by Bobby Akart
As Chief of Staff Fielding led the president back to the conference room, she provided him a quick update. “Sir, we have an additional complication.”
“Wonderful,” he responded sarcastically.
“The nuclear detonation caused by what appears to be a ballistic missile striking the orbiter, sent an electromagnetic pulse through the atmosphere resulting in power outages from Eastern Quebec Province into Greenland and Iceland.”
“Okay, what else?” At the moment, the president was unconcerned with the collateral damage of this debacle.
“Moscow has fired a preemptive diplomatic shot across our bow, sir.”
“Let me guess, they’ve filed a complaint with the United Nations over our sending a nuke into space.”
“Yes, sir. They’re taking the moral high ground, sort of.”
“Putin’s a craft devil. I’ll give him that. Well, this certainly changes our approach to what happens next.”
“I don’t know that we can trust any of this, Mr. President. We always have to work under the assumption that further hostilities are imminent.”
“Maggie, do you think Moscow wants a nuclear war with us? The timing doesn’t make—.”
The president paused his own thought. Actually, the timing is perfect. His administration was preoccupied with the impending threat. His mind entered into an inner debate.
Should I order the Pentagon to retaliate, or defend? Do I abandon our efforts to deal with the asteroid, trusting the Russians to successfully divert or destroy it?
“Mr. President? Sir? Do you need a moment before we return to the conference room? The Joint Chiefs are present, as well as the directors of our intelligence agencies. Maybe I should get you a glass of water or something?”
He stopped and smiled. “No, Maggie. I’m all right. When they knock you down, you just get back up again. You know, back in the saddle. I can’t wait to hear the horseshit spewed by the ambassador. Let’s listen to him, and send him on his way. Afterwards, I want to focus on saving our planet from the asteroid. I’ll deal with Moscow later.”
Chapter 4
Friday, April 13
Presidential Emergency Operations Center
The White House
Washington, DC
The Russian ambassador played it perfectly, and exactly as he was instructed by President Putin. He apologized on behalf of the Russian Federation for the lives wasted by the American’s poor choices. He pointed out that their use of a superior missile defense system proved necessary because the American’s nuclear payload was launched into space without notice to the nation-states of the U.N. Security Council, and they had no idea of what the American’s intentions were. Finally, the ambassador pledged to work in full cooperation with the Americans in whatever way possible to face the real threat posed by 2029 IM86.
The video conversation lasted just over five minutes. The president was in no position to force the issue because he knowingly violated treaties himself. He too, pledged a spirit of cooperation, although he wasn’t certain what that entailed. The conversation was beginning to wind-up with mutual promises to dispel any thoughts of retaliation, or escalation, in the interest of saving mankind from the real threat.
Then, the president, a former judge and Chicago Cubs fan, threw a curve ball at the ambassador.
“Mr. Ambassador, there’s just one more thing.”
“Yes, Mr. President, of course.”
“When was the Russian Federation aware of this asteroid that has been designated IM86.”
“Well, of course, that would’ve been three years ah—.” The ambassador caught himself and feigned a coughing fit. He began to hack and choke so much that a White House staffer rushed to his side with a bottle of water that he quickly consumed.
The president squinted his eyes, recognizing the ambassador’s deflection immediately. “Mr. Ambassador, are you all right?”
The Russian grimaced and nodded his head, taking the opportunity to gather his thoughts as he took another gulp of water.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. President. I am. It has been a difficult morning for us all. I will relay your sentiments to President Putin. Thank you.”
The ambassador stormed away from the camera and could be heard speaking to his aides in Russian.
“Mr. President, shall I stop him at the door?” asked Fielding.
“No, he gave us the answer. The Russians have known for three years about IM86 and based upon our intelligence gathered from the Cosmodrome, their intentions are clear. They intend to stake their claim on the asteroid, and apparently, will stop at nothing to do so.”
“Sir, do you think they shot down our orbiter on purpose? To delay our attempts to place our own team on the surface of the asteroid?”
The president stood and began his nervous pacing again. “Maggie, I think it’s a distinct possibility. Many questions have now entered our mind, from when did they discover IM86 to whether they deliberately shot down our people.”
“Mr. President,” interrupted the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Treaties aside, they’ve committed an act of war for which we should retaliate.”
“Very true, General, but this is why Putin’s move with the UN was brilliant. He preempted our accusations by claiming self-defense. He was one step ahead of us, leaving us playing catch-up, as always.”
Fielding tried to bring the conversation back to the president’s primary concern—the asteroid. “Whether it was their hypersonic interceptor, or laser technology obtained from the Chinese, we’re back at square one on dealing with the threat to us all. We simply cannot wait to see if the Russians can successfully land on the surface, much less execute a diversionary maneuver.”
“I agree,” said the president. “Have we heard from NASA?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the Secretary of Defense. “I hope I haven’t overstepped, but as soon as I observed mission failure, I contacted Acting Administrator Frederick and told him to take a moment to mourn the dead, then consider how many more lives were at stake if he doesn’t come up with a solution.” Jim Frederick was a former Congressman who had been nominated by the president to head up the space agency.
President Watson leaned against the back of a leather chair and twirled it on its base. He did not sit the entire time during the briefing.
“I realize the projected impact date is two weeks off, but it was my understanding that our window of opportunity to employ the orbital slingshot method ended today. Am I wrong? What did Jim say?”
“No, sir, you are not wrong,” replied the Secretary of Defense. “Frederick is a pragmatist and he laid out the situation in very simply terms. Our eleven best astronauts are dead. The remainder of active duty astronauts are primarily academics, you know, scientists, astronomers, etcetera.”
“What’s the point?” asked the president.
“Well, sir, the point is Frederick thinks our best option, no, maybe our only option, is to nuke it.”
The president sighed. “Okay, that opens up a huge can of worms in light of what happened this morning—diplomatically and legally. I mean, we’d have to go hat-in-hand to the UN and ask for the member-states to approve our mission, or agree to participate.” The president paused and then slapped the back of the chair. “Damn. Is there nothing else? Are we too late for other options?”
“Yes, sir, apparently so, unless we want to pin our hopes on the Russians. A nuclear detonation, or actually, multiple pinpointed detonations, as Frederick told me, would be required.”
The president didn’t respond. He simply stared at the empty chair in front of him. His chief of staff picked up the conversation.
“Mr. Secretary, when will NASA have a detailed plan, a proposal, as to what we should do, other than nothing?”
“Naturally, they’re working out the details as we speak. He made no promises, but he clearly understands the need for urgency here.”
A light tapping on the door caused everyone to pause. Fielding motioned to her assistant to answe
r it. It was an aide to the Secretary of Defense.
“Mr. Secretary, I have an urgent message for you sir.” The young woman approached and handed him a white, nine-by-twelve envelope. The defense secretary dismissed the aide and when the door was closed, he began to speak.
“Our recon satellites report that the Russians are deploying their RS-24 and Topol-M mobile intercontinental missile launchers to their borders, especially along their eastern and northern perimeters.”
“The shortest paths to our mainland,” muttered the president.
The defense secretary pulled out a satellite photograph and handed it to the president. “Sir, this was taken one hour ago. It’s a Borei-class nuclear-powered ballistic submarine.”
The president studied the image and pointed to a small island. “Where is this island?”
“Sir, that is Isla de la Juventud. It is the second largest island in Cuba.”
“A hundred miles from Key West,” added the president, studying his Defense Secretary.
“Yes, sir.”
The president stood from his hunched-over position and stated with conviction, “I’m beginning to question the veracity of the Russian Ambassador. I am not going to be lulled into a false sense of security. I believe we need to get on a war footing, post-haste.”
Chapter 5
Friday, April 13
NASA Headquarters
Two Independence Square
Washington, DC
“Well, for better or worse, he’s on board,” announced Jim Frederick, the former astronaut who’d been nominated to be NASA’s first African-American administrator by the president. Like the other members of his team in the large conference room, his face was gaunt and his eyes reflected the solemn mood in the room. Despite the tragedy that had struck the space agency, as Frederick put it, it was time to pull on our big boy pants and do our jobs.
Nola Taylor, head of the Space Technology Directorate, frowned. “This whole thing sickens me. The loss of American lives is bad enough. But, from a scientific perspective, I feel an opportunity of a lifetime will pass us by.”
During many of these briefings, there was always a lone voice of dissent. A voice that was pragmatic, no-nonsense, and often times resented by the others who had an idealistic vision of space exploration.
Hal Rawlings, the chief of NASA’s Flight Director Office, was that voice of reason, or truth, as he chose to view it. A native of Borden County, Texas, population six-hundred-forty-two, Chief Rawlings shunned the cowboy lifestyle of others growing up in West Texas. He rebelled at the thought of working the oil fields or on a ranch like so many others.
Instead, while his buddies were staring at the sky at night, dreaming of rodeos and buckle-bunnies, Chief Rawlings imagined being up there, looking back at Earth.
His family saved for Chief Rawlings’ college from the day he was born. After graduation, he enrolled at Texas A&M and earned his bachelor’s degree in mechanical engineering. He immediately applied for a job at NASA as a flight controller in the thermal operations group, directly responsible for the multiple subsystems that powered the International Space Station.
However, being tethered to a desk was not what Chief Rawlings had in mind for his future. He gathered friends within the halls of the Johnson Space Center, took graduate classes at night, and got the requisite three years of professional experience that qualified him to be an astronaut.
Then, he threw his cowboy hat into the ring along with eighteen thousand other AsCans, the nickname provided astronaut candidates. It took Hal Rawlings eight applications in eight years, but he was eventually accepted into the program.
Those eight years weren’t wasted. During that time, he worked in all aspects of NASA operations, even taking a demotion one time just so he could work directly with AsCans in training.
When Chief Rawlings’ career as an active astronaut ended, he’d logged more hours in space than any other. He’d spent more hours tethered to the ISS conducting spacewalks. And, he’d been afforded the honor of being in the first lunar lander during the Artemis Two mission three years prior.
His opinion was respected because he had no agenda other than the application of common sense. For that reason, Chief Hal Rawlings often won every argument.
That morning, following the tragedy, when he made an off-the-wall suggestion, coupled with the perfect mix of personnel to bring his plan to fruition, a consensus was immediately reached.
NASA was going to attack IM86 with a heretofore untested spacecraft, a new array of technologically-advanced nuclear missiles, and an Air Force pilot who’d never been into space, and was borderline suicidal—Gunner Fox.
“Nola, I understand and we all wish that we weren’t faced with this dilemma,” added Frederick. “However, our backs are against the wall. By all calculations, our window of opportunity lies between sixteen-hundred-hours on the 23rd and oh-four-hundred-hours on the 25th. That’s a thirty-six-hour time span that will move at the speed of light as far as my nerves are concerned.”
Chief Rawlings continued to remain quiet during the conversation, periodically looking down at his watch. He’d learned that there was very little sense of urgency within the halls of government. Pencil-pushin’ and paper-shufflin’ was only surpassed by meetings as the top wastes of human resources in his opinion.
The director of Human Exploration and Operations addressed Chief Rawlings. “I don’t know where to start in training this man. The only thing he knows about NASA is what his wife may have relayed to him.”
Chief Rawlings reached down for his spit cup. For all of his life, he’d kept a chaw of Levi Garrett chewing tobacco in his mouth since he was kid. When he applied to be an AsCan, he was told by medical that he’d have to give up the habit.
He did. Until he returned from the moon and was placed on inactive status. He immediately sought his old friend Levi and, much to the disgust of his fellow directors seated around the conference room table, never left home without it.
He spit out the excess moisture and casually wiped the corner of his mouth with his tobacco stained, grizzly hands.
“I’ll train ’em myself.”
The room erupted in chatter as nearly everyone shook their head from side-to-side. Everyone except Frederick, the decision maker.
Nola Taylor was the loudest voice of dissent. “Chief, with all due respect, we have professionals who handle training. You know that. Our protocols are regimented and specifically designed to weed out AsCans who are incapable of dealing with space travel. As you know, this is an intense process that’s not for everyone.”
Chief Rawlings nodded his head, acknowledging Taylor’s honest opinion. Under most circumstances, he’d agree wholeheartedly. Every mission required a team and the astronauts had to be able to trust each other implicitly. Their lives depended upon it. There are no do-overs in space.
“Ma’am, respectfully, you don’t need an astronaut for this mission. There are no experiments to conduct. No far away galaxies to observe. What you need is a stone-cold killer, and a damn good pilot. Gunner Fox is your man.”
“He’s never been in space!” protested one of the attendees.
“Neither have you,” countered Chief Rawlings calmly.
“You know what I mean, Chief. There are two years of classes. You have to go through survival training, mental evals …” Her voice trailed off. “We’re putting the fate of the planet on the shoulders of a man who has been proven to be mentally unstable. The dossier provided to us this morning revealed that he tried to fly an experimental aircraft halfway to the Moon before it disintegrated.”
Chief Rawlings was undeterred. “That’s exactly what this mission needs. Major Fox is a thrill seeker, but not suicidal according to the psychologist at Eglin. He understands how to deal with threats, emergencies, contingencies, and then come up with solutions.”
“He tore up a hundred-billion-dollar aircraft and then dropped out of the damn stratosphere! Chief, that’s not stable!”
&nbs
p; “Maybe, maybe not. Listen, in space, you’re on your own. You don’t have anyone else to ask, except Mission Control. You do realize that we may lose communications with the spacecraft based upon the proposed intercept point, right? He’s not gonna be able to call in or Google the problem. He’s got to apply his own common sense and experience to any complications, if they arise.”
Taylor spoke up. “We can beef up his knowledge data base. He can lean on artificial intelligence for answers.”
“Okay, that’s fine. But know this, in space, you only get one breath to save your ass. What I can teach him in the week I’ve got is a crash course in the necessary knowledge it takes to pull off this mission—not all the extra stuff thrown in by the shrinks and the phys-ed team.”
“Chief,” began acting director Frederick. He thumbed through a copy of Dr. Brian Dowling’s file on Gunner. “What about his mental condition. Frankly, I haven’t had time to look at this extensive psychological profile on Major Fox, but the mere fact that it exists is a red flag to me. Shouldn’t we at least interview other fighter pilots, candidates who are, as we’ve pointed out, more stable?”
“I’ve been assured that he’s mentally ready,” said Chief Rawlings. “I’ve known his commander from his special forces training days for a long time. I got on the phone with him minutes after the mission fail because I knew this discussion would be taking place. This guy is cool as a cucumber. Calm, ready, competent. And, capable.”
“But,” the Director of Human Explorations and Operations began to argue but Chief Rawlings shook his head causing her to stop.
“Ma’am, back in the glory days of Mercury 7, we sought out fighter pilots with nerves of steel, men who lived on the edge, just like Major Fox. As technology advanced, our missions changed. We needed scientists in space in order to study ways to get farther into our solar system. I get that.