Stephen Coonts - Combat

He opened the cover and glanced at the introduction. “The Chinese attack on our satellites is the beginning of a new stage of warfare, one that we are completely unprepared for. Even if the source of the attacks is found and destroyed, the technology now has been demonstrated. Others, hostile to U.S. interests, will follow the Chinese example.

“Defender is a vehicle designed to protect spacecraft in orbit from attack. It uses proven technology. Please consider this concept as an option to protect our vital space assets.”

Below that was a long list of names, presumably people who either endorsed the idea or who had helped him with the design. Wilcox scanned the list. They were helpers. He didn’t recognize any of the names, and there were none with a rank attached.

He skimmed the document, watching the clock but increasingly absorbed in the design. Ray had done his homework, although his haste was obvious. At least the art was good. Diagrams were important for the higher-ups. They had problems with numbers and large words.

The phone rang, and Wilcox picked it up. “We need you in five,” his assistant reminded him.

“I’ll be there,” Wilcox replied, and hung up.

He sat for another ten seconds, thinking and staring at the screen. All right, Ray’s got a hot idea, and he wants to share it. In fact , Wilcox realized, he wants me to share it, to send it up the line. He’s trying to jump-start the design process.

Wilcox knew, and so did anyone else who worked for the DoD, that it took million of dollars and years of effort to produce a design like this, and that only happened after an elaborately crafted Requirement for such a design was issued by the Pentagon. The U.S. didn’t have time for that kind of deliberate care.

Wilcox knew it was a good idea. The U.S. had no way of protecting their satellites.

Taking the few minutes it needed, he had the computer call up his address book and flagged ten names. Most were senior engineers, like him, but a few were military officers of senior rank. He wanted to see if they were still capable of recognizing an original idea when they saw it.

That morning, Ray had sent his document out to over thirty friends and colleagues. All had clearances, and all worked in some area of defense. By lunchtime, eight hours after its transmission, over 150 copies existed. By close of business, it was over five hundred and growing.

Captain “Biff” Barnes was more than ready to leave for the day. His skills as a pilot were supposed to be essential for this project, but he spent most of the day wrestling with the Pentagon bureaucracy.

“Biff’s” name was Clarence, but he’d acquired the nickname, any nickname, as quickly as he could. He hated “Clarence.” Barnes was a little short, only five-eight, but average for a pilot. He kept in very good shape, counting the months and weeks until his desk tour was finished. His thin, almost angular face showed how little fat he carried. His hair was cut as short as regulations would allow. The Air Force didn’t like bald pilots, but he’d have shaved his head if he could.

He’d flown F-15s before being assigned to the Airborne Laser project. He understood the work was important, but doing anything other than flying was a comedown. He’d been promised a billet in an F-22 squadron once this tour was complete.

His job was interesting, when he actually got to do it. He had to determine, as accurately as possible, how vulnerable aircraft were to laser attack. He’d gotten to look at a lot of foreign hardware up close, and his degree in aeronautical engineering was proving quite useful.

But most of the time he futzed with the system. Some congressman wanted to be briefed on the status of the project. That was easy. Some other agency didn’t want to provide information he needed. That took some doing. The General Accounting Office wanted to review their phone records. Or some reporter on a fishing expedition filed a Freedom of Information Act request. That had to be dealt with immediately.

Because the project was classified, and only a limited number of people could be cleared into the program, everyone involved had to do double or triple duty. The junior troops, like Barnes, drew most of the nasty ones.

He couldn’t have dodged the latest flap, anyway. A government office concerned with equal opportunity needed to know if Barnes, who was African American, felt his “capabilities were being fully utilized,” and had included a five-page form to fill out. He’d used all of the comments section to share his feelings about “utilization.”

He sat at his desk, closing up files and locking his safe, but still reluctant to go without something productive to show for his day. He checked his mail, at that point even willing to read Internet humor.

The page opened, and the first thing he noticed was another two copies of the Defender document, from separate friends at Maxwell and Wright-Pat. He’d gotten the first one yesterday morning from a pilot buddy at March Air Force Base in California, and another copy later in the day. He’d tabled it then, busy with paperwork, but his mind was ready for distraction now.

He opened the file and almost laughed when he saw the cover. Someone had taken the new VentureStar, a single-stage-to-orbit space vehicle, and tried to arm it, using “his” laser. The introduction had touted it as a way of defending the GPS satellites.

A worthy goal, although Barnes had no expectation that this lash-up was anything more than a time-wasting fantasy. Still he was motivated by curiosity to see what this McConnell had said about the Airborne Laser.

Carried by a modified Boeing 747, the Airborne Laser could engage ballistic or cruise missiles, or even aircraft, at long range. Just what range was one of the problems Barnes was trying to solve. The prototype aircraft, which had been flying for several years, was still in test, proving not just the laser but the basic concept of engaging aircraft with a beam of light. How much did weather affect it? What if some country developed a cheap antilaser paint?

McConnell had taken the laser out of the 747 and mounted it in the cargo bay of the spacecraft. Barnes flipped to the section labeled “Laser Weapon,” and started to read. Whoever this McConnell was, thought Barnes, he didn’t write science fiction. He hadn’t made any obvious mistakes, but he didn’t have detailed information, which of course was classified. There certainly wasn’t any weather in space. The laser would be much more effective in a vacuum.

But what about targeting? He started working through the document, answering questions and become increasingly impressed with McConnell’s idea.

He knew about spacecraft, not only because of his degree but because he’d actually been selected for the Astronaut Corps after his first squadron tour. He’d flown one mission, but then left the program. He hated the constant training, the public relations. And what he really hated was the lack of flight time.

Barnes’s stomach growled, and he looked up from the screen to see it was seven-forty-five. He’d missed the rush hour, anyway. Biff said, “Print file,” and pages started to fill the hopper. He wanted to show this to his buddies.

Barnes pulled himself up short. His friends would be interested, but they didn’t have security clearances, and the cover message had explicitly asked that it not be shown to anyone who wasn’t cleared. Respect for the design made him want to respect the author’s wishes, and treat it seriously.

The Vietnam Crisis, another Desert Storm/Balkans exercise in U.S. diplomacy, had suddenly transformed itself into a much wider challenge. McConnell proposed this Defender as an answer — maybe the only answer, since he hadn’t heard of any others.