Starfire

by Dale Brown

  “The news reports about the test pointed it out pretty clearly,” the other man said. “We should see it when we get closer—it’s pretty big.”

  “Man, this is loco,” the pilot said. “They said on the news that no aircraft will be allowed to fly near the antenna.”

  “What are they going to do—shoot us down?” the navigator said.

  “I don’t want to get shot down, man, not by the military or this . . . phaser beam, laser beam, whatever the fuck it is.”

  “I don’t want to fly over the antenna, just close enough so they’ll cancel the test,” the navigator said. “This is an illegal test of a space weapon, and if the federal government or the state of New Mexico won’t stop it, we’ll have to do it.”

  “Whatever,” the pilot said. He strained to look out the windows. “Are we getting . . . holy shit!” There, off to their left, not more than a hundred feet away, was a green military Black Hawk helicopter with U.S. AIR FORCE in large black letters on the side, flying in formation. The helicopter’s right sliding door was open, and a crewmember in a green flight suit, helmet, and lowered dark visor was visible. “We got company, man.”

  The helicopter crewmember in the open door picked up what looked to be a large flashlight and began blinking light signals at the Cessna pilot. “One . . . two . . . one . . . five,” the pilot said. “That’s the emergency distress freq.” He changed his number one radio to that frequency.

  “High-wing single-engine Cessna, tail number N-3437T, this is the United States Air Force off your left wing, transmitting on GUARD,” they heard, referencing the universal VHF emergency frequency. “You have entered restricted military airspace that is active at this time. Reverse course immediately. The area is active and you are in great danger. Repeat, reverse course immediately.”

  “We got a right to be here, man,” the pilot radioed. “We ain’t doin’ nothin’. Go away.”

  “November 3437T, this is the United States Air Force, you are putting yourself in great danger,” the helicopter’s copilot said. “Reverse course immediately. I am authorized to take any action necessary to prevent you from proceeding into restricted airspace.”

  “What are you going to do, man—shoot us down?” the Cessna pilot said. The helicopter did have a long tube thing on its nose that looked like a cannon—he didn’t know it was just an air refueling probe. “Listen, we just want to stop the Starfire test, and then we’ll go back home. Go away.”

  At that, the Black Hawk suddenly accelerated and did a steep right turn, passing in front of the Cessna not more than one hundred feet away, its rotor disk filling the Cessna’s windscreen. The startled pilot cried out and yanked the control yoke back and to the left, then had to fight to regain control as the little airplane almost stalled. They could hear the helicopter’s rotor beats thumping against the Cessna’s fuselage as it circled around them.

  The Black Hawk appeared off his left wing seconds later, closer this time, the beat of the rotor blades now thunderous, as if a giant invisible fist were beating on the side of their little airplane. “N-3437T, reverse course immediately! This is an order! Comply immediately!”

  “Is that dude crazy, man?” the pilot said. “I nearly crapped my pants!”

  “I see it! I see it, I see the antenna!” the right-seater said. “A little to the right, on the horizon! Big round sucker!”

  The pilot followed his passenger’s pointing finger. “I don’t see nothin’, man, I don’t— Wait, I got it, I got it,” he said. “That big round thing in the desert? I’ll head over to it.” He put the little Cessna into a steep right bank . . .

  . . . and as soon as he did so, the Black Hawk helicopter made a steep left turn, blasting the Cessna with its powerful rotor wash. The action flipped the Cessna completely upside down. It entered an inverted flat spin and crashed into the New Mexico desert seconds later.

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  A FEW HOURS LATER

  “Congratulations, Jung-bae, on a successful test of Starfire,” Dr. Toshuniko “Toby” Nukaga, professor of aerospace engineering at Cal Poly, said via a video teleconference hookup on his laptop computer from his room at an upscale hotel in Seattle, Washington. “I just heard the news. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there, but I am chairing a conference up in Seattle.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Jerry said. He was in a trailer about a mile from the Starfire rectenna site in the White Sands Missile Test Range northwest of Alamogordo, New Mexico, surrounded by laptop computers used to monitor the power and steering systems aboard Armstrong Space Station. Seven team members were with him, high-fiving one another as they began analyzing the mountain of data they had received. “I am sorry you could not be here as well, sir. You were the driving force behind this project from the very beginning.”

  “The credit belongs to you and the others on the project team, Jung-bae—I was only the facilitator. So, how much energy did you transfer?”

  “One-point-four-seven megawatts, sir.”

  “Outstanding! Well done!”

  “It had to be cut short because an unauthorized aircraft entered the range.”

  “I had heard that some protesters were going to try to disrupt the test by flying a private plane over the rectenna,” Nukaga said.

  Jerry blinked in surprise. “You did, sir?” he asked incredulously.

  “Jung-bae, I’m here in Seattle at the annual conference of the International Confederation of Responsible Scientists,” Nukaga said. “There are over a hundred groups represented here of scientists, politicians, environmentalists, and industry leaders from all over the world—we even have the presidential candidate, former secretary of state Stacy Anne Barbeau, here to give the keynote later today.

  “We also have a few rather radical groups here too, and one of them, Students for Universal Peace, approached me to complain that Cal Poly was involved in a weapons development program with Starfire,” Nukaga went on. “I assured them we were not, but they insisted. They said it was their duty to do anything they could to stop the Starfire test firing, even if it put their lives in jeopardy—I actually think they were hoping someone would get shot down by the maser just to prove it really was a weapon.”

  “That is unbelievable, sir,” Jerry said. “Why did you not tell us about this?”

  “I only half believed it myself, Jung-bae,” Nukaga said. “Frankly, the kids that confronted me looked like they didn’t know where their next meal was coming from, let alone having the wherewithal to hire a plane to fly over a government restricted area hoping to get shot down by a maser beam from space. So.” Nukaga was obviously anxious to change the subject. “Mr. McLanahan and Miss Huggins looked good aboard the military space station. I saw one of their press conferences last night. Are they doing well?”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “Good. Any problems? Any difficulties with the equipment or software?” Jerry hesitated and averted his eyes from his camera for a brief moment, and Nukaga noticed it right away. “Jung-bae?”

  Jerry wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be talking about anything having to do with Starfire and the space station on an unsecure network—the team leaders had decided to discuss among themselves what got released and what didn’t—but Nukaga was one of their professors and an early but somewhat reluctant supporter of the project. “There was a potential problem with the relay I designed that allowed power to flow from the lithium-ion capacitors to the microwave generator, sir,” he said finally.

  “A ‘potential’ problem?”

  “It did not fail today, but . . . it was not one hundred percent reliable,” Jerry said uneasily, “and with the president of the United States attending the test firing at Cal Poly, we wanted to ensure we could hit the rectenna with maser energy.”

  “Well, you did so,” Nukaga said. “The test was a success. I don’t understand.”

  “Well, we . . . we did not use the energy we collected with the nantennas and stored in the capacitors.”

  “Then what ener
gy did you use?”

  “We used power from the . . . the magnetohydrodynamic generator,” Jerry said.

  There was silence on the line for several long moments, and on the video monitor Jerry could see the growing expression of disbelief on Nukaga’s face; then: “You mean, you activated the laser aboard Armstrong Space Station, Jung-bae?” Nukaga asked in a breathless, low, incredulous tone.

  “No, sir,” Jerry said. “Not the laser. The free-electron laser itself was deactivated so we could use the laser’s subsystems for Starfire. We just used its energy source to—”

  “That MHD generator was still operational?” Nukaga asked. “I was led to believe that all of the components of the Skybolt space laser had been deactivated.” Jerry had no response to that. “So the one-point-four megawatts you collected with the rectenna came from the MHD and not from Starfire?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jerry replied. “We had validated everything else: we collected solar energy, stored the electricity, powered the microwave generator with it, and shot maser energy with the Skybolt’s reflectors, collimators, and steering systems. We just needed to hit the rectenna with maser energy. We wanted to do it on the first try, with the president of the United States watching. The MHD generator was our only—”

  “Jung-bae, you fired a beam of directed energy at a target on Earth,” Nukaga said. “You shot one megawatt of energy for over two minutes at a distance of over two hundred miles? That’s . . .” He paused, running the calculations in his head. “That’s over three million joules of energy fired by the MHD from that military space station! That’s three times the legal limit, at a distance almost four times the allowed range! That’s a serious violation of the Space Preservation Treaty! That’s an offense that can be prosecuted by the International Court of Justice or heard by the United Nations Security Council! Space weapons, especially directed-energy weapons, are not allowed to be employed by anyone, even students!”

  “No, sir, that cannot be right!” Jerry said, confused, afraid he had said too much and betrayed his colleagues, and afraid of raising the anger of his favorite professor and mentor. “Starfire is a solar power plant, not a space weapon!”

  “It was, Jung-bae, until you abandoned using solar power and used the illegal military space laser’s power source!” Nukaga cried. “Don’t you understand, Jung-bae? You can use fireworks to celebrate the New Year, but if you use a Scud missile to do so, it changes and contaminates the very nature of the spirit you were trying to express, even if you don’t attack anyone or blow something up. That’s why we have laws against using such things for any purpose.” He saw the panicked expression in Jerry’s eyes and immediately felt sorry for him. “But you were in New Mexico, were you not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did they consult with you on the decision to use the MHD generator?”

  “No, sir,” Jerry said. “There wasn’t time, and I was on a teleconference with my team trying to come up with a solution to the relay problem.”

  “Do you know who came up with the idea to use the MHD?”

  “I believe it was Mr. McLanahan, sir,” Jerry said. Nukaga nodded knowingly—he could have easily guessed that. “He brought the idea up to General Raydon, the station commander, and to Sergeant Lukas, the station’s operations officer.”

  “These are all members of the military?”

  “They are all retired, I believe,” Jerry said, “but knowledgeable in space-station operations and hired by a private defense contractor to operate it.”

  “ ‘Private defense contractor,’ eh?” Nukaga sneered. “Was it that company in Nevada, the one that presented the university with the seed grant money?”

  “Yes . . . I . . . yes, sir, it was,” Jerry said . . . and moments later the realization began to sink in.

  “You’re beginning to see now, aren’t you, Jung-bae?” Nukaga asked, seeing Jerry’s expression change. “Bradley McLanahan, the son of General Patrick McLanahan, a retired Air Force officer and former officer of that Nevada company, comes up with an idea for a so-called space-based solar power plant, and in just a few months’ time he’s assembled an engineering team and made several significant science and technological breakthroughs. Is it then a coincidence that Cal Poly gets the grant money? Is it just a coincidence that Mr. McLanahan wants to use Armstrong Space Station for Starfire, the station being managed by the very same Nevada defense contractor? I don’t believe in coincidences, Jung-bae. Neither should you.”

  “But they received permission from the president of the United States to use the MHD,” Jerry said, “only and unless the Skybolt free-electron laser was not capable of being fired.”

  “Of course. They couldn’t fire the laser without breaking the Space Preservation Treaty, so they got the next best thing: a maser, built by a bunch of college students, all very neat, uplifting, and innocent—hogwash, all hogwash,” Nukaga spat. “It seems to me that the so-called problems with your relay could have been easily contrived so they had to use the MHD generator to demonstrate the power of the maser weapon. Three million joules! I’ll bet the military was very pleased with this demonstration.”

  “I designed the power relay system, sir, and only I was in charge of monitoring it,” Jerry said. “I assure you, no one deliberately tampered with it.”

  “Jung-bae, I am very glad that you told me of this,” Nukaga said. “I am not implicating you of anything. It seems that Mr. McLanahan had his own agenda when he put this project together. As I suspected from the beginning, Mr. McLanahan was working with this defense contractor, and quite possibly the military itself, being the son of a prominent and infamous military officer, to build a space weapon and hide it from the world. He obviously had help from this contractor and the government—how else could a freshman gather all the resources needed to put together such a project in so short a time?”

  “I . . . I had no idea, sir,” Jerry said, his eyes darting back and forth in confusion. “Mr. McLanahan, he . . . he seemed to possess extraordinary leadership and organizational skills. He was always very open and transparent about everything. He shared all of his resources with every member of the team. We knew every moment of every day what was needed and how he intended to get it.”

  “Again, Jung-bae, I’m not implicating or blaming you for being taken in by this . . . this obvious huckster,” Nukaga said. He nodded, satisfied that he was on the right track. “It makes perfect sense to me. Our university has been taken in by a coordinated plot by McLanahan—more likely by his late father at first, then adopted by the son—supported by that defense contractor, the military, and their government supporters like President Kenneth Phoenix and Vice President Ann Page, to surreptitiously build a space-based directed-energy weapon and disguise it as nothing more than a student engineering project. How horrifyingly clever. How many other progressive, peace-loving universities have they perpetrated this scheme on? I wonder.”

  Nukaga’s mind was racing for several moments before he realized he was still on the video teleconference with Jung-bae. “I’m sorry, Jung-bae,” he said, “but I must attend to a very important matter. You should leave that project immediately. In fact, if I find out that the university had anything to do with this military program, or if the university does not disavow any participation in the project and return the money it got from that defense contractor, I will resign my position immediately, and I would urge you to transfer to a different school. I’m sure we’d both be very happy at Stanford University. I look forward to seeing you soon.” And he terminated the connection.

  My God, Nukaga thought, what an incredibly diabolical scheme! This had to be exposed immediately. It had to stop. He was the chair of this conference, and it was being beamed around the world—he certainly had access to cameras, microphones, and the media, and he intended to use them.

  However, he admitted to himself, his audience, although global, was not that large. Most of the world considered the attendees as nothing more than tree-hugging Occupy Wall Street
peacenik hippie wackos—one of the reasons he was asked to chair the conference was to try to lend a lot more legitimacy to the organization and the conclave. He needed some help. He needed . . .

  . . . and in a flash he remembered, and pulled a business card out of his pocket, then pulled out his smartphone and dialed the Washington number of a man he knew was just a few flights upstairs. “Mr. Cohen, this is Dr. Toby Nukaga, the chair of the event . . . fine sir, thank you, and again, thank you and Secretary Barbeau for attending.

  “Sir, I just received some very disturbing information that I think the secretary should know about and perhaps act upon,” Nukaga went on almost breathlessly. “It is in regards to the Starfire project . . . yes, the so-called space solar power plant . . . yes, I say ‘so-called’ because I have learned today that it is not by any stretch of the imagination a solar power plant, but a well-camouflaged space-weapon program . . . yes, sir, a military directed-energy space weapon, disguised as a student engineering project . . . yes, sir, the information was told to me by someone very high up in the project, very high up . . . yes, sir, I trust the source completely. He was taken in, just as I and my university and hundreds of engineers and scientists around the world were sucked into cooperating with it, and I wish to expose this frightening and outrageous program before any more harm is done . . . yes, sir . . . yes, sir, I can be upstairs in just a few minutes. Thank you, Mr. Cohen.”

  Nukaga had hurriedly starting packing up his tablet computer when a text message came across its screen. It was from the head of Students for Universal Peace, one of the international environmental and world peace groups attending the conference, and the message read: Our protest plane was shot down by Starfire space weapon near rectenna site. We are at war.

  INTERNATIONAL CONFEDERATION OF RESPONSIBLE SCIENTISTS CONCLAVE KEYNOTE ADDRESS

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON