Shattered Legacy (7 page)

Tyler paused at the doorway, knowing that now was not the time to take issue with the situation. Instead, he nodded carefully. “Take care of yourself, Sinclair. I'll see myself out.”

TUESDAY

(AP) - The environmentalist group EverViro has withdrawn its federal appeal against Templar Enterprises. EverViro announced yesterday that the organization “had come to acceptable terms” with the aerospace company. – The sale of the Penraxis composite manufacturing division to Templar Enterprises came to an abrupt end Monday. Located in Detroit, Michigan, the facility is one of the country’s largest composite fabrication sites. A spokesperson for Templar Enterprises stated that the company “has reconsidered its commitment to such an investment at this time.” - Samson Tyler, Templar Enterprises’ general counsel, categorically denies a “full-scale” government investigation regarding Templar's business practices. The company’s stock plunges three-and-a-half points in early trading.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Named after his deceased son, the Thomas Dorian Space Center was the realization of a lifelong dream. Constructing the space center from whole cloth had cost industrialist W. Sinclair Dorian nearly two billion dollars. He owned both the land and the buildings, which he leased to Templar Enterprises for a nominal sum. The only expenses to the tenant company were the maintenance and operation costs.

Nearly a year ago, the company completed construction of its first space orbiter. Charmed with the prospect of a new era of space exploration, and coupled with promotion by Templar’s skilled marketing department, the media had extensively covered each test flight. Large crowds had gathered to witness the takeoffs and landings of the prototype orbiter. The space center itself had become something of a desert tourist attraction.

That quickly became something else for the marketing department to leverage.

“One line, please,” the guide called out. “If you wish to take photographs, keep in mind that flash photography is only allowed from the upper level.”

The metal doors of the doublewide elevator split open and the tour group stepped out. There were small gasps of wonder as the visitors took in the monstrous proportions of the Vehicle Assembly Building. Here, from the top observation deck, they could almost reach up and touch one of the massive support girders that arced across the two-hundred meter ceiling to the opposite wall, where administrative offices sat behind glass enclosures.

However, the real attractions were the lifting cranes and block-and-tackle arrangements below, and, what seemed to be a mile down, a Templar Enterprises space orbiter, partially hidden beneath a latticework of scaffolding and bright LED lights. Dozens of blue-uniformed technicians busily crawled over and around the craft. Sounds echoed from heavy support machinery that moved along the floor.

The tour guide, dressed in a navy blue jumpsuit with a Templar flight insignia over her left breast, stood to one side while the tour group gazed over the railing, pointing and commenting to one another.

“Down below is our second generation orbiter,” the guide explained over the excited buzz. “It’s the Templar Enterprises Space Orbiter, Mark II, or TSO-2. This craft should be ready for initial test flights next month. The TSO-1, which you know as the
Naiad
, had its rollout last October. Yesterday it blasted off on its first official mission to the International Space Station.”

The guide waited a few moments for the group to absorb the sight. The hull of the craft, or what could be seen of it, was similar to the original orbiter. It was massive and sleek, with a triangular, wedge-shaped body.

“This craft is larger than a NASA space shuttle,” the guide explained as she led them across the catwalk. “In fact, it’s larger than a 767 airliner. This craft's dimensions are the same as the
Naiad's
– two hundred and forty five feet long, with a wingspan of two hundred and thirty eight feet. The
Naiad
can lift some fifty tons of payload into low earth orbit. This craft should perform similarly. We are already reserving seats for commercial passenger travel later this year.”

“Can that ship take people the moon?” a young boy called out.

The guide glanced back. “Actually, a manned lunar mission is on the drawing board. The orbiter’s payload bay could hold what is called a Medium Launch Vehicle. The MLV could launch into space from the orbiter's hold. Then it could travel to and land on the lunar surface. When the MLV blasts off and leaves the moon, the orbiter would retrieve the vehicle from space and return it to earth.”

She stopped again before a large poster of the spacecraft’s schematics. “If you notice the wedge-shape design, you’ll see that it somewhat resembles a conventional stealth fighter. However, in this case, the shape is considered for aerodynamics, and not for radar avoidance. In addition, the outer shell is not composed of individual tiles, like the original space shuttles. If you were able to examine the ship closely, you would find that there are virtually no visible seams on any of the outer surfaces.”

The guide turned and motioned to another large poster, one detailing the orbiter's internal schematics. “The TSO is a scramjet, or, if you prefer, a supersonic combusting ramjet. It takes off from our space center runway like a normal aircraft, and scoops up oxygen from the atmosphere to burn its fuel. It also uses that additional oxygen for combustion in space. She's fast, too. The
Naiad
needs to travel about twenty-five times the speed of sound to reach orbital velocity. If it were a passenger plane, it could take off from here and land in Tokyo within the hour.” She paused for a moment and looked around. “Are there any questions?”

An older man, dressed in shorts and red T-shirt, spoke up. “How much did the thing cost?”

“The
Naiad
cost a little over two billion dollars to design and construct.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“Not really. General Motors spends over a billion dollars just to design a new model sedan, and our orbiters are a little more complicated than your typical automobile. We get a lot for our money. Our outsourcing programs force the seven hundred contracting firms who work with us to be very competitive in their pricing.”

The guide glanced at her watch and motioned the others to follow. Since they were running twice the number of tour groups these days, they were on a tight schedule. “Come this way,” she told the group. “Let's head down to the main level where you’ll have a better view of the orbiter...”

***

From behind soundproofed windows, Senior Flight Director Noah Gettleman stood alone in his office, gazing across the expanse at the tour group on the catwalk. The recent test launches had brought more and more visitors. In the week before the
Naiad's
mission launch, Gettleman thought tourists would overrun the place. They seemed to be everywhere.

He exhaled deeply. Then he looked down and focused on the partially-constructed orbiter. In his three-decade career, he had never seen an organization grow as quickly as Templar Enterprises' space program. From the construction of the space center, to the development of the orbiters, they had come so far, so fast. Sinclair Dorian's promise of matching NASA's old shuttle fleet ship for ship was quickly becoming a reality.

Of course, Templar's orbiters were far more advanced than the original space shuttles. They were amazing machines, true engineering wonders.

Potential death traps.

A voice called out behind him. “You know, I had a feeling my morning was taking a turn for the worse when my chief flight director calls me up and demands that
I
come to
his
office immediately, if not sooner.”

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.”