Kevin Martindale was a long-time fixture on Capitol Hill and the White House. A former Congressman and former two-term vice president, he served one term as president before being defeated by the ultra-isolationist Jeffersonian Party candidate Thomas Thorn. He had been gearing up for another run at the presidency when the Russian Air Force attacked the United States. Amidst Thorn’s decision not to seek a second term and with only twenty percent voter turnout, Martindale and Hershel — the only candidates to run for the White House that year — were elected. “Well well, the rocket boys,” he said jovially. “Welcome home.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Patrick responded. “Nice to be home.” Per protocol, he waited in place quietly until told where to go.
The President finished what he was doing then got up, stepped toward them, and shook hands with Patrick. Martindale was thin and rakishly handsome, a little more than average height, with dark secretive eyebrows, small dark eyes, and longish salt-and-pepper hair parted in the middle. He was famous for the “photographer’s dream”—two curls of silver hair that appeared on his forehead without any manual manipulation whenever he was peeved or animated. While out of office Martindale had grown a beard which had made him look rather sinister; he had shaved the beard after the American Holocaust, but kept the long hair, so now he just looked roguish. “I hope you know,” he said quietly into Patrick’s ear, not yet releasing his handshake and keeping Patrick close to him, “we created quite a ruckus out there, Patrick.”
“I was hoping so, sir,” Patrick responded.
“Me too,” the President said. “Did you get it?”
“You bet we did, sir,” Patrick replied. “Direct hit.”
“Good job,” the President said. “No radiation detected?”
“They’d be crazy to put real nuclear warheads on that test shot, sir.”
“But you checked anyway…?”
“Of course, sir. No radiation detected.”
“Great.” He shook his head with a smile. “Did the bastards really think we were going to allow them to base a nuclear-capable medium-range missile within striking distance of Diego Garcia, one of our most vital air bases in Asia?”
“Apparently so, sir,” Patrick said. “But we only took out one of those Shahab-5s — they’ve got possibly a half-dozen more ready to fly. And we know they still have as many as three or four nuclear warheads, plus any number of chemical, biological, or high explosive warheads deliverable by the Shahab-5s.”
“This one was a warning,” the President said with a smile. “We’ll keep an eye on the others and take them out if we need to.”
“Faster than you can imagine, sir.”
“Outstanding.” His voice turned serious, and the “photographer’s dream” devil’s locks slowly appeared as he went on: “I should have guessed you were going to fly the thing, but I sure as hell didn’t know you were going to go into orbit. That was unwise and unauthorized. What made you think you could do that without permission, Patrick? You work for me. I make the calls.”
“Sir, you know me,” Patrick said. “As long as I’ve been in uniform I have flown the first operational test flight of every manned aerospace vehicle coming out of the ‘Lake’ for the past twelve years. This one was no different just because we went into space.”
“Next time, mister, you tell me when you plan on flying anything, and I don’t care how high or how fast it goes,” the President hissed angrily into Patrick’s ear. “This is no longer about you and how you do things. You are special adviser to the president of the United States, in uniform or out, on the ground or in orbit. I don’t like surprises. Am I making myself fucking clear to you, General?”
Patrick was a little taken aback by the President’s admonition — he looked carefully for even the faintest glint of humor or forgiveness and, finding none, was ashamed for even looking. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He stepped back, smiled, shook Patrick’s hand warmly and firmly, and, so everyone could hear, said, “Job well done, General. Job well done.”
“Thank you, sir.” When the President looked at Boomer, Patrick continued, “Sir, may I present my mission commander and designer of the rocket engines on the Black Stallion spaceplane, Captain Hunter Noble, U.S. Air Force, call-sign ‘Boomer.’”
“Captain Noble, a pleasure to meet a real rocket scientist,” the President said. Boomer was about half a head taller than the President, but he didn’t notice that because suddenly he found it very difficult to speak or even think: he was shaking hands with the President of the United States! Now the full force of where he was hit him, and it came much more suddenly than he ever believed possible. He felt Patrick steering him to his right and someone said something about getting his picture taken by the official White House photographer, but he felt as sluggish, as if he was standing in quicksand. “‘Boomer,’ huh?” the President asked as the photographer worked. “Where did that call-sign come from — making sonic booms all the time?”
Patrick waited a few breaths to see if Hunter would answer; when he found he was still too starstruck to do so, he chimed in, “It does now, sir. But when Captain Noble started at Dreamland, most of his designs went ‘boom’ on the test stands with frightening regularity. Fortunately for us, he perfected his designs, and now he’s created the fastest, most efficient, and most reliable manned spacecraft in existence.”
“Excellent. That’s what we’re here to talk about. Take seats.” Patrick steered Boomer to the proffered chairs. The President was pointing to the others in the Oval Office as Patrick led him to his seat. “Boomer, I know you’ve met the Vice President; let me introduce Dr. Carson, secretary of state; Mr. Gardner, secretary of defense; General Glenbrook, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; and General Sparks, my national security adviser.” Both remained standing as they were introduced to the others in the room and shook hands, then took seats after the President took his seat at the head of the meeting area. “First off, General McLanahan, I want to know about the flight.”
“I’ll let my mission commander describe it for you, sir, if I could.”
“‘Mission commander?’” General Sparks commented. “Isn’t that the new Air Force term for ‘copilot?’”
“Yes, sir,” Patrick said. “I flew the spacecraft this morning.”
“You?”
“I may not wear pilot’s wings, sir, but I fly every aircraft that goes through the ‘Lake,’” Patrick said.
“Is that so?”
“Yes, it is,” Patrick said, meeting Sparks’s questioning glare with a confident one of his own, then turned to Boomer. “Captain? Tell us about the flight.” They could all see Boomer’s face turn several shades of red and his mouth open. Patrick decided he was going to give him just one more chance: “Boomer, fill us in.”
“Uh…it was…well, it was pretty routine, actually…”
“‘Routine?’” Vice President Hershel remarked, trying to help the young Air Force officer out of his funk. “Boomer, less than three hours ago you were standing on a dry lake bed in southern Nevada — now, you’re sitting in the Oval Office. In between you orbited the Earth! What’s routine about that?”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute — you say you went into orbit?” Sparks interjected, his eyes wide in surprise. “I didn’t know about this! Why wasn’t I briefed?”