“Most likely it was done by General Buzhazi,” Patrick said. “He’s making good on this promise to wipe out the theocracy. I never would have expected him to assassinate them, but I believe that’s what he’s done.”
“I haven’t heard McLanahan deny he had anything to do with it!”
“Patrick? Let’s hear it,” the President said.
If Patrick was stung by the accusation or the President’s request, he didn’t show it. “We have no spaceplanes or weapons of any kind in orbit, sir,” Patrick responded.
“What about the satellites that shot you that overhead imagery?” Gardner asked. “How many other satellites do you have in orbit?”
“We have a constellation of four NIRTSats in a circular orbit, initially providing surveillance and communications support for the Black Stallion mission and now providing surveillance on northern and central Iran,” Patrick replied. “Those satellites will cease operations in about six days. We are in the process of launching another constellation of more persistent reconnaissance satellites in an elliptical orbit over eastern Russia, maintaining a longer-term watch over the Kavaznya ground-based anti-satellite laser site. We have no other spacecraft in orbit.”
“Kavaznya? Why in hell would you watch Kavaznya?” Vice President Hershel remarked. “That place was destroyed decades ago…by you.”
“We believe the Black Stallion spaceplane was hit by a high-powered laser from the vicinity of Kavaznya,” Patrick said.
“What…?”
“You have proof of this, Patrick?”
“No, ma’am. That’s why we’re going to launch the surveillance satellites as soon as possible.”
“If the Russians want to complain about spaceplane overflights, maybe we should complain about our aircraft being shot at by their laser!”
“I’d rather not, ma’am,” Patrick said. “I’d like time to get some photos and gather more intel first.”
“Why — so you can plan and carry out another sneak attack on Russia?” Secretary of Defense Gardner asked derisively. “That’s your style, isn’t it, McLanahan — keep all the intel you gather for yourself and lash out without getting permission? You follow the old saying: better to ask forgiveness than ask permission. Right, General?”
“Enough, Joe,” the President said. “I was in the White House when the Russians first fired that thing, and it was the most terrifying weapon we’ve ever encountered except for their nuclear missiles. We rely on spacecraft a lot more than we did twenty years ago. If it was Kavaznya, the Russians must shut it down immediately, or we’ll destroy it again.”
“You sure you want to restrict the spaceplane fleet now, in light of this new development, Kevin?” Maureen Hershel asked sotto voce. “If we had to move against that laser, the spaceplanes might be the only weapon system short of a sub-launched ballistic missile that can take it.”
“The spaceplanes stay restricted,” the President said, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. “We’ll deal with Kavaznya diplomatically. Got that, Patrick?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jonas, I want to know everything about that laser site as soon as possible,” the President said. “General McLanahan, cancel your plans to insert that new satellite constellation to watch over Kavaznya. Let General Sparks coordinate intel work with the National Reconnaissance Office and the NSA — the Air Battle Force does have a habit of giving out information only after the fact.”
“That’s not our intention, sir,” Patrick argued, in a more defensive tone of voice than he’d intended. “We share all our information in a timely…”
“General.”
“Yes, Mr. President, we’ll cancel our constellation setup immediately.”
“Thank you.” The President nodded to his chief of staff, who immediately hit the “OFF” button on the videophone device.
“I accept that you’re bringing McLanahan back to the White House, sir,” National Security Adviser Sparks commented after the videophone terminal had gone dark, “but I will not take any more reports or requests of any kind from him unless I ask for them first. He can sit in the basement and twiddle his thumbs all day for all I care.”
“I’ll have plenty for him to do,” the President said.
“That’ll be important if we intend on protecting him under executive privilege,” chief of staff Minden pointed out. He accepted a folder from an aide that had hurried into the Oval Office. “The various legal advisers to whatever Congressional committee who wants to subpoena him will surely find out if he’s just taking up space in a basement office. If they believe we’re just hiding him here, they’ll pierce the executive privilege veil easily.” He paused, then said, “And here’s the first subpoena: the Senate Armed Services Committee, naming all the usual players in the White House, including McLanahan. Requested by Senator Barbeau as ranking member but signed off by the chairman.”
“Hand it over to the counsel’s office and winnow the list down.”
“Yes, sir,” Minden said.
“It might help if you spoke with Senator Barbeau yourself, Mr. President,” Secretary of Defense Gardner suggested. “Privately.”
The President glanced over at Minden, noticed the conspiratorial smile on his face, and scowled at both of them. “Are you pimping for me now, Joe?”
“We know exactly what the woman wants, what motivates her, and what tantalizes her,” Minden said seriously, yet the smile remained. “She’s as hard to read as a Playboy centerfold.”
“Stick to the issues, Carl.”
“What she wants, other than ever-increasing doses of power and influence, is a strong long-range attack force based on manned and unmanned bombers — built and based in Louisiana, of course,” Gardner said. “The Pentagon wants a balanced, powerful, flexible, effective force, composed of land-based bombers, sea-based attack aircraft, and ballistic missile submarines. Spaceplanes might be thrown into the mix, but they’ll take at least ten and perhaps twenty years to develop. If we put them on the back burner and rebudget the money, we can have a robust force of bombers and attack planes on the line in five years — less than half the time it’ll take to build McLanahan’s gadgets.”
“It’s McLanahan’s contention that the bombers and carrier-based aircraft represent outdated twentieth century technology,” Vice President Hershel said. “The spaceplanes represent the twenty-first century. They’ve proven they can do the job, even in this initial phase of operational testing.”
“Employed properly that may be so, Miss Vice President,” Gardner said. “But right now only one man knows how to use the damned things.”
“You mean, because that one man is Patrick McLanahan, you want to put the entire program on the back burner?”
“I just don’t trust the guy, that’s all, Miss Vice President,” Gardner said, spreading his arms resignedly. “Any other general would have requested permission to fly those spaceplanes over Russia, or at least notified us ahead of time. Not McLanahan. And it’s not the first time he’s sprung a surprise on the White House or Pentagon.”
“He gets the job done…”
“He’s not the guru everyone thinks he is,” Gardner argued. “Not long ago, McLanahan was clamoring for more money for his robot bombers, hypersonic missiles, and fancy airborne lasers…”
“That was before the American Holocaust, Joe.”
“Exactly. Now we have no bombers in the inventory, except for a handful of those robot planes. That’s the force that needs to be rebuilt again, not spaceplanes. McLanahan is delusional. He has this inflated ego that makes him think he’s got all the answers…”
“This is not about the man, but the weapon system…”
“Unfortunately they seem to be one and the same right now, ma’am,” General Sparks said. He turned to the President and added, “I agree with SECDEF, sir: if we place all our trust and funding into these spaceplanes, we may not see a return on our investment for twenty years — if at all.”