by Larry Bond
They were running the animation again, this time asking questions about how the two opponents would have to maneuver. Like anyone knew. And if a battle actually was fought, would anyone remember this crap? Little stuff like this wasn’t worth remembering, but they’d remember “Rutledge and Defender.”
Reporters were still calling his office, as late as it was, asking for a statement or reaction to the latest factoid, but word was spreading about his meeting with the speaker and minority leader. Nothing stayed secret in Washington forever. If he didn’t find some way to spin that, if it became common knowledge …
Wait. Not if, but when. Getting “taken to the woodshed” was a popular spectator sport in Washington. What everybody watched for was the subject’s reaction afterward. Denial was common, if futile. Defiance was another choice, but was usually taken as a sign of weakness. The winning play was humility and a display of party loyalty, followed by laying low and waiting for a fresh opportunity.
But the opportunity was now! He’d tried the “voice in the wilderness,” gambit but hadn’t gotten any traction. Where could he go after being so publicly wrong?
Rutledge took another drink. Okay, so if he couldn’t change the situation, maybe he should run with it instead. Not just admit he’d been wrong but embrace it. A politician who’d changed his mind and was willing to talk about it was worth a round of interviews right there. And then become Defender’s biggest supporter. Instead of “the maverick,” play “the convert.”
Whether or not Defender beat the Chinese, the U.S. Space Force would need friends in Congress in the days ahead. He could become their best friend, someone they needed. And Mrs. Rutledge’s boy never did anything for free.
U.S. Space Force Headquarters
Edwards Air Force Base
Battle Management Center
2130 hours
December 14, 2017
Ray waited for a minute or two after Biff left, and he didn’t grab his doorknob until he heard the door of Biff’s trailer open and close. Peeking out a side window, he saw the lights in Barnes’s trailer come on and then realized he was being foolish. He felt like a kid sneaking out the night before exams. Biff might be mad that Ray didn’t immediately go to bed, but Ray didn’t care.
It was a ten-minute walk to the BMC, during which time Ray had to show his ID four times: first to a roving patrol, then at the BMC’s perimeter fence, and again at the entrance to the building. The last time was at the entrance to the actual command center, after he found out Jenny wasn’t in her first-floor office.
Ray was in his flight suit, of course, and everyone he passed, including the security guards, wished him “good luck” or “safe return” or “give ’em hell.” It felt good.
The Battle Management Center was partially manned, and the projectors had turned the blank white globe in the center into a real-time replica of Earth, including weather, displaying the tracks of the remaining GPS satellites. It was a far cry from his earlier visit. Ray just stood and admired it for a moment. If you looked carefully, you could see the day-night terminator moving across the surface.
He spotted Jenny sitting at her second-level command desk. She was smiling and waved down to him. He waved back and then trotted up the stairs to the catwalk.
He sat down in the second chair at the command desk. “Maybe instead of a spacecraft, I should have just designed a really cool RV.”
She laughed and waved an arm toward the globe. “Then what would we do with this? Although, I have to admit, the RV sounds nice.” She smiled warmly.
“Well, this is pretty cool, too,” Ray conceded. “I didn’t get much of a chance to talk to you at dinner. I wanted to wish you luck tomorrow and tell you how much all your work has meant to me.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. McConnell. Is that all you have to say?” She was smiling, but Ray realized there were rapids ahead.
“I should also mention that you are beautiful and intelligent, and I will be thinking of you every moment that I’m in orbit.”
She laughed brightly. “Don’t you dare! Focus on your job, or you’ll end up as a big greasy smear somewhere, and I would really hate that.”
“Then I will think of you as I fall asleep tonight. Which will be very soon.”
“Good,” she said approvingly.
“And why are you still here?” he asked.
“Just some last-minute tests,” she replied, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Is there a problem? Has something cropped up? The admiral and I both saw the last test verification report, and the BMC was certified as ‘mission-ready.’” There was concern in Ray’s voice.
Jenny shook her head sharply. “No, nothing is wrong, but I almost wish there was. Nothing this complicated is ever completely bug-free, and I have this recurring nightmare about the whole system crashing with you up there.”
“Jenny, I have faith in your ability not only to build this thing but also to test it within an inch of its electronic life. Let me walk you to your quarters. You need sleep as much as I do.”
Sighing and nodding, she shut down her console and followed him down the steps and out of the BMC. They both collected more good wishes from the staff, which they answered with, “good luck to us all.”
Outside the perimeter fence, he took her hand and turned toward her quarters, but she stopped and said, “Your trailer is that way.” She let go of his hand to point and then pushed gently on his chest. “Go.”
Jenny turned and started walking, but Ray protested. “I said I’d walk you to your quarters first.”
“Uh-uh. It’s a ten-minute walk each way, and that’s twenty minutes less sleep.”
“But ten minutes less with you,” he countered.
“Let’s squeeze it into a minute, then,” and she stepped closer and kissed him.
They didn’t move for what seemed like both forever and just a few seconds, and then she said, “Now go. And remember: You said you’d think of me.”
Ray kept his promise.
23
Bait and Switch
Edwards Air Force Base
Hangar 1600
0330 hour
December 15, 2017
Admiral Schultz watched the Marine pilot go through the preflight of his F/A-18E Super Hornet. It was dark on the flight line, but the illumination from the open hangar doors and the rigged spotlights was adequate for him to conduct his inspection. The drab gray camouflage scheme reflected the light poorly and made the aircraft look like it was made from alternating light and dark, angled shadows.
The fighter was unarmed but carried three of the big 480-gallon drop tanks. The pilot and several NASA technicians were paying a lot of attention to them, particularly the centerline tank that was a little larger than the other two. Oddly, there was a thick coating of frost on it.
General Norman had also joined Schultz on the flight line. “It seems so simple,” the general said, looking at the plane’s payload. But his face betrayed his skepticism.
“It’ll work just fine,” Schultz reassured him. “This idea is based on a problem we used to have with the old A-6s and F-14s back in the day. In fact, once the pilots found out how to do it intentionally, we had to explicitly forbid the practice. This setup is basically the same thing, only on steroids.”
“Okay, but what I don’t understand is why you need to have liquid oxygen in the centerline tank?”
Schultz’s face broke out in a wicked smile. “Your basic reporter won’t realize there’s a different color in the flame shooting out of a rocket engine, although a retired engineer or shuttle astronaut might say something during an interview. But our opponents manning the Dragon Gun aren’t stupid. They would spot it immediately.
“We need to have a blue flame coming out the back end if we’re to fool them, and any fuel will burn blue as long as there is enough oxygen. So by carrying liquid oxygen and spraying it out behind the bird, we can ensure an oxygen-rich atmosphere when Major O’Hara dumps the fuel. It’ll look
very impressive and make a hell of a lot of noise—just like a rocket being launched.”
The smile waned, and the tone of the admiral’s voice hardened. “But we are talking about dumping several tons of JP-8 along with lots of oxygen directly behind his aircraft. This will be one hairy ride. And there are risks with this stunt.”
“Which Major O’Hara tells me he understands,” Norman remarked. “But I’m taking all this on faith. I’m just a dumb grunt.”
“And I’m just an old pilot.” Schultz grinned at him. The admiral looked down at his watch and noted the time. “I’m needed elsewhere. Would you care to join me, Carl?”
“I’d love to, Bill,” replied the general.
U.S. Space Force Headquarters
Edwards Air Force Base
0330 hours
December 15, 2017
Suiting up for the flight was still a novelty for Ray. He’d practiced donning his ACES suit twice before, as well as learning how to use it during a high-altitude bailout in case something went wrong during launch or reentry. Like the shuttle crew, they could work in a shirtsleeve environment once in orbit, but for this mission they’d wear the full rig the whole time. This wasn’t a supply run to the international space station or a scientific expedition. It was a combat mission.
The advanced crew escape suit was the standard attire for most space shuttle flights, and even though it wasn’t rated for extravehicular activity, it was a full-pressure suit with thermal insulation and liquid cooling layers. Under normal conditions, the ship supplied the oxygen for the crew to breathe, but the ACES suit also had two emergency oxygen bottles fitted in the same harness with the parachute and life raft. Colored a very bright orange, the international color for distress, the ACES suit was affectionately known as the “pumpkin suit.”
Ray moved through the morning’s activities in a total haze. He felt detached from what he was doing, just an observer, guided from one station to another by a helpful technician. Everything had happened so fast. His role in building Defender and preparing her for flight was over, and now he had to switch to his new role as astronaut. But Ray was so used to the immense pressure of the deadline that he still felt it weighing on him. Like taking final exams, it took a while to accept that they were over.
Added to that delayed realization was the fulfillment of a lifelong dream: He would fly in space. He’d flown before, of course, in light planes that he piloted and had taken joyrides in high-performance jets. This would be much different. He’d see and feel things he’d never seen or felt before.
Ray knew he was afraid. There were risks, of course. Mechanical failure or human error could bring them all to grief, but it was the importance of the mission that really frightened him. Did they have the right tools to do the job? Ray had become so closely tied with Defender, he felt as if he were part of her, and the thought of her failing almost paralyzed him. He then remembered his talk with Jenny and tried to say to himself the words he’d said to her.
U.S. Space Force Headquarters
Edwards Air Force Base
Battle Management Center
0345 hours
December 15, 2017
The visit was just as important as fueling Defender or loading her software. Led by Major “Biff” Barnes, Defender’s crew filed up onto the scaffolding surrounding the slowly rotating globe of the earth. They were all dressed for the mission, wearing their orange ACES suits and, purely for photo purposes, carrying their helmets.
Although no one announced their arrival, someone, then several people, and finally the entire center began clapping and cheering as they made their way to Admiral Schultz’s position.
Ray felt embarrassed and proud at the same time. The BMC staff was applauding the crew, their faces beaming with pride, but Ray knew the crew would depend on these people while they were up. In fact, without them, he and the rest of the crew wouldn’t be able to accomplish their mission. They were a closely linked team, but Ray also understood that he and the others were the ones taking the risks.
Biff Barnes understood it better. There’d always been a special bond between the people who maintained the planes and those who flew them. Defender’s crew was here to acknowledge that bond and to let the ground-support staff have one more look at the crew before launch. They were the stars of the show, and stars need to let themselves be seen. It was good for morale.
Admiral Schultz also wanted to say his good-byes and wish them luck as well. After this, the crew would be bused out to the launchpad and would then strap themselves into Defender. With the crew in place, the final launch preparations would begin; there’d be no time for ceremony then.
Schultz shook everyone’s hand and had a few words for each member of the crew. When Ray took his hand, the normally outgoing admiral was silent for a moment, and he finally just said, “Good luck.”
Behind Schultz, Ray saw Jenny. She was smiling, but swallowing hard at the same time. Her eyes were alight with pride, but Ray also saw the tears welling up. She was struggling to keep her composure, and Ray suddenly wanted to go over and hug her. But that was the last thing she wanted him to do, and she had made that desire clear in no uncertain terms. They’d had their good-bye the night before. On the BMC watch floor, she was just another member of the staff, and even though everyone knew of their relationship, any “public displays of affection” would be inappropriate.
She nodded her approval as Ray held himself in check. Then, silently, she mouthed the words “I love you.” Ray echoed his feelings to her.
Suddenly, a hand grasped Ray’s left shoulder and gently started tugging on him. “Time to go, Ray,” whispered Barnes.
Edwards Air Force Base
Area 1-54, Launchpad Complex
0415 hours
December 15, 2017
The crew left the ready room together and walked outside. Only a few people saw them, but they clapped and waved at the six as the crew approached Defender.
Ray had visited the Kennedy Space Center several times and loved the huge vertical assembly building and the massive tracked transporter that carried the assembled shuttle on its six-mile-per-hour crawl to the launchpad. They were tremendous technical achievements, needed because of the shuttle’s boosters and fuel tanks. They were also tremendously expensive. Defender required neither.
Late last night, they’d rolled the supporting shelter away from Defender and positioned her at the launchpad. Two rails helped them guide her onto the pad, where she was elevated to the vertical for launching. Fueling began as soon as she was locked in place. With a midnight rollout, she’d be ready for launch at zero six hundred. The sheer simplicity of the launch preparations still amazed him.
The spacecraft was still an overall white, a broad snowy wedge that reflected the work lights. The swept-back wings at the rear made her look wider and taller. The ship sat on a short framework over a large pit to deflect the exhaust gases; the beam used to elevate her was once again lowered.
The crew-access elevator took them two-thirds of the way up fuselage, where the square black of the open-access hatch led them inside. The technicians helped the crew into their seats and ensured their five-point harnesses were securely fastened. After a pressurization test of the ACES suits and a communications check, the technicians began filing out. The senior engineer gave Biff a thumbs-up and closed the hatch. A few minutes later, a slight bump told the crew the elevator had been disconnected. Defender was ready to roll.
“All right, people, let’s start going through the final prelaunch checklist,” ordered Barnes.
Ray grabbed his operating-procedures manual from its storage rack, opened it up, and started running down his checklist.
Edwards Air Force Base
Main Runway, 04R/22L
0445 hours
December 15, 2017
Major Tim O’Hara lined his Super Hornet up on the centerline of the main Edwards runway. Nighttime takeoffs always required extra caution, and this one would be a little trickier tha
n most. He was following directly behind a pair of F-16s taking off to relieve the standing combat air patrol. The Marine kept his eyes glued to the two fighters in front of him. They’d led him down the taxiway and were now positioned some eighty feet in front of him. He set his brakes and listened for the air-traffic controller to clear the Falcons to take off. As he waited, he checked his radio, again. The transmit switch was off and would stay off until he was ready to land.
The runway was dry and clear, and the weather was perfect. The skies were absolutely clear, no clouds at all, with a thin waning crescent moon providing little light. The upcoming show would be visible for dozens of miles. O’Hara fought the urge to double-check his armament display. He did double-check that his navigation lights were off. He wasn’t supposed to attract any attention, which is why he would be following close behind the air force jets. The tower would keep all other traffic clear as the new CAP section took off. O’Hara heard the controller vector the standing fighter patrol to the other end of the base.
“Acme Six, you are cleared for takeoff, runway Two Two Lima,” squawked the radio.
“Roger, Tower.” O’Hara recognized the voice of the lead F-16 pilot, and as soon as he saw the aircraft’s navigation lights flash twice, he released the brake and moved the throttle forward. The F-16s were already moving quickly down the runway when their afterburners kicked in. The racket from the air force fighters would mask his Super Hornet’s departure. The runway lights slid past him on either side, quickly becoming streaks. With long practice, he pulled back on the stick, feeling the ship almost leap off the runway. He cleaned her up, bringing up the flaps and gear.
Throttling back, he stayed low and started his first turn to the right, away from the rest of the base and open territory. After passing NASA’s Dryden Flight Research Center, O’Hara turned sharply to the right and reduced his altitude to only one hundred feet. Once over Rogers Dry Lake, he spotted the brightly lit launchpad some sixteen miles to the southeast. He lined up his ship and slowed down to two hundred knots.
