Gettleman’s gut tightened as he tore his gaze away from the window. Like any of the twenty or so administrative offices in the VAB, Gettleman's place was small and poorly-air conditioned. The place was a general mess. Manuals, books, and colorful brochures stuffed the bookshelves. Blueprint posters and engineering charts overlapped each other on the remaining wall space.
Jack Kroft, Agency Director of the Thomas Dorian Space Center, stood in the open doorway. Still trim for a man in his late fifties, he was dressed in a gray suit and a narrow, patterned tie. He looked as if the sun and wind had chiseled his face and driven the color from his short-cropped hair. In each hand, he held a steaming mug of coffee. He stepped inside, set one mug down on a clear spot on Gettleman’s desk, and collapsed into the leather-backed chair in front of the desk.
“So here I am,” he said, taking a sip from his mug. “What's going on, Noah?”
Gettleman glanced back at his reflection in the window. Besides working for a place where departments never had to worry much about justifying their annual budgets, he liked having direct accessibility to his superiors. It was a welcome change from the old days of NASA's twisted bureaucracy.
Kroft leaned forward and peered at his senior flight director. He said nothing, waiting for Gettleman to speak.
Gettleman turned back again, gave the Director a grim look, and settled into the chair behind his desk. Nodding in appreciation, he reached for his coffee. He took a quick sip of the hot liquid, and found that his hands were already trembling, without the benefit of caffeine. He set the cup back down.
“I wanted to talk to you about the mission.”
“What about it?”
“Are we still coming in under budget for this mission?”
Kroft shrugged. “For this flight? Barely. But in the end, it's the launch rate that lets us make our numbers. You know that.”
“You’re being a bit cavalier, aren’t you?”
Kroft shrugged. “Hey, back in the ‘70s, when they were selling the shuttle program to Congress, they claimed that the shuttles would fly forty times per year. It was a completely bogus claim. At the time, there wasn't even a payload manifest large enough to justify that kind of launch rate.” The director grinned. “Why do you think the International Space Station was built with a multiple shuttle launch and orbit-assembly strategy? It was way to keep the old shuttle fleet flying into the twenty-first century.”
Gettleman nodded. “We could have heavy-lifted the station in pieces.”
“That’s right. And as long as we keep our birds flying, we’ll make our numbers. It worked for NASA, and it’ll work for us. Only this time, we have passengers actually waiting for flights, with deposits already paid.” He took another sip of coffee. “Now, what’s on your mind?”
Gettleman leaned forward and folded his hands on his desk. “I didn’t want to raise a red flag by sending you a memo. I figured it would be better to discuss this matter in person. I mean, I know this is not a good - ” He realized that he was rambling, and with Kroft’s frown telling him to get to the point quickly, he decided that it was time to get to the point. He took a deep breath, held it, and then blew it out. “There’s a design flaw in the orbiter.”
There it was. He’d said it.
Kroft blinked once, but did not look the least bit surprised. The leather upholstery crackled as he leaned back in his seat.
“Go on,” he said.
Gettleman pulled some papers from a folder on his desk and held them up. “A few days ago, I was going through safety reports when I found something disturbing. Stress fractures.” He leaned across the desk and handed the papers to Kroft. “After the second test flight of the Naiad, the engine thruster cowls suffered micro-fractures.”
“Yes, I've read this report.”
“And nothing was done?”
Kroft looked up and handed back the papers. “We concluded that the fractures created no risk to the craft as long as the situation was monitored.”
“And who came up with this assessment?”
“Our flight engineers.”
“I see. And were there follow-up tests?”
“I believe so.”
“How many tests?”
“I couldn't say.”
Now it was Gettleman's turn to sit back in his seat. “Would it surprise you to know that I’ve been unable to find any record of additional testing related to those fractures?”
Kroft said nothing.
“If you weren't going to perform follow-up tests, don't you think we should have replaced the cowls?”
Kroft shook his head. “We’re not going to replace unnecessary parts, Noah. Do you have any idea how much those thruster cowl assembly units cost?”
“About four point six million dollars each,” Gettleman replied. He had done his homework. “The Naiad has four assembly units, two for each engine. Those units were designed to last for over one hundred flights; we have stress fractures appearing after two.”
“Microscopic fractures,” Kroft added. “For all we know, those cracks are regular phenomena. We are talking about propulsion systems constructed of materials that have never been used before in aeronautics. Like I said, our people concluded that the fractures are harmless.”
“How would they know that they were harmless, if they never performed any follow-up tests?” A scowl crossed Gettleman's face. He found it hard to believe that his people would ignore a design flaw like this - and worse, keep it buried.
“All right,” Kroft finally relented. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced away. “Off the record, we’ve tested the hell out of those systems. We ran fifteen consecutive tests and the assembly units held fine. Everyone in the design group has signed off on the safety of the thrusters. We kept information about the cracks quiet so questions like yours wouldn't get the public agitated about the safety of our spacecraft.”
“If you had cared about the perception of safety, then you would have replaced nineteen million dollars’ worth of parts every other flight. But that's expensive, and it blows our flight budgets out of the water. Between that and the effect that known cowl damage would have on booking passenger flights, we're looking at a bad situation, aren't we?”
“Exactly, Noah.”
Gettleman threw up his hands. “This is bullshit, Jack. You know I would have scrubbed the launch if I knew about this before.”
“That's why you didn't know. Listen; there is no risk to that orbiter. I would have scrubbed the mission myself if I had thought otherwise.” Kroft leaned forward and his voice dropped almost to a whisper. “How did you found out about this?”
“I’m the Senior Flight Director,” Gettleman replied flatly. He stood and walked around his desk. “I make it my business to know things. And I am coming to you - in private - with the hope that you will do the right thing.”
“Noah, you’ll just have to trust that we know how to take care of our spacecraft.” With that, the Agency Director rose from his seat.
Gettleman met Kroft at the door, blocking the path out of the office. He stared at the agency director for a long moment, narrowing his eyes and gathering emotional strength. “You’d better be right,” he told Kroft in a low, steady voice, “because we both know what could happen if you’re wrong.”
“You’re getting worked up over nothing.”
Gettleman glanced away, blew air between his teeth. “Jack, you remember STS 51-L?”
Kroft stared at the flight director with a mix of shock and disgust. “That’s not funny, Noah.”
STS 51-L had been NASA’s twenty-fifth shuttle mission, the Challenger Shuttle Disaster.
And Noah Gettleman was not joking at all.
CHAPTER NINE
“The memo I sent outlines what's happened as of this morning,” Samson Tyler explained, pacing around his office. “It’s light on analysis, as we don’t know yet the full extent of our situation.”
Three law licenses and two graduate diplomas decorated the paneled walls of Tyler’s office. On t
he cherry wood desk sat a flat-screen monitor and an antique brass desk lamp with a hand-painted stained glass shade. Tyler had paid for his office furniture out of pocket, as he had been unhappy with the quality of Templar’s furnishings. The room was methodically organized, from the alphabetized books on the shelves down to the organized stacks of the New York Law Journal near the door.
Seated on his couch beside the glass-encased bookshelf, Ramona Vargas, Templar’s Director of Operations, watched as Tyler paced the room. Like many who worked in Templar’s upper management, she was younger than forty, though only by a year. She was also single, and rumors abounded of a secret relationship between her and Samson Tyler.
When Tyler joined the company, Ramona was already heading up the advanced prototype team. Soon after, she caught Sinclair Dorian's attention, and quickly ascended the corporate hierarchy after the first orbiter prototype was constructed. She was promoted to Division Head, and later convinced Dorian to create a “Director of Operations” position for her. In time, as Dorian relinquished day-to-day oversight of the company, Ramona assumed more and more responsibility. Although Dorian was still Templar's Chairman and CEO, Ramona Vargas was by all measures running the company.
Professionally, Tyler and Ramona were cordial, but Tyler did not trust her; he preferred to deal directly with Sinclair Dorian. That was why he had visited Dorian the night before.
Ramona shifted her crossed legs and leaned forward. Her black pleated slacks and a gray, billowy blouse were casual but sharp. She had olive skin, dark hair and full lips, combined with animated good looks. She raised an eyebrow. “So where should we go from here, Samson?” Her Brooklyn accent provided a bit of roughness to her voice. “What do we know so far?”
Tyler stopped pacing. “The feds, for once, are airtight on the case. All we know is that they are very interested in our surplus material purchases.”
“Surplus material?”
“We obtain parts, equipment and material from buyers who make purchases through government auctions,” Tyler explained, realizing that she had not bothered to read his memo. He wasn't surprised. Ramona preferred to be briefed on important matters in person.
He walked over to the window. “Over the last six months, we’ve bought about seven and a half-million dollars’ worth of scrap material. We’re still digging through records - the same records that were seized by the FBI yesterday. To be honest, I’m not sure exactly what they’re looking for.”
“I hope you plan to find out.”
Tyler let the sarcasm pass without comment.
“I’m speaking with the Board of Directors this afternoon. I’m going to need more detail on this situation.”
“What time are you meeting with them?” Tyler asked.
“You’re not going.”
“The board is going to ask you legal questions, Ramona. I can’t prepare you for everything they might ask.”
“Then send someone with me. Send Dusty.”
“Fine. Bring him along.”
Ramona had kept Tyler from executive-level meetings before. He saw this as her way of keeping him out of the spotlight and eliminating the possibility that he would upstage her. Not that he would ever intentionally do that, of course.
Ramona eased back in her seat. “So, basically after twenty-four hours, the best you can tell me is that the FBI took some purchasing records, and because we don’t know what they might be looking for, we’re not even sure how big a problem we’re facing.” She spread her hands. “You’re not impressing me, Samson.”
“Hey, cut the guy some slack.”
They both turned to see Jacob Jackson at the doorway. Templar’s Chief Financial Officer was a large man with the bearing of an athlete. His suit was casual and loose, and true to his unconventional style, he clenched the stub of an unlit cigar in his teeth.
“We buy a ton of government surplus material,” Jackson said, quietly closing the door behind him. He nodded a greeting to the others and pulled the cigar stub from his mouth. His face was rugged, more suited for the outback than the boardroom, with thin gray hair combed straight from one side of his head to the other. “We use most of the material for testing purposes, particularly at the New Mexico site. We've been doing it for a while now. It saves us money.”
For Jacob Jackson, it was always about the bottom line. Jackson had been appointed Templar's CFO soon after Dorian bought up the company. Years before, Jackson had been a successful partner at the investment firm of Goldman Sachs. On the day they met, Tyler had suspected Jackson had once been an investment banker. Even at fifty-nine, the man still plastered his hair down with gel.
“And these purchases are all through normal channels?” Tyler asked with a twinge of concern.
Jackson gave a cryptic smile and snapped the cigar stub back in his mouth. Then he walked over and fell onto the couch beside Ramona. He looked over at the younger woman, grinned, and then chewed thoughtfully on his cigar.
“Yeah,” he finally answered, looking back at Tyler. “We follow standard purchasing procedures. Of course we do.”
Tyler moved away from the window and sat down behind his desk. “Do we buy scrapped weapons systems? We’re tracing back the purchases and -”
Before Tyler could continue, Jackson interrupted him. This habit often annoyed his colleagues. “Listen, folks. In the last few years, we’ve bought everything from desks to computers to scrapped Tomahawk cruise missile casings.” He held up his hand. “The missiles were used for rocket experiments. Nothing sinister, I assure you. Look, I personally oversee our procurement accounts. We deal with reputable intermediaries. If we didn’t, somebody would have already been out of a job.”
Tyler studied Jackson's craggy face and sharp eyes, trying to determine just how serious the older man took the situation. Jackson’s statements were reassuring. No one - not even Sinclair Dorian - knew the inner workings of the company better than Jacob Jackson.
Jackson was shaking his head. “This is such bullshit. It never ends. I get so tired of defending what we do.”
“This could get ugly,” Ramona said, drumming her fingernails on the couch arm. “We could have our public relations department just announce the investigation before the details are leaked.”
“That might not be a great idea,” Tyler said. “We should let the other side make the first move. Then I could have us -”
“Before you do anything,” Ramona broke in, “you're going to run it past me. I want to know everything that happens, as it happens, Samson.”
“Of course,” Tyler replied, biting back his annoyance. “And while you’re both here, I’ll tell you now that I've decided to conduct an internal investigation on our procurement practices, before we’re slapped with more subpoenas.”
Ramona frowned. “What’s there to investigate?”
“Yeah,” Jackson added. “I’ll give you everything you want.”
“I know,” Tyler said, moving behind his desk. “For now, though, I have three reasons for conducting an official internal investigation. The first reason is to minimize interference with the normal operations of the business. The second reason is to minimize cash expenditures on outside counsel. The third reason is to get to the bottom of all this before anyone else does.”
Ramona considered that for a moment. “All right. Start whenever you’re ready.”
“It’s already begun.” Tyler opened his desk drawer and removed two envelopes. He walked over and handed one to Ramona and the other to Jackson.
“Ramona, this memorandum directs me to conduct a confidential investigation on behalf of the corporation. It stresses the need for confidentiality and directs my department to use any other departments or personnel that we feel are necessary.”
“Understood,” she said, scanning her copy of the memo.
“And that's where you come in, Jacob. During this investigation, you are to report to me directly.”
“And myself,” Ramona added, looking up.
“Actually, no,�
� Tyler corrected her as he sat down. “Everything goes through me. The reason we don't go through the regular chain of command is so there will be no doubt about whether the attorney-client privilege was intended during any communication. I also want any of the documents generated during the investigation to be clearly labeled as 'privileged and confidential'. That will also help maintain our work-product privileges.”
“Do they teach you all this stuff in law school?” Jackson asked with a tight grin.
Tyler smiled back. “You'd be surprised how little real-world law they teach you in law school.” Then he became serious again. “I’ll get you written instructions outlining exactly what we will require from your department.”
Jackson nodded slowly. “Just like the old days, eh, Samson?”
It was almost three years ago that the Securities and Exchange Commission launched a massive investigation into the financing of Templar's initial public offering. Samson Tyler had just been hired on as counsel. He had done some litigation work for a small firm after graduating law school, but he had never been involved in a major government lawsuit.
Tyler helped the company throw up legal roadblocks to fight the SEC to a standstill. After half a year of legal wrangling, Templar managed to get the agency to drop its investigation for lack of evidence. Many people at the time credited his performance for saving the company.
Tyler didn't appreciate the reference to the time when the SEC was at the company's throat. It was a rough time for everyone, and he hadn't yet reached that 'one day you'll laugh about it' point. He doubted that he ever would.
“We’ll begin our interviews with the employees over the next few days,” he told the others. “From here on in, consider the investigation to be active.”
Jackson pushed himself from the couch and stood.
“There's one last thing I want to mention,” Tyler added as Jackson headed for the door. “You'll be hearing this a lot, but I want to tell you now that any employee, including the two of you, has the right to consult with an attorney prior to and during every interview. I want to remind you that my department and I work for the company. Any information you provide may or may not be disclosed to other management or government authorities. Are we clear on that?”
Shattered Legacy Page 6
