The Gold Coast

34

In the month after LSR submits its bid for the Stormbee program, Dennis McPherson flies to Dayton four times to meet various members or subcommittees of the Source Selection Evaluation Board. The questions are tough and exacting, and each session drains McPherson completely. But so far as he can tell, they are faring well. Except for a whole day’s worth of questions concerning the laser system’s abilities in bad weather, the so-called blind letdown issue, he has satisfactory answers for all of their technical questions, and these in turn justify the estimated costs of the system. As for blind let-down, well, there’s nothing much they can do about that. The RFP asked for a covert system, so they’re stuck with the CO2 laser’s inability to see well through clouds. McPherson tries not to worry about it; he figures that the SSEB is merely trying to find out which of the bidders’ proposed systems will deal with this handicap the best.

So. Four intense grillings, each with its ritual humiliations, the various reminders that the Air Force is in control here, it’s the biggest buyer’s market of all history and so everyone gathering around to sell has to do a little submission routine, rolling on their backs and exposing throat and belly like dogs… at least in certain ritual moments, as when beginning or ending presentations, or answering irrelevant, insolent questions, or greeting members of the board at the occasional lunch or cocktail party on the base. McPherson goes through all that grimly and concentrates on the actual sessions, on clear concise answers to the questions asked. It really is wearing.

But eventually the time runs out, and the SSEB has to stop and make its report, and the Source Selection Authority—General Jack James, a serious aloof man—has to stop and make his decision, and this decision has to be reviewed by HQ USAF, and then it finally comes time for the Air Force to award the contract for Stormbee. Somewhere in there the decision has been made. One company will have its bid chosen and will be in charge of a $750 million system, the other four competitors will be sent home to try again, each some several million dollars out of pocket as a result of their attempt.

Because of McPherson’s reports on the grillings, and the original choice of LSR by the Air Force back when the program was superblack, Lemon is confident that their bid is going to be the one chosen. All the Dayton questions indicate a strong interest in the problems of development and deployment, and Lemon thinks the proposal is so strong that no weaknesses have been found. Donald Hereford, in New York, appears convinced by Lemon, and on his orders a big contingent of LSR people travel to Crystal City for the Air Force’s announcement of the award. Hereford himself comes down, with a small crew of underlings. The night before the announcement they have a party in the restaurant above the LSR offices in the Aerojet Tower, and the mood is celebratory. The rumor, spreading industrywide, is that LSR has indeed nailed the contract.

McPherson is politely cheerful at the party, but as for the rumor, he’s trying to wait and see. He’s too nervous to make any assumptions. This is his program, after all. And rumors are worthless. Still, it’s impossible not to be infected by the mood a little bit, to allow hope to break out of its hard tight bud.…

The next day, in one of the Pentagon’s giant white meeting rooms, McPherson feels talons of nervousness digging into him. A whole lot of people fill the room, including big groups from all five bidders: Aeritalia, Fairchild, McDonnell/Douglas, Parnell, and LSR, each team gathered in knots around the room. McPherson eyes the other companies’ teams curiously. Jocularity with the rest of his own group is a tough bit of acting, and it’s doubtful that he really pulls it off. Really all he wants is to sit.

It’s actually a relief to see the Air Force colonel come into the room and stride to the flag-bedecked podium at the front. Video lights snap on and a microphone in the cluster of them at the podium begins to hum. It’s another big media conference, the Pentagon’s idea of high entertainment. And everyone else seems to agree. Several cameras are trained on the speaker, and McPherson recognizes many of the trade reporters, from Aviation Week and Space Technology, National Defense, SDI Today, Military Space, L-5 Newsletter, The Highest Frontier, Electronic Defense, and so on; ID badges also announce reporters from The Wall Street Journal, AP, UPI, Science News, Science, Time, and many newspapers. This is big news, and the Pentagon has been canny about turning the award ceremonies into PR events for itself. The colonel who will be their master of ceremonies is obviously an experienced PR man: a handsome flyboy, McPherson thinks sourly, about to award the contract that will make pilots obsolete.

For the sake of the reporters and cameras, they first have to endure a glowing description of the Stormbee system and its tremendous importance for American security. Also its great size and monetary worth, of course. Tension among the competitors present reduces them all to a state of sullen, tight attentiveness. Nearly seventy minds are thinking, Get to it, you bastard, get to it. But it’s part of the ritual, one of the reminders of who is boss in this game.…

For a moment McPherson is distracted by these thoughts, and then he hears: “We’re pleased to announce that the contract for the Stormbee system has been awarded to Parnell Aviation Incorporated. Their winning bid totaled six hundred ninety-nine million dollars. Details of the decision process are available in the document that will now be distributed.”

McPherson’s stomach has closed down to a singularity. Lemon is red-faced with anger, and something in his expression ignites fury in McPherson more than the announcement itself did. He snatches one of the booklets being passed around, reads the basic information page feverishly. When he finishes he is so surprised that he stops and goes back to read it more slowly, blinking in disbelief.

Apparently they’re using a YAG laser system, in a two-pod configuration. And $669 million! It’s impossible! It’s instantly clear that Parnell has made a lower bid than they can possibly stick to. And the Air Force has let the fraud pass. Has, in fact, colluded in it. The room is filling with incredulous or angry voices, enough to overwhelm the happy chatter of the Parnell team, as more and more people get the gist of the booklet. Reporters are scurrying around, surrounding the Parnell group, faces bright under the video lights—disembodied pink faces, smiles, eyes—

Something snaps in McPherson. He stands, speech spills out of him. “By God, they’ve rigged it! We’ve got the best proposal in there, and they’ve given it to one that’s an obvious lie!”

Lemon and the rest of the Laguna Hills folks are staring at him in amazement. They’ve never in their lives heard such an outburst from Dennis McPherson, and they’re really taken aback. Art Wong’s mouth hangs open.

Donald Hereford, silver-haired and calm, just looks at McPherson impassively. “You think their bid is unrealistically low?”

“It’s impossibly low! I can’t imagine the MPC evaluations letting this crap pass! And the proposal itself—look how they’ve ignored the specs in the RFP—two pods, YAG laser, eleven point eight KVA, why the planes won’t have the power to run these rigs!” Heart racing, face flushed hot, McPherson slams the booklet down on the back of a chair. “We’ve been screwed!”

Hereford nods once, no expression on his face at all. “You’re certain our proposal is superior to this?”

“Yes,” McPherson grates out. “We had a better proposal.”

Hereford’s mouth tightens. After a moment he says, “If we let them do it this time, they’ll feel free to do it again. The whole bid process will unhinge.”

He looks at Lemon. “We’ll file a protest.”

The possibility hadn’t even occurred to McPherson. His eyes fix on Hereford. A protest!…

Lemon starts to say something: “But—”

Hereford cuts him off with a hand motion, a quick chop. Perhaps he’s angry too? Impossible to tell. “Contact our law firm here in Washington, and start giving them all the particulars. We need to hurry. If there are irregularities in their compliance with the RFP, then we may be able to get a court injunction to halt the award immediately.”

Court injunction.

McPherson’s stomach begins to return to him, a little at a time. They have recourse to some legal action, apparently. It’s a new area for him, he doesn’t know much about it.

Lemon is swallowing, nodding. “Okay. We’ll do it.” He looks confused.

McPherson forces down a few deep breaths, thinking court injunction, court injunction. Meanwhile, across the room, the Parnell people are still in paroxysms of joy, the dishonest bastards. They know better than anyone else that they can’t possibly build the Stormbee system for only $699 million. It’s just a ploy to get the bid; later they can get into the matter of some unfortunate “cost overruns.” It can only be a deliberate plan on their part, a deliberate lie. That’s the competition, the people he has to put his own work up against: cheaters and liars. With the Air Force going along with them all the way, completely a part of it, of the cheating and lying. In control of it, in fact. Feeling physically ill, McPherson sits down heavily and stares through the booklet, seeing nothing at all.