Combat

by Stephen Coonts

  “Which needs a Requirement, a contractor, and research and development …”

  “And congressional hearings and hundreds of man-hours deciding what color to paint it,” continued McConnell. “A small group can always move faster and think faster than a large one. I want to present the defense community with a finished design, something so complete they’ll be able to leapfrog the first dozen steps of the acquisition process.” He grinned. “We can skip one step already. The other side’s writing the Requirement for us.”

  Ray stood and turned to face Avrell directly. “I know I’m breaking rules, but they’re not rules of physics, just the way DoD does business. I’m willing to push this because it needs to be done, and nobody else is doing it.”

  Avrell sighed. “So who’s working on your comm system?”

  McConnell grinned. “The guys in the kitchen, but they’ve got almost all the electronics. There’s lots to do. Come on, I’ll introduce you …”

  “Wait a minute, Ray.” Avrell held up his hand. “Let me make a call first.”

  “Carol?”

  “No. Sue Langston. She’s in graphics.”

  Ray laughed and pointed to the phone. Heading out of the office and down the hall, his intention was to check with the propulsion group in the living room, but then he heard the doorbell again. Fighting impatience, he hoped for another volunteer, or the Chinese takeout he’d ordered.

  Jennifer Oh stood on the doorstep, and Ray blinked twice in surprise. Another unexpected caller.

  “Can I come in?” she finally asked.

  “Oh, certainly, please come in, Jenny,” trying to sound as hospitable as he could. His distraction increased. She’d obviously come straight from work, and her naval uniform, with lieutenant commander’s stripes, jarred after the casual outfit he’d seen her in last week. Her long black hair was tied up in an ornate bun.

  She didn’t wait for him to speak. “Jim Naguchi told me a little about what you’re doing here. I think it’s an incredible idea.” She held up three square flat boxes. “And I brought pizza.”

  “Thank you on both counts, Jenny. Jim’s not here tonight, though.”

  “I came to help you, Ray. I can see what you’re doing. I’ve got a lot of experience in command and control systems,” she offered.

  Ray suddenly felt that Defender was going to work.

  Two

  Suggestions

  National Military Command Center, The Pentagon September 25

  The Joint Chiefs of Staff didn’t normally meet at two in the morning, but Rear Admiral Overton’s call was worth getting out of bed for.

  Most of the Chiefs had been in the Pentagon anyway, trying to manage the crisis, the troops, and the media. Although only three active GPS satellites had been lost out of a constellation of twenty-four, it had still created periods when there was no coverage in some parts of the world at some times, and there was no indication that they’d be able to fill the gaps soon. Everyone was assuming it would get much worse before it got better.

  There was also the continuing problem of the Vietnam Crisis. U.S. forces could not execute a coordinated, precision attack without complete GPS coverage, but they could not maintain such high readiness levels forever. And what if China had started attacking American satellites? Had a war already started?

  As they hurried into the Command Center, the J-2, Frank Overton, compared the generals’ normal polished appearance with the tired, overworked men in front of him. He was glad he had good news.

  The Chief of Staff of the Air Force and the Chief of Naval Operations were both last, coming in together and breaking off some sort of disagreement as they walked through the door. Overton didn’t even wait for them to sit down.

  “We have proof it’s the Chinese. We figured out where, and that led to how,” he announced.

  Overton’s data pad and the screen at the head of the table showed a black-and-white satellite photo. A date in the corner read “Jun 2006.”

  “This is the Gongga Shan prison camp in southern China—at least, we had identified it as a prison camp. We named it after the mountain.” Using his pointer, he showed areas marked as “Prisoners’ Barracks, Guard Barracks,” and so on. “As far as we know, it was built about five years ago, and can accommodate several thousand prisoners.”

  He pressed the remote again, and the first image slid to one side, and a second, of the same area, appeared alongside it. “This was taken about six hours ago. This construction work”—he indicated a long scar on the side of the mountain in the first photo—“has been finished or just stopped. We think finished, because if they’d just abandoned it, the excavation would still be there. In fact, if you look in the second photo, the mountain’s been restored to its original state. The original analysis four years ago speculated that the prisoners might be mining, or building an observatory, or an antenna. The site goes right up to the top of the mountain, and it’s one of the tallest around.”

  Admiral Overton paused, looking at the group. A hint of embarrassment appeared on his face. “That analysis was never followed up.” He shrugged.

  General Kastner spoke for the group. “And the real answer is?”

  Overton pressed the remote again. A gray-green infrared image appeared, superimposed over the second photo. “We wanted to see what they’d been working on. This is a satellite infrared picture taken about an hour ago. We were lucky,” he explained. “There was one already tasked to cover the region because of the crisis.”

  Most of the shapes in the image duplicated the buildings and other structures, but one shape was unique: a long, thick, straight line, laid east–west along the spine of the mountain.

  “It’s one kilometer long, and based on careful measurements, we know it’s angled along the western face of the mountain at about forty degrees elevation. At the base you’ll see a series of buried structures, including what we think are several bunkers for the launch crew. The buildings at the base are warm, and the entire structure is slightly warmer than the surrounding rock. We think it’s made of metal.”

  “A buried rocket launcher?” wondered the Army Chief of Staff.

  “No, sir. A buried gun barrel. See these shapes?” He used the cursor to indicate two round structures. “We believe these are tanks for the liquid-propellant fuel. Here where the barrel widens is the breech and combustion chamber.”

  “The barrel looks to be about ten feet in diameter. We’re still working on the numbers, but I believe it’s capable of launching a boosted projectile into earth orbit.”

  Even while the generals and their staffs took in the news, Kastner replied, “Great job, Frank. We’re pressed for time, but I’ve got to know how you found this.”

  “We’re putting together a complete report right now, sirs; you’ll all have it in a few hours.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Elimination and luck. Two of our satellites were killed in the same area just east of Okinawa. We assumed a west-to-east trajectory, back-calculated the origin, and tried to find a launching site in the region. We got lucky because we figured they’d start with an established installation, and the Gongga Shan Prison Camp was on the list. It probably never was anything but a construction site for the gun. That still took us over a week.” He didn’t sound proud.

  Kastner was complimentary but grim. “Well, Frank, your work is just beginning. We need to know a lot more about this weapon. First, is this the only one? It probably is, but I’ve got to know absolutely. How many more satellites can they kill with it? And what would it take to stop it?”

  Overton nodded silently, as grim as the general. He and his staff quickly left.

  Kastner turned to the others. “Immediate impressions, gentlemen? After we finish here, I’ll wake the President.”

  INN News, September 25

  Mark Markin stood in front of a map of China and Vietnam, a familiar image after weeks of confrontation. He read carefully from a data pad.

  “Xinhua, the official Chinese News Service, today released
a statement claiming a victory over ‘an American plan to seize control of Southeast Asia.’”

  Markin’s image was replaced by Chinese Premier Li Zhang, speaking to a crowd of cheering citizens. Thin, almost scrawny, the elderly leader spoke with energy in Chinese. English subtitles appeared at the bottom of the image.

  “In response to preparations for a massive attack on Chinese territory, the forces of the People’s Liberation Army have hamstrung the Imperialist aggressor by shooting down his military satellites.

  “Deprived of his superiority and given pause by our new technological strength, the Americans have canceled their attack plan. This shows that America is not all-powerful, that any bully can be stopped if one faces him directly and exposes his inner weakness.

  “We call on all the nations of the world, oppressed and suffering under American world hegemony, to topple the corrupt giant.”

  Markin reappeared, looking concerned. “U.S. defense officials have refused to comment officially, but it has been a working assumption that the Chinese were responsible for the missing spacecraft. They also were unable to say how or when U.S. military forces would react to this news.

  “Sources at the State Department were slightly more forthcoming, but only about the reasons for the Chinese announcement. They believe that the Chinese are openly challenging the U.S. in a field the Americans consider theirs exclusively: their technical edge. They hope to leverage their victory into an alliance of nations opposed to American policy.

  “There was no comment from the White House, except that the President and his advisors are considering all options to protect American interests in this widening crisis.”

  China Lake Naval Weapons Center, California September 26

  Tom Wilcox worked in the Test and Evaluation shop at China Lake. The entire base’s mission was to evaluate new weapons systems for the Navy, but his shop was the one that did the dirty work. He spent a lot of time in the desert and would be out there at dawn, half an hour from now.

  Wilcox looked like someone who’s spent a lot of time on the desert. Lean, tanned, his face showed a lot of wear, although he would joke that was just from dealing with the budget. He’d been in his current job for twenty-five years, and claimed he was good for that many more.

  This morning, he had to inspect the foundations for a new test stand. Before too long they’d be mounting rocket motors on it, and he didn’t want a motor, with stand still attached, careening across the landscape.

  First, though, he always checked his e-mail. Working on his danish, and placing his coffee carefully out of the way, he said, “New messages.”

  The computer displayed them on his wall screen, a mix of personal and professional subjects listed out according to his own priority system. The higher the rank of the sender, the less urgent the message had to be. Anything from an admiral went straight to the bottom of the pile.

  He noted one unusual item. Ray McConnell had sent a message, with a medium-sized attachment. He’d known Ray for quite a while as a colleague, but he hadn’t seen him since Wilcox had been to SPAWAR for that conference last spring, about six months ago. They’d exchanged some notes since then.

  Wilcox noted that it had a long list of other addressees, and it had been sent out at four this morning. He recognized a few of the addressees. They were all at official DoD installations.

  The cover letter was brief: “I think you’ll know what to do with this. It’s completely unclassified, but please only show it to people inside the security system. Thanks.”

  Well, that was mysterious enough to be worth a few minutes. He downloaded the attached file, waited for the virus and security check sums to finish, then had a look.

  It was a hundred-page document. The cover page had a gorgeous 3-D-rendered image of a wedge-shaped airfoil. It had to be a spacecraft, and the title above it read, “Defender.”

  Wilcox’s first reaction was one of surprise and disappointment. He almost groaned. Engineers in the defense community receive a constant stream of crackpot designs from wanna-be inventors. The unofficial ones were ignored or returned with a polite letter. The official ones, that came though a congressman or some other patron, could be a real pain in the ass. Why was Ray passing this on to him?

  Then he saw the name on the front. It was Ray’s own design! What is this? It’s not an official Navy project. McConnell must have put some real time into this, and he’s no flake, thought Wilcox. Or at least, not until now.

  He opened the cover and glanced at the introduction. “The Chinese attack on our satellites is the beginning of a new stage of warfare, one that we are completely unprepared for. Even if the source of the attacks is found and destroyed, the technology now has been demonstrated. Others, hostile to U.S. interests, will follow the Chinese example.

  “Defender is a vehicle designed to protect spacecraft in orbit from attack. It uses proven technology. Please consider this concept as an option to protect our vital space assets.”

  Below that was a long list of names, presumably people who either endorsed the idea or who had helped him with the design. Wilcox scanned the list. They were helpers. He didn’t recognize any of the names, and there were none with a rank attached.

  He skimmed the document, watching the clock but increasingly absorbed in the design. Ray had done his homework, although his haste was obvious. At least the art was good. Diagrams were important for the higher-ups. They had problems with numbers and large words.

  The phone rang, and Wilcox picked it up. “We need you in five,” his assistant reminded him.

  “I’ll be there,” Wilcox replied, and hung up.

  He sat for another ten seconds, thinking and staring at the screen. All right, Ray’s got a hot idea, and he wants to share it. In fact, Wilcox realized, he wants me to share it, to send it up the line. He’s trying to jump-start the design process.

  Wilcox knew, and so did anyone else who worked for the DoD, that it took million of dollars and years of effort to produce a design like this, and that only happened after an elaborately crafted Requirement for such a design was issued by the Pentagon. The U.S. didn’t have time for that kind of deliberate care.

  Wilcox knew it was a good idea. The U.S. had no way of protecting their satellites.

  Taking the few minutes it needed, he had the computer call up his address book and flagged ten names. Most were senior engineers, like him, but a few were military officers of senior rank. He wanted to see if they were still capable of recognizing an original idea when they saw it.

  That morning, Ray had sent his document out to over thirty friends and colleagues. All had clearances, and all worked in some area of defense. By lunchtime, eight hours after its transmission, over 150 copies existed. By close of business, it was over five hundred and growing.

  Crystal Square 3, Arlington, Virginia September 27

  Captain “Biff” Barnes was more than ready to leave for the day. His skills as a pilot were supposed to be essential for this project, but he spent most of the day wrestling with the Pentagon bureaucracy.

  “Biff’s” name was Clarence, but he’d acquired the nickname, any nickname, as quickly as he could. He hated “Clarence.” Barnes was a little short, only five-eight, but average for a pilot. He kept in very good shape, counting the months and weeks until his desk tour was finished. His thin, almost angular face showed how little fat he carried. His hair was cut as short as regulations would allow. The Air Force didn’t like bald pilots, but he’d have shaved his head if he could.

  He’d flown F-15s before being assigned to the Airborne Laser project. He understood the work was important, but doing anything other than flying was a comedown. He’d been promised a billet in an F-22 squadron once this tour was complete.

  His job was interesting, when he actually got to do it. He had to determine, as accurately as possible, how vulnerable aircraft were to laser attack. He’d gotten to look at a lot of foreign hardware up close, and his degree in aeronautical engineering was proving quite
useful.

  But most of the time he futzed with the system. Some congressman wanted to be briefed on the status of the project. That was easy. Some other agency didn’t want to provide information he needed. That took some doing. The General Accounting Office wanted to review their phone records. Or some reporter on a fishing expedition filed a Freedom of Information Act request. That had to be dealt with immediately.

  Because the project was classified, and only a limited number of people could be cleared into the program, everyone involved had to do double or triple duty. The junior troops, like Barnes, drew most of the nasty ones.

  He couldn’t have dodged the latest flap, anyway. A government office concerned with equal opportunity needed to know if Barnes, who was African American, felt his “capabilities were being fully utilized,” and had included a five-page form to fill out. He’d used all of the comments section to share his feelings about “utilization.”

  He sat at his desk, closing up files and locking his safe, but still reluctant to go without something productive to show for his day. He checked his mail, at that point even willing to read Internet humor.

  The page opened, and the first thing he noticed was another two copies of the Defender document, from separate friends at Maxwell and Wright-Pat. He’d gotten the first one yesterday morning from a pilot buddy at March Air Force Base in California, and another copy later in the day. He’d tabled it then, busy with paperwork, but his mind was ready for distraction now.

  He opened the file and almost laughed when he saw the cover. Someone had taken the new VentureStar, a single-stage-to-orbit space vehicle, and tried to arm it, using “his” laser. The introduction had touted it as a way of defending the GPS satellites.

  A worthy goal, although Barnes had no expectation that this lash-up was anything more than a time-wasting fantasy. Still he was motivated by curiosity to see what this McConnell had said about the Airborne Laser.