Starfire

by Dale Brown

  “Yes, sir,” Khristenko replied. “The project is called Orbital Piloted Assembly and Experiment Complex. Before the International Space Station is decommissioned and allowed to reenter the atmosphere, Russia would detach its Russian Orbital Section modules and mount them on a central truss with solar panels and positioning thrusters. The station will be used to assemble spacecraft for moon or Mars missions, conduct experiments, and—”

  “When is this supposed to take place?”

  “In about five years, sir,” Sokolov replied.

  “Five years? That is unacceptable, Sokolov!” Gryzlov shouted. “I want the plans for this station to be advanced. I want this to happen as quickly as possible!”

  “But we have agreements with nine nations for the use of those modules on the International Space Station, sir,” Foreign Minister Titeneva said. Gryzlov’s eyes flared at this interruption. “The partnership has already paid Russia for their use and to support the ISS. We cannot—”

  “If the United States will not cancel this domineering plan to militarize and industrialize Earth orbit, all partnerships and agreements regarding outer space are null and void,” Gryzlov said. “Do you understand me? If Phoenix persists with this outrageous plan, Russia is going to push back. Everyone here had better understand: Russia is not going to allow any one nation to dominate outer space. That bastard Kenneth Phoenix has just thrown down the gauntlet: Russia is picking it up, and we will respond . . . starting right now!”

  Gryzlov dismissed the meeting with a wave of his hand, and soon he and Tarzarov were alone. “I am tired of always having to light a fire under these career bureaucrats’ asses,” Gryzlov said, lighting a cigar. “We may need to update the list of replacement ministers again. Titenov’s name is at the head of the list to be replaced. How dare she challenge my wishes? I do not care what protocols are in place—what I want is what I want, and her job is to get it for me.”

  “Now that you have given them their orders, let us see how they respond,” Tarzarov suggested. “If they fail to get the money from the Duma and start military construction projects, you have good reason to replace them. As I said, Gennadiy, do not make this personal.”

  “Yes, yes,” Gryzlov said dismissively.

  Tarzarov checked his smartphone for messages. “Ilianov is here.”

  “Good. Get him in here,” Gryzlov said. A moment later Tarzarov, carrying a box of items, escorted Bruno Ilianov and Yvette Korchkov into the president’s office, then put the box on the president’s desk. “I hear you were successful, Colonel, even though your workers were arrested,” he said, rising from his desk to greet them. Ilianov was wearing his Russian Air Force uniform. Making no attempt to be circumspect, Gryzlov ran his eyes up and down Korchkov’s body as she approached. She was dressed in a dark business suit, tailored to accentuate her curves and breasts, but she wore spiked high heels that were more suited to a cocktail party than business in the office of the president of Russia. Korchkov returned Gryzlov’s appreciative gaze without expression. He turned his attention back to Ilianov and extended his hand. The Russian colonel took it, and Gryzlov held the hand, keeping Ilianov close to him. “The capture of your men is unfortunate, Colonel,” he said. “I hope they can hold their tongues.”

  “It does not matter, sir,” Ilianov said. “Our story will hold up. They are known burglars and Russian nationalists who wanted revenge on General Patrick McLanahan. They gave the items to other unknown expatriates. If they do talk and implicate me, I will deny everything. You can support their sentiments but will launch an investigation, terminate me, and offer to pay for repairs. The American media’s ridiculously fast news cycle and general ignorance for anything except sex and violence will quickly sweep the whole episode away.”

  “It had better, Colonel,” Gryzlov warned. He returned to his desk, dumped the items from the box onto its top, picked up the urn, hefted it, then looked at Ilianov. “Empty?”

  “Exactly so, sir,” Ilianov said. “What does that mean?”

  “It means someone already flushed him down the sewer,” Gryzlov said acidly, “depriving me of the opportunity to do so.” He glanced over the remaining items. “So. This is all that remains of the great Patrick Shane McLanahan, aerial assassin,” he said.

  “Not quite all, sir,” Ilianov said. “His immediate family. Two sisters and a son.”

  “I do not order the assassination of women, Colonel,” Gryzlov said, glancing again at Korchkov. He knew the Russian beauty was a highly trained Spetsgruppa Vympel commando, specializing in close-quarters killing . . . intimately close quarters. “But all the rest of McLanahan’s possessions are forfeited to me. Have you located the son?”

  “He is making no attempt to hide his whereabouts, sir,” Ilianov said. “He posts regularly to social media—the entire planet knows where he is and what he does. We have so far detected no evidence of security surrounding him.”

  “Just because he does not post anything about a security detail on Facebook does not mean it doesn’t exist,” Gryzlov said. “I hope you have picked more reliable men to carry out this task.”

  “There is no lack of men willing to carry out these operations, sir,” Ilianov said. “We have selected the best. They are in position now and are ready to strike. My men will make it look like the son killed himself while drinking and freebasing cocaine, and I will be sure that the details are in every newspaper and television show in the world. I will also make it clear that the son got hooked on drugs and alcohol because of his father’s neglect, and that the father had similar dependency and emotional problems.”

  “Very good,” Gryzlov said. He took a deep drag of his cigar, using the interlude to look Korchkov up and down again. “Why not send Captain Korchkov?” he asked. “I am sure young McLanahan would wear a nice big smile on his face . . . the instant before his life was snuffed out.” Korchkov remained completely expressionless, her hands folded in front of her body, her legs almost shoulder width apart in a very ready, athletic stance.

  “The men I have selected will have no difficulties, sir,” Ilianov said. “Sending the captain back to the United States to get McLanahan would be like using a sledgehammer to crack an egg.”

  “Just see to it that it gets done, Colonel,” Gryzlov said. “I have waited long enough to seek my revenge on Patrick McLanahan. I want everything that belonged to him dead and destroyed. All that remains of him is his son and his reputation, and I want both shattered.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ilianov said. “I will report on the success of my team tomorrow.”

  “It had better be successful, Colonel,” Gryzlov said. “I want the McLanahan name stained beyond repair.” He gave Korchkov another glance, wondering if he should tell her to stay or contact her later, then waved a hand. “You have your orders, Colonel. Carry them out.” Ilianov and Korchkov turned and left without a word.

  “This is no business for a president of the Russian Federation, sir,” Tarzarov said after the two had departed.

  “Perhaps not, Sergei,” Gryzlov said, his face hard and foreboding through a cloud of cigar smoke, “but it is certainly the business of the son of Anatoliy Gryzlov. Once McLanahan’s son has been eliminated, I can turn full attention to rebuilding our nation and putting it back on the path to greatness. We have been raking in the natural resources money and stuffing it under the mattress for too long, Sergei—it is time to start spending it and taking our rightful place in the world as a true superpower.”

  CALIFORNIA POLYTECHNIC UNIVERSITY

  SAN LUIS OBISPO, CALIFORNIA

  THAT SAME TIME

  “How freakin’ cool was that?” exclaimed Bradley McLanahan. He and four other students were in their professor’s office in the Reinhold Aerospace Engineering Building on the sprawling campus of the California Polytechnic University, San Luis Obispo, known simply as Cal Poly, near California’s central coast, watching TV on one of the computers in the office. “The president of the United States is up in orbit on Armstrong Space Station
! If he can do it, I sure as hell can!” The other students nodded in agreement.

  Brad McLanahan was close to finishing his first year as an aerospace engineering student at Cal Poly. Everything in his life, from his body to his education to his experiences, all seemed to be just a little bit more than average. He was a little bit taller, heavier, and better-looking than average, with blue eyes and blond hair that had grown a bit longer than most engineering students on campus wore theirs. His grades were probably a bit better than average, just good enough to be accepted to the college of engineering at Cal Poly, which accepted fewer than one-third of all applicants. Thanks to a generous trust and benefits of a sizable life insurance policy from his deceased parents, Brad was in a better financial situation while in college than most other students: he rode a nice bicycle to school from his off-campus house in San Luis Obispo and even occasionally flew his father’s turbine Cessna P210 Silver Eagle airplane from the nearby airport, all while knowing that he would have no college tuition or student loan bills from his undergraduate or graduate education.

  “We couldn’t have timed this any better, Brad,” said Lane Eagan. Fifteen-year-old Lane was from Roseburg, Oregon, graduating from homeschooled high school after just two years with a stratospheric grade-point average, and was accepted to Cal Poly with a four-year scholarship. Small, a little pudgy, and wearing thick glasses—he looked like the classic Hollywood version of a nerd—Lane looked up to Brad like a big brother. Lane was a freshman attending the college of electrical engineering, specializing in computer and microchip design and programming. “I hope Professor Nukaga likes our proposal.”

  “I still think we should have gone with the space-junk idea, Bradley,” said Kim Jung-bae. Jung-bae—everyone called him “Jerry” because he liked Jerry Lewis movies, a nickname he used proudly—was from Seoul, United Korea, who transferred after two years at Pohang University of Science and Technology to study in the United States. Tall and thin, he spent as much time on the basketball court as he did in an engineering laboratory. Jerry was a mechanical engineering student, specializing in robotics and power storage technologies. “You know Nukaga: he does not care for the military stuff as much.”

  “Starfire is not a military program, Jerry,” said Casey Huggins. Casey was also a freshman four-year scholarship winner to Cal Poly. A water-skiing accident when she was a young girl left her paralyzed from the waist down, so academics became a large part of her life. She fought to keep her weight down by using a manually powered wheelchair to get around Cal Poly’s very large six-thousand-acre campus, and competing in adaptive sports such as wheelchair basketball and archery. Casey was an electrical engineering student, specializing in directed-energy projects. “We’re using some military hardware, but it’s not a military program.” Jung-bae shrugged, not entirely convinced but not willing to provoke another argument.

  “I like Jerry’s space-debris idea too, but especially after hearing President Phoenix’s little speech there, I think we should stick with our proposal, mates,” said Jodie Cavendish, sweeping her long blond hair back off her shoulders, then nervously twisting it back around across her breasts. Jodie was from Brisbane, Australia, and although she looked like a tall, trim, blue-eyed Southern California surfer girl, lived very close to the ocean back home, and loved sailing, surfing, and paddleboarding, she loved more than anything else to study and experiment, and could be found either in a laboratory or the library on a computer. She was close to finishing her two-year exchange-student scholarship program between Cal Poly and Queensland University of Technology, studying mechanical engineering with a specialty in advanced materials and nanotechnology. “Besides, we’ve spent too much time rehearsing our yabber.”

  “Like Jodie said, I’m good with either idea, and we can pitch the space-debris idea too—we’re prepared,” Brad said. “But now, with that speech and that challenge, I think Starfire will be a winner.”

  “Do you now, Mr. McLanahan?” they heard a man say, and into the office raced Toshuniko Nukaga, Ph.D., professor of aerospace engineering at Cal Poly. Born, raised, and educated in Berkeley, California, Nukaga, known in academic circles as well as to his close friends as “Toby,” did nothing slowly, whether it was bicycle racing, giving lectures, or writing and presenting yet another paper on another breakthough in the world of aerospace science. Sixty years old and retired from the aerospace industry, Nukaga was one of the most-sought-after experts on new aircraft and spacecraft design. He’d had his choice of positions on the board of directors or leadership of hundreds of companies and universities around the world, but he had chosen to spend his remaining years before retirement in California’s Central Valley, imparting his knowledge and yearning to explore and question conventional wisdom to a new generation of engineers and thinkers.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Nukaga,” Brad said. “Thank you for seeing us so late in the afternoon.”

  Nukaga had checked his e-mail on his desktop computer, removed his tablet computer from his backpack, and put it on its charging stand by the time Brad had finished speaking. He nodded, acknowledging the young man’s gratitude, then sat back in his chair, tapping his fingertips together to keep himself in motion despite being seated. “You’re welcome. Let’s hear your ‘winner,’ Mr. McLanahan.”

  “Yes, sir,” Brad said. “I recently found out that Sky Masters Aerospace in Nevada has put out a request for proposals to universities and companies for a new generation of space projects. It seems that companies like Sky Masters have been working with the Phoenix administration, because the president just proposed the very same thing in his address from Armstrong Space Station. Sky Masters wants—”

  “Did you say, the president addressed the nation from the military space station?” Nukaga asked incredulously. “He is up in orbit right now?”

  “Yes, sir,” Brad replied. “He just concluded a press conference too. He was feeling pretty good, weightless and everything. I guess his Secret Service guy didn’t do as well.”

  “What in the world is a president of the United States doing on a military space station?” Nukaga remarked rather bitterly. “It seems extremely irresponsible to me. There are a thousand incidents that could happen and a hundred illnesses he could contract, some of which could affect his mind, and he is the commander in chief of a nuclear-armed military. It’s madness.” He fell silent for a moment, then waved a hand, erasing the topic from his mind. “Please continue, Mr. McLanahan.”

  “We are requesting computer-, mechanical-, and aerospace-engineering-lab space and resources for twelve weeks this summer for a project that hopefully can be put into orbit and tested before the end of the year,” Brad said. “We call it Project Starfire.”

  Nukaga’s eyebrows raised in amusement. “Your name, I assume, Mr. McLanahan?”

  “It was mine, sir,” Lane Eagan said proudly.

  “Of course, Mr. Eagan,” Nukaga said, hiding a slight smile behind two fingertips tapping against his lips. He had at first distrusted the young man—boy, really—because his parents both held multiple doctorates and were very wealthy, aggressive, hard-charging research scientists, and he believed Eagan’s success was mostly due to his parents’ strong, driving influence. But that definitely did not turn out to be the case. Although young Eagan slipped back easily into a teenager’s persona now and then, he truly was a gifted young man who would no doubt hold his own collection of doctorates, exceeding his parents’ impressive credentials, before long.

  The professor erased all hint of a smile, turned stony once again, then said, “Indeed. So why don’t you continue the presentation, Mr. Eagan?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lane said without skipping a beat. Just like that, the teenager was gone, replaced by a serious young scientist-to-be. “As you well know, sir, the idea of generating power from the sun from a spacecraft in Earth orbit and transmitting the electricity to Earth has been proposed for many years, but we think we’ve overcome the technical hurdles and can design a commercially feasible space-ba
sed solar-power station.”

  Nukaga looked at Casey and Jodie. “Since your team has Miss Huggins, I assume your spacecraft uses some sort of directed energy, such as microwaves,” he observed. “Miss Huggins?”

  “Not exactly, sir,” Casey said. “Most research on the subject of space-based solar-power production used microwaves or lasers to transmit the solar-collected electricity to Earth. Lasers have some political roadblocks. Microwaves are very efficient and can transmit a lot of energy very quickly. But microwaves require a large nantenna, or transmitting antenna—as large as a square kilometer or more in area—and an even larger rectenna, or receiving antenna, perhaps ten times as large as the transmitting antenna. Our associates around the world and we here at Cal Poly have developed a maser: a microwave laser. We are able to wiggle and collimate a beam in the microwave spectrum so it’s possible to squeeze a lot of energy into a smaller, more focused beam. It has some of the best characteristics of a microwave and a visible-light laser, using much smaller antennas, and is far more efficient. In addition, maser rectennas that transform the microwave energy into electricity are smaller, fairly portable, and can be set up almost anywhere.”

  “Besides, sir, the main components and power-generation equipment are already up on Armstrong Space Station,” Brad said. Nukaga looked at Brad and narrowed his eyes disapprovingly at the interruption, but let him continue. “The Skybolt laser is a free-electron laser pumped by a klystron powered by a magnetohydrodynamic generator. We can introduce the microwave cavity into the laser itself, and use the collected electricity from Starfire to power the laser, so we don’t have to use the MHD. We can even use Skybolt’s aiming and control systems.”

  “That monstrosity should have been removed from orbit years ago and allowed to burn up on reentry,” Nukaga said. He gave Brad another scowl, as if the space-based laser belonged to him. “Do you see any problems with shooting maser beams from space, Miss Huggins?” he asked.