Oath of Office

65

“Dr. Van Orden,” Mary Pat Foley said, letting the cell phone fall to her side. Her face had gone pale. “How long will it take for a Russian 51T6 to reach a satellite passing overhead?”

“A little over three minutes,” Van Orden said.

“Mr. President,” Foley said, “we’re launch plus fifty-four seconds and counting.”

General Paul had Air Force Satellite Control Network near Colorado Springs on an open line in anticipation of this very event.

“Why don’t we move all our satellites if we’re not sure of the target?” Ryan asked.

“We could move any or all of ours, Mr. President,” Van Orden said. “But it’s a risk moving all that metal at once. It will take some time to do calculations so we don’t cause a collision ourselves. And we might move the wrong ones first.”

“Okay, gentlemen,” Ryan said. “I’m thinking you have about ninety seconds to pick me the correct satellite.”

Hardy sat at the conference table, hunched over a laptop computer with access to satellite information that was not available outside those with a specific need to know. His voice was calm and cool though he was surrounded by men and women who outranked him by factors of ten. “A launch actually helps us,” he said. “These Russian missiles travel at 5,328 miles per hour, while satellites orbit the earth at around 17,500 miles per hour. The 51T6 as we know it has max altitude of five hundred miles. Even if this is some new variant and we give it an extra hundred miles… To score a head-on kinetic kill, they’d have to account for”—he drummed his fingers on the table—“eight hundred forty miles of movement from the time the missile launched until it reaches…” He scanned the computer screen. “That leaves only five satellites within range.”

“Anytime now,” Ryan prodded.

“Two of them are Chinese, one Russian, one from Thailand, but none of them are big enough but this one — an ISR bird that I’ve never heard of.” Hardy looked up. He turned the computer toward the chairman. “This is it, General Paul. It has to be.”

“Let’s get it done,” Ryan said.

The chairman of the joint chiefs relayed the message to AFSCN at 12:09:12 Iran time, two minutes and forty seconds after missile launch.

“We don’t have long to wait,” van Damm said, stating the obvious.

Midshipman Hardy closed the laptop and then his eyes. His lips moved slightly, whispering a quiet prayer. Dr. Van Orden gave him a paternal pat on the shoulder. No one spoke. Few breathed. Everyone in the room, including Ryan, mumbled prayers of their own. All eyes eventually fell to General Paul. Fifty-four seconds later, the general leaned back in his chair and held up a thumb.

“Looks like we’re good, Mr. President,” he said. “AFSCN tracked an unidentified missile launched from Iran as it passed within a quarter of a mile from our ISR bird. Satellite signals are still being received five by five.”

Ryan got to his feet, prompting everyone else in the Situation Room to stand. “Midshipman Hardy,” he said. “Dr. Van Orden. I know it’s kind of a letdown after all this, but how about you come to my place for dinner?” He grinned. “It’s not far.”