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program which we had been denied, that the work was carried on because that was the best way to make a reentry missile and the two happened to fit together.” Justified by the need to simulate the speed, friction, and trajectory of big nuclear-tipped missiles on atmospheric reentry, the Jupiter C’s ulterior purpose was to keep ABMA unofficially in the satellite sweepstakes, since the navy was stumbling badly. Vanguard was so behind schedule and over budget that Eisenhower had considered canceling it, while the Jupiter C had set U.S. altitude and distance records, soaring 662 miles high over a 3,335-mile arc. Even so, Medaris had been unable to gain any traction with Wilson in repeated pleas to at least consider designating the army as a backup for the navy satellite effort. “In various languages our fingers were slapped and we were told to mind our own business,” he recalled. “Rightly or wrongly, we were convinced that during Wilson’s regime the Army had consistently been pushed aside.”

ABMA had gotten a raw deal under Engine Charlie. But now his replacement, Neil H. McElroy, was coming to Huntsville. Medaris hoped to get a fairer hearing from the new secretary-designate, who was by all accounts a fair and forward-thinking man. At fifty-three, he was almost exactly Medaris’s age, and a fellow Ohioan to boot. Like Medaris, he had a reputation for speaking his mind, and he had a mid-westerner’s impatience with Washington’s insular ways. McElroy, in fact, had accepted Eisenhower’s invitation to join his cabinet only on the condition that he serve no more than two years. Any longer, he argued, and he would risk succumbing to the temptations of political power.

Medaris felt certain he could reason with such a man, a son of small-town schoolteachers, a full-scholarship Harvard graduate. “Our whole organization was thoroughly fired up,” he recalled. “We hoped that with a fresh and uncommitted mind, [McElroy] would grasp the significance of our story. We were determined to give him our frank feelings, backed by facts and figures, as to our record for delivering what we promised, when we promised, and for the money originally stated.”

If Medaris had one reservation about McElroy, it was that he was yet another moneyed representative of big business, the president of the household goods giant Procter & Gamble. But at least he wasn’t from the incestuous defense establishment, intent on feathering his company’s nest with government contracts. In any event, Medaris would have the incoming secretary in Huntsville for a full twenty-four hours to bend his ear and make his case before the Washington hyenas got to him.

By the time McElroy’s plane touched down at the Redstone Arsenal airstrip at noon on October 4, General Gavin had already been working on the secretary-designate during the flight, priming him for Medaris’s pitch. The hard sell, though, was to take place that evening at the Officers’ Club, over dinner and drinks and an outpouring of southern hospitality at a reception in McElroy’s honor.

Wilbur Brucker, the secretary of the army, and General Lyman L. Lemnitzer, the army chief of staff, were in attendance, as were Huntsville’s eager-to-please town fathers. Will Halsey, one of the community leaders, remembered the room being “so heavy with top brass that it seemed like two-star generals were serving drinks to three-star generals.”

As the cocktails were being poured and the secretary’s favor curried, ABMA’s public relations officer, Gordon Harris, abruptly burst into the bar. Clearly agitated, the young officer rudely interrupted McElroy and grabbed Medaris. “General,” he stammered, too loudly for discretion, “it has been announced over the radio that the Russians have put up a successful satellite!”

For a moment, the room was deathly quiet, so that only the soft sound of background music could be heard. “It’s broadcasting signals on a common frequency,” Harris went on, as hushed murmurs began rippling through the gathering. “At least one of our local ‘hams’ [amateur radio operators] has been listening to it.”

Then dozens