Shattered Legacy

by Shane R. Daley

  “Are you firing me, Mr. Tyler?”

  “Denise, your mistake could have cost us millions.”

  Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh, God. You are firing me.”

  Tyler lowered his head. “I considered that. I really did.” He paused as the metal doors slid open. “But right now we’re too busy to get a new person up to speed.”

  The young attorney blinked as she watched the two men step into the elevator. As they turned to face her, she looked from one to the other, working her mouth, unable to find any words.

  Tyler pressed the door button, and nodded farewell. “Go take a walk, Denise. Think about this. We’ll see you after lunch.”

  The doors slid shut, leaving Denise Jenison to face her own distorted reflection - and the dawning realization that despite everything that had happened, she still had her job.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A continuous, twelve-foot high perimeter fence encircled the five square miles of desert property that comprised the Thomas Dorian Space Center. Squat buildings, their great size masked by the distance, sat shimmering in the New Mexico heat. At first look, the facility resembled a traditional airport complete with a runway, an aircraft hangar, and a rising octagonal control tower. Only on closer inspection did one realize that the runway was too long, that aboveground tubes connected every building, and that the hangar was actually a massive, climate-controlled Vehicle Assembly Building.

  Six months ago, Templar Enterprises’ space orbiter completed its first successful test flight. The Naiad (whose name was selected as the result of an online contest) was now ready for its first official mission to ferry supplies to the International Space Station. The launch of the corporate-owned spacecraft was the most anticipated space mission of the year.

  Cameras flashed along the row of bright lights and television cameras that filled the Building Seven media room. A colorful mission emblem logo hung from the curtained wall. Three astronauts were seated behind a long table on the stage. They were dressed in blue jumpsuits, sipping water, joking, and fielding questions from the large media audience.

  Commander Roland McManus, a 42-year-old former U.S. Air Force captain and a veteran of three space flights, was getting the most attention. Lean and rugged looking, he had cropped brown hair, bright blue eyes, and a confident smile.

  “I look forward to a successful mission,” he said, speaking into his table microphone. “I have a great team backing me up, so there are no worries there. Of course, the worst part of the mission will be the time spent away from my family. I don’t want to embarrass her, so I’ll ask you not to turn your cameras to the pretty blond woman standing near the back doors.” He raised his hand and grinned. “Hi, honey. I’ll be home before you know it.”

  “How do you feel about filming a commercial in space?” asked another reporter.

  “I think it’ll be the easiest thirty minutes of the mission,” he replied with a smile. “It’s my stepping stone to Hollywood.”

  “We have a running bet to see who gets the first offer,” Elliot Schwartz added, leaning into his microphone. Schwartz was the Naiad's pilot and second in command. His face was thin and gaunt, with pockmarked cheeks and intense black eyes. He had been a fighter pilot in the U.S. Air Force for nearly a decade and was slated to captain the maiden voyage of Templar’s second, and as-yet unnamed, orbiter.

  Another reporter asked what they had for their last meal.

  “Eggs, toast, and juice,” said the third astronaut. Todd Boynton was the Mission Specialist. He was a former instructor pilot and had actually been on more space missions than anyone else on the crew, having logged over two hundred hours in space during his tenure at NASA. He was a small, compact man. His bald scalp was compensated with thick, dark eyebrows and a matching beard.

  “They don’t allow snacks before launch, but I usually manage to sneak aboard a candy bar or two,” Schwartz added.

  “You’ve been holding out on us on the test flights?” McManus cried out with feigned shock. “Hand ’em over!”

  The last question of the morning was whether anyone was planning to smuggle any other contraband onto the International Space Station.

  With amused smiles, the astronauts refused to answer.

  The press conference ended on an upbeat note. After a final farewell, security escorted the astronauts out of the room, and they headed to the Operations Support Wing for their final suit-up before launch.

  ***

  Dr. Noah Gettleman, Senior Flight Director of the Thomas Dorian Space Center, stood proudly on the upper command platform of the Launch Control Tower, overlooking the two wide trenches of computer consoles that supported twenty-four workstations.

  The atmosphere in the brightly-lit room was subdued and professional. Station techs and engineers spoke quietly into microphones, as communications transmitted over dozens of private and public channels. Others were moving about, checking in with stations and moving on. Four observation windows allowed a panoramic view of the massive Vehicle Assembly Building, the runway, and beyond. Mounted above the windows were three huge monitors that displayed a myriad of technical readouts, projected weather conditions and system statuses. Gettleman clasped his hands behind his back as the red numbers ticked down on the countdown clock above the center display.

  He felt exhilarated.

  This was just like the old days at NASA.

  Almost.

  He grunted as he brought his hands back around and rubbed them together anxiously. Large in both height and girth, Noah Gettleman was a man who would have avoided exercise even if he had the time for it. His neck bulged out from around his collar and tie. An unkempt mop of brown hair peaked over his wrinkled brow and flushed cheeks.

  Gettleman had joined NASA in the early ‘90s, worked his way up from a console technician to an assistant flight director, and had attained flight director status by the early 2000s. He had overseen a dozen space shuttle missions before one of the agency's endless rounds of budget cuts forced him into early retirement. Soon after, leveraging his experience and contacts, Gettleman became a freelance consultant in the aerospace industry.

  As a consultant, he’d made more money in that first year than he had the previous five at his old job. However, after a few years of flying around the country, bouncing from project to project for one company or another, the lifestyle became tiresome. He missed being a part of a team.

  In the end, it had taken only a single phone call and a two-hour telephone interview with a recruiter from Templar Enterprises to get Gettleman back in the old game.

  Almost the old game, he reminded himself again. Templar Enterprises was far less bureaucratic than NASA. The pay was better, there was less infighting over resources, and there was much better media coverage. Templar wasn’t necessarily a better organization than NASA, but being a commercial enterprise did have its advantages.

  Giving the room a final appraising nod, Gettleman turned and glanced up at the glass-enclosed observation gallery half a floor above. Gettleman had been provided a guest list, but in all honesty, he didn’t care about playing to an audience. With a grunt, he turned back to his command console. His stomach grumbled, though no one sitting near him appeared to notice. Taking the noise as a sign of trouble to come, he reached for a bottle on the desk, popped two antacid tablets into his mouth, and crunched them loudly.

  Officially, the launch countdown clock began ticking at T-3 hours. Excluding the built-in hold times, it would take about another hour to conduct the final launch procedures. They were on a tight schedule, and everything had to perform flawlessly. After all, thousands of people were watching them today, not including the esteemed guests upstairs.

  “Thrust barrier on standby,” announced a female voice over the public address system. The sound echoed throughout the tower. “All primary launch systems nominal.” Although Templar's single-stage to space orbiter was supposed to be as routine to launch as a passenger airliner, multiple redundant safety procedures bogged down the c
ountdown sequence. The details sometimes contributed to nerve-wracking delays, though Gettleman would have it no other way. No matter what anyone thought, no matter how advanced the technology, space flight was and always would be a complex endeavor.

  And Noah Gettleman took nothing for granted.

  The droning of conversation became louder as the station techs continued their system check sequences.

  Gettleman leaned over his console to speak to a tech seated in the console row below.

  “Hey, Phil,” he called out. “How are we doing?”

  The station chief glanced up. “The last of the personnel vehicles have returned.” He pressed his earpiece and nodded. “Okay, the runway is cleared and safed.”

  “Excellent.” Gettleman straightened and glanced up at the countdown clock. He took a sip of his bitter coffee, swallowed, and grimaced as he felt his ulcer burn. He set down the mug, slipped on his headset, and pressed a finger against the earpiece. He looked up at the monitors. “All perimeter checkpoints are green,” he said over the broad channel. “Security reports the area as secure. Access roads are now blocked, and building lockdown is complete.”

  He glanced down at the checklist he had already committed to memory. Before he could start reading, a voice called out for him over his headset.

  “Doctor Gettleman. One moment, please!”

  Gettleman frowned. He scanned the room to see who had the nerve to call him on his private channel. The security communication tech was waving from his station near the main double-doors.

  “What is it?” Gettleman snapped as he walked to the platform railing.

  He watched the tech speak into his microphone as he heard the voice in his earpiece. “We have reporters from CNN just outside the room,” the tech told him. “They'd like to film the launch preparations.”

  “We let them do that during our test launch.”

  “I wasn't aware of that, sir.”

  “I put this building off limits.” Gettleman gripped the railing with both hands. “How did reporters even get inside the tower?”

  “They just showed up, sir. What do you want me do with them?”

  Gettleman tore away his headset and shouted across the room. “What do you think I want you to do? Get rid of them! No one comes in here when I'm working! You got that? Get rid of them now!”

  The conversation level in the tower dropped a fraction. Only a few station techs glanced up; the rest ignored the outburst. Shouting was not a new thing in the Control Room - especially from Noah Gettleman, and especially within an hour of a launch.

  “Hey,” Gettleman called out to the security tech. “That’s the last time these clowns slip past the guards. Understand?”

  “Got it.”

  “You better.”

  The tech gave a timid 'thumbs-up' sign and sat back down.

  Still red-faced and fuming, Gettleman stomped back to his desk. He switched his desk monitor to a live ground-level view of the runway. He could see that the observation stands were packed. A lot people were waiting to see history happen. He did not want to disappoint them.

  He pressed his headset back to his ear and continued the checklist sequence over the broad channel. “I want to verify launch commit criteria.”

  One station after another reported in rapid sequence. In these last minutes, there were so many things to keep track of and so many details to check that he felt like a traffic cop trying to direct an eight-lane interstate exchange.

  “Hold on,” he said, checking items off on his clipboard. “All right. Confirm liquid level sensor checks.”

  “Liquid level sensor checks complete.”

  “Open loop check complete.”

  “Launch readiness poll of orbiter launch team complete.”

  “Are we ready for ingress of flight crew and seats?” Gettleman asked, glancing up.

  “Hold on.”

  Gettleman swiped a hand across the back of his neck as he waited for confirmation.

  “Affirmative. We’re go for ingress.”

  “Countdown clock holding at T-1 hour,” Gettleman said, breaking from sequence. His stomach churned again. “All right. Let's get the crew loaded and start this milk run.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  For as much research and development as Templar Enterprises invested in the name of space exploration, the company’s center of influence existed at a decidedly down-to-earth location in Midtown Manhattan.

  Samson Tyler stepped from the elevator onto the thirty-sixth floor of the Yashamida building. Several people greeted him as he made his way down the carpeted corridor. He nodded back politely, distracted by his thoughts. He still could hardly believe that the Penraxis Corporation had tried to use a shell corporation in the sale of their fabrication plant. If they were capable of that deceit, what other surprises were they hiding? Better to never find out, he figured. It disturbed him that the prestigious law firm of Bryce, Holloway, would knowingly lie for their client.

  Anything for money, he supposed.

  Now it was time to tackle the second crisis of the morning.

  The hallway opened to a sparsely-decorated reception area. A woman sat behind a large circular desk, clearly losing the battle against the growing stacks of files that surrounded her. Cindy Robertson was Tyler's legal secretary. She was in her late-thirties, though she could have passed for ten years younger. She wore a light, conservative dress that contrasted with her brown skin. Her black hair was pulled back with a red bow. She looked relieved as she saw him approach.

  “These gentlemen have been waiting for you,” she said, standing up and gesturing to several men standing beside the file cabinets. Each wore a dark suit, and a grave, impatient expression.

  Tyler nodded to the group. A broad-shouldered, middle-aged man stepped forward. His thinning blonde hair was combed straight back, revealing a high, furrowed brow. His jaw was set, lips drawn to a tight line. He was obviously the man with experience, the person in charge.

  Tyler held out his hand. “Good morning. I’m Samson Tyler.”

  The other man seemed visibly startled. He took a small step back and sized up the attorney. His mouth hinted at a smile, as if he half-expected a joke. “You’re the general counsel?” His voice was low, barely above a whisper.

  “I am,” Tyler replied with a firm handshake. Because of his age, he got that a lot. It didn’t bother him anymore. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “I'm Special Agent Andrew Lowell,” the man stated, flipping his wallet open to show his Federal Bureau of Investigation credentials. He nodded to the man who came up beside him. “This is Special Agent Ramirez. We're here on behalf of the Department of Justice.”

  Ramirez was shorter and of slighter build. He wore rimless spectacles that seemed ready to slide off his thin, peaked nose. His black hair was cut regulation short. Compared with Lowell, Ramirez looked almost mousy. However, Samson Tyler knew better than to confuse looks with demeanor. The FBI was the investigative arm of the Department of Justice. That made this a serious matter.

  “We have a search warrant for these premises,” Lowell said.

  “This could have been scheduled,” Tyler told the agent. “It would have saved everyone time.”

  Cindy broke in as she half-rose from her desk. “These gentlemen have been waiting for you for nearly half an hour.” She smiled over at them sweetly. “They've been quite patient.”

  Tyler nodded. Cindy knew enough to handle the situation, though he wished he had been present when the agents arrived.

  Ramirez handed Tyler the warrant. “We should be out of your hair in a few hours.”

  Tyler glanced down at the papers. “Time is not a problem.”

  “Then we’ll just get started,” Lowell said, cracking his first smile of the day.

  Still scanning the papers, Tyler held up a finger. “Before you get too far, Agent Lowell, I’d like business cards from you and each of your associates.”

  Lowell signaled for the others to comply. Tyler exam
ined the cards as they were handed over. Lowell was from the FBI, as was John Ramirez. However, their companions were identified as members of the FBI’s Computer Analysis and Response Team. The last man was not even with the FBI. He was an agent of the Defense Criminal Investigative Service, an investigative arm from the Department of Defense.

  Tyler handed the cards to Cindy. “Place a call to Ed Grayson and get our team down here.” He turned to the agents to explain. “Mr. Grayson is our outside counsel who handles criminal matters.”

  “I've already tried to contact him,” Cindy replied. “Mr. Grayson is out on Long Island today. It may be a while before he gets back to us. I left a message.”

  “That's fine.” Tyler reread the search warrant, ignoring the impatient stares of the agents. He noticed there were no supporting affidavits. That worried him, as it did not give him much insight as to who was behind this investigation. The warrant itself was limited to specific documents relating to purchase orders, bills of lading, and legal records, all regarding supply acquisitions over the last six months. It also requested hard drives and specific computer equipment containing that data. Everything seemed proper, but Tyler was not about to let these agents overrun his offices too easily.

  He looked up at Lowell. “I’d like you to wait until I can speak with the Assistant U.S. Attorney.”

  “This is a routine search, Mr. Tyler. We know exactly what we need. What's the point -”

  “A name, please.”

  “Rebecca Taber,” Lowell replied grudgingly. “Assistant U.S. Attorney for the Southern District.”

  Tyler's eyes lit up. He gave the agents a sly grin. “Rebecca Taber lands a lot of high-profile cases these days. Is this going to become a media circus?”

  “I wouldn't know, Mr. Tyler.” Lowell turned to his men, giving a nod for the group to proceed. As the agents walked away, he turned back around and held up his hands, palms out. “Don’t worry, Mr. Tyler, we’ll be gentle.”

  Tyler made no move to stop the agents as they filed out of the reception area. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and said loudly, “On behalf of the company, its employees and its counsel, I object to this search.”