Win-win.
By the way, I don’t know if the whole “nuclear weapons” thing makes you feel more secure or gets you up on a soap box, but I’m not endorsing either view. I’m merely providing context so that you’ll understand where and how my problem happened.
Anyway, the Air Force owns about 52,000 acres of high desert on the south end of Albuquerque. The base includes some of the foothills of the Manzano Mountains on the east. (Manzano means “apple tree” in Spanish. I read somewhere that early Spanish explorers found an apple orchard somewhere in these mountains when they first arrived—which is curious, since apples aren’t native to America.)
As a nod to the nearby mountains, one of Kirtland’s early names was “Manzano Base.” You’ll want to pay attention to this next part, the part about the mountains.
In the late 1940s, the military decided that the foothills inside Kirtland’s perimeter were good for tunneling. They carved out huge tunnels in the mountain—tunnels big enough to drive trucks in and out—and stored a lot of America’s nuclear stockpile there inside blast-proof, underground steel vaults. The tunnels and storage caverns were dry and stayed basically the same temperature all of the time—a perfect environment for weapons storage and stability.
They called the mountain facility “Site Able” at first and later renamed it the Manzano Base Weapons Storage Facility. They also dug a big presidential command post inside the mountain in case of nuclear attack. The underground post was supposed to keep the president safe and allow him to direct the government from there in time of war.
The military circled the whole mountain complex with one hundred twenty-two concrete munitions bunkers and what was called a “Perimeter Intrusion Detection and Assessment (or Alarm) System,” or “PIDAS,” monitored by armed guards. The PIDAS was more than the tall, razor-wire-topped fences (one of which was electrified) that ran parallel to each other around the mountain. Between the fences they graded a great swath of dirt. They laid wire mesh on the ground and covered the mesh with a layer of dirt. If intruders stepped on the wire mesh, sensors in the mesh would detect and report the intrusion.
For a while, as you might imagine, that facility was a Very Big Deal.
Later, with the advent of thermonuclear weapons, the government realized that the mountain couldn’t withstand such an attack, so they abandoned the presidential command post. Eventually they also moved the weapons out of the mountain and into a hardened underground storage facility called the Kirtland Underground Munitions Storage Complex—pronounced “Koom-Sec.”
Where is KUMSC exactly? Apparently “everyone” knows a big slice of America’s nuclear weapons arsenal is stored south of the Albuquerque Sunport’s runways. (Think of that the next time you fly into our fair city.)
Many of the weapons stored in KUMSC are in a queue awaiting disarmament. That said, out of fifteen states “hosting” nuclear weapons, KUMSC still has the largest stockpile.
Well, it’s nice to be recognized for something.
Back to the Manzano storage facility. After the military removed the nukes, they no longer had a use for the facility. Today the facility sits empty for the most part—but the tunnels are still there. The vaults and research plants are still there. Lots of rooms and tunnels and munitions bunkers and stuff are still there. It’s all still there. And these days the base provides only minimal security to the mountain.
Those are the parts you should remember.
Now more about Sandia. Many of Sandia’s programs apply to our nation’s nuclear weapons, but other big programs are listed on the science and innovation side. I interned in an area called microelectromechanical systems or MEMS.
Microelectromechanical systems is a mouthful, but please don’t glaze over! Cut “micro/electro/mechanical systems” into four pieces and think about each slice separately.
“Micro” means really tiny—micron tiny. Micron-sized things can’t be seen with the naked eye. In fact, you need a scanning electron microscope to see micron-sized particles.
I think we all know what “electro” refers to: Whatever the gizmo is, it runs on electricity.
Now add “mechanical” to micro and electro and you get “a really tiny mechanical device that runs on electricity.”
A mechanical device may be, technically, a robot—not a cartoon robot that acts as a household servant and not a scary AI that runs a space ship and intones, I’m sorry, Dave. I’m afraid I can’t do that, in a creepy, emotionless voice. No, I’m talking about a teensy-tiny gadget.
(Side note: I’m not saying that teensy-tiny gadgets can’t be disturbing and scary. I should know.)
Don’t disregard the last part, “systems.” A single device is one thing; a system is much more. I looked up the definition of “system,” and the one I think best applies to MEMS is, “A group of interacting mechanical or electrical components.” A system in this situation means a group of microelectromechanical devices interacting and acting in concert.
Now, think of that entire system as smaller than a micron—submicron in size. At a thousand times smaller than a micron, it’s called nanotechnology.
Of course, smart nanotechnology, adaptive nanotechnology is supposed to be futuristic. Fantastic. Sci-Fi.
Riiight.
Yes, I’m mocking.
Do I understand the science behind MEMS and nanotechnology? I bombed chemistry in high school and college, so no. I don’t understand it all. You don’t need to understand it, either.
Just remember really small stuff. I’ll fill in the details as we go along.
Now you know what I mean when I say that I worked as an intern in the MEMS program—but not in a lab or doing science stuff. I just performed “administrivia”—making appointments, ordering supplies, scheduling meetings, typing agendas and minutes, filing, etc. And likely, the most I could expect Sandia to offer me after graduation was a full-time admin position. Doing more of the same.
Although it would have been a good paying job, did I really want to be a glorified secretary my whole life? Even I—average, ordinary Gemma—rebelled against the idea. What kind of future was that to look forward to for forty years?
The thing was, Dr. Prochanski, the lead scientist of one of the teams, suggested that I had an aptitude for project management—and project management seemed a much brighter career path. I did some research and found that project managers or project controls specialists can earn a pretty good living and can work on lots of different, interesting projects. So, during my senior year, I took a PM certification night course through UNM Continuing Education.
It was rough, managing twenty hours of work a week, all of my graduation requirements, and a night course, but I stuck it out. I might be average, but I’m tenacious. In the end, my tenacity paid off.
After I earned my degrees and my PM certificate, Dr. Prochanski sent me a link to a contractor position in his lab! Sandia often hires a subcontractor company to fill certain staffing positions, usually when staffing needs are temporary or are financed through grants or limited-life funding.
I was okay with being a subcontractor. Lots of Sandians start as subcontractors and then are hired as regular Sandia employees.
I applied for the job, and the subcontractor company, Global Staffing Alliance, offered me an entry-level project coordinator position on Dr. Prochanski’s team. I was stoked!
The job was part administrative assistant, part inventory and project controls, but my position title meant I was logging real hours in project management. All I had to do was keep learning and in three years I’d be able to sit for my Project Management Professional certification exam.
I want to say a few words about Dr. Prochanski since he plays a large role early in my tale. The man was a demanding boss and a stickler for detail, but detail was something I did well. Because I seemed to always have a handle on “the details,” he grew quite affable toward me. That was when he suggested that I study project management during my senior year.
As a young in
tern I found it hard to believe that anyone actually noticed and valued me enough to advise me. I felt honored that Dr. P had taken a personal interest in me. And maybe because my dad had died when I was a kid, Dr. P’s attention spoke to a need I had.
I could count on one hand the number of people who had extended a helping hand to me as I grew up, so is it surprising that I felt a strong sense of gratitude and loyalty toward Dr. Prochanski? Can you blame me for trusting him?
I don’t think you can fault me, but it was still a huge mistake.
Chapter 2
I had been working in the MEMS program about a year when I first laid eyes on General Cushing. I arrived at work that morning, put my things away, and started brewing coffee for Dr. Prochanski and myself. I wasn’t late to work; in fact, I was ten minutes early, but Dr. P already had a guest.
“Gemma, this is General Cushing. Please bring us coffee as soon as the pot is ready, will you?”
Cushing’s rank and name likely conjure images of a lean but muscled old soldier, posture rigid, face cemented in unyielding lines, iron-gray hair cut high and tight.
Let me disabuse you of that impression.
General Imogene Cushing is short and a tiny bit plump. She wears her beautiful silvered hair in an elegant braid knotted at the nape of her neck, and she knows how to smile sweetly.
With the deadliest of sharks.
You wouldn’t suspect a two-star general, an Air Force O-8, of being a traitor, would you? And yet she has proven herself to be merciless, unscrupulous, and unrelenting—and no great supporter of our nation’s Bill of Rights. If or when things here go wrong, she will be the one coming for me.
I made the coffee and took two mugs into Dr. P’s office. General Cushing smiled at me, her pointy teeth gleaming brightly. Her dark eyes bored holes in my back as I set Dr. P’s mug on his desk.
“So you’re Gemma. Dr. Prochanski has been telling me how helpful you are to him.”
It was my first encounter with Cushing, and I didn’t like her. The way she dragged out the word “helpful”? It was demeaning, in a sort of sly, backhanded way.
Many of my female professors had raged against “the glass ceiling” and against the men in high places who keep women down. What those professors didn’t address were the women who’d made it, the women who’d broken through that glass ceiling, the minority who were breathing that rarified air—and who preferred to keep it that way.
My feminist profs encouraged us to Lean In—as the book of the same name urged—but the instructors forgot to warn us of the women who would sabotage us when we tried to. They didn’t mention those who wanted to remain one of the few women with power, the ones who were determined to keep their lofty heights uncluttered by other female competition and who viewed other women as potential threats.
Men keeping women down might be a real problem, but my profs should have encountered General Cushing. What a workshop that would have produced!
I blinked, and my ever-ready shuttered expression snapped into place. “Yes, ma’am. Will there be anything else?” When I met her gaze I was confident she’d see nothing more than an inane government drone. No threat at all.
Her eyes narrowed briefly but she smiled again and murmured. “No, that will be all. Gemma.”
Ugh!
And that will be all about General Cushing for the present.
Except this: She and Dr. P didn’t talk long that morning. He escorted her to the front door and, on his way back, said in passing, “Do not mention the general’s presence here today, Gemma.”
Odd, I thought, but I readily answered, “Of course, Dr. Prochanski.”
In my role at Sandia I held a security clearance and worked in a restricted area. As part of my job, I often handled classified matter (classified documents or information) or was privy to classified meetings.
I was trained in classified matter protection and control—the proper marking, handling, and protection of classified information. For that reason, I will cloak the details of my account with enough ambiguity to avoid ever being charged with the intentional release of classified matter (a.k.a. treason).
Remember, Sandia does MEMS research and development. Our MEMS lab was part of the Microsystems and Engineering Sciences Applications (MESA) complex at Sandia, which also included MESA’s semiconductor fabrication facilities (fabs), located in nearby buildings.
One of MESA’s fabs is strictly for the production of military semiconductor applications; the other fab is for civilian applications. On the civilian side, DOE is big on “tech transfer,” a licensing process that allows the public sector to transfer the technology DOE labs develop into real-life uses.
New, first-to-market technology spells BIG MONEY, so technology espionage is a real thing. Other industrial countries (China in particular) are always conniving to steal new discoveries and advances. Technology espionage makes tech transfer űber-complicated, given the level of security that is needed.
Enter Dr. Daniel Bickel.
In my last weeks as an intern, before I was hired as a full-time contractor employee in the MEMS program, a new scientist joined Dr. P’s team. From the get-go, I could tell he was going to be trouble because he and Dr. P did not hit it off.
Dr. Bickel was perhaps fifty-five with a tiny pot belly, spindly legs, and thinning, rust-colored hair and a scraggly beard of the same. In contrast, Dr. P was in his late forties, a large, bullish, robust man with a big, gregarious voice and personality. He loved to be in command—frankly, he wouldn’t have it otherwise.
Sandia greeted Dr. Bickel’s arrival as a real coup and made the announcement with a lot of hoopla. We were told how very world-renowned he was in his field and how lucky Sandia was to get him.
Rumors circulated about Dr. Bickel’s personal wealth. According to the grapevine, he could have worked in industry and made a pile of money, but he chose not to—because he already had a pile. A large one. He was, by all accounts, not “merely” rich, but “filthy” rich.
Weirdly enough, as enthusiastic as the bigwigs were to have Dr. Bickel, I thought the unremarkable-looking scientist was, himself, less than thrilled to “have” Sandia. He seemed annoyed by the fanfare and his notoriety. And he was unquestionably displeased that he would be reporting to Dr. P.
More on that soon.
From his first day, Dr. Bickel held himself aloof. Perhaps wary is a better word. I never saw him chat or joke. It wasn’t that he was in a bad mood. He just kept to himself and hardly spoke to anyone except his two techs, Rick and Tony. They came with him when he joined Sandia.
As Dr. P’s admin and project coordinator, I interacted with everyone on Dr. P’s team, for one reason or another. My desk was the hub of department business “stuff.” I developed what I hoped was a relaxed and occasionally fun relationship with all of Dr. P’s staff.
Not so with Dr. Bickel. From the beginning, he kept his distance from me. If he had a task for me, he left voicemail or scribbled messages on my desk after work. If he needed supplies, he preferred to shoot me an email rather than speak to me in person. Dr. Bickel’s standoffish attitude hurt my feelings more than a little. I wondered why such a prestigious scientist hadn’t taken a job where he’d be happy—’cause he sure didn’t seem happy at Sandia.
Dr. Bickel had his own lab space that only he and his two techs used. It was a small lab and I was surprised that the trappings of his “world-renowned” work were so Spartan, given the reception he’d received when he joined Sandia.
About six months after Dr. Bickel arrived, Dr. P announced in a staff meeting that Dr. Bickel and his team would be transferring their work to a new program. The program would be housed in a recently completed laboratory attached to our building. Dr. P said that the new program and lab had been given the acronym AMEMS for Advanced Microelectromechanical Systems. Then Dr. P said that he would be the program’s supervisor.
Apparently, Dr. Bickel was developing some innovative, cutting-edge MEMS manufacturing approach that didn’t
require semiconductor fabrication. I picked up a bunch of glowing but vague references to three-dimensional printing opening the door for this new approach. I also heard that this new method would render conventional semiconductor manufacturing obsolete.
How printing and MEMS manufacturing were related didn’t make sense to me, but Dr. Bickel was supposed to be ‘the bomb’ when it came to 3D R&D. Everyone was hoping his theories would result in some major breakthroughs.
A personal comment about the AMEMS lab: I might not have known the science, but I thought the name redundant. I mean, Sandia already touted its MEMS R&D program as “advanced.” Did this announcement mean that the newly established AMEMS R&D lab was more advanced than “merely” advanced?
Pffttt.
Anyway, Dr. Prochanski and Dr. Bickel and his staff moved into the AMEMS lab—to continue their work that was more advanced than the already advanced and cutting-edge R&D of Sandia’s “regular” MEMS lab.
Yes, I’m being snarky.
As for me? I was delighted and a little surprised when Dr. P brought me over as admin/project management support for the AMEMS program. It was a lateral move but it came with a small in-grade increase. The new level meant a little more money, which was welcome. I was grateful and more indebted to Dr. P.
The new program inspired a high level of activity and anticipation. The AMEMS lab was larger than the space Dr. Bickel had in the MEMS lab, so he added two post-docs and a small team of techs to assist him and the ever-present Rick and Tony. All I knew was that the pace of Dr. Bickel’s work picked up and generated lots of excitement.
Do you recall my saying how much Dr. Bickel despised Dr. P? Part of Dr. Bickel’s disdain was for Dr. P’s pompous personality; part of it was over “the science”—or the perceived lack thereof—on Dr. P’s part. It was no secret how low an opinion Dr. Bickel held of Dr. P’s academic credentials, yet Dr. Bickel had to report his progress to Dr. P during staff meetings. The result? Every staff meeting was as contentious as (or more than) the last.
Stealthy Steps Page 4
