“Hit! What kind of explosives were in that target? Send.”
General Alvarez responded after a longer delay, as he had to type: “None! Ground stations confirm a massive explosion. Speculation?”
During the time it had taken the General to type and send his response, Roger had already considered dozens of possible explanations. His speculation brought an increased sense of awe and the certainty that Guardian was now the United States’ most incredible clandestine weapon. He also speculated that what they’d just experienced was nothing compared to what was coming.
“I’ll need to think it through. Recommend we proceed to next phase. Do you approve? Do you have target parameters? Send.”
While he awaited the slow response, Roger confirmed that the non-combat autopilot had re-taken control of the aircraft after the Auto Engage tasking was complete. The aircraft gently descended to 60,000 feet and slowed to Mach Three. If Roger didn’t intervene in five minutes, it would alert him. If he still didn’t intervene, the aircraft would descend further and go into a subsonic orbit track, just as it had the night of the “incident.”
“Proceed. Visual and GPS coordinates attached.”
This should be very interesting!
Roger copied and pasted the coordinates into the special Surface Attack program Justin had written. A picture of the target appeared on-screen; an offshore barge that had been towed sixty miles west of the California peninsula jutting out below Vandenberg Air Force Base. The team agreed that Roger should make a positive visual verification before engaging, as this attack mode had never been tested. Clear weather and the aircraft’s superior digital optics would make that possible.
Roger set the attack speed and engaged Justin’s new Surface Attack Auto Engage option. They hadn’t thoroughly characterized Guardian’s propulsion system and ion shield performance in the denser air of lower altitudes. They finally agreed that Mach Two should be a safe speed. At the envisioned altitude for a surface attack, that would still put him at over 1,300 miles-per-hour.
“Speed and altitude dropping. Slowly turning back toward the east. Send.”
“40,000 and steady at Mach Two. Send.”
“30,000. Target area bracketed on HUD and magnifying…magnifying…okay, verified. Justin, the Weather Radar seems to be tracking. Looks like we could do this IFR if we had to. Surface Attack mode fully engaged. Attack points set at forty, twenty-five, and ten nautical miles. Descending at 2,000 feet per minute. Send.”
The first slug fired. Again, invisible.
“Number one is away. And… overshot by 500 meters. Send.”
Yep. Just what I thought.
“Number two’s away. And…overshot by 80 meters. Send.”
Good thing they made sure the waters are clear!
Satellite and surveillance aircraft had verified there were no boats in the vicinity.
Time for the fireworks. I’d bet a steak dinner that…
The rail gun fired a third time as Roger yanked down his helmet sun shield for an extra measure of protection.
In Solvang, Lompoc, and at Vandenberg Air Force Base, anyone looking west saw a brief flash of light, followed later…much later…by a sound like distant thunder. They would have been amazed to know that what they saw and heard was from a barge blown 100 feet out of the water, over sixty miles offshore. The explosion was so powerful that minor blips were recorded on several California seismographs. Fortunately, the test was conducted away from any populated beachfront property. No one reported the surprisingly high wave that hit minutes later.
Roger took manual control of the aircraft as soon as the third slug fired and began a rapid climb—just in case. Was it his imagination, or did he feel a brief shudder from the blast? He raised the sun shield and let out a long, slow breath.
Yep. No way any of us could have expected this.
41. FOX
Many words had been used over the years. Some were complimentary. Others? Not so much. Babe, Knock-out, Smoking Hot, and Fox were just a few that had been thrown Tamika’s way at different times and in different places. She had heard them all. Now, as she stood in Justin’s doorway, she knew she would have fit any of those words, at any age, in anyone’s opinion.
Justin gulped and looked as if he were trying not to appear overwhelmed.
He failed.
Tamika smiled.
It was just over a full month since the “incident,” at six o’clock on another Saturday night. She was absolutely stunning. And she knew it.
Everyone at DPI dressed for comfort, mobility, and long hours. Basically, it was Casual Friday every day. Tamika had also put aside the business suits she had worn as an intern. She fit right in as Justin’s “Exec,” wearing sneakers, comfortable jeans, and casual, almost-modest tops.
But now, on a January evening that was warm even by Melbourne standards, she stood there in a summer-like minidress with matching handbag, heels, and tasteful but expensive jewelry.
“So, it’s a beautiful evening and we could stay out on your porch,” she teased, smiling at his apparent approval.
Justin stammered. “Okay, got me. Tamika, you look like you came right out of a fashion magazine.”
Her smile broadened as she slipped past him into his apartment. She lightly brushed up against him and felt him flinch, if ever so slightly.
“I just had to get out of the work clothes and get my girl on again,” Tamika said as she did a graceful half twirl. “So, Boss, you approve?” She playfully bit her lip and raised her eyebrows.
“Hmmm. I think my Porterhouse steaks should have been chateaubriand downtown with an evening of dancing. And I’m definitely underdressed.” Sandals, jeans, collared pullover; Justin looked sharp, but he was clearly outclassed.
“We can dance here,” she teased.
“Well, at least I didn’t cook hamburgers. Wine?”
“Of course.”
He poured two glasses, left his on the table, and handed her the other.
“Medium well, as I recall?” he asked, as he walked to his balcony.
“Perfect. Anything I can help with?”
Tamika knew that Justin had grown to sincerely admire, respect, and appreciate her. He told her that often. They worked well together through their seventy hour weeks, coordinating the multiple teams working various shifts, carrying out the General’s mandate to have System Two operational in six months. Justin really depended on her as his Exec, and she had no doubt that the entire company appreciated her strong work ethic and encouragement. While she helped hold everyone accountable, she was no one’s boss and everyone’s assistant.
“Hey. We’re off the clock. I’m not your boss here,” Justin said over his shoulder as he turned over the steaks.
Tamika picked up his wine glass in her other hand and walked out to join him.
“What you see is what you get. I am what I am. All that sappy stuff. No clock. How can I help?”
Justin took his glass from her and raised it for a toast.
“To the classiest lady I’ve ever met, the most competent co-worker, and one of the best things that has ever happened to me.”
“Thank you. So…I’m not THE best thing? Well, I like a challenge.”
She left no doubt about her intentions for the evening as she pressed up against him and gently, sensuously kissed him. Then she slowly backed away and sipped her wine, never looking away from his eyes.
“Put the salads on the table?” Justin said. She could feel his admiring eyes on her as she turned and walked toward the kitchen.
An hour later, Tamika admitted to herself that she was impressed. Justin was handsome, athletic, intelligent, a terrific boss, and now she could add that he was also an outstanding cook. The dinner would have placed as one of the premium menu selections at any of the top ten steak restaurants along the Space Coast.
Their conversation was light, pleasant, and flirty. It was a welcome change as she bantered back and forth with Justin about being overwhelmed by their job.
They had progressed—or perhaps digressed—from the classic “sipping from a fire hydrant,” to “trying to keep my head above water,” to “trying to stay within snorkeling depth.” Justin added that he was so deep he “needed another SCUBA tank.” And they joked about getting a patent for developing “unobtainium” and getting bonuses for delivering massive quantities of “imposibilitite,” all ahead of schedule.
Justin tried to get her to sit and enjoy her third glass of wine, but she insisted on helping load the dishwasher and putting leftovers in the fridge.
Justin told the audio to play their favorite music, Soft Techno New Age, and told the lights to dim down to fifty percent, sunset. The surround music quietly engulfed them and the light softened to a pleasant reddish glow. Tamika sat beside him on the couch; they snuggled, sipped their wine, and were comfortably quiet for several moments. Finally, Justin took a deep breath.
“Tamika, I need to share some important stuff with you. It’s about us, it’s about work, and it’s about some things that are so big I can’t comprehend them.”
She leaned back and looked at him quizzically. Not like any line I’ve ever heard.
“I don’t know where to start. And nobody at work would believe any of this. But you need to know.”
“You’re…not into women?”
Justin laughed. “Oh, believe me, there are a number of…” he lowered his head and paused. “There are some women who would testify that’s not the case. But never again. I mean, look, okay, it’s always been mutual, you know? No commitment, have fun, and move on. Well, that’s over. The game’s over. It’s over right now.”
Tamika sat up and moved slightly away from him, so she could better see his face and read his body language.
He got up from the couch and faced his bedroom. Then he looked back at her.
“My life changed starting the last time you were here. I went into that bedroom during that call from Roger. When I went in I was solid, a player, the guy who had it all together. Tamika, I came out as a hero but broken, small. I realized how insignificant I really am. I’ve been doing a lot of research…well, as much as I can while clocking seventy hours a week. And I believe…I know for an absolute fact that the world as we know it is about to change big time.
“I don’t know where you are spiritually. I was an avowed atheist through college and right up till that night. Roger had shared with me, not pressuring, but the dude really cared, and suddenly it started making sense. I became a Christian early the next morning. Maybe that’s a showstopper for you. I know it would have been for me with any dating interest. But there’s more.
“I need you to know that I don’t have everything figured out like I used to think I did. And I see a lot of stuff that’s scary. I mean, really scary. Terrifying. I believe that someone at DPI tampered with the code. If Roger hadn’t thought of his workaround, the entire East Coast would be crippled and we’d probably be standing in the smoldering leftovers of the start of World War III.
He sat back down, facing her.
“You are smart, wise, motivated, and I believe somewhat idealistic. I am too. And very patriotic. There are a lot of things going on in America that I believe are tearing us apart from the inside-out. And I think something’s going down that’s even bigger. Somehow it includes DPI. Somehow it involves us.”
Tamika shifted. Not away, but not toward him either.
“Well, you sure have a way of killing a romantic evening. But I know you’re not a fluff ball or a wacko. I’m listening.”
And what you tell me will go directly to Senator Matthews.
42. ENEMIES, OR…?
“Lord God, in heaven’s name, what would you have me do?”
It was the sincere and common prayer of Juan Garcia, the forty-sixth President of the United States. And one he repeated silently or out loud many times each day as he faced overwhelming pressure from an America in transition…good or bad…and from an increasingly complex and hostile world.
The prayer was not flippant. When he had the time to unpack it, his meditation went something like this:
Lord: My master, redeemer, savior, and the sovereign over all the affairs of man, who alone knows the end from the beginning.
God: The most-high; creator of heaven and earth; our provider, healer, shepherd and our peace.
In heaven’s name: That your kingdom may come and your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.
What would you have me to do? This question was a simple, humble act of seeking wisdom, guidance, and empowerment from on high. He was reporting for duty to his own Commander and Chief.
“What would you have me to do?” he asked again.
Juan was amazed that so few of his colleagues knew of the hundreds of specific, miraculous interventions that led to the formation of the United States as a country, and then as a world power. Calls for fasting and prayer to the almighty were answered by unimaginable victories during the War for Independence. At the Constitutional Convention, the challenge by Benjamin Franklin to again seek the aid of the sovereign God broke through a hopeless impasse and led to a Constitution and government unlike anything the world had ever witnessed. Juan’s homeschooling exposed him to a side of American history almost completely ignored in public school textbooks. Even worse, revisionists over the decades had not only eliminated references to God but had done everything possible to marginalize those who had called upon his name.
No one was perfect. Not Columbus, not Washington, not Lincoln, not Reagan, and certainly not Garcia. Juan knew that better than his fiercest enemies, and he had many.
Certainly, no country was perfect. Yes, America was founded upon Judeo-Christian principles. In previous years, even secular scholars, Supreme Court justices, and social commentators had referred to the United States as a Christian nation. No more.
The United States was awash in moral anarchy, as if the nation itself was schizophrenic. As many expected following the Supreme Court ruling on same-sex marriage in 2015, there were now demands for marriage rights for siblings, threesomes, and even for a young man to marry his stepmother. The country desperately needed to return to God for a measure of sanity. But even as president, Juan doubted he could call the country to prayer without locking horns with a hostile Supreme Court and Congress.
Juan never wanted to be president. Never even considered it. But he agonized over the pathetically dysfunctional branches of government. Legislation was enacted by the Oval Office through Executive Orders. Social agendas that couldn’t pass any other way were forced upon the states by Supreme Court rulings. An impotent Congress never impeached judges for anything, no matter how unconstitutional. Finally, there was the ever-growing fourth branch of government; an entrenched bureaucracy of unelected federal employees who grew more powerful and less accountable, regardless of the party in power. Trump and others referred to them as the “deep state” and was only marginally successful in identifying and bringing a few to justice for treasonous actions.
Juan believed he had been called to run for the presidency by the will of God: What would you have me to do? “Run for president.”
To everyone’s amazement, especially his, eighteen months later he and Priscilla changed their address to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
Then there was his Russian counterpart. Viktor Savin’s rise to power in Russia was just as unlikely. He didn’t share Juan’s background as a nationally renowned endocrinologist and senior medical administrator. Nor did he match Juan’s success as a key consultant who helped Congress overhaul the failed Obamacare program, the miracle that put Juan’s name on the political map.
No, what was so unusual about Viktor was his expertise as an academician. He’d never served in the Russian military, but he was an expert on Sun Tzu’s “The Art of War.” He wasn’t a part of any Russian secret service, but he had written extensively on the proper roles of the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation and the Foreign Intelligence Service. Victor wasn’t a reformer per se, but his wr
itings, blogs, and speeches on economic and social reform were credited with increasing the overall Russian standard of living. His ideas were slowly rebuilding the country’s economy following the excesses of Putin.
Viktor Savin had basically been pushed into office by the Russian people.
And now…now he had clandestinely contacted the president of the United States. The note was as succinct as it was urgent:
“Mr. President, we are both in danger. I not trust normal channels of communication. This one American reporter, I believe she we can trust. She interview me again in two week. give her message for me. I accept to any reasonable back door communication you choose. Pardon bad English. Don’t trust interpreting. Viktor.”
The Russian president had signed and dated it, so Juan verified it was from him, at least as well as he could without calling in a handwriting expert.
Lord, what would you have me to do?
Juan not only had the disciplined, analytical mind of a medical doctor. He also was sensitive to personal interaction and perceptions. He was an outsider who could work with insiders. But he knew he had to be careful. He knew of Sybil Blalock as the culture correspondent with Fox News, and her presence at his wife’s “Responsible Now!” kickoff was not a surprise. Nor was Juan surprised that she would also have recently seen Victor Savin, as some of his reforms in Russia were not unlike those the First Lady was trying to foster in the U.S..
Might she become a go-between? If Juan spent too much time with the young, attractive blonde, the rumor mill would kick into overdrive. On the one hand, the digital telephotos of the news paparazzi would document even the most discrete handover of a small envelope in minute detail, down to the exchange of glances or tightening of neck muscles. On the other hand, avoiding the press with multiple private meetings was equally unthinkable and impossible.
The Guardian Collection (End of the Sixth Age Book 2) Page 21
