Chapter 3 Cambridge Massachusetts
Russell Manning PhD (Aeronautical Science) is a theoretical man, who enjoyed discovering new applications in the field of propulsion he was working on at MIT (The Massachusetts Institute of Technology) along with the US Department of Defence and the Department of Energy. His work in High Temperature Gas Flows got them interested.
Russell’s office is set at the end of a corridor designed at a time when English Architecture was the fashion and the ruling classes felt they could equal or better their colonial masters. Stone walls, carpet runners down the centre and on the walls between the high doorways were the past masters of the old college, and professors of the institution he now worked for, most pre-WWII luminaries looking down upon the lesser mortals who now had to study and teach within its walls today. The huge door opened into an ante-room that housed his secretary-assistant Anna. Anna, a woman of 40ish, efficient and smart in the way she dressed and the way she organised her professors, who ever they thought they were. Manning found her to be essential because his organising was atrocious and he needed such a person who could also keep confidences, and Anne was perfect.
“Russell, sir?" There’s a gentleman from Defense waiting in your office, he was very insistent, with all the ID’s I could think of.” She quickly got up from her desk and approached his right side.
Whispering is his right ear, she confided, “He’s not the military type, I don’t even believe he’s Air Force,” referring to the string of blue uniforms and braid that marched through his doors over the last two years of “The Project”.
Russel straightened his tie and combed his hair (or what was left of it) back and puffed out his chest a bit as he opened his door and found Lt. General Stephen McArthur of the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, in plain clothes, a black suite, white shirt and tie, immaculately pressed and starched. He stood and put out his hand out to greet Russell.
“Stephen MacArthur, DARPA,” he smiled.
“Thankyou Mr MacArthur, I haven’t seen you before?” Russell came straight to a point that concerned him.
“A different department at the Pentagon, me” he smiled.
“What department is that?” said Russell.
“New projects?” asked Russell.
“No, no, nothing like that, I’m more administration.”
“OK, what can I do for you?” Russell moved around the desk and sat down, making it very clear he didn’t want to talk to this man, suspicious of where he was from and even his name.
“I’m going to ring General Donald, and see what’s going down.” He said.
Macarthur shifted in his seat and then pulled out his wallet from his coat pocket, opened it and showed him an ID inside, leaned over the desk and gave it to Russell. “You mustn’t tell anyone, even your secretary, is that clear.”
“We’ll see” said Russell, as he examined the plastic card. It was from a department from the CIA called M2, and Macarthur’s title was, “Systems Operations Manager, System 7”, which said absolutely nothing. Russell gave it back to him and then sat back, folded his arms and waited for Macarthur to make the next move.
“We do Black Projects Dr Manning”
“Indeed”, said Manning, “Any particular Black Project?”
“We are involved what is called “Southern Aurora” and it is Deep Black, off budget and deniable.” Said Macarthur tensely, concerned about saying such things in an uncontrolled environment.
“You must understand that we are not about to advertise we are here or we have spoken to you, but we….”, he hesitated. “We need your help with it, the project has come to a halt and the project engineers and scientists all have recommended you as our Saviour.”
“Now that, of course needs to be elaborated, but I guess you are having trouble with a plasma drive of some kind,” said Manning with some authority now.
“Well, to tell you the truth sir, I am here to invite you to a briefing next week in Las Vegas, a car will pick you up at the airport.”
“OK, is there anyone I know on this project?” asked Manning.
“Yes”, thought Macarthur, “there are David Knowles and Sean Masterton, both students of yours, I understand,” said Macarthur.
“Ah yes, those two recalcitrants,” Manning exclaimed.
“I now have some idea what your problem is,” smiled Manning.
“What do you mean, I have no data on them” exclaimed Macarthur.
“Now I have a secret, it’s the case of too much beer, I should say, make the project a dry area, and you may solve the problem.”
“OK, I’ll come, when is it?”
“Next Tuesday, here’s your tickets,” he reached into his briefcase and pulled out two United Airlines tickets for a flight that leaves Boston at 10:00 am, with a connecting flight at Houston.
Macarthur got up from his seat and the two men walked to the hallway door in his office, shook hand and said “Good afternoon” to each other.
It seemed rather strange when he got home that night, his wife was busy preparing a meal, his youngest son was watching televison, and he had to prepare for a military deployment he thought he had avoided for over a decade.
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Russell was impressed by the transport provided by the MIB (That's what he called them, he knew they were in the government, CIA perhaps, Defense maybe, possibly even No Such Agencey).
On the concrete apron in front of the small party was a gleaming Gulfstream V business jet with no markings except the registration, N100726 on the tail.
Down each side of the aisle were comfy recliner seats. He was guided to one over the wing and put his bag in the overhead storage. The Stewardess showed him how to operate the seat, the entertainment system, and where the sick bag was, etc.
All the others, military, and civilian sat down, just four, but the braid on those military secured impressive. The steward closed the door and sealed it shut.
Straight away the aircraft started moving off from it's parked position. Airways clearance must have been given on the role out, because the aircraft moved immediately to the end of the runway and applied full power. The accelleration pushing him into his seat was somewhat heavier than teh commercial airliners of his experience and he now understood why it was called the Business Mans Fighter Jet.
The Captain announced they would be cruising at 40,000ft very soon, when the green seat belt came on. The Steward served dinner.
At cruise the flight was rock steady. The meal was excellent, lamb roast with an orange juice following. Russell didn't drink alchohol, the orange juice was the usual substitute. He didn't remember anymore about the flight, or how he got to where he was when he came to.
Russell’s office is set at the end of a corridor designed at a time when English Architecture was the fashion and the ruling classes felt they could equal or better their colonial masters. Stone walls, carpet runners down the centre and on the walls between the high doorways were the past masters of the old college, and professors of the institution he now worked for, most pre-WWII luminaries looking down upon the lesser mortals who now had to study and teach within its walls today. The huge door opened into an ante-room that housed his secretary-assistant Anna. Anna, a woman of 40ish, efficient and smart in the way she dressed and the way she organised her professors, who ever they thought they were. Manning found her to be essential because his organising was atrocious and he needed such a person who could also keep confidences, and Anne was perfect.
“Russell, sir?" There’s a gentleman from Defense waiting in your office, he was very insistent, with all the ID’s I could think of.” She quickly got up from her desk and approached his right side.
Whispering is his right ear, she confided, “He’s not the military type, I don’t even believe he’s Air Force,” referring to the string of blue uniforms and braid that marched through his doors over the last two years of “The Project”.
Russel straightened his tie and combed his hair (or what was left of it) back and puffed out his chest a bit as he opened his door and found Lt. General Stephen McArthur of the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, in plain clothes, a black suite, white shirt and tie, immaculately pressed and starched. He stood and put out his hand out to greet Russell.
“Stephen MacArthur, DARPA,” he smiled.
“Thankyou Mr MacArthur, I haven’t seen you before?” Russell came straight to a point that concerned him.
“A different department at the Pentagon, me” he smiled.
“What department is that?” said Russell.
“New projects?” asked Russell.
“No, no, nothing like that, I’m more administration.”
“OK, what can I do for you?” Russell moved around the desk and sat down, making it very clear he didn’t want to talk to this man, suspicious of where he was from and even his name.
“I’m going to ring General Donald, and see what’s going down.” He said.
Macarthur shifted in his seat and then pulled out his wallet from his coat pocket, opened it and showed him an ID inside, leaned over the desk and gave it to Russell. “You mustn’t tell anyone, even your secretary, is that clear.”
“We’ll see” said Russell, as he examined the plastic card. It was from a department from the CIA called M2, and Macarthur’s title was, “Systems Operations Manager, System 7”, which said absolutely nothing. Russell gave it back to him and then sat back, folded his arms and waited for Macarthur to make the next move.
“We do Black Projects Dr Manning”
“Indeed”, said Manning, “Any particular Black Project?”
“We are involved what is called “Southern Aurora” and it is Deep Black, off budget and deniable.” Said Macarthur tensely, concerned about saying such things in an uncontrolled environment.
“You must understand that we are not about to advertise we are here or we have spoken to you, but we….”, he hesitated. “We need your help with it, the project has come to a halt and the project engineers and scientists all have recommended you as our Saviour.”
“Now that, of course needs to be elaborated, but I guess you are having trouble with a plasma drive of some kind,” said Manning with some authority now.
“Well, to tell you the truth sir, I am here to invite you to a briefing next week in Las Vegas, a car will pick you up at the airport.”
“OK, is there anyone I know on this project?” asked Manning.
“Yes”, thought Macarthur, “there are David Knowles and Sean Masterton, both students of yours, I understand,” said Macarthur.
“Ah yes, those two recalcitrants,” Manning exclaimed.
“I now have some idea what your problem is,” smiled Manning.
“What do you mean, I have no data on them” exclaimed Macarthur.
“Now I have a secret, it’s the case of too much beer, I should say, make the project a dry area, and you may solve the problem.”
“OK, I’ll come, when is it?”
“Next Tuesday, here’s your tickets,” he reached into his briefcase and pulled out two United Airlines tickets for a flight that leaves Boston at 10:00 am, with a connecting flight at Houston.
Macarthur got up from his seat and the two men walked to the hallway door in his office, shook hand and said “Good afternoon” to each other.
It seemed rather strange when he got home that night, his wife was busy preparing a meal, his youngest son was watching televison, and he had to prepare for a military deployment he thought he had avoided for over a decade.
------------------------------------------------------------
Russell was impressed by the transport provided by the MIB (That's what he called them, he knew they were in the government, CIA perhaps, Defense maybe, possibly even No Such Agencey).
On the concrete apron in front of the small party was a gleaming Gulfstream V business jet with no markings except the registration, N100726 on the tail.
Down each side of the aisle were comfy recliner seats. He was guided to one over the wing and put his bag in the overhead storage. The Stewardess showed him how to operate the seat, the entertainment system, and where the sick bag was, etc.
All the others, military, and civilian sat down, just four, but the braid on those military secured impressive. The steward closed the door and sealed it shut.
Straight away the aircraft started moving off from it's parked position. Airways clearance must have been given on the role out, because the aircraft moved immediately to the end of the runway and applied full power. The accelleration pushing him into his seat was somewhat heavier than teh commercial airliners of his experience and he now understood why it was called the Business Mans Fighter Jet.
The Captain announced they would be cruising at 40,000ft very soon, when the green seat belt came on. The Steward served dinner.
At cruise the flight was rock steady. The meal was excellent, lamb roast with an orange juice following. Russell didn't drink alchohol, the orange juice was the usual substitute. He didn't remember anymore about the flight, or how he got to where he was when he came to.
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