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  “I’m sure I’ll have a few bruises to show off when I get home,” Phoenix said.

  They emerged from the connecting tunnel into what appeared to be a circular wall of cabinets, with a circular passageway through the middle. “This is the storage and processing module,” Raydon explained. “Follow me.” He gently floated up through the center passageway, using handholds on the edge of the cabinets, and the president and the others followed. The president soon found a dozen circular rows of cabinets arrayed through the module, like pineapple slices in a can, with large man-sized gaps between them. “Supplies are brought in through the airlocks on the upper and lower ends, assembled or processed as necessary, and stored here. The sick bay is in the module above us.”

  “I’m starting to get a little dizzy from all the references to ‘up’ and ‘above,’ ” the president admitted. “I have no sensation of either.”

  “ ‘Up’ and ‘down’ refer to the direction you happen to want to go,” Faulkner said. “You can have two crewmembers side by side, but one will be pointing one way, and the other another way, so it’s all relative. We use every surface of the modules for work, so you’ll see astronauts ‘hanging’ from the ceilings while others are working on the ‘floor,’ although ‘ceiling’ and ‘floor’ are of course completely relative.”

  “You’re not helping my vertigo, Gonzo.”

  “Let us know if your dizziness starts to physically manifest itself, sir,” Jessica said. “Unfortunately, it’s something that takes time getting used to, and you won’t be here that long. As we said, it’s not unusual at all to start experiencing some queasiness shortly after moving around in free fall.”

  “I’m fine, Jessica,” the president said, but this time he wondered how long that would last.

  On their way to Galaxy, the combination galley, exercise, study, clinic, and entertainment module, the president stopped several times to shake hands with station personnel, and the stopping and restarting greatly helped his maneuvering skills. Although Raydon had announced that the president was aboard, most of the technicians he met seemed absolutely shocked to see him. “Why do some of the men and women aboard the station seem surprised to see me, General?” Phoenix finally asked.

  “Because I chose not to inform the crew until I did just as you came through the airlock, sir,” Raydon replied. “Only myself, Trevor, the Secret Service, a few officials at Sky Masters Aerospace, and the Midnight spaceplane flight and ground crew knew. I felt security was paramount for this event, and it’s too easy for station personnel to communicate with Earth. I expect the messages to family and friends to be spiking soon, but by the time word gets out, you’ll be on TV worldwide.”

  “And the time of your address was chosen so when you made your broadcast, you would not be in range of any known Russian or Chinese antisatellite weapons for several orbits,” Trevor Shale said.

  The president’s eyes widened in surprise—that revelation definitely got his attention. “Antisatellite weapons?” he asked, astonished.

  “We know of at least a half-dozen sites in northwestern and eastern Russia and three sites in China, sir,” Raydon said. “This station has self-defense weapons—short-range chemical lasers and missiles—but the Kingfisher antiballistic-missile and anti-antisatellite systems in Earth orbit aren’t yet fully operational again, so the spaceplane had no protection, and we didn’t want to take any chances.”

  “Why wasn’t I told about this!” the president exclaimed.

  “It was my call, sir,” Raydon said. “Frankly, in my opinion, the threat from antisatellite weapons is far down the list of the life-threatening dangers you face on this mission—I didn’t want to give you anything more to think about.” The president tried to say something, but his mouth only wordlessly opened. “By the time you depart, you’ll be in range of just one site,” Raydon went on, “and Boomer is planning the deorbit path of the spaceplane to avoid most of the others. You’ll be as safe from antisatellite weapons as we can make you.”

  “You mean, you have been planning for this trip on the assumption that some foreign government would actually try to attack the spaceplane or the space station while I’m aboard them?” Trevor and Raydon’s silence and expressions gave Phoenix his answer. The president could do nothing else but shake his head for several moments, staring at a spot on the bulkhead, but then he looked at Raydon with a wry smile. “Are there any other threats I haven’t been told about, General Raydon?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir—the list is longer than my arm,” Raydon said directly. “But I was notified that the president of the United States wanted to visit Armstrong Space Station, and I was ordered to make it happen, and we succeeded. If my orders were to attempt to deter you from coming up here, I think I could have delivered a very long list of very real threats to your family, your administration, and to members of Congress that would have succeeded in getting this mission canceled as well.” He motioned to the end of the connecting tunnel. “This way, Mr. President.”

  Unlike the storage and processing module and the tiny spaceplane cockpit and passenger module, the Galaxy module was light, warm, and airy. The walls of the module were lined with a variety of stand-up desks and pub-style tables with the ubiquitous footholds, many computer monitors and laptops, exercise bicycles, and even a dart board. But the greatest numbers of station personnel were clustered around a three-by-five-foot picture window, snapping pictures and pointing at Earth. A large computer monitor showed what part of Earth the space station was overflying, and another screen showed a list of names that had reserved a space at the window for taking pictures of their hometown area or some other Earth landmark.

  “Highly trained and skilled astronauts who had to work their tails off to get up here—and their main form of entertainment is looking out the window?” the president remarked.

  “That, and sending e-mails and doing video chats with folks back home,” Raydon said. “We do a lot of video chat sessions with schools, colleges, academies, Scouts, and ROTC and Civil Air Patrol units, along with the media and family and friends.”

  “That must be a very good recruiting tool.”

  “Yes it is, for both the military and getting kids to study science and engineering,” Raydon agreed.

  “So in a sense, my coming up here may have been a bad idea,” the president said. “If kids learn that any healthy person can travel up to a space station—that they don’t have to study hard sciences to do it—maybe those kids will just turn out to be space tourists.”

  “Nothing wrong with space tourism, Mr. President,” Shale said. “But we’re hoping the kids will want to design and fly newer and better ways to get into space, and perhaps take it all the way to the moon or the planets in our solar system. We don’t know what will spark a young imagination.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. President,” Raydon said. “I think you being here will have a very profound effect on people all over the world for a very long time.”

  “Sure; the kids will be saying, ‘If that old fart can do it, I can do it,’ eh, General?” the president deadpanned.

  “Whatever it takes, Mr. President,” Valerie Lukas said. “Whatever it takes.”

  The president was surprised to find Agent Charles Spellman in a strange linen sleeping-bag-like cocoon, Velcroed vertically to the bulkhead—he looked like some sort of large insect or marsupial hanging from a tree. “Mr. President, welcome,” a very attractive dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in a white jumpsuit said, expertly floating over to him and extending a hand. “I’m Dr. Miriam Roth, the medical director. Welcome to Armstrong Space Station.”

  The president shook her hand, pleased that he was getting steadily better at keeping body control in free fall. “Very nice to meet you, Doctor,” Phoenix said. To the Secret Service agent he asked, “How are you feeling, Charlie?”

  “Mr. President, I am so sorry about this,” Spellman said, his deep monotone voice not masking the depth of his chagrin. His face was very puffy, as if he had b
een in a street fistfight, and the faintest whiff of vomit nearby was unmistakable. “I have never in my life been seasick, airsick, or carsick—I haven’t had so much as a stuffy nose in years. But when that pressure hit me, my head started to spin, and before I knew it, it was lights-out. It won’t happen again, sir.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Charlie—I’ve been told that when it comes to motion sickness, there’s them that have and them that will,” the president said. To Roth, he asked, “The question is: Will he be able to return to Earth without getting another episode?”

  “I think he will, Mr. President,” Miriam said. “He is certainly healthy, easily on a par with anyone on this station. I gave him a little shot of Phenergan, a longtime standard antinausea medicine, and I want to see how he tolerates it. In fifteen minutes or so, I’ll let him get out of the cocoon and try moving about station.” She gave Spellman a teasing scowl. “I think Agent Spellman failed to take the medications I prescribed before takeoff as he was advised.”

  “I don’t like shots,” Spellman said gruffly. “Besides, I can’t be medicated while on duty, and I never get sick.”

  “You’ve never been in space before, Agent Spellman,” Miriam said.

  “I’m ready to get out now, Doc. The nausea has gone away. I’m ready to resume my duties, Mr. President.”

  “Better do as the doctor says, Charlie,” the president said. “We’ve got the return flight in just a few hours, and I want you one hundred percent for that.” Spellman looked immensely disappointed, but he nodded, saying nothing.

  They made their way through yet another connecting tunnel, longer this time, and entered a third module, lined with computer consoles and large-screen, high-definition monitors. “This is the command module, Mr. President, the top center module on the station,” Raydon said. He floated over to a large bank of consoles manned by six technicians. The technicians were floating before their consoles in a standing position, their feet anchored in place by footholds; checklists, clipboards, and drink containers with straws protruding were Velcro’d securely nearby. “This is the sensor fusion center. From here we collect sensor data from thousands of civil and military radars, satellites, ships, aircraft, and ground vehicles, and combine them into a strategic and tactical picture of the world military threat. Armstrong Space Station has its own radar, optical, and infrared sensors, with which we can zoom in on targets in both space and on Earth within range, but mostly we tap into other sensors around the globe to build the big picture.”

  He floated across the module to four small unmanned consoles behind two sets of three consoles and computer screens, also unmanned. “This is the tactical action center, where we employ the space-based weaponry,” Raydon went on. He put a hand on a technician’s shoulder, and the man turned and smiled broadly at the president. “Mr. President, I’d like to introduce you to Henry Lathrop, our aerospace-weapons officer.” The two men shook hands, with Lathrop grinning ear to ear. Lathrop was in his late twenties, very short, very slim, wearing thick glasses and sporting a shaved head. “Henry, explain what it is you do here.”

  Lathrop’s mouth dropped open as if he hadn’t expected to say anything to the president—which he hadn’t—but just as Raydon was about to be concerned, the young engineer pulled it together: “Y-yes, sir. Welcome to station, Mr. President. I am the aerospace-weapons officer. I control station’s weapons designed to work in space and in Earth’s atmosphere. We have some kinetic weapons available, but the Skybolt laser is not active per presidential order, so my only weapon is the COIL, or Chlorine-Oxygen-Iodine Laser.”

  “What can you do with it?” the president asked.

  Lathrop gulped, a bit of panic in his eyes now that he had to answer a direct question from the president of the United States. But he was in his element, and he recovered quicker than before: “We can defend ourselves from space debris out to a range of about fifty miles,” Lathrop said. “We also use it to break up larger pieces of debris—the smaller the debris, the less danger it is to other spacecraft.”

  “And can you use the laser to protect the station from other spacecraft?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lathrop said. “We have radar and infrared sensors that can see oncoming spacecraft or debris out to a range of about five hundred miles, and we can tie into other military or civilian space sensors.” He pointed to a computer monitor. “The system is now on automatic, which means the COIL will automatically fire if the sensors detect a threat meeting certain parameters. We set it to manual as you were arriving, of course.”

  “Thank you for that, Mr. Lathrop,” the president said. “So the laser can protect the station and break up space debris, but that’s all? Didn’t you once have the capability of attacking targets on Earth?”

  “Yes, sir, we did,” Lathrop said. “The Skybolt laser was powerful enough to destroy light targets such as vehicles and planes, and disable or damage heavier targets such as ships. The Kingfisher weapon garages held guided kinetic payloads that could attack spacecraft or ballistic missiles, and also precision-guided projectiles that could reenter Earth’s atmosphere to attack targets on the ground or at sea.”

  “Do we still have those Kingfisher garages? I know President Gardner was not in favor of them—he used them more as bargaining chips with the Russians and Chinese.”

  “President Gardner allowed seven of the garages to reenter Earth’s atmosphere and burn up,” Lathrop said. “Another thirteen garages were retrieved and are stored on station’s truss. Ten garages are still in orbit but are inactive. They are periodically retrieved, refueled, serviced, and placed back into orbit by the spaceplanes so we can study their long-term effectiveness and make design changes, but they are not active at this time.”

  “The COIL laser is different than Vice President Page’s laser?” Phoenix asked.

  “Yes, sir, it is. We are prohibited from using any weapons with a range of more than approximately sixty miles, and Skybolt, the free-electron laser, can attack targets in Earth’s atmosphere and on the surface out to a range of about five hundred miles, so it’s currently inactivated.”

  “Inactivated?”

  “Not active, but capable of being activated if necessary,” Raydon said.

  “In fairly short order?” the president asked.

  “Henry?” Kai asked.

  “We would need some expertise from Sky Masters or other contractors,” Lathrop said, “and a few days to bring the MHD’s reactor online.”

  “And an order from you, sir,” Raydon added. “Controversy over Skybolt nearly cost us the entire military space program.”

  “I remember very well,” Phoenix said. “I aim to fix that. Please continue, Mr. Lathrop.”

  “The COIL uses a mixture of chemicals to produce laser light, which is then magnified and focused,” Lathrop went on. “We use different optics than the Skybolt free-electron laser to focus and steer the laser beam, but the process is very similar. We use radar and infrared sensors to continually scan around station for objects that might be a hazard—we can detect and engage objects as small as a golf ball. The COIL has a normal maximum range of three hundred miles, but we’ve detuned the laser by eliminating some of the reflectors that increase laser power, so we’re right at the legal limit.”

  “Can you show me how the sensors work?” the president asked. “Perhaps do a mock attack on an Earth target?”

  Lathrop looked panicked again, and he turned to Raydon, who nodded. “Show the president how it’s done, Henry,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” Lathrop said, the excitement quickly growing on his face. His fingers flew over a keyboard on his console. “We occasionally do attack drills on a series of targets that are continually tracked and are prioritized.” The largest computer monitor came to life. It showed a large area of the earth with the space station’s track and position approaching the North Pole from eastern Siberia. There was a series of circles around several spots in Russia.

  “What are those circles, Mr. Lathrop?” the pre
sident asked.

  “We call them ‘Delta Bravos,’ or duck blinds,” Lathrop replied. “Locations of known antisatellite weapons. The circles are the approximate radius of action of the weapons there.”

  “We’re coming awfully close to that one, aren’t we?”

  “We fly over many of them in a day, located in Russia, China, and several countries aligned with them,” Lathrop said. “That particular one is Yelizovo Airport, a MiG-31D fighter base that we know has antisatellite weapons they can launch from the air. They routinely fly patrols from there and even practice attack runs.”

  “They do?” the president asked incredulously. “How do you know if it’s a real attack or not?”

  “We scan for the missile,” Kai explained. “We can see the missile and have less than two minutes to launch defensive weapons or hit it with the lasers. We scan them and analyze any signals they transmit, and we can study them by radar and optronics to find out if they’re getting ready to do something. They almost always track us on long-range radar, but every now and then they’ll hit us with a target-tracking and missile-guidance radar.”

  “Why?”

  “Try to scare us, try to get us to hit them with Skybolt or an Earth-attack weapon, so they can prove how evil we are,” Trevor said. “It’s all cat-and-mouse Cold War nonsense. We usually ignore it.”

  “It does keep us on our toes, though,” Valerie added. “Command, this is Combat, simulated target designated Golf Seven will be in range in three minutes.”

  “Prepare for simulated Skybolt engagement,” Raydon said. “Attention on station, simulated target engagement in three minutes. Operations to the command module. All crewmembers go to combat stations and report. Secure all docks and hatches. Off-duty personnel report to damage-control stations, suit up, and commence prebreathing. Simulate undock Midnight.”

  “What is that about, General?” the president asked.

  “Off-duty personnel have damage-control responsibilities,” Kai said. “Up here, that may mean doing a spacewalk to retrieve equipment or . . . personnel lost in space. Prebreathing pure oxygen for as long as possible allows them to put on an ACES space suit and do their rescue duties, even if it means a spacewalk. They might need to do a lot of repair and recovery operations in open space. For the same reason, we also undock whatever spacecraft we have on station to use as lifeboats in case of problems—we would use the lifeboat spheres and await rescue by a spaceplane or commercial transport.” The president swallowed hard at those grim thoughts.