open the frontier to private industry.”

  “Congress won’t vote funds for that, either,” said Farthington.

  “They won’t have to,” Jake said. “We’ll fund it privately.”

  “With the government backing the loans,” Farthington added.