Starfire

by Dale Brown

  “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.”

  SAN LUIS OBISPO REGIONAL AIRPORT

  THAT EVENING

  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-horsep
ower 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?”

  “Sure,” Brad said. He opened the entry door for her, then glanced at her business card while she admired the interior—and yes, admired a peek at her exquisite ass that was shaking at him as she looked inside the plane. “You’re based in San Francisco? That’s an easy flight too. Maybe I could pick you up in San Carlos, we can do a test flight, and maybe have lunch in Half Moon Bay?”

  “That sounds wonderful, Brad,” Yvette said.

  “Yvette. Pretty name,” Brad added.

  “Thank you. French mother and Swedish father.” She turned to him. “You are very generous with your— Oh!” Brad turned to where she was looking and was surprised to find Chris Wohl standing just a few feet away, his hands in his jacket pockets. “Hello, sir. May we help you?”

  “He’s a friend of mine,” Brad said. “Yvette, meet Chris. Chris, Yvette, a reporter from the European Space Daily.” The two looked directly at each other. “What’s going on, Chris?”

  Wohl remained silent for a few long moments, looking at Yvette; then: “There’s a few necessary items we have to cover before you depart, if you got a minute.”

  “Sure,” Brad said, blinking in surprise. Something was going on here—why didn’t Brad detect it . . . ? “Yvette, will you—”

  “I have taken up enough of your time, Brad,” Yvette said. “I can e-mail you the questions I have. If you have time before takeoff, please reply; otherwise, they can wait until we meet again after your trip.” She extended a hand, and Brad took it, and then Yvette leaned forward and gave him a kiss on his cheek. “Good luck with your flight and the test firing. I hope you have a safe trip and much success.” She then extended her hand to Wohl. “Nice to meet you, Chris,” she said. After a few rather awkward heartbeats, Wohl slowly took his right hand out of his pocket and shook her hand, never taking his eyes off hers. Yvette smiled and nodded, gave Brad another warm smile, entered her car, and drove off.

  When she was out of sight, Brad whirled toward Wohl. “What’s going on, Sergeant Major? You gave the warning code-phrase ‘necessary items.’ What’s happening?”

  “Who is she?” Wohl asked in a low, menacing voice.

  “A reporter for the European Space Daily, an aerospace blog based in Austria.” Brad gave him Yvette’s business card. “I’ve spoken to her before, at a press conference.”

  “Did you check her out before inviting her out here to meet with you one-on-one?”

  “No, but she was cleared by the university and given press credentials and access to the campus,” Brad replied, carefully studying Wohl, who looked genuinely worried about that encounter.

  “A chimpanzee can get press credentials and campus access with enough bananas, Trigger,” Wohl said, using Brad’s new call sign, given to him after the shoot-out in Paso Robles—he didn’t know if it referred to the shoot-out or to the fact that he was a horse’s ass. “You didn’t check her out, but you invited her out to your hangar, at night, alone?”

  “Dad checking in on me,” Brad said. He had forgotten that his father could access the security cameras in the hangar and monitor his cell-phone calls, and realized that Patrick had undoubtedly called whoever was closest to head out to the airport immediately and check out the reporter.

  “Probably saved your ass, Trigger,” Wohl said.

  “All right, all right, I violated standard security and countersurveillance procedures,” Brad said. “You and your team have been in town for months without one alert, one warning. Now why suddenly the warning code-phrase? How do you know she’s a threat?”

  “I don’t know for sure—yet—but I have a very strong suspicion, and that’s all I need,” Wohl said. For the very first time since Brad had been working with Chris Wohl, he saw the big retired sergeant major hesitate, as if he was . . . embarrassed? Chris Wohl, retired sergeant major of the U.S. Marine Corps, caring what the hell anyone thought of him . . . ?

  “What the hell, Sergeant Major?” Brad said.

  “I get a standard and . . . expected response from persons when I first encounter them, especially . . . especially women,” Wohl said.

  “Let me guess: they recoil in abject gut-wrenching horror at the very sight of your radiation burns,” Brad deadpanned. “Pretty much the same reaction I had when I first saw you.”

  “With all due respect, Trigger: fuck you,” Wohl said. That, Brad thought, was the real Chris Wohl he knew. “You didn’t notice it with your friend Yvette, did you? You’ve been lax in your countersurveillance tactics, haven’t you?”

  “What in hell are you talking about, Sergeant Major?”

  “Did you see the reaction from your friend Yvette when she saw me?” Wohl asked.

  “Yes. She was . . . surprised. A little.” But Brad was thinking back and reevaluating his response. “And nice.”

  “You think so, Trigger?” Wohl asked.

  “I . . .” Brad paused. Boy, he thought, I completely missed something that has the big ex-Marine concerned, maybe even . . . scared? He thought hard, then said, “She was actually very collected. True, she d
idn’t react in shock or surprise to you, like I’ve seen even grown men do. But she was polite.”

  “Polite, yes,” Wohl said. “What else? What was she really going for, being nice to the ugly weird-looking stranger that had suddenly appeared right behind her that she didn’t expect? What else was she computing, Trigger?”

  “She . . .” Brad’s mind was racing, trying to catch up with the things that Chris Wohl obviously had already divined way earlier, the things he himself should have discerned if he hadn’t been distracted by outside—meaning sexual—factors. “She . . . she was trying to decide how she was going to . . . to deal with you,” Brad said finally.

  “ ‘Deal’ with me?”

  Brad hesitated again, but the answer was painfully obvious: “Eliminate you,” he corrected himself. Holy fucking shit, Brad thought, his eyes bugged out, shaking his head in disbelief. “She was after my ass, but you came along and surprised her, and she didn’t know what to do,” he said. “She had to make a last-second decision about whether to attack or withdraw, and she decided to withdraw. Oh, shit . . . !”

  “Finally, you’re thinking tactically,” Wohl said. “You think that you if spend a few months with nothing happening that you are safe? You couldn’t be more wrong. Time always favors the patient hunter. It gives the enemy more time to do surveillance, plan, replan, and execute. You think that since the bad guys haven’t attacked in six months they’ve given up? Wrong. Moreover, you can’t afford to be more wrong.” Wohl frowned, deepening the lines in his face even more. “Tell me, Trigger: Will you ever see your friend again?”

  “Sure—when she’s done stalking me and closes in for the kill,” Brad said. “But as a reporter? No way. She’s going to dive deep underground.”