Yet.
One final printout caught his eye. According to the report, engineering had noted a second fracture spot in the port thruster cowl and had authorized a repair. Not a replacement, but a repair - or more specifically, a weld.
“Son of a bitch,” Gettleman blurted out. “They patched the thing?”
“Yep.”
Gettleman noted the repair date, and his jaw dropped a fraction. “That repair was done two months ago. The Naiad was launched two days later on a final test flight.” He flipped to the bottom of the stack. “And the patch wasn’t examined after the test?”
“According to the computer network, no. But in the archives, it looked like they did further testing. I couldn’t make copies, though. I wasn’t allowed.”
“And how did that weld repair hold up?”
“Fine, I guess. Again, the only way to tell what was really done is to search the archived records. That seems to be the only valid source of information around here.”
Gettleman nodded appreciatively as he opened a drawer and deposited the file.
Kanavos frowned as Gettleman slid the drawer shut. “So, uh, what are you going to do now?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“And my transfer?”
Gettleman stared down at his desk and slowly shook his head. Part of him wished he had never suspected a problem with the orbiter. Why would Templar Enterprises spend over two billion dollars on a space plane only to keep secret an easily-repairable design flaw? There had been dozens of glitches corrected in the previous shakedowns. This engine cowl problem was nothing special - aside from the cost.
“Doctor Gettleman?”
He lifted his head and blinked. “I’ll take care of your transfer,” he said. “It might take a few days, though.”
Kanavos glanced over at a large schematic of the orbiter hanging on the wall. “I’ve lasted this long. A few more days won’t kill me.”
The technician left. Gettleman sighed and slumped back in his seat, rubbing his face with his hands. Someone was trying to bury an orbiter design flaw, even to the point of covering up repair work. This was more than just keeping a minor problem concealed. This was outright fraud, a problem that reflected badly on the flight program. The more he thought about the situation, the angrier he became.
Minutes later, he found himself stomping across the complex, headed straight for Jack Kroft’s office.
***
“Where on earth did you get this?”
The words hung in the air for several moments before Noah Gettleman found the words to reply. “That doesn’t matter,” he said, clenching his jaw and clasping his hands tightly behind his back. “As you can see, the archived records and our network maintenance logs show major discrepancies.”
From behind his large oak desk, Jack Kroft did not attempt to disguise his annoyance. He sat ramrod-straight, his hands clenched tightly on the arms of his ergonomically-designed executive chair. The information that Kanavos had provided to Gettleman was lying in a neat stack on the green desk blotter. Kroft had not given the files so much as a glance after Gettleman explained what they were.
“What are you trying to do to me?” Kroft asked abruptly.
“I'm trying to open your eyes.” Gettleman shot back. He nodded toward the papers. “Do you have any idea what we're sitting on here?”
“We've been over this, Noah.”
“You never told me that we’ve been doing patch jobs and burying information.”
“I didn't need to. And to tell you the truth, this isn’t a concern to me. Right now, you are my number one headache.”
Gettleman grunted derisively. “You have bigger problems than me, Jack.”
“I don't think this is funny,” Kroft growled. “I've got an orbiter floating out in space, and you're dredging up shit about archived reports. Now listen to me, Noah. There are no problems with that orbiter.”
Gettleman leaned forward, slapping his palms on the desk. “Then why was the patch job buried?”
“Noah, you know that's not -”
“You buried work orders! You had maintenance files altered!”
“Of course I did!”
The conversation died away, with neither man daring to break the grim silence that followed. Kroft's blunt admission had stunned them both. Finally, after a long moment, Kroft wheeled back in his chair and stared into the distance, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.
“You knew.” Gettleman ground his jaw as he spoke, trying to digest this new information. “The patch worked for the last two launches, but how do we know it will work for another? Does the orbiter have to blow up before -?”
“Enough, Noah. That's enough.”
Gettleman balled his fists at his sides. “We are not going to pretend everything works fine for the sake of appearances. I'm going to ground the program.”
“No, you're not.” Kroft pushed his chair back, stood, and leaned forward, his knuckles pressed against the top of the desk. For a moment, the two faced each other, nose to nose. “We've already ordered the fabrication of new parts,” Kroft said. “They'll arrive in three months. Then the whole component system will be overhauled, and the problem with the engine cowls will be a non-issue.”
Gettleman cocked his head. “But before that happens, the Naiad is scheduled for at least three more missions. Are we going to risk more launches?”
“It's not that easy. We're in an awkward position.” Kroft's face suddenly softened. He backed away and walked around his desk toward the bookshelf. He idly ran a finger along the spine of a spiral-bound flight manual, and then looked down at the floor. “It all comes down to our Safety Oversight Committee. You see, they’re an independent body, and they’ve been riding us hard since the program started. With them mouthing off to the press about every little problem and snag, we … we just started hiding things from them.”
Gettleman closed his eyes. “Oh, Lord…”
“How did you even find out about this? How did you even get this information?”
Gettleman was waiting for that question. He stood up. “I know how we deal with potential troublemakers around here. Passwords that used to work suddenly become invalid. Files get flagged. Phone calls are monitored. It starts at the edges, but eventually you start being shut out of the system. I’m not stupid, Jack.”
With a shrug and a refusal to meet his gaze, Kroft confirmed Gettleman’s suspicions.
“Look,” Kroft said with a sigh. “Engineering has been all over the engine cowl issue from the beginning. They feel the cowls are safe, and that they will be fine for at least another dozen launches. I back them up on that assessment. We’re going to replace the systems as soon as we can. Quietly, and within budget.” Seeing Gettleman’s reaction, he raised a finger. “This is my call, Noah, and I've made it.”
Gettleman shook his head; his jowls quivered. “It should have been my call. I don't allow unnecessary risk to my people. I didn't do it at NASA, and I'm sure as hell not doing it here.”
“And you have proof of this ‘unnecessary risk’?”
Gettleman blinked, caught off guard by Kroft's question. “Proof? Look at the repairs we covered up. That's all the proof I need.”
Kroft reached out to straighten a family photograph on the wall. “In case you haven't heard, we're under severe pressure here to perform. Regardless, safety is my top priority, and I would quit this job before I would expose our astronauts to unnecessary risk.” Satisfied that the picture was as straight as he could make it, he turned back and placed a hand on the senior launch director's shoulder.
Gettleman glanced down at the hand.
“Noah, if there was the slightest chance of an accident, I would have scrubbed the mission myself.”
“If everything is so fine, then what makes you so afraid of our Oversight Committee?”
Kroft cocked his head to one side and spread his hands in a gesture of supplication. “Tell you what. Lodge all the formal protests you want and cove
r your ass with enough memos to wallpaper the VAB. But don't do anything until after this mission.”
“I don't care about covering my ass, Jack. I care about my astronauts.”
Kroft looked up at Gettleman with a steady gaze. His expression was open, almost friendly, but his eyes revealed a steely resolve. Then the agency director leaned forward. Shoulders hunched, he spoke slowly and deliberately. “You're going to behave yourself, Noah. If you don't, I'll fire you. Then I'll make sure you never work in this industry again. You follow me?”
Gettleman stared at him for a moment, and then glanced away and clenched his jaw. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I understand perfectly.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lynn Anholt’s security detail had little time to perform advance work in protecting Samson Tyler. Because of the rush, she decided to have her people perform logistics on the Strathenge Hotel after they settled their client into position. They would do an inspection of the building layout and its access points. They would also interview the staff and make sure that only employees who had been with the hotel for a long time would be able to come in contact with the client. Other arrangements would have to be made as they went along, since there was no way of knowing how long this assignment would last. So long as Samson Tyler was in danger, real or perceived, she would take all necessary precautions to keep him safe.
They arrived at the Strathenge by armored car. Three of Lynn's security staff rushed Tyler through the hotel's side entrance and up the stairs. Tyler was not given a penthouse suite. They used a regular room on the fourth floor - high enough from the ground to avoid a break-in, but low enough for a window escape in the event of a fire.
“And here we are,” Lynn said as she met the others at the room door. She swept her keycard through the lock, opened the door, and led Tyler inside.
“Nice,” Tyler said, looking the place over as he crossed the room, carrying his laptop bag. The room was spacious, with a king-size bed, a large armchair, and a desk. The air smelled like soap and fresh linens. He removed his jacket and tossed it over the arm of the desk chair. This would be his home for a while, at least until he could return to his apartment, or there were no more threats on his life.
He felt like he was running away from his problems. He was used to confronting things head-on. The hotel room was fine, and he needed a place to stay, but the bodyguards were going to be a problem. He intended to go about his business on his terms, and he knew the hired guns would quickly become a nuisance.
Lynn seemed to read his grim expression. “Hopefully, you won't need to stay here long.” She wandered into the bathroom and casually checked the shower and around the sink and toilet. “I’ll have this place swept by the time you come back tonight,” she called out to him. “We want to make sure there are no surveillance devices hidden anywhere.”
Tyler set his computer bag on the desk. He walked over to the window, pulled back a curtain and looked outside. “Is all this really necessary? The full security measures, I mean.”
Lynn stepped back into the room. “A death threat was sent to your office. Your apartment caught fire the same morning. In light of that, yeah, I think you could use a little protection.”
Still staring out the window, Tyler shrugged.
“Is there something you're not telling me, Mr. Tyler?”
“Like what?”
“Forget it.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “My room will be four doors down - in 408.”
He turned around. “Why so far away?”
“We don't stay in adjacent rooms because we have to inspect all packages and room service requests that are sent to you.” She walked over to the window and pulled the curtains back further. “If there's a bomb,” she said as she inspected the area from corner to corner, “and it goes off, then there's less chance that you'll be hurt.”
“Oh.” He glanced up, caught Lynn's eye. At that moment, he realized that this was more than just a standard precaution. These bodyguards were taking this seriously, certainly more than he was. He considered telling her about his contact with Merrick, just to gauge her reaction.
He let the moment pass. He didn’t trust anyone at this point.
Another security agent entered the room. It was the same man that had blocked Tyler from leaving his office earlier. He gave Lynn a curt nod, and then approached Tyler.
“Perry Newbold,” he said, taking Tyler's hand. The grip of his handshake almost made Tyler wince. Every movement he made was clean and precise. Tyler suspected he was ex-military.
Perry walked over to the window, pulled out two small black boxes from his pocket, and placed them on opposite ends of the windowsill.
“What are those?” Tyler asked.
“Portable alarms.” Perry adjusted a control knob on each box and stepped back. “Later tonight, we’ll install mini-cameras. We'll also monitor the hallways and elevators with closed-circuit TV systems tapped into the hotel's security system. We have a lot of equipment to set up over the next few hours.”
Lynn was waiting by the door. “If you want room service, call me. I'll make the order and deliver it personally. You are not to leave this room without an escort.”
“I understand.” Suddenly the place, as large as it was, felt confining. “And my belongings?”
“We'll get what we can from your apartment. Anything else you need, we'll purchase.” As Lynn spoke, Tyler reached for his cell phone. Then she added, “Don't use the hotel phone or your own cell phone.”
She pulled a cell phone from pocket and handed it to him. “Use this for now. Do you need anything else?”
“Can I use the hotel internet access for my laptop?”
“We’ll set up a secure connection for you.”
“Great. Then I guess I’m all set,” he said with an air of resignation. “When will I be able to return to my office?”
“Probably in a few hours, after we finish examining it and sweep it for bugs. But you’ll still be under full bodyguard protection for a while.”
“Wonderful. Just don’t get in my way.”
Lynn looked Tyler up and down appraisingly. Then, with a final nod she turned and followed Perry out the door.
“One question,” Tyler called out.
His bodyguards stopped and turned.
“Are we paying you people by the hour?”
The two exchanged amused glances.
“No, sir,” Perry replied, flexing his arms a bit. “We're paid by the pound.”
After the door closed and Tyler was alone in the room, he sat down at the desk. By instinct, he pulled out his cell phone. Then he considered Lynn's warning. He was about to put it away when it rang.
The noise startled him. He didn’t recognize the number, but he answered it anyway, wondering if it might be Merrick. “This is Samson Tyler.”
“Hello, Mr. Tyler. I know I’m calling you on your private line. I hope I’m not interrupting anything important. Do you have a moment to speak?”
“Who is this?”
“My name is Doctor Noah Gettleman. I am the senior flight director at the Thomas Dorian Space Center.”
“What can I do for you, Dr. Gettleman?”
“I have a bit of a problem out here. It’s not something I’m comfortable talking about via email.”
“Is this a legal problem?”
“Sort of. It’s more of about something that’s being done that might not be proper.”
“I see. Is this thing that is being done unethical or illegal?”
“I bit of both, I suppose.”
“Is it something you can take up with our human resources department?”
“Not really.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, Dr. Gettleman, but I don’t have time to play twenty questions. I can’t help you unless I know what the problem is.”
“Okay. Well, the problem is with our orbiter maintenance procedures.”
“That sounds like a technical or engineering issue.”
“I’
ve taken this problem as far up the chain as I can. I didn’t know who else I could take it to. Once you find out what this is about, I think you’ll want to start an investigation.”
“Dr. Gettleman, I am literally up to my ears in investigations right now. I can have someone from my team speak with you.”
“I don’t want a brush-off, Mr. Tyler. I don’t want to be an alarmist, but if what I think is happening is true, then our whole space program could fall apart.”
Tyler thought about that for a moment. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“All right,” he said, exhaling. “Start from the beginning, and tell me exactly what’s going on out there.”
“Wait.” There was a pause, and then Gettleman said, “Someone is here. I have to go now. I’ll talk to you later.”
Then he hung up.
Tyler stared at his phone. Then he shook his head and sighed.
“Freaking scientists…”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The rumor that Templar Enterprises was under federal investigation was the top news story of the day. Pundits debated and argued the possibilities on the cable news and radio talk shows. There was speculation on the condition of Sinclair Dorian's health, as the once-outspoken CEO of Templar Enterprises was now either unwilling or unable to comment on his company’s current situation. More cynical commentators online and offline suggested that the company had manufactured the scandal in order to push itself back in the public spotlight. That was an odd idea since the Naiad mission had been, until now, the most newsworthy event of the week.
Having returned to his office early in the afternoon, Samson Tyler learned that the internal investigation was going well. His legal team had already commandeered several conference rooms to go through volumes of financial and personnel documents.
Now it was nearly six o’clock. With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair, slipped his thumbs under his navy blue suspenders, and snapped them back against his starched white shirt. He grimaced at his own pile of files, recalling how Dusty had wondered earlier if all their disorganization was part of some brilliant strategy to slow down the FBI investigation.
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