Lash-Up

22 Anticipation

Biff Barnes knocked twice on Ray McConnell’s trailer door. The fighter pilot wasn’t happy. The trailer lights were on. When Barnes didn’t get a response, he tried the knob. The door was unlocked, and, as he opened it, he heard the sound of someone typing. Ray sat hunched over his laptop keyboard, pounding away in his pajamas.

“Ray, this is supposed to be a wake-up call. Remember?” admonished Barnes. “We had this discussion earlier, didn’t we? Something called ‘crew rest’?”

“I remembered something early this morning that I had to deal with,” Ray answered, his attention still focused on the screen.

“After working last night until one o’clock.” Barnes dropped onto the edge of the bed. “I need you alert and at peak for tomorrow, Ray. When did you wake up this morning?” His question had an edge to it.

“Four.”

“So you think three hours of sleep is enough?”

“Okay, I’ll take a nap after lunch.”

“That’s when we’re supposed to review the new sensor-handoff procedures.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” Ray stopped typing, a grimace popping up on his face. He’d forgotten all about the procedure review.

“Join us halfway through,” Biff told him, shaking his head in frustration. “Now, get moving. I’ll see you at crew breakfast in fifteen minutes.”

Barnes left, and Ray quickly showered and got dressed. In spite of his fatigue, it didn’t take any effort to hurry, and Ray wondered what percentage of his blood was composed of adrenaline. He’d been running on nerves for way too long.

Feeling like an impostor, he put on the blue flight suit Barnes had given him. The left shoulder had a patch of the Stars and Stripes, while the left breast had a leather name tag with MCCONNELL, FLIGHT ENGINEER and U.S. SPACE FORCE on it in silver lettering. The right breast had a colorful patch of the spacecraft with a laser shooting out of the cargo bay, the name Defender embroidered underneath. Although the patch was attractive, if flashy, Ray didn’t remember approving the design. When asked, Barnes had told him that some things were better left in the hands of fighter pilots.

Barnes had insisted that Ray wear the flight suit at all times during the last week before the launch. “Of course it makes you stand out. You’re flight crew, and that makes you different. Let everyone see it. You not only supervised the design and building of Defender, you’ve got the balls to fly in her as well. That’s the ultimate vote of confidence, and your people will appreciate it.”

The Hangar restaurant looked better and better. Geoffrey had changed the décor again, this time from Southwestern to a space theme. Posters of star fields and spaceships filled the walls, and the classical music was appropriately grand.

Ray hurried over to the crew table and was gratified to see he was not late. Steve Skeldon and Sue Tillman were also just sitting down. Both of them wore military rank insignia on their flight suits that made them look natural. Ray thought he probably looked all right, as long as he stood close to one of them. Inside, he still felt like a pretender.

Instead of going through the cafeteria line, Ray checked off what he wanted on an order form, and they brought his food to the table. The theory was that the crew should be doing useful work instead of standing in line, but Ray felt it was just another perk, a way of making them feel special. Biff had argued the minor distinction was good for everyone’s morale, not just the crew’s. Ray had agreed reluctantly.

They did do work while they ate, with Barnes drilling them relentlessly on safety procedures, equipment locations, technical characteristics, and each other’s duties. His favorite trick was to ask one question, then quickly ask another in the middle of the answer. The victim had to answer both correctly, and in order, within seconds.

At first Ray thought Biff was deliberately picking on him, grilling him repeatedly on engine-out procedures. Then after watching him work over the others, Ray thought Barnes might have been cutting him some slack.

The recital continued throughout breakfast, and Barnes prepared to take the crew to the simulator. Ray really wanted to go with them but knew there were many last-minute issues that still needed fixing.

Part of him couldn’t wait for tomorrow morning. The rest of him wanted the day to go on forever. He needed the time.

Mark Markin was as close to the Area 1-54 launch site as he could get, which meant standing just outside the far eastern end of Edwards AFB, fifty yards off U.S. Route 395. But the launchpad with the mysterious space vehicle still lay six miles to the west, just over the horizon. Farther to the west, far out of sight, lay Edwards Air Force Base proper, with the mythical USSF complex nestled safely within.

Markin desperately wanted to set up his gear on the small rise to the south; from that vantage point, he’d have a clear line of sight to Area 1-54. Unfortunately, the hill was within the base’s fence line, and the Marines already had an observation post on that coveted piece of real estate.

The nearly empty landscape along the fence line was dotted with clusters of TV trucks and other vehicles. Markin had positioned his cameraman so that the sandbagged guard post, manned by heavily armed Marines, was visible in the background.

As Markin began his report, the camera shifted from the guard post to an approaching Humvee, then centered on the sentries as they approached the vehicle. It continued on its patrol route after the driver talked briefly to one of the guards.

“Following the attack ten days ago, the U.S. Army and Marine Corps detachments here have increased security to extraordinary heights. Civilian traffic on and off the base has been severely restricted, and most of the traffic into the base has been for official government business.

“All our attempts to contact senior Department of Defense officials regarding the damage inflicted by the Beaumonts have been fruitless. The Coalition Against Military Space, which claims responsibility for the action, says that the launchpad was destroyed and a nearby hangar damaged. Major Dolan, the Edwards Air Force Base public relations officer, still denies the existence of Defender and is therefore ‘unable to discuss damage to something that doesn’t exist.’”

A fuzzy, pixelated color image replaced Markin and the sentries. It showed a square building with rails leaving one side. They led to a flat rectangular area with the white triangular shape of Defender in the center. The image was skewed, as if the camera had been tilted well off the vertical.

“This photo was taken from a CNN plane flying just beyond the prohibited area near the base and has been viewed by millions on the Internet. Using computer enhancement, we were able to expand this image of the “nonexistent” hangar and launchpad. While there is little that can be seen at this distance, the hangar and pad appear intact. Presumably, Defender is also undamaged, since she has been moved into launch position. CNN news will monitor developments at the base closely and let you know the instant that there are any new developments.”

Admiral Schultz angrily turned off the flat-screen TV. There was little pleasure in pushing a button. What he wanted to do was push in Markin’s face. “War in a fishbowl,” he grumbled.

Colonel Evans, Defender’s security officer, heartily agreed. “Radar’s tracked several civilian planes flying just outside the prohibited area. There’s a good chance at least one of them is a CNN plane with a long-range TV camera aboard, waiting for us to launch.”

“Which is no surprise,” Schultz muttered. “But when Defender takes off, all they’ll really need is a pair of eyeballs and a cell phone.”

“But it’s the cameras that concern me, sir. CNN’s broadcast will be seen all over the world. The Chinese will have a front-row seat without having to risk another operative.” Evans seethed. “Allowing someone to tell the enemy what we’re doing flies in the face of every OPSEC technique I’ve ever been taught! I just can’t see the Chinese letting us put Defender in orbit and doing nothing about it!”

The admiral heard the frustration in Evans’s voice and was entirely sympathetic, but there was precious little they could do. It was completely impractical to cordon off an area that extended for over one hundred miles in every direction. Stewing, the two men sat in silence. But after a short pause, Schultz suddenly began smiling. “Then let’s give them something to look at.”

As Schultz explained his idea, Evans’s face began to light up.

“I’ll need to talk to the base commander, General Norman, and Commander Oh,” stated Schultz as he leapt from his chair.

Evans asked, “How about McConnell?”

Schultz shook his head. “No, he can’t help with this, and he’s got a busy day coming.” He stifled a yawn. “And once Defender is safely back home, I’m taking a long nap.”

Schultz found Jenny Oh hard at work, testing and refining the tracking software so critical to the upcoming mission.

Now she sat at the chief controller’s desk, considering Schultz’s idea. She was tired and worried, but it was an intriguing plan, even if it complicated the last few precious hours.

“We’ve run similar drills, sir,” she replied carefully. She couldn’t give Schultz a resounding yes, much as she wanted to. She needed to think it through herself. “And my programmers could continue running their tests separately.”

“I don’t want to do anything that interferes with readiness for the launch tomorrow,” the admiral reassured her.

“It would mean transmitting on the launch frequencies,” warned Jenny.

“We have more than one set, don’t we?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, but only a limited number. Once they’ve been used, we have to assume the Chinese, or anyone else for that matter, will be able to monitor them.”

“But they’re encrypted,” Schultz replied.

“I don’t assume anything, sir,” Jenny answered firmly.

“You’re right, of course, but I believe this will be worth it.” He looked at his watch. “I want it nice and dark, so you’ll need to be ready by zero five-hundred hours.”

“Not a problem, Admiral. We’ll be ready.”

General Shen paced a racetrack in the launch center. The staff, familiar with the general’s moods, gave him a wide berth and paid attention to the preparations for the upcoming launch. Wisely, he left them to their work. Events were taking their own course. He was no longer in complete control of the situation, and he hated it.

The launch base, always on alert for attack, was now on a full war footing. Every man of the garrison had been turned out, and patrols went out twice as far as usual. Flanker fighters ran racetrack patterns overhead.

They had cause to be concerned. American strikes up and down the coast had hurt the People’s Liberation Army badly. Vital bases were damaged, ships had been sunk, and dozens of aircraft destroyed. The politburo had forbidden the services to discuss casualty figures, even among themselves.

The general was still trying to accept the fact that the Defender vehicle was actually going to fly, and, by every indication, probably very soon. Having his initial judgment proved wrong did not worry him so much, but wondering what else he may have been wrong about did.

He was an engineer. Building a gun that would shoot down satellites was easy compared to predicting your opponent’s behavior. He hadn’t been able to comprehend why the Americans were launching replacement GPS satellites, until he’d received the news about the American spaceship being sighted on the launchpad. They were not beaten, and they did not believe they were helpless. The Americans were waging a subtle delaying action — buying time to finish Defender.

There would be a fight in space; he was certain of that, but he and Dong had taken steps that should destroy Defender soon after her launch. But nothing in a battle was certain. Would the Defender vehicle attack them here? Shen knew they would if they could, especially since this was where the real battle lay. But he and Dong were not going to let the American crew live.

Shen was almost eager for the Americans to launch. Its appearance would resolve so much of the uncertainty he had lived with. Its failure would break their will.

Barnes had driven them hard, training until an hour before dinner. He’d just finished his last critique when he suddenly declared, “That’s it. You’re ready.” Skeldon and Ray had both protested, suggesting, almost demanding, additional drills, but Biff had flatly refused. “You’re just as well trained as when I went up. Unless you can tell me exactly what the Chinese are going to do or what part of the ship will definitely break, there’s nothing more we can do to get ready.”

Ray had bristled a little at the suggestion that something on Defender might break, but he yielded to Biff’s experience. Barnes’s pilot wings had an astronaut badge in the center. That carried a lot of weight with Ray and the others. The other five would receive their astronaut insignia when they came back.

Biff gave them ten minutes to change and then ran them over to the volleyball court. They ran in the same arrangement they sat in Defender: Scarelli and Skeldon in the lead, then Tillman and Baker, with Ray and Biff in the rear. “We’ll play six-on-six today,” Biff shouted as they jogged. As they neared the court, Ray and the others could see a group waiting for them next to the net. It was more than six people, a lot more, although some of them were in athletic gear. Ray didn’t recognize them, but Scarelli, then Sue Tillman, suddenly called out and sped ahead of the group. A moment later, Andre Baker called out, “Helen!” and took off at a full run.

The two groups merged in a chaos of hugs and introductions. Ray was quickly introduced to a husband and grandfather, two wives, an uncle, and two sets of parents. Five of them had suited up in borrowed USAF sweat suits for volleyball, while one wore navy PT gear. “The major said you guys were soft and needed a good workout,” Sue Tillman’s husband explained, grinning. Lieutenant Brad Tillman was also in the navy — a SEAL. He was the crew’s most dangerous opponent, although the sheer distraction of the crew seeing their family members gave the newcomers’ team an edge.

In between sets, Biff pulled Ray aside and explained. “I invited Jenny, but she said she couldn’t break away and that you would understand.”

Ray nodded. “I do — and besides, let’s be fair. I’ve seen Jenny often during our time here. The rest of the crew’s been separated from their people for months.”

“She also said she didn’t want to crush your delicate male ego.”

“Too late,” Ray answered. “But wait a minute. Jenny has a clearance. These folks do not. Or were they all read into the program for this volleyball game?”

“Admiral Schultz said that as of your flight tomorrow, the wraps are off. He was the one who signed off on them coming here. They’ll stay on base until after we return,” Barnes reassured him. “As long as we don’t talk shop over dinner, it will be fine. Even if we did, Colonel Evans took all their cell phones and such, so they’re off the grid. Now that’s enough of a break. They’re waiting for us.”

In the end, they only had time for two sets before dinner. While the families rode in blue air force vehicles back to their quarters to change, Biff, this time in the lead, ran the others back, almost sprinting and daring them to match his pace. Ray and the others took the challenge, with Andre Baker coming in second. Ray was fourth, but he was not disappointed. A couple of months ago, a run like that would have killed him.

“The Hangar” staff had expanded the area for the mission crew to accommodate their families. After hearing stories about The Hangar’s food, they’d all decided to have a regular dinner from the cafeteria line, but Lewes and his staff had added some special touches: name cards, wine, and a fancy salad waiting on each plate.

Ray saw a card and a place for Jenny set next to his, but it was empty. He was beginning to feel a little alone, surrounded by so much family togetherness, but Jenny arrived while they were still working on their salads. Her “sorry, I’m late” was followed by a round of introductions and some slightly embarrassing questions, but Ray endured the interrogation quietly. He was just happy she could be there.

She seemed irritated at his relief. “A girl’s got to eat, doesn’t she?” she demanded, but Ray knew it had taken a huge mental effort to step away from the BMC. On the other hand, he was glad that she would also get a chance to clear her head, even if only for a short time.

Several family members started to ask questions about details of the mission, but by unspoken agreement, the crew steered them away from specifics. Biff shared many of his experiences on his single space flight, and between family news, base gossip, and stories about the coverage of Defender “outside the wire,” the meal rushed by, until the chef brought over a freshly baked apple cobbler for dessert.

Jenny, in an act of self-discipline on several levels, excused herself and returned to work. With her gone, Ray ate his dessert and listened to the conversation, but his mind was filled with tomorrow. One part of him wondered if the families’ presence might not be a distraction. He thought of the bomber crews in England in World War II, in the pub one day and over Germany fighting for their lives the next.

Ray firmly believed the risk of his screwing up was far greater than of his dying, either through Chinese actions or some system failure, but this was still a combat mission. Nothing was certain. But what was the risk of some spouse or relative saying the wrong thing or breaking down in tears compared to a chance for the crew to spend time before their mission with the ones they loved? And if, heaven forbid, it literally was their last night on earth, these memories would be all the more precious.

After the meal, the crew loaded their family members back into the cars and waved good-bye. As they walked back to their trailers, Ray wasn’t the only one yawning. “I see my diabolical plan is working perfectly,” Biff observed.

“Diabolical but obvious,” Ray responded. “And necessary. I’m trying hard not to think too deeply about tomorrow.”

“What’s to think about?” Biff shrugged, smiling. “We wake up; we go.” After a short pause, he added, in a more serious tone, “Events are in motion. Give yourself over to them. Accept them, focus on your part, and you’ll do well.”

“Is that what you did on your first space flight?”

“No, that’s what I wish I’d done. I was so worried about screwing up, I hardly got any sleep at all.”

Ray laughed softly and offered his hand. “I won’t let you down, boss.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Barnes said, shaking Ray’s hand. “Now go get some sleep, and no working tonight, mister. Clear?”

Tom Rutledge sat in his study, flipping randomly from channel to channel. Coverage of Defender was ubiquitous and uniformly irritating. The media drumbeat reminded him of his defeat — no, his humiliation — by his own party.

He’d told his staff he’d be out of touch while he “considered his next move.” He might actually do that, eventually, but first he intended to get drunk. He wasn’t wasting honest whiskey on it, either. Vodka, with lemon and sugar. It went down easy, and he’d have less of a hangover in the morning.

Not that he had anything planned for the morning. Ben Davis and the others were under orders to respond “no comment” to any questions about GPS satellites, the Space Force, the air force’s program, and especially the upcoming Defender launch. If pressed, they could add, “We fervently hope that the GPS satellite shoot-downs can be stopped somehow.”

It just hadn’t worked. Usually there was enough political space for a “maverick” to carve out an issue and make it his. The whole Space Force—Defender thing had looked like a perfect ticket to the national stage. If you stay on message and sound authoritative, people start listening. Your influence grows. Pretty soon, they start asking you about other issues, and your power grows some more. Then someone with an issue to sell comes to you, asking for your support. And Mrs. Rutledge’s son never did anything for free.

Rutledge took another pull on his drink and flipped the channel again. Another cable news channel, another set of talking heads filling dead air, speculating, predicting, while the networks waited for the “money shot”: Defender blasting off. Then they could start with a whole new question: What was actually happening up there, in orbit? It would be a new kind of war, horrible and fascinating, but sure to raise ratings.

He flipped again. Nope, they weren’t waiting for the launch. Somebody had a computer-animated Defender firing a laser from its nose at an animated Tien Lung projectile. Nobody knew exactly what the Chinese weapon looked like, so they’d used something that looked like the shell from a gun, painted red, of course. The Chinese animation fired back at the American vehicle, and the show’s host was asking a question about damage to Defender’s heat shield from this hypothetical weapon.

If and when this thing actually flew, somebody would be sure to run a video of it blasting off, followed immediately by one of him blasting the administration. He was on the record calling the program “an idea bound to fail,” and a “deliberate waste of the taxpayer’s money.” More than on the record: He’d made it his signature issue.

And if he hadn’t been told to shut up and sit down, he might have been on that TV set, ambushed by the video, then trying to answer embarrassing questions like, “What do you think now, Congressman?” Those were a reporter’s favorite. Nothing helped ratings more than catching a politician with his position exposed.

Maybe the House leaders had done him a favor. He’d called Defender a boondoggle, the Space Force a money trap, and the air force’s new organization political cover for the Jackson administration. Normally, he didn’t regard being wrong as a great handicap, but being so completely and publicly wrong could condemn him to judging hog contests for the rest of his political life.

But, dammit, the whole space issue was perfect for him! It had no effect on his local base, and national-level interest a mile wide. Bottom line, he just hated seeing all that TV coverage wasted. He could have been in front of those cameras, except he’d picked the wrong message.

They were running the animation again, this time asking questions about how the two opponents would have to maneuver. Like anyone knew. And if a battle actually was fought, would anyone remember this crap? Little stuff like this wasn’t worth remembering, but they’d remember “Rutledge and Defender.”

Reporters were still calling his office, as late as it was, asking for a statement or reaction to the latest factoid, but word was spreading about his meeting with the speaker and minority leader. Nothing stayed secret in Washington forever. If he didn’t find some way to spin that, if it became common knowledge …

Wait. Not if, but when. Getting “taken to the woodshed” was a popular spectator sport in Washington. What everybody watched for was the subject’s reaction afterward. Denial was common, if futile. Defiance was another choice, but was usually taken as a sign of weakness. The winning play was humility and a display of party loyalty, followed by laying low and waiting for a fresh opportunity.

But the opportunity was now! He’d tried the “voice in the wilderness,” gambit but hadn’t gotten any traction. Where could he go after being so publicly wrong?

Rutledge took another drink. Okay, so if he couldn’t change the situation, maybe he should run with it instead. Not just admit he’d been wrong but embrace it. A politician who’d changed his mind and was willing to talk about it was worth a round of interviews right there. And then become Defender’s biggest supporter. Instead of “the maverick,” play “the convert.”

Whether or not Defender beat the Chinese, the U.S. Space Force would need friends in Congress in the days ahead. He could become their best friend, someone they needed. And Mrs. Rutledge’s boy never did anything for free.

Ray waited for a minute or two after Biff left, and he didn’t grab his doorknob until he heard the door of Biff’s trailer open and close. Peeking out a side window, he saw the lights in Barnes’s trailer come on and then realized he was being foolish. He felt like a kid sneaking out the night before exams. Biff might be mad that Ray didn’t immediately go to bed, but Ray didn’t care.

It was a ten-minute walk to the BMC, during which time Ray had to show his ID four times: first to a roving patrol, then at the BMC’s perimeter fence, and again at the entrance to the building. The last time was at the entrance to the actual command center, after he found out Jenny wasn’t in her first-floor office.

Ray was in his flight suit, of course, and everyone he passed, including the security guards, wished him “good luck” or “safe return” or “give ’em hell.” It felt good.

The Battle Management Center was partially manned, and the projectors had turned the blank white globe in the center into a real-time replica of Earth, including weather, displaying the tracks of the remaining GPS satellites. It was a far cry from his earlier visit. Ray just stood and admired it for a moment. If you looked carefully, you could see the day-night terminator moving across the surface.

He spotted Jenny sitting at her second-level command desk. She was smiling and waved down to him. He waved back and then trotted up the stairs to the catwalk.

He sat down in the second chair at the command desk. “Maybe instead of a spacecraft, I should have just designed a really cool RV.”

She laughed and waved an arm toward the globe. “Then what would we do with this? Although, I have to admit, the RV sounds nice.” She smiled warmly.

“Well, this is pretty cool, too,” Ray conceded. “I didn’t get much of a chance to talk to you at dinner. I wanted to wish you luck tomorrow and tell you how much all your work has meant to me.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. McConnell. Is that all you have to say?” She was smiling, but Ray realized there were rapids ahead.

“I should also mention that you are beautiful and intelligent, and I will be thinking of you every moment that I’m in orbit.”

She laughed brightly. “Don’t you dare! Focus on your job, or you’ll end up as a big greasy smear somewhere, and I would really hate that.”

“Then I will think of you as I fall asleep tonight. Which will be very soon.”

“Good,” she said approvingly.

“And why are you still here?” he asked.

“Just some last-minute tests,” she replied, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Is there a problem? Has something cropped up? The admiral and I both saw the last test verification report, and the BMC was certified as ‘mission-ready.’” There was concern in Ray’s voice.

Jenny shook her head sharply. “No, nothing is wrong, but I almost wish there was. Nothing this complicated is ever completely bug-free, and I have this recurring nightmare about the whole system crashing with you up there.”

“Jenny, I have faith in your ability not only to build this thing but also to test it within an inch of its electronic life. Let me walk you to your quarters. You need sleep as much as I do.”

Sighing and nodding, she shut down her console and followed him down the steps and out of the BMC. They both collected more good wishes from the staff, which they answered with, “good luck to us all.”

Outside the perimeter fence, he took her hand and turned toward her quarters, but she stopped and said, “Your trailer is that way.” She let go of his hand to point and then pushed gently on his chest. “Go.”

Jenny turned and started walking, but Ray protested. “I said I’d walk you to your quarters first.”

“Uh-uh. It’s a ten-minute walk each way, and that’s twenty minutes less sleep.”

“But ten minutes less with you,” he countered.

“Let’s squeeze it into a minute, then,” and she stepped closer and kissed him.

They didn’t move for what seemed like both forever and just a few seconds, and then she said, “Now go. And remember: You said you’d think of me.”

Ray kept his promise.