July 1970
Tommy's work on Have Blue was all-consuming.
Stealth technology. Radar-absorbent materials. Faceted design. Concepts that sounded like science fiction but were becoming reality through mathematics and engineering.
He worked twelve-hour days, sometimes more. Linda was frustrated—she'd taken part-time work, but was home with Sarah most of the time, exhausted and overwhelmed.
"You're never here," she said one night after Sarah finally fell asleep.
"I'm providing for us."
"You're absent. That's different from providing."
"The program is at a critical phase. Once we get through development—"
"There's always going to be a critical phase. Always going to be one more deadline." Linda looked at him. "Is this what you want? To be the kind of father who's never home?"
Tommy thought about his own father. Absent for entirely different reasons. But absent nonetheless.
"No," Tommy said. "I don't want that."
"Then change it. Before it's too late. Before Sarah doesn't even remember what you look like."
Tommy tried to cut back his hours. Tried to be home for dinner, for bedtime. But the work demanded more, and he found himself staying late again, missing moments.
It was for them, he told himself. For Linda and Sarah. Building their future.
But another part of him knew: he was becoming exactly what he'd sworn not to be.
Just in a different way.
January 1970 - Burbank, California
The Have Blue program consumed Tommy's life.
It wasn't like commercial aircraft work, where everything was documented, reviewed, transparent. This was different. Classified. Need-to-know. Security clearances and NDAs and constant reminders that everything he saw, everything he learned, could never be discussed outside the program.
Tommy worked on radar cross-section analysis. Mathematical modeling of how electromagnetic waves interacted with aircraft surfaces. The goal: make an aircraft invisible to radar.
It sounded impossible. But the math said it could work.
"The key is geometry," Ben Rich explained during one of their team meetings. "Faceted surfaces. Angular. Each facet reflects radar energy in controlled directions, away from the receiver. It looks wrong—angular, ugly. But it works."
Tommy ran the calculations. Again and again. Different angles, different materials, different configurations. The numbers held. A properly designed aircraft could have a radar signature smaller than a bird.
Revolutionary. Game-changing. The kind of work that would make his career.
But it meant eighty-hour weeks. Nights at the office. Weekends analyzing data. Coming home after Sarah was asleep, leaving before she woke up.
March 1970
"You missed Sarah's first word," Linda said one evening when Tommy came home at ten PM.
Sarah was nine months old now. Growing, changing, reaching milestones.
Tommy set down his briefcase. "What was it?"
"'Dada.' She said 'dada' and you weren't here."
"Linda, I'm sorry. The test data came back and we needed to—"
"I don't care about test data." Linda's voice was flat. "Your daughter said her first word and you weren't here. Do you understand what that means?"
"I know. I'm sorry. Work is just—"
"Work is always 'just' something. Just critical. Just urgent. Just one more late night." Linda picked up Sarah, who was drowsy and fussy. "I'm tired, Tommy. Tired of doing this alone. Tired of explaining to our daughter why daddy's never here."
"I'm providing for us—"
"You're hiding at work. There's a difference."
Tommy wanted to argue. But looking at Linda—exhausted, holding their nine-month-old daughter, alone again—he couldn't.
"You're right," he said quietly. "I'll do better."
"Will you?"
Tommy didn't answer. Because they both knew the truth: the work would keep demanding more, and he would keep giving it.
June 1970
Tommy was reviewing procurement documents when he noticed something odd.
Have Blue required specialized components—radar-absorbent materials, advanced avionics, testing equipment. Most suppliers were familiar defense contractors. But one name kept appearing that Tommy didn't recognize: Meridian Technical Systems.
The same name that had caught his attention three years ago on the TriStar program.
Tommy pulled the contracts. Meridian was supplying composite materials for the stealth aircraft. Expensive contracts. Delivery schedules that seemed unnecessarily extended.
He mentioned it to a colleague. "Have you worked with Meridian before?"
"Who?"
"Meridian Technical Systems. They're supplying the RAM panels."
His colleague shrugged. "Never heard of them. But there are hundreds of subcontractors. Hard to keep track."
Tommy let it go. Probably nothing. Just a supplier like any other.
But the name lingered. Meridian. Why did it feel familiar beyond just seeing it on documents?
Tommy thought about the key in his closet. The vault in Baltimore. His father's claims about war profiteering.
No. He wasn't going there. Wasn't going to start connecting dots that didn't exist.
Meridian was just a contractor. The name feeling familiar was just coincidence.
Tommy pushed the thoughts away.
February 1971
The C-5 Galaxy scandal hit the news.
Hawkey's massive military transport aircraft—the largest in the world—was billions over budget. Congressional investigations. Accusations of mismanagement. Calls for executives to resign.
Tommy read the articles with growing unease.
The C-5 program had gone from $3 billion projected cost to over $5 billion. Two billion dollars of overruns. Hawkey had missed every deadline, exceeded every budget, delivered aircraft that didn't meet specifications.
The company should have been penalized. Contracts canceled. Executives fired.
Instead: Hawkey got a $250 million loan guarantee from the government.
Tommy didn't understand. "If they failed this badly, why are they being rewarded?"
His colleague laughed. "Too big to fail, Forsyth. Hawkey employs 80,000 people. If we go under, that's 80,000 unemployed workers. Government can't let that happen. So they bail us out."
"But that's—" Tommy stopped. Was going to say "wrong." But what did he know about business? About politics? Maybe this was how it worked. Maybe he was naive.
Still. Something about it felt off.
Companies that succeeded got rewarded. Companies that failed got... also rewarded?
Where was the accountability?
Tommy thought about his father's letters. About war profiteering. About systems designed to benefit certain people regardless of performance.
No. That was paranoid thinking. This was just... complicated business. The way government contracting worked. Inefficient, maybe. But not conspiracy.
Tommy pushed the thoughts away.
June 1971
Sarah turned two.
Tommy came home from work—rare early evening, six PM—to find a birthday party in progress. Linda, Sarah, a few neighbor kids. Cake, presents, decorations.
"Daddy!" Sarah ran to him, excited. "You're here!"
The surprise in her voice cut deep. His own daughter was surprised he'd made it home for her birthday.
Tommy picked her up. "Of course I'm here. Wouldn't miss your birthday."
But they both knew: he'd been missing so many other moments. First steps. First words. Entire days and weeks of her life.
Linda watched from across the room. Expression neutral. She'd stopped expecting him to show up.
That night, after Sarah was asleep, Linda said: "I can't do this much longer."
"Do what?"
"This. Marriage to someone who's never here. Raising our daughter alone while you're married to Hawkey." She looked at him. "Something has to change, Tommy. Or this is over."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to want to be here. But you don't. You want to be at work, building your invisible airplane, proving you're brilliant." Her voice was sad, not angry. "I've accepted that. But I can't live with it forever."