Mickelson straightened, as if his posture suddenly made a difference. The last ten days had felt like ten years. He’d hit most of the major nations, inspecting their weapons, their military, their production facilities, talking with their leaders about the best methods to approach the next attack by the aliens.
When he was visiting the U.S.’s traditional allies, he had little trouble. Britain welcomed him with open arms. But in countries with which the US. had shaky relations, or a history of bad relations, Mickelson also had to have meetings in which he reassured the countries’ leaders that cooperation didn’t mean a loss of sovereignty.
Mickelson’s argument had been simple: this was a global threat, and it needed global leadership. The United States was the logical choice.
China’s leaders had argued for a U.N.-led effort, which would have made sense fifteen years before. But the last two U.N.-led efforts had dissolved into infighting and slow movement. Mickelson argued, parroting Franklin’s words, that slow movement in this case would be deadly.
China really didn’t need much more convincing. And since the entire argument hadn’t taken longer than lunch, Mickelson suspected the entire interchange was intended only to save face.
“I spent most of my time touring military facilities,” Mickelson said, “and talking to each country’s leadership about the best methods to proceed. Everyone seems to understand the need for speedy action. Even China.”
Maddox made a soft sound and leaned back on the couch. “They’re going to cooperate?”
Mickelson nodded. “It took very little persuasion on my part.”
“So they think the world’s going to end,” O’Grady said.
Mickelson smiled. He’d had the same thought. In fact, before he left he’d said to Franklin that it would be a cold day in hell before China cooperated. Apparently that long-predicted cold day had finally arrived.
“I saw weapons facilities and military outposts that we’ve been trying to get into for years,” Mickelson said.
“I need a full debrief,” Maddox said.
Mickelson nodded as Franklin grinned. Franklin had warned Mickelson of that the night before. “You’ll get it,” Mickelson said. “Although you might get more out of Lieutenant Rogers. She, at least, knows more of what she was looking at.”
“I didn’t realize you’d taken her as your aide,” O’Grady said. “With the president’s permission.”
“But not mine,” Maddox said. “They’re taking all my best people for these political tasks, when I need them onboard for military work.”
“This is military work, Clarissa,” Franklin said without a trace of irritation. That was more than Mickelson could have done. Maddox simply had no comprehension of diplomacy.
“Forgive me, sir,” Maddox said. “But that’s not military work. You could have sent a flack with Doug. But to send a perfectly good officer, that’s bullshit and you know it.” Mickelson thought he saw a smile play around Franklin’s lips, but he couldn’t be certain. “Was it bullshit, Doug? Could you have used a flack?”
Mickelson suppressed a sigh. Meetings should be banned, and yet the government thrived on them. “No,” Mickelson said. “Lieutenant Rogers had some valuable insights that I don’t think I would have gotten without her along.”
“Such as?” Maddox said.
“Such as,” Mickelson said, struggling to keep the irritation from his voice, “the fact that much of the First World’s military might is very out-of-date. We haven’t had much more than border skirmishes since the turn of the century. The last significant worldwide military buildup was during Kosovo, and the last great one was during the Cold War. I saw missile silos in Russia that had completely rusted out. Most of this world, to put it flatly, isn’t in shape to fight the aliens if we let them get back here.”
O’Grady leaned forward. “Then this is terrible news. The plan won’t work without functioning warheads.”
“We almost have enough warheads in orbit now to do the job,” Franklin said.
Doug sat in stunned silence. He had no idea the launches had gone so fast.
“But we can always use more,” Maddox said. “And we need to have everyone ready to fight in case our first plan fails. We’ve known for a decade about the world’s aging military-industrial complex. We even have a scenario on what to do if some of the oldest equipment malfunctions and starts a war.”
Franklin spoke softly. “Granted, we knew about this. Mickelson’s junket only confirmed it. In fact, the news about the Chinese is good. We hadn’t counted on them.”
“They really must think the end of the world is near,” Maddox mumbled.
“I think they do,” Franklin said. He was looking at her. “I think we’d all be fools not to consider that.”
“Aging warheads? Come on, Mr. President. We can’t send ancient warheads to the ISS.” O’Grady had shifted in his seat.
“We already have. And we’ll send more, if we need to,” Franklin said.
“We have more than we planned on,” Mickelson said. “We have full Chinese cooperation. Russia has been maintaining its weapons production—at lower rates than fifty years ago, but nonetheless, they have some up-to-date equipment. So do the Saudis and the Israelis, and most of Southeast Asia. Japan is the only country that’s a bit farther behind than we expected. Even Germany is going to contribute more than we had planned on. The aging warheads do exist, but they’re going to be our last-ditch effort if, and this is a big if, we don’t have time to step up production worldwide.”
“You think we can?” Maddox asked.
Mickelson nodded. “That was the most encouraging news I got from this entire trip. A lot of factories can be converted quickly to military supplies and weapons productions. I’m gathering our biggest problem worldwide isn’t going to be weapons or equipment or production. It’s going to be manpower.”
“And getting through the alien screens to use the weapons,” Maddox said.
No one said anything to that.
“I don’t completely agree with the manpower problem,” O’Grady said. “We have satellite photos showing almost every nation on Earth has fully deployed its military. If anyone is behind the eight ball, it’s us. We haven’t deployed enough.” “We’ve explained that, Shamus,” Maddox said.
“It’s making me nervous, Clarissa.”
The whole thing made everyone nervous, but Mickelson didn’t say that.
“The problem isn’t numbers,” Mickelson said. “It’s talent. We need astronauts and shuttle pilots and ground control crews. We need very specialized talent to fight this war, and it’s precisely the kind of talent we haven’t trained. And not just us. The Japanese and the Russians are the only other countries with a significant number of trained astronauts and pilots. The rest of the world didn’t have the money or the time to pursue a space program like we did.”
“Exactly,” Franklin said. “If our attack doesn’t work, the coming war with the aliens isn’t going to be fought on the ground. It’s going to be fought in the air and in space.”
“The Australians have something.”
“The Brits have something, the French have something, the Germans have something, even Israel has something,” Mickelson said. “But something isn’t enough.”
“I’ve already got my people changing the focus of training,” Maddox said. “They think they can find candidates and train them to operate in zero g within six months.”
“That’s a short time frame,” Franklin said.
“It’s more than what we’ve got, sir,” Maddox said.
Her words hung in the air for a moment. Then Franklin leaned back and templed his fingers. “The question is, Doug, whether or not the other countries are with us.”
“If they have the capability to build a warhead, they have the capability to send it into space,” Mickelson said. “I’ve got to tell you, I didn’t expect that, and that turned out to be good news. A lot of countries can convert the system they use to launch satellites
to get the warheads to the ISS. We’ll have some accidents, but a small number is to be expected. We can be ready for a second wave of attack if we need it.”
“You’re kidding,” O’Grady said.
Mickelson shook his head. “The best part of this junket was that I learned that any functional transport that can get a payload into low Earth orbit is being used. A lot of countries have commandeered their private industries’ transports as well. As we’re sitting here, atomic warheads are being launched into space from all the countries that have them. This is the biggest mass deployment of nuclear weaponry in human history.” O’Grady shuddered. “At least it’s not being deployed against human beings,” he said softly.
Franklin tapped his fingertips against his lips. It was almost as if that comment displeased him—not for its sentiment, Mickelson knew Franklin agreed with that, but for the interruption it caused in the flow of the session.
Franklin let his hands drop. “All right, General. We know what our allies are doing—”
Mickelson winced at the word “allies.” Many of the countries he visited weren’t really allies at all. He had a sense this was like World War II: incompatible governments uniting against a common cause. If that cause went away, all hell would break loose.
“—so now I want to know what we’re doing. How’re those attack rockets coming?”
“Better than can be expected,” Maddox said. “We’ll have enough boost power to get every warhead we have in orbit to its target.”
“Excellent.” Franklin truly sounded pleased. “And the work on the International Space Station?”
“General Banks is there and—”
“Banks?” O’Grady said. “The one who testified before Congress?”
Maddox leaned forward, her face inches from O’Grady’s. “She got busted, mister, because she was too competent. And frankly, I would rather have someone who is too competent, who demands too much of our people, on that space station than one who believes in coddling everyone. Wouldn’t you?” Mickelson moved out of the way. He’d never seen Maddox in her professional soldier mode. She was tough and hard. He was impressed.
“Well,” O’Grady said. “When you put it that way...” “There’s no other way to put it,” Maddox snapped. “There’s government and then there’s the military. We’re at least efficient.”
“Ouch,” Franklin said.
Maddox sat up. “Sorry, sir.”
Franklin shook his head. “It’s a point well taken. We need competent efficient people, folks who can get the job done. You’re exactly right, General. If we have any chance of success against those aliens, we have to be operating at peak efficiency, not just in this country, but all over the world.”
That was Mickelson’s cue. “I think it can be done,” he said. “And most every country will be looking to us to coordinate things.”
“To lead,” O’Grady said.
Mickelson smiled. “In effect, yes. But don’t tell them that.” “They’re not dumb, Doug.”
“I know,” Mickelson said. “But in diplomacy, a polite lie gets a lot more accomplished than the bold truth.”
Franklin nodded. “We’re close, then. All the details are in place. I don’t want to hear about leaks from anyone’s office. And I want no statements made to the press. They’re going to notice all the activity, and there will be questions, but a good old-fashioned ‘no comment’ will work. I want to be the one to make the announcement.”
“All right,” Maddox said.
“The less I talk to the press, the happier I am,” O’Grady said.
“I already told the heads of state I met with that you’d make the announcement when the time was right.”
“I take it they had no problem with that,” Franklin said.
“If they did,” Mickelson said, “I would have told you.”
“Good.” Franklin sighed. He looked at every one of them, holding each gaze for several seconds. It was an old political trick, designed to make the person feel as if he were friends with the person in charge. Mickelson knew that and was usually immune when other people did it to him. But when Franklin’s gaze caught his, he felt absurdly flattered and mentally shook his head at himself.
This was why he was sitting here, now, handling a crisis he wouldn’t even have been able to imagine two years before. This was why he accepted Franklin’s offer to become secretary of state, why he put himself on the line. He trusted Franklin, as much as someone could trust a man who desired to become president. He knew Franklin was one of the smartest, most committed policy men to ever hold office.
But Mickelson wasn’t sure policy was what was needed now. He wasn’t sure Franklin would prove himself to be a good wartime commander in chief.
Yet Mickelson had gone all over the world, making certain that Franklin would metaphorically lead the troops into battle. He hoped that this was the right choice. Other world leaders had more charisma. Several others were smarter. But none of them led the most powerful nation in the world.
Mickelson wondered if Franklin knew how much of the fate of the world rested on his shoulders. He seemed more focused than he had ever been, and that was saying something.
But being focused and being the right man in the right spot at the right time were two different things.
A lot rested on Franklin’s speech. Mickelson hoped that when the time came, Franklin could pull it off.
May 24, 2018
12:57 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time
143 Days Until Second Harvest
Britt Archer’s cat Muffin hated Leo Cross. From the first time he had come to Archer’s apartment, Cross had had to contend with the small, gray tabby with the face of an angel and the temper of a lion. Any time he got close to Britt, the cat tried to bat him away. He didn’t have this problem with Britt’s other cat, Clyde. Clyde seemed to know that they were both guys, and as such, had to bond. But sometimes, Cross was afraid that Muffin would slice him up in his sleep.
Britt’s large two-bedroom apartment was close to her job at STScI. Even though she’d been at the job for nearly ten years, she’d never bought a house, because she’d always believed she’d have to move for her work. So far, that hadn’t happened, but, Britt said, the moment she bought something, it would.
Cross loved the apartment. It had bay windows with a view of the tree-lined street, lots of light, and a functional design. Its only flaw was the kitchen, and since Britt didn’t cook, that meant that she only had to squeeze herself into its dark and cramped quarters twice a day—once to pour cereal in the morning, and the other time to feed the cats at night.
However, Muffin thought the kitchen was her domain, and whenever Cross padded in there, as he had now, she attacked his ankles. He was careful to wear shoes and socks any time he headed in this direction. He’d once said to Britt it was like the cat believed he’d die if she cut him off at the feet.
Britt found all of this cute and funny, but Cross looked on it as a war in miniature. He was trying to get along with this alien being that Britt had brought into her house. So far, things weren’t going well. At least he had Clyde.
Britt was in her bedroom, getting dressed. She rarely wore makeup and never fussed with her hair, but for her, getting dressed took much longer than it should have. Cross finally figured out why. She dithered over what to wear, so much so that she often tried on three or four separate outfits before picking the outfit of the day. When Cross finally asked what the reason for the dithering was—expecting some sort of clichéd female thing, like she had to make certain she looked perfect—he was surprised by the answer.
It seemed that the brilliant and competent Britt Archer was confounded by the weather.
She listened to the weather reports as if they were gospel, then tried to dress accordingly. She worried that she would be too hot or too cold, wearing too many layers or not enough.
Cross had learned, in the few months of their relationship, to offer no opinions about this morning ritual. It didn’t piss B
ritt off, but it did make her try on at least two more outfits before she decided what to wear.
Since they had yet another Tenth Planet Project meeting this morning, he had to get Britt going on time.
He’d actually bought donuts the night before, knowing that getting out of the apartment would be a problem. He’d tried to talk her into staying at his house, which was closer, but Britt had had a mountain of work to finish, and she hadn’t wanted to make the drive that late at night. Cross understood. He could be flexible, and often was, and decided that staying here was the better part of valor.
Even if he had to fight with Muffin.
She was crouched in the corner of the kitchen, her tail switching back and forth, her eyes slits. Of course, she was right beneath the part of the counter where the coffeemaker lived.
If Britt didn’t have her caffeine in the morning, she was no good to anyone. Cross was about to make the dangerous trek to the coffeemaker, when the doorbell rang.
Britt cursed from the bedroom.
“I got it,” Cross said, and gladly left the wilds of the kitchen. He had to step over Clyde, who was sprawled on the fake Oriental carpet that was the living room’s centerpiece, before opening the door.
Portia Groopman stood in front of it, her dark hair mussed, its oblong cut growing out unevenly. She had a monkey on her back—a stuffed white monkey with long arms and equally long legs. They had Velcro on the palms so that the hands looked like they were clasped together.
“Oh, good, Dr. Cross. I caught you.”
He blushed. For a brief moment, he felt like he was still in high school and had been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “How’d you know I’d be here?” he asked. Most folks knew about him and Britt, but they had never made a big deal about it.
“Edwin,” she said.
Bradshaw. The eternal matchmaker and gossip. Cross nodded. “Is something wrong?”
“I got a wild hair,” Portia said.
Cross frowned.
“An idea,” Portia said as if he were dumber than a post. “Can I come in?”
“Oh, sure.” He stepped away from the door.
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