Starfire (41 page)

The president thought about it for a few moments, then nodded assent. “As long as the big ship-killing laser isn't operable without my order, I'll authorize the generator to be activated and tested,” he said. “I think we'll hold off advising the Russians that we tested the big generator until sometime in the near future.”

“I agree,” Ann said. “But if you want to deal with the Russians, you may have to reverse yourself on your space policies and military drawdowns. Do away with declaring occupied orbits sovereign American possessions, for example—Gryzlov seemed particularly peeved at that one.”

“I will if I need to—hopefully not before the elections, though,” the president said. “That's more ammunition for Barbeau.”

“We could leak the information Bill just briefed us on,” Ann said. “If we show Russia's space-weapon buildup, your space policy looks like a legitimate national defense imperative.”

“But Barbeau could say that Russia is just responding to my space initiative,” the president said. “I'd rather not go down that road. I'll consider toning down my policies, especially regarding the defense of our space assets and orbits— You're right, I think that's the part that got Gryzlov hot and bothered. Hopefully it can wait until after the election.” He turned to his national security adviser. “Bill, I need to know exactly how long it would take to deploy those Kingfisher weapon garages, and I want to put as many of those spaceplane boosters under our crosshairs as possible. I don't want any forces moved, but I want to know how long it will take to take out anything that threatens our space assets. I remember we had a whole array of space-launched weapons at one time—I want to find out what Joe Gardner did with them.”

“Yes, sir,” Glenbrook said, and departed.

After he left, the president poured himself his third cup of coffee of the morning—that, he thought, was not a good sign. “I hate interjecting politics into these decisions, Ann,” he said. “That's not the way it's supposed to be done.”

“Maybe not, but that's life in the real world, Ken,” Ann said. “The president of the United States probably can never divorce himself from politics, especially around election time. That's just the way it is.”

“Then let's get back to the campaign, Ann,” Phoenix said. “What's on the agenda for today?”

“You have the day off, and I suggest you spend it with your family, because you'll be on the campaign trail almost every day until Election Day,” the vice president said. “The final West Coast swing starts tomorrow morning. We have Phoenix, San Diego, and Los Angeles booked, but the campaign staff suggested a few stops in northern and central California too. It's late—the FAA likes to have more than two days for notification to close down the airspace around the airports you fly into for Air Force One—but if we notify them this morning it should be okay.

“I suggest three stops before we hit Portland and Seattle,” Ann went on, reading from her tablet computer. “First, the NASA Ames Research Center near San Jose, which is doing wind-tunnel tests on a variety of space technologies; the Aerojet Rocketdyne facility east of Sacramento, which is building the motors for a new class of heavy-lift boosters; and San Luis Obispo to attend the test firing of the Starfire solar orbiting power plant. There's one meet-and-greet in each city and one fund-raising dinner in San Jose. After that, it's on to Portland and Seattle, a memorial service at the former Fairchild Air Force Base near Spokane for the American Holocaust anniversary memorial, and then Boise to wrap up the West Coast. Then you work your way eastward. Three cities a day until Election Day. I'll make a few stops on the East Coast, and then I'll head out west when you come east.”

“Whew,” the president said. “I'm glad this will be my last campaign—it's exciting to meet the folks, but it sure takes it out of you.” He thought about the change in plans, but not for long: “Go ahead and add the Northern California stops, Ann. I'll rest when I'm dead.”

“Yes, sir,” the vice president said, and she picked up a phone and alerted her staff to make the necessary arrangements. When she finished, she asked, “Before we alert the FAA, sir, I have a question: Do you want to postpone that orbiting solar-power-plant test firing and that trip up to the station by Brad McLanahan and Casey Huggins, the college students from California? It's starting to get tense with space issues, and that test firing is receiving an awful lot of attention around the world. A lot of folks, including the Russians and a bunch of antiwar and environmentalist groups, want that test canceled and the space station to be allowed to burn up in the atmosphere.”

“I read about those protests,” the president said, shaking his head. “It seems to be more of the same stuff we've heard from far-left liberals for decades: technology advancements are just plain bad for humans, animals, world peace, the poor, and the planet. Armstrong especially gets a lot of negative press, mostly I think because it's so noticeable in the sky, and the left thinks we are spying on everyone on Earth and ready to use a death ray to gun anyone down. They have no idea what they do on Armstrong Space Station. I can talk until I'm blue in the face about my experience and the technology that made it possible, but I'd be wasting my breath.”

Ken Phoenix thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “Ann, I'm not stopping my space technology and industrialization initiative because the Russians or some left-wing wackos think this is the beginning of the end of the planet,” he said. “Let's try to anticipate and prepare for what these groups or even the Russians might do after that test firing, but I'm not going to cancel it. That would be an insult to the hard work those students put into this project. It's a peaceful project: sending energy to someone who needs it almost anywhere in the world. That's a good thing. The left can say whatever else they want about it, but that's what it is. No, we press forward.”

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Brad was seated at a desk in an aircraft hangar at San Luis Obispo Regional Airport, watching the progress on his computer as the latest navigation, charts, terrain, and obstacle data were being broadcast via satellite directly to his father's Cessna P210 Silver Eagle aircraft parked behind him. The Silver Eagle was a small but extremely powerful Cessna P210 modified with a 450-horsepower turbine engine, plus a long list of high-tech avionics and other systems, making the thirty-year-old plane one of the most advanced anywhere in the world.

His cell phone beeped, and he looked at the caller ID, not surprised to not recognize it—he had been answering so many media requests that he just answered without screening: “Hello. This is Brad, Project Starfire.”

“Mr. McLanahan? My name is Yvette Annikki Svärd of the
European Space Daily
. We spoke briefly at your press conference in your laboratory a few days ago.”

He didn't recognize the name, but he sure recognized the sultry accent. “I don't think I caught your name at the press conference,” Brad said, “but I remember seeing it on the media list. How are you this evening?”

“Very well, thank you, Mr. McLanahan.”

“Brad, please.”

“Thank you, Brad,” Yvette said. “I have just returned to San Luis Obispo to attend your congratulatory party tonight and to observe the test firing of Starfire, and I had a few follow-up questions for you. Are you still in town?”

“Yes. But I leave for Battle Mountain early in the morning.”

“Oh, of course, the flight to Armstrong Space Station aboard the Midnight spaceplane. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Damn, that voice was mesmerizing, Brad thought.

“I do not wish to disturb you, but if you are available I would very much like to ask some questions and get your thoughts about flying to the space station,” Yvette said. “I can be on campus in a few minutes.”

“I'm not on campus,” Brad said. “I'm preflighting my airplane, getting ready to fly to Battle Mountain.”

“You have your own plane, Brad?”

“It was my dad's. I fly it every chance I get.”

“How exciting! I love the freedom of flying. It is so wonderful, being able to hop into your own plane and go somewhere on a moment's notice.”

“It sure is,” Brad said. “Are you a pilot?”

“I have only a European Light-Sport Aircraft pilot's license,” Yvette said. “I could not fly from San Luis Obispo to Battle Mountain. I suppose that is a very easy trip in your plane.”

“Driving takes about nine hours,” Brad said. “I can do it in a little over two.”

“Wonderful. It must be a very nice plane.”

“Would you like to see it?”

“I do not want to impose on you, Brad,” Yvette said. “You have a very big few days coming up, and I have only a few questions.”

“It's no problem,” Brad said. “Go south on Broad Street, right turn on Airport Road, and stop at the gate that's marked ‘General Aviation' on the left. I'll come out and open it for you.”

“Well . . . I would love to see your plane, but I do not wish to disturb you.”

“Not at all. I'm just waiting for the plane to update itself. The company would be nice.”

“Well, in that case, I would be happy to join you,” Yvette said. “I can be there in about ten minutes. I am driving a rented white Volvo.”

Ten minutes later on the dot, a white Volvo sedan pulled up to the terminal building. Brad stepped through the walk-through gate and swiped his access card on the reader, and the drive-through gate began to open. He jumped on his bike and headed back to his hangar, with the Volvo not far behind.

Brad had left the bifold hangar door open and the inside lights on, so Yvette could see the Silver Eagle as soon as she pulled up. “Nice to see you again, Brad,” she said as she emerged from the car. She shook his hand, then offered him a business card. “I hope you remember me?”

“Yes, I certainly do,” Brad said. Damn, he remarked to himself, she's even hotter than last time. He turned and motioned to the plane. “There she is.”

“It is beautiful!” Yvette remarked. “It looks like you keep it in immaculate condition.”

“I still consider it my dad's plane, so I work on it every chance I get and clean it up after every flight,” Brad said.

“Your father was such a great man,” Yvette said. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

Brad always had to remember to play along with these sentiments offered to him all the time from the media—it was tough, but he was getting better and better at playacting that his father was indeed dead. “Thank you,” he replied.

Yvette stepped inside the hangar and began admiring the plane. “So. Tell me about your sexy plane, Brad McLanahan.”

“It is called a Silver Eagle, a Cessna P210 Centurion which had its 310-horsepower piston gasoline engine replaced with a 450-horsepower jet-fuel turboprop engine,” Brad said. “It has a bunch of other mods to it as well. About two hundred and fifty miles per hour cruise speed, a thousand miles range, twenty-three-thousand-foot ceiling.”

“Ooo.” She gave Brad a naughty smile and said, “That would make it eligible for the four-mile-high club, not just the mile-high club, yes?” Brad tried to chuckle at her quip, but it just came out as a crude snort as he distracted himself thinking about how in the world he could manage to join that club in the cockpit of a Silver Eagle. “And you said the plane was updating itself?”

“Updates are broadcast by satellite,” Brad said, shaking himself loose from his fantasizing. “When they're needed, I just plug the airplane into external power, turn it on, and wait.”

“That does not sound like a normal way of updating avionics and databases.”

“This plane has a few upgrades that are not yet available to the rest of the general aviation community,” Brad said. “My dad used his plane as a test bed for a lot of high-tech stuff.” He pointed to a tiny ball mounted midway along the underside of the right wing. “He used this plane for surveillance missions with the Civil Air Patrol years ago, so he had those sensors mounted on the wings. They're about the size of tennis balls, but they can scan twenty acres a second day or night on both sides of the aircraft with six-inch resolution. The images are broadcast to ground receivers, or they can play on the multifunction displays in the cockpit, with flight or navigation information superimposed on it. I've made several landings in pitch-black with no lights using that sensor.”

“I've never heard of that before with a sensor so small,” Yvette said.

“I can do stuff on this plane that won't be available to the public for at least five years, and maybe ten,” Brad said. “Completely automated clearances, air-traffic-control advisories, automated flight planning and rerouting, voice-actuated avionics, lots of stuff.”

“Can I write about this, Brad?” Yvette asked. “Can I tell my readers about this?”

Brad thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I don't see why not,” he said. “It's not classified top secret or anything—it's just not available to general aviation yet. It's all been approved by the feds, but it's not yet being manufactured or offered for sale.”

“But it represents the future of general aviation,” Yvette said. “I am sure my readers would love to read about this. May I get copies of the Supplemental Type Certificates and approvals for these wonderful systems?”

“Sure—it's all public information,” Brad said. “After I get back, I can collect all that stuff for you.”

“Thank you so much,” Yvette said. “I can see I must make another visit to San Luis Obispo after your return . . .” She fixed her eyes on his and gave him a mischievous little smile. “Not just so you can tell me about your trip into space but to tell me more about your fascinating plane. May I take a peek inside the four-mile-high-club headquarters?”