Executive Intent

by Dale Brown

  “Anytime, General,” Boomer said. “Any chance I get to fly the spaceplanes, even if it’s just haulin’ trash, I’ll take it. FYI, the major will be doing this approach and docking, so don’t be surprised if you feel or hear something hit the station in a couple hours.”

  “Thanks, Boomer,” the copilot, Air Force Major Dana Colwin, interjected. Colwin was a thirty-year-old former Air Force B-2 Spirit bomber pilot and aeronautical engineer, and had completed military astronaut training only a few months ago. She still wore her jet-black hair long, and preferred Dallas Cowboys baseball caps under her headset to keep her hair under control in zero-g.

  It would take almost two hours for Boomer and his copilot to catch up with the space station. “I’ve got a project I need you to do while we’re waiting to rendezvous, Colwin,” Boomer said.

  “Sure,” she replied. “What is it?” Boomer called up several pages of computer routines that he had downloaded from Armstrong Space Station and sent the list to Colwin’s multifunction display. “All this? This’ll take me hours.”

  “Nah. They’re diagnostic programs. When the first program finishes, it’ll direct you which ones to do next. The results all get beamed to the station, but unfortunately the computer won’t automatically select the next program to run, so you have to babysit it. Wake me when we’re five minutes out.”

  “Wake you?”

  “I’m going to inspect the cargo bay, and then I’m going to take a nap in the air lock.”

  “A nap? Are you kidding?” But Boomer unstrapped, gave her a wink, then floated though the cockpit and entered the air lock.

  The dark-haired, brown-eyed astronaut shook her head in amusement. “Okay, Noble,” she muttered, and got to work running the diagnostic programs. Hunter Noble always seemed so hyper during every flight she had been on with him, hardly ever appearing to need a nap-but she thought nothing about it and got to work. He still checked in every fifteen minutes as required, but she couldn’t see that guy actually napping back there. Oh well-spaceflight sometimes really takes it out of you, she thought, and Noble was by far the busiest pilot in the unit.

  About ninety minutes later the intercom clicked on: “How’s it going, Colwin?”

  “If you don’t mind me saying, Boomer, this is mind-numbing busywork,” she replied. “Tire-pressure histories? Hydrazine-container electrostatic checks? A monkey can do this.”

  “If it seems like it’s just busywork, Colwin, you’re right…because it was just busywork.”

  “Say again?”

  “I needed you distracted so I could finish prebreathing and suiting up.”

  “Suiting up?”

  “You’re fairly new with the spaceplanes, Colwin, but you’ve done several automatic dockings, observed a few manual dockings, practiced many times in the simulator, and we have plenty of fuel, so I think it’s time you did a manual rendezvous with the station.”

  “A manual rendezvous? Are you nuts?”

  “You have been practicing in the simulator, haven’t you? I guess we’ll find out shortly. I’ll be watching from outside.”

  “From outside…?”

  “Just don’t jostle me around too much, Colwin. Relax and do it nice and easy. Don’t cheat and turn on the computer-I’ll be checking the flight-data logs. Outer hatch coming open. Break a leg, not the spaceplane.” The large red “MASTER CAUTION” warning light flicked on, and the message OUTER HATCH UNSEALED appeared on the computer monitor.

  “Where are you, Noble?”

  “I’m just halfway out the hatch, enjoying the view.” Armstrong Space Station was about two miles away, sunlight reflecting off its silver antilaser covering, which gave the station its nickname “ Silver Tower.” “Once you’re down to less than three-meters-per-second closure rate, I’ll hop outside on the tether and use the suit’s thrusters to watch away from the ship.”

  “I feel like going to less than three mps right now, Noble.”

  “We’ve got plenty of fuel, Colwin, but not all day,” Boomer said. “You can do this. You need to do this for spacecraft-commander certification, and you know you want this. Let’s do it.”

  “This your idea of fun, Noble?” General Kai Raydon radioed from Armstrong Space Station.

  “I think Colwin’s ready, General.”

  “You’re in charge of pilot training, Noble,” Raydon said, “so you’re responsible for these little unplanned unannounced evolutions of yours. If the major dings up my station or the spaceplane, you might as well stay out there.”

  “Copy loud and clear, sir. She’ll do fine.”

  As Boomer watched from the upper hatch, one by one he saw the thrusters on the nose release tiny jets of hydrazine exhaust. Colwin used the spaceplane’s control stick and trim switches for directional control to make it easier and more intuitive, but steering a spacecraft wasn’t like flying an airplane because orbital forces dictated the path, not flight control surfaces or aerodynamics. Although the thrusters could make minor altitude corrections, “up” and “down” were controlled by forward velocity-slowing down always meant losing altitude, speeding up always meant increasing altitude, and you had to be ready to correct anytime you made a velocity change. There were other nuances as well. In space, there was in reality no such thing as a “turn”-you could either move laterally into an entirely different orbit, roll along the longitudinal axis, or you could yaw the nose in a different direction, with the actual orbital flight path unchanged.

  Normally the flight control computer controlled all of these subtleties, but computers failed quite often, so spaceplane pilots were expected to manually fly and dock the spacecraft with control, confidence, and precision before being fully certified as spacecraft commanders. Apart from a fully manual reentry and power-off landing, manual dockings were the most difficult and nerve-racking for pilots, and they practiced doing them quite often in the simulator.

  Maybe it wasn’t quite fair to unexpectedly lay this on her, Boomer thought, but it was time to see if she had what it took to qualify as a spacecraft commander. A lot of pilots stayed as mission commanders, perfectly happy to be second in command and let the computers and someone else accept all the responsibilities. Boomer was determined to separate the real spacecraft commanders from the mere pilots as soon and as safely as possible.

  The cargo-bay doors were open, and he did a quick inspection of the cargo bay for any signs of damage or debris from the target release. “Cargo bay appears secure,” he reported. “Colwin, keep the bay doors open and I’ll get into the station from the air lock after you cross over.”

  “Roger,” she replied, her voice cracking and monotone.

  He exited the cargo bay, made his way back to the entry hatch, then looked “upward” to admire the Earth. He could watch it for hours, for days. He saw Africa beneath them, thunderstorms erupting along the Mediterranean coast near Libya; the incredible vastness of the Saharan wastelands; even the little crook in the Nile River where Luxor and the Valley of the Kings were located. Then in moments, the landmarks disappeared from view, but were replaced by even more treasures: Crete, Sicily, the impossibly blue Mediterranean, Greece, the Balkans, now Anatolia.

  He always made a point on every space walk to marvel at the planet called Earth. It really was a spaceship, he reminded himself: every erg of energy, every element, every resource, every life-giving and life-sustaining particle except sunlight was already there, on that little sphere, save for a few stray atoms sent smashing in from the solar wind or from comet dust. Since the planet’s formation, the chemicals, elements, molecules, and compounds that created life had always been there, and they would never die, just be transferred into a different element, a different compound, or a different form of energy. Humans could probably kill all life as we knew it, but all the elements to rebuild life would remain on that little rock until the sun incinerated the planet in a cataclysmic supernova.

  Colwin was closing nicely with the space station, now probably five hundred meters away. When Boo
mer saw the forward thrusters fire, he carefully eased himself out of the hatch, using the tiny nitrogen thrusters on his space-suit backpack to propel him forward enough to ease the strain on his tether. “About four minutes to go, Colwin,” he radioed. “You’re doing fine.” More thruster jets, but this time he saw jets in one direction, followed immediately by spurts in the opposite direction that seemed to push the spaceplane in the opposite direction instead of just countering the first push. “Ease up on the thrusters,” he said.

  “I am.”

  The docking cradle on the space station resembled a giant garden hand spade. Colwin’s job was to maneuver Midnight into position on the spade, after which a grapple underneath the craft would gently grasp the spaceplane and a transfer tunnel would be moved into position on a separate beam beside the main entry hatch. Since the Space Shuttle was retired, these days the Midnight spaceplane was the largest craft to dock on the cradle, so there was plenty of room to spare, but if the spaceplane was not perfectly in the center and not perfectly level, the grapple might not latch, the transfer tunnel might not seal tightly enough on the air lock, and the umbilicals that would service the aircraft might have to be manually attached by a spacewalker.

  Boomer disconnected himself completely from the Midnight spaceplane when he knew he had plenty of thruster fuel in his space suit to reach an entry hatch on the station. He stowed the tether in its reel and made sure the hatch from the air lock to the cargo bay was secured, then eased himself away from the spaceplane. “I’m clear of the air-lock hatch,” he radioed. “Clear to close the main hatch and pressurize the air lock.” He watched-yes, with a little pang of panic, since now he was completely on his own-as the hatch closed and locked. “You’re a solo space pilot now, Colwin.”

  “Roger,” Colwin said in a slightly squeaky voice.

  Boomer maneuvered himself toward the front of the docking cradle, where he could watch the spaceplane enter the spade, being careful to keep out of Colwin’s sight so she wouldn’t be distracted. “How is she doing, Noble?” Raydon radioed on the secondary frequency so Colwin couldn’t hear them.

  “Very slow and cautious, but I can’t fault her for that,” Boomer replied.

  “Think this was a good idea, you leaving her alone like that?”

  “Back when I was at MIT getting my Ph.D. I remember when my Aero Club instructor pilot at Hanscom Air Force Base told me to pull my Piper Warrior over so he could hop out and I could do my first solo,” Boomer said. “He didn’t give me any warning-one minute he was sitting there, and the next minute the seat was empty.”

  “Every pilot experiences that.”

  “I know, but I thought I was such hot shit impressing the instructor that I never thought about soloing,” Boomer said. “Then when it happened so suddenly, I never felt more scared and alone. I sat there until the ground controller told me to taxi for takeoff or park it back on the ramp. I finally shook it off, flew once around the pattern, and landed. I was scared shitless, but I did it.”

  “This is a whole lot different.”

  “If she screws up, they’ll say it was the wrong decision,” Boomer said. “But she won’t.”

  Boomer had his doubts as he watched the Midnight slide forward into the cradle-he thought Colwin could’ve gotten it a little straighter and perhaps a little lower, and she was certainly slow-but eventually she got it into position. The nose of the XS-19 contacted the large docking “donut” dead center and barely recoiled as the 170,000-pound spacecraft came to a stop. “Zero closure rate, Armstrong,” she announced. “Grapple ring extended, ready for capture.”

  “Noble?” Raydon asked over the secondary frequency.

  “She’s a little off longitudinally and a little high, but I’ll bet she’s dead in the center,” Boomer said. “Grab her and reel her in slowly.”

  The cradle’s grapple moved and contacted the spaceplane’s grapple ring on the first try. “Good contact, Midnight,” the cradle operator reported. “Spacecraft moving to secure position.” It took longer than normal, but eventually the Midnight spaceplane was hauled down onto the cradle. “Spacecraft secure. Extending transfer tunnel and umbilicals. Well done, Major Colwin.”

  “Thanks, guys,” she replied a little weakly. “And, General, Boomer, thanks for trusting me to do this.”

  “Good job, Major,” Raydon said.

  “You’re welcome, Colwin,” Boomer added. “Just don’t forget to unlock the cargo-bay air-lock hatch for me when you deplane.”

  “Roger.” Boomer watched as a deplaning module motored along the service beam beside the Midnight and a transfer tunnel extended and fastened onto the spaceplane. A few moments later: “Transfer tunnel shows secure in place. Clear for pressure test.” The tunnel was pressurized to be sure it was securely in place and sealed and so there was no difference in pressure between the station, tunnel, and spacecraft. A few more moments later: “I show pressure steady.”

  “Checks, pressure equal and steady,” the deplaning module technician responded. “Clear to open your hatch, Major. Welcome back.”

  “Hatch coming open,” Colwin said. A moment later: “Inside the tunnel…main entry hatch secure, Boomer.”

  “Thanks, Colwin. Armstrong, I’m entering Midnight’s cargo bay. I’ll depressurize the air lock, come inside, repressurize, and unsuit before I come up. You can disconnect the tunnel and bring Colwin aboard.”

  “Copy that, Boomer,” Raydon replied.

  Boomer waited until he could see Colwin through the windows in the deplaning module, took another look at the incredible spectacle around him, then floated into Midnight’s open cargo bay. As the transfer tunnel began to retract back up into the deplaning module, Boomer hit a switch to depressurize the air lock, heard the pumps sucking out the air for reuse, then when completed, grabbed the hatch handle…

  …and it wouldn’t move. He tried again-no use. He looked up at the deplaning module. “Colwin, are you sure you unlocked the air-lock hatch for me?” he radioed.

  He could see Colwin’s smiling face in the window of the deplaning module as the tunnel completed retracting. As the module began moving away down the service beam toward the station, Dana Colwin waved, then replied with a question of her own: “How does it feel to be suddenly left all alone in space, Noble?”

  OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY OF THE AIR FORCE, THE PENTAGON, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THE NEXT DAY

  “Why do I get the feeling, Mr. Secretary,” Ann Page asked as she was shown to her seat, “that this is my ‘come to Jesus’ meeting?”

  Secretary of the Air Force Salazar “Sal” Banderas smiled and nodded as he returned to his chair. Standing in front of their chairs, arrayed around the conference table in the meeting area adjacent to the secretary’s office, were General Charles Huffman, the Air Force chief of staff, and General Robert Wiehl, commander of Air Force Space Command at Peterson Air Force Base, Colorado, and dual-hatted as U.S. Space Command chief. “I guess you could say it is, Dr. Page,” Banderas said. “You know everyone here, yes?”

  “Of course, Mr. Secretary,” Ann said as she shook hands with all the men in the room. They respectfully stayed standing until Ann took her seat, even Banderas. She noticed that copies of the two latest reports she had submitted to the secretary of the Air Force were before each of them, along with other reports-contrary opinions, no doubt.

  “Dr. Page, I’ll get right to it: If what you’ve said in these reports is even half true, I’m completely blown away,” Banderas said. “Two successful back-to-back tests of space-based weapons. I’m impressed. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Secretary,” Ann said. “I assure you, the results are accurate, and my conclusions and recommendations for follow-on funding, development, and deployment are as well.” She looked around the table, trying to gauge the opinions and positions of the others, but they were all too politically savvy to allow their facial expressions or body language to reveal their thoughts…not yet at least. “My office runs out of R-and-D
money for the Trinity weapon series soon. Most of the funding came from the Martindale administration, canceled programs, and funds borrowed from other areas. I’m requesting an increase in funding for 2014 through 2020 and a supplemental for the rest of this fiscal year and for the next.”

  “To do what, Dr. Page?” General Huffman asked. He opened her report to a tabbed page. “You want to spend twenty billion dollars this next fiscal year plus ten billion a year for the next ten years to launch forty-eight ‘weapon garages’ into low Earth orbit, armed with these Trinity kill vehicles? That’s twenty percent of our current budget! Where in the world did this plan come from?”

  “The plan came from a continuing request from Congress for persistent, global, rapid strike following the destruction of the manned bomber and land-based intercontinental ballistic-missile forces after the Russian bomber attack on the United States, General,” Ann replied. “President Gardner’s response was to add four aircraft carrier battle groups over the next ten years at a cost of ten billion dollars a year.”

  “It’s proven technology at less cost, Ann,” Banderas commented.

  “But it doesn’t fulfill the mandate, Mr. Secretary,” Ann said. “Even with sea-launched cruise missiles, which our adversaries are better able to detect and destroy, the Navy can hold less than thirty percent of all strategic targets in Russia and China at risk. Even against those targets we can reach, even a sixteen-carrier fleet could take days to be in a position to attack, and then its ability to attack is affected by environmental conditions. And as we saw just recently, the carrier is becoming more and more vulnerable to a wider array of threats.”

  “The argument’s been made that long-range strike is no longer necessary,” Banderas said flatly. “After the American Holocaust, strategic attack was all but killed off.”

  “I think the same was said before the American Holocaust, sir,” Ann said. The American Holocaust was a Russian sneak attack using supersonic low-yield nuclear-tipped cruise missiles on American antiballistic-missile defense launch and radar sites, intercontinental ballistic-missile launch control centers, and long-range bomber bases. The attack killed several thousand persons, injured hundreds of thousands more, and in effect destroyed America ’s land-based nuclear deterrent. America ’s counterattack took place shortly thereafter, when Patrick McLanahan led a force of the surviving B-52, B-1, and B-2 bombers to capture a Russian air base in Siberia, from which he staged search-and-destroy missions throughout Russia that destroyed the majority of Russia ’s fixed and mobile intercontinental ballistic missiles.