Typical Day
Dee Bugger was a nerd even in the womb: She spent much of her gestation just counting her fingers. Math was always her friend and measuring things was just part of her nature.
She zipped through college and a PhD and was a full-blown Dr. Dee Bugger by the time she was twenty-seven, at which point she was recruited by the military to become a civilian researcher, looking into advanced weaponry systems. She believed in the ethos of having great strength so that you never had to use it. A strong military kept the world at peace.
The military employed hundreds of contractors who each did small elements of research and/or production in the various skills that were needed, from missile telemetry systems to covert listening devices planted in the bedrooms of terrorist mistresses.
Dee made several rounds in weaponry systems—she studied solid rocket fuels, the physics of burning them under water (think: submarine launches of ICBMs)—and evolved her studies to focus on the flight control elements of the projectile itself. She had been involved in the creation of the first laser-guided bullet.
So now, at thirty-five, she's a relatively senior manager for someone so young. She's even managed to be granted Special Access Program clearance, which is more top secret than top secret clearance and necessary for many of the projects she's worked on.
It's something o'clock somewhere in the middle of the Pacific. And it isn't all that warm, so she guesses that she's somewhere kind of...northerly. It's as close to the middle of nowhere as one could get, on Earth anyway. And in her job, there actually are alternatives beyond Earth. Her boyfriend is, in fact, an astronaut, and has similar class clearance—which came in handy as they were both sleep-talkers.
She has a small berth on the S.S. Maddow. A private wakes her and explains that the systems are ready for The Test. Today's a big day—Dee's worked on the guidance system for these low heat signature missiles for almost a year. Normal rocket fuel burns at 1,800 degrees or much, much hotter, but that heat leaves an easily traceable "signature" in the sky which bad guys can track and then shoot down.
The new solid fuel systems burned much cooler—more like 500 degrees and with baffles (or covers) over them, the signature could be brought down to look more like 300 degrees on a tracking device...often below the trace levels needed. When a heat signature is very hot, it remains in the air a relatively long time—long enough to be tracked. But a 300 degree signature "evaporates" quickly, making the missile almost invisible.
The problem here is that the cooler burning fuel is also significantly less powerful as a propellant—that is, cool missiles flow about 25% slower than the full-heat flavors. And with different speeds at stake, the management of the fins, aileron, and other guidance systems become...complex. The old rules for the number of degrees of displacement on Fin A had to be rewritten. Beaucoup physics and pointy-hatted stuff. And Dee wears the pointiest.
The test is purposely set to be launched at dusk, when air temperature differentials are at their highest as the sun warms the sky—it'll cloak the test a bit. The sub surfaces and its bay doors open. Dee stares at eight big flat screens in front of her as she listens to the count—the missile has to hit a weather balloon target that was launched an hour earlier and now hovers at about 20,000 feet.
3 - 2 - 1. Ziiiip. Flip. Wooshing sounds. A cabin filled with unexhaled breaths. Then...PUH! Impact.
Dee stares at the virtual gauges and dials on her screens, taking in a thousand data points quickly. After about an hour, she exhales—the test worked. Or at least, it appears to have worked.
She has eight assistants, half of whom were fellow alumni of her university's physics program. Each of them is responsible for diagnosing an element of this test.
Two hours after the test, the phone rings. It sounds like an old fashioned "ring ring" phone. Dee thinks, How odd—we're 3,000 miles or more in the middle of the ocean...satellite phone, maybe?
It's Senator Feinstein, who sits atop the Ways and Means Committee—aka the committee that manages the CIA among other covert operations. The senator specifically asks to speak with Dee. She's stunned. She's never met the senator, only read about her.
"This is Dee."
"Hi. Senator Feinstein here. Give me the poop."
Dee knows what's being asked. "Basically, it worked. All of the data fits within the 1% parameters that the specification sheet asked for. We have a very humid day here and a low pressure system is coming, so we have some small adjustments to make to accommodate, but we were very close inside of tolerances. I'd say she'll be battle-ready in a week, if needed."
"Do you think we should be worried about this?"
"You're class five clearance?"
"Yes ma'am."
Okay. Now you're class six. Have it ready in three days."
And the phone hung up. Admiral Nukem takes the phone from her. "You understand?"
Dee nods slowly. Not good. She swallows hard and goes back to her desk, hoping that her technology would work under pressure—and save the world.