Kelly thought his boss looked bad and offered a suggestion. "Maybe we should put Spyglass on it?"
Lamborghini was about to respond when Whittenberg said, "Yeah. Let's do that." Then he scratched his stubby chin. "But for this, we'd better pull out all the stops. Let's put the Hubble on it, too."
Dowd smiled wryly. "Leeds will have kittens. That's his personal wet dream."
"Screw him," said the CinC.
Back in his office, Whittenberg put in a secure call to McCormack at the Kennedy Space Center.
In an apologetic voice, McCormack said, "Sorry to dump this on you, sir, but we have a major problem with the Kestrel."
"What is it?" asked Whittenberg.
"The weapons systems officer… you know him, Air Force Captain Davey Barnes."
"Sure, I know him."
"He was en route to the Kestrel hangar when he got racked up on his motorcycle," recounted McCormack. "He's in the hospital for at least six weeks."
Whittenberg winced. "Damn!"
The two generals knew what Barnes's accident meant. Since the Kestrel was in the prototype stage and had been developed under such a blanket of secrecy, only a primary test crew had been selected and trained on its systems. There was no backup pilot or WSO.
"I guess that scrubs it," lamented the CinC.
"I'm afraid it does, sir, unless you want to give up one of your staff people."
Whittenberg's eyes narrowed. "You mean Pete?"
"Yes, sir. He was deputy director for the Kestrel project before he went to your SPACECOM intelligence slot. He's the only one I know of who is flight-qualified and knows the systems."
Whittenberg frowned. "Yeah, but he hasn't done any hands-on work with the Kestrel for over a year."
"I know that, sir," observed McCormack. "But the only other people who know enough about the systems are civilians with LTV — and we certainly can't ask any of them. I don't like it either, General, but I say it's either Pete or we stand down at Vandenberg."
Whittenberg closed his eyes. "I guess you're right. I'll talk to him and get back to you."
"Thanks, General. I hope the Constellation can take care of everything and the Kestrel won't matter."
"Yeah, me, too."
The conversation seemed to be over, but McCormack didn't get off the line.
"Anything else?" asked Whittenberg.
"Yes, sir," said McCormack, somewhat sheepishly. "I just wanted you to know, I told Monaghan that however this Intrepid deal turns out, either way, when it's over he's outta here."
Whittenberg didn't second-guess his commanders. "You're Commander of Flight Operations, Chet. It's your decision. When we brought Monaghan on he only sounded good to me because Admiral Creighton gave him such high marks."
"Yes, sir, I know."
"Seems a shame. I hear he's an incredible pilot."
"Oh, yes, sir," agreed McCormack. "When you can find him sober."
Lamborghini leaned back in the chair, absorbing what his boss had just told him. He thought Whittenberg looked awfully bad. The four olive-drab stars on the shoulders of the CinC's green flight suit seemed to bear down heavily on him. Lamborghini felt a sense of loyalty to this man who'd rescued his Air Force career, and he didn't want to let him down. He said, "I have no problem giving it a try, sir. It's just that I feel awfully rusty on the systems."
"That's what I told Chet," recalled Whittenberg. "If you think it's not feasible, just say so. No sense sending you up if we don't have a reasonable chance of making it work."
Lamborghini thought back to his briefing at the White House. About what it would mean if the Russians got hold of the Intrepid, the PRISM computer, and the Graser. "I know it's a long shot, sir, but considering what's at stake, I think we'd better give it a whirl."
The CinC nodded. "Okay. I'll call Chet and tell him you'll be on your way to Vandenberg after you've got some sleep. I don't want you leaving here tired. Get at least six hours under your belt before you take off."
Lamborghini didn't argue. "Ask General McCormack to have all the tech manuals ready for me at Edwards. I think it best I do some simulator time before launch, and it would be helpful to have the manuals on hand. I just wish I wasn't going to be in the backseat."
"I understand," said the CinC sympathetically. "Also, just so you'll know, Monaghan and Chet had words with each other. Don't get caught in a pissin' contest between those two."
Lamborghini chuckled. "I'm not surprised. I only knew Mad Dog briefly. He was coming into the project just as I was leaving. I liked him, but he didn't strike me as General Mc-Cormack's type."
When Dr. Percival Leeds was selected by the President and Vice President to head up the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, they thought he would do for NASA what Whittenberg had done for SPACECOM — and to a degree they were right. He'd helped galvanize the country behind a renewed space effort. But if the truth were known, his galactic ego had worn out his welcome at the White House and he was on very, very thin ice. On a highly confidential basis, the Vice President had already retained the executive search firm of SpencerStuart to look for a possible replacement.
Leeds was a peculiar character who could best be described as a slothful dynamo. He was born the son of famed astronomer Herbert Leeds, one of the pioneers in the field of radio astronomy and director of the Lick Observatory. Percy adored his father, and always assumed he would follow in his old man's astronomical footsteps. Unfortunately, Percy also adored lying on the beach alongside a bikini-clad companion. So much so that he remained on the sand throughout the bulk of his ten-year student career at a major California university.
In deference to his father's stature (and a desire to get Percy out of their hair) this major California university (which shall remain nameless) awarded the younger Leeds a Ph.D. in astronomy, with the understanding he seek employment out of state.
Percy agreed, but with his slipshod academic record, he soon found it impossible to obtain work in his arcane field of astronomy. Potential employers would take one look at his dissertation and shudder. "Ahem, Dr. Leeds, didn't anyone ever tell you there is no e in 'quasar'?"
So there he was. Dead in the water, pushing thirty, with no marketable job skill. It was scary. But then, a twist of fate. Through a friend of a friend, he got a job selling X-Ray medical equipment, and his career took off like a comet. He found that he had a gift for putting complex technical terms into simple, clear language. That skill, coupled with the fact that he always presented himself as Dr. Leeds to physician customers, made him the company's top salesman. His superiors took notice, and he rose quickly, eventually becoming chairman of the high-tech conglomerate that had hired him as a salesman. And that position served as a springboard for him to become a major fund-raiser for the Presidential campaign of a former auto maker.
After the election, Leeds was tapped for NASA because the President saw him as the perfect "Mr. Outside" for the space program — and he was. Indeed, he became a media dariing for the agency, constandy on the road proselytizing for bigger and more expensive space ventures. With his blond hair, boyish good looks, and trademark horn-rimmed glasses, he became a regular guest for Johnny Carson, Phil Donahue, Oprah Winfrey, and any other talk show NASA's publicity people could book. And he was incredibly effective on Capitol Hill. He could coax money out of parsimonious senators like nobody's business — especially for a project that became his obsession, the Hubble space telescope. He saw the Hubble as his vindication of sorts, for in exercising control over the space telescope he demonstrated that he truly was, at long last, a full member of his father's scientific community — and it gave him the credibility to return to that university in California with his head held high.