Starfire

SIX

Suddenly there was a tremendous explosion at the back of the hangar. The air was instantly filled with dust and debris. Voices were shouting in Russian… and soon the shouting was replaced by screaming, and a moment later the screams fell silent as well.

“All clear, Brad,” came an electronically synthesized voice. Brad looked up, and there behind the bizjet was a Cybernetic Infantry Device.

“Dad?” he asked.

“Are you all right?” Patrick McLanahan asked.

“Chief Ratel,” Brad said, shouting over the ringing in his ears from all the gunfire in the enclosed hangar. “He’s hurt.” A moment later two men hurried over and carried Ratel out. Brad ran over to the robot. He saw where his father had burst through the doorway, taking out most of the wall around the door between the hangar and the front office. All six attackers, the four who had attacked the hangar and the two who attacked Brad on Tank Farm Road, had already been taken away.

“Are you all right, Brad?” Patrick asked.

“Yes. I can’t hear very well from all the gunfire, but otherwise I’m okay.”

“Good. Let’s get out of here. The Highway Patrol and sheriffs are about five minutes out.” Patrick picked up his son and carried him across a large open field to a parking spot near the south end of the runway, where the black Sherpa cargo plane was waiting, its turboprop propellers turning at idle speed. Patrick put Brad down, crawled inside through the cargo ramp in the back, and sat down on the cargo deck, and Brad climbed aboard right after him. A crewmember steered Brad onto a cargo net seat, helped him buckle in, and gave him a headset. Within moments they were airborne.

“What about Chief Ratel?” Brad asked, assuming that his father could hear him through the intercom.

“He’ll be evacuated and treated,” Patrick replied.

“What will the cops do when they see that hangar? It looks like a war zone. It was a war zone.”

“President Martindale will handle that,” Patrick replied.

“How did you get here so fast, Dad?”

“I was in St. George when your alarm went off back in San Luis Obispo,” Patrick said. “It’s less than two hours away in the Sherpa. Thank God Chief Ratel got to you in time and got you out of town.”

“St. George? Is that where we’re headed now?”

“Yes, Brad,” Patrick said. The CID turned to Brad and raised an armored hand, anticipating Brad’s protests. “I know you want to go back to Cal Poly, Brad,” Patrick said, “and now that you’ve received that grant from Sky Masters, your work is even more important. I want to see you continue your training too. So I’m going to assign Sergeant Major Wohl’s team to detect and capture any more attack squads that come after you. They’ll set up closer to campus so you won’t have to travel all the way to the south side of the city for training. They’ll take over your training until Chief Ratel is well enough to do so.”

“You mean, they’ll be my bodyguards or something?”

“Although I’m sure they can handle them, Wohl’s teams aren’t made for personal security jobs,” Patrick said. “They train for countersurveillance and direct-action missions. But we’ve encountered four two-man teams of Russian hit men now. I’m not going to allow any hit squads to roam around the United States at will, especially ones that target my son. So we need to set up a plan of action. We’ll interrogate the new guys, do some investigating, and figure out a plan.”

“So I’ll be like a decoy, sucking in the bad guys so the sergeant major can take them out?” Brad remarked. He nodded and smiled. “That’s cool, as long as I can go back to Cal Poly. I can go back to Cal Poly, right, Dad?”

“Against my better judgment, yes,” Patrick said. “But not tonight. Let the sergeant major and his teams interrogate the new prisoners, gather some information, and sweep the campus and the city. It’ll only be a day or two. I know you do most of your studying for finals online, and your classes are basically over, so you’ll be able to work at our headquarters. Before finals week comes around, you should be able to go back to campus.”

“I’ll just have to figure out an excuse to tell the Starfire team,” Brad said. “The project is exploding, Dad. The university is getting money and support from all over the world.”

“I know, son,” Patrick said. “To the university’s credit, they are keeping Starfire strictly a Cal Poly undergraduate project — other universities, companies, and even governments have offered to take over. Looks like you’ll stay the head honcho for now. Just realize that the pressure to turn the project over to someone else as a for-profit operation will certainly build — most likely Sky Masters Aerospace, I’d wager, now that they’ve invested so much in it — and the university might be induced by the big bucks to let some company take it over. Just don’t be offended if that happens. Universities run on money.”

“I won’t be offended.”

“Good.” The CID turned its massive armored head toward Brad. “I’m proud of you, son,” Patrick said. “I’ve seen it in hundreds of e-mails from all over the world: people are impressed with your leadership in driving this project forward, building a first-class team, and gathering technical support. No one can believe you’re a first-year undergrad.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Brad said. “I hope I can achieve even a little bit of the success you’ve had in the Air Force.”

“I think your path will be totally different than mine,” Patrick said. He turned back, facing the rear of the aircraft. “I always wished I had leadership skills like yours. My life might have been so much different if I had your skills and learned how to use them. You obviously learned them from someone other than your dad, or maybe from Civil Air Patrol.”

“But you were… I mean, are a three-star general, Dad.”

“Yes, but my promotions came about because of the things I did, not because of my leadership skills,” Patrick said, the pensiveness in his voice still obvious despite the CID’s electronic voice synthesis. “I had a couple command positions over the years, but I never actually acted as a real commander — I acted like I always did: an operator, an aviator, a crewdog, not a leader. I saw a job that needed to get done, and I went out and did it. As a field-grade or general officer, I was supposed to build a team that would do the job, not go off and do it myself. I never really understood what it meant to lead.”

“I think getting the job done is the most important thing too, Dad,” Brad said. “I’m an aerospace engineering student, but I can barely make sense of most of the science I’m expected to learn. I muddle my way through it by finding someone to explain it to me. But all I really want to do is fly. I know I have to get the degree so I can attend test-pilot school and fly the hot jets, but I don’t care about the degree. I just want to fly.”

“Well, it’s working for you, son,” Patrick said. “Keep fixated on the goal. You’ll make it.”

The Sherpa landed about two hours later at General Dick Stout Field, fourteen miles northeast of the city of St. George in southern Utah. The airport had been greatly expanded over the past few years as the population of St. George grew, and although Stout Field was still a nontowered airport, the west side of it had blossomed as an industrial and commercial air hub. The black Sherpa taxied to a very large hangar on the south side of the industrial side of the airport, and was towed inside the hangar before anyone was allowed to disembark. The massive hangar contained a Challenger-5 business jet, a Reaper unmanned aerial vehicle with weapons pylons under the wings, and a smaller version of the V-22 Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft, all painted black, of course.

Patrick led his son to an adjacent building. Brad immediately noticed that the ceiling was higher and all of the doors and corridors were wider and taller than normal, all obviously constructed to accommodate the Cybernetic Infantry Device that was walking through them. Brad heard a lock automatically click open as they approached a door, and they entered a room in the center of the building. “This is home,” Patrick said. It was nothing more than a bare windowless room, with just a table with some of the nutrient canisters sitting on it, a spot where Patrick plugged himself in for recharging…

… and, in the far corner, another new-model Cybernetic Infantry Device robot. “I see I’m getting a replacement,” Patrick said woodenly. “It usually takes another day or so for us to run a full set of diagnostics on the new CID before they do the transfer.”

“Then I’ll be able to see you, Dad.”

“Son, if you’re sure that’s what you want to do, then I’ll allow it,” Patrick said. “But it’s not pretty.”

Brad looked around the room. “Sheesh, they don’t even let you have pictures on the walls?”

“I can get all the pictures I want, anytime I want, played right inside my consciousness,” Patrick said. “I don’t need them on the wall.” He replaced the nutrient canisters in his chassis with the new ones on the table, then stood in a specified spot in the center of the room, and power, data, hygienic, nutrient, and diagnostic cables automatically descended from the ceiling and plugged themselves into the proper places on the CID. Patrick froze in place, standing straight up, looking very much like the unmanned robot in the corner. “The sergeant major will be by in a few hours to get briefed and talk to you about what happened, and then he’ll take you to a hotel,” he said. “He’ll bring you back in the morning, and we’ll set you up so you can do some studying.”

Brad thought about what he was going to say for a moment in silence; then: “Dad, you told me that you’re still you inside that robot.”

“Yes.”

“Well, the ‘you’ I remember had awards, plaques, and pictures on the walls,” Brad said. “Even in the little double-wide trailer back in Battle Mountain, you had your old flight helmets, display cases with memorabilia, airplane models, and random bits of stuff that I never even knew what they were, but they obviously meant a great deal to you. Why don’t you have any of that here?”

The robot remained motionless and silent for several long moments; then: “I guess I never really thought about it, Brad,” Patrick said finally. “At first I thought it was because I didn’t want anyone to know it was me inside here, but now all of the people with whom I interact in this building know that it’s me, so that really doesn’t apply anymore.”

“Well, the robot wouldn’t have stuff on the walls,” Brad said, “but my dad would.” Patrick said nothing. “Maybe when everything calms down and gets back to normal — or the closest it will ever come to normal — I can fly out here and set up some stuff. Make it more like your room, rather than a storeroom.”

“I’d like that, son,” Patrick said. “I’d like that.”

“Definitely signs of increased activity on the American military space station,” Minister of State Security Viktor Kazyanov said over the video teleconference link from his intelligence center to the president’s office. He was showing before-and-after photographs of Armstrong Space Station. “There has been one heavy-lift rocket launch that delivered these long structures, along with many smaller pressurized and unpressurized containers. We do not know for certain yet what is in the pressurized containers, but these other unpressurized items resemble the batteries already mounted on the truss, so we assume they too are batteries.”

“I want no more assumptions from you, Kazyanov,” Russian president Gennadiy Gryzlov said, stabbing at the image of Kazyanov on a computer monitor with his cigar. “Find me the information. Do your damned job.”

“Yes, sir,” Kazyanov said. He cleared his throat, then went on: “There has been a great increase in spaceplane flights as well, sometimes three to four per month, sir.” He changed slides. “The newest model of their single-stage-to-orbit spaceplane, the S-29 Shadow, has now completed operational tests and has made one flight to the station. It is similar in size and cargo capacity to our Elektron spaceplane, but of course does not need a rocket to be boosted into space.”

“Of course not,” President Gennadiy Gryzlov said acidly. “So. They have one Shadow spaceplane now that is similar in size to our Elektron. How many Elektrons do we have, Sokolov?”

“We have reactivated seven Elektron spaceplanes,” Minister of Defense Gregor Sokolov replied. “One is standing by ready for launch in Plesetsk, and another spaceplane-rocket pair has arrived there and can be mated and placed into launch position within a week. We have—”

“A week?” Gryzlov thundered. “Minister, I told you, I want to fill Earth orbit with Russian spaceplanes and weapons. I want to be able to launch two spaceplanes simultaneously.”

“Sir, only one launch pad at Plesetsk was stressed for the Angara-5 booster,” Sokolov said. “Funds meant to build another pad there were diverted to the Vostochny Cosmodrome construction and to the extension of the Baikonur lease. We should—”

“Minister Sokolov, I am sensing a pattern here: I issue orders, and you give me excuses instead of results,” Gryzlov said. “Does Vostochny have a launch pad suited for the Angara-5 booster, or not?”

“Vostochny Cosmodrome will not be completed for another two years, sir,” Sokolov said. Gryzlov rolled his eyes in exasperation for the umpteenth time during the teleconference. “Baikonur is the only other launch facility available to accommodate the Angara-5 at this time.”

“So why is there not an Elektron spaceplane at Baikonur, Sokolov?”

“Sir, it was my understanding that you did not wish to have any more military launches from Baikonur, only commercial launches,” Sokolov said.

Gryzlov was struggling to contain his anger. “What I said I wanted, Sokolov, is to get as many spaceplanes on launch pads as quickly as possible so we can at least have a chance of challenging the Americans,” he said. “We pay good money to use that facility — we will start using it. What else?”

“Sir, we are pressing ahead with upgrades and improvements at Plesetsk, Vostochny, and Znamensk spaceports,” Sokolov went on, “but work is slowing down because of the cold weather, and must cease altogether in about a month or else the quality of the concrete castings will degrade.”

“So we have just two launch pads available for our spaceplanes, and one is not even in our own country?” Gryzlov said disgustedly. “Perfect.”

“There is another avenue we can take, Mr. President: launch Elektron spaceplanes from China,” Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva interjected. “Thanks to American actions against both our countries, our relations with China have never been better. I have explored this possibility with the Chinese foreign minister, and I spoke with his military adviser, who suggested a base in China’s far west: Xichang. With the opening of the new Wenchang spaceport on Hainan Island, all heavy launch operations have moved there from Xichang, leaving the base open and available, and their facilities are state of the art. They have two launch pads stressed for our Angara-5 rockets and our Proton series as well. There is great concern that a launch failure could bring debris down on nearby cities and factories downrange, but I think a little extra consideration to local and provincial politicians can alleviate their concerns.”

“Well done, Daria,” Gryzlov said, smiling for the first time in the meeting. “See, Sokolov? That is how it is done. Thinking outside the box.”

“You object to launches from Baikonur but are considering sending our rockets and spaceplanes to China, sir?” Sokolov retorted. “I am sure the Chinese military would love to get an up-close look at Elektron and Angara-5.”

“I ordered Russian spaceplanes on launch pads, Sokolov!” Gryzlov snarled, jabbing his cigar at the image of the defense minister on his monitor. “If I cannot launch them from Russian facilities, I will do it from somewhere else.” He turned back to Titeneva. “Proceed with making the arrangements, Daria,” he said. “What else did the Chinese talk about?”

“They talked of a trade for the use of Xichang, sir, along with cash, of course,” Titeneva said. “They mentioned several things, a few political items such as support for their claims on the Senkaku Islands and in the South China Sea, and perhaps reopening talks about oil and natural-gas pipelines into China from Siberia, but they are most interested in S-500S mobile surface-to-air missiles, the newest model, capable of attacking satellites.”

“Indeed?” Gryzlov said, nodding enthusiastically. “Trade launch facilities for S-500 missiles, which I would like to place at all Russian spaceports and military installations worldwide anyway. Excellent idea. I approve.”

“Sir, the S-500 is the most advanced air defense weapon in the world,” Sokolov said, his face a stunned mask, telling all that he couldn’t believe what the president had just said. “It is at least a generation ahead of anything the Chinese or even the Americans have. The electronic, sensor, and propulsion technology used in the S-500 is the best in Russia… no, the best in the world! We will be giving them what they have been trying to steal from us for decades!”

“Sokolov, I want Elektrons and Burans on launch pads,” Gryzlov snapped. “If the Chinese can do it, and they want S-500s, they will get S-500s.” He scowled at Sokolov’s shocked expression. “How are our other rearming programs proceeding? The Duma has increased our defense appropriation by thirty percent — that should translate into hundreds of S-500s, MiG-31D antisatellite systems, and a lot more than just five spaceplanes.”

“It takes time to restart weapons programs that were canceled years ago, sir,” Sokolov said. “The S-500 was already in production, so we can expect one to two systems per month for the next—”

“No, Sokolov!” Gryzlov interrupted. “That is unacceptable! I want at least ten per month!”

“Ten?” Sokolov retorted. “Sir, we can eventually reach a goal of ten per month, but it takes time to accelerate production to that rate. Just having the money is not enough — we need trained workers, assembly-line space, a steady and reliable parts stream, testing facilities—”

“If the S-500 was already in production, why is all that not already in place?” Gryzlov thundered. “Were you only planning on building one to two per month? The most advanced air defense system in the world, or so you say, but we are not building more of them?”

“Sir, defense spending was shifted to other priorities, such as antiship missiles, aircraft carriers, and fighters,” Sokolov said. “The S-500 is primarily an air defense weapon intended for use against cruise missiles and stealth aircraft, and later adapted as an antisatellite and antiballistic-missile weapon with the ‘S’ model. After our bomber and cruise-missile attacks on the United States that virtually eliminated their bombers and intercontinental ballistic missiles, air defense was not given a very high priority because the threat was all but gone. Now that space is a higher priority and the S-500S has proven successful, we can start to build more, but as I said, sir, that pivot takes time to—”

“More excuses!” Gryzlov shouted into the video teleconference microphone. “All I want to hear from you, Sokolov, is ‘yes, sir,’ and all I want to see are results, or I will get someone else to carry out my orders. Now get to it!” And he hit the button that terminated the connection with his defense minister.

At that moment Tarzarov sent the president a private text message, which scrolled across the bottom of the video teleconference screen: it read, Praise in public, criticize in private. Gryzlov was going to reply “Fuck you,” but decided against it. “Daria, good work,” he said over the teleconference network. “Let me know what you need me to do to assist.”

“Yes, sir,” Titeneva replied with a confident smile, and signed off. Gryzlov grinned. Daria Titeneva had definitely become a changed woman over the past several weeks: aggressive, creative, demanding, even vulgar at times… in and out of bed. Gryzlov continued the video teleconference with his other cabinet ministers for a few more minutes, then signed off.

“Your anger and temper will get the best of you eventually, Gennadiy,” Tarzarov said once all the connections to the president’s ministers were securely terminated. “Constantly warning you of it does not seem to help.”

“It has been over ten years since the destruction of the American bomber and intercontinental-ballistic-missile fleet, Sergei,” Gryzlov complained, ignoring Tarzarov’s advice once again. “The Americans reactivated their military space station and made the switch to space-based weapons instead of rebuilding their bomber and missile weapons, and they made no secret of it. What in hell were Zevitin and Truznyev doing all those years — playing with themselves?”

“The former presidents had institutional, political, and budget problems during most of that time, Gennadiy,” Tarzarov said, “as well as having to rebuild the weapons destroyed by the Americans in the counterattacks. It does no good to point fingers at past presidents. Very few heads of state, including you, are completely in control of their country’s fate.” He checked his smartphone, then shook his head in exasperation. “Ilianov and Korchkov are waiting outside. Are you not done with this project, sir? Ilianov is nothing but a thug in an air-force uniform, and Korchkov is a mindless automaton who kills because she enjoys it.”

“I will be done with those two when their task is complete,” Gryzlov said. “But for now, they are the right persons for this job. Get them in here.” Tarzarov escorted the Russian officer and his assistant into the president’s office, then took his “invisible spot” in the office and effectively blended in with the furniture. Ilianov and Korchkov were in military dress, Ilianov in his air-force uniform and Korchkov in a plain black tunic and trousers, with no decorations or medals, just insignia of rank on the epaulets, a characteristic of the elite Spetsgruppa Vympel commandos. She also wore a knife in a black sheath on her belt, Gryzlov noticed. “I expected to hear from you days ago, Colonel,” he said. “I also have not heard anything in the news about the death of McLanahan’s son, so I assume your squad failed.”

“Yes, sir,” Ilianov said. “Team One reported to Alpha, the command team, that they had McLanahan, and then Alpha lost contact with them. Teams Two and Three picked up McLanahan and an individual that McLanahan had been doing self-defense and conditioning training with driving out of the city.”

“Who is this individual?” Gryzlov asked.

“A retired noncommissioned officer named Ratel, now a self-defense and firearms instructor,” Ilianov said. “He makes occasional contact with several individuals that also look ex-military — we are in the process of identifying them now. One man looks as if he was burned by chemicals or radiation. He appears to be the one in charge of the ex-military men.”

“This gets more interesting,” Gryzlov said. “McLanahan’s bodyguards? Some sort of private paramilitary group? McLanahan the elder reportedly belonged to such groups, both in and out of the military.”

“Our thoughts exactly, sir,” Ilianov said. “Team Two had to break off his tail because he thought that he had been detected, but the teams were using an electronic tracker on Ratel’s vehicle, so they were ordered to break off the tail and wait for the tracker to stop. It stopped at a small central California airport. The teams found the vehicle abandoned, but they were able to find which building at the airport Ratel and McLanahan were hiding in, a large aircraft hangar. The command team ordered Teams Two and Three to wait for activity at the airport to cease and then attack from different sides, which they did.”

“And failed, obviously,” Gryzlov said. “Let me guess the rest: the members of all three teams are missing, are not in police custody, and McLanahan is nowhere to be found. Whom did the hangar belong to, Colonel?” He held up a hand. “Wait, let me guess again: some ordinary-sounding aviation company with unremarkable officers and few employees that had not been in the area for too long.” Ilianov’s expression told the president that he had guessed correctly. “Perhaps the hangar is this group’s headquarters, or was. They will surely scatter to the four winds. Was your command team able to search the hangar?”

“The command team could not get inside because of the police and then because of a heavily armed private security guard,” Ilianov said. “But the team leader did observe many men and women taking files and equipment out in trucks, and a business jet that had been inside the hangar during the operation taxied away and flew off the night after the operation. The business jet was painted completely black.”

“I thought it is illegal in most countries to paint an aircraft all black — unless it is a government or military aircraft,” Gryzlov said. “Again, very interesting. You may have stumbled onto some kind of mysterious paramilitary organization, Colonel. What else?”

“The command-team leader was able to observe that the front entrance to the aircraft hangar had been blown inward, possibly by a vehicle that had driven right through the front office and crashed all the way into the hangar itself,” Ilianov said. “There was no sign of a damaged vehicle anywhere outside the hangar, however.”

Gryzlov thought for a moment, nodding, then smiled. “So McLanahan’s paramilitary friends effect a rescue by crashing a vehicle through the front door? That does not sound too professional. But they got the job done.” He rose from his desk. “Colonel, ten of the men you sent in have been either killed or captured, supposedly by this countersurveillance or counterintelligence outfit around McLanahan. Whoever you are recruiting inside the United States are all but useless. You will stand down, and we will wait to allow conditions there to go back to routine. Obviously McLanahan has no intention of leaving that school, so it will be easy to pick him up again.”

Gryzlov looked Korchkov’s body up and down. “And when the moment comes, I think it is time to send in Captain Korchkov — alone,” he added. “Your two-man teams are imbeciles or incompetent or both, and now this paramilitary team has been alerted. I am sure the captain can get the job done. She may have to eliminate a few of these ex-military men first before she gets McLanahan.” Korchkov said nothing, but she wore a hint of a smile, as if already relishing the prospect of fresh kills. “But not right away. Let McLanahan and his bodyguards think we have given up the hunt. Spend some time putting the captain in the perfect cover, close to McLanahan and close enough to get a good look at this paramilitary team. Do not use her diplomatic credentials — I am sure all embassy and consulate staff members are going to be under intense scrutiny for a while.”

“Yes, sir,” Ilianov said.

Gryzlov stepped closer to Korchkov and stared into her unblinking eyes. She stared straight back at him with that tiny smile. “They let you in here wearing a knife, Korchkov?”

“Oni ne smeli vzyat’ yego ot menya, ser,” Korchkov said, the first words Gryzlov remembered ever hearing the beauty utter. “They dared not take it away from me. Sir.”

“I see,” Gryzlov said. He looked her body up and down once more, then said, “It would not bother me one bit, Captain, if you chose to torture McLanahan for a while before you executed him. Then you could come back to me and describe it all in great detail.”

“S udovol’stviyem, ser,” Korchkov said, “With pleasure, sir.”

“Wow, look at all the new bling,” Sondra Eddington said. She and Boomer Noble were aboard an S-19 Midnight spaceplane, making their approach to the docking bay on Armstrong Space Station, which was about a mile away. This was her fourth flight in a spaceplane, her second in the S-19 spaceplane — the others having been in the smaller S-9 Black Stallion — but her first time in orbit and her first docking with Armstrong Space Station. Both she and Boomer were wearing skintight Electronic Elastomeric Activity Suits and helmets for prebreathing oxygen, just in case of an uncontrolled depressurization.

“Part of that Starfire solar-power-plant project,” Boomer said. He could see Sondra shake her head slightly when he said the word Starfire. They were referring to two extra sets of solar collectors mounted on towers between the “top” modules on station, pointing at the sun. “Hard to believe, but those new photovoltaic collectors generate more electricity than all of station’s silicon solar cells put together, even though they’re less than a quarter of the size.”

“Oh, I believe it,” Sondra said. “I can almost explain to you how they’re built and draw you the molecular structure of the nanotubes.”

“Brad talked about them more than once to you, I suppose.”

“Until it’s coming out my ears,” Sondra said wearily.

This part of Sondra’s training to fly the spaceplanes was fully computer controlled, so both crewmembers sat back and watched the computers do their thing. Boomer asked questions about possible malfunctions and her actions, pointed out certain indications, and talked about what to expect. Soon they could only see one station module, and before long all they could see was the docking bull’s-eye, and minutes later the Midnight spaceplane was stopped. “Latches secure, docking successful,” Boomer reported. “Kinda boring when the computer does it.”

Sondra finished monitoring the computer as it completed the postdocking checklist. “Postdock checklist complete,” she said when the computer had finished all the steps. “There’s nothing I like better than a boring flight — that means everything went well and everything worked. Good enough for me.”

“I like to dock it by hand,” Boomer said. “If we have extra fuel on Armstrong or on Midnight, I will. Otherwise the computer is much more fuel-efficient, I hate to admit.”

“You’re just a show-off,” Sondra said. “Cocksure as ever.”

“That’s me.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “How did the ascent feel? I sense you’re still having a little difficulty with the positive Gs.”

“I can stay ahead of them just fine, Boomer,” Sondra said.

“It just looked like you were concentrating really hard on staying on top of them.”

“Whatever gets the job done, right?”

“I’m a little worried about the descent,” Boomer said. “The G-forces are heavier and longer. You only get about two or three Gs in the ascent, but four or five during the descent.”

“I know, Boomer,” Sondra said. “I’ll be fine. I passed all the MiG-25 flights, and I did okay on the S-9 and other S-19 flights.”

“Those were all suborbital — we can avoid the Gs easier because we don’t have to decelerate as much,” Boomer said. “But now we’ll be slowing down from Mach twenty-five. To reduce the Gs I can shallow out the deorbit angle a bit, but then you’ll have to go against the Gs for a longer period of time.”

“I’ve heard the lecture before, Boomer,” Sondra said a bit testily. “I’ll be fine no matter what descent angle you pick. I’ve been practicing my M-maneuvers.” M-maneuvers were the method for tightening the stomach muscles, inflating the lungs, and then grunting against the pressure in the chest to force blood to stay in the chest and brain. “Besides, the EEAS helps a lot.”

“All right,” Boomer said. “Is that like practicing your Kegel exercises?”

“Something you’d like to feel personally?”

Boomer ignored the intimate comment and pointed to the displays on the instrument panel. “This shows that the computer is ready to begin the ‘Before Transfer Tunnel Mating’ checklist,” he said. “I’ll go ahead and initiate it. Since the transfer tunnel will be mated by machine — that’s why we wear space suits — in case the tunnel isn’t secure when we want to exit, we can safely do a spacewalk to reattach it or reach station.”

“Why don’t we just do a spacewalk to get to the station, like President Phoenix did last spring?” Sondra asked. “That sounded like fun.”

“We will do that in a later evolution,” Boomer said. “Your job in this evolution is to learn how to monitor the ship and the station from the cockpit, be able to recognize anomalies, and take action.”

“How long does the cargo transfer take?”

“Depends. There aren’t that many cargo modules on this trip. Probably not long.”

As the transfer tunnel was being mounted into place atop the transfer chamber between the cockpit and cargo bay, Boomer watched mechanical arms from Armstrong Space Station removing pressurized modules from the open cargo bay and carrying them to their proper destinations. The smaller modules were personal items for the crewmembers — water, food, spare parts, and other essential items — but the largest module was last. This was one of the last components of Project Starfire to come up to Armstrong Space Station: the microwave generator, which was to be fitted inside the free-electron laser already on the station to produce maser energy from collected solar-produced electrical energy.

A tone sounded in the astronauts’ helmets, and Boomer touched a microphone button. “Battle Mountain, this is Stallion Three, go ahead,” he said.

“Sondra, Boomer, this is Brad!” Brad McLanahan said excitedly. “My team members and I would like to say congratulations for bringing up the last major Starfire component.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Boomer said. “Pass along our congratulations to your team. Everyone on Armstrong and at Sky Masters is excited to be installing the last part of this project and preparing for a test-firing very soon.”

“Same, Brad,” Sondra said simply.

“How are you, Sondra? How was your first trip into orbit?”

“I’m more like a babysitter up here: everything is so automated that I don’t do anything but watch the computers do all the work.”

“Well, the takeoff was incredible, we watched your ascent from mission control, and the rendezvous was picture-perfect,” Brad said. “We can see them loading the microwave cavity into the Skybolt module right freakin’ now. And you just made your first trip into orbit. Awesome! Congratulations!”

“You sound like a little kid, Brad,” Boomer said.

“The team and I couldn’t be more excited, Boomer,” Brad said. “I couldn’t sleep at all last night — heck, not for the past week!”

“So when do we fire this bad boy up, Brad?” Boomer asked.

“It’s coming together real well, Boomer, maybe in a week or so,” Brad replied. “Construction of the first rectenna is complete, and it’s being tested and readied for the test firing at the White Sands Missile Test Range as we speak. The computer chips and new software for the aiming controls are all online and tested. We’ve run into a couple glitches with the lithium-ion capacitors fully discharging into the Skybolt laser, but we have an army of guys working on them, and we recruit more experts and technicians for the project every day. I’m still trying to talk Dr. Kaddiri and Dr. Richter into letting me fly up to the station. Put in a good word for me, okay?”

“Sure, Brad,” Boomer said.

“Sondra, when do you come back?” Brad asked.

“I can’t tell you that, Brad, not on an unsecure transmission,” Sondra replied testily. “I know I have some classes and exercises up here on station, and I don’t think we’re returning directly to Battle Mountain.”

“I have to go back to Cal Poly tomorrow morning,” Brad said, the dejection apparent in his voice. “I’ve missed enough classes already.”

“Next time, Brad,” Sondra said.

“Well, I’ll let you guys get back to work,” Brad said. “We’re going to talk with the techs on Armstrong about beginning integration of the microwave cavity into Skybolt, and then the team is going to the city to celebrate the completion of Starfire. Wish you guys were with us. Thanks again for a thrilling and successful flight.”

“You got it, buddy,” Boomer said. “And I will talk to the brass about getting you up and other members of your team on a spaceplane flight to Armstrong. You should be up here when you make your first shot.”

“Awesome, Boomer,” Brad said. “Thank you again. Talk to you soon.”

“Midnight clear.” Boomer closed the connection. “Man, it’s good to hear a guy so damned excited about something,” he said on intercom. “And I like hearing ‘the team this’ and ‘the team that.’ He’s the head of a project that has almost a hundred members and a budget of over two hundred million dollars at last count, but it’s still about the team. Very cool.” Sondra said nothing. Boomer looked over to her but couldn’t read much in her face through the oxygen helmet. “Am I right?” he asked.

“Of course.”

Boomer let the silence linger for a few long moments; then: “You still haven’t broken up with him, have you?”

“I don’t need to,” Sondra said peevishly. “I’ve seen the guy just three weekends in six months, and when we do see each other, all he talks about is Starfire this or Cal Poly that, and all he does is schoolwork and Starfire stuff, and then he rides his bike or does hundreds of push-ups and sit-ups to work out. He did that every day I was visiting.”

“He works out every day?”

“At least ninety minutes a day, not including the time on the bike riding to classes or the gym,” Sondra said. “He’s really changed, and it’s a little creepy. He sleeps only four or five hours a night, he’s on the phone or computer — or both at the same time — constantly, and he eats like a friggin’ bird. I get home after visiting him and I feel like ordering a whole large cheese and pepperoni pizza just for myself.”

“I have to admit, he looked really good when I saw him before takeoff today, a lot better than the last time I saw him when his dad was around,” Boomer said. “He’s lost a bunch of weight and looks like he’s got some guns on him now.”

“Not that I ever got to shoot any of them,” Sondra said moodily.

Boomer didn’t ask her to elaborate.

“The last piece of Starfire is in orbit!” Brad shouted to the team members assembled around him. “Excelsior!” All the team members echoed their newfound motto, which was Latin for “ever higher.”

“I made reservations for us at Harrah’s Battle Mountain steak house,” Casey Huggins said, signing off on her smartphone. “They’ll be expecting us at six.”

“Thanks, Casey,” Brad said. “I’m going for a little run. I’ll see you guys at the casino concierge desk.”

“You’re leaving to go running?” Lane Eagan asked. “Now? Casey and Jerry’s microwave cavity was just delivered to a space station and will be installed in a couple days, and then Starfire will be ready to go. You should be having fun, Brad. Starfire is almost ready to test-fire! You deserve it.”

“I will be having fun, guys, believe me,” Brad said. “But if I don’t get a run in, I get cranky. I’ll see you in an hour at the concierge desk at Harrah’s.” He trotted off before anyone else could object.

Brad ran back to his room, changed into workout clothes, did two hundred crunches and push-ups, then picked up his cane and went downstairs and outdoors. Early October in north-central Nevada was almost ideal weather, not quite as warm and with a little taste of winter in the air, and Brad found the conditions perfect. In thirty minutes he had run almost four miles around the hotel’s RV park, which was a lot less congested than the parking lot, then headed back to his room to shower and change.

He had just started to undress when he heard a noise on the other side of the door. He picked up his cane, looked through the peephole in the door, then opened it. He found Jodie outside, tapping a note on her smartphone. “Oh! You’re back,” she said, surprised. Brad stepped aside, and she came inside. “I was just going to leave you a message to meet us at the Silver Miner’s Club instead — they have a pretty good jazz band playing now.” Her eyes roamed across his chest and shoulders and opened wide in surprise. “Crikey, mate, what in bloody hell have you been doing to yourself?”

“What?”

“These, mate,” Jodie said, and ran her fingers across his biceps and deltoids. “Are you on steroids or something?”

“Heck no. I’d never do drugs.”

“Then where did these spankin’ flexors come from, Brad?” Jodie asked, her fingers running across the top of his chest. “I know you’ve been working out, but holy dooley! You’ve got some spiffy gams there too.” She ran a hand across his abdomen. “And is that a six-pack I see, mate?”

“My trainers are pretty intense guys,” Brad said. “We do weights three times a week, in between cardio. They throw in speed bag and even some gymnastics, just to mix things up.” He still hadn’t told her about the cane, Krav Maga, and pistol training, but he knew he should do so soon. They weren’t officially a couple and hadn’t actually been dating, just seeing a little more of each other outside of school. They’d taken a couple trips in the turbine P210 airplane, but they were all quick one-day trips to see a baseball game in San Francisco or do some seafood shopping in Monterey.

“Well, it’s working for you, big boy,” Jodie said with a smile. She traced her fingernail down the front of his chest, but when he didn’t respond the way she hoped, she pulled back. “But I don’t understand why you need that cane. You said you thought you needed it every now and then after that attack last spring just to help steady yourself. Are you still wobbly? You run and bike all the time.”

“Yeah, every now and then I’ll get a little vertigo,” Brad lied. “Not enough to stop me from running or biking. I’m just used to having it with me, I guess.”

“Well, it makes you look very dapper,” Jodie said. “And I’ll wager that folks let you ahead of them in line at the super too.”

“I don’t let it go that far, unless I’m really in a hurry,” Brad said.

She went over and picked up his cane, tapping the crook against her hand. “Looks as mean as cat’s piss, mate,” she said, running a finger down the pointed tip of the crook and across the carved grips along the shaft. This one was a bit more ornate than the ones she had first seen him with; it had more ridges across it, and three channels that ran the entire length. “It’s not my granddaddy’s cane, that’s for sure.”

“I got it from Chief Ratel when he noticed me having a little dizzy spell,” Brad lied again, using the excuses and stories he’d made up and rehearsed over the past several months. “I just never got around to getting another one, like the ones that stand up by themselves, and he never asked for it back.”

By looking at her expression, Brad couldn’t tell if Jodie was believing any of it or not, but she leaned the cane against the bed, gave another long glance at his body, and smiled. “See you downstairs at the club, spunky,” she said, and departed.

The team members had an extraordinary dinner celebration. Afterward, Lane Eagan’s parents took him to the airport to catch a flight back to California, so Brad, Jodie, Casey, and a few other team members decided to check out a new casino across Highway 50 that had a good comedy club. It was dark and starting to grow cooler, but it was still comfortable enough for a stroll. The regular crosswalk was blocked by sidewalk construction, so they were forced to go east about a half a block to the casino parking lot’s secondary entrance, which was not quite as well-lit as the main entrance.

Just as they began to head back toward the casino, two men appeared out of nowhere from the darkness and blocked their path. “Gimme five bucks,” one of the men said.

“Sorry,” Brad said. “Can’t help you.”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” the man said. “Now it’ll cost you ten.”

“Get lost, creep,” Casey said.

The second man lashed out, kicking Casey’s wheelchair so she was spun around sideways. “Shaddup, gimp,” he said. Brad, who had been helping push Casey when she needed him to, reached out to grab the wheelchair. The second man thought he was going after him, so he flicked open a knife and swung, slashing open Brad’s shirt on his right upper arm and drawing blood.

“Brad!” Jodie shouted. “Somebody, help us!”

“Shut up, bitch,” the man with the knife growled. “Now drop your purses and wallets on the ground right fucking now before I—”

The motion was nothing more than a blur. Brad grasped the crook of his cane with his left hand and spun it, cracking it down on the attacker’s knuckles with the sound of splintering wood, causing him to drop the knife with a howl of pain. Brad immediately caught the end of the cane with his right hand and swung, hitting the first man on the side of his head. The mugger went down, but Brad’s cane snapped in two.

“You motherfucker!” the second attacker shouted. He had retrieved his knife and had it in his left hand this time. “I’m gonna gut you like a fucking pig!”

Brad raised his hands, palms out. “No, no, no, no, please don’t hurt me again,” he said, but the tone of his voice sounded like anything but surrender — it was as if he was playacting in front of this attacker, teasing him with a mocking tone, as if he was actually urging the guy with the knife to attack! “Please, asshole,” Brad said, “don’t kill me.” And then, to everyone’s surprise, he wiggled his fingers at the attacker, as if making fun of him, then said, “Come and get me, big man. Try to take me.”

“Die, asshole!” The attacker took two steps forward and the knife shot out toward Brad’s stomach…

… but in another blur of motion Brad blocked the attacker’s arm with his own right arm, reached under the attacker’s arm and locked it straight, kneed the attacker in the stomach several times — no one watching this fight could count how many times he did it — until the attacker dropped the knife and was nearly bent over double. Then he twisted the attacker’s left arm upward until they heard several loud POPs as shoulder tendons and ligaments separated. The attacker collapsed on the sidewalk, screaming insanely, his left arm bent back at a very unnatural angle.

At that moment two armed casino security guards rushed down the sidewalk, each grabbing one of Brad’s arms. Brad offered no resistance. “Hey!” Casey yelled. “He didn’t do anything! Those guys tried to mug us!” But Brad was wrestled to the pavement, flipped over, and handcuffed.

“Crikey, coppers, can’t you see he’s been cut?” Jodie cried after the guards got off Brad. She applied direct pressure to the wound. “Get some first aid out here, now!” One of the security guards pulled out his radio, calling for the police and a paramedic unit.

“Looks like this guy’s arm was almost twisted right off,” the second security guard said after the paramedics arrived, examining the screaming man on the sidewalk. He checked the first mugger. “This guy’s out cold. I’ve seen this guy around before panhandling, but he’s never mugged anybody.” He shined his flashlight at the pieces of the broken cane, then looked over at Brad. “What were you doing, kid — rolling drunks and panhandlers to impress your girlfriends?”

“They tried to mug us!” Jodie, Casey, and the others shouted, almost in unison.

It took more than an hour, during which time Brad was sitting with his hands cuffed behind his back to the door of a police cruiser after the gash on his right arm was bandaged, but finally surveillance video from two different casinos and a parking-garage camera showed what had happened, and he was released. They all gave statements for the police reports, and the group returned to their hotel.

While the others went to their rooms, Brad, Jodie, and Casey found a quiet bar in the casino and bought drinks. “Are you sure you’re all right, Brad?” Casey asked. “That bastard got you pretty good.”

“I’m fine,” Brad replied, touching the bandages. “It wasn’t a very deep cut. The paramedics said I probably won’t need stitches.”

“So how did you learn all that stuff with the cane, Brad?” Casey asked. “Is that the self-defense stuff you’ve been working on since that home invasion attack back in April?”

“Yes,” Brad said. “Chief Ratel and his other instructors teach Korean self-defense and Cane-Ja, self-defense with a cane, as well as physical fitness. It came in handy.”

“I’ll say,” Casey said. “It was still a fun night. I’m going to hit some slot machines, maybe see if that guy I met at the club is still around, and call it a night. See you guys in the morning.” She finished her glass of wine and rolled away.

Brad took a sip of his Scotch, then turned to Jodie. “You’ve been real quiet since the altercation, Jodie,” he said. “You okay?”

Jodie’s face was a mix of confusion, concern, fear… and, Brad soon realized, disbelief. “Altercation?” she said finally after a long, rather painful moment. “You call that an ‘altercation’?”

“Jodie…?”

“My God, Brad, you nearly killed one guy and almost snapped off the other guy’s arm!” Jodie exclaimed in a low voice. “You broke your cane over a guy’s skull!”

“Damn right I did!” Brad shot back. “That guy slashed my arm! What was I supposed to do?”

“First of all, mate, the guy that slashed you was not the guy that you conked over the head,” Jodie said. “All he did was ask for money. If you’d given him what he asked for, none of that would’ve happened.”

“We got mugged, Jodie,” Brad said. “That guy pulled out a knife and slashed me. He could’ve done that to you or Casey, or worse. What was I supposed to do?”

“What do you mean, what were you supposed to do?” Jodie asked incredulously. “You Yanks are all alike. Someone confronts you on the street and you think you have to leap into action like Batman and kick someone’s arse. Are you drongo? That’s not the way it works, Brad. Someone gets the drop on you like that, you give them what they want, they go away, and everybody’s safe. We should have dropped our purses and wallets, backed away, and called the cops. We were the stupid ones for going off into the dark areas instead of sticking to the lighted and protected areas. If they tried to get me into a car with them, I’d fight with everything I have, but five or ten or a million lousy bucks is not worth anyone’s life. It’s not even worth a gash on your arm. And then after you broke your cane on the first guy’s head, you took on a guy with a knife, and you were unarmed. Are you daft? You even sounded as if you were teasing the guy to attack you! What is with that shit?”

Wow, Brad thought, she’s really upset about this — it was a reaction he completely didn’t expect. Arguing with her wasn’t going to help one bit. “I… I guess I just didn’t think,” he said. “I just reacted.”

“And it looked like you were trying to kill both guys!” Jodie thundered on, her voice rising enough to get the attention of others nearby. “You were pummeling that second guy so bad I thought he was going to puke up his guts, and then you nearly twisted his arm off! What in bloody hell was that?”

“The self-defense classes I’m taking…”

“Oh, so that’s it, eh?” Jodie said. “Your new buddy Chief Ratel is teaching you how to kill people? I think the farther you get away from that guy, the better. He’s brainwashing you into thinking you’re invincible, that you can take on a guy with a knife and stove a guy’s head in with a cane.” Her eyes widened in realization. “So that’s why you carry that scary-looking cane? Chief Ratel taught you how to attack people with it?”

“I didn’t attack anyone!” Brad protested. “I was—”

“You cracked open that poor guy’s head with that cane,” Jodie said. “He didn’t do anything to you. The other guy had a knife, so it was self-defense—”

“Thank you!”

“—but it looked like you were trying to kill the bloke!” Jodie went on. “Why did you keep on beating him like that, and why twist his arm so far back?”

“Jodie, the guy had a knife,” Brad said, almost pleading for her to understand. “An attacker with a knife is one of the most dangerous situations you can get into, especially at night and against a guy who knows how to use it. You saw how he came after us with his left hand after I knocked the knife out of his right — he obviously knew how to fight with a knife, and I had to take him out. I—”

“Take him out?” Folks at nearby tables were starting to notice the rising tone in Jodie’s voice. “So you were trying to kill him?”

“Krav Maga teaches countermove, control, and counterattack, all in—”

“I’ve heard of Krav Maga,” Jodie said. “So you’re training to be an Israeli killer commando now?”

“Krav Maga is a form of self-defense,” Brad said in a softer tone, hoping Jodie would follow suit. “It’s meant to disable attackers, without weapons. It’s meant to be quick and violent so the defender doesn’t—”

“I don’t know you anymore, Brad,” Jodie said, rising to her feet. “That attack in your house in San Luis Obispo must’ve screwed you up a little, I think — or did you lie to me and the others about that?”

“No!”

“Ever since then you’ve become this compulsive type A, whirling-dervish kind of guy, exactly the opposite of the guy I met at the beginning of the school year. You don’t eat, you don’t sleep, and you don’t hang out with your friends or network around campus anymore. You’ve turned into this… this machine, working out and learning Israeli commando beat-down tactics and carrying a cane so you can crack some skulls. You lied to me about the cane. What else have you lied to me about?”

“Nothing,” Brad said immediately — probably too immediately, because he saw Jodie’s eyes flare again, then narrow suspiciously. “Jodie, I’m not a machine.” I know one, Brad thought, but I’m not one. “I’m the same guy. Maybe that home invasion did freak me out a little. But I’m—”

“Listen, Brad, I’ve got some thinking to do about us,” Jodie said. “I really thought we could be more than friends, but that was with the Brad I met long ago. This new one is scary. It seems like you’re scarfing up everything this Chief Ratel is feeding you, and you’ve turned into a monster.”

“A monster! I’m not—”

“I suggest for your own sake that you tell this Chief Ratel guy to piss off and maybe get some counseling, before you go completely off the deep end and start roaming the streets in a mask and cape looking for blokes to beat up,” Jodie said, jabbing a finger at Brad. “In the meantime, I think it’s best for me to keep my distance from you until I feel safe again.” And she stormed away.

A woman with long dark hair wearing a leather jacket, dark slacks, and rose-tinted sunglasses was fueling her rental car at a deserted-looking gasoline station when a new-looking windowless van pulled into a dark parking spot beside the station’s office. A tall, good-looking man in jeans and an untucked flannel shirt got out of the van, took a long admiring look at the woman at the pump, and went inside to make a purchase. When he came out a few minutes later, he walked up to the woman and smiled. “Evening, pretty lady,” he said.

“Evening,” the woman said.

“Nice night, isn’t it?”

“It’s a little cold, but pleasant.”

“My name’s Tom,” the man said, extending a hand.

“Melissa,” the woman said, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same, Melissa,” the man said. “Pretty name.”

“Thank you, Tom.”

The man hesitated, but only for a second, before stepping a bit closer to the woman and saying, “I have an idea, Melissa. I have a bottle of bourbon in the van, some nice leather seats in back, and a hundred dollars burning a hole in my pocket. What do you say we have a little fun together before we get back on the road?”

The woman looked Tom directly in the eye, then gave him just a hint of a smile. “Two hundred,” she said.

“Done this before, have we?” Tom said. “That’s a little steep for a half-and-half in my van.” The woman removed her sunglasses, revealing dark seductive eyes and long lashes, then unzipped her leather jacket, revealing a red blouse with a plunging neckline and a deep sexy cleavage. Tom fairly licked his lips as he took in the sights. “Park beside me.”

The woman parked her rental car beside the van, and Tom opened the side door for her. The interior of the van was very well appointed, with a leather couch in back, rear-facing leather captain’s chairs behind the driver’s seat, a television with a satellite receiver and DVD player, and a wet bar. Melissa took one of the captain’s chairs while Tom poured two glasses of bourbon. He handed one to her, then tipped his glass to hers. “Here’s to a pleasant evening, Melissa.”

“It will be,” she said. “But first?”

“Sure,” Tom said. He reached into his jeans, pulled out a money clip, and shook out two hundred-dollar bills.

“Thank you, Tom,” Melissa said, taking a sip of bourbon.

Tom motioned behind him, and it wasn’t until then that the woman noticed a sports camera in the corner, pointed at her. “You don’t mind if I turn on my little camera there, do you, Melissa?” he asked. “I like to keep a souvenir collection.”

The woman hesitated for a moment, a little confusion in her eyes, then gave him her tiny smile. “No, go ahead,” she said. “I like performing in front of cameras.”

“I’ll bet you do, Melissa,” Tom said. He turned, made his way to the camera in back, and pressed the button to turn it on. “I have another one up front that I want to get also.” He turned…

… and found himself face-to-face with Melissa, looking into her dark, hypnotic eyes. He smiled, admiring her high cheekbones and full red lips. “Hey, baby, I can’t wait either, but let me…”

… and that’s when the knife plunged through his abdomen, up through his diaphragm, through his lungs, and all the way into his heart. A hand went over his mouth, but he did not cry out — he was dead before he hit the carpet.

The woman pulled the rear sports camera down from its mount, took the money clip, cracked open the side door, saw there were no onlookers, and quickly left the van, got into her own car, and drove away. By the time they found the body, she was hundreds of miles away.

“There it goes,” Vice President Ann Page said. She was in the White House Situation Room with President Kenneth Phoenix; National Security Adviser William Glenbrook; Harold Lee, the undersecretary of defense for space; and Air Force General George Sandstein, commander of Air Force Space Command, watching live video being broadcast from space on the Situation Room’s wall-sized high-definition monitor. They watched in stunned amazement as a large section of the International Space Station separated from the rest of the structure and began to drift away from the ISS. “For the first time in almost twenty years, the International Space Station is vacant,” Ann breathed, “and for the first time ever, there aren’t any Russian components on it.”

“What is being taken away, Ann?” the president asked.

“That is called the Russian Orbital Segment, or ROS, sir,” the vice president replied, not needing to refer to any notes — as an ex-astronaut and aerospace and electronics engineer, she was an expert on all American and American-involved space stations dating back to Skylab. “There are three docking and airlock modules, one docking and storage module, one laboratory, one habitation module, one service module, four solar arrays, and two heat radiators.”

“Any critical modules being taken away? If we sent crews back up there, would they be in any danger?”

“The most important Russian module was Zvezda, or ‘star,’ the service module,” Ann replied. “Zvezda is the large module all the way in the ‘back’ as the station flies, and as such provides attitude and navigation control and is used to boost the station to a higher orbit when necessary. It also produces power, oxygen, and water, among many other critical functions.”

“And now?”

“Zvezda will eventually be replaced by two American modules, the ISS Propulsion Module and the Interim Control Module,” Ann explained. “These two modules were built back about twenty years ago when Zvezda was delayed in construction and were meant to serve as backup control and propulsion systems in case Zvezda failed or was damaged; the Propulsion Module was also designed to deorbit the ISS when the time came.”

“That time might be coming sooner than we expected,” National Security Adviser William Glenbrook commented.

“Both modules have been in storage at the Naval Research Laboratory,” the vice president went on. “When the Russians made the announcement that they were going to take the ROS off the ISS, the NRL initiated functional checks of the two modules. That has just been completed, and now we are just waiting to have the modules mated to a booster and sent to the ISS. The problem with that is that the two modules were built to be transported to the ISS aboard a space shuttle, so some reengineering will have to be done to get them on a rocket. That might take a few more weeks.”

“So that’s why the station had to be abandoned?” the president asked. “They couldn’t make power, water, or oxygen, or control the station?”

“The Harmony module on the ISS can make consumables, but for only two astronauts, not six,” Ann said. “Unmanned and manned spacecraft can resupply the ISS and dock to the ISS to control and boost it higher if necessary, so station control and provisions should not be an issue. For safety reasons, it was decided to evacuate the ISS until the Russians’ de-mating procedure was—” Ann suddenly stopped and was staring at the high-def monitor. “Oh, my Lord! Well well, our Russian friends sure seemed to be very busy over the past several months, haven’t they?”

“What is it?” Phoenix asked.

“This,” Ann said, rising from her seat, going to the screen at the front of the Situation Room, and pointing at a small triangular-shaped object on the screen. “Freeze that,” she ordered, and the computer responded by pausing the live feed. “That, Mr. President, if I’m not mistaken, is a Soviet-era Elektron spaceplane.”

“The Russians have a spaceplane, like the one I flew in?” President Phoenix asked incredulously.

“It’s more akin to a small space shuttle, sir,” Ann explained, “in that it’s carried atop a booster, and then reenters the atmosphere and glides unpowered to a runway. Although it’s smaller than the shuttle and carries only one cosmonaut, its payload is almost twice that of our S-19 spaceplanes, about fifteen thousand pounds. They were armed with guided missiles, specifically designed to hunt down and destroy American satellites and Silver Tower. The plane hasn’t been seen since the Soviet Union collapsed. The Soviets said they were going to build hundreds of them. Maybe they did.” Ann paused, distracted by painful memories of decades past. “I was aboard Armstrong Space Station when the Soviets attacked with three of those bastards. They almost took us out.”

“Did we know they were going to launch a spaceplane, General?” the president asked.

“Not exactly, sir,” Air Force General George Sandstein, commander of Air Force Space Command and deputy commander for space of U.S. Strategic Command, replied. “About three days ago we received a notification of a launch from Plesetsk Cosmodrome Launch Site 41 of a Soyuz-U rocket with an unmanned Progress payload to assist in the ROS de-mating process, sir. Nothing was mentioned about a spaceplane. We tracked the payload and determined it was indeed going into orbit and on course to rendezvous with the ISS, so we classified it as a routine mission.”

“Isn’t it unusual for the Russians to use Plesetsk instead of Baikonur, General?” Ann asked.

“Yes, ma’am — Plesetsk was almost abandoned after the Russians made a deal with Kazakhstan for the continued use of Baikonur,” Sandstein replied. “Plesetsk was mostly used for intercontinental-ballistic-missile tests and other light and medium military projects—” Sandstein stopped, his eyes widened with shock, then he said, “Including the Elektron spaceplane and BOR-5 Buran test articles.”

“Buran?” the president asked.

“The Soviets’ copy of the space shuttle, sir,” Ann said. “Buran was designed from the start as a military program, so test launches of the subscale test articles were from Plesetsk, which is well inside Russia instead of Kazakhstan. The Buran spaceplane itself made only one launch from Baikonur Cosmodrome before the collapse of the Soviet Union, but the mission was highly successful — a completely autonomous unmanned launch, orbit, reentry, and landing. Five Burans were built; one was destroyed, and three were in various states of completion.”

“If the Russians are launching spaceplanes again, this could be the start of a new Russian initiative to push back into space,” Glenbrook said. “They have the ROS, and it’s not going to be attached to a Western space station anymore, so they can do what they want without a lot of close observation. If they are starting to fly Elektrons, they might be gearing up in many more areas, all related to building up their own capabilities as well as countering our own.”

“An arms race in space,” the president said. “Just what we need right now. Aren’t we required to notify the Russians if we’re going to launch a spaceplane into orbit?”

“Yes, sir, and we do, each and every time,” Sandstein replied. “Date and time of launch, initial orbital path, destination, purpose, payload, and date and time of return.”

“We give them all that?”

“Our spaceplanes are much more than orbital spacecraft, sir,” Sandstein explained. “Their flight paths are much more flexible than a launch from an Earth launch pad, as you yourself experienced. To avoid conflict, we agreed to give them information on each flight so they could monitor the flight and react to any unexplained diversions.”

“So the Russians knew I was flying in the spaceplane?”

“We don’t give them that much detail, sir,” Sandstein said with a hint of a smile.

“So we should be getting the same information on the Russian spaceplanes, correct?”

“If we want to reveal that we know about it, sir,” Ann said. “It might be better if we didn’t reveal that we know about Elektron right now. We can assume that they know, but we don’t have to reveal all we know about their activities. Silence is golden.”

President Phoenix nodded — now that the discussion was beginning to move from the military into the geopolitical arena, he needed a different mix of advisers. “What can the Russians do with that section of the space station?”

“All by itself, the ROS is already a fully functioning space station for two or three persons,” Ann said. “They could probably use a few more solar arrays for power, and they don’t have as sophisticated space and Earth sensor systems or communications as the ISS, but they can have other spacecraft dock with it for resupply; it can maneuver, boost itself when it needs to, produce power, water, and oxygen, everything.”

“And they undocked it just because Gryzlov is ticked off at me?” the president remarked. “Unbelievable.”

“Unfortunately, his tactic may work, sir,” National Security Adviser Glenbrook said. “It’s possible that the European Space Agency will undock their Columbus research module rather than risk irritating the Russians — they have had plans to cooperate with Russia on building a presence in space long before they decided to cooperate on the ISS. If they do that, or if the replacement modules we plan on sending up don’t do the job, the Japanese might undock their Kibˉo modules and abandon the project as well. Canada has its remote arms still on the station, but we’re not certain if they’d keep them on ISS if the Russians, ESA, and Japan pulled out.”

“So if all the other ISS partners leave, what are we left with?”

“The ISS is still a very important part of American scientific research, even without Kibˉo, Columbus, or the ROS, sir,” Ann Page said. “We have a huge investment in it already, and we gain tons of knowledge and experience in living and working in space. If we want to eventually go back to the moon or send astronauts to Mars or beyond, the ISS is the best stepping-stone for that. The Japanese in particular have a very extensive scientific research program on the ISS, so I think they would want to keep the ISS aloft for as long as possible until they launch their own station, or partner up with someone else. And the ISS, as well as Armstrong Space Station, would be the best platforms to get your already-announced industrialization-of-space initiative going.”

“Good,” the president said. “I want to speak with the Japanese prime minister and the prime ministers of the European Space Agency countries, and I want to assure them that we are committed to maintaining the ISS and continuing all the work we’re doing, despite the hissy fit the Russians are having.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Ann said.

“Bill, if the Russians are indeed gearing up to push back into space,” the president said to his national security adviser, “I need to find out what else they are developing, and how much — military, industrial, scientific, everything. I don’t want to be surprised by any more spaceplanes suddenly popping up around our space stations. I’d like an update on all the Russian and Chinese spaceports. The Russians cooperated with the Chinese before, in the Indian Ocean and South China Sea — they might be getting ready to do it again.”

“Yes, sir,” Glenbrook responded.

“General, I need a rundown of all the assets we have to support the ISS and Armstrong Space Station in the light of this de-mating process and a possible Russian push into space, and what we might need and how soon,” the president said to Sandstein. “If there’s going to be an arms race in space, I want to win it.”

“Absolutely, sir,” Sandstein said. The president shook hands with the four-star general and dismissed him.

“Speaking of the space-industrialization initiative,” the president went on after the general had departed, “what’s going on with Armstrong Space Station and our other space projects?”

“On track, Mr. President,” Undersecretary Lee said proudly. “Based on your outline, sir, we have three programs we’re supporting: successful flight testing of the XS-29 Shadow spaceplane, a larger version of the spaceplane you flew in; support for larger commercial rocket boosters to bring larger payloads into space, including some reusable booster technologies; and the first industrial program: installing a solar power plant aboard Armstrong Space Station.”

“A solar power plant?”

“It will collect sunlight, transform it into electricity, and store it,” Lee explained. “When it gets within range of a ground collector, called a rectenna, it will transform the electricity into a form of electromagnetic energy called a maser — a combination of a microwave and laser — and shoot the energy to Earth to the rectenna, which transforms the maser energy back into electricity, then stores the power in giant batteries or puts it into the electrical grid. If what they are planning comes true, in a single four-minute shot — the maximum time it takes for the space station to go from horizon to horizon — they can transmit enough power to supply a remote research facility or village for a week or more.”

“Incredible,” the president remarked. “Well done.”

“And, as you directed, sir,” Lee went on, “the federal government is only providing support in the form of using federal facilities such as national laboratories, launch pads, and computer networks — things that are already being used for other projects. We’re not loaning money to anyone. The companies and universities involved in these programs have to invest themselves big-time, and they are. If they’re successful, they hope to get reimbursed with government contracts to operate the systems they develop.”

“Excellent,” the president said. “Please keep me informed, Mr. Undersecretary.” He stood, shook Lee’s hand, and dismissed him as well, and soon afterward Glenbrook departed. After the two had left, the president said to Ann Page, “Once the video of that Russian section of the ISS separating from the station gets out, Ann, we’re going to take one hell of a shellacking in the press, with a little less than a month to the elections.”

“I’m a little more optimistic, Ken,” Ann said. She knew it was time to take off her vice president’s hat and put on Ken Phoenix’s chief political adviser’s hat, something that she always enjoyed doing very much. “Secretary Barbeau criticized your space initiative as another Reagan ‘Star Wars’ folly. When the public sees the Russians starting to push back in space, they’ll know that Barbeau is on the wrong side of the issue.”

“I hope so,” Phoenix said, “but it’s been several months since I announced the initiative on board the space station, and so far only the Russians have made good on their promise to take their modules off the ISS. Are any of those space programs going to be available to us to use in the campaign?”

“Absolutely, Ken,” Ann said. “The XS-29 spaceplane has made its first orbital test flight and has already done a mission both to the ISS and Armstrong Space Station. The solar-power-plant project might go online before the election, and we could describe it as another project that Barbeau doesn’t support, is not taxpayer funded, and will be an example of what will wither and die if you are not reelected. The new advanced rocket boosters are not quite as far along, but we could do tours of the assembly buildings and remind the voters about how important those things are.”

“Where are we on the solar power plant?”

“It’s all assembled — they’re just doing last-minute testing and checking,” Ann said. “About a dozen spaceplane missions and one heavy-lift rocket, all assembled by remote control with just two or three spacewalks. It was designed that way from the beginning by a team of college students, supported by scientists and engineers from all over the world… led, by the way, by one Bradley James McLanahan.”

“Brad McLanahan?” the president exclaimed. “You’re kidding! Patrick McLanahan’s son? I was sorry for him when he dropped out of the Air Force Academy and when his father was killed — I guess he’s landed on his feet. Good for him.” He paused, thinking hard, then said, “How does this sound, Ann: let’s get Brad McLanahan and maybe one or two others on his team up to Armstrong Space Station.”

“As long as you don’t tell me you want to go up there again, sir.”

“I think I’ve had my share of excitement for a lifetime,” the president said. “Would this make Brad the first teenager in space?”

“Unless you don’t count the dogs and chimps that have already been sent up, yes,” Ann said. “I hear Brad’s been asking to go up on station for a while.” Her expression turned serious. “Initial thoughts, sir: risky. If the flight fails, the son of a very popular and high-value figure gets killed, and your space initiative might go out the window, like after Challenger and Columbia. Not good.”

“But if it succeeds, it could be awesome, yes?”

“Yes, it certainly could, sir,” Ann Page said.

“Then let’s make it happen,” the president said. “We’ll send McLanahan and maybe a female member of his team up for the first use of the thing.” He shook his head. “I remember the first time Patrick brought Brad to the White House. He looked around and said, ‘Boy, Dad, you sure work in an old place.’ ” The president’s expression turned serious. “Speaking of Brad McLanahan…”

“Yes, sir?”

“I didn’t tell you this, because I thought the fewer who knew the better, but back last spring Brad McLanahan found out, so I think you should too.”

“Found out what?”

Phoenix took a deep breath, then said, “Last year, right after the Chinese attack on Guam, a private counterintelligence group led by former president Martindale went out to Guam to collect information on the hacked utilities and to see if there was any other evidence of a Chinese intelligence presence on Guam.”

“Scion Aviation,” Ann said. “I remember. What does that have to do with Brad McLanahan?”

“One of Scion’s teams had Brad under surveillance after that break-in at Patrick McLanahan’s columbarium in Sacramento,” the president said. “They wanted to make sure that the same Russian agents that broke into the crypt wouldn’t target Brad. Turns out they did target him and actually attacked three times. Scion’s guys saved him.”

“Well, that’s good,” Ann said, “but I’m still confused. Why is Scion Aviation International doing surveillance on Brad McLanahan? Isn’t that a job for the FBI? If he’s a target of a foreign direct-action team, he should be under full FBI counterespionage protection.”

“It’s because of one of the members of Scion,” the president said. He looked directly into the vice president’s eyes and said, “Patrick McLanahan.”

Ann’s only visible reaction was simply a few blinks. “That’s impossible, Ken,” she said in a toneless voice. “You got some bad information. Patrick died over China. You know that as well as I.”

“No, he didn’t,” the president said. “Martindale found and revived him, but he was in bad shape. In order to keep him alive, they placed him in a Cybernetic Infantry Device, one of those big manned robots.” Ann’s face was beginning to transform into a mask of stunned disbelief. “He’s still alive, Ann. But he can’t live outside the robot. Unless they can heal him, he’ll be in there for the rest of his life.”

Ann’s eyes widened and her mouth formed an astonished O. “I… I can’t believe it,” she breathed. “And he can operate the robot? He can move around, communicate, everything?”

“He has some incredible abilities,” Phoenix said. “He operates sensors and all the robot’s capabilities, and can communicate with anyone in the world — I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s listening in on us right now. Patrick McLanahan and the robot is a one-man Army platoon — maybe an entire Army battalion and Air Force division combined.” Phoenix sighed and looked away. “But he can never leave the fucking machine. It’s as if he’s trapped in the Twilight Zone.”

“Amazing. Just amazing,” Ann said. “And Martindale has got him doing operations with Scion?”

“Skating on the very edge of the law, I’m sure, like he always did,” Phoenix said.

“Ken, why did you tell me this?” Ann asked. “I might never have found out.”

“I know you and Patrick are friends,” the president said. “But the main reason is that I feel bad that I didn’t let you in on it from the beginning. You’re my closest political adviser and my closest friend, except for my wife, Alexa. The whole stuff with Brad McLanahan reminded me of the mistake I made when I didn’t trust you with my decision to keep Patrick alive and not tell anyone. I wanted to correct that mistake.”

“Well, thank you for that, Ken,” Ann said. She shook her head, still in a state of disbelief. “What a thing to keep bottled up. No one else knows except Brad? Not even his family?”

“Just Brad and a few of Martindale’s guys,” Phoenix said.

“Glad you got that off your chest, aren’t you, sir?”

“You bet I am,” the president said. “Now, let’s get back to the other, unreal world: politics and elections. I want to really push the space initiative hard in the closing days of the campaign. I want to talk with teenagers in space, make lots of visits to, and give speeches in front of, hypersonic spaceplanes and rocket boosters, and help throw the switch on electricity fired from space. We may be down in the polls right now, Ann, but we’re going to pull this out — I can feel it!”