Lash-Up

by Larry Bond

  Formerly known as the Skunk Works, the ADP had developed and fielded some of the most advanced aircraft in the U.S. inventory. But more important, the ADP had been the Lockheed Martin lead contractor in the VentureStar program, and any residual expertise would be found there.

  The problem was that in the Pentagon, politics could easily trump logic. And making a land grab in someone else’s backyard was a surefire way to get the hackles up on another service chief’s neck. In this case, the U.S. Air Force.

  During their flight, Schultz made and received a number of phone calls. One was from General Warner, and it was clear from what Ray heard that while the conversation was friendly, there was a hint of strain in the admiral’s voice.

  “No, Mike,” Schultz said patiently, “I don’t need or want the whole base. The Space Force will be just another tenant command on Edwards; I have no desire to build a huge empire at your expense. We just need a large hangar with secure office space close by.”

  Ray could hear the air force general on the other end of the line laugh, and the wrinkles on Schultz’s face seemed to ease.

  “The old airborne laser hangar will be just fine, Mike. I appreciate your help on this.” Schultz jotted the numbers 151 on his notepad. “Yes, of course I’ll let you know if we need anything else, but I promise not to be too much of a nuisance. Thanks, we’ll need it. Out here.”

  As he hung up the phone, Schultz let out a heavy sigh. Turning to Ray, he explained. “General Warner is giving us the hangar that was used by the canceled Airborne Laser Program, Building 151. It’s big enough to hold a 747, so Defender will fit without any problem. And the chemical storage tanks for the laser system are still good. We’ll need to get them recertified, of course, but that’s a hell of a lot easier than building a new storage system.”

  “It sounds like the general is being very cooperative,” Ray remarked carefully.

  Schultz chuckled. “Mike doesn’t want to be seen as an obstructionist, not with a presidential mandate staring him in the face, so he’s being helpful, for now. He’s also a very experienced Pentagon insider, and he knows that it will be easier for him to take over the Space Force’s mission if our assets and facilities are already on an air force installation. He’s just doubling down on his bet that we’ll fail.”

  Ray felt a sudden chill. “Nice to know we engender such confidence,” he said sarcastically.

  “Get used to it, son. We have a tremendous task ahead of us, and the odds aren’t exactly in our favor. I can’t fault General Warner for being pragmatic. At least he’s cooperating. There will be others who will do everything in their power to ensure we fall flat on our faces.”

  Disturbed by Schultz’s blunt prediction, Ray leaned back in his seat and wondered whether he’d made the right decision to sign on. It was one thing to fall short due to insurmountable technical issues, but quite another to fail because of political infighting and backstabbing.

  Glancing over at Schultz, Ray saw the admiral staring at the impressive to-do list on his tablet PC. He looked calm and composed. Well, if the boss could be at peace with their situation, then Ray needed to at least try. Looking out his window, Ray watched as white puffy cumulus clouds passed slowly by, piled up into fantastic shapes. The peaceful scene, combined with an adrenaline letdown and sheer exhaustion, caused Ray’s eyelids to drift downward. Within moments, he fell into a deep sleep.

  * * *

  It was early afternoon when they landed. The skies were clear, and the temperature was on the warm side. Even in autumn the Mojave Desert can get into the mideighties. The bright sun tormented Ray’s eyes as he stepped out of the plane and onto the tarmac. He’d been to Edwards once before, years ago on a space shuttle–orientation trip sponsored by NASA. From what he remembered, it looked like nothing had changed.

  Major General Baum and his deputy were waiting as the two new space force executives disembarked. After a quick exchange of salutes and handshakes, Ray and Schultz were whisked to the High Desert Inn to check in and dump their bags. Baum had offered to let the two get some rest, but both Schultz and Ray were insistent that they get to work immediately. They’d both had a few hours of sleep and were once again on an adrenaline high. After a quick lunch, Baum took them to Building 151—the new U.S. Space Force Headquarters. Ray liked what he saw.

  Although he’d expected the hangar to be large, it still impressed him: It was over seven stories tall and wide enough not only to hold a jumbo jet but also to allow enough room to take it apart, if needed. Sounds echoed off the metal surfaces and the concrete floor. It was hot and humid inside, with the ventilation systems still turned off. Ray half-expected to see a local thunderstorm building at the apex of the domed roof.

  A four-story office structure was grafted onto one side of the structure. That looked good to him. People wouldn’t have to waste time traveling from one building to another. It was still dusty—much of the building had been unused for years—but Baum promised to have people there within the hour to begin cleaning.

  The day flew by in a blur, and, after a late dinner, Schultz turned in for the night. Ray sat in his room fidgeting. He tried reading, but his mind whirled with future tasks and potential difficulties. He tried making to-do lists, but, instead of clearing his mind, the now-organized tasks accused him of inaction.

  Unable to sleep, he grabbed his jacket and went for a walk down to the massive Rogers Dry Lake. For most of the year, the lake bed was a bone-dry salt flat, although during the short rainy season some water would accumulate in its basin. This made the lake bed perfect for flight operations and a dozen of Edwards’s runways were little more than black lines painted on the hard ground.

  With the sun down and the wind picking up, Ray headed back to his temporary quarters, zipping his jacket up as he went. The past forty-eight hours had been one hell of a roller-coaster ride, and he still had trouble wrapping his mind around everything that had occurred. He felt numb, unable to put into words the hodgepodge of emotions bouncing around in his head. Either that or the desert cold and fatigue were finally setting in.

  But as he contemplated the enormity of their assignment, doubt crept back into his thoughts. Could they really pull this off? Or were the technical and political cards so stacked against them that failure was inevitable? He shook off the nagging worries as he got ready for bed. They might fail, but it wouldn’t be for a lack of trying. Come what may, Ray intended to give it his best shot. Satisfied, he laid down. He wouldn’t remember his head hitting the pillow.

  Edwards AFB

  October 9, 2017

  The next morning marked their first full day at “Space HQ,” which had taught Ray more about logistics and people than he’d ever thought there was to learn.

  A hot breakfast at zero six-thirty had been a good start, but it was constantly interrupted by phone calls or urgent e-mails. It seemed to Ray that he had to answer either his cell phone or tablet PC, or both, after every bite. Schultz actually turned his off to “finish his meal in peace.” The arrival of their car found them dashing off after taking one last hurried bite. Waiting for them at the inn’s entrance was the base operations officer and a tech sergeant. As the car turned onto the road, the ops officer gave Schultz a quick rundown.

  “We’ve gotten most of the current occupants out of the hangar. The stragglers will be gone by noon. We’ve pulled in as many of the custodial service people as we can to do a thorough cleaning. Oh, that reminds me, sir. I’ll need your signature to authorize the overtime if we’re to get the building cleaned by tonight.”

  Schultz reached for the clipboard, scanned the form, and signed it. Handing the clipboard back, he said, “I appreciate you efforts, Colonel. Thank you. And while a clean building is a nice start, I’m more concerned with how we’re going to take care of my people. The first batch should be arriving by this afternoon, and they’ll already be confused after being summarily summoned on extremely short notice. I need help in getting them corralled, lodged, and processed as quick
ly as possible and with minimal chain jerking.”

  “Yes, sir. Tech Sergeant Klein will see to getting your personnel checked in and shown their accommodations. Unfortunately, we had to go with double occupancy in all the rooms. We just don’t have space.”

  “That’ll work for now, Colonel. Next subject. What about the SCIF?”

  Ray watched as Schultz quickly nailed all the big-ticket items during the short ride to Building 151. He was certainly efficient, but what struck Ray as odd, as well as refreshing, was the admiral’s focus on his people. They hadn’t even shown up, and already he was intent on easing their transition into his command. It was unusual for such a senior officer to be so concerned about his subordinates’ well-being. Ray didn’t need all the fingers on one hand to count the number of flag officers he served under at SPAWAR who shared Schultz’s philosophy. No wonder Jenny thought highly of the man.

  * * *

  The morning blew by in a frenzy of activity. Movers, cleaners, and building-management personnel swarmed about the office spaces. Ray surveyed every nook and cranny, marking possible functional areas on a digital copy of the plans. Schultz had directed him to “put the organizational spaces together” while the admiral tackled the higher-level stuff that required his four stars.

  Dodging in and out of the organized chaos, Ray frowned as he saw unassembled cubicle sections lining the walls. Disdainful of the traditional Dilbert “cube village,” Ray drew out a notional plan, based on the same arrangement as the functional Defender design teams back in his house. If there was a secret to their initial success, it was collaboration, the effective melding of a lot of smart people’s efforts toward a common goal. He’d have to kick that collaboration up a notch if they were to get Defender into orbit in sixty-nine days.

  Ray firmly believed that old-fashioned face-to-face interaction was severely underappreciated. Most business gurus pushed the concept of lean, dispersed working groups that linked together “virtually” through e-mail and videoconferencing. While this did have some fiscal advantages, Ray was convinced that face-to-face collaboration was more effective at sharing knowledge and creating an atmosphere that encouraged rapid innovation—qualities they’d need in abundance.

  He also knew the command would have to provide some amenities if they were to keep the soon-to-be overstressed workforce sane. Ray wrote down a quick note to talk to Schultz about a “morale officer.” Armed with his crude workplace strategy, Ray set off in search of the base facility manager.

  * * *

  The office looked like it had been a storage closet in a former life and was filled with a couple of portable tables and folding chairs. Detailed building plans were stacked on one table, while a laptop, briefcase, and an open jar of peanut butter adorned the other. Curious, Ray stepped in and took a closer look at the well-worn briefcase; it was covered with scratches and scuff marks along with two slightly faded stickers. One said USAF RETIRED. The other had a cartoon of a collapsing building with the phrase FIRST LAW OF CIVIL ENGINEERING: IF IT MOVES, IT’S BROKE. Ray chuckled quietly; the facility manager seemed to have a decent sense of humor—that was a good omen.

  “Excuse me,” came a voice from behind him. “I was looking for the facility manager’s office.”

  Ray turned and saw a tall, lean man standing in the doorway. He was wearing a hard hat and carrying a tablet PC and what looked like a laser distance measurer.

  “I’m sorry,” said Ray as he scooted over to make way. “This is the place, but I don’t know where the facility manager is.”

  “Well, it’s good to know I’m not lost,” replied the man as he pushed his way by and placed the hard hat, tablet, and laser measurer on the plans. Turning back toward Ray, he asked, “So what can I do for you, Mister…?”

  It suddenly dawned on Ray that the man in front of him was the Edwards AFB facility manager. Embarrassed, Ray offered his hand and replied, “Ray McConnell. I’m the technical director for the new U.S. Space Force.”

  “Robert Ardery, at your service. So how can I assist you in your struggle for excellence, Mr. Technical Director?”

  What the…? thought Ray. Ardery’s introduction was certainly bizarre, but while the man may have been a tad eccentric, he did seem willing to help. Ray mentally shrugged past the strangeness and began his pitch. “I need some help in laying out the office arrangement to make efficient use of what space we have and to maximize personal interaction.”

  “All right,” Ardery responded. “Show me what you have in mind and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Ray put his tablet on the desk and started explaining his roughed-out plan, pointing toward the display screen as needed to emphasize a particular point. Ardery stood silently, his arms crossed, cradling his chin in one hand. Occasionally he would mumble a low, “Uh-huh,” but more often than not he would just nod.

  As Ray wrapped up his explanation, Ardery silently reached for the jar of peanut butter, scooped up a large spoonful, and placed it in his mouth. Taken aback, Ray’s voice trailed off, his expression one of confusion. Ardery looked up, the spoon still protruding from his lips, waiting for Ray to finish his train of thought. But as the pause continued, the civil engineer caught on, rolled his eyes, and pulled the utensil form his mouth. Raising the peanut butter jar, Ardery grumbled, “It’s either this or doughnuts, Mr. McConnell, and I don’t see any doughnuts! So, is that it?”

  Still a bit off balance from Ardery’s unorthodox behavior, Ray uttered, “Uh, yeah.”

  “Then let me summarize your requirements,” said Ardery curtly. “You want to bring about two hundred and fifty people into this building, provide them with full connectivity, across all classification levels—you do realize that means three separate networks—heavy-duty engineering computing capability, and at the same time reserve room for interactive spaces and basic amenities, correct?”

  “Yes, exactly, Mr. Ardery. You got it.”

  “Well, I might be able to accommodate you if you give me a year and several million dollars to reconfigure the building.”

  Stunned by the facility manager’s blunt response, Ray started to argue. “There’s plenty of space. I’ve gone over the plans myself!”

  Rolling his eyes again, Ardery shot back. “Why does everyone think volume is the be-all, end-all of a building’s capacity? Yes, Mr. McConnell, the building has the physical volume to contain that many people, if you think a gerbil cage provides an adequate work area.”

  “I admit it’s a bit tight…”

  “Tight!?! A submarine offers more room per person! Regardless, space is not the only consideration!” snapped Ardery. “First off, three networks and engineering-level processing power means almost a thousand workstations, then add upgraded lighting, copiers, secure and open phones, and God knows what in the galley. Where do you think you’re going to get all the electrons to run this gear? As Scotty so quaintly put it, ‘Ye canna’ do it, Captain, ye donna’ have the power!’

  “And even if I could somehow route that kind of electrical power throughout the building, the air-conditioning and ventilation system would choke on the heat generated by all those bodies, computers, and the other pieces of equipment, probably including several dozen coffeepots. This place will be hot and muggy even in winter, and come summer it will be completely uninhabitable. And then there’s this minor detail called restrooms—you’re not even close to having enough for that many people. I can go on if you’re feeling masochistic, but I think you get my point.”

  Ray stood wide-eyed and shocked, feeling like a student that had just been chewed out by a professor for not thinking through a problem clearly enough. He knew there would be some problems with the electrical requirements, but the air-conditioning overload and the insufficient number of bathrooms had completely escaped him.

  Ardery sensed that he had Ray’s undivided attention. “I’ll do what I can, Mr. McConnell, but I wouldn’t get my hopes too high if I were you. I might be able to squeeze in most of your people, perhaps a hundred
and seventy-five, but I’ll have to bend some rules to even get that many. If your workforce is going to be larger than that, then I’d strongly recommend that you find some additional space.”

  A vibrating smartphone with a text from Schultz was just the distraction Ray needed to disengage from Ardery’s scathing evaluation of his office plan. After promising to get back to the civil engineer, Ray bolted for the stairwell. As he wound down the stairs, Ray realized that he had just come away easy from a hard lesson. Yes, they were under a severe time constraint, but that was no excuse to rush things and do a sloppy job. This time it was only his ego that was bruised.

  Air Force Plant 42, Site 10

  Lockheed Martin, Advanced Development Programs

  Palmdale, CA

  October 9, 2017

  Hugh Dawson stared at the e-mail in disbelief; the Baseboard program had been suspended. Until further notice, funding authorization would be withheld, and all work was to cease immediately. Only maintenance and other caretaker activity would be allowed for the foreseeable future. But I was on schedule, on budget, and the Milestone C review is in six months. Dawson groaned to himself. A sharp knock on the door broke his depressed train of thought.

  George Romans burst into Dawson’s office. “I just got off the phone with Hank Weber. He’s en route from Fort Worth! He confirmed the e-mail is valid. As of last night, Baseboard is formally on hold!”

  “But why, George?” lamented Dawson. “We are smack on the glide path—we’ll be ready for the Defense Acquisition Board review in March!”

  “It must have been Schultz,” fumed Romans. “He wanted you badly for this Defender program, but Hank and I wouldn’t give in. We told him you were critical for Baseboard’s upcoming milestone review and couldn’t be spared. It appears Admiral Schultz doesn’t take no for an answer. The man has serious stones, as well as significant top cover. You’d better find all those old VentureStar design files, Hugh. We leave for Edwards as soon as Hank gets here.”