"First—we are operating under severe budgetary and equipment restrictions. NASA gets plenty of bucks and plenty of publicity. We get very little. Almost everything we do is kept secret from the American public, and the Congress is constantly cutting back on funds for our operations. We are locked in a deadly battle to prove to Congress, to the people of this nation, and—yes—even to enemies within the Penta- gon itself, that the Air Force has a valid and important role to play in manned space flight.
"It's up to you to prove that manned operations in space should not be left to the civilians of NASA. When the Congress one day approves the change of our service's name from just plain Air Force to Aerospace Force—which it should be—it's going to be your work and your success that gets them to do it."
Kinsman suppressed a grin. He's never studied rhetoric, that's for sure. Or syntax, either.
"Second point," Murdock went on. "Everything you do from now on will be by the buddy system. You're going to fly in the shuttle as two-man teams. You're going to train as two-man teams. You're going to eat, sleep, and think as two-man teams."
Kinsman shot a glance at Jill Meyers, the only woman in his eight-person squad. The expression on her snub-nosed freckled face was marvelous: an Air Force officer's self- control struggling against a feminist's desire to throw a pie in the Colonel's face.
". . . and we're going to be ruthless with you," Murdock 28 was saying, "You will be judged as teams, not as individuals. If a team fu—eh . . . fouls up, then it's out? Period. You'll be reassigned out of the astronaut corps. Doesn't matter who fouled up, which individual is to blame. Both members of the team will be out on their asses. Is that clear?"
A general mumble of understanding rose from two dozen throats.
"Sir?" Jill Meyers was on her feet. "May I ask a question?"
"Go right ahead. Lieutenant." Murdock smiled toothily at her, as if realizing for the first time that there were women under his command.
"How will these training assignments be made, sir? Will we have any choice in the matter, or will it all be done by the Personnel Office?"
Murdock blinked, as if he had never considered the problem before. "Well ... I don't think . . . that is . . ." He stopped and pursed his lips for a moment, then turned away from the podium to confer with the three majors standing behind him. Instinctively, he held a chubby hand over the microphone. Jill remained standing, a diminutive little sister in Air Force blues.
Finally the Colonel returned to the microphone. "I don't see why you can't express your personal preferences as to teammates, and then we'll have them checked through Per- sonnel's computer to make sure the matchups are satisfac- tory."
"Thank you, sir." Lieutenant Meyers sat down.
'Tn fact," Colonel Murdock went on, "I don't see why we shouldn't get a preliminary expression of preferences right now. Each of you, write down the names of three officers you'd like to team with, in order of your preference."
Tenny and the two other majors looked surprised. The briefing room suddenly dissolved into a chattering, muttering, pocket-searching scramble for papers and pens or pencils.
Kinsman took his ballpoint pen from his tunic pocket and borrowed a sheet of tablet paper from the man sitting next to him. Then he found himself staring at the blank paper on the arm of his chair.
Who the hell do I want to team up with?
The magnitude of the decision seemed to hit everyone at 29 once. The room fell deathly quiet.
Kinsman glanced at the tall redhead sitting in the front row. He hadn't met her yet, but she had damned good legs and a pleasant smile. But what if she can't hack it in zero gravity or she's a lousy pilot or something else goes wrong?
Then I'm out in the cold.
