Though he had no technical background, and certainly no lifelong interest in space or space exploration, Calvin Ross was nonetheless going to protect his budgetary turf. NASA was his to manage, and he was going to manage it, and its full budget, using every skill he possessed and every political maneuver he could manage. For Ross, it was a matter of personal pride to keep the agency under his care from being cut. He was playing “the game,” and the rules said that he would be a winner if he kept others from eating his pie. He liked this game and was considered to be good at it, even if his former constituents didn’t recognize and reward him for it with reelection.
He had lots of friends in the Senate, and he was about to enlist their support—and that of the legion of Washington lobbyists who had an interest in keeping lucrative government contracts funded and pumping money into their sponsors’ coffers.
Ross looked at the message again before responding. ok. if it is a fight he wants, then we’ll give him waterloo. Satisfied with his somewhat dramatic response, Ross sat back in his chair to once again run his hands through his hair.
“He won’t kill us without a fight!”
That night, instead of being alone in his office, Ross was in the company of ten others. Five were aides to senators with NASA facilities in their districts. The other five were the dreaded aerospace lobbyists, present to help preserve the pieces of the budgetary pie that they thought were rightfully theirs. All were discussing the proposed NASA budget cut.
Ross had laid out the scenario to the group shortly after they arrived, some still sporting the remains of a hastily eaten dinner on their carefully pressed Oxford cloth shirts. One of the staffers looked like he’d just been awakened from a night’s sleep. Or perhaps he looked like he hadn’t slept at all.
Another, a vivacious and piranhalike aide to the Honorable Senator from Texas, looked like she was ready for a night on the town. Dressed totally in black to match her jet-black hair, the neckline on her blouse dipping into dangerous territory due to too many buttons not fastened, she was the kind of staffer Ross had successfully avoided throughout his tenure in the Senate—though it had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed.
The meeting was a classic Washington business meeting with the usual cast of characters. Calvin Ross was in his element, and, of course, he had a plan. He always had a plan. Sometimes the trick was in the implementation part of the plan.
“Ahem!” Ross cleared his throat and raised his voice. “Now that we know what the son of a bitch wants to do with the NASA budget, we can stop him. We all know that head-to-head we will lose in any public fight over spending between NASA and Education. Our kids are failing, right? They were failing when I was in school, and they are still failing, despite billions of dollars and decades of patience. No, if the public has to choose between going to the Moon and their little Johnny learning to read—as ridiculous as the choice would be—we will lose.
“No, we can’t win that way. But we can convince some of our colleagues that the aerospace jobs in their districts will evaporate if our budget is cut.” Nodding to the exhausted-looking staffer, Ross commanded, “Ned, pass out the data you collected earlier today.”
Ned, far from being asleep, leapt to his feet, opened the backpack carelessly slung over the back of his chair, and began passing out a neatly stapled set of charts that clearly showed where each and every dollar of NASA’s budget was being spent. The first page was a map of the United States with each state highlighted. Typed within each state was a dollar figure—the amount of money in NASA contracts that flowed into that state in the last fiscal year—along with the names and thumbnail images of its two senators. On the next fifty pages were enlarged images of each state, broken down by congressional district; again, within each district, was a dollar figure. And beside each congressional district was a thumbnail image of its representative.
No senator would come away without knowing how much money was at stake in their state. No congressman would remain ignorant of how much money poured directly into his or her district. This was the political game played with its most basic currency—cash.
The last two pages of the handout contained a summary of NASA’s Constellation program, describing exactly how they were about take Americans back to the Moon for the first time in over fifty years.
Ross, ever prepared, had read the history of Apollo. He knew very well that the decision to cancel Apollo had been made before Neil Armstrong ever set foot on the lunar surface. The politicians in 1968 decided to pull the rug out from under NASA at the height of its success, and a half century had passed before NASA was able to rebuild the capability it had before most of the people in the room were even born. Ross was not about to let history repeat itself on his watch.
If Bill Stetson or any member of the technical leadership at NASA had been in the room, they would have been apoplectic. For them, seeing over a decade of technical work and planning, the product of thousands of highly trained engineers and scientists working overtime, reduced to less than two pages in a set of over fifty charts would have been simply too much of an insult. This was especially true since only one person in the room even bothered to take the time to look at them. All the rest were too busy looking over the dollar amounts on the various pages. Ross had briefly considered having the NASA Chief Engineer be part of this closed-door meeting, and as he watched the people in the room, he knew he had made the right choice in not inviting him. He would have had a seizure and/or bored the living hell out of the staffers with rocket-science talk while all they wanted to know about were how many votes they were buying.
Ross, sensing that the assembled were now aware of exactly what was at stake, dug in deeper. “In the committee, we can count on at least thirteen of the sixteen votes we need to kill Newsome’s amendment to the budget. All thirteen in our column are either real supporters of space exploration, God bless ’em, have a NASA field center in their district, or at least have a major contractor working on the Moon program in there somewhere. It’s the other three we have to worry about.”
Glancing up from his notes, seemingly unaware of the large ketchup stain adorning the collar of his designer shirt, the aide to the senator from Florida chimed in. “Senator Booker needs support for this year’s farm bill. His state has a lot to lose if the subsidies for making corn-based ethanol are cut. I’m sure a few senators could voice their support—after we let him know why he’s getting it.” Mr. Ketchup pulled his eyeglasses down to the tip of his nose, tilted his head forward and spoke directly to Ms. Piranha. “That would mean your boss would have to eat a little crow and ease off on her comments about pork spending in the farm states.”
“I’ll see what we can do” was her only response.
Ross watched and inwardly smiled. He knew that her boss would do what it would take to get support for NASA. Her state simply had too much to lose if the money for the Moon contracts stopped flowing. Losing thousands of jobs just before one’s six-year term in the Senate was about to be over didn’t do a lot for one’s reelection chances.