After receiving several degrees in physics, aeronautical and electrical engineering, and astronautics, Ann became the chief engineer and project manager of the most ambitious and topsecret defense program ever devised: Skybolt, a space-based laser weapon system, installed on Armstrong Space Station, America’s first military space station. Originally designed for the SpaceBased Radar system for the U.S. Air Force, Armstrong Space Station — nicknamed the “Silver Tower” because of its special silvery coating to protect itself from enemy laser attacks — with its two large electronically scanned radar arrays three times as big as a football field had been expanded and transformed from an unmanned radar array to a manned military space station.
Armstrong and Skybolt’s involvement in a Russian invasion of Iran over a decade earlier was crucial, and Ann Page and the station’s firebrand commander, Air Force Brigadier-General Jason Saint-Michael, became instant heroes. But the political controversy that arose over the offensive use of Skybolt — it proved to be just as effective as an anti-aircraft and anti-ship weapon as it was a defensive anti-ballistic missile weapon — became too much of a foreign affairs liability for the American administration. Skybolt was canceled, and Armstrong Space Station was converted once again to an unmanned orbiting platform, with only occasional maintenance visits made.
But the end of Skybolt didn’t mean the end of Ann Page. She continued to work on a variety of military, government, and even private space projects, becoming universally acknowledged as the Burt Rutan of space travel — any innovation, any new spacecraft, any risky or dangerous mission, and Ann Page was flying it. At the age of forty-eight she was elected to the U.S. Senate from California on a pro-military, pro-space exploration, and strong science education platform, even flying several times in space as a sitting U.S. senator, making speeches to Congress and doing TV talk shows and educational broadcasts to schools from space.
When the United States was hit in a sneak attack by the Russian Air Force and over a dozen air and missile bases had been destroyed, Ann Page decided not to run for re-election, and she disappeared from the world stage. What she actually did was join the U.S. Air Force as a civilian space systems designer and engineer, helping to build the next generation of space-based offensive and defensive weapons to help the United States defend itself better from another sneak attack. She was director of a secret program out of Los Angeles Air Force Base that sought to rebuild and redeploy the Skybolt space-based laser system when Patrick McLanahan asked her to join the Black Stallion program at Dreamland.
As compartmentalized as the Black Stallion project was, she had never heard of it before — but when she did, she instantly agreed to join. She had been involved with the America hypersonic space transportation system years ago, a combination scramjet-rocket-powered craft three times larger than the Black Stallion but with almost the same limited cargo capacity. Rapid and flexible access to space was the biggest challenge with working and defending space, Ann knew, and now they seemed to have the answer: the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane. Not only were two of this beautiful little aircraft actually flying, but she had been asked to be in charge of building and standing up the first air wing of these amazing spaceplanes.
Needless to say, she jumped at the chance to work with McLanahan and the XR-A9—not knowing that her first mission was just days later, where she would have to fly into harm’s way. But she was in heaven — back in space, where she belonged, leading a brave bunch of airmen in a race to defend the United States of America, just like before aboard Silver Tower.
Ann heard a soft beep in her helmet and scanned the large supercockpit multi-function display for whatever the ship’s computer was trying to tell her. “Is that the tanker?”
“Yep. Acknowledge the alert…that’s it, hit the F-ten button…you got it, and that’s the computer running the pre-contact checklist,” Boomer said. “Step twenty-one is the first crew-response item. F-ten again to go back to the main…” But another beep stopped him short. “Okay, looks like the computer is telling us that our fuel status is outside the safe contact parameters.”
“Which means…?”
“We’re within five minutes of flame-out by the time we reach the pre-planned contact point, which means we’re in deep shit unless we do something,” Boomer said. “Okay. I don’t think there’s time to send a text message to the tanker, so let’s go ahead and break radio silence, use the encrypted UHF radio, and get the tanker over here now. Hit F-three for the comm panel…” But Ann had already switched over to the proper display. “Aha, good, a fast study. You’ve got the number one radio.”
“Sunshine to Mailman,” Ann radioed.
“Check switches,” came the reply on the channel, a warning that she was broadcasting in the clear on an open frequency.
“You need to give them the code-word for…”
“Screw that, Boomer,” Ann said. On the radio again she said, “Mailman, just put the pedal to the metal and get the hell down here now ’cuz we’re skosh on gas. You copy?”
There was a slight pause; then: “We copy, Sunshine. Pushing it up.” Within five minutes, the fuel warning went away as the tanker accelerated and the rendezvous point moved farther south. Once the two aircraft were twenty-five miles apart, the KC-77 tanker started a left turn heading north along the center of the Caspian Sea, rolling out precisely in front and a thousand feet above the Black Stallion in a picture-perfect point-parallel rendezvous.
“Genesis to Sunshine,” Boomer heard on his encrypted satellite transceiver.
“It’s God on GUARD,” he quipped. “Go ahead, Genesis.”
“Just a reminder: don’t zoom past the tanker on this one,” Patrick McLanahan said. “You’ll have one chance to plug him.”
“Do I have to have someone back home looking over my shoulder from now on?” he asked.
“That’s affirmative, Boomer,” Patrick responded. “Get used to it.”
“Roger that.”
The faster rejoin and precision maneuver was sorely needed, because as the refueling nozzle made contact with the XR-A9’s receptacle, the “FUEL CRITICAL” indication sounded again — they had less than ten minutes’ worth of fuel remaining. “Mailman has contact,” Boomer and Ann heard through the boom intercom.
“Sunshine has contact and shows fuel flow,” Ann acknowledged. “You’re a very welcome sight, boys. Drinks are on me back home.”
“We’re a Cabernet crew, ma’am,” the tanker pilot said.
“The copilot doesn’t like being called ‘ma’am,’” Boomer said. “Now you owe her a shot.”
“The tanker crew’s money’s no good in any bar I’m sitting in,” Ann said. “Just keep the gas coming.”
Hunter Noble rejoined with the tanker once more to top off, turned east over the Caspian Sea, and blasted the Black Stallion over Kazakhstan.
“Boomer, I’m altering your flight plan for your return,” Patrick radioed. “Instead of heading southeast and doing two orbits to line up for landing back at Dreamland, I’m going to have you go north direct for home. I want the Black Stallion turned and ready for another mission ASAP.”
“Fine with me, sir,” the aircraft commander replied. He called up the flight plan being datalinked to his flight control computers and made sure it was being properly received and processed.