Red Moon Rising Sputnik and the Rivalries That Ignited the Space Age - Matthew Brzezinski [141]
A similarly preemptive tactic was used to co-opt Medaris’s potentially damaging testimony. Johnson obligingly played along with the ploy, which took some of the sting out of his hearings, but just as important allowed him to share in the credit for shoring up America’s missile program. The army, a smiling and decidedly more docile Medaris informed the subcommittee, “was being authorized to proceed on a ‘top-priority’ basis with the development of a solid-fuel missile,” the Pershing, a storable, next-generation rocket that could be launched on a moment’s notice.
All of Huntsville rejoiced at the twin coups. Not only was Jupiter officially and irrevocably saved but ABMA, at long last, had a new assignment. It wasn’t going to be disbanded, its staff wasn’t going to be snatched up by the rapacious air force, and von Braun’s designers weren’t going to be limited to any more idiotic 200-mile-range rules. “With feelings much different from those that had had my head bowed and my spirit beaten a year before,” a rejuvenated Medaris now set about pressing his advantage and capitalizing on ABMA’s rising prospects.
If von Braun were to launch his satellite without a hitch, ABMA would be ideally positioned to take the lead in America’s space effort. The door to the heavens had been flung open, and space was now a legitimate political destination. In Congress, Senators Albert Gore of Tennessee and Clinton Anderson of New Mexico had introduced bills to place all space programs under the Atomic Energy Commission. At the White House, Vice President Nixon was said to be especially receptive to proposals for creating a single national space agency. It was clear that the Russians had one and intended to send a man into orbit, so despite Eisenhower’s misgivings the administration needed to plan ahead. Medaris wasn’t going to let an opportunity like this slip by. He ordered von Braun, whose sole brush with space to date was the nose cone Eisenhower had displayed during his pep talks, to devise a comprehensive road map for America’s future cosmic conquests. Von Braun’s $21 billion blueprint, cumbersomely titled “Proposal for a National Integrated Missile and Space Vehicle Development Program,” envisioned orbiting an astronaut in 1962 and putting a man on the moon by 1970. The plan hinged, naturally, on ABMA’s central participation.
Medaris was equally anxious to explore opportunities in the potentially lucrative new field of spy satellites, which, like space, was now also wide open. Since the air force had shown so little enthusiasm for developing its WS-117L reconnaissance satellite platform, there was an opening to grab the mandate for the army. General Bernard Schriever, Medaris’s archrival at the air force’s missile command, was too busy trying to get the Thor and Atlas operational, while shuttling “like a yo-yo,” in his own words, between congressional appearances and his West Coast offices. He might not even have time for satellites, Medaris reasoned. But after a few discreet inquiries, ABMA’s liaison officer at Schriever’s Los Angeles headquarters “found the door completely shut.” The air force, all of a sudden, had developed a proprietary interest in the WS-117L. “Sputnik woke us up,” Schriever later conceded, and he wasn’t sharing any information with his rival. Medaris responded in the petty spirit of interservice rivalry: “So I also closed the door and told our people to give the Air Force no information on our satellite plans.” It was juvenile and “preposterous,” he admitted in retrospect, but he couldn’t help himself.
Unbeknownst to Medaris, there was a reason for the newfound secrecy; a third party also coveted the WS-117L: the CIA. Richard Bissell had been eyeing the project ever since he had started searching for a replacement for the U-2. He had helped fund Vanguard from his slush fund and tried to covertly buy the Itek Corporation, an optical research laboratory