Starfire

SEVEN

“This is our mission control room, otherwise known as one of our electronics labs,” Brad McLanahan said. He was standing before a group of foreign journalists, bloggers, photographers, and their translators, giving for the umpteenth time a tour of the Starfire project at Cal Poly. With him were Jodie Cavendish, Kim Jung-bae, Casey Huggins, and Lane Eagan. The room was stuffed with a dozen laptop computers, control and communications gear, and network interface boxes with hundreds of feet of CAT5 cables snaking away into walls and under the climate-controlled floor. “It’s not as large or as nice as NASA mission control, but the functions are very similar: we monitor the major components of Starfire such as the microwave generator, nantenna and rectenna steering, power control, and beam control, among many others. Although the astronauts on board Armstrong Space Station have ultimate control, we can issue some commands from here — namely, we can pull the plug if something goes wrong.”

“Are you collecting solar energy now, Mr. McLanahan?” one reporter asked.

“We’ve been collecting and storing solar energy for about three weeks now,” Brad replied. “The solar-energy-collection-and-storage systems were the first to be attached to Armstrong Space Station.” He motioned to a large model of the station that the team had set up for the press. “These are the nantennas, or nanotube sunlight collectors, designed by Jodie Cavendish, assisted by Kim Jung-bae, whom we call Jerry around here. They are double-sided so they can collect sunlight directly from the sun or reflected off the Earth. Here on the truss are ten two-hundred-kilogram lithium-ion capacitors, each capable of storing three hundred kilowatts, designed by Jerry Kim. We’re not going to fill them up for this test, but you can see we have the capability of storing three megawatts of electricity on the station, just with this small experimental system.”

“How much energy will you fire on this test?”

“We’re planning on shooting a total of one-point-five megawatts,” Brad said. “The station will be in range of the rectenna for approximately three minutes, so you can see we’re going to send a lot of juice to Earth in a very short period of time.” He pointed to a large poster-sized photograph of a round object sitting in a desert landscape. “This is the rectenna, or receiving antenna, which will collect the maser energy, designed by Jodie Cavendish along with Casey Huggins,” he said. “It is two hundred meters in diameter, installed out on the White Sands Missile Test Range because it’s a large secure area that can be easily cleared of aircraft. As you can see in this photo, we only have the rectenna and some pointing controls and data-monitoring equipment — we’re going to measure how much electricity is being received, but we’re not going to store or put any electricity into the grid on this first test. Lane Eagan here wrote the software and programmed the computers here on Earth and up in Armstrong to allow us the precision we need to hit that rather small target from two hundred to five hundred miles away.”

“Why do the test in a large isolated area, Mr. McLanahan?” a reporter asked. “What would happen if the maser energy from the space station hit an aircraft or object on the ground, like a house or a person?”

“It would be like putting a metal dish in a microwave oven,” Brad said. “The maser beam is mostly microwave energy, designed and built by Casey Huggins and Jerry Kim, but collimated with Armstrong’s free-electron laser subsystems to strengthen and help aim the energy.”

“You’re going to fire the Skybolt laser?”

“No, not at all,” Brad replied. “The Skybolt laser system uses a series of electromagnetic gates to channel, strengthen, and align the free-electron laser beam. We’ve disconnected the free-electron laser and have installed Casey Huggins’s microwave generator, power by the stored solar energy. We’re going to use the Skybolt subsystems to do the same thing with the microwave energy: strengthen, collimate, and focus it, and then we use Skybolt’s aiming subsystems, thanks to Jerry Kim, to send the energy earthward.

“But to answer your question: We really don’t know what would happen exactly, so we don’t want anyone anywhere near the beam when we fire,” Brad went on. “We’re going to close a lot of airspace before we set Starfire off. Obviously Starfire is more suited for firing the energy into isolated areas, to spacecraft, or even to the moon, so firing the maser into populated areas won’t necessarily be an issue, but we will be making the aiming control and beam propagation better and better as we go on, so the rectenna can be smaller and the dangers greatly reduced.”

Brad fielded a few more questions, but the last one was a doozy: “Mr. McLanahan,” a very attractive female reporter standing in front, with long jet-black hair, dark eyes, full red lips, a killer body, and a very slight European accent began, “you are very good at giving credit to the others on your team for all the things they have done to contribute to this project… but what have you done? Which components have you built? What are you with this project, if I may ask?”

“To tell the truth, I haven’t built any components,” Brad admitted after a long moment of consideration. “I consider myself the scrounger, like the character Flight Lieutenant Hendley in the movie The Great Escape.” The woman blinked in confusion, obviously not knowing whom he was referring to but making a note to find out. “I came up with an idea, found the best students, scientists, and engineers I could find and had them explain the science to me, contributed a few ideas of my own, put them to work, and repeated the process. I get the team whatever they need for their phase of the project: money, assistance, computer or lab time, equipment, parts, software, whatever. I also conduct progress meetings and helped prep the team for our presentation to the school for summer lab space, before our project received funding from Sky Masters Aerospace.”

“So you’re more like a coach or project manager,” the woman said. “You aren’t really the quarterback: you don’t actually pass the ball, but you train the team, get the equipment, and supervise the coaching staff.” She didn’t wait for a response, and Brad didn’t have one to give her in any case. “But you are a freshman student of engineering, are you not?”

“Sophomore student of aerospace engineering, yes.”

“Perhaps you should consider a different field of study?” the woman said. “Business, perhaps, or management?”

“I want to be a test pilot,” Brad said. “Most of the best test-pilot schools in the United States require a degree in the hard sciences, like engineering, computers, math, or physics. I chose aerospace engineering.”

“And are you doing well in it, Mr. McLanahan?”

Brad was a little surprised to find himself being asked so many personal questions — he had prepped to answer technical questions from foreign science and space journalists and bloggers, not answer questions about himself. “I managed to finish my freshman year and start my sophomore year,” he said. “I guess my grades are average. If I need help, and I do, I ask for it. If I don’t understand something, I’ll find someone to explain it to me.” He looked around the lab for any more upraised hands, then turned back to the woman and found her looking directly at him with a slight smile, and he gave her one in return. “If that’s all, folks, thank you for—”

“I have one more surprise announcement that I would like to share with all of you,” Cal Poly president Dr. Marcus Harris said from the back of the room. He stepped up to the lectern next to Brad. “The station manager of Armstrong Space Station, retired Air Force general Kai Raydon, recently spoke with the White House, and has received authorization from the president of the United States to fly two Starfire team leaders to Armstrong Space Station to observe the Starfire test shot.” The reporters broke out in applause.

Harris put an arm around Lane. “I’m sorry, Lane, but you’re too young, but it will happen soon. The flight will be in just one week, and they’ll be aboard Armstrong Space Station for approximately three days. In the case of Brad, Jodie, and Casey, if they accept this offer, they would become the first teenagers in space, and if Jung-bae accepts, he will be only the second Korean to fly in space, and by far the youngest.” More applause, then frantic scribbling.

“The White House said that their preference is a male and female team leader,” Harris went on, “but that’s up to the Starfire team to decide. The selectees will need to pass a comprehensive physical exam, but as we saw last spring with President Phoenix, you seem to just need to be a healthy and courageous person to fly in space — and, I’m proud to say, that includes Casey Huggins, who, if she accepts, will not only be the first female teenager in space but will also be the first paraplegic in space.” The applause was even louder and longer this time.

“I will let the team talk amongst themselves and their parents, and then I’d like to meet with them myself,” Harris said. “But this is an outstanding opportunity and a rare honor for our Mustangs, and we couldn’t be prouder.” More applause, led by Harris, and the press conference broke up.

“Holy crap!” Brad exclaimed when the Starfire team was alone in the lab. “What an opportunity! How should we decide this? Sorry, Lane.”

“No problem,” Lane said. “I get airsick anyway.”

“Who wants to go?”

“You have to go, Brad,” Lane said. “You’re the project leader. We couldn’t have done this without you.”

“Damn straight,” Casey said.

“Besides, just like your new friend — that pretty female reporter in front who was making goo-goo eyes at you — said: what the bloody hell else do you do around here?” Jodie quipped, and everybody got a good laugh out of that. Jodie gave Brad an accusing and inquisitive — and maybe a jealous? Brad wondered — eye but said nothing more. “And where did that Great Escape thing come from?” She then switched her voice to that of James Garner playing the character Hendley in the movie. “ ‘You want to talk about hazards? Let’s talk about hazards. Let’s talk about you. You’re the biggest hazard we have.’ ” Another round of laughter.

“All right, all right, very funny,” Brad said. “Let’s see how this works out. I’m going to fly in space soon enough anyway, I can guarantee you that, so if anyone else wants to take this opportunity, I’ll defer. Jodie?”

“Not me, mate,” Jodie said. “I like sand and surf and sea level — even Cal Poly is almost too high above sea level and too far from the beach for me. Besides, I don’t want to be anywhere else but right here in this lab watching the monitors when Starfire lets loose.”

“Jerry?”

The thought of going up into space didn’t seem to make Jung-bae too comfortable. “I don’t know,” he said uneasily. “I would like to design and test spacecraft someday, but as far as flying in orbit in one… I think I will pass. Besides, I want to be out at White Sands monitoring the rectenna and maser output. We are still having problems with the lithium-ion capacitors. We are storing plenty of power, but we occasionally have problems transferring the power to the microwave cavity.”

“I’ll get some more experts to help you with that, Jerry,” Brad said. He turned to Casey. “Then it’s just you and me, Casey. What do you say? It’s your maser — you should be up there.”

Casey’s face was a mixture of apprehension and confusion. “I don’t think so, Brad,” she said. “I don’t like people looking at me at airports or department stores — a paraplegic around a dozen astronauts on a space station? I don’t know…”

“Well, just think, Casey — the last things you need in space are legs, right?” Brad said. “You’ll be just like everyone else up there. No wheelchairs in space, lady.”

She looked down at her wheelchair, her eyes averted, for a long moment… and then her head and arms snapped up and she shouted, “I’m going into space!”

The team went through a dry run of the test-fire procedures until late in the afternoon, then had a meeting with university president Harris and passed along the news of who was going to fly to Armstrong Space Station. Harris immediately scheduled the flight physicals for the next morning, after which he would make the announcement to the media. It wasn’t until early evening that they were able to go home. Brad had just arrived at his apartment building in Poly Canyon and was about to carry his bike and backpack up the stairs when he heard, “Hey, stranger.”

He turned and found Jodie, her laptop backpack in hand. “Hi, you,” he said. “We’re not strangers. I see you every day.”

“I know, but only at school. We live in the same complex, but I hardly see you around here.” She nodded toward Brad’s bicycle. “Were you just going to carry your bike and backpack up five flights of stairs, mate?”

“I always do.”

“Wow. Good onya.” She glanced around him. “I noticed you don’t carry the cane anymore.”

“I just never replaced it.”

“Won’t Chief Ratel get mad at you?”

“He got hurt last spring, closed up shop, and moved away — to Florida, I think,” Brad said. That was entirely true — afraid that the Russians would target him as well as Brad, Kevin Martindale had urged him to take his wife and get out of town, which he reluctantly did. “I should have let you know about that, but… you know how things were.”

“Wow. I guess it’s been a while since we’ve caught up,” Jodie said. “So you don’t go to the gym anymore?”

“Every now and then I’ll do a self-defense refresher at a gym downtown,” Brad said. That was mostly true, but it was every week, sparring with a member of Chris Wohl’s team — and he would do firearms refresher training every other week. Brad had a permit that allowed him to carry a pistol on campus — he never told Jodie or anyone else on the Starfire team about that. “Most of the rest I do in my living room, on the bike, or doing stuff like carrying the bike up to my apartment.”

“Great.” They stood silent for a few long moments; then: “Hey, want to grab a cup of coffee before they close? My shout.”

“Sure.” They walked to the little coffee shop on the ground floor of the next apartment building and took their coffee outside. Late October was still ideal weather on California’s central coast, although fall had definitely arrived. “Man, it’s been a long day,” Brad said after several minutes of silence. “Are you keeping up with your classes okay?”

“Mostly,” Jodie said. “The profs are giving me a break until after the test firing.”

“Same with me,” Brad said.

They fell silent again for a few minutes, and then Jodie set her coffee down, looked at Brad directly, and said, “I apologize for my rant at the hotel in Battle Mountain, mate. I guess I was shook up, and I took it out on you. You did protect us from the guy with the knife.”

“Forget about it, Jodie,” Brad said.

Jodie looked at her coffee, then at the tabletop. “Going up to the space station in just a couple days,” she said in a low, halting voice, “made me realize that… what I mean is, if… if something went wrong, I… I’d never see you again, and I wouldn’t have had a chance to apologize.”

Brad reached over and took her hands in his. “It’s okay, Jodie,” he said. “Nothing’s going to happen. It’ll be a successful flight and test firing, and I’ll fly back. It’ll be an adventure. It already has been an adventure. I wish you were coming with me.”

“Brad…” She squeezed his hands and lowered her head, and when she raised it again Brad could see the glistening in her eyes, even with just the light from the streetlights. “I’m… I’m scared, mate,” she said, a slight catch in her voice. “I know how badly you want to fly in space, and I’m happy you got this opportunity, but I’m still scared.”

Brad crossed over to a chair on Jodie’s side of the table, put his arms around her, and held her tightly. When they parted, he lightly touched her face and kissed her. “Jodie… Jodie, I want—”

“Come with me,” she whispered when the kiss ended. Her eyes opened wide and locked on to his, silently begging. “Mate, don’t you dare bloody leave me alone again. Please, Brad. Take me before you leave me.”

This time, in their next deep kiss, there was no hesitation in Brad McLanahan’s mind whatsoever.

“It’s a good thing you decided to have me check other launch pads and spaceports, Mr. President,” National Security Adviser William Glenbrook said after President Ken Phoenix and Vice President Ann Page entered the Situation Room and took seats. “The Russians have indeed been very busy.”

“What did you find, Bill?” Phoenix asked, setting his coffee mug down, his second of the morning. His coffee intake had definitely risen as Election Day drew closer.

“A massive and rapid Russian outer-space rearming program under way, sir,” Glenbrook said. He hit a button and the first photograph appeared on the screen at the front of the Situation Room, showing a rocket with a winged lifting-body aircraft on the very top, replacing the rocket’s nose cone. “This is the Plesetsk spaceport in northwestern Russia. The spaceplane we observed when the ROS was undocked from the ISS was confirmed as an Elektron spaceplane, likely launched from Plesetsk.

“There is another spaceplane already on the launch pad there,” Glenbrook went on, reading from the notes on his tablet computer, “and we believe these containers and this large storage facility near the launch pad is another Elektron and its Proton booster. We think it’s a Proton and not an Angara-5 booster because of a lack of cryogenic oxygen storage nearby. The Angara-5 uses liquid oxygen and RP-1 kerosene, while the Proton uses hypergolic liquids: dimethylhydrazine and nitrogen tetroxide, two very toxic chemicals that burn when mixed, without need for an ignition source. The Angara-5 booster is more powerful, but its liquid oxygen needs to be replenished once it’s aboard the booster because it boils off; the fuels in the Proton last almost indefinitely, so it can sit on the launch pad without needing service.”

The photographs changed. “This is the Baikonur Cosmodrome in Kazakhstan,” Glenbrook went on, “and as you can see, there appears to be another Elektron on a launch pad, on an Angara-5 booster this time. That’s two that can be launched in fairly short order, maybe within days or even hours. The Elektron that was already launched when the ROS undocked from the ISS landed at the shuttle recovery airstrip at Baikonur yesterday. So we’ve accounted for possibly four Elektrons. We believe there are five in the inventory, although there might be more. So we set out to look for the fifth Russian spaceplane. It’s nowhere to be seen in Russia…”

Glenbrook changed photos, and another picture of an Elektron spaceplane atop a large Russian rocket appeared. “We found it — not in Russia, but in the People’s Republic of China,” he said. “This is Xichang spaceport in western China. Xichang was used for the largest, most powerful, and most reliable Chinese Long March rocket launches, but all those missions moved to Wenchang spaceport on Hainan Island, so Xichang wasn’t being used that much.”

“So the Chinese are allowing Russian spaceplane launches from Chinese launch pads?” Ann remarked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Glenbrook said. He zoomed in the photograph. “Not only that, but these buildings are identical to the buildings in Plesetsk. It’s possible that these are buildings either housing or meant to house a second Elektron spaceplane launch system, and if so, that means there are possibly six Elektrons out there, and there may be more. We’re watching all these sites for future launches and recoveries, but based on our intelligence when those things were first deployed, the Russians can relaunch a spaceplane every ten to fourteen days after recovery. That is extraordinarily fast. It could be faster now.”

He stayed with the Chinese photograph but zoomed in on a different area. “Here’s another interesting development.” He highlighted some objects with a laser pen. “The Russians usually install sophisticated S-400 Triumph surface-to-air antiaircraft missiles at all their spaceports and at major military bases,” he said, “but here we’re looking at the S-500S, the world’s most sophisticated surface-to-air missile, several times more capable and powerful than the S-400 or even our own PAC-3 Patriot. An S-500S is more akin to a medium-range ballistic missile than a regular surface-to-air missile, designed for extreme long-range air and space attack. This marks the first deployment of an S-500S outside of the Russian Federation, and the fact that it is on a Chinese military base is astounding — we assume that now the Chinese can access technical information on the best SAM system ever built.

“The ‘S’ model indicates that it is designed to be effective against space targets — specifically, American space stations, spacecraft, and weapon garages in low Earth orbit, as well as ballistic missiles, low-flying cruise missiles, and stealth aircraft,” Glenbrook went on. “We searched the known S-500 launch sites around Moscow and elsewhere, and our suspicions are confirmed: they’re moving some S-500s normally placed around some of their cities and dispersing them to spaceports. We’re also studying the Almaz-Antney production facilities near Moscow and St. Petersburg to see if there’s any evidence that the Russians are upping their S-500 production. We anticipate they will quadruple S-500S production very shortly, and every Russian military installation in the entire world will have at least one S-500S battery assigned to it.”

“Looks to me like they’re preparing not just for operations in space, but to fight off another assault on their isolated bases,” Ann said. She and Phoenix exchanged knowing glances — the last American attack on a foreign military base from the air was the B-1B Lancer bomber raid on military targets in the People’s Republic of China, led by Patrick McLanahan, whom everyone thought perished in the attack.

“So the intel guys thought as long as we’re looking at other antispacecraft weapons that the Russians or Chinese are deploying, they’d look for fighter-launched antispacecraft missiles,” Glenbrook said. “There are three known bases for the Mikoyan-Gurevich 31D aircraft, which carries the Russians’ frontline antiaircraft and antisatellite missile. We counted a bit more than their usual observed number, and we also counted more Ilyushin-76 aerial refueling tankers at each base. All of the bases are active, and the Russians fly patrols around the clock — at least two antisatellite flights are airborne twenty-four/seven. The bases at Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky, Yelizovo Air Base, in the Russian Far East, Bolshoye Savino Airport in west-central Russia, and Chkalovsky Air Base near Moscow are particularly active. They fly patrols and do many training mock launches, zooming the fighters almost straight up to very high altitudes.

“The MiG-31 has been out of production for almost forty years, but it has some upgrades,” Glenbrook went on. “The plane itself is one of the fastest in the world. Carrying the ASAT missile turns it into a sluggish pig, but the system still works. It fires one modified 9K720 missile, the same as on the latest model of the Iskander theater ballistic missile, but with a millimeter radar-guided warhead with a high-explosive warhead for outer-space operations. There are about a hundred of the D-models in service — maybe more, if they are converting other models into antispacecraft models, or taking some out of storage.” He closed the cover on his tablet, signifying that his briefing was over.

“So it appears the Russians are responding to my space initiative by gearing up their space forces, and the Chinese are assisting them, at least with launch pads and support,” President Phoenix summarized. “Thoughts?”

“Not unexpected,” Ann said. “We’ve seen all of that stuff in action over the past several years, except the spaceplanes.”

“We have to assume they’ll arm those Elektron spaceplanes the same as they did back fourteen years ago,” Glenbrook said. “They carried ten laser-guided hypervelocity missiles. No warhead, but a warhead is unnecessary — if an object hits the station or a satellite traveling several miles a second, it will definitely cripple it, and most likely destroy it. And the land-based missiles could very well carry a micronuclear warhead as well, the same used in the American Holocaust attacks, which, if it explodes within a mile of the station, could blow it right into oblivion. Even if it missed by more than that, the radiation and electromagnetic pulse would probably severely damage the station.”

“Our spacecraft are pretty well shielded against radiation, Bill, especially our manned spacecraft — they operate in cosmic radiation for years, sometimes decades,” Ann said. “But any kinetic weapon directed against the station is a serious danger.”

“The station has defensive weapons it can use, yes?” the president asked. “I got the tour of the command center on Armstrong. They said they could activate the big laser, Skybolt, in a matter of days, and they talked about a smaller chemical laser they could use, but the orbiting weapon garages are not active.”

“That’s correct, sir, after the Starfire experimental stuff is removed,” Ann said. “Perhaps we should activate the Kingfisher weapon garages and place the inactive ones back in orbit.”

“I’m not quite ready to do that yet, Ann,” Phoenix said, “but I want to be ready in case we detect any movements toward our space assets, especially Armstrong. The rockets and air bases with those antisatellite MiGs can be targeted by sea-launched ballistic or cruise missiles, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Glenbrook replied, “but it will take time to move a sub in position, and an attack by Russia against Armstrong Space Station can happen very quickly. If Russia can overwhelm the station’s defenses, they could knock it out of the sky. A combination of an Elektron spaceplane attack, air-launched missiles, and ground-launched antisatellite missiles all attacking at once could do just that.”

The president nodded but remained silent for several long moments; then: “Let’s give diplomacy and cooler heads a chance before we activate any more space weapons,” he said finally. “Knocking down Armstrong would be like attacking an aircraft carrier or a military base: an act of war. Gryzlov’s not that crazy.”

“Russia has done both in the past, sir,” Ann reminded the president. “Gennadiy’s father was the master of the sneak attack against the United States in the American Holocaust, with almost ten times more casualties than Pearl Harbor.”

“I know that, Ann, but I’m still not prepared to escalate this situation if I can avoid it,” Phoenix said. “I’ll authorize use of all defensive weapons currently deployed, including the chemical laser, but no offensive weapons.”

“May I suggest we activate the magnetohydrodynamic generator on board Armstrong Space Station, sir?” Ann asked. Ann Page was the designer and builder not only of the Skybolt missile defense system but also of one of its many high-tech features: the MHD, or magnetohydrodynamic generator, a nuclear-powered device that produced hundreds of megawatts of power for the Skybolt free-electron laser without disrupting Armstrong Space Station’s attitude controls or orbital path. “It’s been in virtual mothballs for a couple years, and it will take a day or two to power it up and test it. If things do turn nasty it would be good to have Skybolt available as soon as possible.”

“You’re talking about the generator that powers the big Skybolt laser?” Phoenix asked. Ann nodded. “I know we never ratified the treaty banning offensive space weapons, but we’ve been acting as if the treaty is in force. Would this violate the treaty?”

Ann thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I’m no arms-control expert or lawyer, sir, but to me a power generator is not a weapon, even if it is pumped with a nuclear reactor. Skybolt is the weapon, and some of its components are being used by those Cal Poly students to fire electricity down to Earth.” She hesitated, then added, “They could provide us some diplomatic security, should the need arise, sir.”

“They’re not going to use the big generator, are they? I never authorized that.”

“The microwave-laser beam in Starfire is powered by the energy collected by the students’ solar cells,” Ann explained. “The MHD generator is still physically hooked up to Skybolt, but the free-electron laser cannot be fired without disconnecting the Starfire components and plugging the Skybolt parts back in place. I have no idea how long that would take, but the students got Starfire bolted into place pretty quickly, so if it’s needed I think we can get Skybolt back online fairly quickly.”

The president thought about it for a few moments, then nodded assent. “As long as the big ship-killing laser isn’t operable without my order, I’ll authorize the generator to be activated and tested,” he said. “I think we’ll hold off advising the Russians that we tested the big generator until sometime in the near future.”

“I agree,” Ann said. “But if you want to deal with the Russians, you may have to reverse yourself on your space policies and military drawdowns. Do away with declaring occupied orbits sovereign American possessions, for example — Gryzlov seemed particularly peeved at that one.”

“I will if I need to — hopefully not before the elections, though,” the president said. “That’s more ammunition for Barbeau.”

“We could leak the information Bill just briefed us on,” Ann said. “If we show Russia’s space-weapon buildup, your space policy looks like a legitimate national defense imperative.”

“But Barbeau could say that Russia is just responding to my space initiative,” the president said. “I’d rather not go down that road. I’ll consider toning down my policies, especially regarding the defense of our space assets and orbits— You’re right, I think that’s the part that got Gryzlov hot and bothered. Hopefully it can wait until after the election.” He turned to his national security adviser. “Bill, I need to know exactly how long it would take to deploy those Kingfisher weapon garages, and I want to put as many of those spaceplane boosters under our crosshairs as possible. I don’t want any forces moved, but I want to know how long it will take to take out anything that threatens our space assets. I remember we had a whole array of space-launched weapons at one time — I want to find out what Joe Gardner did with them.”

“Yes, sir,” Glenbrook said, and departed.

After he left, the president poured himself his third cup of coffee of the morning — that, he thought, was not a good sign. “I hate interjecting politics into these decisions, Ann,” he said. “That’s not the way it’s supposed to be done.”

“Maybe not, but that’s life in the real world, Ken,” Ann said. “The president of the United States probably can never divorce himself from politics, especially around election time. That’s just the way it is.”

“Then let’s get back to the campaign, Ann,” Phoenix said. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

“You have the day off, and I suggest you spend it with your family, because you’ll be on the campaign trail almost every day until Election Day,” the vice president said. “The final West Coast swing starts tomorrow morning. We have Phoenix, San Diego, and Los Angeles booked, but the campaign staff suggested a few stops in northern and central California too. It’s late — the FAA likes to have more than two days for notification to close down the airspace around the airports you fly into for Air Force One — but if we notify them this morning it should be okay.

“I suggest three stops before we hit Portland and Seattle,” Ann went on, reading from her tablet computer. “First, the NASA Ames Research Center near San Jose, which is doing wind-tunnel tests on a variety of space technologies; the Aerojet Rocketdyne facility east of Sacramento, which is building the motors for a new class of heavy-lift boosters; and San Luis Obispo to attend the test firing of the Starfire solar orbiting power plant. There’s one meet-and-greet in each city and one fund-raising dinner in San Jose. After that, it’s on to Portland and Seattle, a memorial service at the former Fairchild Air Force Base near Spokane for the American Holocaust anniversary memorial, and then Boise to wrap up the West Coast. Then you work your way eastward. Three cities a day until Election Day. I’ll make a few stops on the East Coast, and then I’ll head out west when you come east.”

“Whew,” the president said. “I’m glad this will be my last campaign — it’s exciting to meet the folks, but it sure takes it out of you.” He thought about the change in plans, but not for long: “Go ahead and add the Northern California stops, Ann. I’ll rest when I’m dead.”

“Yes, sir,” the vice president said, and she picked up a phone and alerted her staff to make the necessary arrangements. When she finished, she asked, “Before we alert the FAA, sir, I have a question: Do you want to postpone that orbiting solar-power-plant test firing and that trip up to the station by Brad McLanahan and Casey Huggins, the college students from California? It’s starting to get tense with space issues, and that test firing is receiving an awful lot of attention around the world. A lot of folks, including the Russians and a bunch of antiwar and environmentalist groups, want that test canceled and the space station to be allowed to burn up in the atmosphere.”

“I read about those protests,” the president said, shaking his head. “It seems to be more of the same stuff we’ve heard from far-left liberals for decades: technology advancements are just plain bad for humans, animals, world peace, the poor, and the planet. Armstrong especially gets a lot of negative press, mostly I think because it’s so noticeable in the sky, and the left thinks we are spying on everyone on Earth and ready to use a death ray to gun anyone down. They have no idea what they do on Armstrong Space Station. I can talk until I’m blue in the face about my experience and the technology that made it possible, but I’d be wasting my breath.”

Ken Phoenix thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “Ann, I’m not stopping my space technology and industrialization initiative because the Russians or some left-wing wackos think this is the beginning of the end of the planet,” he said. “Let’s try to anticipate and prepare for what these groups or even the Russians might do after that test firing, but I’m not going to cancel it. That would be an insult to the hard work those students put into this project. It’s a peaceful project: sending energy to someone who needs it almost anywhere in the world. That’s a good thing. The left can say whatever else they want about it, but that’s what it is. No, we press forward.”

Brad was seated at a desk in an aircraft hangar at San Luis Obispo Regional Airport, watching the progress on his computer as the latest navigation, charts, terrain, and obstacle data were being broadcast via satellite directly to his father’s Cessna P210 Silver Eagle aircraft parked behind him. The Silver Eagle was a small but extremely powerful Cessna P210 modified with a 450-horsepower turbine engine, plus a long list of high-tech avionics and other systems, making the thirty-year-old plane one of the most advanced anywhere in the world.

His cell phone beeped, and he looked at the caller ID, not surprised to not recognize it — he had been answering so many media requests that he just answered without screening: “Hello. This is Brad, Project Starfire.”

“Mr. McLanahan? My name is Yvette Annikki Svärd of the European Space Daily. We spoke briefly at your press conference in your laboratory a few days ago.”

He didn’t recognize the name, but he sure recognized the sultry accent. “I don’t think I caught your name at the press conference,” Brad said, “but I remember seeing it on the media list. How are you this evening?”

“Very well, thank you, Mr. McLanahan.”

“Brad, please.”

“Thank you, Brad,” Yvette said. “I have just returned to San Luis Obispo to attend your congratulatory party tonight and to observe the test firing of Starfire, and I had a few follow-up questions for you. Are you still in town?”

“Yes. But I leave for Battle Mountain early in the morning.”

“Oh, of course, the flight to Armstrong Space Station aboard the Midnight spaceplane. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Damn, that voice was mesmerizing, Brad thought.

“I do not wish to disturb you, but if you are available I would very much like to ask some questions and get your thoughts about flying to the space station,” Yvette said. “I can be on campus in a few minutes.”

“I’m not on campus,” Brad said. “I’m preflighting my airplane, getting ready to fly to Battle Mountain.”

“You have your own plane, Brad?”

“It was my dad’s. I fly it every chance I get.”

“How exciting! I love the freedom of flying. It is so wonderful, being able to hop into your own plane and go somewhere on a moment’s notice.”

“It sure is,” Brad said. “Are you a pilot?”

“I have only a European Light-Sport Aircraft pilot’s license,” Yvette said. “I could not fly from San Luis Obispo to Battle Mountain. I suppose that is a very easy trip in your plane.”

“Driving takes about nine hours,” Brad said. “I can do it in a little over two.”

“Wonderful. It must be a very nice plane.”

“Would you like to see it?”

“I do not want to impose on you, Brad,” Yvette said. “You have a very big few days coming up, and I have only a few questions.”

“It’s no problem,” Brad said. “Go south on Broad Street, right turn on Airport Road, and stop at the gate that’s marked ‘General Aviation’ on the left. I’ll come out and open it for you.”

“Well… I would love to see your plane, but I do not wish to disturb you.”

“Not at all. I’m just waiting for the plane to update itself. The company would be nice.”

“Well, in that case, I would be happy to join you,” Yvette said. “I can be there in about ten minutes. I am driving a rented white Volvo.”

Ten minutes later on the dot, a white Volvo sedan pulled up to the terminal building. Brad stepped through the walk-through gate and swiped his access card on the reader, and the drive-through gate began to open. He jumped on his bike and headed back to his hangar, with the Volvo not far behind.

Brad had left the bifold hangar door open and the inside lights on, so Yvette could see the Silver Eagle as soon as she pulled up. “Nice to see you again, Brad,” she said as she emerged from the car. She shook his hand, then offered him a business card. “I hope you remember me?”

“Yes, I certainly do,” Brad said. Damn, he remarked to himself, she’s even hotter than last time. He turned and motioned to the plane. “There she is.”

“It is beautiful!” Yvette remarked. “It looks like you keep it in immaculate condition.”

“I still consider it my dad’s plane, so I work on it every chance I get and clean it up after every flight,” Brad said.

“Your father was such a great man,” Yvette said. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

Brad always had to remember to play along with these sentiments offered to him all the time from the media — it was tough, but he was getting better and better at playacting that his father was indeed dead. “Thank you,” he replied.

Yvette stepped inside the hangar and began admiring the plane. “So. Tell me about your sexy plane, Brad McLanahan.”

“It is called a Silver Eagle, a Cessna P21 °Centurion which had its 310-horsepower piston gasoline engine replaced with a 450-horsepower jet-fuel turboprop engine,” Brad said. “It has a bunch of other mods to it as well. About two hundred and fifty miles per hour cruise speed, a thousand miles range, twenty-three-thousand-foot ceiling.”

“Ooo.” She gave Brad a naughty smile and said, “That would make it eligible for the four-mile-high club, not just the mile-high club, yes?” Brad tried to chuckle at her quip, but it just came out as a crude snort as he distracted himself thinking about how in the world he could manage to join that club in the cockpit of a Silver Eagle. “And you said the plane was updating itself?”

“Updates are broadcast by satellite,” Brad said, shaking himself loose from his fantasizing. “When they’re needed, I just plug the airplane into external power, turn it on, and wait.”

“That does not sound like a normal way of updating avionics and databases.”

“This plane has a few upgrades that are not yet available to the rest of the general aviation community,” Brad said. “My dad used his plane as a test bed for a lot of high-tech stuff.” He pointed to a tiny ball mounted midway along the underside of the right wing. “He used this plane for surveillance missions with the Civil Air Patrol years ago, so he had those sensors mounted on the wings. They’re about the size of tennis balls, but they can scan twenty acres a second day or night on both sides of the aircraft with six-inch resolution. The images are broadcast to ground receivers, or they can play on the multifunction displays in the cockpit, with flight or navigation information superimposed on it. I’ve made several landings in pitch-black with no lights using that sensor.”

“I’ve never heard of that before with a sensor so small,” Yvette said.

“I can do stuff on this plane that won’t be available to the public for at least five years, and maybe ten,” Brad said. “Completely automated clearances, air-traffic-control advisories, automated flight planning and rerouting, voice-actuated avionics, lots of stuff.”

“Can I write about this, Brad?” Yvette asked. “Can I tell my readers about this?”

Brad thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t see why not,” he said. “It’s not classified top secret or anything — it’s just not available to general aviation yet. It’s all been approved by the feds, but it’s not yet being manufactured or offered for sale.”

“But it represents the future of general aviation,” Yvette said. “I am sure my readers would love to read about this. May I get copies of the Supplemental Type Certificates and approvals for these wonderful systems?”

“Sure — it’s all public information,” Brad said. “After I get back, I can collect all that stuff for you.”

“Thank you so much,” Yvette said. “I can see I must make another visit to San Luis Obispo after your return…” She fixed her eyes on his and gave him a mischievous little smile. “Not just so you can tell me about your trip into space but to tell me more about your fascinating plane. May I take a peek inside the four-mile-high-club headquarters?”

“Sure,” Brad said. He opened the entry door for her, then glanced at her business card while she admired the interior — and yes, admired a peek at her exquisite ass that was shaking at him as she looked inside the plane. “You’re based in San Francisco? That’s an easy flight too. Maybe I could pick you up in San Carlos, we can do a test flight, and maybe have lunch in Half Moon Bay?”

“That sounds wonderful, Brad,” Yvette said.

“Yvette. Pretty name,” Brad added.

“Thank you. French mother and Swedish father.” She turned to him. “You are very generous with your— Oh!” Brad turned to where she was looking and was surprised to find Chris Wohl standing just a few feet away, his hands in his jacket pockets. “Hello, sir. May we help you?”

“He’s a friend of mine,” Brad said. “Yvette, meet Chris. Chris, Yvette, a reporter from the European Space Daily.” The two looked directly at each other. “What’s going on, Chris?”

Wohl remained silent for a few long moments, looking at Yvette; then: “There’s a few necessary items we have to cover before you depart, if you got a minute.”

“Sure,” Brad said, blinking in surprise. Something was going on here — why didn’t Brad detect it…? “Yvette, will you—”

“I have taken up enough of your time, Brad,” Yvette said. “I can e-mail you the questions I have. If you have time before takeoff, please reply; otherwise, they can wait until we meet again after your trip.” She extended a hand, and Brad took it, and then Yvette leaned forward and gave him a kiss on his cheek. “Good luck with your flight and the test firing. I hope you have a safe trip and much success.” She then extended her hand to Wohl. “Nice to meet you, Chris,” she said. After a few rather awkward heartbeats, Wohl slowly took his right hand out of his pocket and shook her hand, never taking his eyes off hers. Yvette smiled and nodded, gave Brad another warm smile, entered her car, and drove off.

When she was out of sight, Brad whirled toward Wohl. “What’s going on, Sergeant Major? You gave the warning code-phrase ‘necessary items.’ What’s happening?”

“Who is she?” Wohl asked in a low, menacing voice.

“A reporter for the European Space Daily, an aerospace blog based in Austria.” Brad gave him Yvette’s business card. “I’ve spoken to her before, at a press conference.”

“Did you check her out before inviting her out here to meet with you one-on-one?”

“No, but she was cleared by the university and given press credentials and access to the campus,” Brad replied, carefully studying Wohl, who looked genuinely worried about that encounter.

“A chimpanzee can get press credentials and campus access with enough bananas, Trigger,” Wohl said, using Brad’s new call sign, given to him after the shoot-out in Paso Robles — he didn’t know if it referred to the shoot-out or to the fact that he was a horse’s ass. “You didn’t check her out, but you invited her out to your hangar, at night, alone?”

“Dad checking in on me,” Brad said. He had forgotten that his father could access the security cameras in the hangar and monitor his cell-phone calls, and realized that Patrick had undoubtedly called whoever was closest to head out to the airport immediately and check out the reporter.

“Probably saved your ass, Trigger,” Wohl said.

“All right, all right, I violated standard security and countersurveillance procedures,” Brad said. “You and your team have been in town for months without one alert, one warning. Now why suddenly the warning code-phrase? How do you know she’s a threat?”

“I don’t know for sure — yet — but I have a very strong suspicion, and that’s all I need,” Wohl said. For the very first time since Brad had been working with Chris Wohl, he saw the big retired sergeant major hesitate, as if he was… embarrassed? Chris Wohl, retired sergeant major of the U.S. Marine Corps, caring what the hell anyone thought of him…?

“What the hell, Sergeant Major?” Brad said.

“I get a standard and… expected response from persons when I first encounter them, especially… especially women,” Wohl said.

“Let me guess: they recoil in abject gut-wrenching horror at the very sight of your radiation burns,” Brad deadpanned. “Pretty much the same reaction I had when I first saw you.”

“With all due respect, Trigger: fuck you,” Wohl said. That, Brad thought, was the real Chris Wohl he knew. “You didn’t notice it with your friend Yvette, did you? You’ve been lax in your countersurveillance tactics, haven’t you?”

“What in hell are you talking about, Sergeant Major?”

“Did you see the reaction from your friend Yvette when she saw me?” Wohl asked.

“Yes. She was… surprised. A little.” But Brad was thinking back and reevaluating his response. “And nice.”

“You think so, Trigger?” Wohl asked.

“I…” Brad paused. Boy, he thought, I completely missed something that has the big ex-Marine concerned, maybe even… scared? He thought hard, then said, “She was actually very collected. True, she didn’t react in shock or surprise to you, like I’ve seen even grown men do. But she was polite.”

“Polite, yes,” Wohl said. “What else? What was she really going for, being nice to the ugly weird-looking stranger that had suddenly appeared right behind her that she didn’t expect? What else was she computing, Trigger?”

“She…” Brad’s mind was racing, trying to catch up with the things that Chris Wohl obviously had already divined way earlier, the things he himself should have discerned if he hadn’t been distracted by outside — meaning sexual — factors. “She… she was trying to decide how she was going to… to deal with you,” Brad said finally.

“ ‘Deal’ with me?”

Brad hesitated again, but the answer was painfully obvious: “Eliminate you,” he corrected himself. Holy fucking shit, Brad thought, his eyes bugged out, shaking his head in disbelief. “She was after my ass, but you came along and surprised her, and she didn’t know what to do,” he said. “She had to make a last-second decision about whether to attack or withdraw, and she decided to withdraw. Oh, shit…!”

“Finally, you’re thinking tactically,” Wohl said. “You think that you if spend a few months with nothing happening that you are safe? You couldn’t be more wrong. Time always favors the patient hunter. It gives the enemy more time to do surveillance, plan, replan, and execute. You think that since the bad guys haven’t attacked in six months they’ve given up? Wrong. Moreover, you can’t afford to be more wrong.” Wohl frowned, deepening the lines in his face even more. “Tell me, Trigger: Will you ever see your friend again?”

“Sure — when she’s done stalking me and closes in for the kill,” Brad said. “But as a reporter? No way. She’s going to dive deep underground.”

“Exactly,” Wohl said. “She’s not done hunting, but you won’t see her interviewing anyone ever again, at least not in North America.” He looked around at the gathering darkness. “She had several opportunities to take you down out here at the airport from a distance, without being seen by security guards or cameras, and she didn’t take them. What does that tell you, Trigger?”

“That she doesn’t want to do it from a distance,” Brad said. “She prefers to do it up close.”

“What else?”

Brad thought for a moment; then: “She’s not afraid of being photographed. She believes she can escape, or she has a network behind her that she’s confident can get her out.”

“Or both,” Wohl said. He looked at the business card. “Svärd. Swedish for ‘sword.’ She picked that cover name for a reason, I’ll bet.” Brad swallowed hard at that. “She’s pretty brazen, that’s for sure: she picked a cover that puts her in rooms with lots of cameras and microphones, and she’s not afraid to dress in a way that calls attention to herself — exactly the opposite of what is taught. She’s either really stupid, or a very talented assassin. She’s definitely a cool cucumber. I’ll bet there are lots of pictures of her. I’ll have the team start tracking her down.” He thought for a moment. “Huggins is already in Battle Mountain, yes?”

“Casey had to go early so they could fit a space suit for her,” Brad said.

“How’s the weather between here and Battle Mountain for tonight?”

“Clouds over the Sierra, maybe a little turbulence over the summit, but okay otherwise.”

“You had something planned for tonight back on campus, yes?”

“The college of engineering was going to throw a little party for the Starfire team.”

“Something came up, and you had to report early to Battle Mountain to prepare for the flight to the space station,” Wohl said. “Make your apologies later. Your new friend Yvette was invited to that party, yes?” Brad said nothing, but the realization was clear on his face. “If I was brazen enough to try again on the same day, that’s where I’d lie in wait. You’re not going back to that campus.” He got no argument from Brad — who knew how close he had come to being the woman’s next victim, if she was indeed who they thought she was. “Do your preflight, then get going as soon as you can. I’ll wait here until you’re airborne.”

Brad nodded and stepped inside the hangar. But before beginning his preflight, he turned to the security camera up in the corner and said, “Thanks, Dad.”

Seconds later, he received a text on his smartphone. It read, You’re welcome, son. Fly safe.

“Pressure disconnect,” Boomer announced. Brad McLanahan pulled off some power and let the S-19 Midnight spaceplane slip back into precontact position behind and underneath the Sky Masters Aerospace’s B-767 aerial refueling tanker. The refueling boom retracted back up underneath the tanker’s tail.

“Showing you clear, Midnight Seven,” the computerized female voice of the robotic boom operator said. “Is there anything else we can do for you, Seven?”

“A cup of coffee would be nice,” Boomer said, “but failing that, we’ll say adios.”

The 767 tanker started a steep left turn. “Masters Three-One is clear, Seven,” the voice said. “Have a nice day.”

Boomer raised the visor on his Electronic Elastomeric Activity Suit’s oxygen helmet, observed the Midnight spaceplane’s computers run the “After Refueling” and “Before Hypersonic Flight” checklists, then looked over at Brad in the mission commander’s seat. Brad was wearing an ACES orange partial-pressure space suit and helmet; his gloved hands were on the sidestick controller and throttles on the center console, and he was comfortably seated, staring straight ahead as if he was watching TV on the sofa. Brad raised the visor on his helmet when he noticed Boomer had done so.

“You know, Brad, you’re the second passenger in a row that I’ve had that has watered my eyes.”

“Say again?” Brad said.

“First President Phoenix, and now you: both you guys are acting as if you’ve been astronauts for years,” Boomer said. “You fly the spaceplane like a pro. You look totally at home.”

“It’s really not that much different than the B-1B bomber, Boomer,” Brad said. Sky Masters Aerospace under Patrick McLanahan had refurbished a number of retired B-1B Lancer bombers and returned them to service, and Brad had trained to ferry the planes from Battle Mountain to Guam to counter the People’s Republic of China’s aggressive moves against its neighbors in the South China Sea. “It’s a lot sprightlier at higher airspeeds, but subsonic it handles very much like the Bone, and the sight picture at the contact position under the tanker is almost exactly like the B-1.”

“Well, I’m impressed,” Boomer said. “You’ve been hand-flying it for almost the entire flight, and from the right seat no less, and wearing a space suit and bulky space-suit gloves to boot. Ready for the next step?”

“You bet I am, Boomer,” Brad said.

“I’ll just bet you are,” Boomer said. “Now, up until now the worst G-load you’ve pulled was about two, but now it’s going to get a little more intense. We’ll only pull about four Gs maximum, but you’ll feel them for a longer period of time. I’ll let you hand-fly it, but if the Gs get to be too much, let me know and I’ll let George the autopilot fly it. Remember the weight of your fingers will be almost a pound each. Don’t try to tough it out — say something and I’ll turn the autopilot on.”

“I will, Boomer.”

“Good. Casey?”

“Yes, Boomer?” Casey Huggins replied. She was in the spaceplane’s passenger module in the cargo bay with Jessica “Gonzo” Faulkner. Casey was wearing her partial-pressure space suit with her visor closed; Gonzo was wearing her skintight EEAS.

“Remember what we told you about the G-forces,” Boomer said. “If you’ve been on a roller coaster before, you’ve felt pressure like you’re going to feel, only it’ll last longer. Your seat will help you stay ahead of the pressure. Ready?”

“I’m ready, Boomer.”

“Gonzo?”

“Ready.”

“Brad?”

“I’m ready.”

“Then prepare for some fun, mission commander,” Boomer said to Brad. “You’ve got your flight director in front of you. I’ve got your throttles. Keep the flight director centered, just as if you were flying an instrument-landing-system cue. We’ll start out at around twelve degrees nose up, but as the speed picks up it’ll go higher. Like you said, the S-19 likes to go fast, so it’ll feel very light on the controls the faster it gets until we’re above the atmosphere and the control sticks switch to reaction-control mode, and then it’ll be kind of a pig. I show us at the insertion window now. Checklists are complete. Here we go.”

Boomer slowly advanced the throttles. Brad forced himself to remain calm as he felt the acceleration and the G-forces starting to build. He saw the flight-director wings move upward, and he pulled back on the controller a little too hard, and the wings dropped down, meaning their nose was too high. “Nice and easy, Brad. She’s slippery. Light touches on the controls.” Brad relaxed his grip on the controller and gently guided the flight-director wings onto the pyramid. “There you go,” Boomer said. “Don’t anticipate. Nice easy inputs.”

The Mach numbers were clicking off very rapidly, and they transitioned from turbofan to scramjet mode faster than Brad could have imagined. “Sixty-two miles up, Brad and Casey — congratulations, you are American astronauts,” Boomer said. “How’s everybody doing?”

“Pretty… good,” Casey said, obviously straining through the G-forces. “How… much… longer?”

“A few more minutes, and then we’ll switch to rocket mode,” Boomer said. “The Gs will jump from three to four — a bit higher G-forces, but it won’t last as long.” He looked over at Brad, who hadn’t moved much at all during the boost. “You doing okay over there, mission commander?”

“I’m doing okay, Boomer.”

“You’re doing great. You got some competition up here, Gonzo.”

“I haven’t had a vacation in a while — Brad can take my shifts,” Gonzo said.

A few minutes later the scramjets fully spiked, and Boomer kicked the “leopards” into full rocket mode. He noticed a few more dips and swerves in the flight director, although Brad was still sitting straight and didn’t look like he was moving a muscle. “Doing okay, Brad?”

“I… I think so…”

“Walk in the park,” Boomer said. “Just don’t think about the fact that if you slip or skid more than two degrees, you can send us tumbling and skipping off the atmosphere for two thousand miles until we break up and crash to Earth in little fiery pieces.”

“Thanks… thanks, buddy,” Brad grunted.

“Took your mind off the Gs, I see,” Boomer said, “and your course has straightened out considerably.” And at that moment the “leopards” shut down and the G-forces stopped. “See? No problem, and we’re right on course. I’ll flip George on so you can take a minute to relax and breathe normally again.” For the first time in many hours, Brad took his hand off the controller and throttles. “It’ll take us about half an hour to coast up to station.”

Brad felt as if he’d just spent two hours getting beat up by Chris Wohl and his strike team in the gym. “Can we raise visors?” he asked.

Boomer checked the environmental readouts. “Yes, you can,” he said. “Cabin pressure in the green, clear to raise visors. We’ll let Brad rest up a minute — he’s had a good little workout, hand-flying a spaceplane from zero to Mach twenty-five. After a couple minutes, I’ll have him come back to the passenger module, and have Casey come up for docking. Nice and easy moving about the cabin, everyone.”

Brad raised his visor, then found his squeeze bottle of water and took a deep squirt, being careful to keep his lips sealed around the tube and to squirt the water deeply into his mouth so the throat muscles could carry it into his stomach — gravity would no longer do that for him. That helped settle his stomach, but only a little. He put the water bottle away, then said, “Okay, Casey, I’m ready.”

It took a lot of grunting, groaning, bumping, and helmet-knockers, but Brad finally managed to get out of his seat and over to the airlock. “Not bad for the first time, Brad,” Boomer said, “but President Phoenix was better.”

“Thanks again, buddy,” Brad said. The zero Gs felt really weird — he almost preferred the positive Gs, he thought, even the crushing ones. He opened the airlock door, stepped through, and closed the cockpit hatch. “Hatch secure,” he said.

“Checks up here,” Boomer acknowledged.

The passenger-module door swung open, and Casey was right on the other side, floating horizontally like an orange-clad fairy, a huge grin on her face. “Isn’t this wonderful, Brad?” she said. “Look at me! I feel like a cloud!”

“You look great, Casey,” Brad said. I wish I felt the same, he thought. He backed away from the hatch to let Casey pass and was rewarded with a crash against the bulkhead, a few pings off the deck and ceiling while he tried to steady himself, and yet another head-knocker.

“Nice, easy movements, Brad,” Gonzo told him. “Remember…”

“I know, I know: no gravity to stop me,” Brad said.

“Watch Casey and you’ll learn,” Gonzo said with a smile.

“See ya, Brad,” Casey said gaily. With barely perceptible touches along the bulkhead, she glided like a wraith into the airlock.

“Show-off,” Brad murmured as he helped close the airlock hatch. He couldn’t wait to get into his seat, fasten his safety belts and shoulder harness, and crank those straps down as hard as he could.