Brad McLanahan was close to finishing his first year as an aerospace engineering student at Cal Poly. Everything in his life, from his body to his education to his experiences, all seemed to be just a little bit more than average. He was a little bit taller, heavier, and better-looking than average, with blue eyes and blond hair that had grown a bit longer than most engineering students on campus wore theirs. His grades were probably a bit better than average, just good enough to be accepted to the college of engineering at Cal Poly, which accepted fewer than one-third of all applicants. Thanks to a generous trust and benefits of a sizable life insurance policy from his deceased parents, Brad was in a better financial situation while in college than most other students: he rode a nice bicycle to school from his off-campus house in San Luis Obispo and even occasionally flew his father’s turbine Cessna P210 Silver Eagle airplane from the nearby airport, all while knowing that he would have no college tuition or student loan bills from his undergraduate or graduate education.
“We couldn’t have timed this any better, Brad,” said Lane Eagan. Fifteen-year-old Lane was from Roseburg, Oregon, graduating from homeschooled high school after just two years with a stratospheric grade-point average, and was accepted to Cal Poly with a four-year scholarship. Small, a little pudgy, and wearing thick glasses—he looked like the classic Hollywood version of a nerd—Lane looked up to Brad like a big brother. Lane was a freshman attending the college of electrical engineering, specializing in computer and microchip design and programming. “I hope Professor Nukaga likes our proposal.”
“I still think we should have gone with the space-junk idea, Bradley,” said Kim Jung-bae. Jung-bae—everyone called him “Jerry” because he liked Jerry Lewis movies, a nickname he used proudly—was from Seoul, United Korea, who transferred after two years at Pohang University of Science and Technology to study in the United States. Tall and thin, he spent as much time on the basketball court as he did in an engineering laboratory. Jerry was a mechanical engineering student, specializing in robotics and power storage technologies. “You know Nukaga: he does not care for the military stuff as much.”
“Starfire is not a military program, Jerry,” said Casey Huggins. Casey was also a freshman four-year scholarship winner to Cal Poly. A water-skiing accident when she was a young girl left her paralyzed from the waist down, so academics became a large part of her life. She fought to keep her weight down by using a manually powered wheelchair to get around Cal Poly’s very large six-thousand-acre campus, and competing in adaptive sports such as wheelchair basketball and archery. Casey was an electrical engineering student, specializing in directed-energy projects. “We’re using some military hardware, but it’s not a military program.” Jung-bae shrugged, not entirely convinced but not willing to provoke another argument.
“I like Jerry’s space-debris idea too, but especially after hearing President Phoenix’s little speech there, I think we should stick with our proposal, mates,” said Jodie Cavendish, sweeping her long blond hair back off her shoulders, then nervously twisting it back around across her breasts. Jodie was from Brisbane, Australia, and although she looked like a tall, trim, blue-eyed Southern California surfer girl, lived very close to the ocean back home, and loved sailing, surfing, and paddleboarding, she loved more than anything else to study and experiment, and could be found either in a laboratory or the library on a computer. She was close to finishing her two-year exchange-student scholarship program between Cal Poly and Queensland University of Technology, studying mechanical engineering with a specialty in advanced materials and nanotechnology. “Besides, we’ve spent too much time rehearsing our yabber.”
“Like Jodie said, I’m good with either idea, and we can pitch the space-debris idea too—we’re prepared,” Brad said. “But now, with that speech and that challenge, I think Starfire will be a winner.”
“Do you now, Mr. McLanahan?” they heard a man say, and into the office raced Toshuniko Nukaga, Ph.D., professor of aerospace engineering at Cal Poly. Born, raised, and educated in Berkeley, California, Nukaga, known in academic circles as well as to his close friends as “Toby,” did nothing slowly, whether it was bicycle racing, giving lectures, or writing and presenting yet another paper on another breakthough in the world of aerospace science. Sixty years old and retired from the aerospace industry, Nukaga was one of the most-sought-after experts on new aircraft and spacecraft design. He’d had his choice of positions on the board of directors or leadership of hundreds of companies and universities around the world, but he had chosen to spend his remaining years before retirement in California’s Central Valley, imparting his knowledge and yearning to explore and question conventional wisdom to a new generation of engineers and thinkers.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Nukaga,” Brad said. “Thank you for seeing us so late in the afternoon.”
Nukaga had checked his e-mail on his desktop computer, removed his tablet computer from his backpack, and put it on its charging stand by the time Brad had finished speaking. He nodded, acknowledging the young man’s gratitude, then sat back in his chair, tapping his fingertips together to keep himself in motion despite being seated. “You’re welcome. Let’s hear your ‘winner,’ Mr. McLanahan.”