by Dale Brown
“What about Chief Ratel?” Brad asked, assuming that his father could hear him through the intercom.
“He’ll be evacuated and treated,” Patrick replied.
“What will the cops do when they see that hangar? It looks like a war zone. It was a war zone.”
“President Martindale will handle that,” Patrick replied.
“How did you get here so fast, Dad?”
“I was in St. George when your alarm went off back in San Luis Obispo,” Patrick said. “It’s less than two hours away in the Sherpa. Thank God Chief Ratel got to you in time and got you out of town.”
“St. George? Is that where we’re headed now?”
“Yes, Brad,” Patrick said. The CID turned to Brad and raised an armored hand, anticipating Brad’s protests. “I know you want to go back to Cal Poly, Brad,” Patrick said, “and now that you’ve received that grant from Sky Masters, your work is even more important. I want to see you continue your training too. So I’m going to assign Sergeant Major Wohl’s team to detect and capture any more attack squads that come after you. They’ll set up closer to campus so you won’t have to travel all the way to the south side of the city for training. They’ll take over your training until Chief Ratel is well enough to do so.”
“You mean, they’ll be my bodyguards or something?”
“Although I’m sure they can handle them, Wohl’s teams aren’t made for personal security jobs,” Patrick said. “They train for countersurveillance and direct-action missions. But we’ve encountered four two-man teams of Russian hit men now. I’m not going to allow any hit squads to roam around the United States at will, especially ones that target my son. So we need to set up a plan of action. We’ll interrogate the new guys, do some investigating, and figure out a plan.”
“So I’ll be like a decoy, sucking in the bad guys so the sergeant major can take them out?” Brad remarked. He nodded and smiled. “That’s cool, as long as I can go back to Cal Poly. I can go back to Cal Poly, right, Dad?”
“Against my better judgment, yes,” Patrick said. “But not tonight. Let the sergeant major and his teams interrogate the new prisoners, gather some information, and sweep the campus and the city. It’ll only be a day or two. I know you do most of your studying for finals online, and your classes are basically over, so you’ll be able to work at our headquarters. Before finals week comes around, you should be able to go back to campus.”
“I’ll just have to figure out an excuse to tell the Starfire team,” Brad said. “The project is exploding, Dad. The university is getting money and support from all over the world.”
“I know, son,” Patrick said. “To the university’s credit, they are keeping Starfire strictly a Cal Poly undergraduate project—other universities, companies, and even governments have offered to take over. Looks like you’ll stay the head honcho for now. Just realize that the pressure to turn the project over to someone else as a for-profit operation will certainly build—most likely Sky Masters Aerospace, I’d wager, now that they’ve invested so much in it—and the university might be induced by the big bucks to let some company take it over. Just don’t be offended if that happens. Universities run on money.”
“I won’t be offended.”
“Good.” The CID turned its massive armored head toward Brad. “I’m proud of you, son,” Patrick said. “I’ve seen it in hundreds of e-mails from all over the world: people are impressed with your leadership in driving this project forward, building a first-class team, and gathering technical support. No one can believe you’re a first-year undergrad.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Brad said. “I hope I can achieve even a little bit of the success you’ve had in the Air Force.”
“I think your path will be totally different than mine,” Patrick said. He turned back, facing the rear of the aircraft. “I always wished I had leadership skills like yours. My life might have been so much different if I had your skills and learned how to use them. You obviously learned them from someone other than your dad, or maybe from Civil Air Patrol.”
“But you were . . . I mean, are a three-star general, Dad.”
“Yes, but my promotions came about because of the things I did, not because of my leadership skills,” Patrick said, the pensiveness in his voice still obvious despite the CID’s electronic voice synthesis. “I had a couple command positions over the years, but I never actually acted as a real commander—I acted like I always did: an operator, an aviator, a crewdog, not a leader. I saw a job that needed to get done, and I went out and did it. As a field-grade or general officer, I was supposed to build a team that would do the job, not go off and do it myself. I never really understood what it meant to lead.”
“I think getting the job done is the most important thing too, Dad,” Brad said. “I’m an aerospace engineering student, but I can barely make sense of most of the science I’m expected to learn. I muddle my way through it by finding someone to explain it to me. But all I really want to do is fly. I know I have to get the degree so I can attend test-pilot school and fly the hot jets, but I don’t care about the degree. I just want to fly.”
“Well, it’s working for you, son,” Patrick said. “Keep fixated on the goal. You’ll make it.”
The Sherpa landed about two hours later at General Dick Stout Field, fourteen miles northeast of the city of St. George in southern Utah. The airport had been greatly expanded over the past few years as the population of St. George grew, and although Stout Field was still a nontowered airport, the west side of it had blossomed as an industrial and commercial air hub. The black Sherpa taxied to a very large hangar on the south side of the industrial side of the airport, and was towed inside the hangar before anyone was allowed to disembark. The massive hangar contained a Challenger-5 business jet, a Reaper unmanned aerial vehicle with weapons pylons under the wings, and a smaller version of the V-22 Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft, all painted black, of course.
Patrick led his son to an adjacent building. Brad immediately noticed that the ceiling was higher and all of the doors and corridors were wider and taller than normal, all obviously constructed to accommodate the Cybernetic Infantry Device that was walking through them. Brad heard a lock automatically click open as they approached a door, and they entered a room in the center of the building. “This is home,” Patrick said. It was nothing more than a bare windowless room, with just a table with some of the nutrient canisters sitting on it, a spot where Patrick plugged himself in for recharging . . .
. . . and, in the far corner, another new-model Cybernetic Infantry Device robot. “I see I’m getting a replacement,” Patrick said woodenly. “It usually takes another day or so for us to run a full set of diagnostics on the new CID before they do the transfer.”
“Then I’ll be able to see you, Dad.”
“Son, if you’re sure that’s what you want to do, then I’ll allow it,” Patrick said. “But it’s not pretty.”
Brad looked around the room. “Sheesh, they don’t even let you have pictures on the walls?”
“I can get all the pictures I want, anytime I want, played right inside my consciousness,” Patrick said. “I don’t need them on the wall.” He replaced the nutrient canisters in his chassis with the new ones on the table, then stood in a specified spot in the center of the room, and power, data, hygienic, nutrient, and diagnostic cables automatically descended from the ceiling and plugged themselves into the proper places on the CID. Patrick froze in place, standing straight up, looking very much like the unmanned robot in the corner. “The sergeant major will be by in a few hours to get briefed and talk to you about what happened, and then he’ll take you to a hotel,” he said. “He’ll bring you back in the morning, and we’ll set you up so you can do some studying.”
Brad thought about what he was going to say for a moment in silence; then: “Dad, you told me that you’re still you inside that robot.”
“Yes.”
“Well, the ‘you’ I remember had awards, plaques, and pictures on the
walls,” Brad said. “Even in the little double-wide trailer back in Battle Mountain, you had your old flight helmets, display cases with memorabilia, airplane models, and random bits of stuff that I never even knew what they were, but they obviously meant a great deal to you. Why don’t you have any of that here?”
The robot remained motionless and silent for several long moments; then: “I guess I never really thought about it, Brad,” Patrick said finally. “At first I thought it was because I didn’t want anyone to know it was me inside here, but now all of the people with whom I interact in this building know that it’s me, so that really doesn’t apply anymore.”
“Well, the robot wouldn’t have stuff on the walls,” Brad said, “but my dad would.” Patrick said nothing. “Maybe when everything calms down and gets back to normal—or the closest it will ever come to normal—I can fly out here and set up some stuff. Make it more like your room, rather than a storeroom.”
“I’d like that, son,” Patrick said. “I’d like that.”
OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT
FOURTEENTH BUILDING, THE KREMLIN
MOSCOW
SEVERAL DAYS LATER
“Definitely signs of increased activity on the American military space station,” Minister of State Security Viktor Kazyanov said over the video teleconference link from his intelligence center to the president’s office. He was showing before-and-after photographs of Armstrong Space Station. “There has been one heavy-lift rocket launch that delivered these long structures, along with many smaller pressurized and unpressurized containers. We do not know for certain yet what is in the pressurized containers, but these other unpressurized items resemble the batteries already mounted on the truss, so we assume they too are batteries.”
“I want no more assumptions from you, Kazyanov,” Russian president Gennadiy Gryzlov said, stabbing at the image of Kazyanov on a computer monitor with his cigar. “Find me the information. Do your damned job.”
“Yes, sir,” Kazyanov said. He cleared his throat, then went on: “There has been a great increase in spaceplane flights as well, sometimes three to four per month, sir.” He changed slides. “The newest model of their single-stage-to-orbit spaceplane, the S-29 Shadow, has now completed operational tests and has made one flight to the station. It is similar in size and cargo capacity to our Elektron spaceplane, but of course does not need a rocket to be boosted into space.”
“Of course not,” President Gennadiy Gryzlov said acidly. “So. They have one Shadow spaceplane now that is similar in size to our Elektron. How many Elektrons do we have, Sokolov?”
“We have reactivated seven Elektron spaceplanes,” Minister of Defense Gregor Sokolov replied. “One is standing by ready for launch in Plesetsk, and another spaceplane-rocket pair has arrived there and can be mated and placed into launch position within a week. We have—”
“A week?” Gryzlov thundered. “Minister, I told you, I want to fill Earth orbit with Russian spaceplanes and weapons. I want to be able to launch two spaceplanes simultaneously.”
“Sir, only one launch pad at Plesetsk was stressed for the Angara-5 booster,” Sokolov said. “Funds meant to build another pad there were diverted to the Vostochny Cosmodrome construction and to the extension of the Baikonur lease. We should—”
“Minister Sokolov, I am sensing a pattern here: I issue orders, and you give me excuses instead of results,” Gryzlov said. “Does Vostochny have a launch pad suited for the Angara-5 booster, or not?”
“Vostochny Cosmodrome will not be completed for another two years, sir,” Sokolov said. Gryzlov rolled his eyes in exasperation for the umpteenth time during the teleconference. “Baikonur is the only other launch facility available to accommodate the Angara-5 at this time.”
“So why is there not an Elektron spaceplane at Baikonur, Sokolov?”
“Sir, it was my understanding that you did not wish to have any more military launches from Baikonur, only commercial launches,” Sokolov said.
Gryzlov was struggling to contain his anger. “What I said I wanted, Sokolov, is to get as many spaceplanes on launch pads as quickly as possible so we can at least have a chance of challenging the Americans,” he said. “We pay good money to use that facility—we will start using it. What else?”
“Sir, we are pressing ahead with upgrades and improvements at Plesetsk, Vostochny, and Znamensk spaceports,” Sokolov went on, “but work is slowing down because of the cold weather, and must cease altogether in about a month or else the quality of the concrete castings will degrade.”
“So we have just two launch pads available for our spaceplanes, and one is not even in our own country?” Gryzlov said disgustedly. “Perfect.”
“There is another avenue we can take, Mr. President: launch Elektron spaceplanes from China,” Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva interjected. “Thanks to American actions against both our countries, our relations with China have never been better. I have explored this possibility with the Chinese foreign minister, and I spoke with his military adviser, who suggested a base in China’s far west: Xichang. With the opening of the new Wenchang spaceport on Hainan Island, all heavy launch operations have moved there from Xichang, leaving the base open and available, and their facilities are state of the art. They have two launch pads stressed for our Angara-5 rockets and our Proton series as well. There is great concern that a launch failure could bring debris down on nearby cities and factories downrange, but I think a little extra consideration to local and provincial politicians can alleviate their concerns.”
“Well done, Daria,” Gryzlov said, smiling for the first time in the meeting. “See, Sokolov? That is how it is done. Thinking outside the box.”
“You object to launches from Baikonur but are considering sending our rockets and spaceplanes to China, sir?” Sokolov retorted. “I am sure the Chinese military would love to get an up-close look at Elektron and Angara-5.”
“I ordered Russian spaceplanes on launch pads, Sokolov!” Gryzlov snarled, jabbing his cigar at the image of the defense minister on his monitor. “If I cannot launch them from Russian facilities, I will do it from somewhere else.” He turned back to Titeneva. “Proceed with making the arrangements, Daria,” he said. “What else did the Chinese talk about?”
“They talked of a trade for the use of Xichang, sir, along with cash, of course,” Titeneva said. “They mentioned several things, a few political items such as support for their claims on the Senkaku Islands and in the South China Sea, and perhaps reopening talks about oil and natural-gas pipelines into China from Siberia, but they are most interested in S-500S mobile surface-to-air missiles, the newest model, capable of attacking satellites.”
“Indeed?” Gryzlov said, nodding enthusiastically. “Trade launch facilities for S-500 missiles, which I would like to place at all Russian spaceports and military installations worldwide anyway. Excellent idea. I approve.”
“Sir, the S-500 is the most advanced air defense weapon in the world,” Sokolov said, his face a stunned mask, telling all that he couldn’t believe what the president had just said. “It is at least a generation ahead of anything the Chinese or even the Americans have. The electronic, sensor, and propulsion technology used in the S-500 is the best in Russia . . . no, the best in the world! We will be giving them what they have been trying to steal from us for decades!”
“Sokolov, I want Elektrons and Burans on launch pads,” Gryzlov snapped. “If the Chinese can do it, and they want S-500s, they will get S-500s.” He scowled at Sokolov’s shocked expression. “How are our other rearming programs proceeding? The Duma has increased our defense appropriation by thirty percent—that should translate into hundreds of S-500s, MiG-31D antisatellite systems, and a lot more than just five spaceplanes.”
“It takes time to restart weapons programs that were canceled years ago, sir,” Sokolov said. “The S-500 was already in production, so we can expect one to two systems per month for the next—”
“No, Sokolov!” Gryzlov interrupted. “That is
unacceptable! I want at least ten per month!”
“Ten?” Sokolov retorted. “Sir, we can eventually reach a goal of ten per month, but it takes time to accelerate production to that rate. Just having the money is not enough—we need trained workers, assembly-line space, a steady and reliable parts stream, testing facilities—”
“If the S-500 was already in production, why is all that not already in place?” Gryzlov thundered. “Were you only planning on building one to two per month? The most advanced air defense system in the world, or so you say, but we are not building more of them?”
“Sir, defense spending was shifted to other priorities, such as antiship missiles, aircraft carriers, and fighters,” Sokolov said. “The S-500 is primarily an air defense weapon intended for use against cruise missiles and stealth aircraft, and later adapted as an antisatellite and antiballistic-missile weapon with the ‘S’ model. After our bomber and cruise-missile attacks on the United States that virtually eliminated their bombers and intercontinental ballistic missiles, air defense was not given a very high priority because the threat was all but gone. Now that space is a higher priority and the S-500S has proven successful, we can start to build more, but as I said, sir, that pivot takes time to—”
“More excuses!” Gryzlov shouted into the video teleconference microphone. “All I want to hear from you, Sokolov, is ‘yes, sir,’ and all I want to see are results, or I will get someone else to carry out my orders. Now get to it!” And he hit the button that terminated the connection with his defense minister.
At that moment Tarzarov sent the president a private text message, which scrolled across the bottom of the video teleconference screen: it read, Praise in public, criticize in private. Gryzlov was going to reply “Fuck you,” but decided against it. “Daria, good work,” he said over the teleconference network. “Let me know what you need me to do to assist.”
