Leap Second

LEAP SECOND

By Bob Thornton

Copyright 2016 Bob Thornton

Smashwords Edition

The Players

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Titan Aerospace

Hattie Yeager, Head for Commercial Systems

Jack Abercrombie, CEO

George Curtis, Head for Technology, Chief Engineer

Norman Cope, Network Administrator

Garrett Craven, Head for Federal Systems

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Intelligence Security Group (ISG)

Scott Bryan, Chief of Security

Dennis Welch, Director at ISG

Marianne, Administrative Assistant

Roger Adams, Compromised mid-level administrator

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

North Korea

Park Jong-un, Supreme Leader of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea

Lee, North Korean spy

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thayer Air Force Base

Stuart Davis, System Administrator

General James Hawkins, Commander for Space Communications

Colonel Pickens, General Hawkins’ Chief of Staff

Lt. Colonel Andrew Bradley, Operations Duty Officer

Bobby Cower, Disenchanted mid-level administrator

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chicago

Jamal Dawg Johnson, Business Associate

Sal Lupo, Organized Crime Figure

Frank Conti, Mayor of Melrose Park

Riley Houston, Titan Aerospace Facility Manager

Caesar Mendoza, South American Crime Syndicate

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Ronald Reagan Test Site, Kwajalein Atoll

Jake Castellano, Launch Officer

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Baltimore

Pookie, Hattie’s grandfather

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Pearl Harbor

Admiral Danny Joseph, Commander U.S. Pacific Fleet

Preface

In spite of growing international pressure, Homeland Security remained uncharacteristically generous in giving me time to piece together the details of the plot to start the nuclear exchange. There were some things only I knew of course. And other important pieces would be missing had they not let me interview the key players I hadn't already killed. For the longest time I’d put off organizing my notes as if somehow my execution would be delayed. But the Federal Judge tired of Homeland’s innate arrogance and set the date. I’ve one week to live. But where do I start?

I am an American citizen. I was in the service of North Korea; codenamed Lantern. We almost pulled it off; the nuclear war to change everything. We came within a second actually. But when this story began, I knew nothing of the leap-second.

Chapter One

The airframe of the C-17 Globemaster III shook fiercely; its thrust reversers snarling to slow the massive plane. The flimsy boundary fence at the end of the runway was fast approaching, the churning Pacific mere yards beyond. The lone passenger sitting among freight was slammed hard against his troop seat as the Aircraft Commander arched hard against the brakes.

Stop, you stinkin’ pig, he managed through clenched teeth. The co-pilot took no notice. She stared at the churning blue water; recalling the Marshallese name for this stretch of ocean: Shark Pit.

Stop the damn thing, she cried.

Stop, you stinkin’ pig! he repeated, the strain in his voice evident over the intercom. The Duty Officer in the control tower sat forward in her seat and released the covered switch to the disaster claxon.

We’re not going to make it! the Co-pilot shouted.

But by slow degrees (and some miracle of physics) the colossal forces working to arrest the aircraft finally began to take hold. It came to rest on the crushed coral just beyond the reinforced runway; clouded in a cyclone of dust and debris. Holy crap was all the Pilot could say, re-applying thrust reversers to muscle the aircraft back onto the concrete.

I thought we were going to bite it his co-pilot shouted.

Yeah, thanks for nothing! he spit at her, trying to mask relief. ‘We’re not going to make it. We’re not going to make it,’ he mimicked in degrading falsetto, though only moments before he had pictured the dreadful plunge into the ocean.

It was a short taxi to the chalks. The aircraft Loadmaster bullied his way aft through the tightly stacked cargo and addressed himself to the lone passenger. Make no mistake; I thought his lordship was going to drop us in the tank this time. I bet we were three thousand feet down the runway before the mains touched.

Scott Bryan loosened his seat restraints and stretched wearily to regain circulation in his legs. The Loadmaster continued over his shoulder, He’s the worst A/C in the wing. I’d rather have that she-devil sitting next to him driving. Bryan grabbed his duffel and watched absently as the man operated various controls to open the aft cargo door admitting a crushing blast of heat and humidity.

Welcome to hell, the airman said as Bryan stepped down the ramp. Waiting below was a well-tanned and well-proportioned enlisted woman. She wore khaki shorts, titanium-frame sunglasses and a custom forty-five.

Orders she commanded, extending a muscular arm extending to a taunt leather shooters’ glove. Bryan dug out his credentials, stepped off the ramp and into her world. She assessed him and his orders with unsympathetic eyes. There she pointed to a door labeled ‘Security’. Stay away from the door marked ‘Flight Ops’, she added, leaving him to cipher the consequences. Turning, she barked Loadmaster! Scott Bryan moved off, the tarmac sticky under his boots. The sign on the control tower read: Welcome to U.S.A.K.A. - U.S. Army Kwajalein Atoll. He had come to this place to test the Nation’s most highly classified secret.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Hattie Yeager sifted through stacks of boxes. The move from Chicago was hurried and vexing. Naturally she got the premium relocation package, but was too busy tying up loose ends at Boeing to closely oversee her belongings. Most everything went to long-term storage and her temporary corporate townhouse was a maze of poorly marked brown boxes she’d stuffed before the packers got the rest. She checked the clock and hurried, today she started her new job.

The world headquarters for Titan Aerospace is housed in a seven-story, stylized blue-glass office building perched above a winding, tree-lined Baltimore boulevard. Nearby are other custom-designed buildings formerly occupied by other high-tech firms. During the good years the combined revenues of the tenants of Thornton Research Park surpassed the wealth of most sovereign nations. That was then. Now most buildings stood vacant; mute testimony to what White House spokesmen persistently term an emerging economic recovery. Titan was the only firm thriving here. Its communication satellites and ground-control installations were the choice of commercial and Federal customers who paid handsomely for their services.

Hattie parked her car in the crowded lot, checked her watch and hurried up the steps into Titan; she was running late. Her blood pressure mounted by the usual first-timers clog at the Security desk, but once past she stepped onto an elevator and pushed the button labeled, By Appointment Only. Far above the treed approaches and spacious lawns, perched in the highest boughs of the attractive building, were the offices of Jack Abercrombie, Titan’s Chief Executive Officer – the man industry analysts called The Heat. Hattie stepped off the elevator and into the sumptuously-appointed trappings customary to the head of a lucrative enterprise. She accepted a cup of deep-brewed coffee from one of the support staff whose stylish desks and clusters of high-res display heads were tastefully integrated into the anteroom. She sat preoccupied with her likely bad first-impression at being late but was soon startled to hear Mr. Abercrombie will see you now.

The technology giant’s office was accessed through a seamless opening to the side of the reception counter. Hattie stood and smoothed her skirt before making her way into the room beyond. Her first few steps inside left her with an immediate and uneasy shift in perspective. She’d been in other executive offices of course, but none compared to this one. Her focus was inescapably drawn to the farthest corner. There, as if nestled in the broad arms of the building itself, sat a remarkable desk. Like the building, it was made of blue glass; its thick, arched legs tubular and shimmering. The desktop was a thick slab of glass floodlit by tiny halogen lamps. The desk was perched on an expertly polished Italian marble floor which served to reflect the ambient light. Hattie was left with the eerie and inescapable impression there were no boundaries between floor and sky; that the desk and man seated behind it hung in mid-air, outside of the room, suspended over the courtyard below. The Heat eyed her steadily before rising, then strode gracefully over and said, Hattie, it’s a pleasure to welcome you. Jack Abercrombie extended one manicured hand to meet hers while the other momentarily encompassed the small of her back, a brief but disarming gesture.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The evening sky bulged with thick, rapidly moving clouds. Strong winds whipped across the Baltimore waterfronts, assaulting every crack and crevice along the dense maze of streets; the citizens powerless.

The glass panes of the old clock shop rattled and shuddered as Hattie fought to truss the curtains against the howling winds. Despite her efforts the air drafted in; hollow and ancient. Why do you lock up so early Hattie dear? inquired the old gentleman from his worn armchair. Someone may show up, or need a cup of tea, he persisted.

No one in their right mind is out in this, Pookie, she replied. I texted you the weather images, but I knew you would not be sensible enough to close the store.

Hattie’s Grandfather smiled at her scolding. He had been listening to the news all afternoon. He’d heard the weather bulletins alright, but it was world developments that caught his attention. Interesting things were happening in China. At this moment though, those concerns evaporated at the joy of seeing the delight of his life. She draped the countertops and with the money drawer under her arm, reached up and switched off the neon Clocks sign; the rain sizzled angrily against the fading tubes. She turned from the storm and toward the man who raised her.

He beamed like sunshine at her. Bending close she kissed his hollow cheeks; the sparse gray stubble pricking her lush skin. She smelled his light-sour but kindly scent. He must have a shower, she thought as she straightened up and openly appraised the rest of him. He definitely looked thinner, his face drawn and pale. She must confront him of course. She wondered offhandedly if she nagged because she was a Jewish female. Though raised by her Grandfather, her Hebrew gene pool furnished an abundance of fussing. It was clear that living alone was not going to be an option for him much longer. You don't use the smart phone I bought you. How did you expect to know a major storm was coming?

I suppose by looking out the window, he offered.

Hattie growled. She was in a bad mood after her first encounter with Titan’s CEO. Something about Jack Ambercrombie bullied her ego. While sitting with him for the first time she uncharacteristically sought opportunity to brag on herself – to let him know just how lucky he was to hire her; she wanted to impress him. She was a top-twenty graduate from the Air Force Academy, flew F-15 Strike Eagle missions in Afghanistan before her MBA from Harvard – and frankly her disarming good looks – were more than Boeing could resist. They threw piles of money at her and she grew the profits of their commercial aircraft sector for two years straight. If Abercrombie was aware of all of this, he didn’t mention it. He never said a word about her new assignment as head of Titan's Commercial Satellite Division; nothing. She didn’t even have a chance to brag on her Grandfather – who was a living legend at NASA.

Hattie, it’s a pleasure to welcome you, she mimicked with an arched nose. The meeting was over as quickly as it started. All she remembered was an extended hand, a vague movement of feet and she was outside his door with staff people swarming to air-drop data to her smart tablet. It was a huge let down.

She headed back to the narrow and poorly kitchen behind the store. She was a mountain of stress and conflict. Her next scheduled appointment was fast approaching. She was to meet with Titan’s Head for Technology. She knew her Grandfather would be disappointed with her leaving so soon. She poured boiling water into the well-used porcelain teapot and tried to focus on the soothing aroma of Chamomile. She reached for cups and saucers and carried a tray out to him. His eyes followed her as she moved. Here Papa, she said, offering him a steaming cup of tea. This will warm you like a hug from God. – words they shared for as long as she could remember.

Did you hear the news, dear? he asked.

No. I don’t have time.

The Chinese sank an American fishing boat.

No..., she parroted without enthusiasm; preoccupied with Titan. But her relentless sense of duty helped her snap back to the present. Where did this fishing boat thing happen?

In the Sea of Japan; all hands were lost, he intoned in his soft whisper. The Chinese say the ship was gathering intelligence. You know, spying.

I’d think we have enough spy satellites without resorting to fishing boats. What are we doing about it?

The Navy is sending a dive vessel to the wreck. They want to prove the boat sank in international waters. But of course they could do that without a dive team so I suspect they want to recover equipment. The President is going to call a press conference later tonight. We will have to be sure to watch. You’re going to stay for a while, aren’t you? he asked genially, dreading the answer her eyes forecasted.

Hattie gritted her teeth. Drink your tea, Pookie, I only came over to share a quick cup. she prompted gently. I’m afraid I have to go back to work. The old man smiled bravely through his disappointment.

He held his teacup in a nest of bony fingers, raising it uncertainly to ribbon-thin lips. He managed to swallow most of it though some escaped down the grizzled chin. Delicious, my child, he said leaning forward to replace the cup to the saucer. His dexterity was tentative and a good bit more spilled. Hattie failed to mask her alarm. He caught her expression. A stiff smile tightened his features as he dabbed his trousers with his ever-present handkerchief. He shook his head slightly. He knew she wanted him to move to a community of old people. They sat in deafening silence. Then, as often happened when he reflected on the struggles of life, he began to talk about the War. As one of the world’s premier mathematicians, the Third Reich became interested.

They came during a storm like this, began the hollow and ancient voice. They’d been agitating for several months. So at first, things seemed normal. Besides, our mathematics and physics departments were among the finest in the world; rooms brimming with genius. We continued our work as if the German’s weren’t there, working long nights, stretching our minds and our theories. I felt proud of my contributions; proud of the chalk dust and the praise of my peers. I lived for mathematics in those days. Then one day I looked and the Nazis were everywhere and we began to hear rumors of our People being hauled away by trainloads.

Hattie watched his eyes dull. The Germans were only waiting, he continued. And although we began by arguing mathematical theory, they soon had us arguing ballistics and payloads. His eyes swelled wet. Like some internal cancer, we could not see it growing. There were signs, of course. We were moved into ‘special housing’. It wasn’t so bad. I viewed it as a kind of privilege. Besides, by then I met your Grandmother. She was the most beautiful woman God ever made, a miracle in a time without miracles. We married, your mother was conceived, and our researches were accelerating. What reason to think our world would crash down around us?

"It became harder to ignore them, of course. Our little district became flooded with refugees from all over. Rumors about death camps turn into certainty. One night I heard shouts in the dormitory hallway. They took us by force and held us at the University; they took us from our families. They kicked open our door and took me from my wife and unborn child.

So I began to sabotage my calculations. My colleagues saw it, of course. They knew it was a death sentence. Soon the Nazis put their mathematicians in with us to oversee the work. Only their insatiable lust for a ballistic missile kept them from killing all of us. They were like wolves nipping at our heels, diving into our huddled circle, ripping and tearing; finding the weakest one, the one they could afford to be without. Many excellent men, men far better than I…, were led away."

Hattie listened humbly to the repetition of this story. He explained how her grandmother was held in a detention center until her mother was birthed fitfully into a bland, florescent world. The old man paused at this point, like he always did, to dry tears. Hattie fidgeted but did not interrupt; nothing in her power could bring him comfort. The Allies broke through some months later. Thorough German records and the grace of God helped me find your mother. However your Grandmother was lost to us; she was buried somewhere with countless others. Your mother and I were expatriated together. She grew to be a strong woman and married a fine NASA engineer. Soon you came into my world. And you are a gift from God because I have nothing left to remind me of my wife outside of my poor memory and, of course, you. When I see you, I see her again. His boney frame shook with sobbing.

She rose to hold him, trying to stem his grief. A glance at the dozens of clock faces in the shop told her she had to leave. I have to go now Pookie, people are waiting for me.

Yes, of course, he whispered absently, still deep inside his painful story, People are waiting for me too, those who died instead of me. Slowly, he regained the present moment. You should be on your way, my dear. I’ll get the dishes. But her anxiety about him drove her toward the kitchen. He listened to the sounds of running water and to the tinkling of the rapidly stacked teacups. Her approaching footfall warned he would soon be alone again. He rallied to appear cheerful. Don’t let them work you cheaply, Hattie. Remember your gifts from the Lord God, are discovery and discernment.

She squatted down to speak directly at him. Pookie, we must talk this weekend about living where you can get full-time help, okay? Right now I want you to lie down and take a nap for me.

Sleep cuts into the time I have left, replied the hollow and ancient draft.

She looked at him and saw fear. She bent close and straightened his wayward collar. Don’t worry my handsome man. I will never leave you. Just short times apart, that’s all. She leaned to kiss him, the sparse stubble poking her lush skin. Did you send an answer to those people at John’s Hopkins who wanted you to speak?

Oh, he croaked, surprised by the news. What am I to talk about?

You told me it was about the upcoming leap-second. But don’t worry, I can check with them.

Thank you my little one.

Promise me you’ll answer your phone tonight! she said, preparing to go.

The old man looked carefully at her and nodded. Goodbye, my dear. Pray for me.

She kissed his forehead and headed for the door. He listened to the retreating footsteps; the door opened and closed. He was alone. Pray for me, he whispered to the empty room. The old man rocked uncertainly to his feet and shuffled to the workbench where he met piles of wheels, cams, and springs. He stood dismayed before a disembodied clock, his knotted fingers unable to pluck and probe as obediently as before. An involuntary flinch sent a cascade of tiny screws and washers to the floor. He had often joked that working on clocks made him master of time. Now, even to his reluctant ears, it was coming clear that time mastered him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Although he was Head for Technology at Titan, George Curtis was a modest and unimposing man. Aged somewhere in his mid to late fifties, he was cut from the friendly professor sort of cloth. His thick gray hair grew in handsome waves. His eyes were the lightest blue and twinkled mischievously; an effect intensified by yellow bomb-burst patterns in his irises. His job description was to lead a world class organization of engineers, scientists and technicians of every description. His Ph.D. was in applied mathematics from M.I.T. Today he was walking down the hall to meet the new Head for Commercial, Hattie Yeager. It was to be her first tour of the satellite operations center.

Curtis walked into Hattie’s office and greeted her with his accustomed, Hullo Miss Hattie. She liked that, it reminded her of living with her Grandfather in Huntsville, Alabama during the NASA years. Like so many with space-related careers, Curtis spent time in Huntsville. Among the things he learned was the practice of addressing women of all ages by their first names pre-pended with the title Miss. It was a Southern custom that charmed as well as suited Curtis’s polite, sincere character.

As they walked along, Curtis began. In the broadest sense, there are two components to our commercial satellite operations center. The control room, where we are heading now, provides the signal processing and broadcast command and control. The second piece is the antenna compound where the actual radio beams are transmitted and received. But since the dish farm is about a mile away on the back corner of the lot and as you’re not wearing hiking boots, he quipped, I thought we’d settle for a walk down to the control room.

Hattie remembered seeing the antenna ray domes from Abercrombie’s office. The first time I was in Mr. Abercrombie’s office I looked out and saw a group of ray domes in the distance. I guess I never put it together that they could be ours. Besides… she began uncertainly.

You had all you could do to digest what you were seeing in his office, the senior scientist offered. It pleased Curtis that Hattie called the CEO, Mr. Abercrombie. It was respectful and orderly; two characteristics of George Curtis. It’s quite the office, isn’t it?

You’re not kidding, she continued more openly. I barely remember anything about the visit. I couldn’t believe my eyes. How can he get anything done at that desk?

The Head for Technology smiled openly. I’ve never seen more than one piece of paper on it.

They made their way along the corridors in friendly conversation. Hattie was glad for some uninterrupted time with Curtis, who was in charge of providing engineering support for her commercial business projects. She asked about the priorities Curtis used when the other operating divisions competed with her for his top talent. She asked about where he thought her research monies might best be invested, and how she could go about getting more. She asked question after question until Curtis began to laugh at the continuous flow that streamed from the attractive, young executive. From the detailed questions she was asking, he saw she had been doing her homework.

Eventually they rounded a corner and came to a stop before a waist-high oval partition. It cut a semicircle of fifteen feet or so and defended a set of sturdy doors in the wall behind it. A security guard was positioned there; a nest of video feeds illuminated his face. Hattie was surprised to see such a fortification in the middle of the Titan building, considering the security precautions she underwent just to get there.

The Head for Technology moved forward and smiled a greeting. He offered his credential for inspection and then moved forward to slide it through a card-reader by the door. A red light blinked to show the security system was alert and awaiting his access code. The keypad toned pleasantly with each pat of his plump finger. After the final stroke, the access light obligingly changed to green. A metallic click announced safe passage granted. They emerged onto a platform in a large, low-lit room. Three leather chairs sat at the front of the platform, thickly outfitted with all sorts of techno-gadgetry. Hattie made her way over and sat down. The leather was superbly subtle and comforting as she ran her fingertips along the overstuffed arms. Curtis slumped heavily into the chair beside her; giving her the opportunity to take it all in. The platform ended abruptly just in front of them. Below, in a pool of surrounding darkness, a dozen or more operators sat at complicated-looking workstations. Expensive looking wall and ceiling treatments hushed their murmured conversations. Directly across and set into the facing wall were three massive high-resolution situation displays. Each displayed a wide variety of numbers and sweeping graphics to indicate health and status of the Titan commercial broadcast satellites.

We call this the ‘Pit’, Curtis began. We broadcast commercial data of every type from here 24/7, every day of the week. There are usually ten to fifteen controllers and one NA.

Network Administrator? she asked.

That’s right, Curtis replied. And incidentally we’ve got one of the best in the business, Norman Cope. His job is to keep all this working.

What are those screens telling me? she asked.

On the left, the program schedules for each of our primary frequencies are depicted. You can see the display is divided above and below by a blue dashed line. The information above the line is what is currently being broadcast; the data below depicts the planned schedule within the next 24 hours.

What’s with the red arrow?

That pointer indicates one of our customers is doing some last minute changes to their programming.

How does that affect us?

Well, in one sense, it doesn’t, replied Curtis. If they want one form of information over another, it makes little difference to us. We just take their feed and use our satellites to distribute their programming to ground stations all over the world. Hattie sat silently. All this is a new subject for you, Hattie. You came from the division at Boeing that builds airplanes. Titan may not be the world’s largest aircraft manufacturer, but we do know a few things about spacecraft.

Characteristically, Hattie got back on task. So what happens after we get the Customer feed?

We allocate the transmission bandwidth for it and send it up from our antenna farm at the back of the property. If the customer is an open air broadcast company our satellites beam the programming to antenna farms they own or lease and from there into switching networks and finally into the homes of viewers. If the customer is a cable TV provider, they have us beam it directly into homes. As you know, we make our money selling signal conditioning and bandwidth.

On the far right screen, our flight controllers monitor the various subsystems of each of our orbiting spacecraft. In the center column are entries defining the orbit of our birds relative to the earth. You will become more familiar with these terms as we go along. The principle ones displayed on the screen there: apogee, perigee, line of apside, semi-major axis, eccentricity, right ascension, etcetera, etcetera, and etcetera. Hattie sighed; she had some homework to do. In the far column you can see information about the space vehicle itself; such as solar panel positioning, power consumption and antenna attitude.

How does our new Auriga satellite improve our abilities? Auriga was the newest class of commercial space vehicle Titan was pioneering. The Auriga project had all but drained commercial business unit profits over the last several years. R&D efforts were nearing completion and the Company was coming up on a launch decision for the first of the Auriga birds.

Yes, yes, Auriga, Curtis mused to himself.

First off, she asked rather pointedly, where’d you come up with that name?

Naming them is the best part, Curtis said, suddenly animated. Auriga is the constellation that signals the beginning of autumn, he said. Seeing no recognition in her face, he added, One of the stars is really quite bright. It’s either the fifth or sixth brightest of any star we can see from this hemisphere.

And I suppose you happen to know the name of that star as well? she said knowing he would.

Why, yes, he said, suddenly self-conscious. It’s called ‘Cappella’. It means ‘little she-goat’. Zeus was nursed by a goat, you know.

"Well, sure, he would. she replied one eyebrow arching. I can see why Titan Aerospace would want to name a massive commercial satellite enterprise after a goat!"

Well actually, Curtis continued. The myth says that Zeus broke off one of the goat’s horns.

I stand corrected. It’s named after a maimed goat!

…which horn, Curtis continued undaunted, he later gifted with the magical ability to dispense great quantities of food and drink. Curtis waited expectantly. Hattie stared blankly at him. She didn’t get it.

Hullo? he chided. The cornucopia!

Oh! she said, rolling her eyes. I get it; cornucopia; buckets and buckets of money. Man! You guys had to stretch for that one!

Naming them is the best part, he repeated more to himself, slightly deflated.

Who names these projects?

I get to vote but Jack has final say.

The ‘A Team’, huh?

Yeah, something like that Curtis mused thoughtfully for an instant longer and then, as was his custom, he turned the conversation back to business. We have been several years in getting to this point. Much of what we put into our design requirements for Auriga has never been attempted before. One Auriga can do the work of two or three of our older class satellites. As for your question about improved capability, it’s really the same old story. Just like the guy at home wants more speed for Internet, faster CPU, and more memory. Auriga brings together the latest developments in modem, CPU, memory, and ultra-high-definition broadcast technologies. Except, of course, these components must be designed carefully to consider things the guy at home doesn’t deal with.

Such as, she prompted.

Our components must be miniaturized to meet stringent payload weight profiles, packaged to cope with extreme operating environments, and since household 110 volts is not an option, we have to make it all work with a fraction of the power.

Hattie nodded appreciatively. How far are we from putting it in orbit?

Manufacture and vehicle assembly will be complete before year’s end. But you’re probably familiar with the overall schedule that Jack put together. Hattie nodded. We have to have Auriga on orbit in time; Jack made contractual guarantees that we’d do it.

Do you think he over-sold us?

Well, I think we can get it put together on time, if we don’t have any major failures in testing. My main worry is once we get it built, then we have to wait for a booster.

Wait?

Yeah, boosters are another subject altogether. Rockets are complicated and expensive, and there are not enough of them to go around. There are dozens of companies looking to boost satellites; the explosion in cell phone usage is one example. But in any event, even though we don’t have Auriga built yet, our reputation is strong enough to have a booster reservation already in place. Unless of course we a late in manufacture and then they will find another payload.

Is there anything else the Chief Scientist wants to tell me about Auriga?

Only the most exciting part! All the features that make Auriga superior to anything ever flown are nothing compared to the main attraction. Hattie could sense Curtis’s growing excitement. Nothing, he said with some drama, "compared to the backchannel."

She had read something of the effort to develop and exploit the backchannel. Titan was hoping to have it available for Auriga operations. Could you give me the short course? she asked.

Sure. Governments of the world tightly monitor and control the use of radio frequencies within their borders. You just can’t have a dozen broadcast sources fighting to use the same frequencies within the same geographic area. If you spent any time in southwest Texas and tried to raise a local AM station without getting hammered from overpowered transmitters across the river you’ll know what I’m talking about. What we achieved with Auriga is a solution to this problem through the next several decades. We are the first scientists in the world to establish both a direct sequence spread spectrum link and a narrowband QPSK link on a laboratory satellite transponder that was also occupied with a broadcast transmission. His face glowed in the faint light of the room. Hattie was not sure what he said, but understood it made Curtis proud.

Seeing in her a mixture of polite nodding and incomprehension, he clarified himself. What this means is, we can conduct uplink and downlink actions sharing the same antenna beam footprint. In other words, we can process transmission and receive frequencies through Auriga while the backchannel rides alongside those same signals carrying its own data stream.

That means there are twice the frequencies available? Hattie asked, feeling her guess was somewhere in the neighborhood.

Well, not quite twice, he conceded, "there is some physics in the way. Mainly we see losses at the ends of the spectrum. But certainly, we can almost double the number of broadcasts we carry on the frequencies already assigned to us. If it works in space we will have a strategic advantage over all our competitors. Well actually, he paused, if it works in space, it will bury our competitors."

You said ‘if it works’ twice George.

Well, yes, he admitted somewhat sheepishly. Certainly, the effects of orbit and space telemetry cannot be completely replicated in the lab. But I will say we haven’t come up with any show stopping reasons why it shouldn’t perform well in space. But for the sake of precise discussion, I can’t guarantee the backchannel will operate as advertised once Auriga is in orbit.

Hattie paused to digest this. As Head for Commercial, she was ultimately responsible for the Auriga program and the backchannel. Curtis seemed guarded in his estimation of their odds of success, but his was a conservative nature. It gave her goose flesh to think that she was part of something so big. She had always liked working with smart people, and sitting right next to her was the brains behind the backchannel breakthrough.