Cape Canaveral | 2009
Mark's POV
It was strange seeing Pete after all these years. He was, in a way, both the object of my admiration and the source of my envy. When we met at TOPGUN all those years ago, I had never imagined meeting someone so egotistical, arrogant, and brash. He was everything my disciplined, by-the-book training had taught me to distrust. We fought multiple times—in the air, on the beach playing volleyball, during mission briefings. Yet, in the end, when it mattered most, he proved me wrong. Captain Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell was every bit a man to be honored.
But he was also the one I felt sorry for. The loss of his wingman that day the sheer crushing responsibility, thinking it was his fault. I wouldn't wish that on my worst rival. Tom had done his best to get him out of that state, but the scars still remained. Pete has been a loner ever since.
When I saw him at the hotel, something within me had insisted that I take him along with me through our trip. It wasn't pity; that would be an insult to a man like Pete. It was my desire to see him better than I found him. A commander's instinct, maybe. So, I went out of my way and asked him to join my family. He was hesitant, clearly still not used to being so social, but he accepted. I also hoped it would mend, or maybe even strengthen, our own bond.
A small smile touched my lips as I remembered yesterday's breakfast. If nothing else, Bradley certainly seemed to be fawning over him for some reason. Maybe having a family around, even for a few days, would do the old pilot some good.
We arrived at Cape Canaveral Space Force Station, and I felt a familiar sense of purpose settle over me. It was a sprawling nerve center of American air and space power, an array of launch pads, assembly buildings, and control centers dedicated to satellite management and launch. As we were inspecting the site near the main operations building, a crisp, familiar voice called my name.
"Mark Naird. Finally someone I've been waiting for."
I turned to see Rear Admiral Tom Kazansky approaching us, a calm, confident smile on his face. He was exactly as I remembered from our days at TOPGUN: tall, with distinguished blond hair that was now more silver at the temples, and a cool, steady gaze that seemed to take in everything without effort. He looked every bit the admiral in his immaculate service dress whites.
"Tom," I said, a genuine grin breaking across my face as we shook hands. We were more friends than colleagues, and our handshake was firm and familiar. "Good to see you. You're looking well."
"You too, General," he replied, his eyes twinkling. "I see that the promotion has not dulled you a bit. I know you are updated on the status of operations here but nevertheless would you care for a tour?."
"Sure why not", I said.
"Maggie its so good to see you. Sarah and I have missed the dinners we had in D.C."
"Its good to see you as well Tom, tell Sarah I miss our army wives club just as much as our dinners", Maggie said shaking his hand.
I moved Erin and Bradley forward to introduce them, "Tom this is my son Bradley and daughter Erin, say hello to the Rear Admiral both of you"
"Hello Sir, it's a pleasure to meet you" both of them chimed together. Erin was not used to the formality of these events due to not being part of it as much as Bradley had been.
Tom bent down to their level, "Oh it's a pleasure to meet both of you" he said smiling to them.
He then looked at me "Treasure these final few years Naird once they become teenagers its just never the same again. My own son and daughter are in high school now and I can never seem to find the time to know how their lives have been going" his voice laced with a tinge of regret.
"I plan to Tom, being a general isn't easy, but I am balancing the act somehow", I said with a sigh.
"That's all we can hope for I guess" he said as he ushered us forward.
Tom then took us to the operations room. The moment we stepped inside, the bright Florida sun was replaced by the cool, dim glow of a hundred monitors. Rows of technicians sat at their consoles, their faces illuminated by streams of data. On the massive screen at the front of the room, a 3D model of the Cross Link Defense Communication Satellite rotated slowly.
And it was there, standing in the center of it all, that we met him. A civilian, dressed in a simple polo shirt and slacks, was engaged in an intense, low-voiced discussion with a group of engineers.
"Mark, I'd like you to meet our civilian partner on this project," Tom said. "This is Elon Musk."
My mind registered the name. The brilliant, eccentric billionaire behind PayPal and, more recently, SpaceX. He was working in collaboration with the U.S. Air Force and Navy to help launch the defense satellite.
He turned and shook my hand, his gaze intense and focused. "General. A pleasure. Your team has been invaluable."
"The pleasure's all mine, Mr. Musk," I said. "Your company's work is revolutionary."
I was about to formally introduce my family when I noticed Bradley. He was frozen, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape. He was completely star-struck.
I put a hand on my son's shoulder. "Mr. Musk, this is my son, Bradley." The touch seemed to break his trance. Bradley, hesitating at first, suddenly gushed. "Mr. Musk! Sir! It's—it's an honor," he stammered, stepping forward to shake his hand. "Your work at SpaceX, the Merlin engines, the reusability tests... it's completely changing the game for orbital mechanics. It's brilliant."
Elon Musk looked genuinely surprised, a flicker of an appreciative smile on his face. He was clearly not used to being greeted by a twelve-year-old who understood the specifics of his engine designs. I felt a swell of immense pride. That was my boy.
A flicker of genuine, intense curiosity lit up Elon Musk's face. He leaned forward, his focus shifting entirely from the officers at the table to the twelve-year-old boy sitting opposite him.
"You understand the engine design?" he asked, his voice sharp with interest. "Tell me, what do you see as the primary obstacle in achieving a fully reusable first stage?"
I watched, fascinated, as my son, who was usually so composed, sat up a little straighter. "Heat shielding and landing stability," Bradley answered without hesitation. "Specifically, developing a tile system that can withstand multiple re-entries without significant refurbishment, and perfecting the guidance software for a powered, vertical landing on a moving target like a drone ship."
The conversation that followed was one of the most surreal I have ever witnessed. Elon started questioning and probing Bradley about orbital mechanics, and Bradley, my son, answered him. They moved at a blistering pace, from basic Hohmann transfers and the Tsiolkovsky rocket equation to the specific impulse of different fuel mixtures. It was a language I understood, but one I had never, ever heard from my son's lips. I looked over at Maggie, whose expression was a perfect mirror of my own: a mixture of shock and immense pride.
But then the questions got increasingly difficult, moving from established engineering to pure, cutting-edge theory.
"So, if you were to solve the propellant densification issue for methalox," Elon pressed, "how would you redesign the turbopump for a full-flow staged combustion cycle to maximize the thrust-to-weight ratio?"
And for the first time, Bradley stalled. The confident flow of answers stopped. He hesitated, a thoughtful, troubled look on his face. "I... I don't know, sir," he admitted, his voice quiet as he shyly accepted that he hasn't been able to read and understand that far. "The public research isn't there yet. I haven't been able to read it."
He looked up, and though he had hit the limit of his knowledge, the passion in his eyes was brighter than ever. "But I genuinely believe in your pursuit with SpaceX, sir. The fact that you're even asking these questions, that you're solving problems no one else has dared to tackle... and what you're doing with electric vehicles at Tesla... it's the most important work of our time. I believe in the mission."
The room was quiet for a moment. Elon Musk just stared at my son, a look of profound, unadulterated surprise on his face. He wasn't looking at a kid anymore. He was looking at a believer.
"Damn kid, you must be a genius to be studying advanced engineering at such a young age," Elon asked incredulously. "What are you, thirteen, fourteen years old?"
"I-I'm twelve, sir," Bradley replied, a shy but honest look on his face. "But most of what I know, I just read. I have never conducted research or experiments of my own. I'm just a bookworm, is all."
Elon was stunned at Bradley's reply, his intense gaze shifting from my son to me.
"General, if I may be so bold," he began, "even though the kid's understanding is limited by scientific standards, the mere fact that he knows and understands college-level engineering is fascinating. Have you had him tested for his IQ?"
"No, we never went for any testing," I answered honestly, a little taken aback myself. I knew Bradley was smart, but this was a side of his intellect I'd never seen. "We have known for some time now that Bradley may be far more intelligent than he seems."
The reason I never had Bradley tested was because he only ever showed interest in basketball and chess I never even knew he had read so far above his grade.
"Well then, I suggest you have him graded," Elon offered. "It opens a lot of doors for future prospects, and he can even intern under me if he so chooses in a few years."
"Oh, I appreciate you extending the offer, but it's all up to Bradley," I said, directing my gaze, and Elon's, to my son.
Bradley looked up at us, his earlier shyness replaced by a quiet, firm resolve. "Of course, I'd be interested, sir. I plan on taking an Engineering major and a minor in Economics in college." He paused. "Although, I plan on becoming a pro basketball player at the end of the day."
Suddenly, a roaring laugh echoed from behind me. It was Tom, who had been standing with Pete, both of whom had been silently observing the exchange. Pete himself had a wide smile on his face.
"Damn, Naird, your son is a genius, and the first thing he wants to do is not exploit his intelligence but play basketball! This is hilarious!" Tom said, still cracking up.
"It would be a waste for you not to pursue research, though," Elon said, looking a little dejected at Bradley.
Before I could step in, someone else did.
"Now, now, the kid is young, and he has every right to pursue his passions," Pete stepped in, his voice easy but firm, talking on behalf of Bradley.
"Yeah, the boy can do whatever he sets his mind to," another voice added. I turned to see Brad Gregory walking up to us. "And being a pro baller is one hell of a dream. You can do it, mini me."
"Woah, people, chill," Elon said, calming the situation. "I wasn't trying to be a villain here. I just would have loved to have the kid as an intern." He looked at Bradley. "The offer still stands, kid. If any day you wish to work at SpaceX or Tesla for an internship, talk to me."
"Will do sir" Bradley affirmed.
"Alright everyone lets head up we don't have much time left", Brad my second in command said. We all then took our seats.
We were seated in the VIP viewing gallery at Cape Canaveral Space Force Station, a sterile, glass-walled room overlooking the main operations room. Below us, rows of technicians manned their consoles, their faces illuminated by the glow of data streams.
"Once this is online," Tom said, his voice a low, confident murmur, "the real-time telemetry for the naval fleet will be a game-changer. The oceanic surface reading alone will cut our patrol response times by half."
"And for our fighters," I added, my own eyes fixed on the massive screen showing the rocket on the launchpad. "The data uplink is a generational leap."
"As long as it doesn't add another hundred pages to the pre-flight checklist," Pete quipped from the seat next to me, ever the pilot.
Brad just nodded, a look of professional focus on his face.
At the forefront of the room below, surrounded by his lead engineers, stood Elon Musk. He wasn't watching us; his entire being was focused on the numbers and readouts on the main screen, a coiled spring of intense energy. The voice of the launch director echoed through the room, calm and methodical.
"T-minus sixty seconds and counting."
A tense hush fell over the gallery. This was the part I hated. All the planning, all the work, all the billions of dollars came down to a few minutes of controlled violence. I felt a familiar knot tighten in my stomach. I'd seen launches fail before, seen rockets turn into multi-billion-dollar fireballs. I was afraid that the rocket may crash. Come on, come on...
"Ten... nine... eight..."
I watched Elon's back tense.
"Three... two... one... we have ignition."
A brilliant bloom of fire and white smoke erupted at the base of the rocket. For a heart-stopping second, it just sat there, straining against gravity. Then, with a deep, chest-rattling roar that we felt more than heard, it began to rise. The launch was a thrilling and suspenseful event, a slow, impossibly powerful ascent into the bright Florida sky.
The room was silent, the only sound the clipped, professional call-outs from the launch director. "Stage one separation confirmed." "Fairing separation successful."
We watched the telemetry on the screen, a single, brilliant point of light tracing a perfect arc against the blackness of space.
"Payload deployment sequence initiated."
Another tense minute passed. Then, a new set of data flickered onto the main screen. A green line that read: CSDSC-1 ONLINE.
"Dad, that was so awesome!" Bradley's voice was full of pure, unadulterated awe. "I loved watching it happen!"
I looked down at my son, his eyes shining as he stared at the screen, and I put an arm around his shoulders, a swell of pride washing over me. "Me too, son," I said, my voice a little thick. "Me too."
The operations room below erupted. The successful launch was followed by a long, loud evening of back-slapping and champagne toasts. We all congratulated each other—the Air Force, the Navy, NASA, and Musk's brilliant team. The celebration was a necessary part of the mission's conclusion, a formal release of months of built-up tension, and it went on late into the night.
By the time my family and I were in the car heading back to Orlando, the adrenaline had faded, leaving behind a deep, bone-weary satisfaction. It was well past midnight. Erin, off her earlier child-like enthusiasm, was already crashing and had dozed off in the back seat, her head resting on Bradley's shoulder. Maggie was leaning against the passenger-side window, the city lights washing over her face in a soft, rhythmic blur. Everyone was expressing the need for a good night's rest.
When we finally got back to the hotel, the lobby was empty and silent. We rode the elevator up in a comfortable quiet. Back in our suite, Maggie gently lifted a sleeping Erin and laid her down on her bed. Bradley, barely able to keep his eyes open, crashed onto the bed next to his sister, asleep almost instantly.
With the kids settled, Maggie and I were finally alone. I walked into our room, loosened my tie, and sat on the edge of the large king-size bed. Maggie came and sat beside me, her head resting on my shoulder.
"The mission was a success, General," she murmured, her voice warm and tired.
"That it was," I replied, putting my arm around her. "Now for the fun part."
She looked up at me with a soft smile. "We still need to discuss our trip to Disneyland and the museums that we have planned for the coming days."
"Disneyland for Erin," I confirmed. "And I'm assuming the Museum of Illusions for you and Bradley?"
"And the art museum too," she added. "A little culture to balance out all the rocket fuel."
"Deal," I said, a feeling of profound peace settling over me. The satellite was in orbit, my mission was complete, and my family was here, safe and asleep in the next room. This was the part of the job that made all the rest of it worthwhile.
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That's all for this week. See ya Monday.