by Dale Brown
CHAPTER 1
“If you’re looking for a sure way to make enemies, change something.”
—PRESIDENT WOODROW WILSON
THE WHITE HOUSE,
WASHINGTON, D.C.
A SHORT TIME LATER
“Is this how you usually get into the White House, sir?” Captain Hunter Noble asked as they turned into a guarded underground parking structure a couple blocks from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
“Only when I’m in a flight suit,” Lieutenant-General Patrick McLanahan responded. Both he and Noble still wore the plain black Dreamland-style flight suits they were wearing on their suborbital flight in the XR-A9 spaceplane less than two hours ago. “The boss thought we might attract too much attention going in the main entrance.”
“Doesn’t want to be seen with the line grunts, eh?”
“Doesn’t want to have to explain you, me, and the Stud to the world…yet,” Patrick corrected him. “Believe me, the President is on our side. Once the Stud goes public, I’m sure he’ll want to be the first sitting president to fly in space.”
In the very back part of the parking garage they came upon a nondescript locked steel door with a sign on it that read “DANGER HIGH VOLTAGE.” Patrick opened a hidden panel a few steps away, punched in a code into a keypad, returned to the steel door, and waited. Moments later Boomer heard a buzzing noise, and Patrick pulled the door open. They stepped inside a very small, dark room, and Patrick secured the steel door behind them. A few moments later they heard another buzzing sound, and Patrick pulled another door open. They entered a long, dark, concrete-floored hallway illuminated with bare lightbulbs wired up with surface conduit. Steel and PVC pipes snaked overhead, some leaking. The air was dank and it felt most definitely claustrophobic.
“Ooo. Secret hallway,” Noble murmured. “Very cloak-and-dagger. I suppose there are lots of these hidden hallways around the capital.”
“I suppose. I only know about two of them, and the one between the Pentagon and the White House isn’t that secret.”
“I didn’t know about that one.”
It was a very long walk, during which they passed several cameras in the ceiling. At the end of the seemingly endless hallway there was yet another steel security door. Patrick picked up a telephone on the wall and spoke briefly to someone inside, the door buzzed, and Patrick pulled it open. They entered another small room with a uniformed Secret Service guard sitting behind a thick bulletproof glass. Patrick and Boomer exchanged ID cards for ID necklaces, signed in, and were buzzed inside.
The hallway they entered was just barely nicer than the long tunnel they just crossed—it was carpeted and better lit, but it still had that musty, wet smell and feel to it. “Your usual entrance, sir?” Boomer asked.
“That was one of the Secret Service alternate entryways and emergency exits,” Patrick explained. “They let me use it when I need to. It’s closer to my office.”
They weaved around boxes of files stacked up in the hallway and old copy machines scattered here and there, then went down another flight of stairs to an even dirtier, mustier level. There were even fewer signs of life down here. Boomer had a peek into an open lavatory door, which looked like a fifties-era Army barracks latrine with a concrete floor complete with large drain in the middle, trough urinal, open showers, polished metal mirrors, metal shelves for towels and cleaning supplies, and very dated toilets and sinks, although it was clean enough.
The door they entered was a few down from the latrine, and unlike most of the other ones on this floor it was thick, new-looking, and well-maintained. Inside the feel was actually pretty comfortable—thick light-colored carpeting, plastered sheetrock walls with a few photographs and award plaques on them, a coffee pot and small refrigerator, computers, copy machines, a couple upholstered chairs, a convertible sofa, nice bookshelves, and a small but nice desk. “Nice office, General,” Boomer commented. “After seeing your latrine, I was expecting the modern version of the dungeons in the Tower of London.”
“That’s exactly what it was before I started working on it,” Patrick said. “I’m not much of a handyman, but I think I did okay. They don’t encourage self-help projects in the White House, but I think they took pity on me down here. Make yourself comfortable.” He picked up the phone and punched a button. “Hi, Miss Parks, General McLanahan here…Yes, just got in…Yes, he’s here too…Utilities OK, do you think? That’s all the captain has…OK, we’re on our way.” Boomer had just made his way over to the coffee machine and was just getting out supplies. “Sorry, no time,” he said as he replaced the receiver on its cradle. “We’ll get some coffee upstairs.”
“Upstairs? You mean…?”
“Yep. Let’s go.”
“Then I gotta use your facilities first, sir,” Boomer said, and he stepped quickly to use the latrine. His ears were fairly buzzing with excitement, and he found his own plumbing wouldn’t work as advertised, so he gave up, washed up, took a nervous gulp of water (ignoring the old, corroded fixtures), and headed out.
They retraced their steps upstairs, then walked up one more flight of stairs beyond where they entered. The sights, sounds, and smells were noticeably better now. They passed by a dining hall, where Boomer recognized several politicians and senior White House staff members from TV. They ascended one more flight of stairs, had their IDs checked yet again by a plainclothes Secret Service agent, and made their way into a circular outer office with a secretary, pictures of presidents on the walls, a fireplace with a small sitting area with a couch and several chairs before it, and several more chairs arrayed against the walls, most of them occupied. There seemed to be an almost constant parade of persons coming and going down the hallway leading to the Oval Office. “Who are all these people?” Boomer asked.
“Congressmen, senators, aides, staffers, assistants, constituents, reporters…you name it, they flow through this place constantly,” Patrick responded quietly.
“Is it always this…chaotic?”
“Yep. Twenty-four seven. Not only does this place never sleep…it never even rests.”
At that moment Vice President Maureen Hershel emerged from the doorway leading to the Cabinet Room, walking alongside Secretary of Defense Joseph Gardner. Gardner, the former two-term senator from Florida and Secretary of the Navy, was an immensely popular and well-liked politician, widely considered a front-runner in the upcoming presidential elections. Tall, impossibly handsome, and instantly likable, he was one of the most influential and important members of Kevin Martindale’s administration. He whispered something into Maureen Hershel’s ear as they headed out of the Cabinet Room, and it made Patrick feel good to see her smile and laugh. As if sensing Patrick’s presence, she turned, saw him, and gave him a relieved, pleased smile. She nodded at Gardner and let him pass, then gave Attorney General Ken Phoenix a few parting words, clasped him on the shoulder, then motioned to Patrick with two fingers.
Phoenix, a younger-looking clone of President Kevin Martindale with longish dark hair, thin glasses, and piercing dark eyes, shook his head woefully at Patrick as they passed in the hallway. “You should have brought your flying helmet, General,” he whispered to him as he flipped open his cell phone. “You’re going to need it.”
“Thanks for the heads-up, sir,” Patrick said. Patrick motioned for Boomer to follow him.
Maureen Hershel intercepted Patrick in the hall just outside the door to the Cabinet Room. She had always been trim and shapely, but the office had taken a toll on her and made her thin. She kept her brown hair long but tied up in a French braid behind her head, off the collar of her brown business suit, which only served to make her face seem even thinner. Her blue eyes still shined behind her simple rimless glasses, but the worry and edginess of her position had deepened the lines around those beautiful eyes.
“I knew you wouldn’t make it,” she said.
“Sorry.” He reached out with his right hand and touched her left in their little expression of love in that very public of places
, but her hand was as cold as stone, as cold as her voice. “Traffic was murder.”
“I don’t think anyone’s in the mood for jokes, Patrick,” she said. She gave Boomer a nod and shook his hand. “You two okay?”
“We’re fine, Miss Vice President,” Noble said.
“Good.” She was all business again. “It’ll be you two meeting with the President, myself, SECDEF, NCA, and CJCS. The press somehow got wind of the spaceplane proposal, and they might have info on the flight you just took.”
“We knew they would, ma’am.”
“Why is that? The project is supposed to be classified.”
“We began daylight ops two weeks ago, Miss Vice President,” Patrick said. She noticed Maureen’s eyes narrow a bit when Patrick addressed her formally—she knew it was only proper, but she felt isolated and detached from him whenever he did it. “I warned everyone it was going to be just a matter of time before it was all over the press. We saw the first ‘LakeSpotter’ reports four days later on the Internet…”
“We were notified that the report was coming out in tomorrow’s paper just this morning,” Maureen said. “No requests, no opportunity to squash it—just notification. Everyone’s pissed.”
“It’s no secret who wants what, Miss Vice President,” Patrick said. “Congress has made that quite clear. Everyone has got their own ideas, and none of them include the Stud.”
“You’re still going with your original recommendations, Patrick?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Maureen’s lips went hard and straight with concern, but she nodded. Miss Parks, the Oval Office assistant, approached and informed her that the meeting had been moved to the Oval Office and the President was waiting. “Okay. Ready?”
“Ready.” He tried to reach out again to her, but she had already spun on her heel and headed toward the door to the Oval Office. He swallowed his feeling of dejection, then turned to Hunter. “Ready to do it, Boomer?” Patrick whispered.
“Do I have time to change my shorts first, sir?” Noble asked.
“Negative. Follow me.”
Maureen peeked through the peephole in the door, saw nothing out of the ordinary, knocked lightly, then thrust open the door, and before Boomer knew it they were inside. Like much of the rest of the place he had seen, the Oval Office was not the largest or most ornate office he had ever been in—in fact, it was pretty plain. Boomer expected that, but what he was waiting for was the experience of feeling the aura of power that was supposed to emanate from this historic room. This was the place, he knew, where hundreds of decisions a day were made affecting the lives of billions of people all over the world, where the word of a single man could commit the resources of the most powerful nation ever to inhabit the planet to a goal.
But he didn’t sense that either. This was a workaday office—he felt nothing more. No sooner had they walked into the room than the outer office assistant came in and handed papers to the Secretary of Defense, Joseph Gardner, and hustled out, only to be followed by someone else a few moments later. There was no sense of anticipation, no excitement, no…nothing, really, except for a sense of business, perhaps with a slight undercurrent of uncertainty and urgency.
The one thing he did notice was the large rug in the middle of the room with the presidential seal on it. Boomer knew that before World War Two the eagle’s head had been turned toward the thirteen arrows it was clutching in its talons; after World War Two, President Harry Truman redesigned the seal so that the eagle’s head was turned toward the olive branches, signifying a desire and emphasis for peace. But after the attacks on the United States, President Martindale ordered the eagle’s head on the seal turned back toward the arrows, signifying America’s de facto perpetual readiness for war.
Boomer wasn’t sure if he agreed with that sentiment or not, but clearly the President did, and it hung heavy like a fog in the famous historic room.
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Army General William Glenbrook, looked as if he was going to get to his feet when Maureen Hershel stepped into the room, but he kept his seat. Apparently there was some informal but clearly understood rule that no one rose for the Vice President entering any executive office unless she was the senior official present or unless the President did, and he was too distracted by his chief of staff, former U.S. House of Representatives Majority Leader Carl Minden, to notice. Minden himself noticed, but he only scowled and turned back to whatever he was showing the President. Finally the President impatiently looked up from his desk, wondering when his next meeting was going to start and finding the participants waiting on him.
Kevin Martindale was a long-time fixture on Capitol Hill and the White House. A former Congressman and former two-term vice president, he served one term as president before being defeated by the ultra-isolationist Jeffersonian Party candidate Thomas Thorn. He had been gearing up for another run at the presidency when the Russian Air Force attacked the United States. Amidst Thorn’s decision not to seek a second term and with only twenty percent voter turnout, Martindale and Hershel—the only candidates to run for the White House that year—were elected. “Well well, the rocket boys,” he said jovially. “Welcome home.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Patrick responded. “Nice to be home.” Per protocol, he waited in place quietly until told where to go.
The President finished what he was doing then got up, stepped toward them, and shook hands with Patrick. Martindale was thin and rakishly handsome, a little more than average height, with dark secretive eyebrows, small dark eyes, and longish salt-and-pepper hair parted in the middle. He was famous for the “photographer’s dream”—two curls of silver hair that appeared on his forehead without any manual manipulation whenever he was peeved or animated. While out of office Martindale had grown a beard which had made him look rather sinister; he had shaved the beard after the American Holocaust, but kept the long hair, so now he just looked roguish. “I hope you know,” he said quietly into Patrick’s ear, not yet releasing his handshake and keeping Patrick close to him, “we created quite a ruckus out there, Patrick.”
“I was hoping so, sir,” Patrick responded.
“Me too,” the President said. “Did you get it?”
“You bet we did, sir,” Patrick replied. “Direct hit.”
“Good job,” the President said. “No radiation detected?”
“They’d be crazy to put real nuclear warheads on that test shot, sir.”
“But you checked anyway…?”
“Of course, sir. No radiation detected.”
“Great.” He shook his head with a smile. “Did the bastards really think we were going to allow them to base a nuclear-capable medium-range missile within striking distance of Diego Garcia, one of our most vital air bases in Asia?”
“Apparently so, sir,” Patrick said. “But we only took out one of those Shahab-5s—they’ve got possibly a half-dozen more ready to fly. And we know they still have as many as three or four nuclear warheads, plus any number of chemical, biological, or high explosive warheads deliverable by the Shahab-5s.”
“This one was a warning,” the President said with a smile. “We’ll keep an eye on the others and take them out if we need to.”
“Faster than you can imagine, sir.”
“Outstanding.” His voice turned serious, and the “photographer’s dream” devil’s locks slowly appeared as he went on: “I should have guessed you were going to fly the thing, but I sure as hell didn’t know you were going to go into orbit. That was unwise and unauthorized. What made you think you could do that without permission, Patrick? You work for me. I make the calls.”
“Sir, you know me,” Patrick said. “As long as I’ve been in uniform I have flown the first operational test flight of every manned aerospace vehicle coming out of the ‘Lake’ for the past twelve years. This one was no different just because we went into space.”
“Next time, mister, you tell me when you plan on flying anything, and I don’t care how high
or how fast it goes,” the President hissed angrily into Patrick’s ear. “This is no longer about you and how you do things. You are special adviser to the president of the United States, in uniform or out, on the ground or in orbit. I don’t like surprises. Am I making myself fucking clear to you, General?”
Patrick was a little taken aback by the President’s admonition—he looked carefully for even the faintest glint of humor or forgiveness and, finding none, was ashamed for even looking. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He stepped back, smiled, shook Patrick’s hand warmly and firmly, and, so everyone could hear, said, “Job well done, General. Job well done.”
“Thank you, sir.” When the President looked at Boomer, Patrick continued, “Sir, may I present my mission commander and designer of the rocket engines on the Black Stallion spaceplane, Captain Hunter Noble, U.S. Air Force, call-sign ‘Boomer.’”
“Captain Noble, a pleasure to meet a real rocket scientist,” the President said. Boomer was about half a head taller than the President, but he didn’t notice that because suddenly he found it very difficult to speak or even think: he was shaking hands with the President of the United States! Now the full force of where he was hit him, and it came much more suddenly than he ever believed possible. He felt Patrick steering him to his right and someone said something about getting his picture taken by the official White House photographer, but he felt as sluggish, as if he was standing in quicksand. “‘Boomer,’ huh?” the President asked as the photographer worked. “Where did that call-sign come from—making sonic booms all the time?”
Patrick waited a few breaths to see if Hunter would answer; when he found he was still too starstruck to do so, he chimed in, “It does now, sir. But when Captain Noble started at Dreamland, most of his designs went ‘boom’ on the test stands with frightening regularity. Fortunately for us, he perfected his designs, and now he’s created the fastest, most efficient, and most reliable manned spacecraft in existence.”
