“Ann Page needs a strong voice to help sell the Space Defense Force to Congress and the American people, Patrick,” Gia said. “The defense contracting business has been slowing down since the drawdowns in Iraq and Afghanistan -maybe it’s time for you to get into the defense lobbying business.”
“Me? A lobbyist?”
“Who better to do it?” Gia asked. “People will listen to you, and you know all about technology, geopolitics, the military, foreign policy, and even how Congress operates.”
“Go back to Washington? Prowl around Capitol Hill again?”
“You won’t be a presidential special adviser, but you’ll still be Patrick McLanahan, and everyone in Congress will want to meet you, get their pictures taken with you, and listen to what you have to say,” Gia said. “You can make a difference. I’m sure former president Martindale can put you in contact with the right people, get you registered, and grease the skids for you. After that, you just tell them what you know. Give them a glimpse into the future.”
“Be a salesman for a bunch of defense contractors?”
“Not a salesman-you’d be an advocate, a spokesperson for the future U.S. military,” Gia corrected him. “You already are-you might as well get paid to do it.”
“That would mean pulling Bradley out of middle school again.”
Gia shrugged. “I’ve spent more time with him now, Patrick, and I think you’re doting on him a little too much,” she said frankly. “He’s a tough, smart, resilient kid. He’s an egghead like his old man, but I see a lot of things in him that I don’t see in you, stuff he probably got from Wendy-a thick skin, a lot more outer energy, a little attitude with folks that get in his way. But most of all, he wants to be near you-not right beside you every day; what kid wants that?-but close enough to check in on you, be a little part of whatever you’re doing. And honestly, I love Vegas, but it’s no place to raise a teenager. Washington will be much better for him.”
Patrick frowned. “Me…a lobbyist,” he muttered. “My dad will be rolling in his grave.”
“Maybe, but he won’t be one bit less proud of you,” Gia said. She snuggled closer to him. “So, Mr. Bionic Eyeball, my flight leaves in a few hours. How about you and me grab an early dinner before you drop me off at the airport?”
“Sounds good.”
At that moment Patrick’s cell phone rang-caller ID said it was his son, Bradley. “Hey, big guy.”
“Hi, Dad. How did that eye thing go?”
“No problems. I can see great. I didn’t realize how bad it was.”
“Cool. Hey, football team’s going to meet after workouts, and Coach offered to take us out for pizza afterward. I know Colonel Cazzotto is leaving today. You going to be okay?”
“No worries. My eye is better than new.” That wasn’t quite true, yet, but he really wanted the time alone with Gia. “Be home by nine.”
“Cool. Thanks. Later.”
Patrick hung up and put away his phone, then snuggled closer to Gia. “Are they going to feed you on the plane to Hawaii?”
“Ten bucks for plastic chicken in coach? No thanks. I usually bring a sandwich. Why?”
“Because we suddenly have the house all to ourselves this afternoon,” Patrick said, nuzzling her neck, “and I know of a better way to kill a few hours.”
“A few hours?” she asked with mock disbelief. “Look at you-give a guy a fancy high-tech eye and a nanotechnology pacemaker, and he starts to believe he is the Bionic Man!” But despite her kidding, he didn’t stop his ministrations, and she quickly agreed to his change in plans.
THE WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON, D.C.
THE NEXT DAY
President Joseph Gardner somehow always seemed to look polished and alert, even after being awakened in the middle of the night by a phone that did not stop ringing until he picked it up-the real emergency phone, what they called the “Batphone.” He strode into the Situation Room in the West Wing of the White House just minutes after the call; the only evidence that this was not business as usual was the slightly loosened knot in his tie. “Seats, everyone,” he said. The men and women arrayed around the large conference table quickly sat. “Something about Pakistan? Talk to me.”
“We detected a sudden deployment of a flight of Pakistani mobile ballistic missiles, sir,” Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Admiral Benjamin Kelly said. “No movements of any missiles have been announced by Islamabad.”
“Show me,” the president said.
“Yes, sir.” Kelly motioned to the Situation Room operations officer; the lights dimmed slightly…
…and in moments the conference table transformed into a huge holographic computer-generated map of Pakistan. The men and women around the conference table stood to get a better look at the incredible imagery. As they watched, mountains and valleys appeared out of the tabletop in three dimensions; rivers and cities appeared, with floating names near them. Some details were mere computer wire structures, while others were in stunning full-color photographic detail. The map slowly zoomed in to a place in western Pakistan east of the city of Quetta.
“This damn thing always gives me vertigo,” the president muttered to Conrad Carlyle, his longtime friend and national security adviser. “I feel like I’m skydiving from space. Incredible detail, though.”
“The system stitches together dozens of different sources of data-satellite and photoreconnaissance all the way to simple drawings-chooses the best and most recent info, and fuses it together into one image,” Carlyle said. “But we can go back to old maps and slides if you’d prefer.”
“After what we just paid for this thing? Not on your life.”
“ Quetta, capital of Balochistan province,” General Kelly said, pointing to the laser-projection map. “Three Shaheen-2 mobile intermediate-range ballistic missiles belonging to the Pakistan army’s Fourteenth Strategic Rocket Brigade have been deployed to presurveyed launch points east of the city.”
“What’s going on?” the president asked. “What’s the Pakistani army up to?”
“We’re not sure it is the Pak army, sir-we haven’t detected any other military units on the move,” Kelly replied.
“We’re afraid of the worst here, sir,” Gerald Vista, the director of national intelligence, interjected. “ Quetta has been largely occupied by Taliban and al-Qaeda forces since 2009, and it’s only been a matter of time before they got their hands on a missile capable of carrying weapons of mass destruction. It could also be rogue elements of the military.”
“No other deployments?”
“Standard military deployments only, sir, mostly on the Afghan and Indian borders. No other rocket deployments or alerts.”
“This is not an exercise, correct?” the president asked.
“Correct, sir. If it’s a Pakistani exercise, they didn’t announce it to us.”
“Damn,” Gardner muttered. “Do we think India has detected these rockets?”
“No sign of any Indian responses, sir,” Kelly answered.
“Let’s hope they don’t get spooked,” Gardner said. “Alert our embassies, consulates, and military units in Pakistan, India, and Afghanistan -wake them up, but don’t let them know what’s happening, yet, in case our alerts are intercepted. Get President Mazar on the phone.” Within the next few minutes, the vice president, Kenneth Phoenix, and the president’s secretary of defense, Miller Turner, hurried into the Situation Room, followed shortly thereafter by the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Taylor J. Bain, and the White House chief of staff, Walter Kordus, and they were quickly brought up to speed. “Well?” the president thundered over his shoulder to no one in particular. “Where’s Mazar?”
“An aide told us that Mazar is aware of the developments in Balochistan and he is busy getting it under control,” a communications officer said.
“Shit,” the president murmured. “He’s either lying and doesn’t know, or he knows but can’t do anything about it. What are those rockets?”