Starfire

FIVE

“Masters Zero-Seven, McLanahan Ground, you are cleared to operate in Romeo four eight one three alpha and bravo and Romeo four eight one six November, all altitudes, squawk assigned codes, advise Oakland Center when departing the areas, contact tower, have a good flight.”

“Roger, Ground,” Sondra Eddington replied on the number one UHF radio. She read back the entire clearance, then switched to the tower frequency. “McLanahan Tower, Masters Zero-Seven, number one, runway three-zero, ready for takeoff.”

“Masters Zero-Seven, McLanahan Tower, winds calm, runway three-zero, airspeed restricted to two-zero-zero knots while inside the Class Charlie airspace, cleared for takeoff.”

“Masters Zero-Seven cleared for takeoff runway three-zero,” Sondra replied. She taxied the big jet onto the runway, lined up on the center line, held the brakes, advanced the throttles slowly and smoothly, felt the kick when the engines went to zone-one afterburner, released brakes, smoothly advanced the throttles to zone five, and lifted off in just five thousand feet. She lowered the big jet’s nose to quickly build up airspeed, retracted the landing gear and flaps, then brought the throttles back to 50 percent power to avoid busting the speed limit until they got out of McLanahan Industrial Airport‘s airspace, which would not take long at all.

“Good takeoff, Sondra,” said Hunter Noble, Sondra’s instructor on this training flight. He was in the rear seat of Sky Masters Aerospace’s MiG-25UX, a tandem-seat Mikoyan-Gurevich supersonic fighter with no combat equipment, modified for extreme high-speed and high-altitude operations. The original Russian MiG-25RU was the fastest combat jet fighter in existence, capable of almost three times the speed of sound and sixty thousand feet altitude, but after being modified by Sky Masters Aerospace, the jet was capable of achieving almost five times the speed of sound and one hundred thousand feet. “Good timing on the brakes and power. Zone one with the brakes on is okay, but anything after that will shred the brakes.”

“Roger, Boomer,” Sondra said. In fighter-pilot parlance, a “Roger” after a critique from an instructor meant that the student already knew and identified the discrepancy. A “thank you” usually meant the student missed it and acknowledged a good catch by the instructor. “I got it.”

“I show us clear of Class Charlie airspace,” Boomer said. “Heading two-zero-zero will take us to the restricted area.”

“Roger,” Sondra said. In less than two minutes they were in R-4813A and B, two restricted military training areas in the Naval Air Station Fallon complex in north-central Nevada, leased to Sky Masters Aerospace and coordinated with the FAA’s Oakland Air Traffic Control Center for high-performance aircraft testing. “I’m running the pre-high-altitude checklists now. Report when complete.”

“Will do,” Boomer said. The checklist prepared the crew to operate at extreme high altitudes, ones usually not attained by conventional fighters. It only took a few minutes. “Checklist complete. I show us inside R-4813A. Cleared when ready.”

“I got it, Boomer,” Sondra said. “Stand by.” Sondra applied full power, slowly and smoothly advancing the throttles on the MiG-25 until they were at full zone-five afterburner, and then at Mach 1 she raised the nose until they were at sixty-degrees nose-up attitude and still accelerating. As the speed increased, the gravity forces increased, and soon both were grunting against the G-forces pressing against their bodies, trying to keep blood from draining out of their lungs and brains. Both pilots wore partial-pressure space suits and space helmets, plus high-tech electronic G-suits that covered their legs and lower abdomen with a contracting fabric to help keep blood from pooling in the legs from the G-forces — but it still took work to fight off the effects of the G-forces. Soon they were at sixty-thousand-feet altitude and flying well over four times the speed of sound, with over seven times the force of gravity pressing on their bodies.

“Speak to me, Sondra,” Boomer said. “You… you doing okay?”

“I’m… fine… Boo… Boomer,” Sondra said, but it was obvious she was struggling to deal with the G-loads on her body. Suddenly the MiG-25 heeled sharply to the left and nosed down.

“Sondra?” No response. The fighter’s nose pointed Earthward. Just before he was going to take control, Boomer felt and heard the throttles retard to idle in the descent and the wings rolled level.

“You okay, Sondra?” Boomer repeated.

“Yes.” Over the intercom he could hear her breathing was a little labored, but otherwise sounded all right. “I’m okay.”

Boomer watched the altimeter and airspeed readouts carefully, making sure that Sondra had complete control of the aircraft. In the rear cockpit, he could take full control of the aircraft if necessary, but touching the controls would mean a failure for the pilot-in-command, and he didn’t want to do that unless it was absolutely necessary. After losing just ten thousand feet, Sondra started to bring the nose back up to the horizon, and as the jet came level and the airspeed went subsonic, she fed in power to keep the altitude and airspeed stable. “How are you doing, Sondra?” Boomer asked.

“I’m good, Boomer,” Sondra replied, and she sounded perfectly normal and in control. “I’ll descend back to thirty thousand feet and we’ll give it another try.”

“We won’t have enough fuel for another high-G high-altitude demo,” Boomer said. “We can do a few high-speed no-flap approaches, and then call it a day.”

“We have plenty of fuel, Boomer,” Sondra protested.

“I don’t think so, babe,” Boomer said. “Let’s do the high-ILS approach to Battle Mountain and do a no-flap power-off approach, do a missed at decision height, then do another for a full stop. Okay?”

“Whatever you say, Boomer,” Sondra replied, the dejection in her voice obvious.

The high-speed instrument approaches simulated an approach in the Black Stallion or Midnight spaceplanes. The MiG-25 was an important step for aspiring spaceplane pilots, because it was the only aircraft that could simulate for brief periods the extremely high G-loads imposed on pilots during their ascent. G-loads of up to nine times the normal force of gravity could be generated in Sky Masters Aerospace’s centrifuge on the ground, but the MiG-25 was a better platform because the pilot had to fly the aircraft while being subjected to the G-forces. Sondra executed the instrument approaches with typical precision, and the landing was dead on the numbers.

They parked the big jet, went to the life-support shop to turn in the space suits and electronic G-suits, debriefed the maintenance technicians, got a quick check by a doctor, then went back to the classroom to talk about the flight. Sondra wore a blue flight suit, tailored to accentuate her curves, and in her flying boots she stood even taller. She shook her straight blond hair loose as she poured herself a cup of coffee; Boomer, in an Air Force — style olive-drab flight suit, already had his bottle of ice-cold water.

“Preflight, takeoff, departure, approaches, landing, and postflight all good,” Boomer said, referring to a notepad. “Talk to me about the climb-out.”

“I was fine — I think I just pulled out too soon,” Sondra said. “You always say, it’s better to break off a high-G run earlier than later. I might’ve gotten a little antsy. I was fine.”

“You didn’t answer up when I called.”

“I heard you just fine, Boomer,” Sondra said. “I had my hands full. The last thing I wanted to do was get myself into a compressor stall or spin.” Boomer looked at Sondra, who had looked away as she sipped her coffee, and decided to accept her response. The rest of the debriefing did not take long. They reviewed the next day’s classroom and flight training objectives, then Sondra got on the phone to check messages, and Boomer went to his office to catch up on messages and paperwork and check in on the many laboratories and design offices that he supervised.

The afternoon began with a company operations executive staff meeting, which Boomer just barely tolerated, but it was was part of his new job as head of aerospace operations. The meeting was chaired by the company’s new vice president of operations, Jason Richter, a retired lieutenant colonel and robotics engineer from the U.S. Army, who was hired to replace the late Patrick McLanahan. Jason was tall, trim, and athletic, with dark good looks. He had been hired by Sky Masters Aerospace for his engineering background, especially in the realm of robotics, but it turned out he was equally adept in management, so he was promoted to lead research and development at the company. Although he was more at home in a laboratory or design facility, he enjoyed the power and prestige of overseeing such a large number of some of the world’s best and brightest minds.

“Let’s get started,” Richter said, starting the meeting precisely at one o’clock, as always. “Let’s start with the Aerospace Division. Hunter, congratulations on successfully bringing the president to Armstrong Space Station and back safely. Quite an accomplishment.” The others in the room gave Boomer a round of light applause — Hunter “Boomer” Noble was considered an eccentric character in the company’s executive boardroom, not a serious one, and was therefore lightly tolerated. “The president apparently is not suffering any ill effects. Observations?”

“The guy did fantastic,” Boomer said, silently acknowledging the positive feedback from his board-member colleagues but also noting the negative reactions. “He stayed calm and cool the entire flight. I was not too surprised when he agreed to do the docking, but I couldn’t believe it when he wanted to do the spacewalk to the airlock. He acted as if he’d been in astronaut training for years. That kind of courage is extraordinary.”

“We’re already getting inquiries about flying the spaceplane, and there’s been talk about funding for more S-19s and the XS-29,” Jason said.

“I’m all for that,” Boomer said, “but I think we need to bring in resources to start working seriously on the next series of space stations. Armstrong is hanging in there, but its days are numbered, and if Brad McLanahan’s Starfire project goes forward, which I’m betting it will, Armstrong may be out of the military space-weapon business altogether. I’ve got two folks, Harry Felt and Samantha Yi, working on space-station stuff, mostly designing systems to update Armstrong. I’d like to put them in charge of a new design team, three or four persons to start, coming up with designs for new military and industrial stations in line with President Phoenix’s proposals. We also need to get you and Dr. Kaddiri out to Washington right away to meet up with our lobbyists and find out who’s in charge of this new push for space.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “Maybe you or Helen should volunteer to run it, Jason.”

“Me?” Jason asked. “In Washington? I’d rather be buried up to my neck in the desert. But I like your ideas. Submit a proposal and a budget to me right away and I’ll take it to Helen.”

Boomer made a few taps on his tablet computer. “In your in-box now, comandante.”

“Thank you. I knew you’d have something worked out already. I’ll make sure Helen gets it today.”

At that moment the company president and chief executive officer, Dr. Helen Kaddiri, entered the meeting room. Everyone rose to their feet as the tall, dark-eyed, fifty-two-year-old woman with very long dark hair tied in an intricate knot at the back of her neck and a dark gray business suit stood by the doorway. Helen Kaddiri was born in India but educated mostly in the United States, earning numerous advanced degrees in business and engineering. She had worked at Sky Masters for decades, partnering with Jonathan Masters to acquire the original failing aerospace company they worked for, and building it into one of the world’s premier high-technology design and development companies. “Take seats, everyone, please,” she said in a light, singsong voice. “Sorry to interrupt, Jason.”

“Not at all, Helen,” Jason said. “Have something for us?”

“An announcement,” she said. She walked to the front of the room and stood beside Jason. “The board of directors has selected three projects to provide grants to this year, all of them at universities: State University of New York at Buffalo for a swarming satellite project; Allegheny College in Pennsylvania for a laser communications system; and the bulk of the award, twenty-five million dollars, going to California Polytechnic University, San Luis Obispo, for a very impressive orbiting solar-power-plant project.” Another round of applause from the branch directors in the room.

“That project is being run by Brad McLanahan,” Boomer said. “That kid’s amazing. I ask the kid a question about some part of the project, and he says he doesn’t know and he’ll get back to me, and next thing I know I’m getting a phone call from some Nobel Prize laureate from Germany with the answer. He’s got a list of experts and scientists on his team that’ll water your eyes.”

“We’re already heavily investing in their project,” Jason said. “We’ve already provided them with a Trinity module they’re using for dimensions and mate-testing. When they start fabricating subsystems, they want to lift parts of the space-based system up to Armstrong Space Station on Midnight and Black Stallion, so they asked for things like dimensions of the cargo bay, systems, power, environmental, temperatures, vibration, et cetera. They’ve also asked to see computer code on the Skybolt aiming system — they want to use it to beam maser energy down to a rectenna on Earth, and their computer-team leader thinks he can improve the accuracy.”

“They have their act together, that’s for sure,” Boomer added.

“I will give the universities the good news,” Helen said. “That’s it. Anything for me?”

“Boomer had a great idea: meet with President Phoenix and whoever’s heading up this new space initiative, present them with some ideas, and find out what they’re interested in doing,” Jason said. “He also wants to form a team to start designing space stations, military and industrial. His proposal and budget are on my tablet.”

“Good ideas, Boomer,” Helen said. “Drop his proposal off to me in my office right after the meeting.”

“Will do,” Jason said.

“I also suggested you or Jason volunteer to head up the government space initiative if there’s no one named yet,” Boomer said.

“I have a job, thank you very much, and Jason is not going anywhere — I just got him here, after a lot of cajoling and harping,” Helen said, smiling. “But a trip to Washington for us sounds good.” She fielded a few more questions and comments, then departed. Jason continued to chair his meeting, going around the table getting reports from all of the operations branch directors, and it broke up about an hour later.

Jason walked up to Helen’s office a few minutes later and knocked on the doorframe of the open office door. “I have that report for you,” he said through the doorway, holding up his tablet computer.

“Come in, Jason,” Helen said, working on her laptop at her desk. “Close the door.” Jason did as she ordered, then walked over to her desk and initiated the file transfer from his tablet to her laptop.

“It’s kind of a long file,” he said. “You know Boomer — why say something in just two words when he can think of twenty?”

“That is fine,” she said. “What shall we do while we are waiting?”

“I’ve got a few ideas,” Jason said, smiling, and he leaned down and gave her a deep kiss, which she returned with equal enthusiasm. They kissed for several long, lingering moments. “I wish I could take your hair down right now,” he said in a deep, quiet voice. “I love watching your hair cascade down from being pinned up… especially if it comes down across my naked chest.” She responded by pulling him down and giving him another deep kiss. “Are you free tonight? I haven’t been with you in days.”

“Jason, we should not be doing this,” Helen whispered. “I am your boss, and I am over ten years older than you.”

“I don’t care how chronologically old you are,” Jason said. “You are the most exotic, most alluring woman I’ve ever been with. Sex radiates from you like a laser. And you may be older than me, but I can barely keep up with you in bed.”

“Stop it, you randy goat,” Helen said with a smile, but she gave him another deep, lingering kiss in gratitude. She grabbed his face and gave it a playful shake. “I have that speech for the Lander County Chamber of Commerce meeting tonight, remember, and the city manager, planning-commission chair, and police chief want to talk afterward. I think it is about extending utilities to build more subdivisions near the airport and revising the letter of agreement with airport security, the county, and company security. I want to make sure housing stays well outside the airport noise zone, and I do not want our security officers tied down by the sheriffs in federal and state security agreements. Charles Gordon from the governor’s office will be there too, and I want to talk with him about getting some seed money for an airport expansion.”

“Damn.”

“Why don’t you come with me? Everyone knows you as the guy who designed and built the Cybernetic Infantry Device that saved the city from Judah Andorsen and the Knights of the True Republic — I am sure they would like to meet you.”

“I’m not into politics,” Jason said. “I’m into you. I don’t think I could keep my hands off you.”

“Oh, I think you have more impulse control than that, Jason,” she said. “Besides, I am sure they would want to meet the future president and CEO of Sky Masters Aerospace.”

“We need to talk about that some more, Helen,” Jason said. He took a seat across from her. “I don’t think I’m CEO material. You had to persuade me to take over as chief of operations after Patrick McLanahan was killed—”

“And you are doing a great job,” Helen said. “Your team is the best in the business. You have only been in the position for a few months. It will become second nature before you know it. You need a little more business education, maybe an MBA to add to all the other degrees you have, but you are obviously a leader.”

“I feel more at home in a lab, not behind a desk.”

“Nobody says you have to stay behind a desk,” Helen said. “Leaders do their thing in all sorts of ways. You know how to assign, delegate, and organize — that leaves you the time and ability to spend more time with your engineers as well as do all the things that CEOs have to do.” She got up from her desk and stepped beside him, pressing her breasts against him as she knew he liked. “Come with me tonight. Afterward, if it’s not too late, I would love to have you over.”

“Thought you said we shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Oh, we should not,” Helen said with a smile. Jason stood up, and they shared another deep, passionate kiss. “I might lose my job if the board found out that I was sleeping with one of my vice presidents, even though I cofounded the company.” Another kiss. “You would definitely be fired, and you would probably be sued for your signing bonus.” Yet another kiss.

“Stop talking now, please, Miss President,” Jason said.

“Yes, Mr. Vice President,” Helen said, and they kissed again, and this kiss lasted far longer than the others.

It was well past sunset when Boomer left the Sky Masters Aerospace facility and headed home. The formerly sleepy, isolated little mining settlement of Battle Mountain in north-central Nevada had undergone an incredible transformation in just the three years since Sky Masters Aerospace Inc. had relocated there from Las Vegas: the population had more than tripled, construction projects of all kinds were everywhere, and the unincorporated settlement — it had retained its mining-camp and railroad-way-point identity since its inception in the 1840s, even though it was the seat of Lander County — finally became Nevada’s newest city and one of the fastest growing in the nation. Boomer rented a house in one of the newer subdivisions located between the airport and the new heart of the city, close enough to visit the new casinos and high-end restaurants when he wanted but convenient enough to commute to work, especially now that the morning commute on Interstate 80 to the airport seemed to be getting busier and busier by the day, thanks to the dozens of businesses that had sprung up in the area since Sky Masters Aerospace expanded its operations.

Boomer parked his Lincoln MKT in the garage, looking forward to a nice relaxing evening. He was a regular at several of the new casinos in town, and hadn’t had to pay for a meal or drinks in over a year — he was sure he had given the casinos plenty of money at the card tables to more than make up for the comps — but tonight was just going to be a down day. Maybe a little wine, maybe a movie, maybe—

“About time you got home,” a voice said from the kitchen. It was Sondra Eddington, wearing nothing but one of Boomer’s Sky Masters Aerospace Inc.’s T-shirts, her long blond hair draped just perfectly around her breasts as if she had arranged it that way — which, Boomer thought, she probably had. “I was about to start without you.”

“I didn’t know you’d be coming over,” Boomer said.

“I was a little amped after flying this morning,” Sondra said in a half-weary, half-teasing tone. “I tried a run and a hard workout at the gym, but I’m still a… little wired.” She went over and gave him a kiss on the lips. “So I decided to drop by and ask to see if you knew any ways I can burn off a little energy?”

Boomer tried, but he couldn’t help but let his eyes roam across her body, which made her smile. “Where’s your car?” he asked.

“I parked it at the convenience store down the block,” Sondra said. “I’ve seen too many people from Sky Masters in your neighborhood, and I didn’t want them to see my car parked in front of your place a lot.”

Sounds like a really good idea, Boomer thought. He held her at arm’s length and looked her directly in the eyes. “Or we can do the right thing, like we talked about, and not sleep with each other anymore.”

“Oh, I know we talked about that,” Sondra said with a little pout, putting her arms over his shoulders and her hands behind his neck, “but I can’t help myself. You are such a hot hard-body, and you have that roguish little grin and that give-a-shit attitude that just drives me nuts. Not to mention you’re a tiger in the sack.”

“Thank you,” Boomer said. “You’re pretty hot too.”

“Thank you.”

“But your boyfriend, Brad, is becoming a friend, and if he found out about us, it’d be hard to work with him in the near future. His Starfire project just got approved for funding.”

“Then I’ll break up with him.”

Boomer blinked in surprise. “Just like that?”

“When it’s time to break up with you, it’ll be just as quick,” Sondra said. “I like Brad, and he’s a hard-body too like you, but he’s way younger than me, and he’s away to college, and lately he’s been too busy to come visit me, and I’m lonely being away from home. Besides, I don’t like getting tied down. I want what I want, when I want it, and right now I want you.”

“And when Brad’s here, you’ll want him too?”

Sondra shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t think he’d take me back after the breakup — he’s a little immature about women and relationships, and I don’t think he could handle just being friends or casual sex partners.” She drew him closer. “How about it, stud? Fire up the engines and take me for a ride?”

Boomer smiled, but he shook his head. “I don’t think so, Sondra,” he said.

She took a step back and ran her hands down her blond hair, which was draped across her chest. “You don’t want me anymore? I said I’d break up with Brad.”

“We had sex once, and we talked about it afterward and both decided it wasn’t right,” Boomer said. “We’ll be training together for another twelve months. I’m your instructor. Sleeping together is not a good idea.”

“If you say so,” Sondra said in a soft voice. Then, slowly and seductively, she pulled off the T-shirt, revealing her breathtaking body, firm breasts, and flat tummy. She held the T-shirt out, being careful not to let it block Boomer’s view of her exquisite body. “Do you want your T-shirt back, Dr. Noble?”

Boomer reached out and took the T-shirt from her… then flipped it over his shoulder. “Shit, I’m going to hell anyway,” he said, and he took Sondra in his arms and kissed her deeply.

President Gennadiy Gryzlov’s primary official offices in the Kremlin government complex were in the Senate Building, also known as the First Building, but he much preferred the more isolated president’s reserve working office known as the Fourteenth Building. Recently he had completely renovated the building, making it a high-tech copy of his oil company’s offices in St. Petersburg, with several layers of security, sophisticated surveillance and countersurveillance systems, and ultrasecure communications, all of which rivaled and in many ways exceeded the best Russian technology; it also had an underground emergency escape railway that could whisk him to Chkalovsky Airport, eighteen miles northeast of Moscow, which was his cosmonaut training airfield serving Star City and now had a contingent of military transport planes that could get him safely away if necessary.

He was determined not to be trapped inside an underground command post during an air raid, the way his father had been: at the first warning of any danger, Gryzlov could be out of Fourteenth Building in less than a minute, out of the city in less than five, and stepping aboard a jet ready to take him anywhere in Europe in less than thirty.

Gryzlov rarely conducted meetings in Fourteenth Building, preferring that all official and high-level cabinet meetings be in his office in First Building, but he had summoned Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva to his office in Fourteenth Building early in the morning. She was escorted into the office by Chief of Staff Sergei Tarzarov, who then assumed his “out of sight, out of mind” position in the president’s office, but was dismissed with a glance from Gryzlov. “Privetstviye, Daria,” Gryzlov said from behind his immense desk. “Welcome. Tea? Coffee?”

“No, thank you, Mr. President,” Titeneva said. She took a moment to look around the office. Behind Gryzlov’s desk were picture windows with spectacular panoramic views of the Kremlin and Moscow, and on the walls before the desk were large-screen, high-definition monitors displaying a variety of information, from international news to feeds from government proceedings, to stock-market price and volume tickers from around the world. A conference table for twenty was to the president’s left, and a comfortable seating area for twelve, surrounding a coffee table, was on the right. “I have not seen your private office here since you finished remodeling it. Very businesslike. I like it, Mr. President.”

“I cannot get very much work done in the Senate Building with the staff running amok,” Gryzlov said. “I go to First Building to hear the hens cluck, then come back here and make decisions.”

“I hope I am not one of those hens you speak of, Mr. President,” Titeneva said.

“Of course not,” Gryzlov said, crossing around his desk, stepping up to Titeneva, and giving her a light kiss on the cheek, then receiving a polite one in return. “You are a trusted friend. You worked with my father for many years, ever since you served together in the air force.”

“Your father was a great man,” Titeneva said. “I was privileged to serve him.”

“He brought you along the whole way with him, did he not?” Gryzlov said. “You both rose through the ranks in the air force together, and then he led you through the ranks of government, yes?”

“Your father knew that it was important to have trusted individuals with him, both in and out of the military,” Titeneva said. “He was also careful to make sure I learned from the best experts in the Kremlin.”

“You were his chief of staff for a short while, before the traitor Nikolai Stepashin, if I recall correctly,” Gryzlov said. “I am curious: why did you leave him and join the Foreign Service? You could have been prime minister or even president by now.”

“We both thought that my talents could better be utilized in Washington and New York,” Titeneva said casually. “Back then, women did not take on most high-level positions in the Kremlin.”

“I see,” Gryzlov said. He turned directly to her. “So the rumors I have heard about a long-running sexual affair with my father are untrue?” Titeneva said nothing. Gryzlov stepped to her and kissed her lips. “My father was a lucky man. Maybe I can be as lucky.”

“I am almost old enough to be your mother, Mr. President,” she said, but Gryzlov leaned forward to kiss her again, and she did not back away. Gryzlov smiled at her, let his eyes roam up and down her body, then returned to his desk and took a cigar from a desk drawer. “You invited me to your private office to kiss me, Mr. President?”

“I cannot think of a better reason, Daria,” he said, after lighting his cigar and blowing a large cloud of fragrant smoke to the ceiling. “Why not come visit more often?”

“My husband, for one.”

“Your husband, Yuri, is a good man and an honored veteran, and I am sure what he does when you are away from Moscow is of no concern to you, as long as he does not jeopardize your position in the government,” Gryzlov said. Titeneva said nothing. Without turning to her, he motioned to a chair in front of his desk with his cigar, and she took it. “You are receiving the reports of the American spaceplane flights?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Titeneva said. “The flights to the military space station have increased in number slightly, from three a month to four.”

“That is a thirty percent increase, Miss Foreign Minister — I would say that is significant, not slight,” Gryzlov said. “Their cargo?”

“Intelligence reports suggest that some major improvements to the station, possibly to the laser-beam control and power-distribution systems,” Titeneva said. “Optical sensors can see very little change to the outside of the station.”

“You personally and officially inquire about the contents of those spaceplanes, yes?”

“Of course, Mr. President, as soon as I am notified that a launch is imminent,” Titeneva replied. “The Americans’ usual replies are ‘personnel,’ ‘supplies,’ and ‘classified.’ They never give any details.”

“And unofficially?”

“Security is still very tight, sir,” she said. “The spaceplane flights and most operations aboard Armstrong Space Station are done by civilian contractors, and their security is very sophisticated and multileveled. None of my contacts in Washington know much at all about the contractors, except as we have seen, many of them are ex-military officers and technicians. It is very difficult for me to get much information on the contractor-run space program, I’m afraid. Minister Kazyanov might have more information.”

“I see,” Gryzlov said. He fell silent for a few moments; then: “You have been granted permission to speak before the Security Council prior to the vote on our resolution about the American’s outrageous space initiative, correct?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Gryzlov blew a cloud of smoke into the air above his desk, then set the cigar in an ashtray and got out of his seat, and as protocol dictated, Titeneva immediately rose as well. “You left my father’s side, Daria, because you could not handle the level of responsibility and initiative that my father wanted to give you,” Gryzlov said, walking over to her and impaling the woman with an icy, direct stare. “You were not tough enough to be with him, even as his lover. You left Moscow for the high-society parties in New York and Washington rather than help him fight in the political ditches in the Kremlin.”

“Who told you these lies, Mr. President?” Titeneva asked, her eyes flaring in anger. “That old goat Tarzarov?”

In a blur of motion that Titeneva never saw coming, Gryzlov slapped her across the face with an open right hand. She reeled from the blow, shaking stars out of her head, but Gryzlov noticed that she did not retreat or cry out, and in moments had straightened her back and stood tall before him. Again, in a flash he was on her, his lips locked onto hers, pulling her head to him with his right hand while his left roamed her breasts. Then, after a long and rough kiss, he pushed her away from him. She rubbed her cheek, then her lips with the back of her hand, but again stood tall before him, refusing to back away.

“You are going to New York City and addressing the United Nations Security Council,” Gryzlov said, boring his eyes directly into hers, “but you are not going to be this mature, wise, respected, demure diplomat any longer, do you understand me? You are going to be the tigress my father wanted and trained but never had. I can see that tigress in your eyes, Daria, but you have been mired in a comfortable life in the Foreign Ministry with your war-hero husband, tolerating his little dalliances because you want to keep your cushy job. Well, no longer.

“You will go to the Security Council, and Russia will get all that I demand, or we will have nothing more to do with the United Nations,” Gryzlov said. “You will get that resolution passed, or you will blow that place up. You will show my displeasure and anger without any doubt in anyone’s minds, or do not bother returning from New York.”

“The United States will veto the resolution, Gennadiy,” Titeneva snapped. Gryzlov noticed the change in the tone of her voice and smiled — like a champion Thoroughbred racehorse, she was responding well to a little discipline, he thought. “You know that as well as I.”

“Then bring that place down,” Gryzlov said. “That chamber, and the entire fucking world, should understand clearly how angry I will be if that resolution does not pass.” He grasped the hair behind her neck, pulled her to him, and gave her another deep kiss, then pulled her away from him. “If you choose to be the bunny rabbit instead of the tigress, and you dare return to the Kremlin, then I will make sure you become someone’s little bunny. Maybe even mine. And I guarantee you will not enjoy it. Now get the hell out of here.”

Sergei Tarzarov entered the president’s office a few moments after Titeneva departed. “Not a typical staff meeting, I assume, sir?” he said, touching his own lips as a signal.

“Just a little motivational pep talk before her trip to New York City,” Gryzlov said gruffly, wiping lipstick off his mouth with the back of his hand. “Where is Ilianov?”

“On the secure phone from Washington, channel three,” Tarzarov said.

Gryzlov picked up the phone, stabbed at the channel selector, and impatiently waited for the decryption circuitry to make the connection. “Colonel?”

“Secure, sir,” Ilianov replied.

“What in hell happened out there?”

“It was completely unexpected, sir,” Ilianov said. “Apparently McLanahan does have a security detail, because they took down my team, took McLanahan, and closed the house down before sunrise.”

“Where is your team?”

“Unknown, sir,” Ilianov said. “They are not in local civilian law enforcement custody, that much I know.”

“Shit,” Gryzlov swore. “Either FBI or private security. They will be singing like birds in record time, especially if they are in the hands of civilian countersurveillance operatives. I told you, Colonel, do not assume anything. Where is McLanahan now?”

“He has just now surfaced, sir,” Ilianov said. “He has registered as a resident of one of the campus apartment complexes. He was injured during my team’s invasion, but appears to be all right now. We are studying his movements, the apartment complex’s security, and searching for the presence of his personal security forces. We will not be surprised again. So far, we have detected nothing. McLanahan appears to have resumed his routine movements since before the invasion. We can detect no security surrounding him.”

“Look harder, then, Colonel, damn you!” Gryzlov snapped. “I want him taken down. I do not care if you have to send in an entire platoon to get him — I want him destroyed. Get on it!”

“This illegal, dangerous, and provocative push for American domination of space must end immediately,” Russian foreign minister Daria Titeneva shouted. She was addressing a meeting of the United Nations Security Council in New York City, seated in the ambassador’s chair beside Russian UN ambassador Andrei Naryshkin. “Russia has recorded a thirty percent increase in the number of spaceplane and unmanned boosted flights to the American military space station since President Phoenix made his announcement concerning American control of space. Russia has evidence that the United States is reactivating its constellation of space-weapon satellites called Kingfishers, and will also reactivate the space-based free-electron laser called Skybolt with improved aiming systems and increased power, making it capable of destroying targets anywhere on Earth. All this appears to be nothing more than an election-year show of power, but President Phoenix is playing a very dangerous game, threatening the peace and stability of the entire world just to gain a few votes.

“The Russian government has drafted a resolution for the Security Council’s consideration that demands that the United States of America cancel plans to reactivate all its space weapons and that it destroy the ones already in Earth orbit, and orders President Kenneth Phoenix to reverse his stated position that any orbit occupied by an American spacecraft is sovereign American territory that can be defended with military force. Outer space is not, and should never be, dominated by any one nation or alliance. I ask for Council authorization for Russia’s resolution to be presented to the procedural committee and then to the Security Council for a vote, with immediate implementation thereafter — after an affirmative vote. Thank you, Mr. President.” There was a faint round of applause after Titeneva finished her address — not exactly a resounding sign of approval, but a rather ominous signal of difficulties for the Americans.

“Thank you, Miss Foreign Minister,” Sofyan Apriyanto of Indonesia, the rotating president of the United Nations Security Council, said. “The chair recognizes Ambassador Ells for ten minutes for rebuttal.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Paula Ells, U.S. ambassador to the United Nations, responded. “I shall not need ten minutes to refute the Russian foreign minister’s allegations. Her claims and accusations are completely baseless and her facts are inaccurate at best and outright lies at worst.”

“How dare you, Ambassador!” Titeneva shouted when she heard the translation. “How dare you call me a liar! The evidence is plain for the whole world to see! It is you and Phoenix’s entire administration who are the liars and instigators here!”

Ambassador Paula Ells blinked in surprise. She had met, and spent time with, the veteran Kremlin bureaucrat many times in her career and knew her as a calm, intelligent, completely professional person, but since she had arrived in New York, she was almost unrecognizable. She had given several interviews to the world press, slamming President Phoenix and his space initiative, using words that Ells had never heard her utter before. That attitude was continuing here, with even greater acidity. “The only facts that you stated that are true are the increases in spaceplane and unmanned rocket flights,” Ells said, “but as usual, you state only half-truths and formulate wild accusations that are not supported by the facts:

“Our spacecraft missions have increased, it’s true, but only because Russia has decreased the number of Soyuz and Progress missions to the International Space Station, for some unknown reason, and the United States decided to step up and increase our missions to fill the void,” Ells went on. “Our spaceplane and commercial missions are not just going to Armstrong Space Station, as the foreign minister claims, but to the International Space Station as well. If Russia thinks they can influence foreign affairs by postponing and canceling critical supply missions — missions that have already been bought and paid for, I should add — they are completely misguided.

“As to this draft resolution, Mr. President: the wording is so broad and vague that it could have been better written by a seventh grader,” Ells continued. Titeneva slapped her hand on her desk and said something to Naryshkin, angrily jabbing a finger first at Ells, then at him. “If this resolution were to be adopted, the United Nations could for all practical purposes shut down the American Global Positioning System, because it is an integral part of space-weapon systems, yet it makes no mention of the Russian GLONASS satellite navigation system, which has the same capability.

“In addition, the resolution seeks to ban any weapon system that has anything, however remote, to do with spacecraft traveling above the atmosphere, which means the United Nations could ground all American heavy airlifters because at one time they test-launched ballistic missiles from aircraft, or beach cargo ships because they once carried parts for space weapons,” Ells went on. “The resolution has nothing to do with peace and security and has everything to do with presenting a resolution to the Security Council that forces a veto from the United States, so that the Russian Federation can point to America with horror and tell the world that the United States is bent on dominating outer space. The United States hopes that the other members of the Council will see this tactic for exactly what it is: a cheap political ploy, using trumped-up evidence, distorted data, and fear-mongering. I urge the Council to reject introducing this resolution to committee and not give it any more consideration.”

Ells turned directly to Titeneva. “Miss Foreign Minister… Daria, let’s sit down with Secretary Morrison and work out a compromise,” she implored, raising her hands as if in surrender. “President Phoenix’s initiative is not a rearming of space. The United States stands ready to do whatever the international community wishes in order to verify our intentions and assets in space. We should—”

“Do not address me as if we are sisters, Ambassador Ells!” Titeneva snapped. “Show some respect. And it is far, far past the time for verification — the United States should have thought of that before Phoenix’s proclamation from the military space station! The United States has just one option for demonstrating its sincerity, openness, and genuine desire for peace: dismantle the entire space-weapon infrastructure immediately!”

Ells’s shoulders slumped as she perceived Titeneva’s rising anger. There was simply no talking to her. It was as if she had turned into some sort of snarling monster in a Daria Titeneva costume. Ells turned to the Security Council president and said, “I have nothing further to add, Mr. President. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Ambassador Ells,” President Sofyan Apriyanto said. “Are there any more comments on the motion to introduce the Russian resolution into committee?” There were a few more brief speeches, both in favor and against. “Thank you. If there are no more comments, I shall entertain a motion to send the resolution to committee.”

“So moved, Mr. President,” Russian ambassador Andrei Naryshkin said.

“Seconded,” said the ambassador from the People’s Republic of China immediately, obviously prearranged so that China would be on record as supporting the measure.

“The resolution has been moved and seconded,” Apriyanto said. “I offer one more opportunity for discussion with your governments or to offer any amendments.” There were no takers, and the secretary-general moved along quickly: “Very well. If there are no objections, I call for a vote. All in favor, please signify by raising your hand, and please keep your hand raised so an accurate count may be made.”

Every hand went up, including those of the representatives from Great Britain and France… except one, that of Ambassador Paula Ells from the United States. “All those opposed, please signify by raising your hands.” All hands went down except Paula Ells’s. “The chair recognizes a nay vote from the United States of America,” Apriyanto observed, “and as such, the resolution is not carried.”

“This is an outrage!” Russian foreign minister Titeneva shouted. “The Russian Federation protests this vote in the strongest terms! The resolution was voted in favor by all but one nation! All have voted in favor save one! This cannot stand!”

“Madame Foreign Minister, with all respect, you have not been recognized by the chair,” President Apriyanto said. “The Security Council granted you the privilege of addressing its members on this matter in place of your ambassador, but has not granted you the right to make any remarks regarding the outcome of any vote. As you well know, the United States of America, as well as the Russian Federation and the other permanent members of the Council, exercise their privilege of great power unanimity when they cast a nay vote. The Russian Federation, and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics before it, exercised the same privilege many times in the past. Thank you. May I call the Council’s attention to the next item on the—”

“Do not dismiss me like some child!” Titeneva shouted. “Mr. President, this will not stand! President Kenneth Phoenix is about to grab complete and unfettered control of space, and the Security Council will do nothing to stop him? This is madness!”

Apriyanto picked up a small gavel and tapped its handle lightly on its sounding block, attempting to calm the Russian foreign minister without gaveling her into silence… or worse. “Madame Foreign Minister, you are out of order. Please—”

“No, this Council is out of order! This entire body is out of order!” Titeneva shouted. “Russia will not stand for this!”

“Madame Foreign Minister, please—”

“Mr. President, President Phoenix’s declaration is clearly a violation of Chapter Seven of the United Nations Charter, which prohibits member nations from threatening the peace or conducting acts of aggression,” Titeneva said loudly. “Chapter Seven authorizes the Security Council to act to preserve the peace and stop aggression.”

“The United States is not threatening anyone, Madame Foreign Minister,” Ells said. “President Phoenix’s program is a technology laboratory to advance peaceful access to space. We are not activating any space weapons. We want—”

“You can say that all you want, Ells, but your words do not make it so,” Titeneva said. “Mr. President, the veto does not apply in this matter because the resolution directly involves the United States, and a permanent member nation of the Security Council cannot veto a resolution against itself. They must abstain, and therefore the resolution passes.”

“The Parliamentary Committee has already ruled that the resolution, although obviously aimed at the United States’ recently announced space program, applies to any spacefaring nation, and is therefore subject to veto,” Apriyanto said. “Madame Foreign Minister, you are out of order. You may file a protest with the secretary-general and appeal to the General Assembly, but the resolution did not carry and the matter is closed. You may continue to observe our proceedings, but—”

“I will not continue to sit and observe this farce,” Titeneva said, shooting to her feet and throwing the translation earpiece on the table before her. “Listen to me very carefully. If the Security Council will not act, Russia will. Russia will not cooperate with any nation that opposes our desire for security against the American military space program, and if Russia detects that the United States is militarizing any aspect of their space hardware, Russia will consider that an act of war and will respond accordingly.

“Russian president Gryzlov has authorized me to inform you that Russia will no longer support manned or unmanned supply missions to the International Space Station,” Titeneva thundered on. “Further, Russia demands that the modules on the International Space Station that belong to Russia must be disconnected and made ready to transport to their own orbits immediately. The Russian modules are hereby considered sovereign Russian territory and must be vacated and surrendered to Russian control.”

“Detach the Russian modules?” Paula Ells retorted. “It’s not a Lego toy up there, Daria. The modules were Russia’s contribution to an international partnership. That partnership pays for the modules’ upkeep, and the partnership pays Russia for use of the modules and for Soyuz support missions. You can’t just take your bat and ball and go home — we’re talking about twenty-ton modules traveling thousands of miles an hour orbiting hundreds of—”

“I do not want to listen to your tiresome American aphorisms, Ells,” Titeneva said, “and I told you never to call me by my first name in this or any other venue! Russia will not allow the so-called partnership to use modules built by Russians if the international community will not do something to assure Russia’s national security interests, and we certainly do not want any nation antagonistic to Russia to freely use our modules. You will vacate and surrender them to Russia immediately, or we will take action.” And at that, Titeneva turned and departed the chamber, followed closely by Naryshkin.

James Ratel entered the back room of his dojang south of the city of San Luis Obispo to find Brad McLanahan already doing push-ups on the linoleum. “Well well, five minutes early… much better,” Chief Ratel said. “And you came ready for a workout. Maybe you are trainable after all.”

“Yes, Chief,” Brad replied, hopping to his feet and standing nearly at attention at the edge of the blue mat.

“Are you warmed up?”

“Yes, Chief.”

“Good,” Ratel said. “So far we’ve been concentrating on strength training, and I’ve seen progress. From now on you will continue these exercises on your own, on your own time. You don’t need to go to a gym for a good workout. Push-ups, crunches, dips, and pull-ups, all to muscle failure, with no more than ninety seconds rest in between. Every week I’ll test you again, and every week I expect to see improvements.”

“Yes, Chief,” Brad responded.

“Today will be your first self-defense lesson,” Ratel went on. He handed Brad a package. “From now on, you will wear a beol, or training outfit, what is called a gi in Japanese. Once we start more practical training, we’ll do it in street clothes so you’ll learn the feel in a more realistic way, but for now you’ll wear this. You have thirty seconds to change.” It took Brad less than fifteen. Ratel showed him how to properly tie the white belt, and then they were ready.

“We’ll start with the most basic self-defense tool first.” Ratel picked up a simple wooden walking cane with a pointed crook and two grooved grips carved into the wood, one near the crook and another farther down the shaft. “Many years ago, after the First Korean War, a South Korean master taught a school of self-defense called ‘Joseon,’ in which he used canes and farm tools for self-defense. The style was taught because during the Japanese occupation of Korea during World War Two, and during the North Korean occupation, South Korean citizens were not allowed to carry knives or guns, but canes, walking sticks, and farm implements such as rakes, saws, and thrashers were very common. A U.S. Army serviceman noticed that the canes were used by the locals as very effective self-defense weapons, and he developed a method for training others on how to use a walking cane for self-defense. It became known as Cane-Ja, or cane-discipline. For the next several weeks you will walk with a cane and carry it with you at all times, even if you travel on an airplane or go into a school or courthouse. After you learn Cane-Ja, you will advance to other, more violent forms of self-defense, where the cane may not be necessary, or that can be used if you lose or break it.”

“A cane? You mean, like an old guy?” Brad protested. “I’m supposed to act like an old crippled guy and walk with a stupid cane, Chief?”

“You should not act like an old man,” Ratel said. “Never try to be something you’re not — most people can’t pull it off, most others can detect it, and you’ll call attention to yourself. Act normally. You don’t have to walk with a limp, put any weight on it, or even have the tip of the cane on the ground all the time, but you should carry it with you, have it at the ready, and never set it down. Loop it over your arm or belt, but never set it down because you’ll forget it. You can loop it through straps on your backpack as long as it’s easily within reach. And never refer to it as a weapon or as something that is necessary for self-defense. It is a walking stick — you will just happen to know how to use it as something else.”

“This is stupid, sir,” Brad said. “I’m supposed to carry around a stick with me? On the bicycle? In class?”

“Everywhere,” Ratel said. “Everyone around you must associate you with the cane and the cane with you. It must be your constant companion. People will see that bruise on your head and face, see the cane, and add one plus one, and that correlation will survive long after the injury is healed. Aggressors, on the other hand, will see the two and think you are weak and vulnerable, and that gives you an advantage.”

Ratel held up the cane. “Notice that the cane has a round crook that is pointed at the tip, and grips cut into the shaft at two places and a grip cut into the crook,” he said. “There is also a ridge along the back spine of the cane. We will adjust this cane for your height, but I estimated this one so it should fit well.” He gave it to Brad. “As with any cane, it should be long enough to provide support for your body if you lean on it, but not too short to diminish its striking power or have you assume a weak stance. Hold it alongside your body.” Brad did as he was told. “Good. Your arm is not quite straight. We want just a slight bend in your elbow. If you did lean on it, it should look natural, like you can really put a little weight on it.”

Ratel picked up his own cane, a well-worn version of Brad’s, for a demonstration. “You normally stand with one or two hands on top of the crook and form a triangle with your legs, like so,” he said, standing casually before Brad. “This is the ‘relax’ position. You’re not really relaxing, but the idea is to appear relaxed and casual yet let a potential attacker that you have identified by your observations or instincts see that you have a cane, which might either deter him or embolden him. Obviously, with the kind of attackers we’re preparing for, the sight of a cane is not going to deter them, but they might think you are weak. If you need your hands you can hook the cane on to your belt, but return to the ‘relax’ position when you can. This is the first warning position to an attacker, the green light.”

He slid his hand off the crook down the shaft to the uppermost set of grip ridges, with the open end of the crook facing downward. “Now your attacker is coming toward you, and you see him, so you take this position, which we call ‘regrip,’ the yellow light. The crook of the cane is in front of you, and you are holding the upper grip. The crook is facing downward. This is the second warning. To a casual observer or adversary this may not seem like a warning position.

“From here, there are a number of things you can do,” Ratel went on. “The easiest, of course, is to use the cane to keep someone away simply by poking at him.” He took a couple stabs at a mannequin that had been stationed nearby. “These, along with verbal warnings, are usually effective enough to deter an aggressive panhandler or young would-be robber. Obviously, with the adversaries we are preparing for, that would probably not be enough. I will teach you later on how to counter someone who grabs your cane.

“From the ‘regrip’ position, if you are attacked with fists or a knife, you swing the cane from the outside, striking your attacker’s arms between the wrist and elbow, as hard as you can. That twists his body away from you, and you have the advantage. You can strike with the crook on his knee, hip, or groin. Be warned, a blow to the head with the crook of the cane will probably kill or seriously wound. Killing in self-defense is permissible, but exactly what is ‘self-defense’ is debatable in a court of law. Defend yourself at all times, but always be aware that your actions have consequences.”

Ratel had Brad practice the moves against the mannequin, doing each move on Ratel’s orders, increasing speed as they went. Soon sweat was glistening on Brad’s forehead. After just a few seconds of practice, Brad’s arms were definitely getting weary. “Break,” Ratel said finally. “Once we build up those arms and shoulders, you should be able to both speed up and increase your hitting power.”

“But I won’t be hitting an opponent for a long time, will I, Chief?” Brad asked.

“Our objective is to build up muscle memory so your moves become second nature,” Ratel said. “It’ll take time and practice.” He motioned Brad away from the mannequin, then assumed the green-light position with both hands on top of the crook. He then assumed the yellow-light position, and then the red-light position with a loud “Stop!” command, the cane held out straight at the mannequin. The next instant the cane was nothing but a blur of motion as Ratel pummeled the mannequin from seemingly every possible angle, striking for an entire minute before assuming the three stances all the way to the relaxed green-light position.

“Holy crap,” Brad exclaimed. “Incredible!”

“There are more strikes and techniques we will learn,” Ratel said. “Until then, your primary assignment is to simply get accustomed to carrying the cane. That is the hardest task for new Cane-Ja students. You must learn the best place to keep it when it’s not in use, remember to retrieve it after you set it on a bus or car seat, and always keep it with you. I guarantee, you’ll lose your cane more than once. Try not to.”

“Yes, Chief,” Brad said. Ratel had Brad practice the swinging and striking moves on the mannequin until their session was up; then Brad changed back into his workout clothes, left the beol in a small storage box in the dojang, and headed back to Cal Poly.

Finals week was fast approaching, so after a quick shower and a change of clothes, Brad headed over to Kennedy Library to study. He found a desk, plugged his laptop in, and started going over lecture notes and PowerPoint slides provided to him by his professors. He had been at it for about an hour when Jodie Cavendish walked up to him. “Hello, mate,” she greeted him. “Well well, look at the conchy. Thought I’d find you here. Ready for a smoko?”

“I don’t know what you just called me,” Brad said, “but I’m hoping it’s something good.”

“Just that you’re a hardworking dude, and I think it’s time for a coffee break.”

“Then I’m in.” Brad locked his computer up in a small cabinet next to the desk and stood up to follow Jodie.

“Do you need to take that?” she asked, motioning back to the desk.

Brad turned and saw that he had left the cane at the desk. “Oh… yeah,” he said, and they headed to the stairs. “I knew I’d forget it.”

As they went downstairs, Jodie noticed that Brad really wasn’t using the cane to help him walk. “What’s the cane for, mate?” she asked. “You look like you’re moving fine to me.”

“I still get a tiny bit dizzy once in a while, so I thought I’d carry it,” Brad lied.

“But you’re still on the bike and jogging, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Brad said. “I don’t need it all the time. In fact, I mostly need it just standing still.”

“I hope nothing’s wrong with your noggin, mate,” Jodie said. “The bruise has gone away, finally, but maybe you’re still affected by the whack.”

“I’ve had an MRI done, and they found nothing,” Brad said. He tapped his head and added, “In fact, they literally found nothing.” Jodie laughed at the joke and changed the subject, and Brad was happy about that. Maybe it was time to ditch the cane, he thought. Chief Ratel said he was going to start unarmed martial-arts training soon, and when he got as good with that as he was getting with Cane-Ja, maybe the cane wouldn’t have to be with him all the time.

The coffee shop on the first floor was almost as crowded as it was in the daytime, and they had to take their coffee outdoors. Fortunately, the early-evening weather was ideal. “How’s the studying going?” Brad asked after they found a bench.

“It’s apples,” Jodie said. “I can’t believe I used to study for finals without a laptop computer and all my professors’ PowerPoint presentation slides — I actually relied on my own notes to pass finals back then! Insane!”

“Same with me,” Brad admitted. “I take lousy notes.” His cell phone beeped, indicating he had a message, and he looked at the number. “Someone in Administration, but I don’t recognize it. Wonder what’s going on?”

“Why are they calling so late?” Jodie wondered aloud. “Better return the call.”

Brad tapped the number on the smartphone and waited. “Hello, this is Brad McLanahan, returning a call from a few minutes ago. I just picked up the message… who? President Harris? You mean, the university president? Yes, of course I’ll hold for him.”

“What?” Jodie asked. “President Harris wants to talk to you?”

“Maybe this is what we’ve been waiting for, Jodie,” Brad said. “Yes… yes, this is he… yes, sir, in fact, I’m here with one of the team leaders… yes, sir, thank you.” He tapped the screen and put the call on speakerphone. “I’m here with Jodie Cavendish, sir.”

“Good evening to both of you,” university president Marcus Harris said. “I have good news. The news actually came in about a week ago, but we have just finalized the agreement and signed the papers. Your Starfire project was one of three projects selected for research and development funding by Sky Masters Aerospace. Congratulations.” Jodie and Brad jumped to their feet, Jodie let out a yelp of glee, and she and Brad hugged each other. Harris let them celebrate for a few moments, then said, “But that’s not all.”

The students sat down. “Sir?”

“I am also pleased to tell you that your project received half of the Sky Masters Aerospace grant money — twenty-five million dollars,” Harris went on. “That makes Starfire the highest-awarded undergraduate aerospace engineering research project in the history of Cal Poly.”

“Twenty-five million dollars?” Jodie exclaimed. “I don’t believe it!”

“Congratulations, you two,” Harris said. “Brad, find a time when your entire team can get together as soon as possible, call my office, and set up a time for a press conference. I know we’re coming up on finals, and I don’t want to take too much of your time, but we want to make a huge splash about this before everyone takes off for the summer.”

“Yes, sir!” Brad said. “I’ll contact everyone tonight. We usually have a team meeting every day at eleven A.M., so that might be the best time tomorrow.”

“Perfect,” Harris said, his voice sounding more and more excited by the second. “I’ll get your schedules and drop e-mails to your professors telling them you will be late for class, because I’m sure the presser and photo ops will take some time. We’re going to go international with this one, guys, and we’re looking to break more funding records with it. Wear something nice. Congratulations again. Oh, one more thing, as long as I have Miss Cavendish on the line.”

“Sir?”

“Miss Cavendish has been awarded a full scholarship to Cal Poly to finish her undergraduate degree, including tuition, books, fees, and housing,” Harris said. “We can’t have one of our best undergraduate students leave when she was so instrumental in getting such a large grant, now, can we? I hope you’ll accept, Miss Cavendish.”

“Of course I will, sir!” Jodie cried in stunned glee. “Of course I accept!”

“Excellent,” Harris said. “Congratulations to the entire Starfire team. Well done. Good night, Mustangs.” And the connection was broken.

“I don’t friggin’ believe this!” Brad exclaimed after he hung up. “Twenty-five million bucks just dropped in our lap!” He gave Jodie a big hug. “It’s unbelievable! And you got the scholarship you were looking for! Congratulations!”

“It’s all because of you, mate,” Jodie said. “You’re the jackaroo. You’re my jackaroo.” And Jodie put her hands on Brad’s face and gave him a big, deep kiss on the lips.

Brad savored every moment of that kiss, pulled back, then gave her one in return. When they parted after the kiss, Brad’s eyes were telling Jodie something, something powerful and incredibly personal, and her eyes were immediately saying yes. But to her dismay, she heard Brad say, “I’d better contact the others. Tomorrow will be a big day.”

“Yes,” Jodie said. She was content, at least for the moment, to put an arm around Brad and sip her coffee while he texted on his phone.

Brad contacted the entire team leadership by text messaging, then included the Cal Poly engineers, professors, and students who had helped with the project, then decided to include anyone who helped with the project who was within a couple hours’ driving distance of the university, as far away as Stanford and USC — he was determined to fill that press conference room with Starfire supporters. When he was done with that, he decided to text anyone who had supported the project, whether or not they could possibly make the press conference — everyone associated with the project should be aware of the presser and the impending worldwide publicity, he thought. Anyone associated with this project should not hear about the grant from anyone else but the team leader.

He read off all the text acknowledgents to Jodie, save one. It was the only Central Asia country code in all the messages he received, and it was from Kazakhstan, which had no Starfire contributors. The message read simply, Congratulations. D.

When Brad put the phone keypad letters against the numbers that appeared on the message screen, the sender’s name spelled Resurrection.

It was a few days later, and the weather, which had been outstanding during most of April, still couldn’t completely shrug off winter, so they had days of rather cold, damp mist and rain. For the past three days, Brad had taken the bus instead of riding his bicycle. It was an enjoyable and relaxing trek to the dojang south of the city: an easy jog from Poly Canyon to the Route 6B bus stop near the Kennedy Library; an easy seven-minute bus ride to the Downtown Transit Center; switch to the Route 3 bus line; a longer twenty-minute bus ride to Marigold Shopping Center; and then another easy run from there down Tank Farm Road to the dojang, which was just north of the airport. He had lots of time to do some reading or listen to audiobooks or lecture recordings on his tablet computer. Brad wished he could take the bus all the time — it was free for Cal Poly students — but he wanted the exercise, so he stuck with it whenever the weather was cooperative.

The week had started, along with the rain, with an introduction to Krav Maga. “Krav Maga was developed in Israel for the military,” James Ratel had begun last Monday afternoon. “It is not a discipline, like karate or judo; it is not a sport, and will never be in the Olympics or on television. Krav Maga has three basic objectives: neutralize the attack through the use of arm and hand locks and parries, being careful to protect yourself; go from defense to offense as quickly as possible; and quickly neutralize the attacker by manipulating joints and attacking vulnerable spots on the body, using any tools that might be handy. We are assuming you have broken or misplaced your cane, so now you are left with having to defend yourself without a weapon and probably against a very angry attacker.

“Some teachers will tell their students that the amount of force needed to neutralize an attacker should be proportional to the force of the attack, which means, for example, you would use less force on an attacker that uses his fist than on an attacker with a bat or knife,” Ratel went on. “I do not believe in that. Your objective is to put the attacker down so you can escape. In training, you will do three blows to demonstrate you can do them, but on the street you continue to attack until your attacker goes down. Forget all the Bruce Lee movies you’ve ever seen: it’s not one parry, one blow, and then let the guy get up to go after you again. Once you’ve blocked or locked up the attacker, you keep attacking his soft vulnerable spots and joints until he goes down, and then you run like hell and get away from the situation as quickly as possible. Understand?”

“Yes, Chief,” Brad said.

Ratel motioned to a folder that was lying on the counter outside. “That is some homework for you,” he said. “We will train to attack soft spots on the body using numbers, going from head to foot. Learn the spots and the numbers. You will also learn about all of the two hundred and thirty joints on the human body, and specifically which way they articulate so you can attack them. Be prepared to demonstrate those to me by next Wednesday.”

“Yes, Chief.”

“Very well. Kick off those shoes and socks, then on the mat.” Brad removed his sneakers and socks, bowed to the center of the blue mat, and stepped to the center, and Ratel followed. Brad was wearing his workout beol, now with a red and black belt, instead of the white, with first-level poom-rank markings on it, indicating that he had passed his first round of basic instruction.

“We start with the basics, and in Krav Maga that is parries,” Ratel began. “Notice I didn’t say ‘block.’ A block suggests that you might absorb some of the energy an attacker is using against you, like two football linemen smashing into one another. We use the term ‘parry’ instead, which means you divert most or all of the energy of an attack in a safe direction.”

“Just like the basic moves with the cane, sir?” Brad observed.

“Exactly,” Ratel said. “The key to the initial parry in Krav Maga is anticipation, and that means awareness of your surroundings. If a would-be attacker approaching you has his right hand in his pocket, the weapon is probably in his right hand, so your mental plan of action is to prepare to defend against a right-handed attacker.” Ratel picked up a rubber knife from a shelf behind him and tossed it to Brad. “Try it.”

Brad put his right hand with the knife behind him and approached Ratel, then swung his hand toward him. Ratel’s left hand snapped out, pushing the knife past his chest and half turning Brad’s body. “Foremost, the knife is not near your body, and if the attacker had another weapon in his left hand, he could not use it right now because I turned him away. Like the cane, you now see areas of the body that are exposed.” Ratel made punching motions at Brad’s torso and head. “Or, I can catch the right arm with my right arm and lock it, with the knife safely away from me, and with the arm in a lock, I control the attacker.” Ratel grabbed Brad’s right arm from underneath, put his hand on Brad’s tricep, and pushed. Even with a slight bit of pressure, it felt as if the arm were going to snap in two, and Brad could go nowhere but toward the ground.

That was the first day’s training, and after finishing the third, Brad was starting to wonder if he would ever be able to learn any of those Krav Maga techniques, let alone use them. But he reminded himself that he’d thought the same thing about Cane-Ja, and he figured he was getting pretty good at that. He exited the dojang, put up the hood of his green-and-gold Cal Poly Mustangs windbreaker, and started running east down Tank Farm Road toward Broad Street and the bus stop. Although not quite sunset, it was drizzly, cool, and getting dark quickly, and he wanted to be off this unlit road, on the main drag, and on the bus as soon as possible.

He was halfway to Broad Street, on the darkest part of the road, when a car approached, heading west. Brad left the pavement and stepped onto the uneven gravel “warning track” strip, but kept on running. The car shifted left a little bit and straddled the center line, and it looked as if it was going to pass by him with plenty of room to spare…

… when suddenly it swerved farther left, then began to skid to the right on the slick road, the car now perpendicular to the road, brakes and tires squealing — and heading right for Brad! He had almost no time to react to the sudden move. The car had slowed down quite a bit, but when it hit, it felt ten times worse than any blow he had ever received in high-school football.

“Oh, jeez, sorry about that, Mr. Bradley McLanahan,” a man said a few moments later through the haze in Brad’s consciousness. Brad was on his back on the side of the road, dazed and confused, his right hip and arm hurting like hell. Then, in Russian, the man said, “Izvinite. Excuse me. Wet road, I may have been going a little too fast, a coyote ran out in front of me, and I could hardly see you in the drizzle, blah, blah, blah. At least that is the story I will give the sheriff’s deputies, if they find me.”

“I… I think I’m all right,” Brad said, gasping for air.

“V samom dele? Really? Well, my friend, we can fix that.” And suddenly the man pulled a black plastic garden cleanup bag from a pocket, pressed it against Brad’s face, and pushed. Brad couldn’t breathe anyway with the wind knocked out of him, but panic rose up from his chest in terrifying waves. He tried to push the attacker away, but he couldn’t make any part of his body work properly.

“Prosto rasslab’tes’. Just relax, my young friend,” the man said, mixing English and Russian as if he were an expatriate or foreign cousin from the old country telling a bedtime story. “It will be over before you know it.”

Brad had no power at all to move the plastic away from his face, and he was considering surrendering to the roaring in his ears and the fiery pain in his chest… but somehow he remembered what he needed to do, and instead of fighting the hands holding the plastic on his face or trying to find his cane, he reached down and pressed the button on the device around his neck.

The attacker saw what he did, and for a moment he released the pressure on Brad’s face, found the device, snapped it off Brad’s neck, and threw it away. Brad gasped in a lungful of air. “Nice try, mudak,” the attacker said. He pressed the plastic over Brad’s face before Brad could take three deep breaths. “You’ll be dead long before your medic-alert nurses arrive.”

Brad couldn’t see it, but moments later a set of headlights approached. “Derzhite ikh podal’she,” the man said over his shoulder in Russian to a second assailant, whom Brad had never seen. “Keep them away. Have them call 911 or something, but keep them away. Tell them I am doing CPR.”

“Ya budu derzhat’ ikh podal’she, tovarisch,” the assistant acknowledged. “I will keep them away, sir.”

The first assailant had to stop pressing the plastic bag over Brad’s mouth and nose until the newcomers left, but he bent over Brad as if he were doing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but covering his mouth so Brad couldn’t cry out. A few moments later he heard, “Eto vo vsem. It is all over.”

“Takoy zhe. Same here,” the first assailant said… and then his vision exploded in a sea of stars and blackness as the crook of the cane crashed against his left temple, rendering him instantly unconscious.

“Jesus, Dexter, you’re as blue as a fucking Smurf,” James Ratel said, shining a small flashlight at Brad’s face. He pulled Brad to his feet and put him in the front seat of his Ford pickup truck. He then loaded the two Russian hit men into the cargo bed of the pickup and drove back down Tank Farm Road to the dojang. He put plastic handcuffs on the wrists, ankles, and mouths of the two Russians, and sent a text message on his phone. By then, Brad was starting to come around in the passenger seat of the pickup. “Dexter!” Ratel shouted. “Are you okay?”

“Wh-what…?” Brad murmured.

“McLanahan… Brad, Brad McLanahan, answer me,” Ratel shouted. “Wake up. Are you all right?”

“I… what… what the hell happened…?”

“I need you to wake the hell up, McLanahan, right now,” Ratel shouted. “We could be under attack at any moment, and I can’t defend you if you’re not awake and able to defend yourself. Wake the fuck up, right now. Acknowledge my order, airman, immediately.”

It took a few long moments, but finally Brad shook his head clear and was able to say, “Chief? Y-yes, I’m awake… I’m… I’m good, Chief. Wh-what should I do? What’s happening?”

“Listen to me,” Ratel said. “We don’t have a lot of time. I anticipate that we will be attacked by the backup strike team any second. We are completely alone and in extreme danger. I need you alert and responsive. Are you hearing what I’m saying, McLanahan?”

“Y-yes, Chief,” Brad heard himself say. He still wasn’t sure where he was or what was going on, but at least he was able to respond to Chief Ratel. “Tell me what to do.”

“Go inside and grab some mats and weights to cover these guys up,” Ratel said. They both went inside. Brad found workout mats and barbell weights. Ratel unlocked an ordinary-looking trophy display case in the front of the dojang; a hidden drawer underneath the case concealed a number of handguns, shotguns, and knives.

“I covered them up, Chief,” Brad said.

Ratel racked a shell into a shotgun’s chamber and handed it to Brad, then did the same with two pistols. “Stick the pistols in your waistband.” He armed himself with two pistols, an AR-15 rifle, and several ammunition magazines. “We’re going to try to make it to the hangar in Paso Robles — it’s easier to defend.”

“Shouldn’t we call the police?”

“I’d like to avoid doing that, but we might not have any choice,” Ratel said. “Let’s go.”

They drove onto Highway 101 northbound. Darkness had fallen, and the rain continued to fall, greatly reducing visibility. They were on the highway for less than five minutes when Ratel said, “We’re being tailed. One car, staying with us about a hundred yards back.”

“What do we do?”

Ratel said nothing. At the Santa Margarita exit a few miles later, he left the freeway, and at the end of the off-ramp they armed themselves and waited. No car exited behind them. “Maybe they weren’t tailing us,” Brad said.

“More likely they have a GPS tracking device somewhere on my pickup so they don’t have to follow very closely — there was no time for me to check,” Ratel said. “They probably have more than one pursuit team. The first team will drive on, then pull off somewhere, and the second pursuit team takes over. We’ll go the back way to the airport.”

They stayed on county roads for another hour until they finally reached Paso Robles Airport. Once inside the security gate, they drove toward the team’s hangar, but stopped about a quarter mile away. “There’s still too much activity at the airport to drag those guys inside,” Ratel said, laying the AR-15 rifle across his lap. “We’ll wait until it gets quieter.” They waited, on hair-trigger alert for anyone approaching them. About an hour later a small twin-engine airplane taxied close by, and the pilot parked a few hangars away. It took the pilot almost an hour to get his own car out of the hangar, park the plane inside, then gather his belongings and drive away, and the airport was quiet once again.

Thirty minutes later, after no more signs of activity, finally Ratel could wait no longer. He drove to the hangar, and he and Brad dragged the assailants inside. Ratel then drove the pickup about a quarter mile away and parked it, then jogged back to the hangar.

“Made it,” Ratel said, wiping rain off his head and his AR-15. “The backup teams will track down the pickup, and then track us to here. Then they’ll probably wait a few hours before they attack.”

“How will they track us down to here?”

“I can think of a dozen ways,” Ratel said. “If they’re any good, they’ll be here. I just hope help arrives before that.”

Less than an hour later, amid the steady rain and an occasional gust of wind, they heard the sound of metal scraping on metal outside the main entrance door. “Follow me,” Ratel whispered, and he and Brad retreated to the hangar. There was a small business jet inside, its black paint job signifying it belonged to Kevin Martindale’s Scion Aviation International outfit. Ratel found a large cabinet-sized toolbox on wheels alongside a hangar wall, pushed it away from the wall, and they both got behind it. “Okay, your job is to watch that walk-through door over there,” Ratel said, pointing to the large aircraft hangar door. “I’ll be watching the door to the front office. Single shots only. Make them count.”

A few minutes later they heard another sound of forced metal, and a few minutes after that they heard more sounds of metal on metal coming from the walk-through hangar door, a signal that the door was being jimmied open. A moment later the door opened and Brad could see a man wearing night-vision goggles, crouching low, come through the opening, carrying a submachine gun. The bizjet was now concealing him. A second attacker stepped through the door, closed it, and stayed there to cover it. At the same time Ratel could see two more attackers come through the office door, also wearing night-vision goggles and carrying submachine guns.

“Crap,” he whispered. “Four guys. We’ve run out of time.” He pulled out his cell phone, dialed 911, left it on, turned the volume all the way down, and slipped it under the toolbox. “Use the pistol. Get the guy by the door. The other guy will probably hide behind the jet’s right wheel.” Brad peeked out from behind the toolbox and aimed at the guy by the walk-through door, which was partially illuminated by a lighted emergency exit sign. Ratel took a deep breath, then whispered, “Now.”

Brad and Ratel fired nearly simultaneously. Ratel’s shot found its mark, and one attacker went down. Brad had no idea where his shot went, but he knew he didn’t hit one thing except maybe a hangar wall. The guy by the door dashed along the hangar wall toward the conference room, crouching low. As Ratel had predicted, the other guy took cover behind the jet’s wheel… and then the hangar erupted with automatic-weapon fire, seemingly coming from all directions at once. Ratel and Brad ducked behind the toolbox.

“Open fire when the shooting stops!” Ratel shouted. The toolbox was being raked with bullets, but it looked like the tools inside were absorbing the bullets. A moment later there was a momentary lull in the shooting, and Brad peeked over the toolbox, saw movement by the jet’s tire, and fired. The round hit the tire, which instantly exploded, sending a concussion shock wave into the attacker’s face. He screamed, clutching his face in agony. The bizjet looked like it was going to crash to the right, but the wheel hub barely kept it from completely tipping over.

Now the gunfire was shifting directions — more bullets were hitting the side of the toolbox instead of the front. “Watch your sides!” Ratel shouted. “They’ll try to… ahhh! Shit!” Brad looked to see Ratel clutching his right hand, which looked as if it had been split wide open by a bullet. Blood spurted everywhere. “Take the rifle and hold them off!” Ratel shouted, clutching his injured hand, trying to stem the bleeding.

Brad tried to peek around the toolbox, but the moment he moved, the bullets began to fly, and now he could feel them getting closer and closer, like a swarm of bats buzzing past his head. He tried pointing the rifle around the toolbox and firing, but the rifle’s muzzle was jumping around uncontrollably. Ratel had wrapped a rag around his right hand and was firing a pistol with his left, but the muzzle wasn’t steady at all and he looked as if he was going to go unconscious at any moment. Brad heard boot steps and voices in Russian getting closer. This is it, he thought. The next shot he’d hear would be the last one ever, he was certain of it…