Able One

by Ben Bova

  Foster shrugged his lean shoulders. “Some analyst from the NIC came up with the idea.”

  “And I’m supposed to turn tail and run home because some academic has a theory?”

  “It’s a long shot, maybe, but—”

  The President jabbed a forefinger at Foster’s ice blue eyes. “Norm, I’m not going to run away from a goddamned theory.”

  “If they do hit ‘Frisco…” Foster left the thought dangling.

  “And if they don’t I’ll look like a goddamned coward!” the President snapped. “I’m supposed to be the leader here. Hell, the real reason I’m going to San Francisco is to calm the people down over this satellite business.”

  “They could deliver half a megaton smack on the Cow Palace,” Foster said, his voice as calm as if he were quoting stock market quotations.

  “Two missiles. That’s all they’ve got, right? We’ve got a missile defense system, don’t we? God knows I’ve taken enough flak for cutting the funding on that system. Okay, now’s the time for them to show what they can do.”

  “That’s crazy,” Foster said flatly. No one else in all of Washington, all of the government, would speak to the President that way. But Foster could. He’d been with The Man since the President had been a very junior congressman. He’d guided him through elections and conventions and nominations and finally into the White House.

  The President stared at his old friend and adviser, tight-lipped.

  “Now look,” Foster went on. “You can’t trust your life to that cockamamie missile defense system and you know it. Half its tests have been out-and-out failures.”

  “They’ve had three successes in a row.”

  “It’s like trying to hit a bullet with another bullet.”

  “But they’ve had three successes in a row,” the President insisted. “They’re working out the kinks in the system.”

  “And you’re going to put your life on the line based on that?”

  For a moment the President did not reply. Then he said slowly, “We have military satellites watching their launch pad, don’t we?”

  Foster nodded tentatively.

  “If and when they launch you can pull me out of San Francisco, okay?”

  “The missiles can reach ‘Frisco half an hour after they’re launched. You couldn’t even get to Air Force One in half an hour from the Cow Palace.”

  “I’m not going to run away based on some analyst’s theory,” the President insisted. “I’m not going to look like a coward. Or a fool.”

  “But—”

  The President ticked off points on his fingers. “One, the idea that they’ll try to hit San Francisco is just a theory cooked up by some academic with a computer scenario, right? Two, from the briefings I’ve had, the North Korean missiles probably couldn’t reach San Francisco.” He grinned at his old friend. “Y’see, I do listen to those briefings. And I remember ‘em.”

  Foster shook his head. “They do have the range, according to this analyst.”

  “Three, we have a defense system that can shoot those missiles down while they’re still thousands of miles from San Francisco.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Four, I’m not turning tail. That’s final.”

  “Final?”

  “Final.”

  Foster knew when to give up. “Okay. You’re the boss.”

  “Damned right I am.”

  With a sigh, Foster pushed himself up from the seat and, grinning, gave his President a sloppy military salute. The President grinned back at him and snapped off a crisp salute in return.

  But as he left the President’s compartment, Foster found himself wishing that he didn’t have to be on this plane with his boss. He had the distinct feeling that they were flying to their deaths.

  National Weather Service Headquarters, Salem, Oregon

  “I wish we had some satellite data,” muttered Sid Golden. “I feel like a blind man groping through this storm.”

  Golden was not tall, but very broad in the shoulders, with heavy, well-muscled arms and legs. In his youth he had been a good enough baseball player to get a tryout with the Los Angeles Angels. He’d shown up at the camp filled with hopeful excitement, but badly sprained his left knee on the very first day. He went to college that autumn, eventually got his degree in meteorology. Now, his thinning hair barely covering his pate and his belly rounded from years of doughnuts and pizzas, he leaned back in his creaking desk chair and glowered unhappily at the blank electronic map on the wall above his desk.

  Ralph Brancusi shook his head. “No satellite data. We’re just gonna hafta figure this one out the old-fashioned way.”

  Golden stuck a finger in his mouth and then held it high, as if testing the wind. To his surprise he felt a slight draft coming from the vent up near the ceiling of his office.

  Brancusi laughed. He was short, lean, wiry. Golden secretly envied him his thick waves of dark hair.

  “Come on, Sid. We’ve gotta get an eleven o’clock forecast out on the wire.”

  “Rain and cold,” Golden growled. “Snow in the higher elevations.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  “Who the hell knows? More of the same. The storm’s moving inland. It’ll probably develop into a full-scale blizzard once it clears the Rockies.”

  “We oughtta get a warning out, huh?”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Golden. “I just wish we had some satellite imagery. This is like being back in the mother-humping Stone Age.”

  The Pentagon: Situation Room

  General Higgins didn’t like Jamil’s looks. Must be an Arab, he thought. Or at least Arab descent. Put a turban on him and he’d be a poster boy for those damned terrorists.

  Aloud, though, he asked General Scheib, “If they launch those two remaining missiles, can your people shoot them down?”

  Scheib glanced at Zuri Coggins before replying, “We’d have a good chance to do that.”

  Higgins’ jaws clenched visibly. “And just what in hell does that mean, Brad, ‘a good chance’?”

  Sitting up straighter in his chair, Scheib answered, “The system has been declared operational.” He paused, then added, “Sir.”

  Coggins said, “The White House made that pronouncement during the Bush administration. George W.”

  “Operational,” Higgins echoed. Scheib said, “We’ve shot down test missiles out over the Pacific from our Fort Greely site in Alaska. Our record isn’t one-hundred-percent perfect, of course, but it’s improving with every test we fly.”

  “You’re hitting a target missile with a missile of our own, right?” asked the admiral sitting next to General Higgins’ aide.

  “That’s right,” Scheib replied. “It’s the kinetic kill mode. Bash the warhead with an interceptor vehicle.”

  From the end of the conference table, Jamil asked, “What about decoys?”

  With a slight grimace, General Scheib admitted, “That could be a problem. If the missile releases decoys when it detaches its warhead, our people have to figure out which object has the warhead in it and which ones are dummies.”

  “How much time do you have to do that?” Zuri Coggins asked.

  “If the missile’s in midcourse, coasting after its rocket engines burn out, we could have as much as ten, fifteen minutes.”

  “They can tell which object is the warhead?”

  “Not with one-hundred-percent reliability. It’s something we’re working on.”

  “Working on?” asked one of the civilians, looking shocked.

  “For what it’s worth,” Jamil said, “if the North Koreans try to reach San Francisco their missiles probably don’t have the throw weight to carry both a warhead and decoys.”

  “You’re certain of that?”

  Jamil nodded. “Reasonably certain. Of course, if they strike at Honolulu or another target that’s not as far as San Francisco, then they could include a set of decoys to spoof the defense.”

  “Wonderful news,” General Higgins muttered.

>   Coggins turned to the admiral sitting across the table from her. “What about the Aegis ships? Can they shoot down the missiles?”

  “If they’re in the right position. It’s easiest to spot them when they’re in the boost phase, with their rocket engines still burning. Once the engines burn out and the missile goes into its midcourse coasting phase, it gets harder.”

  Coggins nodded uncertainly.

  “That’s why we’re rushing two battle groups into the Sea of Japan. Closer to the launch site, so we’ll have more time to shoot at them.”

  “They wouldn’t release any decoys in boost phase,” General Scheib added. “The warhead would still be attached to the main body of the missile.”

  Higgins said, “So we have your anti-missiles in Alaska and California, and the Navy’s Aegis ships in the Pacific.”

  “Heading for the Sea of Japan,” the admiral added.

  “And that’s it?” Coggins asked.

  General Scheib said, “There is one additional possibility.”

  “What?”

  “The Airborne Laser. ABL-1.”

  “What’s Able One?” Coggins asked.

  “It’s a megawatt-plus laser carried aboard a 747 jet. The laser can shoot down a missile—”

  “A ray gun?” Coggins asked, her face clearly showing disbelief.

  “It works,” Scheib said. “At least, it’s worked in flight tests so far. If they can get close enough to the missile. The laser’s range is only a hundred miles or so, a hundred and fifty, max.”

  “So you’d have to get the plane to North Korea for it to be effective,” Higgins said.

  “It’s in Alaska right now, for testing under bad-weather conditions.”

  “A ray gun,” Coggins repeated.

  “It’s a laser,” Scheib corrected. Hunching forward eagerly in his chair, he went on. “Its beam can reach out a hundred miles or so from the plane and hit the missile while it’s in boost phase. Deposit a megawatt or more of energy on a square inch of the missile’s skin for a second or so and it burns through the aluminum skin. The missile explodes.”

  “But the missile isn’t standing still for you.”

  Scheib let a tight smile crease his face. “That laser beam strikes with the speed of light. Nothing in the universe goes faster. In the time it takes the beam to cover a thousand miles, the missile moves maybe one foot.”

  Coggins blinked down the table at the general, absorbing this information. “And the beam blows up the missile?”

  “It burns through the missile’s skin and goes through to the propellant tanks,” Scheib replied. “Remember what happened to the space shuttle Challenger? The way it exploded when its propellant tank burned through? Boom! That’s what happens to a missile when that laser beam hits it.”

  “You said the laser plane is in Alaska?” asked Higgins.

  “At Elmendorf Air Force Base, sir. The evaluation program calls for tests in a foul-weather environment.”

  With a huff, Higgins muttered, “Plenty of foul weather up there, God knows.”

  “The plane operates above the weather, of course. Forty-thousand-foot altitude or higher.”

  “Then what’s the point of a foul-weather environment?” Coggins asked.

  “To make sure the plane can operate under zero-zero conditions. Make certain it can get off the ground and up to its operational altitude no matter what the weather conditions on the ground. ABL-1 has to be able to react to a missile threat regardless of the weather where it’s based.”

  “Can you get the plane to a spot where it could intercept the North Korean missiles?” General Higgins asked.

  Scheib pecked briefly at the keyboard of his laptop, checked his wristwatch, then looked up. “According to its schedule, it’s just about to take off from Elmendorf for a test flight over the northern Pacific. There’s a four-hour time difference between here and Alaska.”

  General Higgins glanced at Zuri Coggins, who nodded.

  “All right,” said the general. “It isn’t a test flight anymore. Get that bird to a spot where it can shoot down those goddamned missiles.”

  Scheib blinked once. “We’ll have to set up a couple of air-to-air refuelings.”

  “Do it,” said Higgins.

  “Yessir,” Scheib snapped.

  “Without violating North Korean airspace,” Coggins added. “Or Chinese airspace.”

  “I understand.”

  Coggins gave Scheib an appraising look. “Can your plane do the job?”

  The general hesitated for a heartbeat, then replied, “I’ll need a direct communications link to the plane.”

  Higgins nodded. “You’ll get the comm link. Can the plane do the job?”

  “Yes, sir, I believe it can.”

  “It better,” General Higgins growled.

  Pasadena, California: Hartunian Residence

  It was a modest split-level house on the cul-de-sac at the end of a quiet, tree-lined street. The Hartunian family had lived in it for nearly sixteen years, ever since their first daughter had been born. Even with the separation and now the divorce proceedings, Sylvia Hartunian had held on to the house. She had raised her daughters here and she had no intention of moving them away from their school, their friends, and the safety of the only home they’d ever known.

  Sylvia was a determined woman. She and Harry had been drifting apart for years. At first she thought it was his job at Anson Aerospace. He spent more hours at that laboratory than he did at home. Usually he left for work before the sun came up and arrived home long after the girls had gone to bed. Sylvia had to raise their daughters by herself, just about.

  Then Harry started going out to the Mohave Desert. Test operations, he claimed. Classified work; he couldn’t tell her anything about it. He’d be gone for several days at a time. Weekends, sometimes. Sylvia began to get suspicious, but at first she couldn’t picture Harry fooling around with another woman. Harry was a nerd, after all. He was more in love with his damned high-tech hardware than any human being, including her.

  As the weeks turned into months, though, and stretched into years, she became convinced it was more than his work that was separating them.

  It was when Harry was hospitalized after the explosion at the test facility that Sylvia realized she didn’t really have any feelings for him anymore. She went to the hospital and it was like she was visiting a stranger. She couldn’t even cry about it. She had married an engineer, a man who couldn’t or wouldn’t show his feelings; maybe he didn’t really have any. She’d thought she loved him. She bore him two daughters. But now it was all gone. Turned to ice. He lay there unconscious on his hospital bed, burned and battered, and she felt like she was looking at a stranger.

  When he came home to recuperate Sylvia kept her distance from him. She made up the guest room for him and even after he was completely healed and had gone back to work, she refused to let him into her bed. It was over. Even the girls knew it. They knew their father was a cold, unfeeling man.

  When he finally admitted that he’d had an affair with one of the women at his laboratory, Sylvia told him to get out. He acted as if he were numb, as if he’d expected them to break up but couldn’t take the first step himself. He left without an argument, without raising his voice even once, which angered Sylvia even more.

  But that was all in the past. Sylvia settled down to the task of raising her teenaged daughters by herself and found that she enjoyed being on her own, with no one to contradict her. She could sit up in bed and read all night if she wanted to.

  She was still reasonably attractive, she thought. At least that’s what her friends told her. A little overweight, but men liked zaftig women with generous bosoms. Still, she dated very little. It was just too much of a chore, too much of a stupid ritual. She’d been through it all with Harry and found that she didn’t really have any interest in going that route again.

  Sylvia took a job at their congresswoman’s local office. It didn’t pay much, but with the child support m
oney that Harry paid every month, they were getting by nicely.

  Today she was especially happy. She had a surprise for her daughters. She’d made all the arrangements and everything was set.

  At the breakfast table she announced, “No school today.”

  Her daughters looked up from their cereal bowls in surprise.

  “How come?” asked the elder, Vickie. Harry had insisted on naming her after the founder of Anson Aerospace, as if that had made any difference in his career advancement.

  “I got permission from your teachers to keep you out of class today.”

  “What’s going on, Mom?” Denise asked.

  “We’re flying to San Francisco and staying overnight in a hotel,” Sylvia told them. Beaming, she explained, “Congresswoman McClintock has given me three tickets to the big rodeo at the Cow Palace.”

  “Rodeo?” Clear distaste showed on Denise’s fourteen-year-old face.

  “Horses and all that smell,” said Vickie.

  Her smile even bigger, Sylvia explained, “You don’t understand. The President of the United States is going to officially open the rodeo. He’s giving a speech and we’re going to be sitting in the front row!”

  “The President?” Denise looked truly surprised.

  But Vickie moaned, “That phony. He said he was going to start a big green-energy program and he hasn’t done a thing.”

  “Congress hasn’t voted on his energy program yet,” Sylvia said firmly.

  The girls looked at each other. “I guess,” Vickie said with a resigned shrug.

  Sylvia told them, “You’ll be the envy of all your friends when you tell them you were right there with the President.”

  “I guess,” they said in unison, equally unenthusiastic.

  Teenagers, thought Sylvia.

  ABL-1: Cockpit

  Lieutenant Colonel Karen Christopher came through the cockpit hatch without needing to duck and slid easily into the pilot’s seat. It was still misty gray outside, but visibility was good enough for takeoff. She remembered one of the older jocks telling her that when the 747 was first introduced to the commercial airlines, the FAA had to raise its ceiling limits for takeoffs because the huge plane’s cockpit sat so high above the ground it was sometimes in cloud while the ground was clear enough for smaller planes to take off.