Robert Ratcliffe: Red Hammer 1994

Morgan nodded in agreement. The air force detested depending on the on-again, off-again shuttle team. The habitual delays were getting more frequent and played havoc with critical launch schedules. If it were up to Morgan, he’d scrap the entire fleet of flying dinosaurs and put them out to pasture in NASA’s stable of fancy visitor centers with the rest of the early space-years relics.

“How about the reporters?” Morgan asked. “They were pestering me all week. I got the feeling they were damn close, especially that one from the Washington bureau of Aviation Week , a nosy bastard, I forget his name.”

“Don’t think so, sir,” replied Thomas, leaning against a side table. “Just the usual stuff, guessing the payload and the orbital parameters. The consensus seemed to be an operational test of a new radar satellite.”

“Good,” said Morgan. “Want coffee?”

“No, thanks,” said Thomas, holding up his hand. He planned to get some sleep.

The big man walked over to a Formica countertop separating the conference room from a small galley. He grabbed a dingy Pyrex pot and topped off his mug. The strong aroma quickly filled the room, sending a pleasurable jolt through Thomas. Morgan grew serious.

“I talked to the people at Vandenberg; everything’s on track. They’ve beefed up security without raising undue suspicion, or so they tell me. All the telemetry stations are ready.” Morgan drew long and hard on his mug, wincing as the brew passed muster.

“We’re going to have quite an audience tomorrow for the show. CINCs or their deputies, senior service reps, and top civilians from the labs.”

“It should be impressive,” said Thomas, not sounding convinced.

“We have high hopes on this one.” Morgan flushed. “Could be the breakthrough we’ve all been praying for.” CINCSPACE cocked his head. “Something bothering you, Bob?”

Thomas hesitated. This wasn’t really the time, but it had to be said. He leaned against a swivel chair braced against the table. “I had time to think on the plane,” he said. “Timing could be off on this. The Russians have been irritable as hell lately. Laptev outdid himself yesterday. Called for the dismemberment of Ukraine. The Poles are scared; the Germans are scared; everyone’s scared. If the Russians detect the test, we could have hell to pay.”

Morgan’s brow knitted. “Are you suggesting we call off the test? After all we’ve accomplished?” Morgan stepped closer. “Laptev’s a blowhard, a one-man show.”

Thomas raised his palms in surrender. “No, sir, of course we can’t call it off. But the secretary has similar concerns, especially about the Russians’ surveillance capabilities.” Most military men had written off the hapless Russians and their crumbling space-surveillance assets, but not Thomas.

Morgan began to pace. “The Russians have a huge gap in coverage with one of their large space-surveillance radars down for maintenance. The rest of their system is marginal. Based on our computer models, we’re confident the test will be undetected. Besides, the Russians have absolutely no inkling of the breakthrough we’ve achieved. The total payload for Discovery is less than fifty thousand pounds, far less than any current estimates for an operational space-based laser system. It will be impossible for the Russians to put all the pieces together.”

The answer sounded too well-rehearsed, but Thomas held his tongue.

“Seriously, Bob, we’ve thought this through very carefully. We’ve had extensive surveillance of Vandenberg for weeks. The CIA has been closely monitoring Russian intelligence-gathering activities, especially the status of their other surveillance assets. They don’t have much left, Bob. We don’t anticipate problems. You can assure Secretary Alexander of that. I already have.” The last comment signaled that Morgan had heard enough dissension. Thomas let it go. It was late.

Thomas’s silence was the response Morgan desired. The conversation was over. “I know you want to hit the rack. I appreciate you stopping by.” Morgan’s hand shot out again.

“Good night, General Morgan.”

Morgan smiled his response. “A car will pick you up at the door at 0730 for the ride to Falcon.”

The colonel gestured at the door with his right arm. “Follow me please, General Thomas.”

The morning broke bright and clear, and the magnificent snow-capped Rockies were framed in the distance by Thomas’s frost-covered BOQ window. Thomas had thoroughly enjoyed the extra two hours picked up by traveling west. He used it to casually shower and shave and even took time to read the morning paper, which was delivered to his door.

The day’s action was at the Consolidated Space Operations Center (CSOC) residing at Falcon Air Force Base northeast of Peterson, set in the open plains of Colorado. First conceived in the early 1980s, it was now the hub for all military activities in space, pulsing with constant activity. Falcon also served as the site for the National Test Bed, a super-secret computer simulation center. It was the most powerful concentration of computing power in the free world outside the NSA at Fort Meade in Maryland.

The pleasant ride to the CSOC took less than twenty minutes through flat, open country. The morning was bitter cold for April, and the remnants of an unseasonable snowstorm clung to patches of ground bordering the highway.

“Crazy weather,” commented the same colonel from the night before, “the first part of April was beautiful with temperatures in the low seventies, and the next thing you know, we get a blizzard. The locals tell me this can happen as late as May. I’m new here.”

Thomas smiled. “I know,” he said. “I was stationed here six years ago. Loved it.”

He leaned back in the sedan’s seat, admiring the breathtaking scenery. It had a soothing effect, bringing back pleasant memories of his last operational tour before being thrust back into the insanity of the beltway.

Bob Thomas had cut his teeth as a highly decorated air force fighter pilot. Commissioned through Officer Training School in Texas, he had fortunately or unfortunately, depending on one’s view, caught the tail end of the Vietnam War flying over two hundred sorties in an F-4 out of Korat, Thailand. He never lost an aircraft over enemy territory, but had been shot up twice by heavy ground fire. On the second such occasion, he barely made it back to base, smoke pouring from his starboard engine, hunks of his elevators shot away. Slamming hard on the runway, he had skidded off and decapitated a grove of palm trees. He walked away without a scratch, much to the amazement of the frantic crash crew rushing to his rescue. His later career followed the fast track, all the way to early selection for lieutenant colonel and the coveted prize of a commanding officer’s slot of an F-15 Eagle squadron in Germany. He could do no wrong, a “head and shoulders” officer with an impeccable reputation.

But a freak accident cut short his dream command and almost his charmed life. One hot summer afternoon, an engine flameout during takeoff in a newly reworked F-15 sent him plunging into the dense tree line adjacent to the base perimeter. He luckily punched out just seconds before the fully fueled jet exploded into an orange fireball that roiled the forest. Far too close to the earth, his main chute never fully deployed. He was sent twisting and flailing into a tall pine. His broken and gashed body was rushed to the base hospital, where the expert medical staff saved his life, but not his career. A smashed pelvis left him with a distinctive limp, and a tree branch cleanly sliced his cheek open like raw meat. He lay in the hospital for weeks, depressed and despondent, nursing himself back to health, but destined never to fly his beloved fighters again. A replacement for squadron commanding officer was named before he ever left the hospital.