Satellite Tracking Center
Women breaking into aerospace in the 1980s meet men behaving badly.
Samantha Matijevic Clark signed in at the S*T*C lobby.
Portraits of President Ronald Reagan and Secretary of Defense Caspar Weinberger hung above the reception desk, flanked by the American flag and the Great Bear of the Republic of California.
The guard handed Sam a lime green sticker badge with large letters:
ESCORT REQUIRED
“Now sit down, hon.” He pointed to the couches and chairs in the corner. “And wait with the rest of the guys.”
“Hon?” Sam fingered her long brunette braid.
He waved her off and made the call to her new supervisor.
Sam found a spot, sinking into an old gray chair. She tugged her tan skirt down over her knees. She peeled off the backing of her lime green badge, then stuck it on the right side of her maroon turtleneck sweater. Then she felt overdressed as she eyed many civilian contractors walking by her in blue jeans and T-shirts.
Her new coworkers—John McHenry, Tan Ho, Enrique Rodriguez—sat on the couch canted at a right angle to her chair. She had first met them Monday, three days ago, during their orientation at the Celestia Space Corporation (known as CSC) main office in San Matias.
John McHenry scratched his scruffy brown beard, which mirrored his fluffy hair. He squirmed in his blue jacket. It smelled like moth balls.
“Well, I’ll be.” John chuckled and pointed to a boxy looking thing in space with solar panel wings. “There’s NAGS-1.”
Tan Ho gave John a puzzled look. “Nag…what?”
“NAGS,” John said. “It’s a satellite.”
“What you mean…nags a satellite?”
“N-A-G-S. Stands for North American Geological Survey. That was their first satellite. Went up in the 60s.”
“How you know that?”
“I used to work for the geological survey,” John said. “But the recession hit. Then I lost my job.”
“I was engineer when I lost job. Two years ago.” Tan nodded. “Had to work for uncle as bus boy in Chinese restaurant.”
John shrugged. “At least you had a job. Unemployment doesn’t go far when you’ve a wife and two kids to feed.”
“Man.” Enrique Rodriguez shook his head. “I’ve been looking for work since I graduated last spring. Things really sucked in ’83.”
Tan and Enrique had many common features. Straight black hair. Brown eyes. Olive colored skin. They even dressed alike. Brown coats and ties with dark pants.
There were some differences, too. Enrique was stocky, Hispanic. Tan was slight of build, Asian descent.
John seemed to be the oldest. He was pondering the dirt under his fingernails. Tan’s dark eyes focused on the foggy sky beyond the big lobby windows. Enrique was thumbing through a movie critic’s magazine.
Sam glanced at military and astronaut memorabilia in the showcase for the Pacifica Air Force Station. Home of the S*T*C, The Satellite Tracking Center. Then she looked up at the TV in the lobby, tuned to CNN.
The sound was muted, but she could see game highlights. The 1984 Winter Olympics had opened in Sarajevo, Yugoslavia, two days ago. John, Tan, and Enrique were now chatting about those games.
https://youtu.be/2rwZg8Moseg?si=RWpyxC9xqnbaTqeZSighing, Sam took out a pad of paper from her black tote bag, dotted with pastel-colored hearts, and started sketching cartoons. She had taken up drawing to keep her hands busy and stop herself from fidgeting.
In the middle of a stroke, she heard a man loudly clear his throat. The khaki clad guard glared at her from the entrance and pointed a sharp finger to the sign:
NO CAMERAS, NO RECORDERS.
Sam shrunk into the chair. She put her pad of paper back into her tote bag. Apparently, it also meant:
NO SKETCHING.
Sam drove down Mt. Nauseous in her small tan pickup truck.
Concentrate on the vanishing point in the road ahead.
That was the advice that Jim had given her to negotiate the many twists and turns on the mountain road. Soon, she was back in the valley. Then onto the freeway, heading for Santa Vittoria.
When the traffic slowed, Sam looked up at the S*T*C, perched on the coastal mountain range in the shape of its moniker—the Pyramid. It was not easy to see. Painted blue, it blended into the sky. Large white satellite dishes clustered nearby. Most denizens had assumed they were for tele-communications: phone, cable services, radar, whatever.
Sam turned on the radio for news about the Winter Olympics. Instead, a funeral dirge was broadcast. Then the lead story: Soviet leader, Yuri Andropov, had died. He had only served a little more than a year after succeeding Leonid Brezhnev.
There goes another one of the old guard from “The Evil Empire.”
Sam’s thoughts wandered to President Ronald Reagan as she turned off the freeway onto one of the roads into Santa Vittoria. When Reagan had used the term, Evil Empire, in a speech a couple years ago, he had gotten much flak from the press.
https://youtu.be/M0NXs_uWPgg?si=nLK-Ty2QVtKwO29mBut Reagan’s defense build up to defeat communism was one of the reasons Sam had secured a job at the S*T*C.
By the end of July, the nude pictures of Miss America 1984 were all over the news. Now, the first African American Miss America, Vanessa Williams, had made another first. The first Miss America to resign, less than a week before the 1984 Olympic Games came to Los Angeles.
https://youtu.be/MiLKTf9Hsmg?si=Tmg5oq0K_wgXeEMT“Hmmm.” JC perused his newspaper. “Vanessa, the Undresser.”
He raised his thick brown eyebrows as he surveyed his crew. “Now, that’s something I’d love to see, boys. A naked Miss America.”
Ivan, working swings the next few weeks, looked over JC’s newspaper article and shrugged. “But you’ll have to wait for the September issue of Penthouse to see her with her clothes off.”
“Well worth the wait.” JC leered. “God bless America.”
* * *
Four years ago, President Jimmy Carter had pulled the Americans out of the 1980 summer Olympics in Moscow in reaction to the Russians invading Afghanistan.
Tit for Tat. The Russians had backed out of the 1984 summer games in the United States. For safety reasons, they said.
Though Los Angeles was the venue of the finals, some preliminary games were scheduled along the West Coast. And some were in the valley.
https://youtu.be/LmoLlEEwBhc?si=4ZDXpJ2jYAzasQ-kNADS senior analysts, mostly Jeff Ritter, Virgil Kingman, and Rich Kerry, had rounded up some tickets for the crew—for the Olympic soccer quarter-finals.
Sam wanted to go with them. So, she struck a deal and offered her pickup truck to carpool from work to the games.
* * *
After CSC had offered Sam a job last winter, she and Jim could not easily get by with just one vehicle. She needed the pickup truck to get to the S*T*C on the mountain. Therefore, Jim had gotten an old gas guzzler, dirt cheap, for himself. But the other day, he bought a used 1976 Honda motorcycle for a cheaper and more fun commute.
“You’re not coming with us?” Sam frowned at Jim the evening before the big game. “These are the Olympics, for cat’s sake.”
“I don’t like big crowds.” Jim was firm. “But feel free to see your silly game with your coworkers.”
“And I will.” Sam squinted at him. “But what will you do?”
“I’ll go for a nice little ride on my new motorcycle.” And he was itching to try this baby out.
* * *
Some F1 analysts gathered in the S*T*C parking lot after day shift.
Sam looked at Enrique. “So, you’d rather see Revenge of the Nerds instead of the Olympics? Which comes once in a lifetime?”
https://youtu.be/Hw6zrInbtQE?si=RdeDsYV-ZGLAudnY“Sorry guys.” Enrique shook his head. “Already got the tickets for me and my girl, Diane. I’d never hear the end of it if I stood her up.”
The guys returned catcalls.
Then Jeff said to Sam, “Let the nerd be with the nerds.”
Sam’s pickup could fit many in her truck bed. But she didn’t know how to get to the outdoor college stadium where the games would be held. So, she asked Virgil to drive. He knew the way.
Virgil at the wheel, Sam rode shotgun. Rich, Tan, Jeff, Austin, and others piled in the back. They picked up some sandwiches for dinner and souvenirs from the vendors. Sam bought a red, white, and blue headband with stars shooting out on springs.
Jeff laughed as she put it on her head. “You look like the Statue of Liberty. Just need that Olympic torch and toga, girl.”
The soccer match pitted Egypt against the United States. After the crew settled down in their seats, officials announced the start of the game, then a tape of the Olympic Anthem blared over the loud speakers.
Most cheered for the home team. When the crowd did an Audience Wave for the USA, the small piece of pie that did not stand was Egypt fans.
But the Egyptians showed much spirit. Across the stadium, all could hear their cheers between the blowing of ancient horns:
“Egypt!” Toot! Toot! “Egypt!” Toot! Toot! ...
Sam spied the Egyptian flags striped with red, white, and black, centered with the golden eagle of Saladin. And other banners as well:
The Pyramids. Sphinxes. Mummies. The Nile.
“Shouldn’t we be cheering for Egypt?” she teased. “We work in the Pyramid. And our call is NILE.”
Jeff shook his head. “Don’t even think about it, little lady.”
“But hey. I’ve got the truck.” Sam smiled.
Virgil said to Jeff, “She’s got you there, JR.”
Rich Kerry chuckled. “Coming over here, I saw a bumper sticker on a convertible, driven by a cute girl. It said, If you’re RICH, I’m single.” Then Rich grew a grin. “I wanted to shout to her, I’m RICH.”
Virgil sniggered. “While riding in the back of a borrowed pickup truck? That’ll impress her.”
The crew from F Troop watched the game go on and on and on. There was a lot of running. Finally, both sides scored one point each. They ran and ran and ran until they ran out the clock. The game ended in a draw.
But it was the Olympics. It was 1984. Something Sam could talk to her mother about over the phone.
* * *
While his wife was at the Olympic soccer game, Jim Clark took off on his motorcycle for the Pacifica Mountains. His bike handled the curves up Mt. Nauseous very well.
But he was passed by another biker in black leather. A guy on a Harley, who rode like Evel Knievel.
Jim was too faint of heart to ride like that. He cared too much about his life and limbs and his wife and his cat. And he was over thirty.
* * *
Ivan the Terrible passed some nerd on a Honda as he wound up Mt. Nauseous. He was working swings and had been taking a long break in the valley, having dinner with his wife.
Then JC called Ivan. Their manager, Ed Pennington, had paid them a surprise visit in the S*T*C. JC told Ed that Ivan was working out during his dinner break. Then JC pretended to call the gym and called Ivan at home, while assuring Ed that Ivan would come up after he had showered and changed.
JC is a son of bitch. But he covered my ass and bought me some time.
No one liked a snitch.
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