Starfire

THREE

“Of course I saw it!” former U.S. senator, Senate majority leader, and secretary of state Stacy Anne Barbeau exclaimed on the phone, staring dumbstruck at the large high-def television in her hotel suite. “Get the senior staff in here right now!”

Despite being in her early sixties, Stacy Anne Barbeau was still a beautiful, energetic, ambitious woman and a veteran politician. But those in the know knew that Barbeau was not a sweet Louisiana magnolia — she was a venus flytrap, using her beauty and southern charms to disarm and disable men and women alike into lowering their defenses and submitting to her wishes, willingly clamped tightly between her ruby-red lips. The whole world had known for a decade that she had presidential ambitions, and now those ambitions had been transformed into a high-powered, well-funded campaign that had maintained a small but consistent lead in the race against incumbent president Kenneth Phoenix…

… a race that had just been turned on its ear with that unexpected news conference from space.

Barbeau’s Washington campaign headquarters occupied an entire floor in the Watergate Hotel and office building. She had just returned to her hotel suite from a fund-raising dinner and turned on the news to watch the press conference, full of energy and excitement over another successful appearance. Now she stood in complete shock, listening to the stunned and flabbergasted commentators trying to make sense of what they had just seen: the president of the United States speaking to the world from Earth orbit.

Luke Cohen, Barbeau’s campaign manager and chief adviser, was the first to dash into her hotel suite. “That had to be faked or CGI’d,” he said breathlessly. Cohen, a tall, thin, good-looking New Yorker, had been Barbeau’s chief of staff during her years as Senate majority leader and as secretary of state. “No president of the United States would ever be stupid enough to fly into space, especially six months before an election!”

“Shush, I’m listening,” Barbeau said. Cohen turned away to answer his cell phone while she listened to the commentary.

“CNN,” Cohen said at the next break. “They want five minutes.”

“They can have two,” Barbeau said. An aide whose only job was to record every word that came out of Barbeau’s mouth rushed in, tablet computer at the ready. “It was the most audacious, sensationalist, dangerous, and irresponsible election-year stunt I have ever seen in my thirty years in Washington,” she recited. “President Phoenix is risking the safety and security of the entire nation and the free world with this reckless act. I seriously question his judgment, as should all Americans. For the good of the nation, as soon as he returns, he should undergo a series of medical and psychological examinations to check to see if he has suffered any ill effects of traveling in space, and if any are found he should immediately thereupon resign his office.” The aide tapped a button, and the words were sent to Barbeau’s chief speechwriter, who would put together talking points for her and the campaign’s spokespersons within minutes.

“Luke, assign a researcher to find out the symptoms of every known sickness or affliction that astronauts can suffer,” Barbeau went on, “and then I want him to watch every second of every public appearance Phoenix makes to see if he exhibits any of those symptoms.” Cohen had his cell phone out in a flash and issued the instructions. “So what do you think the feedback will be?”

“I agree with your points, Miss Secretary,” Cohen said. “At first, I think most voters will think it’s cool and exciting that the president flew into space and did a spacewalk, talk about his bravery, et cetera. But shortly thereafter, maybe by the time the morning talk shows start discussing this and people start to learn more about the dangers and risks, they might question his judgment and his ability to hold the office. The pressure to resign might be intense.”

“If he thinks he’s going to start gutting the military to pay for his fancy space weapons and cyberwarfare stuff, he’s sadly mistaken,” Barbeau said. “Take away two aircraft-carrier battle groups? Over my dead body. I want to build more carrier battle groups, not take them down! I want to go to shipyards, Navy groups, air bases, and veterans groups and talk about what the effect of doing away with two carrier battle groups will have on the economy as well as national defense. Cut the size of the nuclear deterrent in half? Cut tanks and fighters? Maybe he’s already suffering some kind of space sickness. He’s just committed political suicide. I’m going to see to it that he pays a price for this stunt.”

“I can’t believe he started talking about entitlement reform,” Cohen said. “That’s okay to do before the convention if you’re in a primary race, but he’s already got the nomination. No one is challenging him.”

“He’s going to regret that too,” Barbeau said acidly. “Find out how much one of those spaceplanes and that space station costs, and then find out how many people it will disadvantage if everyone loses even ten percent of their benefits to pay for a spaceplane that ninety-nine-point-nine percent of Americans will never even see, let alone fly. Find out what it cost to fly his butt up there and back, and then compute how much education, infrastructure, and medical research we could have done but for the president’s joyride.”

Stacy Anne Barbeau stepped over to a large mirror in her suite and examined her makeup. “You think you made history today, Mr. President?” she said. “You think you’re a big astronaut hero? You made the biggest blunder in your political career, buster, and it’s going to cost you. I’ll see to that.” She looked at Cohen through the mirror. “Luke, make sure there’s someone in Makeup ready for me and that my TV studio is ready to feed, and tell CNN I’ll be ready in five.”

“Chelovek deystvitel’no bezumno! The man is truly insane!” Russian president Gennadiy Gryzlov thundered at the television in his office at the Kremlin. “Phoenix thinks he is going to control all of outer space? He will soon learn just how wrong he is!”

Just forty years old, Gennadiy Gryzlov was the son of the former president Anatoliy Gryzlov, and his career paralleled his father’s to a great extent. Gennadiy Gryzlov had graduated from the Yuri Gagarin Military Air Academy and attended basic flight instruction at Baronovsky Air Base in Armavir and bomber flight training at Engels Air Base in southwestern Russia, and had been selected to attended command leadership school in Moscow just two years later. He wanted nothing more than to follow in his beloved father’s footsteps, and determined to do so without his family’s extensive government and petrochemical industry connections.

But shortly after completing command leadership school in Moscow but before he returned to Engels Air Base to take command of the 121st Guards Heavy Bomber Regiment, a Tupolev-160 Blackjack supersonic bomber unit, an event happened that changed his life forever: Engels Air Base was attacked by an American unmanned stealth bomber called an EB-1C Vampire, a heavily modified supersonic B-1 Lancer bomber, destroying dozens of Russian bombers awaiting orders to take off and destroy a nest of terrorists in Turkmenistan. Hundreds were killed in the air raid, including many of Gryzlov’s closest friends and fellow aviators. Both father and son were devastated and spent more than a month attending funerals and memorial services and planning how to rebuild the base and the bomber force.

It was never officially revealed, but the elder Gryzlov told his son who he thought planned the air raid: an American Air Force general by the name of Patrick McLanahan, acting without orders or authority from the American White House or Pentagon. Both men turned their sadness at the devastation into a white-hot burning desire for revenge against McLanahan.

With the destruction of Engels Air Base, Gennadiy shifted his focus from flying bombers and, with the help of his father, attended the Alexander Mozhaysky Military Space Academy in St. Petersburg, with a slot already reserved for him at the Cosmonaut Training Center at Star City. But his training there too was interrupted. An American bomber unit attacked a Russian defensive antiaircraft battery in Turkmenistan…

… and, it was soon discovered, the raid was planned and ordered by Major General Patrick McLanahan, again without proper authority from his superior officers.

That raid, Gennadiy knew, had pushed his father over the edge. President Gryzlov recalled all bomber crewmembers and sent them to Belaya Air Base in Siberia for training. Gennadiy was able to use his father’s influence to stay at Mozhaysky, but he carefully followed the activities of the vast array of long-range aircraft at Belaya and other bases like Irkutsk, Aginskoye, and Yakutsk, including sleek Tupolev-22 Backfires, reliable turboprop-powered Tupolev-95 Bears, supersonic Tupolev-160 Blackjacks, and Ilyushin-62 aerial refueling tankers. Something big, Gennadiy knew, was going to happen.

In late summer 2004, it did. Waves of Russian long-range bombers attacked American air defense and early-warning radar sites in Alaska and Canada with AS-17 “Krypton” antiradar missiles and AS-16 “Kickback” supersonic attack missiles, then launched AS-X-19 “Koala” long-range hypersonic cruise missiles with micro-yield nuclear warheads against intercontinental-ballistic-missile launch control centers, bomber bases, and command and control bases in the United States. The United States lost almost its entire land-based ballistic missile force, a large portion of its strategic bomber fleet, and tens of thousands of military personnel, family members, and civilians in the blink of an eye.

It soon became known as the “American Holocaust.”

Gennadiy was happy and pleased with the bravery of his fellow heavy-bomber crewmembers — many of whom were lost over the United States and Canada — and proud of his father for finally striking a decisive blow against the Americans. He hoped McLanahan was under one of those nuclear warheads. In the meantime, all training at Mozhaysky was canceled, and Gennadiy was ordered to report to Aginskoye Air Base in southern Russia to stand up a new bomber regiment where more Tupolev-160 Blackjack bombers that were being refurbished and returned to service would be sent. Russia was beginning to go on a war footing, and Gennadiy was happy that he was not going to be stuck in school while other brave Russian aviators would be going toe-to-toe against the Americans.

The preparations for war with the United States had hardly begun when the unthinkable happened. Yakutsk Air Base in Siberia was overrun and captured by a small force of American commandos, and the United States began flying long-range bombers and aerial refueling tankers from the base. Within days, American bombers were roaming most of Russia from Yakutsk, hunting down and destroying Russian mobile intercontinental-missile launchers and underground launch control centers with ground-penetrating precision-guided cruise missiles and bombs.

Gennadiy was not surprised to learn that the bomber force was led by none other than Patrick McLanahan.

President Anatoliy Gryzlov was forced to make a fateful decision: to destroy Yakutsk before the American fleet could devastate the mobile ballistic-missile force, the mainstay of Russia’s strategic deterrent. He ordered bombers to launch nuclear-tipped AS-X-19 Koala cruise missiles against the American-occupied base, without first warning the Russians still being held there. Although most of the cruise missiles were shot down by American air-to-air missiles and by a sophisticated airborne laser system installed on a few B-52 bombers, a few managed to hit the base, killing hundreds, Russians and Americans alike, who were unlucky enough not to make it to hardened underground shelters.

Gennadiy felt sorry for his father, who had been forced to make an awful decision and kill Russians to prevent the widespread destruction of the nation’s prized ICBM force. He wanted so badly to be with his father and lend him some moral support, but the elder Gryzlov was undoubtedly safe and secure in one of over a dozen alternate command centers in western and central Russia. Gennadiy’s greatest concern now was for his base and his regiment, and he ordered all nonessential personnel into shelters, fearing an American counterattack, and an acceleration of preparations for the Blackjack bombers that would hopefully be arriving shortly.

Gennadiy was deep into organizing his regiment and planning their activities when he received the devastating news the next morning: an American bomber task force of modified B-1 and B-52 bombers had blasted their way past western Russia’s sophisticated air defense network and attacked Ryazan Alternate Military Command Center, 120 miles southeast of Moscow. The devastation was complete… and Gennadiy’s father, the center of his universe, the man he wanted nothing more than to emulate, had been blown into dust. He made immediate arrangements to head back to Moscow to be with his mother and family, but before he left Aginskoye he learned that his mother, upon hearing the news about her husband, had committed suicide by an overdose of sleeping pills…

… and, once again, he learned that the commander of the bomber task force that killed his father, and thereby also his mother, was General Patrick McLanahan. The rogue American aviator had been promoted to lieutenant general shortly after the attack and made a special adviser to the new/former president of the United States, Kevin Martindale, placed in charge of rebuilding the long-range strike force.

Gennadiy Gryzlov turned into a different man after that day. He resigned his commission and left the military. He’d always had a high level of energy, but now his personality became more akin to that of a whirling dervish. He took control of his family’s oil, gas, and petrochemical companies and had them positioned perfectly when oil prices began to skyrocket in the later part of the first decade of the twenty-first century, and he became one of the wealthiest men in the western hemisphere. He remained a bachelor and became one of the most popular and recognizable playboys in the world, pursued by wealthy women and men everywhere. He translated his wealth, popularity, and good looks into political capital and was appointed minister of energy and industry and deputy premier of Russia in rapid succession, then elected prime minister by the Duma even though he had never served in the legislature, aligning himself for higher office. He ran for president thereafter and was elected to the office by more than 80 percent of the voters in the 2014 elections.

But now the face of the tall, handsome young man, easily the most photographed male face on planet Earth, was contorted in a mixture of disbelief, rage, and resolve. Sergei Tarzarov, the president’s chief of staff, trotted into Gryzlov’s office when he heard the president shouting. “Get Sokolov and Khristenko in here on the double,” Gryzlov shouted to his chief of staff, his longish dark hair whirling around his head as he stomped around his office. “I want some answers, and I want them now!”

“Yes, sir,” Tarzarov said, and he picked up a phone in the president’s office. Tarzarov was almost a generation older than Gryzlov, a thin and unimposing-looking man in a simple brown suit, but everyone in the Kremlin knew the former intelligence officer and minister of the interior was the power behind the presidency and had been so since Gennadiy’s father was in office. “They saw the broadcast and are already on the way, sir,” he reported a few moments later.

“Why, that smug, preening, clueless bastard — I will show him how to make a statement to the world,” Gryzlov snapped. “It was nothing but an election-year stunt. I hope it blows up in his face! I hope he dies in a fireball during reentry. Then the American government will be in a state of complete chaos!”

“Receiving data from the ministry of defense,” Tarzarov reported after checking his tablet computer. “Minister Sokolov ordered an update of our space offensive and defensive forces and ground, air, and naval forces that support space operations. He and General Khristenko will brief you as soon as they arrive.”

“Why the hell did we not know that Phoenix was going to fly to that space station?” Gryzlov shouted. “We know what that bastard does almost before he knows it, and we have plants, eavesdroppers, listening devices, cameras, and informants all over Washington. Get Kazyanov in here too. No, get the entire security council in here.” Tarzarov made another phone call and reported that Viktor Kazyanov, the minister of state security, Russia’s top espionage and counterintelligence service, was also already on the way to the president’s office.

“Mr. President, Phoenix has got to be totally crazy to pull off a stunt like that,” the minister of defense, Gregor Sokolov, said as he quickly strode into the president’s office a few minutes later. “If he was not damaged goods before he blasted off, the cosmic radiation and lack of oxygen will surely get to him — if he really did all the things he claimed to do, and all of this is not an elaborate election-year fake — and then the American space program will be deader than it was after the space shuttle Challenger blew up.”

“Shut up, Sokolov,” Gryzlov said. “The fact is, he did it, and I want to know how, I want to know why I didn’t know about it, and I want to know what we can do if he starts doing all the shit he says he is going to do — and I want to know it right now!”

Tarzarov stepped over to Gryzlov, turned his back to the others in the room, and said in a soft voice, “It is perfectly all right to have a rant when I or no one else is in the room, Gennadiy, but when the national security staff arrives you should contain yourself.” Gryzlov’s head snapped over to his chief of staff and his eyes flared, but when his angry visage met Tarzarov’s steady, warning gaze, he relaxed and nodded. “And do not make your comments personal. You need the support of your cabinet, not their resentment.”

“I want answers, Sergei,” Gryzlov said, lowering his voice but only slightly. “I want answers I should have had days ago!” But he turned away from Tarzarov, gave Sokolov a slight bow of his head in apology, then returned to his desk and pretended to look over some dispatches on his tablet computer.

The meeting of Gryzlov’s national security advisers began several minutes later, with Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva joining Gryzlov and the others in the conference room adjoining the president’s office. Chief of the general staff General Mikhail Khristenko was the first to speak, using a tablet computer to wirelessly present photographs and data slides on a large flat-screen computer monitor: “If you will allow me, sir: I double-checked the records, and in fact the American Strategic Command, who oversees all military space operations, did inform our embassy in Washington through the air attaché’s office that they would be launching an S-19 Midnight spaceplane to Armstrong Space Station.”

Gryzlov looked as if he was going to explode again, but Tarzarov spoke first: “Minister Titeneva?”

“I was not informed,” Titeneva, a veteran foreign-affairs officer with dark hair and eyes and a full but attractive body, responded. “Urgent and emergency messages are routed to my office immediately, but routine messages are sent to my staff office in charge of such matters, and they are included in the two summary reports I receive each day. A spaceplane goes to the space stations or into orbit many times a month — such flights are considered routine.”

“Perhaps your office should be notified every time such a flight occurs,” Tarzarov suggested.

“That may be a good idea for the military, Mr. Tarzarov, but I see no reason for the Foreign Ministry to be so advised unless the military or state security thinks the flight might be a threat to the homeland or our allies,” Titeneva said, obviously piqued about being challenged by the chief of staff in a meeting of the full security council. “The main reason we demanded that the United States notify us of the flights at all is because its boost into orbit could resemble an intercontinental-ballistic-missile launch. They are certainly not obligated to give us the passenger list.”

“You will instruct your office to notify you whenever one of those spaceplanes is set to launch, Minister,” Gryzlov said angrily. “Then you will notify me immediately, with details about its departure and return dates and times, destination, and purpose. I will not allow those damned things to just flit about overhead and not know anything about it!” He turned to the minister of state security. “Kazyanov, do you not keep track of the whereabouts of the president of the United States?” he asked. “How in hell can the president of the United States make a television broadcast from space and apparently no one in this entire damned city know anything about it?”

“We do our best to track the president of the United States, major officials, and senior military officers, sir,” Viktor Kazyanov, a tall, bald, and powerful-looking former army colonel, replied. Like the director of national intelligence in the United States, the recently created Ministry of State Security was meant to combine domestic, international, and military intelligence, presidential and embassy protection, and border security activities under one cabinet-level officer who reported directly to the security council.

However, the intelligence services were reluctant in the extreme to share information and lose access to the office of the president. It was well known that the directors of the Federal Security Service (once known as Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnoti, or KGB), the Foreign Intelligence Service, the Presidential Security Service, and the Chief Directorate for Intelligence of the General Staff (Glavnoe Razvedivatel’noe Upravlenie, or GRU) reported directly to the president through the chief of staff: very often Kazyanov was the last to know anything. “But we cannot know precisely where the American president is every minute of every day,” Kazyanov said. “The American press all believed he was on his way to Guam for this press conference, and that was where we were waiting for him. If he is going to leave the capital for any length of time, we know about it.”

“Well, I would say he has left the capital, would you not?” Gryzlov retorted derisively. “Are you not watching the White House and Capitol all the time?”

“Any movement of the president, vice president, cabinet officials and their deputies, and senior-level military officers and defense officials triggers a warning to us, sir,” Kazyanov said. “The president and any official that travels with a large contingent, or any information we receive on movement plans, triggers an alert. If they do not, we may not know about their movement. Obviously, this trip was kept under very tight secrecy, with minimal security protocols to avoid attracting attention.”

“It is imperative that you come up with the means for discovering when one of those spaceplanes is going to make a flight and who and what is aboard it, Kazyanov,” Gryzlov said. “If they fly so routinely, maybe their security procedures are starting to break down. You must also think of ways to be alerted to movement of major American officials other than by the size of their retinue. Be prepared to brief the council on your suggestions at next week’s regular meeting.” It was obvious by his expression that Kazyanov didn’t like being barked at, even by the president, but he nodded assent. Gryzlov turned back to General Khristenko. “Continue, General.”

“Yes, sir,” the chief of the general staff said. He called up a silent replay of President Phoenix’s press conference. “My staff studied the video of Phoenix’s press conference and some video that was shot after the press conference of Phoenix having a meal with some cosmonauts, and based on these preliminary images my staff feels that it is indeed President Phoenix and he is aboard a spacecraft in Earth orbit, experiencing real weightlessness, and looks very healthy and not suffering from any ill effects of space flight or weightlessness. The other persons in the video were identified as retired brigadier general Kai Raydon, engineer and astronaut Trevor Shale, and retired U.S. Marine Corps lieutenant colonel and astronaut Jessica Faulkner, a spaceplane pilot.

“Most likely he did travel to Earth orbit on the spacecraft reported to our embassy by U.S. Strategic Command, an S-19 spaceplane, nicknamed ‘Midnight,’ ” Khristenko went on, switching slides to a photograph of the spaceplane. “It carries a crew of two and up to five thousand kilos of cargo. It apparently has a pressurized module in its cargo bay that has seats for as many as four passengers.”

“I do not care about its seating capacity, General,” Gryzlov said acidly. “What kind of threat is this spacecraft to Russia?”

“It represents a technology that we are still several years away from developing: the ability to take off from almost any commercial runway in the world, fly into low Earth orbit, dock with the space stations or perform various activities in space, reenter Earth’s atmosphere, and land again on any runway — and do it all again just a few hours later,” Khristenko said. “It has a sophisticated propulsion system that uses readily available jet fuel and hydrogen-peroxide oxidizer. It can dock with the space station and deliver supplies or personnel almost on demand. If it stayed in the atmosphere, it could fly from its base in the western United States to Moscow in less than three hours.”

“Three hours!” Gryzlov exclaimed. “And then deliver a nuclear weapon right on top of our heads!”

“To our knowledge, sir, the spaceplanes have only deployed nonnuclear weapons in space,” Kazyanov said, “but one such weapon, the so-called Thor’s Hammer, did successfully reenter Earth’s atmosphere and destroyed a target on the ground.”

“That is when we argued to put the Space Preservation Treaty in place, sir,” Foreign Minister Titeneva said. “The treaty bans any weapons based in space that can attack targets on Earth. Russia, China, and all of the other space-capable countries have ratified the treaty except the United States, although they appear to be abiding by it.”

“Damn it, Daria, I want weapons such as that banned… only as long as it takes us to build them ourselves!” Gryzlov said. He ran a hand through his thick hair. “And we have no technology similar to this spaceplane?”

“We had built a reusable spacecraft years before the Americans built their space shuttle,” Minister of Defense Sokolov said. “The Elektron spaceplane was boosted into orbit atop an SL-16 booster and could land on a runway — it was even armed with guided missiles. We built several of the spacecraft, but their operational status is unknown. The Buran spaceplane was very similar to the American space shuttle. We built five of them and performed one successful flight before the empire dissolved. Three more Burans are in various states of completion; the other completed spacecraft was destroyed in a ground accident.”

“And look what has happened: we let the Americans gain the advantage over us in space,” Gryzlov said. “So put them back into operation and get them flying right away, and if we have built them once before, we can build them again. I want as many as possible put into immediate production.”

“Phoenix is a fool if he really plans to degrade his army and navy in favor of space weapons,” Sokolov said. “And he can build all the cyberweapons he wants — while our troops overrun his cities.”

“It looks to me like Phoenix will not abide by any space treaty for long,” Gryzlov said. “If he wants to industrialize space, he will want to defend it. If we cannot get him to agree not to militarize space, and he wins reelection and goes ahead with this plan, what do we have to counter such moves? What can we use to attack his spacecraft?”

“Our most potent antisatellite weapon currently deployed is the S-500 ‘Autocrat’ surface-to-air missile system, sir,” Khristenko said. “Its maximum target altitude of five hundred kilometers and a maximum range of seven hundred kilometers put it well within range of the American’s military space station. The system is mobile and easily moved and set up, so it can be fired and then moved to evade counterstrike or quickly be placed under the orbital path of a target. The S-500 is also very capable against hypersonic attack missiles, stealthy aircraft, low-flying aircraft or cruise missiles, and ballistic missiles. It is by far the most capable surface-to-air missile system in the world.”

“Finally, some good news,” Gryzlov said.

“The one problem with the S-500 is we have built very few of them so far, sir,” Sokolov said. “There are only twelve batteries in service, stationed around Moscow, St. Petersburg, and Vladivostok for defense against stealth aircraft and cruise missiles.”

“Twelve?” Gryzlov retorted loudly. “We should have twelve thousand of them! You will get the funding to build ten a month, and I want several to be deployed to every Russian military base in the world! I want that space station and every Western spacecraft in Russia’s crosshairs around the clock! Go on.”

“The next viable antisatellite system, and the most flexible, is the MiG-31D antisatellite missile carrier,” Khristenko said, changing the slide again. The slide showed a picture of a large twin-tailed muscular-looking jet fighter. “It has a top speed of almost three times the speed of sound and a maximum altitude of over thirty thousand meters. It employs the 9K720 Osa missile, which is the same missile as on the Iskander theater ballistic missile. The MiG-31 is directed toward its target by ground radar stations and deploys the missile as it climbs through twenty thousand meters. The Osa missile optionally carries a micronuclear warhead, so one missile would probably be sufficient to knock the American space station out of the sky. The Osa missile steered by the MiG-31’s radar is capable against other aerial targets as well.”

“That is good,” Gryzlov said. “How many do we have active right now, General?”

“There are only thirty of the antisatellite missile carriers in service right now, sir,” Khristenko replied. “Two squadrons in the west and one in the far east.”

“When in hell did we stop building military equipment?” Gryzlov moaned. “What else?”

“The MiG-31 first flew over forty years ago,” Khristenko said. “Its radar has been updated, but not for several years in favor of newer fifth-generation fighters. In its antisatellite role the MiG-31’s range is limited to only about eight hundred kilometers. But the 9K720 missile has a range of four hundred kilometers, sufficient to reach any American spacecraft in low Earth orbit.”

“Can we build more?”

“We currently have about two hundred and fifty MiG-31s in the inventory, sir,” Khristenko said. “About one hundred are active.”

“More than half the inventory is inactive?” Gryzlov complained again. “If our country is awash in oil money, why have we been allowing half our aircraft to be inactive?” Khristenko did not answer. “Then turn all of the active MiG-31s into antisatellite missile carriers,” Gryzlov said. “I assume you have other fighters that can take over the interceptor role from the MiG-31s?”

“Of course, sir.”

“I want a full report on the conversion, and I want an estimate of how long it will take to build more of the S-500s,” Gryzlov ordered. “What about space assets?”

“We have the Soyuz man-rated cargo spacecraft and the Progress unmanned cargo spacecraft, sir, along with the Proton medium-lift and Angara heavy-lift launch rockets,” Khristenko replied. “We have extensive experience with resupply missions to the International Space Station.”

“That is all? Supply missions?”

“Sir, Russia has been heavily supporting the International Space Station, especially since the Americans stopped flying their shuttle,” Sokolov said. “We needed no other outpost in Earth orbit since we have unlimited access to the Russian Orbital Section of the ISS for scientific experiments.”

“But it is not a Russian space station,” Gryzlov said. “Do we have any plans whatsoever to build our own military space station? Whatever happened to our own space station projects? We had several, and now we have none?”

“Yes, sir,” Khristenko replied. “The project is called Orbital Piloted Assembly and Experiment Complex. Before the International Space Station is decommissioned and allowed to reenter the atmosphere, Russia would detach its Russian Orbital Section modules and mount them on a central truss with solar panels and positioning thrusters. The station will be used to assemble spacecraft for moon or Mars missions, conduct experiments, and—”

“When is this supposed to take place?”

“In about five years, sir,” Sokolov replied.

“Five years? That is unacceptable, Sokolov!” Gryzlov shouted. “I want the plans for this station to be advanced. I want this to happen as quickly as possible!”

“But we have agreements with nine nations for the use of those modules on the International Space Station, sir,” Foreign Minister Titeneva said. Gryzlov’s eyes flared at this interruption. “The partnership has already paid Russia for their use and to support the ISS. We cannot—”

“If the United States will not cancel this domineering plan to militarize and industrialize Earth orbit, all partnerships and agreements regarding outer space are null and void,” Gryzlov said. “Do you understand me? If Phoenix persists with this outrageous plan, Russia is going to push back. Everyone here had better understand: Russia is not going to allow any one nation to dominate outer space. That bastard Kenneth Phoenix has just thrown down the gauntlet: Russia is picking it up, and we will respond… starting right now!”

Gryzlov dismissed the meeting with a wave of his hand, and soon he and Tarzarov were alone. “I am tired of always having to light a fire under these career bureaucrats’ asses,” Gryzlov said, lighting a cigar. “We may need to update the list of replacement ministers again. Titenov’s name is at the head of the list to be replaced. How dare she challenge my wishes? I do not care what protocols are in place — what I want is what I want, and her job is to get it for me.”

“Now that you have given them their orders, let us see how they respond,” Tarzarov suggested. “If they fail to get the money from the Duma and start military construction projects, you have good reason to replace them. As I said, Gennadiy, do not make this personal.”

“Yes, yes,” Gryzlov said dismissively.

Tarzarov checked his smartphone for messages. “Ilianov is here.”

“Good. Get him in here,” Gryzlov said. A moment later Tarzarov, carrying a box of items, escorted Bruno Ilianov and Yvette Korchkov into the president’s office, then put the box on the president’s desk. “I hear you were successful, Colonel, even though your workers were arrested,” he said, rising from his desk to greet them. Ilianov was wearing his Russian Air Force uniform. Making no attempt to be circumspect, Gryzlov ran his eyes up and down Korchkov’s body as she approached. She was dressed in a dark business suit, tailored to accentuate her curves and breasts, but she wore spiked high heels that were more suited to a cocktail party than business in the office of the president of Russia. Korchkov returned Gryzlov’s appreciative gaze without expression. He turned his attention back to Ilianov and extended his hand. The Russian colonel took it, and Gryzlov held the hand, keeping Ilianov close to him. “The capture of your men is unfortunate, Colonel,” he said. “I hope they can hold their tongues.”

“It does not matter, sir,” Ilianov said. “Our story will hold up. They are known burglars and Russian nationalists who wanted revenge on General Patrick McLanahan. They gave the items to other unknown expatriates. If they do talk and implicate me, I will deny everything. You can support their sentiments but will launch an investigation, terminate me, and offer to pay for repairs. The American media’s ridiculously fast news cycle and general ignorance for anything except sex and violence will quickly sweep the whole episode away.”

“It had better, Colonel,” Gryzlov warned. He returned to his desk, dumped the items from the box onto its top, picked up the urn, hefted it, then looked at Ilianov. “Empty?”

“Exactly so, sir,” Ilianov said. “What does that mean?”

“It means someone already flushed him down the sewer,” Gryzlov said acidly, “depriving me of the opportunity to do so.” He glanced over the remaining items. “So. This is all that remains of the great Patrick Shane McLanahan, aerial assassin,” he said.

“Not quite all, sir,” Ilianov said. “His immediate family. Two sisters and a son.”

“I do not order the assassination of women, Colonel,” Gryzlov said, glancing again at Korchkov. He knew the Russian beauty was a highly trained Spetsgruppa Vympel commando, specializing in close-quarters killing… intimately close quarters. “But all the rest of McLanahan’s possessions are forfeited to me. Have you located the son?”

“He is making no attempt to hide his whereabouts, sir,” Ilianov said. “He posts regularly to social media — the entire planet knows where he is and what he does. We have so far detected no evidence of security surrounding him.”

“Just because he does not post anything about a security detail on Facebook does not mean it doesn’t exist,” Gryzlov said. “I hope you have picked more reliable men to carry out this task.”

“There is no lack of men willing to carry out these operations, sir,” Ilianov said. “We have selected the best. They are in position now and are ready to strike. My men will make it look like the son killed himself while drinking and freebasing cocaine, and I will be sure that the details are in every newspaper and television show in the world. I will also make it clear that the son got hooked on drugs and alcohol because of his father’s neglect, and that the father had similar dependency and emotional problems.”

“Very good,” Gryzlov said. He took a deep drag of his cigar, using the interlude to look Korchkov up and down again. “Why not send Captain Korchkov?” he asked. “I am sure young McLanahan would wear a nice big smile on his face… the instant before his life was snuffed out.” Korchkov remained completely expressionless, her hands folded in front of her body, her legs almost shoulder width apart in a very ready, athletic stance.

“The men I have selected will have no difficulties, sir,” Ilianov said. “Sending the captain back to the United States to get McLanahan would be like using a sledgehammer to crack an egg.”

“Just see to it that it gets done, Colonel,” Gryzlov said. “I have waited long enough to seek my revenge on Patrick McLanahan. I want everything that belonged to him dead and destroyed. All that remains of him is his son and his reputation, and I want both shattered.”

“Yes, sir,” Ilianov said. “I will report on the success of my team tomorrow.”

“It had better be successful, Colonel,” Gryzlov said. “I want the McLanahan name stained beyond repair.” He gave Korchkov another glance, wondering if he should tell her to stay or contact her later, then waved a hand. “You have your orders, Colonel. Carry them out.” Ilianov and Korchkov turned and left without a word.

“This is no business for a president of the Russian Federation, sir,” Tarzarov said after the two had departed.

“Perhaps not, Sergei,” Gryzlov said, his face hard and foreboding through a cloud of cigar smoke, “but it is certainly the business of the son of Anatoliy Gryzlov. Once McLanahan’s son has been eliminated, I can turn full attention to rebuilding our nation and putting it back on the path to greatness. We have been raking in the natural resources money and stuffing it under the mattress for too long, Sergei — it is time to start spending it and taking our rightful place in the world as a true superpower.”

“How freakin’ cool was that?” exclaimed Bradley McLanahan. He and four other students were in their professor’s office in the Reinhold Aerospace Engineering Building on the sprawling campus of the California Polytechnic University, San Luis Obispo, known simply as Cal Poly, near California’s central coast, watching TV on one of the computers in the office. “The president of the United States is up in orbit on Armstrong Space Station! If he can do it, I sure as hell can!” The other students nodded in agreement.

Brad McLanahan was close to finishing his first year as an aerospace engineering student at Cal Poly. Everything in his life, from his body to his education to his experiences, all seemed to be just a little bit more than average. He was a little bit taller, heavier, and better-looking than average, with blue eyes and blond hair that had grown a bit longer than most engineering students on campus wore theirs. His grades were probably a bit better than average, just good enough to be accepted to the college of engineering at Cal Poly, which accepted fewer than one-third of all applicants. Thanks to a generous trust and benefits of a sizable life insurance policy from his deceased parents, Brad was in a better financial situation while in college than most other students: he rode a nice bicycle to school from his off-campus house in San Luis Obispo and even occasionally flew his father’s turbine Cessna P210 Silver Eagle airplane from the nearby airport, all while knowing that he would have no college tuition or student loan bills from his undergraduate or graduate education.

“We couldn’t have timed this any better, Brad,” said Lane Eagan. Fifteen-year-old Lane was from Roseburg, Oregon, graduating from homeschooled high school after just two years with a stratospheric grade-point average, and was accepted to Cal Poly with a four-year scholarship. Small, a little pudgy, and wearing thick glasses — he looked like the classic Hollywood version of a nerd — Lane looked up to Brad like a big brother. Lane was a freshman attending the college of electrical engineering, specializing in computer and microchip design and programming. “I hope Professor Nukaga likes our proposal.”

“I still think we should have gone with the space-junk idea, Bradley,” said Kim Jung-bae. Jung-bae — everyone called him “Jerry” because he liked Jerry Lewis movies, a nickname he used proudly — was from Seoul, United Korea, who transferred after two years at Pohang University of Science and Technology to study in the United States. Tall and thin, he spent as much time on the basketball court as he did in an engineering laboratory. Jerry was a mechanical engineering student, specializing in robotics and power storage technologies. “You know Nukaga: he does not care for the military stuff as much.”

“Starfire is not a military program, Jerry,” said Casey Huggins. Casey was also a freshman four-year scholarship winner to Cal Poly. A water-skiing accident when she was a young girl left her paralyzed from the waist down, so academics became a large part of her life. She fought to keep her weight down by using a manually powered wheelchair to get around Cal Poly’s very large six-thousand-acre campus, and competing in adaptive sports such as wheelchair basketball and archery. Casey was an electrical engineering student, specializing in directed-energy projects. “We’re using some military hardware, but it’s not a military program.” Jung-bae shrugged, not entirely convinced but not willing to provoke another argument.

“I like Jerry’s space-debris idea too, but especially after hearing President Phoenix’s little speech there, I think we should stick with our proposal, mates,” said Jodie Cavendish, sweeping her long blond hair back off her shoulders, then nervously twisting it back around across her breasts. Jodie was from Brisbane, Australia, and although she looked like a tall, trim, blue-eyed Southern California surfer girl, lived very close to the ocean back home, and loved sailing, surfing, and paddleboarding, she loved more than anything else to study and experiment, and could be found either in a laboratory or the library on a computer. She was close to finishing her two-year exchange-student scholarship program between Cal Poly and Queensland University of Technology, studying mechanical engineering with a specialty in advanced materials and nanotechnology. “Besides, we’ve spent too much time rehearsing our yabber.”

“Like Jodie said, I’m good with either idea, and we can pitch the space-debris idea too — we’re prepared,” Brad said. “But now, with that speech and that challenge, I think Starfire will be a winner.”

“Do you now, Mr. McLanahan?” they heard a man say, and into the office raced Toshuniko Nukaga, Ph.D., professor of aerospace engineering at Cal Poly. Born, raised, and educated in Berkeley, California, Nukaga, known in academic circles as well as to his close friends as “Toby,” did nothing slowly, whether it was bicycle racing, giving lectures, or writing and presenting yet another paper on another breakthough in the world of aerospace science. Sixty years old and retired from the aerospace industry, Nukaga was one of the most-sought-after experts on new aircraft and spacecraft design. He’d had his choice of positions on the board of directors or leadership of hundreds of companies and universities around the world, but he had chosen to spend his remaining years before retirement in California’s Central Valley, imparting his knowledge and yearning to explore and question conventional wisdom to a new generation of engineers and thinkers.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Nukaga,” Brad said. “Thank you for seeing us so late in the afternoon.”

Nukaga had checked his e-mail on his desktop computer, removed his tablet computer from his backpack, and put it on its charging stand by the time Brad had finished speaking. He nodded, acknowledging the young man’s gratitude, then sat back in his chair, tapping his fingertips together to keep himself in motion despite being seated. “You’re welcome. Let’s hear your ‘winner,’ Mr. McLanahan.”

“Yes, sir,” Brad said. “I recently found out that Sky Masters Aerospace in Nevada has put out a request for proposals to universities and companies for a new generation of space projects. It seems that companies like Sky Masters have been working with the Phoenix administration, because the president just proposed the very same thing in his address from Armstrong Space Station. Sky Masters wants—”

“Did you say, the president addressed the nation from the military space station?” Nukaga asked incredulously. “He is up in orbit right now?”

“Yes, sir,” Brad replied. “He just concluded a press conference too. He was feeling pretty good, weightless and everything. I guess his Secret Service guy didn’t do as well.”

“What in the world is a president of the United States doing on a military space station?” Nukaga remarked rather bitterly. “It seems extremely irresponsible to me. There are a thousand incidents that could happen and a hundred illnesses he could contract, some of which could affect his mind, and he is the commander in chief of a nuclear-armed military. It’s madness.” He fell silent for a moment, then waved a hand, erasing the topic from his mind. “Please continue, Mr. McLanahan.”

“We are requesting computer-, mechanical-, and aerospace-engineering-lab space and resources for twelve weeks this summer for a project that hopefully can be put into orbit and tested before the end of the year,” Brad said. “We call it Project Starfire.”

Nukaga’s eyebrows raised in amusement. “Your name, I assume, Mr. McLanahan?”

“It was mine, sir,” Lane Eagan said proudly.

“Of course, Mr. Eagan,” Nukaga said, hiding a slight smile behind two fingertips tapping against his lips. He had at first distrusted the young man — boy, really — because his parents both held multiple doctorates and were very wealthy, aggressive, hard-charging research scientists, and he believed Eagan’s success was mostly due to his parents’ strong, driving influence. But that definitely did not turn out to be the case. Although young Eagan slipped back easily into a teenager’s persona now and then, he truly was a gifted young man who would no doubt hold his own collection of doctorates, exceeding his parents’ impressive credentials, before long.

The professor erased all hint of a smile, turned stony once again, then said, “Indeed. So why don’t you continue the presentation, Mr. Eagan?”

“Yes, sir,” Lane said without skipping a beat. Just like that, the teenager was gone, replaced by a serious young scientist-to-be. “As you well know, sir, the idea of generating power from the sun from a spacecraft in Earth orbit and transmitting the electricity to Earth has been proposed for many years, but we think we’ve overcome the technical hurdles and can design a commercially feasible space-based solar-power station.”

Nukaga looked at Casey and Jodie. “Since your team has Miss Huggins, I assume your spacecraft uses some sort of directed energy, such as microwaves,” he observed. “Miss Huggins?”

“Not exactly, sir,” Casey said. “Most research on the subject of space-based solar-power production used microwaves or lasers to transmit the solar-collected electricity to Earth. Lasers have some political roadblocks. Microwaves are very efficient and can transmit a lot of energy very quickly. But microwaves require a large nantenna, or transmitting antenna — as large as a square kilometer or more in area — and an even larger rectenna, or receiving antenna, perhaps ten times as large as the transmitting antenna. Our associates around the world and we here at Cal Poly have developed a maser: a microwave laser. We are able to wiggle and collimate a beam in the microwave spectrum so it’s possible to squeeze a lot of energy into a smaller, more focused beam. It has some of the best characteristics of a microwave and a visible-light laser, using much smaller antennas, and is far more efficient. In addition, maser rectennas that transform the microwave energy into electricity are smaller, fairly portable, and can be set up almost anywhere.”

“Besides, sir, the main components and power-generation equipment are already up on Armstrong Space Station,” Brad said. Nukaga looked at Brad and narrowed his eyes disapprovingly at the interruption, but let him continue. “The Skybolt laser is a free-electron laser pumped by a klystron powered by a magnetohydrodynamic generator. We can introduce the microwave cavity into the laser itself, and use the collected electricity from Starfire to power the laser, so we don’t have to use the MHD. We can even use Skybolt’s aiming and control systems.”

“That monstrosity should have been removed from orbit years ago and allowed to burn up on reentry,” Nukaga said. He gave Brad another scowl, as if the space-based laser belonged to him. “Do you see any problems with shooting maser beams from space, Miss Huggins?” he asked.

“There are many potential political roadblocks, sir,” Casey replied. “The Space Preservation Treaty of 2006 seeks to eliminate all offensive space weapons. Specifically, it mentions directed-energy systems capable of producing greater than one megajoule of energy at a range of more than one hundred kilometers. The Skybolt laser on Armstrong Space Station has attacked targets in space, the atmosphere, and even on Earth, at ranges far greater than one hundred kilometers, with far more energy.” Nukaga wore a very sour expression — obviously he knew very well about what the space-based laser had done and was most displeased about it.

“After the reactivation of the Skybolt missile defense laser aboard Armstrong Space Station, as well as the deployment of Kingfisher space-based interceptors, the treaty was presented again and passed in the United Nations General Assembly in 2010,” Casey went on. “The Security Council sought to codify the treaty; the United States under the Gardner administration chose to abstain rather than veto it, and the treaty passed. Although it has not been ratified by the U.S. Senate, the United States has — at least up until now — chosen to abide by it. Therefore, if the maser-power transmission concept is seen by the United Nations as potentially a space weapon, it couldn’t be used unless the United States simply ignored the treaty.”

“Which I sincerely hope is not done,” Nukaga added. “What other problems have you overcome in this project? Miss Cavendish, since you are the advanced-materials student, why don’t you continue?” They all knew that Nukaga would never allow just one member of the team to give a presentation like this, so they all had to be equally familiar with the proposal and prepared to give it at any time.

“Yes, sir,” Jodie said. “The weight of standard silicon photovoltaic cells is simply a deal killer — it would take hundreds of shuttle-sized spacecraft, which we do not have except for some Russian spacecraft, which we probably couldn’t use, or expendable heavy-lift launch vehicles to put enough photovoltaic panels on the spacecraft to make this work. But we and our partners have developed a solar-cell capture technology using multiwidth nanotubes applied to a flexible conducting substrate that could allow the construction of a mile-long photovoltaic cell for the same launch cost as a single furlable silicon solar cell designed to fit inside the shuttle, with several times the power-generation capacity.”

For the first time in the meeting, Nukaga momentarily stopped fidgeting, and the change was instantly noticed by all of the students, even young Lane. “Interesting,” the professor commented as he resumed his finger tapping. “An organic carbon nanotube that is more efficient than a silicon cell?”

“It’s not a carbon nanotube, sir,” Jodie said. She smiled, leaned forward, then said in a low conspiratorial voice, “It’s a multiwidth inorganic titanium dioxide nanotube-structured optical nantenna.”

Nukaga’s eyebrows arched, just for a heartbeat, but to the students around him it felt as if a firecracker had gone off in the room. “Interesting,” he repeated, although all the students could detect a slightly breathless tone in his voice. “An optical nantenna.”

“Yes, sir,” Jodie said. “Using inorganic nanotubes, we’ve designed a way to convert sunlight into electricity at efficiencies thousands of times greater than silicon solar cells. Even better, the structures are hundreds of times lighter and stronger than silicon solar cells.”

He tried very hard to hide his surprise, but Toshuniko Nukaga was starting to look as if he might slip out of his chair. “Interesting,” he managed to repeat, but his finger tapping had completely ceased. “You have fabricated such a structure?”

“I haven’t done it yet, sir,” Jodie said, “but I’ve spoken and corresponded with researchers in Cambridge and Palo Alto, and we could do it here, in our own labs, with the proper support. And, thanks to our team leader, Brad, we have access to researchers all over the world.”

“And what are the advantages of this inorganic nanotube structure, Mr. Kim?” Jerry seemed to have a little bit of trouble answering a question about an area of engineering with which he wasn’t as familiar as some of the others, so Nukaga turned to Brad. “Perhaps you can assist Mr. Kim, Mr. McLanahan?”

“Energy production vastly greater than silicon solar cells, but with far less weight,” Brad replied. “Plus, the solar arrays fix themselves.”

“How do they do that?”

“Because the substrate upon which the nanotubes are built is not metal, but flexible sol-gel material that not only allows electrons to flow from the nanostructure to the collection system with greater efficiency, but acts as a shock absorber,” Brad said. “If the solar array is hit by orbital debris, the break is electrochemically reconnected, like damaged skin. It forms a kind of scar tissue, like human skin, which is not as photovoltaic as the original, but at least the array is still functional. Plus, the defensive lasers aboard Armstrong Space Station could be used to deflect debris that might seriously damage the nantennna arrays.”

“Defensive lasers? I hardly think so,” Nukaga remarked. “Continue.”

“The titanium-dioxide nanotubes are impervious to cosmic radiation and the solar wind, and the sol-gel substrate can handle large changes in temperature with only minimal and temporary changes in conductivity,” Brad said. “The structures we can put together can be enormous, perhaps stretching as far as several kilometers. This will allow us to eventually conduct several energy shots to different spots all around the globe in one orbit.”

Nukaga was obviously not impressed with Brad’s response — it was a huge oversimplification of a very complicated process that the team needed to have nailed down before the university was asked to grant thousands or even millions of dollars to research. “And how would deployment of Starfire work?” Nukaga asked. He turned to Jerry. “Start us off, Mr. Kim.”

Jung-bae frowned as he collected his thoughts, but pressed ahead with only a short delay. “One of our imperatives in this project was a size limitation, sir,” Jerry said. “The S-19 Midnight spaceplane, our preferred delivery vehicle for the space-based components, can carry a payload of approximately nine thousand pounds in its cargo bay, with some rather small size dimensions. That was a problem at first. Even using expendable boosters along with the spaceplanes, it would take many years, perhaps even decades, to build Starfire.”

“And how did you solve this? Nine thousand pounds seems like a lot, but not when you have to build an entire expansive spacecraft from scratch.”

“It would not be from scratch, sir,” Jerry said. “Our proposal specifies the use of Armstrong Space Station, the International Space Station, or China’s… China’s…” Again he had trouble searching his memory.

Nukaga glanced at Brad, silently allowing him to assist. “China’s Tiangong-2 space laboratory, sir,” he said.

“Why these spacecraft? Mr. Eagan?”

“Because except for Tiangong, the others are old and ready to be changed to unmanned platforms, sir,” Lane said. “Armstrong is almost thirty years old and ten years past its design service life. The ISS is twenty years old and approaching its design limit — it has been scheduled for deorbit in five years.”

“And Tiangong-2?”

“The Chinese are expected to launch Tiangong-3 in just a few weeks, sir,” Lane said. “We think they wouldn’t mind letting their laboratory be used for this project. If Starfire works as planned, we’ll be able to shoot electricity into the most remote regions of China — even to the top of the Himalayas!”

“What other problems lie ahead? Miss Cavendish?”

“It’s a matter of getting the nantenna, capacitors, control equipment, microwave cavity, and maser-beam generators and associated equipment up to the station,” Jodie said. “We estimate that we can get all the panels up into orbit in just ten missions in the spaceplanes, or four if we use expendable rockets.”

“That seems extraordinary,” Nukaga remarked. “How did you estimate that, Miss Huggins?”

“That’s based on Jodie’s estimate of the thinness of the nantennas and the dimensions of an S-19 Midnight spaceplane’s cargo bay, sir,” Casey replied. “We compute that one rolled-up nantenna array five hundred meters long and thirty meters wide can fit in the Midnight’s cargo bay, well within weight limits because the nanotube structure will be so light. Our original design calls for a total of eight of these panels. We’d then need two more flights to bring up the extra equipment.”

“That seems unrealistically optimistic, Miss Huggins. Mr. McLanahan?”

“We propose using a lot of the equipment that’s already aboard Armstrong Space Station for this project, sir,” Brad said. “Armstrong is particularly well suited for our project because it already has a lot of the beam-control hardware, capacitors, and aiming systems we need for the maser. It’s all already up there — we don’t have to launch it, just update software and some of the hardware. It’s a lot better than having all that stuff burn up after being deorbited.”

“It seems a lot is riding on the government letting you use their space station for your project,” Nukaga pointed out.

“I’ve been in contact with the folks at Sky Masters Aerospace, who are Armstrong Space Station’s caretakers until they figure out what they’re going to do with it,” Brad said. “They are open to Project Starfire. They want to see our data and results before they commit, but they like the idea of acquiring the space station for themselves, privatizing it, and putting it to work.”

“I think Sky Masters Aerospace is a front for the Central Intelligence Agency or even for a secret government spy unit,” Nukaga said. “I have a bad taste in my mouth every time I hear that name.” Yet he nodded, almost imperceptibly, but to the students it was a very good sign. “Tell me about the ground portion of your project, Mr. Kim,” Nukaga said. “I’ve heard a lot about the on-orbit parts, but very little about the ground systems and the challenges you’re working around.”

Kim seemed to struggle with the answer once again, but after a moment he replied, “Sir, the ground collection system includes a two-hundred-meter steerable rectenna, alternators, positioning controls, environmental systems, and a way to either store the direct current output from the rectenna or integrate the output into the local electrical grid.”

“A two-hundred-meter rectenna?” Nukaga remarked. “Not exactly suited for the Himalayas, is it, Mr. Eagan?”

“The rectenna’s size is based on the beam-control system currently aboard Armstrong Space Station, sir,” Lane said. “It’s forty-year-old technology, probably updated a few times but not to current standards. I haven’t seen their code yet, but I’m sure I can improve the software to make the pointing and focusing more accurate, and then we can build a smaller rectenna. The maser beam doesn’t expand as much as a microwave beam, and side lobe propagation is vastly lower and tunable.”

“Regardless, sir, the ground systems are far smaller than any other type of power-generating plant,” Brad interjected. “We don’t use any natural resources other than sunlight, and there’s more electricity potential from one day’s worth of sunlight than all the electricity generated around the world in one year.”

“That will look good on a website, Mr. McLanahan, but I’m not interested in a sales pitch now,” Nukaga said rather irritably, now openly showing his displeasure at Brad’s interruptions. He fell silent, thinking, then resumed his finger tapping. “And what sort of progress have you made so far?” he asked after a few moments.

“Jodie and Casey have drawn up the plans for the nantenna and maser and can start fabrication as soon as we get the go-ahead for the laser and materials lab and funding,” Brad replied. “They also have plans for miniaturization so it can fit in a spacecraft, but our focus is on demonstrating that an inorganic nanotube nantenna is technically feasible. They feel confident they can do it by the end of summer.”

“The end of summer?” Nukaga exclaimed. “Engineering complex nanotube structures in just a few months’ work?”

“I’ve been working on inorganic nanotubes for over four years, sir,” Jodie said, “but mostly by myself back in Australia. Brad sought me out based on my presentations over the years. He brought our team together, and he’s still seeking out experts and scientists from all over the world to assist. Things are happening quickly.”

Nukaga nodded slightly, then indicated to Brad that he could continue. “Jerry and I have plans to integrate the control, power, environmental, communications, and sensor systems, but we don’t have the spacecraft, so we’re still spread out,” Brad said. “Lane has the software already written for the spacecraft control systems and ground-system rectenna controls, and is ready to start debugging and burning chips once we get the go-ahead. He already has software project outlines for Armstrong’s beam-control units, but Sky Masters hasn’t released their software to us yet, so it’s just an anticipatory outline.”

“And you have done all this on your own time, in between your classes and other responsibilities?” Nakuga remarked. “And except for Mr. Kim you are all freshmen, no?”

“Jodie is a third-year undergrad, sir,” Brad replied. “Lane, Casey, and I are freshmen.”

Nakuga nodded slightly, obviously impressed. “Where do you intend to get a spacecraft, Mr. McLanahan?”

“Sky Masters Aerospace out in Battle Mountain, Nevada, sir,” Brad replied. “I’ve already got a Trinity module identified and on loan, and as soon as we have lab space I can have it shipped to us. It’s not flyable, but it’s an actual spacecraft, not just a mock-up or scale model.”

“Trinity?”

“It’s one of several different versions of Sky Masters Aerospace’s autonomous orbital maneuvering vehicles, used by the Space Defense Force a few years ago,” Brad explained. “It’s placed into orbit by a Midnight spaceplane. It has its own targeting sensors, or it can take targeting data from a Kingfisher weapon garage or from Armstrong Space Station; it can autonomously refuel from Armstrong or another unmanned servicing module; it can—”

“ ‘Targeting’? ‘Weapon garage’?” Nukaga interrupted. “These are all space weapons?”

“Well, Trinity is a multipurpose orbital module, but yes, sir, it is used in a variety of space-based weapons,” Brad said. He was hoping to not bring up the fact that Trinity was a space weapon to Nukuga — the professor was a well-known and moderately activist antiwar guy — but in his excitement to pitch the project and get the lab space, he said the words that hopefully would not kill this project.

Nukaga began blinking in some confusion. “I didn’t know you were building a space weapon, Mr. McLanahan,” he said.

“We’re not, sir,” Brad said, his confidence eroding quickly like a slow leak on a bicycle tire. “Starfire is an orbiting power plant based on Armstrong Space Station. We felt we had to not only design the components of the power plant but figure out ways to safely and efficiently get all the components into orbit using current technology. We can demonstrate that if we—”

“I’m not comfortable at all with cooperating with a company that produces space weapons,” Nukaga said stiffly, staring accusingly at Brad. “If this company gets the information on your Starfire and then decides to use the technology to develop more space weapons, this university would be complicit in an arms race in space. Technology that could beam maser energy to a rectenna on Earth can certainly be used to disable a spacecraft or even destroy targets on the ground.”

“Sky Masters Aerospace is offering a fifty-million-dollar grant for new orbital spacecraft technology, Dr. Nukaga,” Brad said. “I think even just a piece of that would be extremely good for the university. We’re hoping that getting the lab space and time in the directed-energy and computer labs will show the university’s commitment to the project and help get part of that grant money.”

“Money isn’t the only consideration here, Mr. McLanahan,” Nukaga retorted indignantly… but he briefly glanced away, silently acknowledging the fact that landing a big piece of a multimillion-dollar grant would certainly be good for the school — and for his own prestige, of course. “How did you happen to come across this Trinity module, Mr. McLanahan?” he asked.

“My father used to be the chief operations officer at the company, sir,” Brad said. “I worked there for a short time, and I still have friends there. I stay in contact with the guys in the engineering and flight-test departments, and I hope to work there some day.”

“ ‘Used to be’? Your father’s retired?”

Brad swallowed hard, and when his mouth opened, no sound came forth.

“His father was killed, sir,” Lane said in a soft voice. Nukaga looked at the young man, then back to Brad’s blank expression, still confused.

“Dr. Nukaga, Brad’s father was General Patrick McLanahan,” Casey said, the tone in her voice making it plain that she couldn’t believe he didn’t know — Bradley McLanahan, the son of the great aerospace warrior General Patrick McLanahan, was a sort of minor celebrity on campus.

It finally dawned on Nukaga what had just transpired, but his expression of shock and embarrassment lasted only a moment. “I… my apologies, Mr. McLanahan,” he said finally, straightening in his chair and looking at a spot on the wall over Brad’s shoulder. “I did not know this.” Still looking away, he cleared his throat, then motioned for the folder in Brad’s hand. “I will look over your project, present it to the projects committee, and inform you as quickly as possible,” he said as Brad gave him the folder. “Thank you all.” The students shuffled to their feet and departed. “Mr. Kim. A word please.”

“We’ll be at the Starbucks at the Market, Jerry,” Casey whispered to Jung-bae as they headed out. Jerry nodded, then returned to his seat.

Nukaga waited a few moments until he was sure the outer office was clear; then: “It seems to me you were not very well prepared for this presentation, Mr. Kim,” he said. “I receive several dozen requests for sponsored summer lab space every spring for just three slots. The teams that I invite to make a personal presentation spend hundreds of hours in preparation and are all at the top of their games. But you did not seem to be so this afternoon. Can you tell me why, Mr. Kim?”

“I am afraid I cannot, sir,” Jerry said. “A little stage fright perhaps.”

“I hardly think so, Mr. Kim,” Nukaga said. “If granted, this will be your third sponsored lab project in two years, in a school where only a third of the engineering students get even one. You are the top undergraduate engineering student in South Korea and one of the outstanding minds in the world. I’m pleased you chose Cal Poly, but you belong at MIT or Stanford.”

Jerry averted his eyes for a moment, then looked at Nukaga. “Actually, sir… you are the reason I am here,” he said. “I have followed your career for many years.”

“Then why aren’t you in aerospace engineering, son?” Nukaga asked. “We could be working side by side if you weren’t on the mechanical engineering side of the campus. I’ve only had you for a few classes in all the years you’ve been here.”

“Mechanical engineering was chosen for me by my corporate and government sponsors back home, sir,” Jerry said. “Out of respect for them, I did not change my major. My second major was chosen for me by my parents, and my minor had to be in a nonscience field, so I chose business. But once I graduate and accept my credentials back home, I will be free to pursue other specialties, and I intend to come back here for my master’s degree and doctorate under your tutelage.”

“That would be outstanding, Jung-bae,” Nukaga said. “I can almost guarantee your acceptance. I would even consider transferring to Stanford if you wanted to get your doctorate there instead — they’ve been hounding me for years to join their faculty and perhaps even be the dean of the college of engineering.” Jerry’s eyes widened in surprise, and he broke out into a very happy grin.

“But let’s get back to this so-called Starfire project, son,” Nukaga went on. “I’m confused. You’re on a graduate-school level, but you’re hanging out with a bunch of underclassmen. Mr. Eagan is almost young enough to be your son. None of those kids are on your intellectual level. What gives? Even if you liked the project — which to me seems you do not — why aren’t you at least leading it? You have a freshman leading it, and he’s not even the smartest one on the team.” Jerry shrugged his shoulders and cast his eyes away. Nukaga paused, then winked conspiratorially at Jerry when the student’s eyes came back to his. “Is it Miss Cavendish, Jung-bae? She certainly is a cutie. I would even volunteer to carry Miss Huggins in and out of her wheelchair, if you know what I mean.”

Kim did not react at all to the personal remarks about his fellow students. He shrugged again, a childish motion that Nukaga was beginning to find irritating for such a gifted student. “I… I respect Mr. McLanahan, sir,” he finally responded.

“McLanahan? Respect what about him? He’s just a freshman aerospace engineering student with good but unremarkable grades. I didn’t know he is Patrick McLanahan’s son, but that hardly matters to me — in fact, it takes him down a notch as far as I’m concerned. His father was a rogue airman who always seemed to skate free of demotion, if not prison, after causing all manner of heinous international incidents without proper orders. I myself am sure it was his actions that precipitated the Russian air attack on the United States that killed tens of thousands.”

“Perhaps Mr. McLanahan is not the best engineering student at Cal Poly, sir, but he is… is a team builder,” Kim said. “He not only came up with the idea for Starfire, but he put together an incredible team, steered us through Tuckman’s four stages of group development — forming, storming, norming, and performing — and coached us through our presentation to you. If he does not understand something or encounters a problem, he finds someone to explain the science to him, and they always end up joining his team. As you will see when you read the presentation, sir, Mr. McLanahan has amassed a sizable and quite impressive list of students, faculty, scientists, and engineers from all over the world willing to contribute to the project.”

“This is the college of engineering, Jung-bae, not a frat house,” Nukaga said. “Mr. McLanahan would be well advised to work on his grades a little more and do a little less glad-handing.” He frowned, then went on: “And I’m very wary of the connection between Mr. McLanahan and this military defense company in Nevada. I will not have the college of engineering at Cal Poly become the crib of some new technology of death and destruction — I don’t care if they give us the entire fifty million dollars.” That certainly wasn’t true, but Nukaga was standing on principle, not the university’s political reality. He thought for a moment, then nodded resolutely. “I will read the proposal and present it to the committee,” he said, “but I will also recommend approval for whatever resources you need.”

“Thank you very much, sir,” Jerry said.

Nukaga nodded again, a signal that the meeting was over. Jerry got to his feet, as did Nukaga. He extended a hand, and Jerry shook it. “I will tell you that the main reason I will recommend this project is because you are on it, Jung-bae,” the professor said. “I wish it was your name at the top of the project leadership list, but having you on McLanahan’s team is good enough for now. I think having you on the project will ensure getting a sizable portion of that seed money from that Nevada defense contractor.”

“Thank you again, sir,” Jerry said, bowing.

“But I will also make a strong suggestion to you, Jung-bae: if it appears that this Sky Masters Aerospace outfit wants to weaponize your technology in any way, I strongly urge you to leave the team and report to me,” Nukaga said. “Money or no money, I will not allow this university to become a weapon technology factory. There are quite enough universities in this country willing to prostitute themselves for a little money, but I will not allow Cal Poly to be one of them.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “Tell me, Jung-bae: did you have an alternative project to present to me in lieu of this Starfire thing?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

Nukaga’s eyes widened in interest, and he motioned him back inside his office. “Favor me with another fifteen minutes of your time, Mr. Kim,” he said. “I want to know all about it.”

“I blew it, guys,” Brad said. He and his fellow Starfire team members were sitting at a table on the patio of the Starbucks at the Campus Market. The Food Processing building was an unattractive warehouse-looking structure, but its southeast side had been attractively remodeled with a coffee shop and a store where students could buy fresh and prepared food and a wide variety of other items, and it had a large sunny outdoor seating area that was popular with the students and faculty. “I shouldn’t have mentioned details about the Trinity module. Now Nukaga thinks we’re going to build a death ray. Sorry.”

“He was going to find out eventually when he read our proposal, Brad,” Jodie said. “No worries. It’s apples.”

“You know, I noticed that your accent and slang almost completely disappear when you’re talking to professors like Nukaga,” Casey said. “How do you do that, Jodie?”

“I can do lots of accents, or none at all,” Jodie said. She switched to a thick Russian one. “Kak vam nravitsya etot? How do you like this one?”

“I think your Australian accent and slang are funny, Jodie,” Lane said, giggling.

“I’m funny how — you mean funny like I’m a clown, I amuse you? I make you laugh?’ ” Jodie said in her best Brooklyn accent, convincingly impersonating Joe Pesci’s character, Tommy DeVito, in the movie Goodfellas and being careful to take out the four-letter words. “ ‘I’m here to amuse you?’ ” Lane giggled again, the scientist gone, replaced by the young schoolboy. Jodie switched to her thickest Australian accent and added, “Crikey, mates, but I could eat a horse and chase the jockey.” The others looked at one another, then at Jodie. “It means, ‘I’m hungry.’ Let’s get something to eat.”

“I’m going to the library,” Lane said, suddenly rising to his feet and snatching up his laptop backpack. In the blink of an eye the schoolboy was gone, replaced by the serious scientist. “See you guys later.”

“Have dinner with us, Lane,” Casey said. “We’re just going to wait to see if Jerry shows.”

“No thanks,” Lane said. “My mom and dad will come get me from there. Besides, I have a history paper to finish.” Brad blinked at that last statement but said nothing.

“When’s it due?” Casey asked.

“A couple weeks,” Lane said, “but I can’t stand to have any unfinished projects sitting around.” He put on his best Australian accent and said, “G’day, mates. Don’t you blokes be gettin’ rotten now, right-o?”

Jodie wadded up a napkin and threw it at him. “Bloody bodgie, dag!”

Lane headed toward University Avenue, toward the Robert E. Kennedy Library, just a few short blocks away. Brad caught up with him a few moments later. “I’ll walk with you, Lane,” Brad said, his own laptop backpack looped over one shoulder.

“You don’t have to walk with me, Brad,” Lane said. “I’m not a kid.”

“You’re fifteen,” Brad said. “Besides, we talked about the buddy system. Always find a safety officer or someone you know who will walk with you.”

“I see kids all the time walking around town by themselves.”

“I know, and it’s not smart,” Brad said. “Find a buddy. Call me if you can’t get a campus volunteer or security guard.” He looked and saw Lane smile, obviously glad that Brad was coming with him and lecturing him about personal safety. “What was all that junk about a history paper due? I know for a fact that you finished all your coursework for all your classes for the entire year months ago, and with straight A’s to boot.”

“I know,” Lane admitted after a moment. “I just…”

“Just what?”

“Nothing.”

“Spill it, Lane.”

“It’s just… I think you guys would have a better time at the Market if I wasn’t there,” Lane said. “I… I get the feeling you guys can’t… you know, have fun because ‘the kid’ is with you.”

“That’s bull, Lane,” Brad said. “We’re all friends. We’re doing what we want to be doing. The girls go off and do whatever they do all the time. If they want to hang with us, they do it.” They walked along in silence for a minute or so, and then Brad added, “But it must be tough to be a fifteen-year-old surrounded by adults.”

“Nah. I’m used to it,” Lane said. “I don’t ever remember Mom and Dad treating me like a little kid or a teenager, like they do my friends or other kids. I feel way older than I am, and have ever since I finished elementary school. But I’ve seen you guys at Starbucks or downtown when I wasn’t with you, and you look like you’re having a really great time. When I’m with you, you’re all… I don’t know, restrained, uptight, making sure you don’t say or do anything to upset or corrupt the youngster.”

“Listen, we’re all buddies,” Brad said. “We—” And suddenly, just as they reached the trees on University Avenue surrounding the parking lot across the street from the library, he jumped, because someone had dug fingernails into his ribs and yelled, “BOO!” behind him. Brad whirled around and found Jodie Cavendish giggling hysterically, and soon Lane joined in. “Jeez, Jodie, I nearly crapped my pants!”

“You have to learn to be more aware of your surroundings, mate,” Jodie said. “The world is a rough place, even little Cal Poly. I thought I’d walk with you.” To Lane she said, “I know all about Brad’s buddy policy, and I thought he shouldn’t be out on the mean streets of Cal Poly alone.”

“The buddy policy is meant for Lane,” Brad said, but when Jodie gave him a soft smile and a wink, he added, “but the company is nice. What about Casey?”

“We gave up on Jerry — I’m sure he’s on the basketball court,” Jodie said. “Casey got a call from her boyfriend du jour and is heading back to the dorm for God knows what. I wonder what Dr. Nukaga wanted with Jerry?”

“Jerry thinks Dr. Nukaga is badass,” Lane said.

“So does half the engineering world, Lane,” Brad said. “I know Jerry’s bummed that we didn’t pick his ion-accelerator space-debris cleanup idea to present to Dr. Nukaga. Maybe he’s presenting it to him now.”

“Can you do two sponsored lab projects at the same time?” Jodie asked.

“If anyone can do it, Jerry can,” Brad said.

They crossed North Perimeter Street, entered the library, and made their way to the café on the ground floor. “Remember, don’t go off wandering around the campus by yourself, Lane,” Brad said. “Call your parents to pick you up, or give me a call.”

“Yes, Uncle Brad,” Lane whined, but he gave Brad a fist bump and smiled, glad to have someone looking out for him, and he trotted off to his favorite computer terminal.

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee, Jodie?” Brad asked after Lane disappeared.

“Why don’t I buy you a glass of wine at my place?” she responded. “I’m parked across from Reinhold.”

“So am I. Sounds good,” Brad replied.

It was a short two-block walk to the parking lot. They climbed into Jodie’s little sedan and headed northwest up Village Drive to the Poly Canyon Village apartment complex. She parked in the large north parking structure, and they walked a short distance to her apartment. The complex resembled a small town square, with several five-story apartment buildings, some with retail stores on the first floor, surrounding a large common area with benches, chairs, and picnic areas. The elevator was not working, so they had to walk the stairs to Jodie’s third-floor apartment.

“C’mon in, mate,” she said, throwing the door wide open for him, then bringing her laptop over to a desk and plugging it in for recharging. Inside, Brad found a small but comfortable one-bedroom apartment with a bar surrounding a small but functional kitchen, and a combination living room/breakfast nook/dining area. The living room also served as Jodie’s office and computer room; Brad was not surprised that she had no television. Through a sliding-glass door, a small patio overlooked the common area, and there was even a peek of the city of San Luis Obispo off in the distance.

“These apartments are very nice,” Brad commented.

“Except when the west breeze kicks up and you get a whiff of the university stockyards,” Jodie said. “We might do a lot of engineering work here, but you can always tell what Cal Poly’s roots were: agriculture and livestock.” She poured two glasses of Chardonnay from a bottle in her refrigerator and offered one to him. “Weren’t you thinking of moving up here next year? Lots of engineering students stay at Poly Canyon.”

“I have an application in for here and Cerro Vista, but everyone wants up here, so I’m probably way down on the list, and it is a longer bike ride,” Brad said. “I haven’t heard either way.”

“Not going to get a car anytime soon?”

“I’ve been too busy to even think about it,” Brad said. “And with the bike I get a little exercise in every day.”

“Where do you live?” she asked. “It’s funny; we’ve been working together for months, but we don’t see each other except on campus.”

“Not far. Down Foothill across Highway One, past Foothill Plaza.”

“That’s a long ride, I think,” Jodie said. “How do you like it?”

Brad shrugged. “It’s not bad. It’s a little rancherito, about an acre fenced off from the rest of the neighborhood. The surrounding neighborhoods are a little wild sometimes. It belongs to a friend of my dad. He’s retired from the Marine Corps, I think, but he’s always traveling, so I stay in his house and take care of the place. I’ve never even met the guy — we just correspond by e-mails. It’s quiet most of the time, I never see the owner, and it’s fixed up nice.”

“A bohemian bachelor-party pad, then?” Jodie asked with a smile.

“I don’t know the owner, but I know he used to be a drill instructor or something,” Brad said. “I don’t do parties in his place. Just my luck he’d blow into town during a party and he’d kick my ass. I’m not a partying guy anyway. I don’t know how any of these freshmen can have all these crazy parties, especially during the week. I’d never get anything done.”

“You’re at Cal Poly, mate,” Jodie said. “We are an amateur party school compared to the UCs or USC.”

“What about Australian universities?”

“Without doubt, you blokes are amateur partiers compared to even our most stately schools,” Jodie replied. “We Aussies work our brains out to get into the best schools with the best scholarships, then do nothing but rage on once we’re out of the house and away to uni.”

“So you turned into a party girl too?”

“Not me, mate,” Jodie said. “I actually went to uni to get an education. I had to get out of there and go to a regular American school so I could get some work done.”

“But you go back pretty soon, don’t you?”

“Right before Christmas,” Jodie replied with a sigh and a sip of wine. “Our first semester back home starts in February.”

“That’s too bad. Starfire should be just heating up then, if our project goes forward.”

“I know,” Jodie said. “I’ll still help via the Internet, and I want to be there when we flip the switch and beam the first watts to Earth, but I really want to stay to see the project launched. I’ve applied for grants and scholarships to extend, but nothing’s come through yet.”

“You’d have to pay your own tuition, room, board, and books?” Brad asked.

“Yes, and American universities are big bikkies compared to Aussie schools, especially for out-of-staters,” Jodie said. “My parents are battlers, but I’ve got five brothers and sisters all younger than me. I had to get scholarships or not go to uni at all.”

“Maybe I could help,” Brad said.

Jodie fixed her eyes on Brad over the rim of her wineglass. “Why, Mr. McLanahan, are you cracking up to me?” she asked after taking a sip.

“What?”

“No worries, Brad,” Jodie replied. “I would never borrow money from anyone, especially from a cobber. It’s just not in me.” Brad’s eyes narrowed for about the sixteen-millionth time. “From a friend, you mug. I’d never borrow money from a friend.”

“Oh.” He hesitated for a moment; then: “But if it was to keep you here to finish Starfire, then it would be an investment in the project, not a loan, right?”

She smiled at him again, trying to discern any hidden intent in his words, but finally shook her head. “Let’s see what happens with all my applications and with the project, mate,” Jodie said. “But you’re lollies to offer. More wine?”

“Just a little, and then I need to go back to Reinhold to get my bike and head home.”

“Why not stay and I’ll fix us something?” Jodie asked. “Or we can go to the Market and pick up something.” She stepped closer to Brad, put her wineglass down, leaned forward, and placed a soft kiss on his lips. “Or we can skip tea and have a little naughty.”

Brad gave her a light kiss in return, then said, “I don’t think I need an Australian slang dictionary to decipher that one.” But, to her immense disappointment, he averted his eyes. “But I’ve got a girl back in Nevada,” he said.

“I’ve got a bloke or two back home, mate,” Jodie said. “I’m not talking about a relationship. We’re two mates far from home, Brad — I’m just a little farther from home than you are. I think you’re spunk, and I’ve seen you perving me—”

“What! No, I haven’t… what?”

“I mean, you are hot, and I’ve seen you checking me out,” Jodie said with a smile. “I’m not saying we get married, mate, and I’m not going to steal you away from your soul mate… at least, not right away, or permanently… maybe.” She reached up to take his hand, glancing briefly at the hallway to her bedroom. “I just want to… what do you Yanks call it, ‘hook up’?” Brad blinked in surprise, and didn’t — couldn’t — say anything. She read the hesitation in his face and body language and nodded. “That’s okay, mate. Don’t blame a sheila for trying… or trying again, later.”

“I think you’re sexy, Jodie, and I love your eyes and hair and body,” Brad said, “but I’m just not wired for hooking up, and I want to see if I can make a long-distance relationship work. Besides, you and I work together, and I don’t want anything to spoil that.”

“That’s okay, Brad,” she said. “I think we’re both adult enough to keep working together even if we have a naughty or two, but I respect your feelings.” She saw Brad’s serious face break out into a grin, then a chuckle. “Stop making fun of my accent and slang, you wowser!”

He laughed aloud at the new slang word. “I thought I’d heard all the Aussie slang words, Jodie! I’ve heard ten more new ones just today!”

“You making fun of my accent again, Mr. McLanahan?”

“Sorry.”

Jodie thumbed her nose, then said in a very deep voice, “ ‘Don’t apologize: it’s a sign of weakness.’ ”

“Hey! You do John Wayne too! War Wagon, right?” He clapped.

“Thank you, sir,” Jodie said, taking a bow, “except it was She Wore a Yellow Ribbon. Now let’s get out of here before I jump your bones, drongo!”

It was just starting to get dark by the time they drove back to the parking lot outside the Reinhold Aerospace Engineering building. “I’d be happy to drive you home and pick you up again in the morning, Brad,” Jodie said as Brad got out of her car, retrieved his backpack, and crossed over to the driver’s-side window. “All you have to do is buy brekkies.”

“I assume that means ‘breakfast,’ ” Brad said with a smile. She rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. “I may take you up on that offer when the weather is lousy, but I’ll be okay. It’s not too dark yet.”

“Anytime, mate,” Jodie said. She was pleasantly surprised when Brad leaned toward her through the open window and gave her a light kiss on the lips. “Anytime at all, Brad,” she added with a smile. “ ’Night.” She put the car in gear and pulled away.

“Am I the luckiest SOB on the planet?” he asked half aloud to himself. He dug his keys out of his jeans, removed the locks from his Trek CrossRip hybrid road/cross-country bicycle, activated the headlight and the red-and-white-flashing LED safety lights he had arrayed all around the bike, strapped on his helmet and turned on its lights, secured his backpack with the waist strap, and headed off on his two-mile ride home.

Traffic was busy on the major avenues, but San Luis Obispo was a very bike-friendly town, and he only had to dodge inattentive motorists just once or twice on the fifteen-minute ride before reaching the house. The three-bedroom, one-and-a-half-bath, single-story home was situated in the center of a one-acre lot, with a detached two-car garage beside it; the lot was surrounded by an old but well-maintained wooden fence. In this busy and rather congested neighborhood, it was a little reminder of the expansive farming estates and numerous small ranches that dominated the area before the university swelled the population.

Brad carried his bike inside the house — the garage had been broken into many times, so nothing of value was kept in it — and even inside the house, he locked it up with a big ugly-looking chain and oversize padlock. The neighborhood wasn’t crime-ridden, but kids were always jumping the fences, peering through the windows, and occasionally trying the doors, looking for something easy to snatch, and Brad hoped that if they saw the bike chained up like that they’d move on to easier pickings. For the same reason, he kept his laptop’s backpack out of sight in his closet and never left the laptop out on the desk or kitchen table, even if he was in the yard or going to the store a few blocks away.

He rummaged through the refrigerator, looking for leftovers. He vaguely remembered his father, a single dad after the murder of his mother, making macaroni and cheese with sliced hot dogs for his son quite often when he was home, and that always made Brad feel good, so he always had a half pot of the stuff in the fridge.

Damn, Jodie felt good too, he told himself. Who knew the friendly but normally quiet Aussie science geek wanted stuff like “hooking up”? She was always so serious in class or in the lab. Who else, he wondered, was like that? Casey Huggins was a little more rambunctious but was pretty serious most of the time as well. He started going down the list of the few women he knew, comparing them to Jodie…

… and then he whipped out his cell phone, realizing that the main reason he hadn’t hooked up with Jodie or anyone else was probably waiting for him to call. He speed-dialed her number.

“Hello, this is Sondra,” the message began. “I’m probably flying, so do your thing when you hear the beep.”

“Hi, Sondra. Brad,” he spoke after the tone. “It’s almost eight. Just wanted to say hi. We made the pitch today for Starfire. Wish us luck. Later.”

Sondra Eddington and Jodie Cavendish, it turned out, were very similar to each other, Brad realized as he found the pot of macaroni. Both were blond-haired and blue-eyed; Sondra was a little taller, not quite as thin, and several years older. Although Jodie was a student and Sondra had already graduated with bachelor’s and master’s degrees in business along with a number of pilot’s certificates, both were professionals in their own domains: Jodie was a master in a laboratory, while Sondra was completely comfortable and highly proficient in an airplane — and soon to be spaceplane, once she finished her training in Battle Mountain — cockpit.

And, most of all, both were not hesitant to speak their minds and tell you exactly what they wanted, whether it was professional or personal, and definitely on every level of personal. How in the heck do I attract women like this? Brad asked himself. It had to be just plain ol’ dumb luck, because he certainly didn’t…

… and at that moment he heard the scrape of a shoe against the wooden kitchen floor and sensed rather than saw a presence behind him. Brad dropped the pot onto the floor and whirled, finding two men standing before him! One was holding a backpack, and the other had one as well, along with a rag in his right hand. Brad half stumbled, half jumped backward against the refrigerator in surprise.

“Neuklyuzhiye ublyudok,” the first man growled at the other in what Brad thought was Russian. “Clumsy idiot.” He then casually pulled an automatic pistol with a silencer affixed to the muzzle from the waist of his pants, held it level at his waist, and aimed it at Brad. “Do not move or cry out, Mr. McLanahan, or you will die,” he said in perfectly good English.

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?” Brad said in a shaky, broken voice. “Are you robbing me? I don’t have anything!”

“Otpusti yego, durak,” the first man said in a low voice. “Put him down, and do it right this time.”

Advancing with amazing speed, the second man whipped something out of his waistband and swung it. Brad’s vision exploded into stars, and he never remembered the object hitting his temple or his body crumpling to the floor like a sack of beans.