Executive Intent (9 page)

“Most countries are cooperating, Madam Secretary,” U.S. Space Command General Wiehl said. “With the Shuttle retired, we rely on the Russians almost every month for spacelift to the International Space Station.”

“I know that, General, and it worries me,” Ann said. “What if the Russians decided not to send Soyuz to the ISS anymore?”

“They wouldn't do that, Doctor,” Wiehl said. “Russia has invested a lot into the ISS, and they usually have one or two cosmonauts aboard. They rely on us as much as we rely on them.” But the sharpness of his rebuttal showed Ann that perhaps the question worried him more than he let on.

“Let's get back to Dr. Page's proposal,” Secretary Banderas said, glancing at his watch. “Twenty billion to put forty-eight…you called them ‘garages'? What's in this ‘garage'?”

“Each weapon platform carries an infrared sensor, a tracking and targeting radar, electro-optical surveillance cameras, maneuvering engines, control and communications systems, and six Trinity kill vehicles—a mix of three antiballistic missile and defensive missiles, and three Mjollnir reentry vehicles,” Ann said. “The platforms are small enough to be placed into orbit with smaller boosters like Athena Two, Taurus, or the Midnight spaceplane, and they're designed to be reloadable from manned or unmanned spacecraft.”

“Why forty-eight of these garages? Can it be done with fewer?”

“The number is based on commercial communications satellite structures that provide continuous global coverage, sir,” Ann said. “At an orbital altitude of about two to three hundred miles, which makes them easily accessible by our spaceplanes for servicing, there will be at least six platforms continuously overhead almost every spot on the planet.”

“So six garages with three antiballistic-missile interceptors—
assuming some aren't used to defend the garages themselves—is just eighteen interceptors able to respond at any moment to an attack,” Wiehl said. “Doesn't sound like that many.”

“If we're being attacked by more than eighteen enemy missiles—especially nuclear ones—we have a serious problem that wouldn't be solved by twice as many interceptors, General,” Ann said with a wry smile. “The antiballistic-missile portion of the system is, of course, part of a layered system that includes boost-phase and terminal defenses.”

She turned to Secretary Banderas. “Sir, you've said it yourself many times: the Air Force has to do more with less; we have to field multi-role systems. The platforms are much more than just for space-based weapons. The sensors on board each platform and the integration of their data with other space assets through Armstrong Space Station will be invaluable to operators around the world. This network will provide real-time infrared, radar, and optical imagery to all users—even the Navy.” She leaned forward and opened her hands. “
That's
the way we sell it to Secretary Turner and the White House.”

“This is a benefit for the Navy? That's how we sell it?”

“The president is an unabashed Navy advocate,” Ann said. “He and SECDEF both believe that the Navy is the preeminent military power of the United States of America, and that every other service, especially the Air Force, is a support service. If that's the way they want to see us, that's fine. But let's design a support mission that suits
us,
not fit in with how
they
see
us
.”

Secretary Banderas thought for a moment, then, as Ann breathed a sigh of relief, nodded. “I like it, Ann,” he said. “Global look, global persistence, global availability, with self-protection and antiballistic-missile capabilities—and run by the Air Force.”

“I think we'll have real problems with the land-attack option, sir,” Chief of Staff Huffman said. “Even though these Mjollnir space weapons don't technically violate any treaties, the whole idea
of weapons raining down on top of you from space will spook a lot of people, possibly including the president.”

“Then we'll downplay the land-attack thing at first,” Banderas said. “The missiles—”

“We call them ‘orbital maneuvering vehicles,' sir,” Ann said.

The secretary of the Air Force nodded approvingly. “I like that,” he said. “Not ‘kill vehicles,' not ‘missiles'—‘orbital maneuvering vehicles.' OMVs. Okay, the OMVs are on board for self-protection and for ballistic-missile defense. The land-attack weapons are possible future development spirals. When can I get platforms upstairs, Ann?”

“The sensor packages and network integration was completed some time ago—the weapon interfaces have just completed R and D,” Ann replied. “We can build and launch one, perhaps two spacecraft a month. Within a year we can have sixty percent coverage and one hundred percent coverage within two years.”

Banderas nodded. “Excellent. We'll meet to discuss where the money will come from, but because we'll pitch this as a naval support system, we might be able to siphon some bucks out of the Navy. So what are you going to call it, Ann?”

“I thought of several names, sir,” Ann said, “but given the way we're going to pitch this to the National Command Authority and Congress as a naval support system, I've narrowed it down to one: Kingfisher. The Navy won't be as intimidated by a more globe-dominating name. Cute brightly colored little birds—the marine variety dive below the surface after fish.”

Banderas shook his head and got to his feet. “You learn something new every damn day, I guess,” he said with a smile. He held out a hand to Ann, and she shook it. “Thank you, Dr. Page. You've done some incredible work. We'll see about selling this to the powers that be and get a supplemental authorization. After what happened to the
Bush,
I think they'll be responsive to a system that puts more eyes out there over the horizon.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ann said. “Another question: standing up the Space Defense Force—”

“Don't even go there, Ann,” Banderas said. “This sell is going to be tough enough without recommending forming an entire new military entity. We'll be lucky if it doesn't turn into a Navy program after all. Let's get the thing built and in orbit before deciding what color to paint it, okay?” He shrugged his shoulders and added, “And the way the Air Force is faring these days, that color will probably be battleship gray.”

L
AS
V
EGAS
, N
EVADA

J
ANUARY
2012

“You have the mind of a twenty-year-old, the bod of a thirty-year-old—but the eyes of an eighty-year-old?” Air Force Colonel Gia “Boxer” Cazzotto said, giving Patrick McLanahan a kiss on the cheek. Gia was tall, with straight dark hair, mischievous brown eyes, and a disarmingly shy smile—all of which disguised a woman who commanded one of America's few remaining heavy bomber wings. “Cataract surgery, intraocular implants—
you
?”

“'Fraid so, babe,” Patrick said. Patrick was a retired three-star Air Force general and one of the most highly regarded and popular military men in American history, having led mostly secret bombing missions all over the world for almost two decades, as well as the man responsible for starting America's military Space
Defense Force. But today, he was sitting up on a hospital bed in street clothes, being prepped for surgery. “I guess they're common for astronauts, high-altitude pilots, and anyone who works where ultraviolet rays are stronger.”

“No, it's common for old guys,” quipped Jonathan Colin Masters, who was also waiting with his friend. “Nervous, buddy?”

“A little,” Patrick admitted.

“You
are
the first guy to get the newest version of the e-lenses,” Jon said. “But the other versions have worked out very well, so there's nothing to be worried about.”

“I don't like anyone messing with my eyes.”

“Your eyes will still be blue and gorgeous,” Gia said, giving Patrick another kiss. “Heck, I might get
my
lenses replaced—if Jon lowers the price.”

“No military discounts—yet,” Jon said. “But in a few years, everyone will have them.” In the hour Patrick had been in pre-op, nurses had been putting various drops in his eyes every few minutes, and his pupils were fully dilated, so even tiny bits of light were bothersome. He had an intravenous line put in, but the anesthesiologist hadn't put anything in the saline bag just yet. Patrick's blood pressure was slightly elevated, but he appeared calm and relaxed.

Since leaving the U.S. Air Force two years earlier, he had let his hair grow a bit longer, and despite almost-daily workouts, he couldn't keep a little “executive spread” from setting in. He still bore some scars from his time in Iraq on the ground evading Republic of Turkey fighter-bombers; the blond hair was gone, replaced by middle-age brown with a slowly rising forehead and rapidly spreading temples of gray; and the bright blue eyes were slowly being clouded by ultraviolet radiation. But otherwise he was looking good for a man approaching his midfifties.

For the umpteenth time he was asked if he had any allergies, that it was indeed his left eye they were going to operate on, and if
he had anything to eat or drink in the preceding twelve hours—and finally it was time to go. Gia and Jon said their good-byes and headed for a nearby laboratory to watch the procedure on a closed-circuit monitor while Patrick was wheeled into the operating room.

The entire procedure took less than thirty minutes. After immobilizing his head and face, an eye surgeon made a tiny incision in Patrick's left cornea, and he inserted an ultrasonic probe that dissolved the clouded left eye lens so it could be flushed away. Another tiny probe inserted the new artificial lens and positioned it in place. After several checks and measurements, Patrick was wheeled into the recovery room, where Gia was waiting for him and Jon and two other engineers from Sky Masters Inc. worked on a laptop computer set up on a desk in the recovery room. Gia kissed his forehead. “Yep, they're still blue,” she said. “Feel okay?”

“Yes,” Patrick said. “It's still a little shimmery and distorted, but I can already see in 3-D rather than just 2-D. I never realized how bad my vision had gotten.” He turned to Jon. “And no more glasses?”

“Glasses are so twentieth century, Muck,” Jon said. “It'll take a while for your eye muscles to adapt to the new lens, but in a couple weeks your eye muscles will be able to flex it just like a natural lens to focus on distant, mid, and close ranges. Plus it corrects astigmatism, and it'll last four lifetimes—you can will it to your grandkids if you want. And it can do a lot more stuff, too.” He swiveled an examination lamp around and aimed it at Patrick…

…and to his amazement, the glare in his left eye quickly dimmed. “Wow, the sunglass feature works great,” Patrick exclaimed. “No more sunglasses either!” He concentrated for a moment, and the glare returned as the electronic darkening feature deactivated. “And it's easy to shut it off, too.”

“Same haptic interface we use in the Cybernetic Infantry Devices—you think about doing something like removing sunglasses, and it happens,” Jon said.

“No telescopic vision, like the Six Million Dollar Man?”

“That's a few versions in the future, but we're working on it,” Jon said. He typed commands on his keyboard. “But try out the datalink next, Muck.”

“Here goes. Maddie, status report, Armstrong Space Station.”

“Yes, General McLanahan, please stand by,”
responded the computerized voice of “Maddie,” or Multifunctional Advanced Data Delivery and Information Exchange. Maddie was the Sky Masters Inc. civilian version of the “Duty Officer,” the computerized virtual assistant that listened in on all conversations and could respond to requests and questions, retrieve information, remotely unlock doors, and thousands of other functions.
“Data ready, General,”
Maddie said a few moments later.

“Maddie, display data.” Patrick spoke, and moments later a chart showing the military space station's position over Earth in its orbit appeared, along with readouts of altitude, velocity, orbital period, number of personnel, and status of its major systems…right before Patrick's eyes! “I can see it!” Patrick said. “Holy cow! This is incredible, Jon!”

“The new lens is really a microthin liquid crystal display and datalink receiver, powered by your eye muscles,” Jon said. A mirror copy of the display was playing on Jon's laptop. “Right now you can access information only through Maddie, so it's limited to Sky Masters facilities, but we're working on a way to link into any wireless data source. Pretty soon you'll be able to tap into any sensor, radar, satellite download, any computer, the Internet, or any video broadcast, and watch it as if you were sitting right at the console. We're working on ways to be able to control computers and other systems that you are seeing as well.”

“Maddie, close the display.” Patrick spoke, and the image went away. “Pretty cool, Jon. But I
am
starting to feel like the Six Million Dollar Man, though—new implantable cardioverter defibrillator, new implanted telecommunications device, and now an electronic eye.”

“I appreciate you offering to be a Sky Masters guinea pig, Muck,” Jon said. “We're getting approvals for the new stuff that much faster because you're a famous guy and you're already so wired for sound that we can collect gobs of data on how the new gadgets are working. Speaking of which, how about we run through a few of the display functions so we can—”

“I've got a better idea, Jon—how about I take Patrick home, make him lunch, and let me visit for a while before I have to get back to my unit?” Gia interjected. “Tomorrow you can fine-tune him all you want.”

Jon rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. “Another woman standing in the path of scientific advancement,” he deadpanned. Gia stood, towering over him, and gave him a friendly smile but a very direct glance. Jon held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, but first thing tomorrow, we run your new eyeball through its paces, Muck. See ya.”

Gia wheeled Patrick through the Sky Masters laboratory and out to his waiting car, then drove them to his home in Henderson, just southeast of Las Vegas. The air was a little cool, but Gia and Patrick still enjoyed sitting outside, so they turned on gas patio heaters, snuggled under a comforter, and sipped hot tea while looking out at the view past their tiny yard with its swim-spa and out through the wrought-iron fence across to the golf course, with Henderson Airport beyond it. “I can actually see airplanes out there now,” he commented. “So you're off to RIMPAC tonight?”

“RIMPAC's not until June, but the participants are meeting in Hawaii to start the final planning,” Gia said. RIMPAC, or Rim of the Pacific, was a large-scale naval warfare exercise involving Western allied navies and other invited participants and observers. “This is the first time since the American Holocaust that the U.S. Air Force will be involved.”

“About time,” Patrick commented. “They should get Armstrong Space Station and the Space Defense Force involved, too.”

“They should, but they're not,” Gia said. “Secretary Page met
with Pacific Command several times and offered services, but they were turned down every time.”

“They're afraid that Armstrong will smoke them—all of those carriers are vulnerable to Armstrong and its weapon garages,” Patrick said.

“Ann Page needs a strong voice to help sell the Space Defense Force to Congress and the American people, Patrick,” Gia said. “The defense contracting business has been slowing down since the drawdowns in Iraq and Afghanistan—maybe it's time for you to get into the defense lobbying business.”

“Me? A lobbyist?”

“Who better to do it?” Gia asked. “People will listen to you, and you know all about technology, geopolitics, the military, foreign policy, and even how Congress operates.”

“Go back to Washington? Prowl around Capitol Hill again?”

“You won't be a presidential special adviser, but you'll still be Patrick McLanahan, and everyone in Congress will want to meet you, get their pictures taken with you, and listen to what you have to say,” Gia said. “You can make a difference. I'm sure former president Martindale can put you in contact with the right people, get you registered, and grease the skids for you. After that, you just tell them what you know. Give them a glimpse into the future.”

“Be a salesman for a bunch of defense contractors?”

“Not a salesman—you'd be an advocate, a spokesperson for the future U.S. military,” Gia corrected him. “You already are—you might as well get paid to do it.”

“That would mean pulling Bradley out of middle school again.”

Gia shrugged. “I've spent more time with him now, Patrick, and I think you're doting on him a little too much,” she said frankly. “He's a tough, smart, resilient kid. He's an egghead like his old man, but I see a lot of things in him that I don't see in you, stuff he probably got from Wendy—a thick skin, a lot more outer energy, a little attitude with folks that get in his way. But most of all, he wants to be near you—not right beside you every day; what kid wants that?—
but close enough to check in on you, be a little part of whatever you're doing. And honestly, I love Vegas, but it's no place to raise a teenager. Washington will be much better for him.”

Patrick frowned. “Me…a lobbyist,” he muttered. “My dad will be rolling in his grave.”

“Maybe, but he won't be one bit less proud of you,” Gia said. She snuggled closer to him. “So, Mr. Bionic Eyeball, my flight leaves in a few hours. How about you and me grab an early dinner before you drop me off at the airport?”

“Sounds good.”

At that moment Patrick's cell phone rang—caller ID said it was his son, Bradley. “Hey, big guy.”

“Hi, Dad. How did that eye thing go?”

“No problems. I can see great. I didn't realize how bad it was.”

“Cool. Hey, football team's going to meet after workouts, and Coach offered to take us out for pizza afterward. I know Colonel Cazzotto is leaving today. You going to be okay?”

“No worries. My eye is better than new.” That wasn't quite true, yet, but he really wanted the time alone with Gia. “Be home by nine.”

“Cool. Thanks. Later.”

Patrick hung up and put away his phone, then snuggled closer to Gia. “Are they going to feed you on the plane to Hawaii?”

“Ten bucks for plastic chicken in coach? No thanks. I usually bring a sandwich. Why?”

“Because we suddenly have the house all to ourselves this afternoon,” Patrick said, nuzzling her neck, “and I know of a better way to kill a few hours.”

“A few
hours
?” she asked with mock disbelief. “Look at you—give a guy a fancy high-tech eye and a nanotechnology pacemaker, and he starts to believe he
is
the Bionic Man!” But despite her kidding, he didn't stop his ministrations, and she quickly agreed to his change in plans.

T
HE
W
HITE
H
OUSE
S
ITUATION
R
OOM
, W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

T
HE NEXT DAY

President Joseph Gardner somehow always seemed to look polished and alert, even after being awakened in the middle of the night by a phone that did not stop ringing until he picked it up—the real emergency phone, what they called the “Batphone.” He strode into the Situation Room in the West Wing of the White House just minutes after the call; the only evidence that this was not business as usual was the slightly loosened knot in his tie. “Seats, everyone,” he said. The men and women arrayed around the large conference table quickly sat. “Something about Pakistan? Talk to me.”

“We detected a sudden deployment of a flight of Pakistani mobile ballistic missiles, sir,” Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Admiral Benjamin Kelly said. “No movements of any missiles have been announced by Islamabad.”

“Show me,” the president said.

“Yes, sir.” Kelly motioned to the Situation Room operations officer; the lights dimmed slightly…