Shattered Legacy

by Shane R. Daley

  “Can I help you?” he asked as he stomped over to his desk.

  The shorter man turned around. “Dr. Gettleman,” he said, smiling. “It’s good to meet you in person.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “I’m Samson Tyler.”

  Gettleman froze for a beat. Then his expression brightened as he realized who Tyler was. He took Tyler’s outstretched hand. “What are you doing here, Mr. Tyler?”

  “I never heard back from you about your problem here.”

  “You so hopped a flight from New York to see me? You could have just called me back.”

  “I prefer the personal touch. Can we talk somewhere more private?”

  Gettleman glanced at Lynn and Perry.

  “We’ll wait outside,” Lynn said.

  Once they were alone, Gettleman asked, “How did you get in here?”

  “I pretty much have the run of the place today.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I can’t talk right now. We have a bit of a situation with the orbiter.”

  “Nothing too bad, I hope.”

  Gettleman shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  “I won’t be long, then. Has anything changed since we last spoke? Have you found more buried maintenance records?”

  “Not really, Mr. Tyler.” Gettleman looked away. He glanced up at the observation room. “Look, maybe this wasn’t a good idea, getting you involved in this.”

  “No, you were right to come to me, Noah. If you’ve found something wrong, and your supervisors aren’t taking the matter seriously, then we need to get to the bottom of this.” He grimaced. “Believe me; I know what you’re going through.”

  Gettleman looked at Tyler, waiting for him to continue. But Tyler just looked back at him expectantly.

  “Okay,” Gettleman finally said. “So what's next? How do we get to the bottom of this?”

  “That's the real question, isn't it?”

  “I can give you everything I have after the landing. Then we can figure out what it all means.” Gettleman checked his watch. “Sorry I can’t give you a nickel tour of the place, but I really have to get back to work.”

  Tyler nodded and headed for the steps. “I’ll see you after the landing, Dr. Gettleman. Good luck.”

  ***

  “That Control Tower was amazing,” said Lynn Anholt, as she looked through the tinted glass windows of the connecting aboveground tunnel. Each building they saw seemed larger than the next. “I visited Cape Canaveral when I was a kid, but I think this place is even more impressive.”

  “I don’t think it’s as big,” Perry Newbold replied, “but on the other hand, it’s a few decades newer.”

  Tyler didn’t say anything, but looked around with interest as the three walked to the next building. He was impressed with the Space Center. Before today, he had always considered the place in the abstract, simply a piece of property that the company owned. He never had any desire to visit it. Now, with a twinge of regret, he wished he had taken the opportunity to visit earlier.

  As they rounded the bend, they left the shadow of the Administration Building. Bright sunlight flooded the connector tunnel. They saw the Vehicle Assembly Building far ahead, eight stories high and wider than they could believe. Giant hangar doors took up the entire side of the structure.

  They cleared a security checkpoint where a guard met them, and led them through a large double-door arrangement, where they found themselves assaulted with the loud noises of the Vehicle Assembly Building work floor.

  “Wow,” Lynn said.

  Their heads swiveled to take in the massive proportions of the interior VAB. Then they stared at the orbiter looming before them.

  The guard handed them three construction hard hats as they began walking across the production floor. Ignoring everything else, Tyler’s eyes remained fixed on the sleek white and blue spacecraft. He had seen pictures, but he never realized just how massive the orbiter really was.

  The few workers still on the floor gave the group strange looks as they walked under the scaffolding.

  Tyler approached the front landing gear. The wheel was massive, with hydraulic suspension bars as thick as tree trunks. He slapped a hand on the massive black tire.

  He realized that as impressive as the vehicle was, it would be worthless if the company that built it collapsed.

  Sinclair Dorian was right; experiencing the craft first-hand was the only way to understand his passion. He felt a creeping thrill. The ship was so large, so perfect, that he could not help but smile.

  At that moment, he had a sense of Dorian’s mission. The physical manifestation of that dream made Tyler realize how lucky he was to have a role in it.

  “What's wrong?” Lynn asked.

  Tyler shook his head, the hint of a smile never leaving his face. “I’ll be right back. I have to talk to someone.”

  ***

  “He's been expecting your call,” Shannon Kiel told him. “Just a moment.”

  “Thank you.” Tyler was using his cellular phone, standing outside the production floor doors, watching his bodyguards walk around the orbiter, staring and pointing.

  Dorian's voice came over the phone. “Samson,” he said, clearing his throat. “Where are you?”

  “I'm at the Space Center. I’ve been checking it out all morning.”

  “Have you seen the orbiter? Touched it?”

  “I did. I’m looking at it right now.”

  “Wonderful. Now I need you back in New York.”

  Tyler frowned. That wasn’t the reaction he’d expected. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “You don’t know?”

  “Do I want to know?”

  “I’m watching the news right now. They’re talking about the old SEC investigation. Someone sent a bunch of internal company documents to the Associated Press.”

  “Oh, hell...” It must have been the same information that had been sent to his office. Now it was public.

  “Yeah. Internal memos, email, the works. They’re naming names, Samson. Including yours.”

  “What are they saying?”

  “They’re saying that you probably destroyed material evidence and forged documentation.”

  “That’s impossible. That’s a lie.”

  “I think you’re in trouble, son.”

  Tyler blinked. After all these years, after everything he had done to keep things from falling apart, it astounded him that Dorian would assume the worst about him.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Tyler said flatly.

  “Well, that’s not what I’m hearing. You’d better get your ass on a plane.”

  “I’ll handle it from here.”

  “I said I want you on a plane.”

  “Let me do my job, Sinclair.”

  “Your job is over.”

  Dorian hung up. Tyler stood in place, stunned. Was this how it was going to end? He was going to be blamed for things he had no control over – for things he tried to prevent?

  No. That wasn’t going to happen.

  With an angry grunt, Tyler dialed another number.

  Dusty picked up on the second ring. “You’ve heard the news?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are we going to do? We’re gonna have agents crawling up our -”

  “I need your help, Dusty.”

  “This is going down bad, Samson. Real bad. I don’t think we can -”

  “Dusty,” Tyler said with steel in his voice. “Shut up, calm down, and focus.”

  There was a pause. “Right. Okay. What do you need?”

  “Go see Cindy. She has some information. Get it from her and hang onto it.”

  “What are you up to, Samson?”

  “Just keep watching the TV.”

  He hung up and turned to see his bodyguards approach. “Something’s come up,” he told them as they headed for the main exit. “Come with me.”

  “Where are we headed, Mr. Tyler?”

  “The Press Room.”

  ***

&
nbsp; “Has the old fart gone senile?”

  Those were the first words out of Ramona Vargas’ mouth when Tyler told her what he planned to do. She was dressed in a gray suit with a white blouse, her makeup perfect. They were standing outside the Press Room doors.

  “I’m just saying, it would be better if I handled this press conference,” Tyler told her quietly. “There are new developments that you’re going to be questioned about. Sinclair wants me out there to handle them.”

  “I just spoke with Sinclair a half hour ago,” Ramona shot back, her voice rising in pitch. “He didn’t mention anything about having you speak. What are these ‘new developments’ about, anyway?”

  From that revelation, Tyler knew that no one had told Ramona about the leaked documents. She also didn’t know that every major law enforcement agency in the country was about to come down on them.

  “There are going to be questions, and they won’t be about the Naiad. You’re going to get hammered out there.”

  “You still haven’t told me what this is about.”

  “There isn’t time. The old man wants me to handle this one. I just spoke with him.” Tyler was putting his career on the line by lying to her, but he was betting that she wouldn’t call his bluff.

  She stared at him a beat, and then shook her head in disgust. “You’re on in three minutes. What are you going to say?”

  “Only what I have to.”

  Ramona looked like she wanted to ask him what he meant by that, but Tyler was already heading toward the stage.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Commander Roland McManus forced himself to keep positive thoughts. They had been in a free-floating orbit for over twenty minutes now, waiting in silence. Control should have responded with a situation update already. The fact that they weren’t responding meant that they were analyzing data. And everyone in the Naiad knew that if something needed analysis at this point in the mission, then there was definitely a problem.

  Those suspicions were confirmed when Control finally radioed in with a status report. The main combustion chamber pod of the Naiad’s port engine was damaged, allowing rocket exhaust to heat the liquid oxygen tubes and firing casings to above normal tolerances. When asked what the worst-case scenario could be, Control had hedged in their reply, which was in itself an answer.

  They listened as Noah Gettleman read off their options. They could use the rest of their fuel, return to orbit and dock with the space station to wait for a rescue mission, or they could attempt a landing. Landing was the best option since it would require minimal use of the damaged engine. The astronauts were already wearing their launch-landing gear. The pressurized suits would allow them to survive a vacuum exposure in the case of a catastrophic failure. Also, the control module doubled as a detachable escape pod.

  “One engine won't bring us in?” McManus asked Control. His voice sounded hollow within his helmet.

  There was a quick burst of static. “One engine could bring you in,” Gettleman replied, “but your deorbit burn will last about three and a half times longer than a normal two-engine OMS burn. A longer deorbit burn could cause more residual heat problems than firing the engines normally. We feel that using your roll thrusters as a partial primary will get you into the atmosphere faster and keep the heat spillover to a minimum. Over.”

  “How will we operate the roll thrusters for that kind of maneuver, Control? Over.”

  “We will take control over your engines and secondary thrusters remotely. Over.”

  “Control, if you’re going to do that, what will you do during our blackout period? Over.”

  “We'll pre-program your computers for that time lapse, and then we'll resume real-time telemetry and control when you exit the blackout period. Over.”

  “That’s crazy,” Schwartz muttered on the private channel.

  “Do you have a better idea?” McManus asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Control, we’re prepared for ground control to take over our systems,” McManus said, tapping in a communications code on his keypad. “Over.”

  “Transmitting now,” Schwartz said, scanning the readouts on his console.

  A few moments passed. To break the silence, McManus asked, “How are the crowds, Control? Are we going to have a warm reception? Over.” He glanced over at the main display. Command lines scrolled down the screen. Control's computer override program had nearly finished uploading into the orbiter's computers.

  “There are plenty of people down here,” Gettleman replied. “Even more than came to see the liftoff. Control out.”

  “No one is there, you know. They’ve evacuated the spectators,” muttered Todd Boynton from the back row. “It’s standard procedure to clear civilians when there’s the chance of a disaster.”

  McManus glanced back, but his helmet prevented him from getting a good look at his payload specialist. “Keep it positive, Todd. We’re going to make it home.”

  “That’s right,” Schwartz added as he watched the scrolling display. “The company won’t let us down.”

  Override systems blinked green on the main panel. Time was up. McManus took a breath and released it. Schwartz looked back and forth between his checklist and the instruments. McManus could see that his pilot was apprehensive.

  “Let’s do it,” he said quietly.

  Schwartz tightened his jaw and put his clipboard away. He checked their status. “We have a real-time uplink with Control. Auxiliary power unit restart online. On three … two … one.”

  A dull roar sounded throughout the cabin as the working engines and roll thrusters fired in unison, their actions guided from ground control. Slowly, the Naiad pitched backwards into the edge of the atmosphere. For almost a full minute, nothing seemed to happen. Then, slowly, a gentle blue glow shone through the cockpit windows as the craft began encountering atmospheric friction. The heat would quickly build up, and portions of the orbiter would eventually reach a temperature of over fifteen hundred degrees.

  McManus watched the indicators. So far everything was in the green. Speed and trim were normal and responsive. Burn off of the reaction control system fuel would finish in the next sixty seconds. He glanced over to see that his pilot was frowning, as if surprised that everything was going so well.

  “How do we look, Control?” McManus asked.

  “We were about to ask you the same question,” Gettleman replied. “No unusual readings on this end. Your angle of decent is a bit high. We're correcting for that. Over.”

  Schwartz lifted his hands from the controls. “Maybe I could get used to having someone else doing the driving.”

  McManus kept a wary eye on the readouts. “Don’t get too comfortable. We need to be ready when we come out of the blackout, because if their calculations are even slightly off, then we’re in serious trouble.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The pressroom was buzzing with anticipation. Many reporters, disappointed that they were not covering the orbiter landing, consoled themselves with the fact that they were in for a different type of show. Word was out that a full-blown criminal investigation into Templar Enterprises was about to be announced. Anyone who had followed the story could hardly be surprised. The question now was how the company planned to react, and with the turmoil rumored to be rocking the company, that reaction was anyone’s guess.

  The noise level died down as Samson Tyler, alone, walked across the stage to the podium. He looked out at the packed room. There were a few, hushed whispers from the audience as he stood under the bright glare of camera lights. Tyler never felt so alone. He realized grimly that his entire career, if not his entire company, hinged on this moment.

  On signal from offstage, he looked into the center camera.

  He said nothing.

  He knew what he had to say – what he wanted to say – but now that his moment had come, he found it difficult to find the words. He could walk away now and let everything take its course. He didn’t owe Templar Enterprises or Sincla
ir Dorian anything. He had been lied to, manipulated, and now it looked like he was being set up to take the blame for something for which he had no involvement.

  With what he knew, he could strike a deal with the authorities and save his own skin. To hell with everyone else. But this was about something bigger than himself.

  And he would be damned if he didn’t go down fighting.

  He took a deep breath and began.

  “Good morning. My name is Samson Tyler, General Counsel for Templar Enterprises. I’m sure there are other events you would rather be covering today, so I’ll make my statements brief, or as brief as can be expected from a lawyer.”

  There was no reaction to his joke, and he continued. “As you know, Templar Enterprises has been under investigation by federal authorities concerning the alleged purchase and misappropriation of surplus military technology. These serious accusations have cast a shadow over our company and our mission.”

  There were clicks from cameras and a low buzz from the audience as Tyler paused to take a breath. “Usually the first reaction in times of crisis is denial. That was Templar’s initial position. Recently, however, I came into possession of information proving that one or more individuals had infiltrated our organization and used our resources, and Templar’s good name, toward their own criminal end.”

  He paused and looked up, trying to gauge the reaction of the crowd. The lights obscured his view of the room, but he knew he had struck a chord, for the room was completely silent.

  “Earlier this week, I was approached by a woman who claimed to be a government whistleblower. She suggested that the investigation against Templar was politically-motivated and designed to damage the company’s reputation. That was not the case. To put it simply, this woman sent me on a wild goose chase. However, I did uncover facts that shed new light as to what had really happened.” He held up the faxed copy of Merrick's old employee photograph. “This morning I discovered that the woman who contacted me was actually a former employee of Templar Enterprises. Her name is Evelyn Haley Merrick. I believe that she is responsible for criminal acts against this company and for the recent release of documents that implicate apparent wrongdoing by persons within the company. However, I do not believe Ms. Merrick acted alone.”