“Then we’ll downplay the land-attack thing at first,” Banderas said. “The missiles-”
“We call them ‘orbital maneuvering vehicles,’ sir,” Ann said.
The secretary of the Air Force nodded approvingly. “I like that,” he said. “Not ‘kill vehicles,’ not ‘missiles’-‘orbital maneuvering vehicles.’ OMVs. Okay, the OMVs are on board for self-protection and for ballistic- missile defense. The land-attack weapons are possible future development spirals. When can I get platforms upstairs, Ann?”
“The sensor packages and network integration was completed some time ago-the weapon interfaces have just completed R and D,” Ann replied. “We can build and launch one, perhaps two spacecraft a month. Within a year we can have sixty percent coverage and one hundred percent coverage within two years.”
Banderas nodded. “Excellent. We’ll meet to discuss where the money will come from, but because we’ll pitch this as a naval support system, we might be able to siphon some bucks out of the Navy. So what are you going to call it, Ann?”
“I thought of several names, sir,” Ann said, “but given the way we’re going to pitch this to the National Command Authority and Congress as a naval support system, I’ve narrowed it down to one: Kingfisher. The Navy won’t be as intimidated by a more globe-dominating name. Cute brightly colored little birds-the marine variety dive below the surface after fish.”
Banderas shook his head and got to his feet. “You learn something new every damn day, I guess,” he said with a smile. He held out a hand to Ann, and she shook it. “Thank you, Dr. Page. You’ve done some incredible work. We’ll see about selling this to the powers that be and get a supplemental authorization. After what happened to the Bush, I think they’ll be responsive to a system that puts more eyes out there over the horizon.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ann said. “Another question: standing up the Space Defense Force-”
“Don’t even go there, Ann,” Banderas said. “This sell is going to be tough enough without recommending forming an entire new military entity. We’ll be lucky if it doesn’t turn into a Navy program after all. Let’s get the thing built and in orbit before deciding what color to paint it, okay?” He shrugged his shoulders and added, “And the way the Air Force is faring these days, that color will probably be battleship gray.”
TWO
Beaten paths are for beaten men.
– ERIC JOHNSTON
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
JANUARY 2012
“You have the mind of a twenty-year-old, the bod of a thirty-year-old-but the eyes of an eighty-year-old?” Air Force Colonel Gia “Boxer” Cazzotto said, giving Patrick McLanahan a kiss on the cheek. Gia was tall, with straight dark hair, mischievous brown eyes, and a disarmingly shy smile-all of which disguised a woman who commanded one of America ’s few remaining heavy bomber wings. “Cataract surgery, intraocular implants-you?”
“’Fraid so, babe,” Patrick said. Patrick was a retired three-star Air Force general and one of the most highly regarded and popular military men in American history, having led mostly secret bombing missions all over the world for almost two decades, as well as the man responsible for starting America’s military Space Defense Force. But today, he was sitting up on a hospital bed in street clothes, being prepped for surgery. “I guess they’re common for astronauts, high-altitude pilots, and anyone who works where ultraviolet rays are stronger.”
“No, it’s common for old guys,” quipped Jonathan Colin Masters, who was also waiting with his friend. “Nervous, buddy?”
“A little,” Patrick admitted.
“You are the first guy to get the newest version of the e-lenses,” Jon said. “But the other versions have worked out very well, so there’s nothing to be worried about.”
“I don’t like anyone messing with my eyes.”
“Your eyes will still be blue and gorgeous,” Gia said, giving Patrick another kiss. “Heck, I might get my lenses replaced-if Jon lowers the price.”
“No military discounts-yet,” Jon said. “But in a few years, everyone will have them.” In the hour Patrick had been in pre-op, nurses had been putting various drops in his eyes every few minutes, and his pupils were fully dilated, so even tiny bits of light were bothersome. He had an intravenous line put in, but the anesthesiologist hadn’t put anything in the saline bag just yet. Patrick’s blood pressure was slightly elevated, but he appeared calm and relaxed.
Since leaving the U.S. Air Force two years earlier, he had let his hair grow a bit longer, and despite almost-daily workouts, he couldn’t keep a little “executive spread” from setting in. He still bore some scars from his time in Iraq on the ground evading Republic of Turkey fighter-bombers; the blond hair was gone, replaced by middle-age brown with a slowly rising forehead and rapidly spreading temples of gray; and the bright blue eyes were slowly being clouded by ultraviolet radiation. But otherwise he was looking good for a man approaching his midfifties.
For the umpteenth time he was asked if he had any allergies, that it was indeed his left eye they were going to operate on, and if he had anything to eat or drink in the preceding twelve hours-and finally it was time to go. Gia and Jon said their good-byes and headed for a nearby laboratory to watch the procedure on a closed-circuit monitor while Patrick was wheeled into the operating room.
The entire procedure took less than thirty minutes. After immobilizing his head and face, an eye surgeon made a tiny incision in Patrick’s left cornea, and he inserted an ultrasonic probe that dissolved the clouded left eye lens so it could be flushed away. Another tiny probe inserted the new artificial lens and positioned it in place. After several checks and measurements, Patrick was wheeled into the recovery room, where Gia was waiting for him and Jon and two other engineers from Sky Masters Inc. worked on a laptop computer set up on a desk in the recovery room. Gia kissed his forehead. “Yep, they’re still blue,” she said. “Feel okay?”
“Yes,” Patrick said. “It’s still a little shimmery and distorted, but I can already see in 3-D rather than just 2-D. I never realized how bad my vision had gotten.” He turned to Jon. “And no more glasses?”
“Glasses are so twentieth century, Muck,” Jon said. “It’ll take a while for your eye muscles to adapt to the new lens, but in a couple weeks your eye muscles will be able to flex it just like a natural lens to focus on distant, mid, and close ranges. Plus it corrects astigmatism, and it’ll last four lifetimes-you can will it to your grandkids if you want. And it can do a lot more stuff, too.” He swiveled an examination lamp around and aimed it at Patrick…
…and to his amazement, the glare in his left eye quickly dimmed. “Wow, the sunglass feature works great,” Patrick exclaimed. “No more sunglasses either!” He concentrated for a moment, and the glare returned as the electronic darkening feature deactivated. “And it’s easy to shut it off, too.”
“Same haptic interface we use in the Cybernetic Infantry Devices-you think about doing something like removing sunglasses, and it happens,” Jon said.
“No telescopic vision, like the Six Million Dollar Man?”
“That’s a few versions in the future, but we’re working on it,” Jon said. He typed commands on his keyboard. “But try out the datalink next, Muck.”
“Here goes. Maddie, status report, Armstrong Space Station.”
“Yes, General McLanahan, please stand by,” responded the computerized voice of “Maddie,” or Multifunctional Advanced Data Delivery and Information Exchange. Maddie was the Sky Masters Inc. civilian version of the “Duty Officer,” the computerized virtual assistant that listened in on all conversations and could respond to requests and questions, retrieve information, remotely unlock doors, and thousands of other functions. “Data ready, General,” Maddie said a few moments later.
“Maddie, display data.” Patrick spoke, and moments later a chart showing the military space station’s position over Earth in its orbit appeared, along with readouts of altitude, velocity, orbital period, number of personnel, and status of its major systems…right before Patrick’s eyes! “I can see it!” Patrick said. “Holy cow! This is incredible, Jon!”
