December 1971
Have Blue's first prototype was taking shape.
Tommy saw it for the first time in the hangar—angular, strange-looking, unlike any aircraft ever built. Faceted surfaces catching the light oddly. Looking more like a sculpture than something that could fly.
"Ugly, isn't it?" Ben Rich said beside him.
"It's... different."
"Different is right. Conventional aircraft are smooth, elegant. This looks like it was designed by a mathematician having a nightmare." Rich smiled. "But the radar cross-section is incredible. In testing, it's practically invisible."
Tommy felt pride despite himself. He'd contributed to this. His calculations, his analysis. This revolutionary aircraft owed part of its existence to his work.
"When does it fly?" Tommy asked.
"Late '77, early '78 if everything goes well. Still years of development ahead."
Years. More eighty-hour weeks. More missed dinners. More distance from Linda and Sarah.
But also: history. Making something that mattered. Something that would change warfare, save pilots' lives.
Tommy told himself that justified the cost.
March 1972
Tommy started noticing more oddities in the program.
Parts being ordered that never got used. Testing procedures that seemed redundant. Subcontractor delays that extended timelines without clear justification.
A package had arrived at his apartment a few weeks earlier. From a solicitor's office in London he'd never heard of. Inside: his father's old wristwatch, a leather notebook, and a sealed envelope with instructions not to open until 1980. Eight years away. The cover letter said his father had arranged this in 1962, a year before he died.
Tommy had put it on the top shelf of his closet and not thought about it since.
He mentioned the procurement issues to Ben Rich. "Some of these procurement decisions don't make sense. We're paying for components we don't need."
"That's how government contracts work, Forsyth. Cost-plus. We bill the government for what we spend, plus a percentage profit. More we spend, more we make."
"But that incentivizes... waste."
"That incentivizes thoroughness. We explore every option. Test everything. Make sure we get it right." Rich looked at him. "You have a problem with that?"
"No, sir. Just... trying to understand the business side."
"The business side is simple: government wants stealth aircraft. We're building it. They pay our costs plus profit. Everyone wins."
Tommy nodded. But something still felt wrong. The system seemed designed to maximize spending, not minimize it. To extend timelines, not shorten them.
His father's voice echoed in his mind: War profiteering. Equipment sabotage. Soldiers dying for quarterly earnings.
No. He wasn't doing this. Wasn't going to see conspiracies in normal business practices.
Tommy focused on his work. On problems with clear solutions.
Not on questions that led to his father's kind of thinking.
September 1972
Linda started talking about divorce.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just... mentioning it. Testing the idea.
"My friend Janet got divorced last year. She says it was hard but better than staying miserable."
"Are you miserable?"
"Are you really asking me that?" Linda looked at him. "Tommy, you work ninety hours a week. You haven't put Sarah to bed in two months. You missed her third birthday because you were 'at a critical testing phase.' Yes, I'm miserable."
"I'm trying, Linda. The program is just—"
"The program is your priority. Not me. Not Sarah. The program." She stood up. "I've accepted that. But I'm trying to decide if I can live with it for the next twenty years."
"What do you want me to do? Quit?"
"I want you to want to be here. But you don't." Linda's voice was tired. "And I don't think you ever will."
June 1973
Sarah turned four.
This time Tommy didn't make it home. Critical meeting ran late. By the time he got home at nine PM, the party was over. Sarah was asleep. Cake eaten. Presents opened.
Linda didn't say anything. Just showed him the photos. Sarah blowing out candles. Sarah opening gifts. Sarah asking "Where's Daddy?"
"I'm sorry," Tommy said.
"I know you are. But sorry doesn't change anything." Linda put away the photos. "I filed papers today."
Tommy felt his stomach drop. "What papers?"
"Divorce papers. I'm not serving them yet. But they're filed. Ready to go." She looked at him. "I've given you five years to figure out how to balance work and family. You haven't. So either something changes in the next six months, or I'm done."
"Six months? That's—"
"Fair. That's what it is. Fair warning." She walked to the bedroom. "Your choice, Tommy. Choose."
November 1973
Tommy tried. Really tried.
Cut his hours to fifty a week. Home for dinner most nights. Weekends with the family. Playing with Sarah. Being present.
It lasted two months.
Then Have Blue hit a crisis. Radar testing showed unexpected results. The entire approach might need rethinking.
Tommy went back to eighty-hour weeks. Had to. The program was in jeopardy.
Linda didn't say anything. Just watched him leave early, come home late, miss dinners again.
The divorce papers were still filed. Still waiting.
January 1974
Ben Rich called Tommy into his office.
"Forsyth, I've been impressed with your work. You have an eye for this—understand the mathematics, but also the engineering. That's rare."
"Thank you, sir."
"How would you feel about joining the Skunk Works full-time? Not just Have Blue. The advanced development division. Secret projects. Cutting-edge work."
Tommy's heart jumped. Skunk Works was legendary—Kelly Johnson's creation, the division that had built the U-2, the SR-71. The most advanced aerospace development in the world.
It was also: more hours. More secrecy. More time away from family.
"That's... that's an incredible opportunity," Tommy said.
"It is. But it's also demanding. More than what you're doing now." Rich studied him. "Talk to your wife. Make sure she's on board. This job ends marriages."
That night, Tommy told Linda about the offer.
"Skunk Works," she said. "More secret work. More hours. More absence."
"It's an incredible opportunity—"
"I know what it is." Linda looked at him. "And I know what you're going to choose. You've already chosen. You just want my permission."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it? When have you ever chosen me over work? Over your career? Over the next exciting project?"
Tommy had no answer.
Linda sighed. "Take the job, Tommy. We both know you're going to."
December 1974
Linda filed for divorce on a Monday.
Not the threatened papers from eighteen months ago. New ones. Final ones. With custody arrangements, asset division, everything.
"I'm taking Sarah to my parents for Christmas," she said. "When we come back, I want you moved out."
"Linda, please. We can work this out—"
"We had five years to work it out. We didn't. You chose your career." Her voice wasn't angry. Just sad. "That's fine. That's your choice. But I'm choosing something different."
"What about Sarah? She needs her father."
"She needs a father who's present. You're not." Linda's voice was flat. "You're a good provider, Tommy. Good income, benefits, stability. But you're not a father. You're a paycheck who occasionally shows up."
"That's not fair—"
"It's completely fair. Sarah is five and barely knows you. She cries when you try to pick her up because she doesn't recognize you. That's not my fault. That's yours."
Tommy had no argument. Because it was true.
They divided the house over a long weekend in February.
Linda took most of the furniture. Tommy took his books, his drafting tools, a few boxes from the garage. Sarah was at Linda's parents' house. The rooms felt larger than he remembered.
In the hall closet Linda found a cardboard box he hadn't seen in years.
"There's a box of your father's stuff here. An old address book, some letters. Do you want it, or should I throw it out?"
"Leave it."
"Tommy." She was flipping through the address book. "There's a name in here with a Shanghai address. Did your father know someone in China?"
"I don't know. Just leave it, Linda. I'll deal with it later."
She didn't deal with it. He didn't either. The box stayed in the hall closet of a house neither of them would live in again.
The divorce was finalized in March 1975. Linda got full custody. Tommy got visitation rights—one weekend a month, alternating holidays.
He moved to a studio apartment near Hawkey. Furnished it with the bare minimum.
His real life was at work. At the Skunk Works. Building aircraft that would change the world.
Alone.
But building something that mattered.
He told himself that was enough.