Starfire Page 10
“Yes, sir, I have many,” Margaret Hastings said. “What exactly do you mean by ‘dominating’ space and cyberspace? How do you intend to dominate them?”
“For one: by no longer tolerating the actions that have persisted over the past several years and are almost considered part of the price of doing business,” Phoenix said. “For example, I am told that American companies, government agencies, and military computers detect intrusions and outright attacks on a daily basis from governments all over the world, either sponsored by a government entity or done directly by a government. That will no longer be tolerated. A computer attack will be treated like any other attack. The United States will respond appropriately to any cyberattack.
“I am also told that American reconnaissance satellites are hit by lasers to blind or destroy optics; that jamming satellites are placed into orbit near our satellites to disrupt them; and that American GPS signals are jammed on a regular basis. I am told that several nations hit this very station on a daily basis with lasers, microwaves, and other electromagnetic forms of energy to try to damage or disrupt operations here. That will no longer be tolerated. Any such attack will be dealt with accordingly. We will closely monitor Earth orbit for any signs of possible interference or attack by any nation or entity. An American satellite in orbit, as well as the orbit itself, is sovereign American territory, and we will defend it just like any other American resource.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Hastings said, “but did you just say that you consider Earth orbit American property? Do you mean to say that no other nation can put a spacecraft into orbit if the United States already has a satellite in that orbit?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Miss Hastings,” Phoenix said. “A common technique for attacking American space assets is to launch an antisatellite weapon into the same orbit, chase it down, and destroy it when within range. That is how the Russians destroyed our Kingfisher weapon garage after knocking parts of it out of commission with directed-energy weapons, with the loss of an American astronaut. Any spacecraft launched into the same orbit as an American satellite will be considered a hostile act and will be dealt with appropriately.”
The bedlam that was growing and threatening to go out of control in the White House Press Briefing Room did not subside this time, and the president knew that it probably wouldn’t for a very long time. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, thank you,” the president said, ignoring the upraised hands and shouted questions. “I think it’s time to share a meal with the astronauts aboard station . . .” He turned to Raydon, smiled, and added, “. . . my fellow astronauts, and prepare to return to Washington. Good night from Armstrong Space Station, and may God bless the United States of America.” He saw so much clamor on the monitor that he doubted if anyone heard his sign-off.
“Good speech and good responses to questions, Mr. President,” Vice President Ann Page said a few moments later after her image reappeared on the director’s station monitor in the command module. “A lot of veteran astronauts have trouble doing press conferences down on Earth, let alone just minutes after arriving in space for the first time. I didn’t leak any parts of the military restructuring, as you requested, so everyone in the world got it all at once. The phones are even now ringing off the hook. Are you going to take any calls up on station?”
Phoenix thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “I’m going to call Alexa, and then I’m going to sit down with the space station crew, try some of their food, check on poor Charlie Spellman, check out a little more of station, and prepare for the return flight. We talked about responses to several questions we anticipate reporters and heads of state will ask, and I’ll let you handle those until I get back and get checked over by the docs. The last thing I want to do is spend my last couple hours on station talking on the phone.”
“I hear you, sir,” Ann said. “I’ll take the calls from heads of state, then the major media outlets. You enjoy yourself up there. No more spacewalks, okay, sir? Go through the docking tunnel like the rest of us mere space travelers.”
“If you insist, Miss Vice President,” President Phoenix said with a smile. “If you insist.”
THREE
The mere apprehension of a coming evil has put many into a situation of the utmost danger.
—MARCUS ANNAEUS LUCANUS
THE WATERGATE HOTEL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THAT SAME TIME
“Of course I saw it!” former U.S. senator, Senate majority leader, and secretary of state Stacy Anne Barbeau exclaimed on the phone, staring dumbstruck at the large high-def television in her hotel suite. “Get the senior staff in here right now!”
Despite being in her early sixties, Stacy Anne Barbeau was still a beautiful, energetic, ambitious woman and a veteran politician. But those in the know knew that Barbeau was not a sweet Louisiana magnolia—she was a venus flytrap, using her beauty and southern charms to disarm and disable men and women alike into lowering their defenses and submitting to her wishes, willingly clamped tightly between her ruby-red lips. The whole world had known for a decade that she had presidential ambitions, and now those ambitions had been transformed into a high-powered, well-funded campaign that had maintained a small but consistent lead in the race against incumbent president Kenneth Phoenix . . .
. . . a race that had just been turned on its ear with that unexpected news conference from space.
Barbeau’s Washington campaign headquarters occupied an entire floor in the Watergate Hotel and office building. She had just returned to her hotel suite from a fund-raising dinner and turned on the news to watch the press conference, full of energy and excitement over another successful appearance. Now she stood in complete shock, listening to the stunned and flabbergasted commentators trying to make sense of what they had just seen: the president of the United States speaking to the world from Earth orbit.
Luke Cohen, Barbeau’s campaign manager and chief adviser, was the first to dash into her hotel suite. “That had to be faked or CGI’d,” he said breathlessly. Cohen, a tall, thin, good-looking New Yorker, had been Barbeau’s chief of staff during her years as Senate majority leader and as secretary of state. “No president of the United States would ever be stupid enough to fly into space, especially six months before an election!”
“Shush, I’m listening,” Barbeau said. Cohen turned away to answer his cell phone while she listened to the commentary.
“CNN,” Cohen said at the next break. “They want five minutes.”
“They can have two,” Barbeau said. An aide whose only job was to record every word that came out of Barbeau’s mouth rushed in, tablet computer at the ready. “It was the most audacious, sensationalist, dangerous, and irresponsible election-year stunt I have ever seen in my thirty years in Washington,” she recited. “President Phoenix is risking the safety and security of the entire nation and the free world with this reckless act. I seriously question his judgment, as should all Americans. For the good of the nation, as soon as he returns, he should undergo a series of medical and psychological examinations to check to see if he has suffered any ill effects of traveling in space, and if any are found he should immediately thereupon resign his office.” The aide tapped a button, and the words were sent to Barbeau’s chief speechwriter, who would put together talking points for her and the campaign’s spokespersons within minutes.
“Luke, assign a researcher to find out the symptoms of every known sickness or affliction that astronauts can suffer,” Barbeau went on, “and then I want him to watch every second of every public appearance Phoenix makes to see if he exhibits any of those symptoms.” Cohen had his cell phone out in a flash and issued the instructions. “So what do you think the feedback will be?”
“I agree with your points, Miss Secretary,” Cohen said. “At first, I think most voters will think it’s cool and exciting that the president flew into space and did a spacewalk, talk about his bravery, et cetera. But shortly thereafter, maybe by the time the morning tal
k shows start discussing this and people start to learn more about the dangers and risks, they might question his judgment and his ability to hold the office. The pressure to resign might be intense.”
“If he thinks he’s going to start gutting the military to pay for his fancy space weapons and cyberwarfare stuff, he’s sadly mistaken,” Barbeau said. “Take away two aircraft-carrier battle groups? Over my dead body. I want to build more carrier battle groups, not take them down! I want to go to shipyards, Navy groups, air bases, and veterans groups and talk about what the effect of doing away with two carrier battle groups will have on the economy as well as national defense. Cut the size of the nuclear deterrent in half? Cut tanks and fighters? Maybe he’s already suffering some kind of space sickness. He’s just committed political suicide. I’m going to see to it that he pays a price for this stunt.”
“I can’t believe he started talking about entitlement reform,” Cohen said. “That’s okay to do before the convention if you’re in a primary race, but he’s already got the nomination. No one is challenging him.”
“He’s going to regret that too,” Barbeau said acidly. “Find out how much one of those spaceplanes and that space station costs, and then find out how many people it will disadvantage if everyone loses even ten percent of their benefits to pay for a spaceplane that ninety-nine-point-nine percent of Americans will never even see, let alone fly. Find out what it cost to fly his butt up there and back, and then compute how much education, infrastructure, and medical research we could have done but for the president’s joyride.”
Stacy Anne Barbeau stepped over to a large mirror in her suite and examined her makeup. “You think you made history today, Mr. President?” she said. “You think you’re a big astronaut hero? You made the biggest blunder in your political career, buster, and it’s going to cost you. I’ll see to that.” She looked at Cohen through the mirror. “Luke, make sure there’s someone in Makeup ready for me and that my TV studio is ready to feed, and tell CNN I’ll be ready in five.”
THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW
RUSSIAN FEDERATION
THAT SAME TIME
“Chelovek deystvitel’no bezumno! The man is truly insane!” Russian president Gennadiy Gryzlov thundered at the television in his office at the Kremlin. “Phoenix thinks he is going to control all of outer space? He will soon learn just how wrong he is!”
Just forty years old, Gennadiy Gryzlov was the son of the former president Anatoliy Gryzlov, and his career paralleled his father’s to a great extent. Gennadiy Gryzlov had graduated from the Yuri Gagarin Military Air Academy and attended basic flight instruction at Baronovsky Air Base in Armavir and bomber flight training at Engels Air Base in southwestern Russia, and had been selected to attended command leadership school in Moscow just two years later. He wanted nothing more than to follow in his beloved father’s footsteps, and determined to do so without his family’s extensive government and petrochemical industry connections.
But shortly after completing command leadership school in Moscow but before he returned to Engels Air Base to take command of the 121st Guards Heavy Bomber Regiment, a Tupolev-160 Blackjack supersonic bomber unit, an event happened that changed his life forever: Engels Air Base was attacked by an American unmanned stealth bomber called an EB-1C Vampire, a heavily modified supersonic B-1 Lancer bomber, destroying dozens of Russian bombers awaiting orders to take off and destroy a nest of terrorists in Turkmenistan. Hundreds were killed in the air raid, including many of Gryzlov’s closest friends and fellow aviators. Both father and son were devastated and spent more than a month attending funerals and memorial services and planning how to rebuild the base and the bomber force.
It was never officially revealed, but the elder Gryzlov told his son who he thought planned the air raid: an American Air Force general by the name of Patrick McLanahan, acting without orders or authority from the American White House or Pentagon. Both men turned their sadness at the devastation into a white-hot burning desire for revenge against McLanahan.
With the destruction of Engels Air Base, Gennadiy shifted his focus from flying bombers and, with the help of his father, attended the Alexander Mozhaysky Military Space Academy in St. Petersburg, with a slot already reserved for him at the Cosmonaut Training Center at Star City. But his training there too was interrupted. An American bomber unit attacked a Russian defensive antiaircraft battery in Turkmenistan . . .
. . . and, it was soon discovered, the raid was planned and ordered by Major General Patrick McLanahan, again without proper authority from his superior officers.
That raid, Gennadiy knew, had pushed his father over the edge. President Gryzlov recalled all bomber crewmembers and sent them to Belaya Air Base in Siberia for training. Gennadiy was able to use his father’s influence to stay at Mozhaysky, but he carefully followed the activities of the vast array of long-range aircraft at Belaya and other bases like Irkutsk, Aginskoye, and Yakutsk, including sleek Tupolev-22 Backfires, reliable turboprop-powered Tupolev-95 Bears, supersonic Tupolev-160 Blackjacks, and Ilyushin-62 aerial refueling tankers. Something big, Gennadiy knew, was going to happen.
In late summer 2004, it did. Waves of Russian long-range bombers attacked American air defense and early-warning radar sites in Alaska and Canada with AS-17 “Krypton” antiradar missiles and AS-16 “Kickback” supersonic attack missiles, then launched AS-X-19 “Koala” long-range hypersonic cruise missiles with micro-yield nuclear warheads against intercontinental-ballistic-missile launch control centers, bomber bases, and command and control bases in the United States. The United States lost almost its entire land-based ballistic missile force, a large portion of its strategic bomber fleet, and tens of thousands of military personnel, family members, and civilians in the blink of an eye.
It soon became known as the “American Holocaust.”
Gennadiy was happy and pleased with the bravery of his fellow heavy-bomber crewmembers—many of whom were lost over the United States and Canada—and proud of his father for finally striking a decisive blow against the Americans. He hoped McLanahan was under one of those nuclear warheads. In the meantime, all training at Mozhaysky was canceled, and Gennadiy was ordered to report to Aginskoye Air Base in southern Russia to stand up a new bomber regiment where more Tupolev-160 Blackjack bombers that were being refurbished and returned to service would be sent. Russia was beginning to go on a war footing, and Gennadiy was happy that he was not going to be stuck in school while other brave Russian aviators would be going toe-to-toe against the Americans.
The preparations for war with the United States had hardly begun when the unthinkable happened. Yakutsk Air Base in Siberia was overrun and captured by a small force of American commandos, and the United States began flying long-range bombers and aerial refueling tankers from the base. Within days, American bombers were roaming most of Russia from Yakutsk, hunting down and destroying Russian mobile intercontinental-missile launchers and underground launch control centers with ground-penetrating precision-guided cruise missiles and bombs.
Gennadiy was not surprised to learn that the bomber force was led by none other than Patrick McLanahan.
President Anatoliy Gryzlov was forced to make a fateful decision: to destroy Yakutsk before the American fleet could devastate the mobile ballistic-missile force, the mainstay of Russia’s strategic deterrent. He ordered bombers to launch nuclear-tipped AS-X-19 Koala cruise missiles against the American-occupied base, without first warning the Russians still being held there. Although most of the cruise missiles were shot down by American air-to-air missiles and by a sophisticated airborne laser system installed on a few B-52 bombers, a few managed to hit the base, killing hundreds, Russians and Americans alike, who were unlucky enough not to make it to hardened underground shelters.
Gennadiy felt sorry for his father, who had been forced to make an awful decision and kill Russians to prevent the widespread destruction of the nation’s prized ICBM force. He wanted so badly to be with his father and lend him some moral support, bu
t the elder Gryzlov was undoubtedly safe and secure in one of over a dozen alternate command centers in western and central Russia. Gennadiy’s greatest concern now was for his base and his regiment, and he ordered all nonessential personnel into shelters, fearing an American counterattack, and an acceleration of preparations for the Blackjack bombers that would hopefully be arriving shortly.
Gennadiy was deep into organizing his regiment and planning their activities when he received the devastating news the next morning: an American bomber task force of modified B-1 and B-52 bombers had blasted their way past western Russia’s sophisticated air defense network and attacked Ryazan Alternate Military Command Center, 120 miles southeast of Moscow. The devastation was complete . . . and Gennadiy’s father, the center of his universe, the man he wanted nothing more than to emulate, had been blown into dust. He made immediate arrangements to head back to Moscow to be with his mother and family, but before he left Aginskoye he learned that his mother, upon hearing the news about her husband, had committed suicide by an overdose of sleeping pills . . .
. . . and, once again, he learned that the commander of the bomber task force that killed his father, and thereby also his mother, was General Patrick McLanahan. The rogue American aviator had been promoted to lieutenant general shortly after the attack and made a special adviser to the new/former president of the United States, Kevin Martindale, placed in charge of rebuilding the long-range strike force.