“You’re beginning to see now, aren’t you, Jung-bae?” Nukaga asked, seeing Jerry’s expression change. “Bradley McLanahan, the son of General Patrick McLanahan, a retired Air Force officer and former officer of that Nevada company, comes up with an idea for a so-called space-based solar power plant, and in just a few months’ time he’s assembled an engineering team and made several significant science and technological breakthroughs. Is it then a coincidence that Cal Poly gets the grant money? Is it just a coincidence that Mr. McLanahan wants to use Armstrong Space Station for Starfire, the station being managed by the very same Nevada defense contractor? I don’t believe in coincidences, Jung-bae. Neither should you.”
“But they received permission from the president of the United States to use the MHD,” Jerry said, “only and unless the Skybolt free-electron laser was not capable of being fired.”
“Of course. They couldn’t fire the laser without breaking the Space Preservation Treaty, so they got the next best thing: a maser, built by a bunch of college students, all very neat, uplifting, and innocent—hogwash, all hogwash,” Nukaga spat. “It seems to me that the so-called problems with your relay could have been easily contrived so they had to use the MHD generator to demonstrate the power of the maser weapon. Three million joules! I’ll bet the military was very pleased with this demonstration.”
“I designed the power relay system, sir, and only I was in charge of monitoring it,” Jerry said. “I assure you, no one deliberately tampered with it.”
“Jung-bae, I am very glad that you told me of this,” Nukaga said. “I am not implicating you of anything. It seems that Mr. McLanahan had his own agenda when he put this project together. As I suspected from the beginning, Mr. McLanahan was working with this defense contractor, and quite possibly the military itself, being the son of a prominent and infamous military officer, to build a space weapon and hide it from the world. He obviously had help from this contractor and the government—how else could a freshman gather all the resources needed to put together such a project in so short a time?”
“I . . . I had no idea, sir,” Jerry said, his eyes darting back and forth in confusion. “Mr. McLanahan, he . . . he seemed to possess extraordinary leadership and organizational skills. He was always very open and transparent about everything. He shared all of his resources with every member of the team. We knew every moment of every day what was needed and how he intended to get it.”
“Again, Jung-bae, I’m not implicating or blaming you for being taken in by this . . . this obvious huckster,” Nukaga said. He nodded, satisfied that he was on the right track. “It makes perfect sense to me. Our university has been taken in by a coordinated plot by McLanahan—more likely by his late father at first, then adopted by the son—supported by that defense contractor, the military, and their government supporters like President Kenneth Phoenix and Vice President Ann Page, to surreptitiously build a space-based directed-energy weapon and disguise it as nothing more than a student engineering project. How horrifyingly clever. How many other progressive, peace-loving universities have they perpetrated this scheme on? I wonder.”
Nukaga’s mind was racing for several moments before he realized he was still on the video teleconference with Jung-bae. “I’m sorry, Jung-bae,” he said, “but I must attend to a very important matter. You should leave that project immediately. In fact, if I find out that the university had anything to do with this military program, or if the university does not disavow any participation in the project and return the money it got from that defense contractor, I will resign my position immediately, and I would urge you to transfer to a different school. I’m sure we’d both be very happy at Stanford University. I look forward to seeing you soon.” And he terminated the connection.
My God, Nukaga thought, what an incredibly diabolical scheme! This had to be exposed immediately. It had to stop. He was the chair of this conference, and it was being beamed around the world—he certainly had access to cameras, microphones, and the media, and he intended to use them.
However, he admitted to himself, his audience, although global, was not that large. Most of the world considered the attendees as nothing more than tree-hugging Occupy Wall Street peacenik hippie wackos—one of the reasons he was asked to chair the conference was to try to lend a lot more legitimacy to the organization and the conclave. He needed some help. He needed . . .