Lash-Up

2 Inspiration

“With the loss of another GPS satellite, emotions at the Fiftieth Space Operations Wing have changed from grim, or angry, to fatalistic.” Mark Markin, CNN’s defense correspondent, stood in front of the gate to the NORAD complex at Cheyenne Mountain. The Fiftieth’s operations center was actually located nearby at Schriever Air Force Base, but the drama of the mountain’s tunnel entrance was preferable to Schriever’s nondescript government buildings.

Markin wore a weather-beaten parka, zipped up against the chill of the Colorado wind. His carefully shaped hair was beginning to show the effects of the wind as well, and he seemed to rush through his report in an effort to get out of the weather.

“Although it is widely acknowledged that the loss of the GPS satellites is not attributed to any fault of the people here at the Fiftieth, they are still suffering a deep sense of helplessness.

“Since the GPS network became active in 1989, it has become almost a public utility. The men and women here take pride in providing a service that not only gives the U.S. Armed Forces a tremendous military advantage, but benefits the civilian community in countless ways. Even with the fielding of the Chinese and European satellite navigation systems, GPS remains a critical aspect supporting everyday life, as well as international travel and commerce.

“Now, someone, possibly the Chinese, but certainly an enemy of the United States, has destroyed at least three satellites. Yesterday’s loss shows that last week’s attack was not an isolated incident.

“And the United States seems unable to do anything to stop it.”

Leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, Ray sat silently, staring at the GPS Block III satellite model on his desk. His morning coffee sat untouched, the contents of the mug having long since cooled. The computer screen was empty, the machine still dark. Ray McConnell was elsewhere, his gaze focused intensely on the model satellite, like a monk before the cross. So entranced, he failed to recognize Jim Naguchi’s spoken greeting. It wasn’t until Naguchi knocked hard on Ray’s door that he was yanked back to the here and now.

“Earth to Ray, come in, please,” teased his friend as he entered.

“Huh? Oh, sorry, Jim. I didn’t hear you,” replied Ray with a sheepish grin.

“Obviously. Please tell me you were daydreaming about a scantily clad blonde on some remote beach.”

Ray chuckled halfheartedly at Naguchi’s off-the-wall remark. “Hardly, Jim, hardly. My mind has been out there,” replied Ray grimly as he tilted his head toward the satellite model.

“In medium Earth orbit? Well, that explains everything now, doesn’t it?” The sterner tone told Ray his friend wasn’t joking anymore.

“What do mean by that?” Ray shot back defensively.

“For the last week you’ve been shuffling about, depressed and gloomy. ‘Morose’ would be an apt description. Then I hear from a couple of the guys that you canceled your regular Saturday BOGSAT at the very last moment, no explanation given. And this morning, you came into the office, said not a word to anyone, and parked your ass in that chair. Both your computer and coffee are stone-cold, meaning you haven’t done any work and you blew off the division heads’ meeting.”

“I sent Jake in my place,” Ray interrupted.

“Yes, you did, and Mr. Olsen did a fine job, too. Your job,” argued Naguchi. “And Rudy was none too happy about it, by the way. But I digress; my point is that your behavior as of late isn’t even remotely normal for one Ray McConnell. Everyone is upset about the GPS satellite loses, but you seem to be taking it personally. Would you mind telling me why you’re ripping your stomach lining apart?”

Ray ran his fingers through his hair and let out a low sigh. Naguchi’s summary was spot on; Ray had been brooding since he first learned of the two satellites failing. One was an old Block IIR satellite well beyond its service life and was expected to die at any moment. But the other bird was relatively young, with more than half of its life left. Then there were the rumors that the two reserve satellites had mysteriously failed as well. Both of them were just barely three years old.

But it was the most recent failure of a brand-new Block III satellite that really got to Ray. It hadn’t been in space three months. Five satellites, of three different types, had suddenly stopped functioning within a matter of a month. This was no systematic engineering fault; someone was intentionally attacking the GPS constellation. There was no other plausible explanation.

The simmering frustration had grown to a full boil when Ray’s inquiries to Naval Intelligence were quietly rebuffed. He didn’t have “a need to know,” he was told. If the U.S. Navy’s lead engineer on GPS didn’t have sufficient justification for access to the information, then who the hell did? It then dawned on him that maybe the intel types were just trying to hide the fact that they didn’t know who was making the attacks. That thought only made him more depressed. Most people within the navigation-satellite community suspected China, but there wasn’t a shred of evidence to link them to any of the losses.

After a short silence, Ray threw his hands in the air. “You’re right, Jim. This whole thing has been driving me crazy! Nobody seems to know what is going on, and nobody seems to be doing anything about it!”

“And how would you know that, Ray?” Naguchi countered. “We aren’t in the operational chain of command, we aren’t war fighters, and, the last I checked, the folks in STRATCOM aren’t required to tell us R&D wonks a damn thing.”

“C’mon, Jim. You, of all people, should know that I have contacts throughout the GPS community, including NNSOC and the Fiftieth Space Wing. Everyone is scratching their heads on this one; the satellites were functioning within specs and then suddenly just dropped off-line. The fact that they’re all tumbling points to a physical impact of some sort. But there is no evidence of a launch, from anywhere in the world that coincides with any of the events. The ‘operators’ don’t have a clue how the satellites are being attacked, or by whom!”

Ray was the ultimate social networker whose methods went far beyond just the trendy electronic means. He regularly met and talked with people both in and out of his specific technical area. He’d attended professional conventions and other official functions just to meet new people, to exchange new ideas and bounce them around over a beer.

And then there were his BOGSAT sessions, which functioned like a powerful magnet, pulling even more people into Ray’s ever-expanding sphere of professional contacts. His Rolodex was rumored to be a proverbial Who’s Who of top marine and aeronautical engineers, as well as doctorate-level experts within the IT, communications, and spacecraft-design disciplines — a list that had paid handsome information dividends in the past.

“All right,” exclaimed a frustrated Naguchi, “so you have a valid basis for your concern. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s not our problem to fix. We don’t build the satellites, we don’t launch them, we don’t operate them, and we sure as hell don’t defend them. Those functions are just not in our job description, and you aren’t doing anyone any favors, particularly yourself, by moping about and agonizing over things we have no power to deal with.”

“I couldn’t have said it any better, Jim,” came a new voice from behind him.

Naguchi winced, instantly regretting not closing the door before talking to Ray. Turning, he saw their division chief, Rudy White, walk into the office.

“Would you please excuse us, Jim? I need to speak to Mr. McConnell alone.”

“Certainly, Rudy,” replied Naguchi. Facing Ray, he said, “I’ll catch you later, Ray.” His expression added an unspoken “Sorry.”

Ray nodded his understanding. He knew his friend wouldn’t intentionally sandbag him in front of their boss. As Naguchi turned to leave, White added sternly, “Please close the door on your way out, Jim.”

Once the latch clicked in the strike plate, White wasted no time and demanded bluntly, “Why weren’t you at the division meeting this morning?”

Ray could see his boss was angry, not that that was anything new. Rudy White always seemed to be angry with someone or something. “I was trying to figure out what’s going on with our satellites, Rudy. I asked Jake Olsen to attend in my place because he can give the routine project update just as well as I can.”

“While that may be true, Mr. McConnell, the government isn’t paying him to be the navy’s GPS team lead; they’re paying you. And as we are getting very close to the delivery date for a major research project, I expect to see more of you, not less.”

“The quantum-logic-clock integration study is nearly finished. I just need to wrap up the last editorial corrections to the final report. You’ll have it by Thursday, which is the due date, as I recall.”

“Was, Mr. McConnell, was. Thursday was the due date to get the report to me. But since our commanding officer has had his trip to Washington moved up, the report is now due by close of business tomorrow. A schedule change that you would have been alerted to if you had bothered to read your e-mail or attend the regular division meeting.” A sarcastic smirk momentarily replaced White’s usual frown.

Ray bit his tongue; nothing good would come from one of his witty barbs. Normally he wouldn’t shy away from sparring with White over such a minor schedule change, but not when Ray was clearly in the wrong. “No problem, Rudy. You’ll have the final report by early tomorrow afternoon.”

The surprised expression on White’s face told Ray that his reply was not what his boss had expected. Frowning harder, White said, “Good. I want Rear Admiral Griffith to be well prepared when he attends the navy R&D budget meeting next month. The quantum-logic-clock project has the potential to be the biggest advance in satellite navigation since the introduction of GPS itself. I don’t want us blowing it with a substandard report.”

Ray ignored White’s insult; the man could be quite petty at times. All he was concerned about was his projects’ cost, schedule, and deliverables. As long as everything was on the proper glide path, and his bosses were happy, nothing else mattered. His bureaucratically narrow focus often grated on Ray.

“It won’t matter that we can nail position accuracy to within a few millimeters if we can’t keep our satellites safe from harm,” he said firmly.

“The issue of the GPS satellite failures is being…”

“They’re not just failing, Rudy!” Ray exclaimed. “They’re being attacked and neutralized!”

“The jury is still out on that, Mr. McConnell. However, I’ll grant that you are probably correct. But even if our satellites are being attacked, it’s a matter for the warfighters to handle, not us. We have neither the talent nor resources to address this problem. Even in times of war, there are chains of command and areas of responsibility, Ray.”

“But, Rudy, that’s my point! No one has a handle on this. It makes far more sense for all the commands to pool their resources and try to solve…”

“Ray, I appreciate your concern, truly,” interrupted White. “But we’re a research and development command, and while we support the warfighters, we’re not an operational command. Which means we don’t jump into the warfighters’ knickers and tell them how to do their job. If they want our help, they’ll ask. Until then, SPAWAR Systems Center Pacific is not officially involved. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly,” Ray replied firmly. There was no point in continuing the discussion. White simply couldn’t conceive that it might be necessary to stray from their well-established lane in the road to solve a national-level problem. One didn’t just leap across command boundaries without permission; it wasn’t how good organizations behaved. To even suggest such a thing was undisciplined foolishness.

“Good. I look forward to seeing your team’s report tomorrow afternoon.”

Ray nodded his understanding and watched as White departed. Reaching down, Ray turned on his computer and then grabbed his favorite DO NOT DISTURB sign and hung it on his door. He had a lot of work to do, and he was determined to finish it by the end of the day.

Ray smiled smugly as he e-mailed to White not only the completed final report but also the edited PowerPoint presentation for Admiral Griffith as well. This should keep Rudy busy for a while, thought Ray. He then forwarded everything to Jake Olsen, along with a note that he’d be out of the office for a few days. He had a lot of “use or lose” leave on the books, and he wanted to get started on a new personal project. As soon as Ray sent the electronic leave request to White, he bolted for the door.

The Joint Chiefs of Staff didn’t normally meet at two in the morning, but Rear Admiral Overton’s call was worth getting out of bed for.

Most of the service chiefs had been in the Pentagon anyway, trying to manage the crisis, the troops, and the media. Although only five GPS satellites had been lost out of a constellation of twenty-six, it had created periods when there were gaps in 3D coverage over the South Pacific during the night hours, and there was no indication that they’d be able to put a stop to the mysterious losses anytime soon. On the contrary, everyone assumed it would get a lot worse before it got better.

Then there was the continuing problem in Vietnam. The crisis had been rapidly building, and even though the shooting hadn’t started yet, indications strongly argued that it was only a matter of time. Unfortunately, U.S. forces could not completely execute their preferred way of war, precision night attacks, without full GPS coverage. The longer the Chinese waited, and with further degradation to the GPS constellation, the window suitable for U.S. strikes would continue to shrink. No one believed this was a coincidence. Had China initiated hostilities by attacking American GPS satellites? Had a war already started out in space?

As they hurried into the command center, the J-2, Rear Admiral Frank Overton, compared the generals’ normal polished appearance with the tired, frustrated men in front of him. He was glad he had some good news — sort of.

The chief of staff of the air force and the chief of naval operations were both last, coming in together, breaking off some sort of disagreement as they walked through the door. Overton didn’t even wait for them to sit down.

“We finally have proof. It’s the Chinese. We figured out how and that led to where,” he announced.

Overton’s tablet and the large screen at the head of the table showed a black-and-white satellite photo. A date in the corner read “June 2012.”

“This is the Gongga Shan prison camp in Sichuan Province, southern China — at least, we had identified it as a prison camp. We named it after the mountain. Gongga Shan is the tallest mountain in Sichuan Province and is part of the Daxue mountain range. The peak rises to a height just shy of twenty-five thousand feet.” Using his laser pointer, he showed areas marked PRISONERS’ BARRACKS, GUARD BARRACKS, INFIRMARY and so on. “As far as we know, it was built about five years ago and can accommodate several thousand prisoners.”

He pressed the remote again, and the first image slid to one side, and a second, of the same area, appeared alongside it. “This was taken about six hours ago. This construction work” — he indicated a long scar on the side of the mountain in the first photo — “has been finished or just stopped. The imagery analysts believe it was finished, because if the Chinese had just abandoned it, the excavation scar would still be there. In fact, if you look in the second photo, the mountain’s surface has been restored to its natural state. The original analysis four years ago speculated that the prisoners might be mining, or building an observatory, or putting up a major communications antenna hub. The excavation went across the southern side of the mountain in a west-to-east direction, more than halfway up to the peak.”

Admiral Overton paused, looking at the group. A hint of embarrassment appeared on his face. “That initial analysis was never followed up.” He shrugged apologetically.

General Kastner spoke for the group. “And the real answer is?”

Overton pressed the remote again. A gray-green infrared image appeared, superimposed over the second photo. “We drilled down a bit to see what they’d been working on. This is a satellite infrared picture taken about an hour ago. We were lucky,” he explained. “We had perfectly clear weather and the wind wasn’t too high.”

Most of the shapes in the image duplicated the buildings and other structures, but one shape was unique: a long, thick, straight line, laid west-to-east along the southern face of the mountain.

“It’s 3,280 feet long — a full kilometer — and based on careful measurements, we know it’s angled along the mountain face at about eighty-five degrees. At the base you’ll see a series of buried structures, including what we think are several bunkers for the launch crew. The buildings at the base are hot, and the entire structure is slightly warmer than the surrounding rock. We think it’s made of high-strength reinforced concrete.”

“A buried rocket launcher?” wondered the army chief of staff.

“Close, but no, sir. It’s a buried gun barrel, a very large gun barrel. There’s no discernable large entrance to bring in a missile, nor is there a road or railhead leading up to the launcher. Also, the imagery guys haven’t found any evidence of exhaust vents. You’d need those to prevent the rocket exhaust from pressurizing the launcher. But with a gun, that is exactly what you want to do. See these shapes?” He used the pointer to indicate several rounded structures. “We believe these are tanks for the liquid propellant fuel, probably liquid hydrogen. The bore looks to be about nine or ten feet in diameter. It’s at the corner of this ridgeline, here. It’s been well camouflaged, but it’s still a little warmer than the rest of the rock. We haven’t finished working out the numbers, but the initial estimate is that it’s capable of launching a small rocket-boosted projectile into medium Earth orbit.”

Even while the flag officers and their staffs took in the spectacular news, Kastner jumped on it immediately. “Great job, Frank. We’re pressed for time, but I’ve got to know how you found this.”

“We’re putting together a complete report right now, sir. You’ll all have it in a few hours.” He paused for a moment, and then added, “To answer your question: elimination and luck. The three active satellites were killed in the same area, just east of Okinawa. We assumed an easterly trajectory, as that requires the least amount of energy to get something into orbit. We then focused our radars on the GPS birds as they passed by that area during the night. We caught a glimpse of a projectile during the last attack, back-calculated its trajectory to its origin, and tried to find a launching site in the region. We got lucky because we figured they’d start with an established installation, and the Gongga Shan prison camp was on a rather short list. In hindsight, it probably never was anything but a construction site for the gun. We’ve been looking in all the wrong places for the last three weeks.” He didn’t sound proud.

Kastner was complimentary but grim. “Well, Frank, I’m glad the intel community nailed it down. As they say, better late than never. But your work has just begun. We need to know a lot more about this weapon. First, is this the only one? It probably is, but I’ve got to know absolutely. Second, how many more satellites can they kill with it? And third, what would it take to stop it?”

Overton nodded silently, his expression as grim as the chairman’s. Nodding respectfully to his boss and the other joint chiefs, he and his staff left. They had a lot of questions on their plate and not much time to get the answers.

Kastner turned to the others. “Immediate impressions, gentlemen? After we finish here, I’ll wake the SECDEF. He’ll have to give the bad news to the president.”

The chime from his computer jolted Ray back to consciousness. Yawning, he looked at the clock on his desktop — two o’clock in the afternoon! He must have fallen asleep soon after he had sent out the “call to arms” by e-mail. Without thinking, Ray reached for the mug by his machine and took a big gulp. “Ugh!” he gasped, almost spitting the liquid out onto his laptop.

“Cold coffee, bad choice,” choked Ray. Stumbling over to the kitchen, he put the mug in the microwave and nuked its contents on high. While the coffee returned to a drinkable temperature, Ray leaned over the kitchen sink and threw some cold water on his face. By the time he’d dried his hands and face, the sharp “ding” of the microwave signaled the completion of its assigned mission. Snatching the mug from the microwave, Ray headed back to his computer, sipping the old but now hot coffee. He grunted his approval as he sat down and pulled up his e-mail in-box. He liked what he saw on the screen.

Twelve people had already sent a positive response to his “emergency” summons; they’d be at his house by 7:00 P.M. Several more expressed their disappointment that they were out of town and would miss the kickoff meeting, but each one reassured Ray they’d join the design team as soon as they got back to San Diego. Within seven hours of his e-mail going out, Ray had sixteen top-notch experts committed to helping him with Project Defender. The name he’d chosen was, admittedly, a bit cutesy, but it would help keep them focused on their goal — defending U.S. space-borne assets. It certainly wasn’t any worse than some of the corny names the Pentagon came up with.

A quick review of the growing roster showed Ray he had a solid team in the spacecraft design, propulsion, communications, and mission-planning cells. But they were weak on command and control and payload (i.e., sensors and weapons). He’d suspected these areas would be harder to fill, as many of the best people wore uniforms, and he’d intentionally not sent the e-mail to anyone currently on active duty in the military. They could get into serious trouble if their chain of command found out what Ray was working on and that they were helping him.

That decision had been particularly agonizing for Ray. He had many close friends in the armed services, particularly the air force and navy, who weren’t going to be happy with him for leaving them out of the loop, but he couldn’t risk jeopardizing their careers by sending them a direct e-mail that could be traced back to him. If they heard about this project through the grapevine, he’d deal with each individual at his front door.

Ray shook his head as he looked at the command and control group; it was the weakest of the lot by far. He immediately thought of Jenny Oh. She was smart, motivated, and had the very expertise that Ray knew he desperately needed. But she was a naval officer, and that put her out of bounds. Taking Jenny off the Project Defender design-team list seemed to bother Ray more than it should have, and he was at a loss to explain why.

Sure, she was as attractive as she was intelligent, but she was a relative newcomer to Ray’s circle of influence. She’d only been to two of his weekend BOGSATs, and both times she came with Jim Naguchi. In the grand scheme of things, she was little more than an acquaintance.

The chime from his laptop forced Ray to focus his attention on a new e-mail. Another engineer had pledged his efforts to the cause. Excellent, he thought. “Maybe SPAWAR doesn’t have the talent, Rudy,” muttered Ray to himself, “but I know where to find it.”