by Bobby Akart
The president sighed. “Okay, that opens up a huge can of worms in light of what happened this morning—diplomatically and legally. I mean, we’d have to go hat in hand to the UN and ask for the member states to approve our mission, or agree to participate.” The president paused and then slapped the back of the chair. “Damn. Is there nothing else? Are we too late for other options?”
“Yes, sir, apparently so, unless we want to pin our hopes on the Russians. A nuclear detonation or, actually, multiple pinpointed detonations, as Frederick told me, would be required.”
The president didn’t respond. He simply stared at the empty chair in front of him.
His chief of staff picked up the conversation. “Mr. Secretary, when will NASA have a detailed plan, a proposal, as to what we should do, other than nothing?”
“Naturally, they’re working out the details as we speak. He made no promises, but he clearly understands the need for urgency here.”
A light tapping on the door caused everyone to pause. Fielding motioned to her assistant to answer it. It was an aide to the Secretary of Defense.
“Mr. Secretary, I have an urgent message for you, sir.” The young woman approached and handed him a white nine-by-twelve envelope. The defense secretary dismissed the aide, and when the door was closed, he began to speak.
“Our recon satellites report that the Russians are deploying their RS-24 and Topol-M mobile intercontinental missile launchers to their borders, especially along their eastern and northern perimeters.”
“The shortest paths to our mainland,” muttered the president.
The defense secretary pulled out a satellite photograph and handed it to the president. “Sir, this was taken one hour ago. It’s a Borei-class nuclear-powered ballistic submarine.”
The president studied the image and pointed to a small island. “Where is this island?”
“Sir, that is Isla de la Juventud. It is the second largest island in Cuba.”
“A hundred miles from Key West,” added the president, studying his Defense Secretary.
“Yes, sir.”
The president stood from his hunched-over position and stated with conviction, “I’m beginning to question the veracity of the Russian ambassador. I am not going to be lulled into a false sense of security. I believe we need to get on a war footing, posthaste.”
Chapter 5
Friday, April 13
NASA Headquarters
Two Independence Square
Washington, DC
“Well, for better or worse, he’s on board,” announced Jim Frederick, the former astronaut who’d been nominated to be NASA’s first African-American administrator by the president. Like the other members of his team in the large conference room, his face was gaunt and his eyes reflected the solemn mood in the room. Despite the tragedy that had struck the space agency, as Frederick put it: It’s time to pull on our big-boy pants and do our jobs.
Nola Taylor, head of the Space Technology Directorate, frowned. “This whole thing sickens me. The loss of American lives is bad enough. But, from a scientific perspective, I feel an opportunity of a lifetime will pass us by.”
During many of these briefings, there was always a lone voice of dissent. A voice that was pragmatic, no-nonsense, and oftentimes resented by the others who had an idealistic vision of space exploration.
Hal Rawlings, the chief of NASA’s Flight Director Office, was that voice of reason, or truth, as he chose to view it. A native of Borden County, Texas, population six hundred forty-two, Chief Rawlings, as he was known by everyone, shunned the cowboy lifestyle of others growing up in West Texas. He rebelled at the thought of working the oil fields or on a ranch like his friends.
Instead, while his buddies were staring at the sky at night, dreaming of rodeos and buckle-bunnies, Chief Rawlings imagined being up there, looking back at Earth.
His family saved for his college from the day he was born. After graduation, he enrolled at Texas A&M and earned his bachelor’s degree in mechanical engineering. He immediately applied for a job at NASA as a flight controller in the thermal operations group directly responsible for the multiple subsystems that powered the International Space Station.
However, being tethered to a desk was not what Chief Rawlings had in mind for his future. He gathered friends within the halls of the Johnson Space Center, took graduate classes at night, and got the requisite three years of professional experience that qualified him to be an astronaut.
Then he threw his cowboy hat into the ring along with eighteen thousand other AsCans, the nickname given to astronaut candidates. It took Hal Rawlings eight applications in eight years, but he was eventually accepted into the program.
Those eight years weren’t wasted. During that time, he worked in all aspects of NASA operations, even taking a demotion one time just so he could work directly with AsCans in training.
When Chief Rawlings’s career as an active astronaut ended, he’d logged more hours in space than any other. He’d spent more hours tethered to the ISS conducting space walks. And he’d been afforded the honor of being in the first lunar lander during the Artemis Two mission three years ago.
His opinion was respected because he had no agenda other than the application of common sense. For that reason, Chief Hal Rawlings often won every argument.
That morning, following the tragedy, when he made an off-the-wall suggestion coupled with the perfect mix of personnel to bring his plan to fruition, a consensus was immediately reached.
NASA was going to attack IM86 with a heretofore untested spacecraft, a new array of technologically advanced nuclear missiles, and an Air Force pilot who’d never been into space and was borderline suicidal—Gunner Fox.
“Nola, I understand and we all wish that we weren’t faced with this dilemma,” added Frederick. “However, our backs are against the wall. By all calculations, our window of opportunity lies between oh seven hundred hours on the twenty-fourth and nineteen hundred hours on the twenty-fifth. That’s a thirty-six-hour time span that will move at the speed of light as far as my nerves are concerned.”
Chief Rawlings continued to remain quiet during the conversation, periodically looking down at his watch. He’d learned that there was very little sense of urgency within the halls of government. Pencil-pushin’ and paper-shufflin’ were only surpassed by meetings as the top wastes of human resources, in his opinion.
The director of Human Exploration and Operations addressed Chief Rawlings. “I don’t know where to start in training this man. The only thing he knows about NASA is what his wife may have relayed to him.”
Chief Rawlings reached down for his spit cup. For most of his life, he’d kept a chaw of Levi Garrett chewing tobacco in his mouth. When he applied to be an AsCan, he was told by medical that he’d have to give up the habit.
He did. Until he returned from the Moon and was placed on inactive status. He immediately sought his old friend Levi and, much to the disgust of his fellow directors seated around the conference room table, never left home without it.
He spit out the excess moisture and casually wiped the corner of his mouth with his tobacco-stained, grizzly hand. “I’ll train ’im myself.”
The room erupted in chatter as nearly everyone shook their head from side to side. Everyone except Frederick, the decision maker.
Nola Taylor was the loudest voice of dissent. “Chief, with all due respect, we have professionals who handle training. You know that. Our protocols are regimented and specifically designed to weed out AsCans who are incapable of dealing with space travel. As you know, this is an intense process that’s not for everyone.”
Chief Rawlings nodded, acknowledging Taylor’s honest opinion. Under most circumstances, he’d agree wholeheartedly. Every mission required a team, and the astronauts had to be able to trust each other implicitly. Their lives depended upon it. There are no do-overs in space.
“Ma’am, respectfully, you don’t need an astronaut for this mission. There are no experiments
to conduct. No far away galaxies to observe. What you need is a stone-cold killer and a damn good pilot. Gunner Fox is your man.”
“He’s never been in space!” protested one of the attendees.
“Neither have you,” countered Chief Rawlings calmly.
“You know what I mean, Chief. There are two years of classes. You have to go through survival training, mental evals …” Her voice trailed off. “We’re putting the fate of the planet on the shoulders of a man who has been proven to be mentally unstable. The dossier provided to us this morning revealed that he tried to fly an experimental aircraft halfway to the Moon before it disintegrated.”
Chief Rawlings was undeterred. “That’s exactly what this mission needs. Major Fox is a thrill seeker but not suicidal, according to the psychologist at Eglin. He understands how to deal with threats, emergencies, contingencies, and then come up with solutions.”
“He tore up a hundred-billion-dollar aircraft and then dropped out of the damn stratosphere! Chief, that’s not stable!”
“Maybe, maybe not. Listen, in space, you’re on your own. You don’t have anyone else to ask except Mission Control. You do realize that we may lose communications with the spacecraft based upon the proposed intercept point, right? He’s not gonna be able to call in or Google the problem. He’s got to apply his own common sense and experience to any complications, if they arise.”
Taylor spoke up. “We can beef up his knowledge database. He can lean on artificial intelligence for answers.”
“Okay, that’s fine. But know this, in space, you only get one breath to save your ass. What I can teach him in the week I’ve got is a crash course in the necessary knowledge it takes to pull off this mission—not all the extra stuff thrown in by the shrinks and the phys-ed team.”
“Chief,” began acting director Frederick. He thumbed through a copy of Dr. Brian Dowling’s file on Gunner. “What about his mental condition? Frankly, I haven’t had time to look at this extensive psychological profile on Major Fox, but the mere fact that it exists is a red flag to me. Shouldn’t we at least interview other combat pilots, candidates who are, as we’ve pointed out, more stable?”
“I’ve been assured that he’s mentally ready,” said Chief Rawlings. “I’ve known his commander from his Special Forces training days for a long time. I got on the phone with him minutes after the mission fail because I knew this discussion would be taking place. This guy is as cool as a cucumber. Calm, ready, competent. And capable.”
“But—” the director of Human Explorations and Operations began to argue, but Chief Rawlings shook his head, causing her to stop.
“Ma’am, back in the glory days of Mercury 7, we sought out fighter pilots with nerves of steel, men who lived on the edge, just like Major Fox. As our technology advanced, missions changed. We needed scientists in space in order to study ways to get farther into our solar system. I get that.
“Today is different. We need a space cowboy. You know, like in the movies. We need a guy who is fearless, and yes, due to circumstances, perhaps with nothing to live for. I guarantee you that if you lined up fifty candidates who qualify, only one will honestly say that he’d give his life to save our planet. That’s Gunner Fox.”
Frederick leaned forward and looked Chief Rawlings in the eye. “Chief, I spoke directly with the contact who recruited your man this morning. Major Fox didn’t even ask what he was being asked to do.”
Chief Rawlings calmly spit more of his tobacco juice in the cup and smiled. “Exactly. Because it didn’t matter.”
Chapter 6
Friday, April 13
The Doomsday Plane
Forty Thousand Feet
Somewhere over Missouri
The U.S. Air Force’s E-4B was a militarized version of the 747-200 commercial airliner. Known as the doomsday plane, it acts as the principal airborne command and control operations center during times of war or catastrophic events.
It was capable of withstanding the force of a nuclear detonation. Unlike its technologically advanced counterparts, the doomsday plane was equipped with analog flight instruments that were less likely to be fried by the electromagnetic pulse released after a nuclear detonation. It’s also shielded to protect the crew, and its most important passenger, the President of the United States, from the nuclear and thermal effects during an attack. With its giant fuel tanks and ability to refuel in the air via the Boeing KC-135 Stratotanker, the doomsday plane can stay airborne for weeks.
In addition to the president, the six-story aircraft—complete with eighteen beds, six bathrooms, and room for one hundred twelve crew members—carried the Secretary of Defense and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. In preparation for all contingencies, there were six of the E-4B doomsday planes stationed throughout the world.
President Watson strolled through the command and control work area, periodically sticking his head into the operations team center to see if there was any activity. He was bored and somewhat fussy that his security team insisted that he be whisked away from the White House. To be sure, the Russians couldn’t be trusted, and most likely, their blatant, highly visible maneuvers were intended to be an act of deterrence against a U.S. counterstrike. Nonetheless, he had a wife and grown children to protect, and the doomsday plane would certainly do that.
“Mr. President, sir?” His chief of staff interrupted his thoughts.
“Yes, Maggie.”
“Sir, NASA is prepared to give you a briefing via video linkup in the command center conference room on the fourth floor. They assure me they’re prepared to move forward with a viable alternative.”
The president gestured for Fielding to lead the way to the carpeted spiral staircase. He didn’t want to bother with the elevator to travel down one level. He chatted along the way.
“Do we have the Secretary of State ready to begin making phone calls? She needs to garner the support of our allies, and they, in turn, need to be prepared to pressure the Russians and Chinese if necessary.”
Maggie reached the next level and paused to allow the president to catch up. His increased exercise regimen had taken a toll on his knees. His doctors had suggested knee replacement surgery, but his political advisors said that would generate bad optics during his first term, so he dealt with the discomfort.
“Sir, I don’t want to preempt NASA’s presentation, but I suspect you’re correct. Unless they were overstating the time frames in our earlier briefings, the so-called orbital slingshot method is off the table at this point.”
“We gotta nuke it,” the president said bluntly.
“Yes, sir. That will require everyone to sign on, not just our allies. Otherwise, we run the risk of our launch suffering a similar fate as the one this morning.”
They reached the conference room door, and the president glanced in to find the Joint Chiefs seated, patiently waiting his arrival.
Fielding continued. “Mr. President, I’m coming directly from a military perspective, as you know. My background in the Navy did not train me for the political world that you clearly understand.”
“Maggie, if something is on your mind, say it.”
She nodded and swallowed before speaking. “Sir, the Russians kept us in the dark regarding IM86 for a substantial amount of time because, in my opinion, Putin wants to gloat about being the first to land on, and mine, an asteroid. While it’s true that may afford him a period where he can claim a political victory over us, the setback we suffered is minimal compared to the losses we face if this asteroid strikes the planet.”
“I understand all of this, Maggie. That’s why if going nuclear is our only option, then I’ll approve the mission.”
Fielding rolled her neck on her shoulders. “Sir, the Russians, and their friends in Beijing, may not sign off on the U.S. nuking the asteroid. Maybe the destruction of our orbiter today was a mistake by their AI. Or perhaps it was intentional to prevent us from reaching the asteroid’s surface before they do. But, Mr. President, one thing is certain. The Russians
will never let you detonate nuclear weapons on the surface of IM86 if their people are present or in the vicinity.”
“Well, they need to get their people out of the way. I mean, according to NASA, we have no confirmation that their lander has managed to reach the surface of the asteroid. I’m sure President Putin would be beating his chest in delight if they had.”
The president began to walk inside, and Fielding touched his arm to stop him for a moment. “Sir, all I’m saying is that you might have to concede the Russians the opportunity to fulfill their mission, with some type of deadline to, as you say, get their people out of the way.”
The president smiled and nodded as he broke off the conversation. He entered the room and everyone immediately stood at attention. Acting NASA administrator Frederick also stood from behind his desk at NASA headquarters. His position didn’t afford him the protection against a nuclear attack like others within the government.
“Thank you, everyone. Let’s give Jim Frederick all the time he needs to lay out NASA’s proposal, and then we’ll open up the floor for comments and questions. Understood?”
A chorus of yessirs filled the room, and everyone took their seats after the president got settled in. President Watson began by telling Frederick to get started.
“Mr. President, I’ll be completely honest with you. The agency only has one option on the table, and it has become far more complicated by the passage of time.”
“Nuclear?” asked the president.
“Yes, sir. Only, it can’t simply be an impact strike as envisioned in the past. Because of the size of IM86 at just over one-point-two miles at its maximum length, and its irregular shape, it will take more than a single kinetic impact to divert it.”
Envisioned decades ago by scientists from the world’s five major space agencies, the kinetic impactor approach was intended to move the asteroid off its trajectory enough to avoid striking Earth.
