“The new lens is really a microthin liquid crystal display and datalink receiver, powered by your eye muscles,” Jon said. A mirror copy of the display was playing on Jon’s laptop. “Right now you can access information only through Maddie, so it’s limited to Sky Masters facilities, but we’re working on a way to link into any wireless data source. Pretty soon you’ll be able to tap into any sensor, radar, satellite download, any computer, the Internet, or any video broadcast, and watch it as if you were sitting right at the console. We’re working on ways to be able to control computers and other systems that you are seeing as well.”
“Maddie, close the display.” Patrick spoke, and the image went away. “Pretty cool, Jon. But I am starting to feel like the Six Million Dollar Man, though-new implantable cardioverter defibrillator, new implanted telecommunications device, and now an electronic eye.”
“I appreciate you offering to be a Sky Masters guinea pig, Muck,” Jon said. “We’re getting approvals for the new stuff that much faster because you’re a famous guy and you’re already so wired for sound that we can collect gobs of data on how the new gadgets are working. Speaking of which, how about we run through a few of the display functions so we can-”
“I’ve got a better idea, Jon-how about I take Patrick home, make him lunch, and let me visit for a while before I have to get back to my unit?” Gia interjected. “Tomorrow you can fine-tune him all you want.”
Jon rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. “Another woman standing in the path of scientific advancement,” he deadpanned. Gia stood, towering over him, and gave him a friendly smile but a very direct glance. Jon held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, but first thing tomorrow, we run your new eyeball through its paces, Muck. See ya.”
Gia wheeled Patrick through the Sky Masters laboratory and out to his waiting car, then drove them to his home in Henderson, just southeast of Las Vegas. The air was a little cool, but Gia and Patrick still enjoyed sitting outside, so they turned on gas patio heaters, snuggled under a comforter, and sipped hot tea while looking out at the view past their tiny yard with its swim-spa and out through the wrought-iron fence across to the golf course, with Henderson Airport beyond it. “I can actually see airplanes out there now,” he commented. “So you’re off to RIMPAC tonight?”
“RIMPAC’s not until June, but the participants are meeting in Hawaii to start the final planning,” Gia said. RIMPAC, or Rim of the Pacific, was a large-scale naval warfare exercise involving Western allied navies and other invited participants and observers. “This is the first time since the American Holocaust that the U.S. Air Force will be involved.”
“About time,” Patrick commented. “They should get Armstrong Space Station and the Space Defense Force involved, too.”
“They should, but they’re not,” Gia said. “Secretary Page met with Pacific Command several times and offered services, but they were turned down every time.”
“They’re afraid that Armstrong will smoke them-all of those carriers are vulnerable to Armstrong and its weapon garages,” Patrick said.
“Ann Page needs a strong voice to help sell the Space Defense Force to Congress and the American people, Patrick,” Gia said. “The defense contracting business has been slowing down since the drawdowns in Iraq and Afghanistan -maybe it’s time for you to get into the defense lobbying business.”
“Me? A lobbyist?”
“Who better to do it?” Gia asked. “People will listen to you, and you know all about technology, geopolitics, the military, foreign policy, and even how Congress operates.”
“Go back to Washington? Prowl around Capitol Hill again?”
“You won’t be a presidential special adviser, but you’ll still be Patrick McLanahan, and everyone in Congress will want to meet you, get their pictures taken with you, and listen to what you have to say,” Gia said. “You can make a difference. I’m sure former president Martindale can put you in contact with the right people, get you registered, and grease the skids for you. After that, you just tell them what you know. Give them a glimpse into the future.”
“Be a salesman for a bunch of defense contractors?”
“Not a salesman-you’d be an advocate, a spokesperson for the future U.S. military,” Gia corrected him. “You already are-you might as well get paid to do it.”
“That would mean pulling Bradley out of middle school again.”
Gia shrugged. “I’ve spent more time with him now, Patrick, and I think you’re doting on him a little too much,” she said frankly. “He’s a tough, smart, resilient kid. He’s an egghead like his old man, but I see a lot of things in him that I don’t see in you, stuff he probably got from Wendy-a thick skin, a lot more outer energy, a little attitude with folks that get in his way. But most of all, he wants to be near you-not right beside you every day; what kid wants that?-but close enough to check in on you, be a little part of whatever you’re doing. And honestly, I love Vegas, but it’s no place to raise a teenager. Washington will be much better for him.”
Patrick frowned. “Me…a lobbyist,” he muttered. “My dad will be rolling in his grave.”
“Maybe, but he won’t be one bit less proud of you,” Gia said. She snuggled closer to him. “So, Mr. Bionic Eyeball, my flight leaves in a few hours. How about you and me grab an early dinner before you drop me off at the airport?”
“Sounds good.”
At that moment Patrick’s cell phone rang-caller ID said it was his son, Bradley. “Hey, big guy.”
“Hi, Dad. How did that eye thing go?”
“No problems. I can see great. I didn’t realize how bad it was.”
“Cool. Hey, football team’s going to meet after workouts, and Coach offered to take us out for pizza afterward. I know Colonel Cazzotto is leaving today. You going to be okay?”
“No worries. My eye is better than new.” That wasn’t quite true, yet, but he really wanted the time alone with Gia. “Be home by nine.”
“Cool. Thanks. Later.”
Patrick hung up and put away his phone, then snuggled closer to Gia. “Are they going to feed you on the plane to Hawaii?”
“Ten bucks for plastic chicken in coach? No thanks. I usually bring a sandwich. Why?”
“Because we suddenly have the house all to ourselves this afternoon,” Patrick said, nuzzling her neck, “and I know of a better way to kill a few hours.”
“A few hours?” she asked with mock disbelief. “Look at you-give a guy a fancy high-tech eye and a nanotechnology pacemaker, and he starts to believe he is the Bionic Man!” But despite her kidding, he didn’t stop his ministrations, and she quickly agreed to his change in plans.
THE WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON, D.C.
THE NEXT DAY
President Joseph Gardner somehow always seemed to look polished and alert, even after being awakened in the middle of the night by a phone that did not stop ringing until he picked it up-the real emergency phone, what they called the “Batphone.” He strode into the Situation Room in the West Wing of the White House just minutes after the call; the only evidence that this was not business as usual was the slightly loosened knot in his tie. “Seats, everyone,” he said. The men and women arrayed around the large conference table quickly sat. “Something about Pakistan? Talk to me.”
“We detected a sudden deployment of a flight of Pakistani mobile ballistic missiles, sir,” Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Admiral Benjamin Kelly said. “No movements of any missiles have been announced by Islamabad.”
“Show me,” the president said.
“Yes, sir.” Kelly motioned to the Situation Room operations officer; the lights dimmed slightly…
…and in moments the conference table transformed into a huge holographic computer-generated map of Pakistan. The men and women around the conference table stood to get a better look at the incredible imagery. As they watched, mountains and valleys appeared out of the tabletop in three dimensions; rivers and cities appeared, with floating names near them. Some details were mere computer wire structures, while others were in stunning full-color photographic detail. The map slowly zoomed in to a place in western Pakistan east of the city of Quetta.
