by Larry Bond
McConnell heard machine-gun fire again and realized there must be several guns. The one nearest him fired again, and the gunner was pointing his weapon up. Ray followed the line of tracers, and saw a small speck. It looked like a light plane still a few miles away.
“He can’t hit anything at that range,” Ray shouted.
“He’s trying to warn him off,” the officer shouted back. The lieutenant picked up the vehicle’s radio microphone. “This is Hall. I can see him. It’s a light plane, a Cessna or something like it. It’s at low altitude, and it’s headed straight for the hangar.”
“What’s that fool doing?” asked Ray.
Hall shrugged. “You tell me. It could be a suicide attack or loaded with commandos. Or he could just drop leaflets that say, ‘Save the Whales.’”
The radio squawked, and Ray couldn’t hear what was said over the firing, but the lieutenant had a headset. He said, “Understood,” then reached in to tap the gunner on the leg. When he stopped firing the lieutenant told him, “They’re not taking the hint. The major says, ‘Bring him down.’” The gunner nodded and began firing again.
Ray could see other squads racing into position, and more weapons opened up on the approaching plane. It was closer now, and he could hear the plane’s small engine snarl as the pilot opened up the throttle. Its speed increased slightly, and he lowered the nose. Was he going to crash into the hangar?
Tracers surrounded the plane. Ray knew intellectually how hard it was to hit even a slow aircraft with a machine gun, but right now he was infuriated with the gunners who couldn’t hit something that large, that slow, flying in a straight line.
It was closer now, and he could see it was a high-winged civilian plane, a four-seater. He’d flown them himself. It was nose-on, headed straight for him. The drone of the engine increased quickly, both in pitch and volume.
Although he couldn’t see any weapons, he suddenly felt the urge to run for cover. They hadn’t planned on an air raid. And the hangar would provide poor protection; it wasn’t designed to withstand a direct attack.
Something fluttered out from the side of the aircraft, and for a moment Ray thought the machine gunners had actually hit. Then he recognized the shape as one of the side doors. A parachute jump? But they were too low, no more than a few hundred feet.
They were almost over the hangar, and Hall shouted, “Hold fire!” then repeated the order into the radio. He explained to Ray. “If we hit it now, it could crash into the hangar.”
Assuming that isn’t their plan, Ray thought.
McConnell watched the aircraft’s path, wishing it would vanish. It didn’t, but at the last moment it did veer a little to the left. He saw a man-sized object leave the plane and drop toward the ground. It had fins on one end and a point on the other. It looked like nothing so much as a giant dart.
Ray stood and watched the object fall, looking even more dartlike as it fell nose-first. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the Marines, with better reflexes, were all hugging the ground.
It struck almost exactly in front of the hangar, exploding with a roar. The concussion was enough to stagger him a hundred yards away, and misshapen fragments cartwheeled out from the ugly brown smoke cloud.
Ray was still standing, dazed and unsure of what to do next when a pair of Marine Super Hornets zoomed overhead in pursuit of the intruder. His eye followed the jets as they quickly caught up with the Cessna, still in sight, but now headed away at low altitude.
One of the Hornets broke off to the right, then cut left across the prop plane’s path. McConnell heard a sound like an angry chainsaw, and a stream of tracers leapt from its nose in front of the trespasser. The other jet was circling left, and had lowered its flaps and landing gear in an attempt to stay behind the Cessna.
Lieutenant Hall’s radio beeped, and he listened for a minute before turning to Ray. “They’ve ordered the pilot to land, and he’s cooperating.” Glancing at the lethal Hornets circling the “slow mover,” Hall said, “I sure would.”
Remembering the bomb, Ray ran toward the hangar. Acrid fumes choked and blinded him, but he ignored them, then almost stumbled on the debris littering the once-smooth surface. Slowing down, he picked his way over metal fragments and chunks of concrete. His heart sank when he saw the hangar door through the clearing smoke. Buckled and peppered with jagged holes, half of it had been torn from its tracks.
Admiral Schultz appeared out of the clearing smoke and stood beside Ray. He saw Schultz look him up and down, then ask, “You look fine. Is everyone okay?”
Ray stared at him for a moment, then replied, “I don’t know.”
“What about Defender?”
“I haven’t checked yet.”
Schultz shook him by the shoulder, not roughly, but as if to wake him. “Ray, snap out of it. We’ve got to check for casualties and see about the ship. Stop gawking and get moving!”
Ray nodded and started to check the area. He spotted people he knew and set them to work. He saw Marines working as well, moving from person to person, making sure everyone was all right, helping some who were hurt.
A few minutes later, Lieutenant Hall trotted up to Schultz and saluted. “Sir, they’ve got the intruder lined up for landing.”
“Right, let’s go, then.” He called over to McConnell. “Ray! Get over here!” Ray had overheard the lieutenant and was already heading for the Humvee.
The lieutenant drove almost as fast to the runway as he had to the hangar. A sentry at the end of the airfield spotted the Humvee’s flashing light and waved them onto a taxiway, pointing to the far end. A cluster of vehicles surrounded the Cessna, and the two Hornets whooshed overhead, as if they were daring it to take off.
Ray spotted Colonel Evans, standing to one side as armed Marines secured the plane. Its two occupants were being half-dragged out of the plane and efficiently searched. A man and a woman, both were in their early twenties, dressed in fashionably ragged jeans and T-shirts. To Ray’s eyes, they looked like a couple of college students, straight off the campus.
“Don’t put weapons in space!” yelled the man as he was searched.
“Down with Defender!” the girl shouted. “We won’t let you turn space into a battlefield.”
Ray was in shock. He wanted to grab both of them, show them the damaged hangar, the injured being taken to the hospital.
Evans’s face was made of hard stone, and Schultz looked ready to order two executions on the spot. But neither man moved or said a word. Maybe they couldn’t for fear of losing their cool. Ray didn’t, either. He watched the Marines cuff the two individuals and lead them away.
* * *
Later that day, Ray reported to the admiral. Schultz’s office was filled with people. General Norman, down from Camp Pendleton, occupied the only other chair, and an air force JAG officer, the public affairs officer, and Defender’s security officer took up most of the remaining floor space. They’d all been waiting for Ray.
Ray didn’t bother with introductory remarks. “The engineers say they can fix the apron where the bomb struck by tomorrow evening. They’ll use the same material designed to repair bombed-out runways. It won’t last, but it will be fine for the moment.
“The hangar door took the brunt of the blast and stopped most of the larger fragments. They’ve found twelve pieces of shrapnel that penetrated the door and bounced around inside the hangar. Two fragments hit Defender. One hit the floor and ricocheted into the belly, and the other struck the leading edge of the port wing. The preliminary reports indicate no internal damage, and they’re already prepping for repairs. Both will take a little time to fix, but shouldn’t delay the launch. Other fragments wrecked some test equipment, and there are a few dents in the far wall.”
“Thanks, Ray,” said Schultz flatly, holding in his rage. He turned toward Evans.
The colonel began his report. “They’re not Chinese agents—or, if they are, the Chinese are making some bad personnel choices. Their names are Frank and Wendy
Beaumont, and they’re siblings, students at Berkeley. They’re well-known peace activists at the school and belong to several political organizations. The plane is their father’s, and both have been taking flying lessons.”
“We think they had help with the bomb, probably from an engineering student. It was an improvised shaped charge. The boy, who’s a sophomore and a political science major, described it in detail and claims he did it all himself, but I doubt it.”
Schultz nodded, then looked at his public relations officer, an air force captain borrowed from Edwards’s staff. They’d added the new billet after Defender’s disclosure on the Internet. His job was more accurately described as “public opinion officer,” since, officially, Defender still didn’t exist.
The captain said, “The press is having a field day with this incident. Half the headlines read, MARINES FIRE ON COLLEGE STUDENTS, and the other half say, MARINES FAIL TO PROTECT SECRET SPACECRAFT. Either way, we can’t win. Some Web sites are speculating that Defender was badly damaged, and of course we can’t show them that it isn’t.”
Schultz replied quickly. “Let them say it. If the Chinese think we’re hurt, that’s fine. But make sure you show them the people who were hurt in the blast.” The admiral continued, “I just got off the phone with the hospital. We had five personnel hurt, one seriously enough to need surgery to remove a bomb fragment. All of them are expected to recover fully.”
“I’m grateful nobody was killed,” General Norman rumbled. “But we can’t assume that there won’t be another attack. I want to personally apologize for letting that plane get through. It won’t happen again. The commandant has told me I can have anything I need to protect you and this base. I’m bringing more people down from Pendleton. For as long as you need it, we will stay at full alert. We’re keeping fighter patrols and helicopter gunships overhead twenty-four/seven. There will be no further interruptions.”
20
Final Push
Rayburn House Office Building
Washington, D.C.
December 5, 2017
Congressman Tom Rutledge left the chambers of the House Armed Services Committee disappointed and angry. It had been over a week since he had publicly demanded a hearing on President Jackson’s rogue actions, and the chairman of his committee had yet to put one on the docket. When Rutledge protested, Chairman Nussbaum merely advised patience, as there were many high-priority issues the committee had to deal with. He did pledge that Rutledge would get his hearing as soon as it was practical. The Nebraska representative recognized stalling when he saw it, and he resented being pushed aside so casually. He had legitimate concerns on the constitutionality of the president’s orders, and, despite his consistently strong public statements, only a few of his colleagues seemed to take him seriously.
Rutledge had welcomed the opportunity to be out front on the whole China-GPS crisis. He relished being the “lone voice in the wilderness,” boldly taking on the administration and its misguided response. The fact that he and the president were from the same party would only enhance Rutledge’s image that he wasn’t just playing partisan politics. But thus far, no one had seriously responded to his numerous warnings of the executive branch’s overstepping its constitutional boundaries.
The Republicans seemed quietly amused—that was to be expected—but even his party’s senior leadership had downplayed the whole issue, paying only lip service to his calls for a congressional investigation. Were they so blinded by party loyalty that they couldn’t see Jackson’s empire-building agenda? Rutledge had been fully prepared for a fight, and he expected one after he’d thrown down the gauntlet. But what he hadn’t anticipated was that no one would say anything in return; it was as if he was being intentionally ignored. And the one thing Representative Thomas Rutledge wouldn’t stand for was being ignored.
Fuming, Rutledge walked briskly, trying to purge himself of some of his pent-up frustration when his cell phone buzzed. It was a text message from Ben Davis, his chief of staff: “PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR OFFICE. URGENT MATTER WAITING.” Strange. Davis never sent anything to his boss that could be perceived as a directive. Even his strongest recommendations were couched as polite suggestions. Something big must be going on, Rutledge thought. Pocketing his cell phone, the congressman picked up his pace.
* * *
“All right, Ben, what the devil is going on?” barked Rutledge as he burst through the office-foyer door.
Davis’s face was stern and worried at the same time; his expression encouraged the representative to quiet down. “You have visitors,” he said quietly.
“Who?” Rutledge asked impatiently. He was in no mood for games.
“Ah, Tom! Good to see you’re back. We’d like to have a word with you in your office, if you please.”
Rutledge looked up to see Thad Preston in the doorway to his office. Standing next to the Democratic minority leader was the Speaker of the House, Bernard Terpak. As surprised as he was, Rutledge managed to maintain a neutral poker face. Having both senior house leaders waiting in your office was usually a bad sign.
“Certainly,” he said nonchalantly. As he approached the door, Rutledge called out to his chief of staff, “Ben, please see to it we’re not disturbed.”
Once inside, Terpak closed the door behind them. Turning to face his visitors, Rutledge asked lightly, “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
“Surely that is not a point of debate, Congressman Rutledge,” replied Terpak tersely. The speaker’s formal tone confirmed Rutledge’s suspicion that he was about to get his ass chewed. Preston raised his hand, quickly intervening.
“Tom,” began the minority leader, “for the last two months, a number of us have quietly counseled you to give the president a chance to deal with the China crisis. Russ Urick has spoken to you, Rick Nussbaum has spoken to you, as have I, on numerous occasions. And yet you seem hell-bent on raising the issue with ever-increasing volume. Your public statements have become more and more shrill, and quite frankly many of your colleagues are losing patience with your grandstanding.”
Rutledge’s nostrils flared with indignation. It’s my duty to speak out! What the president is doing is illegal, he said to himself. Struggling to keep a level tone, Rutledge fired back, “Nobody else has had the courage to demand that the president be held accountable. He has bypassed the House and Senate with the formation of the U.S. Space Force…”
“Are you sure of that, Congressman Rutledge?” Terpak injected. “Do you seriously believe that the silence concerning the Space Force meant that none of us had a clue as to what was going on?”
A sharp chill suddenly went down Rutledge’s spine. The speaker’s stern tone told Rutledge that his questions were rhetorical, but when did the president consult with Congress? For the first time, doubt crept into Rutledge’s mind.
Preston saw Rutledge’s confused expression and explained. “Tom, before the president gave the order to form the U.S. Space Force, he called the top senior congressional leadership to the White House, briefed us on his plans, and asked for our approval. There was a lot of debate, but the gist of the agreement is that the president was given the go-ahead, but, once this crisis is over, formal congressional hearings will be held and the issue put to a vote on both floors. President Jackson also agreed to a condition required by the Senate majority leader that if Congress didn’t approve, the Space Force would be rolled back into air force. So your claims are not correct. The president did consult members of Congress, and he was given tacit approval to proceed with his plans, provided that the more formal process is followed later.”
Rutledge was stunned. Why hadn’t he been consulted? As a member of the House Armed Services Committee, he should have had a role in that discussion. The wanton disregard for traditional protocol astounded him. “What basis did he have for circumventing Congress’s proper role in this decision? How can we spend several billion dollars on this harebrained scheme without formal congressional approval?”
Pre
ston rubbed his forehead and sighed. Terpak, being an old crusty navy vet, would have none of it. “If you’d paid any attention to the intelligence briefs given to your committee, you’d realize there is a war on, Mister. If we follow the normal bureaucratic protocol, it would be at least a year before any real action could be taken. By then, China would have a lock on East Asia, and our ability to defend our interests in that region would be severely compromised. This is an information-age war, Congressman Rutledge; we don’t have the luxury of time.”
“But the polls show…”
“The opinion polls are damn-near split fifty-fifty, Tom,” argued Preston, his voice harder. “That means it’s a nonissue. Regardless of what the president does, half the citizenry of this country will not be thrilled. President Jackson made a strong argument that we needed to act while we still could, and while we had the best chance to win. The vast majority of the members of Congress present during that meeting agreed with him, myself and the speaker included.”
That last sentence told Rutledge he would have no top cover if he continued speaking out. He would be on his own. For once in his political life, Rutledge found himself without words.
“And as a side note,” Preston continued, “the Space Force hasn’t been anywhere near as expensive as you’ve implied—less than two billion so far. Sure, the president basically gave Admiral Schultz a blank check, but the admiral has been diligent in trying to keep costs down where he could. For a major DoD acquisition program, it’s one of the better ones I’ve seen, despite its hurried nature.”
“It’s also damn far cheaper than losing several B-2s in a questionable attack on that mountain complex,” Terpak noted sharply. “And that’s in terms of both money and lives.”
Preston continued, “The bottom line, Tom, is that Defender is our best option, as crazy as it sounds. If it fails, we lose our access to space. Not just the GPS constellation, but our intelligence collection, communications, and weather satellites as well. If this ‘harebrained scheme’ doesn’t work, we’re totally screwed.”
