Starfire

EIGHT

“Tri… dva… odin… zapusk…” the launch-center master controller announced. The spaceplane shuddered, then shook, then rumbled as if it were going to shake itself to pieces, but then the cosmonaut felt the hold-down towers separate. The rumbling stopped, and very soon the G-forces started to build as the Angara-A7P booster began its ascent.

“Main thrusters at one hundred percent power, all systems nominal,” reported the lone cosmonaut. Colonel Mikhail Galtin was the number one active cosmonaut in the Russian Federation and commander of the astronaut training corps at Star City near Moscow. He was a twenty-two-year veteran of the Soviet and Russian space corps, with four public trips to space, including the first transfer from one space station to another. He also had several flights into space with classified projects, including two military space stations based on Salyut-7 and Mir. But he was known in cosmonaut circles as a member of the design team, one of the first spaceplane pilots, and now the most experienced pilot of the Elektron spaceplane, the only spacecraft specifically designed as an attack plane — a space-borne fighter.

Galtin was a protégé of the then — Soviet Union’s most gifted and skillful cosmonauts since Yuri Gagarin: General-Lieutenant Alesander Govorov, Colonel Andrei Kozhedub, and Colonel Yuri Livya. Govorov was the true pioneer, the father of the Soviet Union’s Space Defense Force, the first military branch in the world dedicated to manned space operations in defense of the homeland. No military cosmonaut stepped aboard any spacecraft unless Govorov had done it first, even if it was just another copy of an Elektron or Salyut. Kozhedub and Livya were the “Red Barons” of the Soviet Union’s Space Defense Force, Govorov’s wingmen on attack missions, and feared adversaries in space or on Earth. Galtin was just a young trainee when these space giants had taken on the United States and Armstrong Space Station in combat.

The Elektron spacecraft occupied the top stage of the Angara booster, mounted vertically atop the booster with its tail and wings folded, within a protective shroud that would open after orbital insertion and allow the spaceplane to fly free. Although Galtin had plans for a two-seat version of Elektron, all of the spaceplanes now flying were single-seaters, and they were the only spacecraft in the world that flew just one passenger into space.

In less than ten minutes, Galtin was in orbit. He performed several functional checks of his Elektron spaceplane and its payload while he waited for his objective to come into range.

“Elektron One, this is Control,” the mission controller radioed about two hours later. “Range to Kosmos-714 is inside one hundred kilometers.”

“Acknowledged,” Galtin said. He activated Elektron’s radar, and a few seconds later found his objective. “Elektron One has radar contact.” Kosmos-714 was an electronic eavesdropping satellite that had malfunctioned and had been in a decaying orbit for several years — it would make a perfect target. It was in a different orbit than Galtin’s; their orbits would cross about five kilometers from each other at their closest point.

As was the case for any fighter pilot, it was necessary to do a little gunnery practice every now and then.

Galtin entered commands that opened the cargo-bay doors atop the fuselage and extended a large canister, called Gvozd’ or “Hobnail,” from its stowed and locked position. At fifty kilometers he entered commands into his autopilot that would take control of the Elektron’s attitude thrusters and rotate the spacecraft to track the satellite as it passed by. The two spacecraft were converging at over thirty thousand kilometers per hour, but that wouldn’t matter for this weapon.

At thirty kilometers’ range he activated the weapon. Outside Elektron there was nothing to see, but on the radar screen Galtin noticed the bloom and shaky path of the target satellite on radar, and in seconds he noticed that there were multiple objects on radar now — the satellite had been broken apart.

Hobnail was a one-hundred-kilowatt, carbon-dioxide, electric-discharge coaxial laser. It had a maximum range of more than fifty kilometers, but even at that range the laser could burn through a centimeter of solid steel in seconds — the skin on Kosmos-714 was far thinner. The batteries for the laser allowed it to be fired for about thirty seconds maximum, no longer than five seconds per burst, which equated to about six to seven bursts depending on how long the laser was activated. That was about half the number of attacks as in the Elektron’s current weapon, the Scimitar hypervelocity missiles, but Hobnail had much greater range and accuracy and could engage targets in any direction, even targets crossing at very high speeds. That was Hobnail’s first successful test in space, although the laser had been used successfully in a laboratory for many years. Every Elektron spaceplane would eventually get one, as would the Russian Orbital Section, the Russian-built segment of the International Space Station that had recently been separated from the ISS.

Galtin entered commands into his computer to stow the Hobnail back into the cargo bay and deactivate his attack radar. He would not begin his deorbit for another seven hours, but there was one more task to accomplish.

Three hours later, he reactivated the radar, and there it was, exactly where it was supposed to be, just thirty kilometers away, well within range of Hobnail: Armstrong, the American military space station. It was at a much higher altitude and in a completely different orbit — there was never any danger of a collision — but surely the Americans would squawk about a deliberate flyby like this.

Too bad, Galtin thought happily. Space does not belong to the United States. And, if necessary, it will become a battleground once again.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe what I’m seeing!” Jodie Cavendish exclaimed when the monitor came to life. A round of applause broke out behind her from the spectators who had been cleared by the American Secret Service to watch the test firing — they were expecting the president of the United States to arrive in a couple hours. What they saw were Brad McLanahan and Casey Huggins, both wearing blue flight suits with patches of Armstrong Space Station and Project Starfire, floating in free fall at a console. Behind them were Kai Raydon and Valerie Lukas. “You made it! You made it!”

“Hi, Jodie; hi, Jerry; hi, Lane,” Brad said. “Greetings from Armstrong Space Station!”

“I just can’t believe what I’m seeing,” Jodie said, tears of joy streaming down her cheeks. “I never would have believed this would ever happen, mates.”

“You guys look great,” Lane said. “How was the spaceplane trip?”

“Awesome, Lane,” Brad replied. “The G-forces weren’t as bad as I was expecting.”

“Speak for yourself, buster,” Casey said. It was so strange to see the young woman floating in zero-G with legs extended underneath her, exactly like every other astronaut — it was almost jarring not to see her in a wheelchair. “I thought I was going to be squished inside out.”

“You guys feeling okay?”

“Not bad,” Brad said.

“He was puking his guts out,” Casey said with a giggle.

“Just twice,” Brad said. “I got a shot, and I’m feeling okay now.”

“I get dizzy every now and then, but I’m feeling great, Lane,” Casey said. “I still have my barf bag handy, though.”

“We heard you got to fly the spaceplane and even dock it on the station,” Lane said. “How cool! How was it?”

“I had a few shaky moments, but it went great,” Brad said. “I wish Boomer the pilot was here, but he had to take the spaceplane to the International Space Station — since the Russians disconnected their service module, they can’t make as much water and oxygen as before, so some techs have to leave. How’s everything looking from down there, Jodie?”

“Apples, Brad,” Jodie replied. “However, we’re still getting that intermittent fault on the lithium-ion capacitor output relay, the same one we’ve been working on for a couple weeks now.”

“Is Jerry up on the channel with us?”

“He’s meeting with his team on a video teleconference to try to come up with a solution,” Jodie said. “He’s thinking it’s a temperature issue — he says when the station is in sunlight the relay works fine, but then when they go into shadows the problem sometimes crops up.”

“Unfortunately, that means a spacewalk to change out the relay or its temperature-control unit,” Kai Raydon said. “That could take a day or two.”

“It won’t affect our positioning with the rectenna, will it, sir?” Brad asked.

“A delay will degrade the test a little, depending on how many days it takes for the fix,” Kai said. “We moved Armstrong into what is called a sun-synchronous orbit for this test, which means we pass over the same spot on Earth — the rectenna site at the White Sand Missile Test Range — at the same mean solar time every day. But because our altitude is lower, we move a few degrees away from the ideal spot every day, so our time within view of the rectenna will get shorter and shorter, all the way down to less than a minute. The situation reverses itself eventually, but it takes twenty-four days to get back to the ideal position. We’re in that ideal time right now, with the maximum exposure available at the target’s latitude. We just have to hope the relay works when it’s time to open fire.”

“God, it had better,” Jodie said, patting her laptop. “C’mon, baby, you can do it.”

“It might be a little embarrassing if it won’t fire, with the president due to observe the test,” Brad said. “Is there something else we can try?” He looked around the command center and noticed the empty control console for the Skybolt laser. “What about Skybolt?” he asked.

“Skybolt is a free-electron laser, Brad,” Kai said. “It’s been deactivated so we could install your microwave cavity.”

“What about Skybolt’s power source, the magnetohydrodynamic generator?” Brad asked.

“You mean, use power from the MHD instead of the solar energy you’ve collected?” Valerie Lukas asked with a hint of a smile. “Wouldn’t that be like cheating?”

“We’ve been collecting power with the nantennas and storing electricity in the capacitors, Sergeant, so we know all that works,” Brad said, “and we’ve done discharge tests on the microwave cavity, so we know we can produce maser energy. All we need to do now to validate the project is hit the rectenna with a maser and have it produce electricity on the ground. Maybe we can do that with the MHD instead of the energy in the capacitors that we can’t get to.”

Valerie turned to Kai and shrugged. “We did get permission to activate the MHD and test it,” she said. “We’ve run several full-power tests on it.” To Casey, she asked, “What sort of power do you need, Casey?”

“We were planning on sending five hundred kilowatts per minute through the microwave cavity,” Casey replied.

Valerie shrugged again. “We’ve done ten times that amount, but for much shorter periods of time,” she said. “But I don’t doubt the MHD can do it. We’ll have to watch the heat levels in your microwave generator and in Skybolt’s magnetic reflectors, collimator, and electrical assemblies, but we’ve already determined that the Skybolt subsystems can handle the energy coming from the lithium-ion capacitors — I’m sure they can handle the same power level and discharge durations from the MHD generator.”

“Just one last thing to do, then: get the go-ahead from the man himself,” Kai said.

They did not have long to wait. About ninety minutes later, President Kenneth Phoenix entered the lab and greeted all who were there, ending with Lane and Jodie. Cal Poly president Marcus Harris made the introductions. Phoenix shook Jodie’s hand first. “How do you do, Miss Cavendish?”

“Fine, Mr. President. I’m the nanotechnology team leader. Lane Eagan is the team leader for computers and software.”

The president shook Lane’s hand. “And how are you today, young man?”

“Great, Mr. President,” Lane said. He handed the president a silver-ink Sharpie, then stretched out a blank spot on the front of his blue-and-red Project Starfire nylon windbreaker. “Please, Mr. President?” Phoenix smiled and autographed the front of Lane’s jacket in big cursive letters.

“May I introduce you to the other Project Starfire team leaders, Mr. President?” Jodie said. She motioned to the large monitor on the wall. “Inset at the upper left is Jerry Kim, team leader for power and control systems, hooked up via satellite from the White Sand Missile Test Range, where the receiving antenna is located; and in the main window aboard Armstrong Space Station are Casey Huggins, directed-energy team leader, and our overall team leader—”

“Brad McLanahan, I know,” the president interrupted. Most everyone in the lab blinked in surprise — Brad McLanahan was an acquaintance of the president of the United States? “We’ve met many times, although you were pretty young and probably don’t remember.”

“No, sir, I remember,” Brad said. “Nice to see you again, sir.”

“You guys having fun up there?” the president asked. “I know my trip up there was an experience I’ll never forget.”

“We’re having a blast, Mr. President,” Casey said. “Thank you so much for allowing us this awesome opportunity.”

“So along with brains, the whole world knows you guys have incredible courage,” the president said. “The first male and female teenagers, and the first paraplegic, in space, and they’re Americans. Congratulations. The whole country is proud of you, and the whole world is impressed, I’m sure. Where are we on the test firing, Brad?”

“We’ve run into a potential problem that we’re hoping you can help fix, sir,” Brad said.

“Me? How?”

“We’ve collected the energy that we’d like to beam to Earth,” Brad explained, “but we’re afraid we won’t be able to get it out of the storage units and into the microwave cavity to shoot it Earthward.”

“That’s too bad, guys,” the president said. “I hope it’s an easy fix for you.”

“Everything else works, sir, and we’ve proven we can form a maser beam,” Brad said. “The only thing we haven’t proven is getting the beam to Earth and transformed into electricity.”

The president looked over to his traveling campaign director and lead Secret Service detail, silently signaling them to start preparations to form up and move his convoy, then checked his watch. “I’m really sorry about this, guys,” he said, “but I don’t know how I can help, and we do have a schedule to—”

“Mr. President, we think we have a workaround,” Kai Raydon said.

“What’s that, General?”

“Instead of using the energy stored in Starfire’s capacitors, we’d like your permission to use Skybolt’s magnetohydrodynamic generator,” Kai said. “The MHD is still plugged into Skybolt, but the free-electron laser is disconnected so the students’ microwave generator could use Skybolt’s subsystems. We can route the power from the MHD to Starfire in exactly the same quantity as the capacitors. The only thing that’s changed from the students’ original plan is the source of the energy. You’ve already given us permission to test the MHD generator, and it’s fully operational. We’d like permission to use it to power Starfire.”

The president’s face turned somber, and he looked around at all of the faces in the lab and on the monitor. “General, you are absolutely sure that the big laser is disconnected and will not fire?” he asked, his voice low in great concern.

“Yes, sir, I’m positive.”

“Not one watt of laser light?”

“None, sir,” Kai assured him. “It would take a long time to plug Skybolt back in. No, sir, Skybolt won’t fire. I’m absolutely positive of that.”

He looked around again, then pulled out his secure cell phone. “I need to consult a few folks,” he said. “I’m afraid some might believe that your maser is really the Skybolt laser. I’d like to get a legal opinion before—”

“Excuse me, sir,” Jodie said, “but we need a decision pretty quickly — the station rises above the target’s horizon in about ten minutes.” She looked at the large teleconference monitor. “Sergeant Lukas, can you tell me how long it will take to connect the MHD to Starfire?”

Valerie turned to a computer console and typed in commands. “The hardwire connection is already there,” she said. “Testing the circuitry should take just a few minutes unless we find problems. No guarantees, but I think we can do it in time.”

Jodie turned to the president. “Sir?”

Phoenix looked even more grim-faced than before, but after a few tense moments he nodded and said, “Do it. Good luck.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jodie said. Her hands flew over her laptop’s keyboard, and Lane was actually punching instructions into two laptops at once. “Sergeant Lukas, you have the cavity power-control program on checklist page two-twelve bravo.”

“Got it,” Valerie said. “Engineering, this is Operations, spin up the MHD, switch to page two-twelve bravo, power on system seventeen red and the MHD power-control subsystem and cross-check.”

“Standing by,” came the response from Alice Hamilton in the Engineering module, waiting for validation from the station commander.

“Engineering, this is Command,” Kai said on intercom. “Authorized to spin up the MHD and plug it into Starfire. Advise when ready.” He hit the all-stations intercom switch. “Attention on the station, this is the director. We will be activating the MHD generator and using it to send Project Starfire’s maser energy to Earth via Skybolt’s subsystems. As at any time we activate the MHD, I want all modules sealed up, on-duty crewmembers on oxygen, and off-duty crews to damage-control stations and into space suits. Report by department when ready.”

“Roger, Command,” Alice acknowledged. “Operations, MHD is spinning up. Stand by.”

“Roger,” Valerie said. She entered commands into her keyboard. “Henry, Christine, get ready to do your thing.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Henry Lathrop said. He and terrestrial-weapons officer, Christine Rayhill, were at their stations in their oxygen masks, running checklists. A few minutes later, the command monitor switched from an overhead still satellite image of the rectenna to a live image from Armstrong Space Station, clearly showing the large, dark, circular device all by itself in the New Mexico desert. “Combat is locked on to target,” Rayhill said. “No other secondary sensors available except the Project Starfire cameras.”

“We want this one right on the mark, Christine,” Valerie said. “Use everything you got.”

It was very close. After several faults were discovered and corrected, and about thirty seconds after the station had passed above the rectenna’s horizon, they heard, “Operations, Engineering, link established and tested. You have power, and the feed levels are programmed. Engineering has switched MHD control to Operations and is ready.”

“Roger,” Valerie said. “Command, permission to switch Starfire control to Combat.”

“Verify that Skybolt is cold, Valerie,” Kai ordered.

After a few moments, Valerie replied, “Verified, sir. Skybolt is cold.”

“Switch Starfire fire control to Combat, Valerie,” Kai said. He looked over at Brad and Casey. “Release authorized. Good luck, guys,” he added.

“Combat, you have control,” Valerie said after entering instructions into her computer.

“Roger, Combat has control. Starfire, how’s it look?”

“Everything is go, Armstrong, except for the capacitor discharge subsystem, and it has been deactivated,” Jodie said, nervously twisting her long blond hair. “Starfire is ready.”

“Roger that, Starfire. Good luck.” Rayhill entered a command. “Starfire is alive, guys.”

Absolutely nothing changed either on Armstrong Space Station or at the lab at Cal Poly for several long, tense moments. The only indication of anything happening was the suddenly excited face of Jerry Kim as he checked his readouts: “Rectenna receiving power, Control!” he shouted. “Point two… point four… point five… it is working, guys, it is working!” The control center at Cal Poly erupted into cheers and applause, and Brad and Casey almost flung themselves into an uncontrollable spin as they tried to hug each other.

“Microwave cavity is getting warmer, but it should still be within limits by the time we shut it down,” Jodie said. “Reflectors, collimators, and beam control temps are higher but still in the green. Engineering?”

“Everything is in the green, Starfire,” Alice reported. “We’ll hit the yellow temperature range in about three minutes.”

“One megawatt!” Jerry shouted a little more than a minute later. He was jumping around for joy on camera so much they could not see his face. “We have just received one megawatt of power from Starfire! The rectennas are right on their temperature curves — they should reach their yellow line in four minutes. Jodie, you did it! The rate of conversion is well past what we predicted! We could possibly get two megawatts before we hit the temperature limit! We could even—”

“I’ve received a warning from White Sands range control, guys,” Valerie announced. “Unauthorized aircraft entering the range. Shut Starfire down, Combat. Engineering, secure the MHD and reactor.”

“Roger,” Henry said. His finger was already on the “kill button,” and he entered the command instantly. “Nose is cold, crew.”

“Starfire is off-line,” Alice said. “MHD spinning down. Reactor is secure. Everything is in the green.”

“Congratulations, guys,” Kai said, removing his oxygen mask. “You pulled it off. You shot electrical power from space to Earth.” On intercom he said, “All personnel, this is the director, you may secure from MHD stations. Join me in extending congratulations to the entire Starfire team for a successful test firing.” Applause broke out in the command module.

“We couldn’t have done it without you and everybody on station, sir,” Brad said after removing his oxygen mask. He hugged Casey again. “It worked, Casey. Your microwave generator worked!”

“Our microwave generator,” Casey said. “Our Starfire! It worked! It worked!” And to celebrate further, she pulled out her barf bag and threw up in it.

Despite the sudden shutdown, the celebrations continued at the lab at Cal Poly, and President Phoenix was applauding just as enthusiastically as everyone else. “Congratulations, Miss Cavendish, Mr. Eagan,” he said. He was directed by his traveling campaign manager where to stand and face, and he had the two team leaders at his side and the large monitor showing the others over his shoulder when the cameras started to roll.

“I was privileged to attend and watch an amazing occurrence here at Cal Poly: the first successful transmission of electrical energy from space to Earth,” he said. His staff had prepared several sets of remarks for him, including a speech in case Starfire didn’t work, the spaceplane was lost, or the device destroyed the space station. He was overjoyed — and relieved — to be giving this version. “Although just in its infancy, this is a remarkable achievement, made no less remarkable by the fact that a team of undergraduate college students designed, built, installed, and operated it. I’m very proud of these young people for their achievements, and it highlights perfectly what an investment in education, technology, and space sciences can produce. Congratulations, Jodie, Brad, Casey, and Jerry, and to the entire Starfire team.” The president stayed for several minutes longer for pictures, then departed.

“How far are we from that antenna, man?” the pilot of a Cessna 172 Skyhawk asked, sweeping rows of brown dreadlocks out of his eyes. “Everything looks the same around here.”

“About ten more minutes,” the man in the right seat said. He was using a map application on his smartphone to navigate the little plane. Like the pilot, he had long, shoulder-length, dirty-looking hair, a beard, mustache, and thick glasses. The pilot was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, knee-length Bermuda shorts, and sneakers; the right-seater wore a T-shirt, cutoff jeans, and sandals. “Stay on this heading.”

“All right, all right,” the pilot said. They had lifted off from Alamogordo — White Sands Regional Airport about a half hour earlier and headed northwest, entering Holloman Air Force Base’s Class-D airspace without talking to anyone on the radio. “You sure you got the right spot, man?” the pilot asked.

“The news reports about the test pointed it out pretty clearly,” the other man said. “We should see it when we get closer — it’s pretty big.”

“Man, this is loco,” the pilot said. “They said on the news that no aircraft will be allowed to fly near the antenna.”

“What are they going to do — shoot us down?” the navigator said.

“I don’t want to get shot down, man, not by the military or this… phaser beam, laser beam, whatever the fuck it is.”

“I don’t want to fly over the antenna, just close enough so they’ll cancel the test,” the navigator said. “This is an illegal test of a space weapon, and if the federal government or the state of New Mexico won’t stop it, we’ll have to do it.”

“Whatever,” the pilot said. He strained to look out the windows. “Are we getting… holy shit!” There, off to their left, not more than a hundred feet away, was a green military Black Hawk helicopter with U.S. AIR FORCE in large black letters on the side, flying in formation. The helicopter’s right sliding door was open, and a crewmember in a green flight suit, helmet, and lowered dark visor was visible. “We got company, man.”

The helicopter crewmember in the open door picked up what looked to be a large flashlight and began blinking light signals at the Cessna pilot. “One… two… one… five,” the pilot said. “That’s the emergency distress freq.” He changed his number one radio to that frequency.

“High-wing single-engine Cessna, tail number N-3437T, this is the United States Air Force off your left wing, transmitting on GUARD,” they heard, referencing the universal VHF emergency frequency. “You have entered restricted military airspace that is active at this time. Reverse course immediately. The area is active and you are in great danger. Repeat, reverse course immediately.”

“We got a right to be here, man,” the pilot radioed. “We ain’t doin’ nothin’. Go away.”

“November 3437T, this is the United States Air Force, you are putting yourself in great danger,” the helicopter’s copilot said. “Reverse course immediately. I am authorized to take any action necessary to prevent you from proceeding into restricted airspace.”

“What are you going to do, man — shoot us down?” the Cessna pilot said. The helicopter did have a long tube thing on its nose that looked like a cannon — he didn’t know it was just an air refueling probe. “Listen, we just want to stop the Starfire test, and then we’ll go back home. Go away.”

At that, the Black Hawk suddenly accelerated and did a steep right turn, passing in front of the Cessna not more than one hundred feet away, its rotor disk filling the Cessna’s windscreen. The startled pilot cried out and yanked the control yoke back and to the left, then had to fight to regain control as the little airplane almost stalled. They could hear the helicopter’s rotor beats thumping against the Cessna’s fuselage as it circled around them.

The Black Hawk appeared off his left wing seconds later, closer this time, the beat of the rotor blades now thunderous, as if a giant invisible fist were beating on the side of their little airplane. “N-3437T, reverse course immediately! This is an order! Comply immediately!”

“Is that dude crazy, man?” the pilot said. “I nearly crapped my pants!”

“I see it! I see it, I see the antenna!” the right-seater said. “A little to the right, on the horizon! Big round sucker!”

The pilot followed his passenger’s pointing finger. “I don’t see nothin’, man, I don’t— Wait, I got it, I got it,” he said. “That big round thing in the desert? I’ll head over to it.” He put the little Cessna into a steep right bank…

… and as soon as he did so, the Black Hawk helicopter made a steep left turn, blasting the Cessna with its powerful rotor wash. The action flipped the Cessna completely upside down. It entered an inverted flat spin and crashed into the New Mexico desert seconds later.

“Congratulations, Jung-bae, on a successful test of Starfire,” Dr. Toshuniko “Toby” Nukaga, professor of aerospace engineering at Cal Poly, said via a video teleconference hookup on his laptop computer from his room at an upscale hotel in Seattle, Washington. “I just heard the news. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there, but I am chairing a conference up in Seattle.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jerry said. He was in a trailer about a mile from the Starfire rectenna site in the White Sands Missile Test Range northwest of Alamogordo, New Mexico, surrounded by laptop computers used to monitor the power and steering systems aboard Armstrong Space Station. Seven team members were with him, high-fiving one another as they began analyzing the mountain of data they had received. “I am sorry you could not be here as well, sir. You were the driving force behind this project from the very beginning.”

“The credit belongs to you and the others on the project team, Jung-bae — I was only the facilitator. So, how much energy did you transfer?”

“One-point-four-seven megawatts, sir.”

“Outstanding! Well done!”

“It had to be cut short because an unauthorized aircraft entered the range.”

“I had heard that some protesters were going to try to disrupt the test by flying a private plane over the rectenna,” Nukaga said.

Jerry blinked in surprise. “You did, sir?” he asked incredulously.

“Jung-bae, I’m here in Seattle at the annual conference of the International Confederation of Responsible Scientists,” Nukaga said. “There are over a hundred groups represented here of scientists, politicians, environmentalists, and industry leaders from all over the world — we even have the presidential candidate, former secretary of state Stacy Anne Barbeau, here to give the keynote later today.

“We also have a few rather radical groups here too, and one of them, Students for Universal Peace, approached me to complain that Cal Poly was involved in a weapons development program with Starfire,” Nukaga went on. “I assured them we were not, but they insisted. They said it was their duty to do anything they could to stop the Starfire test firing, even if it put their lives in jeopardy — I actually think they were hoping someone would get shot down by the maser just to prove it really was a weapon.”

“That is unbelievable, sir,” Jerry said. “Why did you not tell us about this?”

“I only half believed it myself, Jung-bae,” Nukaga said. “Frankly, the kids that confronted me looked like they didn’t know where their next meal was coming from, let alone having the wherewithal to hire a plane to fly over a government restricted area hoping to get shot down by a maser beam from space. So.” Nukaga was obviously anxious to change the subject. “Mr. McLanahan and Miss Huggins looked good aboard the military space station. I saw one of their press conferences last night. Are they doing well?”

“Very well, sir.”

“Good. Any problems? Any difficulties with the equipment or software?” Jerry hesitated and averted his eyes from his camera for a brief moment, and Nukaga noticed it right away. “Jung-bae?”

Jerry wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be talking about anything having to do with Starfire and the space station on an unsecure network — the team leaders had decided to discuss among themselves what got released and what didn’t — but Nukaga was one of their professors and an early but somewhat reluctant supporter of the project. “There was a potential problem with the relay I designed that allowed power to flow from the lithium-ion capacitors to the microwave generator, sir,” he said finally.

“A ‘potential’ problem?”

“It did not fail today, but… it was not one hundred percent reliable,” Jerry said uneasily, “and with the president of the United States attending the test firing at Cal Poly, we wanted to ensure we could hit the rectenna with maser energy.”

“Well, you did so,” Nukaga said. “The test was a success. I don’t understand.”

“Well, we… we did not use the energy we collected with the nantennas and stored in the capacitors.”

“Then what energy did you use?”

“We used power from the… the magnetohydrodynamic generator,” Jerry said.

There was silence on the line for several long moments, and on the video monitor Jerry could see the growing expression of disbelief on Nukaga’s face; then: “You mean, you activated the laser aboard Armstrong Space Station, Jung-bae?” Nukaga asked in a breathless, low, incredulous tone.

“No, sir,” Jerry said. “Not the laser. The free-electron laser itself was deactivated so we could use the laser’s subsystems for Starfire. We just used its energy source to—”

“That MHD generator was still operational?” Nukaga asked. “I was led to believe that all of the components of the Skybolt space laser had been deactivated.” Jerry had no response to that. “So the one-point-four megawatts you collected with the rectenna came from the MHD and not from Starfire?”

“Yes, sir,” Jerry replied. “We had validated everything else: we collected solar energy, stored the electricity, powered the microwave generator with it, and shot maser energy with the Skybolt’s reflectors, collimators, and steering systems. We just needed to hit the rectenna with maser energy. We wanted to do it on the first try, with the president of the United States watching. The MHD generator was our only—”

“Jung-bae, you fired a beam of directed energy at a target on Earth,” Nukaga said. “You shot one megawatt of energy for over two minutes at a distance of over two hundred miles? That’s…” He paused, running the calculations in his head. “That’s over three million joules of energy fired by the MHD from that military space station! That’s three times the legal limit, at a distance almost four times the allowed range! That’s a serious violation of the Space Preservation Treaty! That’s an offense that can be prosecuted by the International Court of Justice or heard by the United Nations Security Council! Space weapons, especially directed-energy weapons, are not allowed to be employed by anyone, even students!”

“No, sir, that cannot be right!” Jerry said, confused, afraid he had said too much and betrayed his colleagues, and afraid of raising the anger of his favorite professor and mentor. “Starfire is a solar power plant, not a space weapon!”

“It was, Jung-bae, until you abandoned using solar power and used the illegal military space laser’s power source!” Nukaga cried. “Don’t you understand, Jung-bae? You can use fireworks to celebrate the New Year, but if you use a Scud missile to do so, it changes and contaminates the very nature of the spirit you were trying to express, even if you don’t attack anyone or blow something up. That’s why we have laws against using such things for any purpose.” He saw the panicked expression in Jerry’s eyes and immediately felt sorry for him. “But you were in New Mexico, were you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did they consult with you on the decision to use the MHD generator?”

“No, sir,” Jerry said. “There wasn’t time, and I was on a teleconference with my team trying to come up with a solution to the relay problem.”

“Do you know who came up with the idea to use the MHD?”

“I believe it was Mr. McLanahan, sir,” Jerry said. Nukaga nodded knowingly — he could have easily guessed that. “He brought the idea up to General Raydon, the station commander, and to Sergeant Lukas, the station’s operations officer.”

“These are all members of the military?”

“They are all retired, I believe,” Jerry said, “but knowledgeable in space-station operations and hired by a private defense contractor to operate it.”

“ ‘Private defense contractor,’ eh?” Nukaga sneered. “Was it that company in Nevada, the one that presented the university with the seed grant money?”

“Yes… I… yes, sir, it was,” Jerry said… and moments later the realization began to sink in.

“You’re beginning to see now, aren’t you, Jung-bae?” Nukaga asked, seeing Jerry’s expression change. “Bradley McLanahan, the son of General Patrick McLanahan, a retired Air Force officer and former officer of that Nevada company, comes up with an idea for a so-called space-based solar power plant, and in just a few months’ time he’s assembled an engineering team and made several significant science and technological breakthroughs. Is it then a coincidence that Cal Poly gets the grant money? Is it just a coincidence that Mr. McLanahan wants to use Armstrong Space Station for Starfire, the station being managed by the very same Nevada defense contractor? I don’t believe in coincidences, Jung-bae. Neither should you.”

“But they received permission from the president of the United States to use the MHD,” Jerry said, “only and unless the Skybolt free-electron laser was not capable of being fired.”

“Of course. They couldn’t fire the laser without breaking the Space Preservation Treaty, so they got the next best thing: a maser, built by a bunch of college students, all very neat, uplifting, and innocent — hogwash, all hogwash,” Nukaga spat. “It seems to me that the so-called problems with your relay could have been easily contrived so they had to use the MHD generator to demonstrate the power of the maser weapon. Three million joules! I’ll bet the military was very pleased with this demonstration.”

“I designed the power relay system, sir, and only I was in charge of monitoring it,” Jerry said. “I assure you, no one deliberately tampered with it.”

“Jung-bae, I am very glad that you told me of this,” Nukaga said. “I am not implicating you of anything. It seems that Mr. McLanahan had his own agenda when he put this project together. As I suspected from the beginning, Mr. McLanahan was working with this defense contractor, and quite possibly the military itself, being the son of a prominent and infamous military officer, to build a space weapon and hide it from the world. He obviously had help from this contractor and the government — how else could a freshman gather all the resources needed to put together such a project in so short a time?”

“I… I had no idea, sir,” Jerry said, his eyes darting back and forth in confusion. “Mr. McLanahan, he… he seemed to possess extraordinary leadership and organizational skills. He was always very open and transparent about everything. He shared all of his resources with every member of the team. We knew every moment of every day what was needed and how he intended to get it.”

“Again, Jung-bae, I’m not implicating or blaming you for being taken in by this… this obvious huckster,” Nukaga said. He nodded, satisfied that he was on the right track. “It makes perfect sense to me. Our university has been taken in by a coordinated plot by McLanahan — more likely by his late father at first, then adopted by the son — supported by that defense contractor, the military, and their government supporters like President Kenneth Phoenix and Vice President Ann Page, to surreptitiously build a space-based directed-energy weapon and disguise it as nothing more than a student engineering project. How horrifyingly clever. How many other progressive, peace-loving universities have they perpetrated this scheme on? I wonder.”

Nukaga’s mind was racing for several moments before he realized he was still on the video teleconference with Jung-bae. “I’m sorry, Jung-bae,” he said, “but I must attend to a very important matter. You should leave that project immediately. In fact, if I find out that the university had anything to do with this military program, or if the university does not disavow any participation in the project and return the money it got from that defense contractor, I will resign my position immediately, and I would urge you to transfer to a different school. I’m sure we’d both be very happy at Stanford University. I look forward to seeing you soon.” And he terminated the connection.

My God, Nukaga thought, what an incredibly diabolical scheme! This had to be exposed immediately. It had to stop. He was the chair of this conference, and it was being beamed around the world — he certainly had access to cameras, microphones, and the media, and he intended to use them.

However, he admitted to himself, his audience, although global, was not that large. Most of the world considered the attendees as nothing more than tree-hugging Occupy Wall Street peacenik hippie wackos — one of the reasons he was asked to chair the conference was to try to lend a lot more legitimacy to the organization and the conclave. He needed some help. He needed…

… and in a flash he remembered, and pulled a business card out of his pocket, then pulled out his smartphone and dialed the Washington number of a man he knew was just a few flights upstairs. “Mr. Cohen, this is Dr. Toby Nukaga, the chair of the event… fine sir, thank you, and again, thank you and Secretary Barbeau for attending.

“Sir, I just received some very disturbing information that I think the secretary should know about and perhaps act upon,” Nukaga went on almost breathlessly. “It is in regards to the Starfire project… yes, the so-called space solar power plant… yes, I say ‘so-called’ because I have learned today that it is not by any stretch of the imagination a solar power plant, but a well-camouflaged space-weapon program… yes, sir, a military directed-energy space weapon, disguised as a student engineering project… yes, sir, the information was told to me by someone very high up in the project, very high up… yes, sir, I trust the source completely. He was taken in, just as I and my university and hundreds of engineers and scientists around the world were sucked into cooperating with it, and I wish to expose this frightening and outrageous program before any more harm is done… yes, sir… yes, sir, I can be upstairs in just a few minutes. Thank you, Mr. Cohen.”

Nukaga had hurriedly starting packing up his tablet computer when a text message came across its screen. It was from the head of Students for Universal Peace, one of the international environmental and world peace groups attending the conference, and the message read: Our protest plane was shot down by Starfire space weapon near rectenna site. We are at war.

“It is my pleasure and honor to introduce a person who certainly needs no introduction, especially to this assemblage,” Dr. Toshuniko Nukaga began, reading from the script that had been provided for him from Secretary Barbeau’s campaign office. “Stacy Anne Barbeau describes herself first and foremost as an Air Force brat. Born at Barksdale Air Force Base near Shreveport, Louisiana, she said that the roar of the B-47 and B-52 bombers outside her family’s home just lulled her to sleep, and the smell of jet fuel surely seeped into her blood. The daughter of a retired two-star Air Force air-division general, she moved residences a total of ten times with her family, including two postings overseas, before moving back to her home state of Louisiana to attend college. Undergraduate degrees in prelaw, business, and government from Tulane, a law degree from Tulane, then work in the public defender’s offices in Shreveport, Baton Rouge, and New Orleans, before running for Congress. Three terms in Congress were followed by three terms in the U.S. Senate, the last four years as majority leader, before being selected as the sixty-seventh secretary of state. Today, she is a candidate for president of the United States, and if she wins, she will be the first woman to hold that office. I cannot think of a person more suited for that position, can you?” There was a tremendous standing ovation that lasted almost a full minute.

“That’s her official background, my friends and colleagues, but let me tell you a few things about this extraordinary woman you may not know,” Nukaga went on. “There are two sides to Secretary Barbeau. There is the fierce but caring advocate for green technology, the environment, actions to counter global warming, and carbon control. But she is equally strong and dedicated to the strength and responsible modernization of our military. No surprise, she is a strong voice for the Air Force, but is also a supporter of our country maintaining its leadership on the world’s oceans and of maintaining a force that stands ready to help other countries in time of need with rapid, sustained, and powerful yet compassionate humanitarian assistance. I know her as having a strong, caring, and dynamic personality, but she is undoubtedly someone Humphrey Bogart might have called a ‘classy broad.’ ” Nukaga was relieved to get a peal of laughter and some applause for that line — it was one he would have deleted from the prepared introduction, if he had been allowed to do so.

“Stacy Anne Barbeau speaks five languages fluently. Stacy Anne is a scratch golfer. Stacy Anne knows Washington inside and out, but her roots and her heart are with the folks, you and me. Stacy Anne knows and cares about the U.S. military, the force that protects our nation and the free world, but Stacy Anne knows that the military is a force not just for war, but for defending those who cannot defend themselves.” Nukaga let his voice rise as he wound it up, and the growing applause from the audience helped tremendously — so much so that he found himself raising his arms and clenching his fists, something he thought he’d never do. “Stacy Anne Barbeau is a leader, a fighter, and a protector, and with our help and support, Stacy Anne Barbeau will be the next president of the United States of America!” Nukaga’s next words could not be heard because of the rumbling, ear-shattering standing ovation that erupted just then. “Ladies and gentlemen, friends and colleagues, please join me in welcoming the former secretary of state and the next president of the United States of America, Stacy Anne Barbeau!”

With a beaming smile and enthusiastic wave of both hands, Stacy Anne Barbeau strode onto the stage. She did something Stacy Anne Barbeau knew how to do with perfection: look professional, presidential, and seductive all at once. Her wavy blond hair and makeup were flawless; her dress was tight, which accentuated her curvaceous body without looking too trampy or obvious; her jewelry caught lots of attention, but just enough to make her look successful without looking flashy.

“Thank you, thank you, ladies and gentlemen!” Barbeau shouted into the microphone after she reached the lectern. She then recited her well-known and oft-repeated campaign motto in a very loud and Cajun-laced voice: “Let’s get the future started together, shall we?” The applause and shouting were deafening.

Barbeau stood silent at the podium until the shouting and applause died down, and then waited nearly an additional minute so that the audience was waiting for her words with breathless anticipation. Finally, she began: “My friends, as I begin I am going to deviate from my prepared remarks, because serious events have happened in the last several hours that I think you should know about.

“I’m sure you are all aware that I am not a big fan of President Kenneth Phoenix’s new so-called industrial space initiative,” she said. “I give the president all the credit in the world for flying up to the military space station to make his big announcement — despite costing the American taxpayer tens of millions of dollars for what turned out to be the planet’s most wasteful and unnecessary junket — but frankly, my friends, it’s all been downhill from there: relations with the Russians and many nations in Europe and Asia are at an all-time low and threatening to explode into diplomatic friction at best and a return to the Cold War at worst; the military no longer trusts the president because of all these looming wholesale cuts he plans to make to our proud military forces; the Russians have abandoned the International Space Station, and the European Union and Japan are considering doing the same; and the economy is still in the tank four years after he came to office, this despite an austerity campaign that has seen entire cabinet-level departments nearly eliminated. Is this what we want to see continue for another four years?” The audience started chanting a familiar phrase, one that had been repeated over and over during Barbeau’s campaign: “Dites-moi la vérité now, Ken Phoenix, or get down from the car!” a mixture of Cajun and Creole expressions.

After letting this go on for a few seconds, Barbeau raised her hands, smiling broadly, until the chanting finally ended. “But while he’s been warning us of his plans to cut the military in a time of ever-increasing danger to our country and our allies; while he’s warning us he’s ready to cut social safety-net programs and benefits meant to assist the most vulnerable of us; while he threatens to run up huge deficits to try to deploy these pie-in-the-sky space things, do you know what he did earlier today, my friends? Today, he fired a directed-energy weapon from space, a microwave laser, in direct violation of the Space Preservation Treaty. While the treaty has not yet been ratified by the Senate — an omission I will remedy when I take over the White House, I promise you — its terms have been closely followed for the past eight years so as to ensure peace. And do you know the worst part? In order to hide his program from the world, he disguised this act as an innocent undergraduate college experiment.

“That’s right, my friends. You’ve heard or read about the first teenagers in space, and of course, Casey Huggins, the first paraplegic in space, gifted young scientists who have the courage to travel in space to conduct this experiment. Well, it’s all a big lie. With the help of a Nevada defense contractor and the support of President Phoenix and Vice President Page, these students built a directed-energy weapon that orbits above our heads right now, and today was successfully fired at a target on Earth, all in the guise of a solar power plant that can deliver electricity to any part of the globe to help underprivileged communities or researchers in far-off parts of the world. Like we say down on the bayou, my friends: That dog don’t hunt.

“They tried to fool us, my friends,” Barbeau went on. “They tried to trick us. But one member of the so-called Project Starfire team couldn’t stand the hypocrisy any longer, and he called our conference chairman, Dr. Toby Nukaga, and told him the truth. That brave young man’s name is Kim Jung-bae, a gifted engineering student from United Korea, who was a team leader on the project but was not allowed to voice his opposition to the test firing. He is a hero for exposing this charade.”

Her face turned somber. “We also learned today that a terrible tragedy has occurred related to this directed-energy weapon — maybe you have already heard about it,” Barbeau went on. “One of the groups represented here, Students for Universal Peace, organized a protest over the Starfire test site. They hired two brave men to fly a small plane near the Starfire target. They knew the danger, but they wanted to do anything they could to stop the test. I’m sorry to report… the plane was shot down by the illegal space weapon. Yes, shot down by a microwave-laser beam from Armstrong Space Station. The two brave individuals aboard were killed instantly.” The room became completely silent except for a few sobs and gasps of horror, and all the attendees at one table immediately shot to their feet in shock and anguish and headed out of the hall.

Barbeau let the silence linger for a few moments. Then, slowly, gradually, her expression changed: no longer somber, but red-hot angry. “Enough of the double-talk, Mr. Phoenix,” Barbeau said, aiming her words and pointing a finger directly at the network and cable news cameras that had hastily been set up at her suggestion for her speech. “Enough of the lies and deception, enough of wasting our hard-earned tax money on dangerous and illegal weapons programs, and enough of killing innocent Americans who wanted nothing more than to voice their outrage and do something, anything, in the name of peace. Deactivate that space weapon immediately, abandon it, and allow it to deorbit, burn up, and crash into the ocean. Do it now.” More thunderous applause and chanting, “Do it now! Do it now! Do it now!”

“When I become president of the United States, my friends,” Barbeau went on after a minute of cheering and chanting, “I will restore faith and honor to this country, our military, the White House, and in the eyes of everyone around the world who yearns for freedom and prays for a helping hand. Our military will be number one again, not struggling to stay number three. When the oppressed and peace-loving people of the world look overhead, they won’t see rockets from their own government being fired at them, and they certainly won’t see an American military space station ready to turn their village into ashes or blast an airplane out of the sky with an invisible beam of light — they’ll see a transport plane flying the red, white, and blue of the flag of the United States of America, carrying food, water, medicine, doctors, and peacekeepers to assist them. And when Americans look for help and ask their government for assistance in feeding their children and getting jobs, they won’t hear about their president spending hundreds of millions of dollars taking a joyride into space or secretly building death rays — they’ll get the help they desperately need. That I promise!”

The applause and chanting were even louder than before, and this time Stacy Anne Barbeau let it go on and on and on.

“My remarks will be short and direct this morning, my fellow Russians,” President Gennadiy Gryzlov said into the camera from the television studio in the Kremlin. He wore a somber, stern expression, as if he were about to announce the death of a beloved person. “By now you should have heard about the remarks made by American presidential candidate and former secretary of state Stacy Anne Barbeau earlier today about the test firing of a directed-energy weapon from space at a target on Earth from the American military space station, and the downing of an American aircraft by the weapon. I and my ministers were horrified to hear of this. We are working to verify this information, but if it is true, these actions would be a serious threat to world peace — in fact, they are a treaty violation, a warning to the rest of the world, a provocation, and a virtual act of war.

“When we considered our options, we were concerned about creating a panic throughout Russia, and indeed the world. But we felt that we had no choice, and that is why I am speaking to you this afternoon. Moreover, we decided to act in a deliberate and immediate way to protect the lives of Russians and our friends and allies, as follows:

“First: beginning immediately, the Russian Space Defense Force will continually broadcast the predicted position of the American military space station and the potential range and azimuth of its directed-energy weapon, and give warnings of when and where the directed-energy weapon may threaten Russians, our allies, and our friends on the ground,” Gryzlov went on. “When the weapon is a threat to you, we ask that you take shelter underground or in the strongest building to which you can quickly evacuate. The exact properties of the weapon are unknown, so we do not yet know what the best shelter may be, but you may have a better chance of surviving an attack if you are indoors rather than outdoors. The threat may last as long as four minutes. You and your loved ones may be under threat from the weapon several times a day.

“Electronics may be affected by a blast from this weapon, so prepare your households and places of business to be without power for days or even weeks: stock blankets, food, and water; gather wood for a fire; and organize your neighborhoods to band together to help one another,” he went on. “If at all possible, avoid flying in aircraft, riding an elevator or electric train, or operating heavy machinery while the weapon is within the danger zone, because, as we have seen, the weapon can easily take down an aircraft and may be able to disrupt or even destroy electrical circuits.

“Second: I demand that all of the American space weapons on Armstrong Space Station be deactivated and destroyed immediately,” Gryzlov said. “This includes the Skybolt free-electron laser, the Hydra chlorine-oxygen-iodine laser, and the Kingfisher orbiting weapon garages; Starfire, the so-called college-student experiment which turned out to be in reality a microwave-laser weapon; and any other space-based weapons, their power sources, and all their components, whether or not the Americans classify them as defensive weapons only. In particular, Russia demands that the Skybolt module be separated from Armstrong Space Station within forty-eight hours, and that, when it is no longer posing a hazard to anyone or anything on Earth, it be deorbited and sent to burn up in Earth’s atmosphere or crash into the ocean. We have powerful ground sensors to detect if this is done. If it is not done, I must assume that the United States intends to continue to use the weapons, and Russia will immediately take all necessary steps to protect itself.

“Third: I hereby announce that, beginning in ten days, if the Americans do not destroy all of their space weapons, all airspace around the Russian Federation from the surface to five hundred kilometers’ altitude is now restricted airspace and closed to all unauthorized spacecraft or aircraft,” Gryzlov went on. “For decades, all nations recognized that only the airspace below twenty kilometers’ altitude could be restricted or controlled, but no longer. Our scientists estimate that the Americans can fire their directed-energy weapon as far as five hundred kilometers with enough power to kill a person on the ground, so that is the airspace that we will defend. Any unauthorized flight over the Russian Federation below that altitude, regardless of type of aircraft or spacecraft, will be considered hostile and be subject to neutralization. I know this impacts many nations, but the Americans have changed the world’s security dynamic for the worse, and we have no choice but to act. Ten days should be sufficient time for all unfriendly nations to alter the orbits of their spacecraft or provide us with details on the type, purpose, and orbits of aircraft and spacecraft overflying Russia in order to comply with this order.

“This restriction is especially true of one spacecraft in particular: the American single-stage-to-orbit spaceplanes,” Gryzlov said. “Because of their hypersonic flight capabilities in the atmosphere and their ability to boost themselves into Earth orbit, as well as their demonstrated ability to release weapons or insert weapon-carrying satellites into orbit, they are a particularly dangerous threat to the Russian Federation.

“Therefore, beginning in ten days, in order to allow time for the spaceplanes to evacuate any personnel from the International Space Station or Armstrong Space Station, the S-series of American spaceplanes will not be welcome over Russian airspace and will be engaged and shot down without further warning,” Gryzlov went on. “Let me repeat this so there is no confusion or doubt: beginning ten days from today, the American spaceplanes will be engaged if they overfly the Russian Federation. The threat of attack by these hypersonic aircraft is simply too great a threat to the Russian people. The United States possesses many man-rated commercial spacecraft that can service the International Space Station and perform other such tasks, and it will be allowed to do so after requesting permission to overfly Russia, but the spaceplanes will not be granted permission to fly over Russia under any circumstances.

“I was reluctant to take such drastic measures, my fellow Russians, but, after consultation with my counselors and after much prayer, I felt I had no choice if I was to protect Russian citizens from the danger they now face above their heads,” Gryzlov concluded. “I urge all Russians to take all necessary precautions to protect themselves and their families from the danger of space-weapon attack. If the Americans do not respond to my demands, I assure you, Russia will act. Stay informed and stay safe, my fellow Russians. May God bless the Russian Federation.”

Gryzlov rose from his seat and strode out of the Kremlin television studio, followed closely by his chief of staff, Sergei Tarzarov. He did not greet anyone or stop to chat, but quickly made his way back to his official office. Waiting for him inside were Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva, Minister of Defense Gregor Sokolov, and chief of the general staff General Mikhail Khristenko, who all rose when Tarzarov opened the door for the Russian president. “Excellent address, sir,” Sokolov said. “I think ten days will be sufficient for the Americans to begin negotiating for access to Russian airspace for their spacecraft.”

Gryzlov sat at his desk and glared at Sokolov. “I am not going to give anyone ten days,” he snapped, lighting a cigar, “and I will not negotiate for anything with anyone.”

“Sir?”

“Forty-eight hours, Sokolov,” Gryzlov said. “If I do not see that Skybolt module disconnected from that space station, I want that space station attacked the next time it flies over Russia, with every weapon in our arsenal. The same with any of their spaceplanes. I am not going to sit back and do nothing while the Americans fly over my head with a directed-energy weapon. I will take this country to war before I allow that to happen.”

Sergei Tarzarov picked up the telephone at the other side of Gryzlov’s office, listened, then put it back. “President Phoenix for you, sir,” he said.

“That did not take long,” Gryzlov said. He motioned for those in the room to pick up dead extensions so they could listen in on the translation, then picked up the phone on his desk. “What is it, Mr. Phoenix?”

“It wasn’t a directed-energy weapon, Mr. President,” Phoenix said through a translator. “It was a college engineering project, a space-based solar power plant. And that airplane wasn’t shot down by Starfire — it lost control while trying to evade an Air Force patrol helicopter after it had violated restricted airspace, several minutes after the test was terminated. I don’t know where Secretary Barbeau got her information, but she’s wrong, and you were misguided to believe it. She’s campaigning for president, and she wants headlines.”

“Wait.” Gryzlov hit the hold button and turned to those in the room with him. “Well well,” he said, “Phoenix starts this conversation with an attempt at an explanation. This could be interesting.”

“He could be willing to negotiate,” Tarzarov said. “Let him give something, and then you give something in return.”

“The hell you say, Tarzarov,” Gryzlov said angrily, but with a smile on his face. “I will not give one inch to this weak-kneed excuse for a head of state.” He hit the hold button again. “Are you saying Barbeau is lying, Phoenix?” he asked, no longer using Phoenix’s title or even addressing him as “Mister”—Phoenix’s opening move was a defensive one, and Gryzlov wanted there to be no doubt about who was now in control of this situation.

“I’m telling you the facts, Mr. President: Starfire is not a directed-energy weapon,” Phoenix said. “It is an experimental space solar-powered power plant designed by some California engineering students. The Skybolt free-electron laser was deactivated. The students’ experiment was to beam electricity from space to Earth. That’s it. The small plane crashed because its pilot was stupid, not because it was hit by the maser. The solar power plant is not a threat to anyone on the ground and will certainly not disable airplanes, elevators, trains, or anything else. You’re creating a panic over a harmless college experiment. Neither that project nor the space station is any threat to you.”

“Phoenix, I simply do not believe you any longer,” Gryzlov said. “You can do one thing only to restore my faith in your words: detach the laser module from the space station immediately. If you do this, I will not implement the enhanced restriction of Russian airspace, and I will enter in negotiations with you to create a permanent treaty on space weapons. All I care about is offensive weapons in space that might be a threat to Russia. Perhaps I received bad information about the nature of the device, but it still does not alter the fact that you have used the Skybolt module to shoot directed energy at the surface of the Earth, and that cannot be tolerated.”

Gryzlov noted the long silence on the other end of the line; then: “I will consult with my advisers, Mr. President,” Phoenix said finally.

“Very well,” Gryzlov said. “You have two days, Phoenix, and then Russia will defend its airspace and low Earth orbit as we would our motherland, with every man, woman, and child, and every weapon in our arsenal, at our disposal. That I promise, Phoenix.” And with that, he threw the phone back onto its receiver.

Sergei Tarzarov put the dead extension back on its cradle. “I think he will do as you ask and detach the laser module from the military space station,” he said. “He will certainly concede that. May I suggest—”

“No, you may not, Tarzarov,” Gryzlov interrupted. He turned to Minister of Defense Sokolov and Chief of the General Staff Khristenko. “I will give the Americans their two days to detach that Skybolt module from the space station, and I will allow them to fly manned capsules to their space station only if they inform us of their exact flight path and destination before launch, and if they do not deviate from that flight path by as much as a degree or meter. If they do not inform us, or if they deviate from their flight path, I want the spacecraft destroyed. The spaceplanes will be engaged whenever they come within range of our weapons.”

“What about details of their cargo or passengers, sir?” Foreign Minister Titenov asked.

“I no longer care what they might be carrying,” Gryzlov said. “From now on I am assuming that every spacecraft launched by the Americans carries a space weapon and is a danger to Russia. The Americans and that spineless president Phoenix are liars and a danger to Russia. I will treat them like the enemies they are, I will not concede anything, and I will work from the assumption that America is just waiting for the right opportunity to strike, so we must be ready to strike first.”