Dale Brown - Executive Intent

“Range is clear, SC,” Bream reported to Boomer. “Release program up and running.”

“Checked,” Boomer said. “Counting down, thirty seconds to go.”

“Select computer control to ‘AUTO,’” Bream reminded his spacecraft commander.

“Nah, I think I’ll hand-fly this one,” Boomer said.

“The test program called for ‘AUTO’ maneuvering.”

“I asked about it, and they said it was okay.”

A moment later: “Midnight, this is Casino, select ‘AUTO’ maneuvering, Boomer,” the chief engineer of Sky Masters Inc. and builder of the test article, Dr. Jonathan Colin Masters, radioed from the company headquarters in Las Vegas. Masters was an executive vice president and chief of design for Sky Masters. “Don’t screw around now.”

“C’mon, Doc,” Boomer protested, “it’ll be okay.”

“Boomer, if we didn’t have half the Pentagon watching, I’d say okay,” Masters said. “Switch it to ‘AUTO.’ You can fly the reentry and landing.”

“You’re all as bad as the military,” Boomer said. He sighed and configured the mission computer as necessary. “Maneuvering mode set to ‘AUTO.’ Where’s the fun in that?” Moments later hydrazine maneuvering jets arrayed around the Midnight spaceplane came to life, which stabilized the craft during release and would maneuver the spaceplane away from the test article after release.

“Bay doors already open…maneuvering complete…payload locks released, extender arms powering up, standing by for release…now,” Bream reported. They heard a low rumble behind them as the extender arms lifted the payload out of the cargo bay, then several short bangs as the thrusters maneuvered the payload ahead and away from the Midnight spaceplane. “Payload in sight,” Bream radioed back to Sky Masters headquarters. “It looks good.”

The payload was the experimental Trinity mission module, a twelve-foot-long robotic multimission spacecraft with a rocket booster in the rear; maneuvering thrusters; a guidance, datalink, and sensor section in the nose; and three chambers inside. Trinity was able to reposition itself into different orbits, detect and track other spacecraft, rendezvous and even refuel with a spaceplane or the Armstrong Space Station, and deploy and retrieve packages stowed in its mission chambers.

“Lost sight of it,” Bream reported as the craft moved away in its own orbit. “Cargo-bay doors closed, the spacecraft is secure.”

“That’s the way I like every flight-boring and secure,” Boomer said. He checked the flight computer. “Looks like thirty minutes to our orbit transfer burn, and then three hours until we chase down Armstrong. Wish we could be down there to watch this thing light off.”

RONALD REAGAN BALLISTIC MISSILE TEST SITE, KWAJALEIN ATOLL, PACIFIC OCEAN

THAT SAME TIME

“We’re just two minutes to release, everybody,” Deputy Undersecretary of the Air Force for Space Ann Page announced as she lowered the headset, which allowed her to listen in on the communications between the Midnight, range control, and Sky Masters headquarters. “C’mon over here for the best view.”

It was a balmy and tranquil day on the water, but that didn’t prevent several observers from shakily stepping across the deck, holding on to railings and bulkheads. Ann felt as if she were on a cruise ship instead of a barge, and the heat and humidity that was obviously upsetting some of the observers felt heavenly to her. Fifty-nine years of age, auburn hair almost completely gray now, and with so many lines and wrinkles that she was actually considering cosmetic surgery, Ann Page nonetheless felt these were the best times of her life.

“Are…are you quite sure we’re safe, this close to the target area, Dr. Page?” a pale-faced congressional staffer asked. He was sweating so badly that she thought he had fallen overboard. “How far did you say we were?”

“Four miles,” Ann replied. “I won’t lie to you, Mr. Wilkerson: Our previous tests were very good, but not perfect. We’re launching from a platform ninety miles in space, traveling over seventeen thousand miles an hour, shooting at a wobbly target that is also spinning at nine hundred miles an hour-that’s how fast the Earth rotates. The projectiles are unguided-we use mathematics to do the aiming. That’s why the weapon is designed only for large-area or slowly moving targets. Only a computer can make the calculations, and if they’re wrong…well, we probably won’t feel a thing.” That certainly did not make the young staffer look any better, and he turned away as if looking for an unoccupied place to vomit into the ocean.

“It’s a pretty humid day out, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, so we should see a very impressive sight as the projectiles descend,” Ann said. “Sixty seconds to go. The projectiles are not overly noisy, but if you’re sensitive to loud noises you may want to put on your hearing protectors.” Most of the women put on ear protectors; most of the men did not.

“I’ve seen your presentations and animations, Miss Undersecretary,” a Navy lieutenant commander commented, scanning the instrumented target barge with a pair of binoculars, “and I still don’t see how we can invest so much money in this economic climate in such a limited, futuristic concept. It’s a waste of resources.”

“Thirty seconds, everyone,” Ann said. “It’s true it’s not a legacy weapon nor very sophisticated, Commander, but as you’ll see, it’s certainly no lightweight. As for being futuristic…well, in ten years I believe weapons such as this will be commonplace. Few heard of GPS before the 1991 invasion of Iraq; by the second invasion of Iraq, it was already indispensable. Here we go.”

“‘Mjollnir.’” The naval officer sneered. “Couldn’t you find a good ol’ fashioned American name to give it, Miss Undersecretary?”

“It’s pronounced ‘me-ole-ner,’ Commander, not ‘muh-joll-ner,’” Ann corrected him, “and we do have an American name for it, although it’s rather long, so we just learn to say ‘Mjollnir.’ And please call me Ann, okay? Stand by.”

The observers stared out into the ocean. Everything was perfectly still, and the only sounds were the waves gently tapping on the sides of the barge. Nothing happened for several moments. The Navy officer lowered his binoculars and rubbed his eyes. “Did it work, Dr. Page?” he asked irritably. He looked at his watch. “It’s been almost fifteen seconds since-”

Suddenly there was an impossibly loud ccrraacckk like the world’s largest thunderclap had just erupted directly overhead. For those observers who hadn’t closed their eyes, there appeared in the sky over the target several streaks of white vapor, like a searchlight beam had been turned on. The target barge disappeared in massive geysers of ocean water and clouds of steam towering several hundred feet into the sky. The white vapor streaks seemed to hang in the air for several moments, finally beginning to dissipate in the gentle tropical breezes. Moments later, another massive boom rolled over them as the sound of thousands of tons of seawater instantly turning to steam crashed over them.

“What…was…that?” someone asked, as if he hadn’t listened to any of the briefings on the weapon.

“That was Mjollnir, ladies and gentlemen: Thor’s Hammer, the next generation of land, sea, and space-attack weapons delivered from Earth orbit,” Ann Page said proudly. “Each payload releases a spread of four reentry vehicles, but what you saw was just one. The reentry vehicles are guided at first by satellite but then switch to infrared or millimeter-wave radar terminal guidance; it can automatically pick out preprogrammed targets or it can be steered by operators anywhere in the world or in space aboard Armstrong Space Station. The warhead that hit the target was nothing more than a five-hundred-pound chunk of titanium, but traveling at fifteen thousand miles an hour, it had the explosive impact of two tons of TNT. Mjollnir is simple, inexpensive if launched from an orbiting military base, cannot be intercepted or decoyed, and does not violate any existing space weapon treaties.