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  “Command, this is Operations, request permission to simulated spin up the MHD,” Valerie Lukas said from her place on the bulkhead, observing the mock engagement.

  “Permission granted, simulate spinning up the MHD, make all preparations to engage simulated terrestrial target.” It was like a tabletop play rehearsal, the president noted: everyone was saying their parts, but no one was actually moving or doing anything.

  “Roger. Engineering, this is Operations, simulate spinning up the MHD, report activation and fifty percent power level.”

  “Operations, Engineering, Roger, simulated spin up the MHD,” the engineering officer, Alice Hamilton, reported. A few moments later: “Operations, Engineering, the MHD is simulated active, power level at twelve percent and rising.”

  “Command, this is Operations, the MHD is simulated online.”

  “Command copies. Combat, what’s our simulated target?”

  “Simulated terrestrial target Golf Seven is a deactivated DEW Line radar site in western Greenland,” Lathrop said. “Primary sensor data will be from SBR. Stand by for secondary sensor source.” His fingers flew over his keyboard again. “Simulated secondary sensor source will be USA-234, a radar-imaging satellite, which will be above Golf Seven’s horizon in sixty seconds and will be in range of the target for three-point-two minutes.”

  “What does all that mean, General?” President Phoenix asked.

  “We can fire Skybolt fairly accurately with our own sensors,” Kai explained. “The SBR, or Space-Based Radar, is our primary sensor. Station has two X-band synthetic aperture radars for Earth imaging. We can scan long swaths of Earth in ‘stripmap’ mode, or use ‘spotlight’ mode to zero in on a target and get precise pictures and measurements, down to a few inches’ resolution.

  “But because we’re shooting at such a great distance, traveling hundreds of miles a minute, for even greater accuracy we can tie into any other sensors that happen to be in the area at the same time,” Kai went on. “USA-234 is a U.S. Air Force radar-imaging satellite that takes radar pictures and transmits them to the National Reconnaissance Office in Washington. We are lucky enough to be a user of the images, so we can request that the satellite focus in on that particular target. We can merge the satellite’s images with our own to get a more accurate look at the target.”

  Lathrop entered more commands, and on a large monitor to the left of the main monitor there appeared an overhead still photograph of the simulated target, a remote radar site with a large radome in the center, several communications pointed in different directions, and several long, low buildings surrounding the radome. “This is what it looks like in a recent overhead photo,” he said. A few moments later the photo disappeared and was replaced by a different image, this one showing a dot surrounded by an H-shaped box against a mostly black background. “This is the radar image from the reconnaissance satellite. The background is black because snow doesn’t reflect radar energy very well, but the buildings show up nicely.”

  “Operations, Engineering, MHD is at simulated fifty percent,” Alice reported.

  “Roger, Engineering,” Valerie said. “Combat, this is Operations, we’re at fifty percent, simulate open Skybolt engagement circuits, weapons tight, prepare to engage.”

  “Roger, Operations, simulating opening Skybolt engagement circuits, weapons tight.”

  Another few moments later the image changed again, and this one looked very much like the photograph they saw, with an occasional cloud drifting across the image. Lathrop used a trackball to precisely center the image on the screen. “And this is with station’s telescopic electro-optical sensors added to the radar image,” he said. “Operation, this is Combat, positive identification on simulated target Golf Seven, tracking established, we’re locked on and ready.”

  “Roger, Combat,” Valerie said. “Command, Operations, we’re locked on. MHD status?”

  “MHD at one hundred percent in ten seconds.”

  “Roger,” Valerie acknowledged. “Request permission to simulate transferring Skybolt to Combat and engage.”

  “This is Command,” Raydon said. “You are cleared to transfer Skybolt control to Combat and simulate engage target. Attention on station, this is the director, we are simulate engaging terrestrial target with Skybolt.”

  “Roger, Command, Operations acknowledges we are cleared simulate engage target. Combat, Operations, Skybolt is cleared to simulate engage, weapons simulate released.”

  “Roger, Ops, weapons simulate released.” Lathrop pressed a single key on his keyboard, then looked up. “That’s it, Mr. President,” he said. “The system will wait for the optimal time to fire and then keep firing until it detects that the target is destroyed or until we drop below the target’s horizon. There are actually two lasers involved other than the main laser: the first measures the atmosphere and issues corrections to the mirror to correct for atmospheric conditions that might degrade the laser beam; and the second tracks the target as station flies past and helps to focus and precisely aim the main beam.”

  “Thank you, Henry,” Kai said. Lathrop looked exceedingly relieved to return to his console after nervously shaking the president’s hand. “As you can see, Mr. President, only one tactical crew station is manned, because our Kingfisher weapon garages have not been reactivated. But if they were, the sensor fusion operators detect, analyze, and classify any threats they see, and those threats appear on these four monitors, used by myself; Valerie, my chief of combat operations; the aerospace tactical-weapons officer, and the terrestrial-weapons officer. We can then respond with our own space-based weapons, or direct Earth-based ground, naval, or air responses.”

  “What are the Kingfisher weapon garages?” the president asked. “I remember President Gardner was not fond of them.”

  “The Kingfisher weapon system is a series of spacecraft that we call ‘garages,’ in low Earth orbit,” Kai said. “The garages are controlled from here and can also be controlled from U.S. Space Command headquarters on Earth. The garages have their own sensors, thrusters, and control systems, and they can be programmed to dock with station for refueling and rearming. Each garage carries three antisatellite- or antiballistic-missile weapons and three Earth-attack precision-guided weapons.”

  “I remember Gardner really hating those things,” the president remarked. “When that one attack missed and took out that factory, I thought he was going to kill someone.”

  “Well, President Gardner didn’t cancel the program, just put it in mothballs,” Kai said. “A full-up Kingfisher constellation has thirty-six Trinity garages in orbit, so that every part of Earth has at least three garages overhead at any moment, similar to the GPS navigation system. It’s all controlled right from here, or from U.S. Strategic Command headquarters.”

  “General Raydon, this is the part of the Space Defense Force I never understood: why have all this orbiting Earth?” President Phoenix asked. “This is very much like command centers already existing on Earth, and in fact it looks identical to an Airborne Warning and Control System radar aircraft. Why put the same thing in space?”

  “Because we’re much more secure and protected here in space, which makes it ideal for any command center, sir,” Raydon replied.

  “Even with a list of dangers as long as your arm, as you put it, General?”

  “Yes, sir, even with all of the dangers of traveling in space,” Raydon said. “The enemy is less likely to completely blind the United States with an orbiting command center. The enemy could destroy a base, ship, or AWACS radar plane, and we’d lose that sensor, but we can grab sensor data from elsewhere, or use our own sensors, and quickly fill the gap. Plus, because we’re orbiting Earth, we’re less likely to be successfully attacked. Our orbit is known, of course, which makes finding, tracking, and targeting us easier, but at least for the near term, attacking this station is far more difficult than attacking a ground-, ship-, or air-based command center. The bad guys know where we are and where we will be, but at the same ti
me we know precisely when their known antisatellite bases would become a possible threat if an attack was launched. We track those known sites constantly. We also scan for unknown attack bases and prepare to respond to them.”

  “I think in a broader sense, sir,” Trevor Shale said, “that manning the station and making it an operational military command post, rather than just a collection of sensors or laboratories, is important for the future of America’s presence in space.”

  “How so, Mr. Shale?”

  “I compare it to the westward expansion of the United States, sir,” Trevor explained. “At first, small bands of explorers went out and discovered the plains, the Rockies, the deserts, and the Pacific. A few settlers ventured out after them, lured by the promise of land and resources. But it wasn’t until the U.S. Army was sent out and established camps, outposts, and forts that settlements and eventually villages and towns could be built, and the real expansion of the nation began.

  “Well, Armstrong Space Station is not just an outpost in Earth orbit, but a real military installation,” Shale went on. “We’re much more than computers and consoles—we have twelve men and women aboard who monitor and can control military operations across the globe. I think that will encourage more adventurers, scientists, and explorers to come to space, just like the presence of a U.S. Army fort was of great comfort to settlers.”

  “Space is a lot bigger than the Midwest, Mr. Shale.”

  “To us in the twenty-first century, yes, sir,” Trevor said. “But to an eighteenth-century explorer who first sets eyes on the Great Plains or the Rockie Mountains, I’ll bet it felt like he was standing at the very edge of the universe.”

  The president stopped to think for a moment, then smiled and nodded. “Then I think it’s time to take it to the next level,” he said. “I’d like to talk with my wife and Vice President Page, and then get ready for my address.”

  “Yes, sir,” Raydon said. “We’ll put you in the director’s chair.” The president carefully maneuvered himself over to Raydon’s console and wedged his feet into the stirrups underneath, standing before the console but feeling as if he were floating on his back in the ocean. The large monitor in front of him came to life, and he saw a tiny white light under a small lens at the top of the monitor, and he knew he was online.

  “You finally stopped gawking around and decided to give us a call, eh, Mr. President?” Vice President Ann Page asked, her face visible in an inset window on the monitor. She was in her midsixties, thin and energetic, with long hair unabashedly allowed to stay naturally gray, tied up off her collar. Until recently, with all of the cuts in the U.S. budget, Ann had taken on many tasks in the White House along with her duties as vice president: chief of staff, press secretary, national security adviser, and chief political adviser; she had finally ceded most of those additional duties to others, but continued to be Ken Phoenix’s closest political adviser and confidante as well as White House chief of staff. “I was starting to get a little worried.”

  “Ann, this is an absolutely incredible experience,” Ken Phoenix said. “It’s everything I imagined it would be, and a whole lot more.”

  “I’ll have you know that I’ve had one justice of the Supreme Court standing by round the clock to administer the oath of office, in case any of the thousands of things that could go wrong did go wrong,” Ann said. “I will continue to insist on that long after your return.”

  “Very wise decision,” the president said. “But I’m fine, the trip up was incredible, and if I’m doomed to turn into a meteorite on the return, at least I know the nation will be in good hands.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “It’s been just amazing, Ann,” the president went on. “Dr. Noble let me dock the spaceplane.”

  The vice president blinked in surprise. “You did? Lucky dog. I’ve never done that, and I’ve ridden in the spaceplanes several times! How was it?”

  “Just as most everything else in space: just think about something and it happens. It’s hard to believe we were traveling five miles a second but talking about moving the spaceplane by just inches per second. I didn’t really have a sense of altitude or speed until we did the spacewalk and I saw Earth under—”

  “The what?” Ann exclaimed, her eyes bugging out in shock. “You did a what?”

  “Ann, you were the one who first told me about how you got to the station from the early spaceplanes,” the president said. “Dr. Noble mentioned it again to me as we were disembarking, and I decided to go for it. It only lasted a couple minutes.”

  The vice president’s mouth was hanging open in complete surprise, and she had to physically shake herself out of her stunned speechlessness. “I . . . I don’t believe it,” she said finally. “Are you going to mention that to the press? They’ll flip . . . even harder than they’re already going to flip.”

  “Probably the same reaction when a sitting president took the first ocean-liner voyage, or the first ride in a locomotive, or a car, or an airplane,” the president said. “We’ve been flying in space for decades—why is it so hard to conceive of a president of the United States traveling in space or doing a spacewalk?”

  Vice President Page momentarily went back to her near-catatonic state of utter disbelief, but shook her head in resignation. “Well, I’m glad you’re all right, sir,” Ann said. “I’m glad you’re enjoying the trip and the view and the”— she swallowed again in disbelief before continuing—“. . . spacewalking, sir, because I think we’re in for a real shit-storm when you get back.” The president freely encouraged Ann to speak her mind, both in public and private, and she took every opportunity to do just that. “The cat’s out of the bag already—folks from station must’ve already phoned home to let others know you arrived, and word is spreading like wildfire. The presser will be a real stunner, I’m sure.” As all the astronauts did, Ann referred to Armstrong Space Station as “station.” “I hope you’re ready for it.”

  “I am, Ann,” the president said.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Very good.”

  “No vertigo?”

  “A tiny bit,” the president admitted. “When I was a kid I had a mild case of anablephobia—fear of looking up—and that’s kind of what it feels like, but it goes away quickly.”

  “Nausea? Queasiness?”

  “Nope,” the president said. Ann looked surprised, and she nodded admiringly. “My sinuses feel stuffed, but that’s it. I guess that’s because fluids don’t flow downward like normal.” Ann nodded—she and Phoenix’s wife, a medical doctor, had talked at length about some of the physiological conditions he might encounter even during a short stay on station. She had avoided talking about some of the psychological ones that some astronauts experienced. “It’s irksome, but not bad. I feel okay. I can’t say the same for Charlie Spellman.”

  “Your Secret Service detail that volunteered to go up with you? Where is he?”

  “Sick bay.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Ann murmured, shaking her head. “Wait’ll the press finds out you’re up there without your detail.”

  “He’s looking better. I think he’ll be good for the return flight. Besides, I don’t think any assassins will make their way up here.”

  “True enough,” Ann said. “Good luck with the press conference. We’ll be watching.”

  The president was then connected to his wife, Alexa. “Oh my God, it’s good to see you, Ken,” she said. Alexa Phoenix was ten years younger than her husband, a pediatrician who had left her private practice when her husband became the surprise choice of President Joseph Gardner to be his running mate. Her olive complexion, dark hair, and dark eyes made her look Southern European, but she was a surfer girl from southern Florida through and through. “Sky Masters Aerospace called and told me you have arrived on the station. How are you? How do you feel?”

  “Okay, hon,” the president replied. “A little stuffy, but okay.”

  “I can see a tiny bit of facial edema—you’re already st
arting to get your space moon-face,” Alexa said, framing her face with her hands arrayed in a circle.

  “Is it noticeable already?” the president asked.

  “I’m teasing,” his wife said. “You look fine. It’s a badge of honor anyway. Will you be okay for your presser?”

  “I feel good,” the president said. “Wish me luck.”

  “I’ve been wishing you luck every hour of every day since I agreed to this crazy little trip of yours,” Alexa said, a tiny hint of vexation in her voice. “But I think you’ll do great. Knock ’em dead.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll see you at Andrews. Love you.”

  “I’ll be there. Love you.” And the connection was terminated.

  About fifteen minutes later, with Kai Raydon, Jessica Faulkner, and Trevor Shale standing beside him, the world got to watch the most amazing sight most of them had ever seen: the image of the president of the United States in space. “Good morning, my fellow Americans and ladies and gentlemen watching this broadcast around the world. I am broadcasting this press conference from Armstrong Space Station, orbiting two hundred miles above Earth.”

  A small window on the monitor showed the White House press room . . . and the place exploded into near bedlam. Several reporters shot to their feet in absolute surprise, dropping tablets and cameras; several women and even a few men gasped in horror, holding their heads in disbelief or biting knuckles inserted into their mouths to stifle their outcries. Finally a staffer stepped before the reporters and waved them back to their seats so the president could continue.