After the service concluded, the vice president followed along with the pastor and family members as the pallbearers wheeled the casket to the front of the chapel, and then the Air Force honor guard carried the casket to the waiting hearse. The family had requested that the burial at Holy Cross Cemetery in Menlo Park be for family only, so the vice president waited at the bottom of the steps as the hearse and cars for the family departed. He greeted hundreds of students, faculty, and other mourners who had attended the service, then was escorted to his armored Cadillac limousine.
Already in the car were Patrick McLanahan in the left forward-facing seat and Ann Page, Kai Raydon, and Hunter Noble in the aft-facing seats. “Thank you for attending the service, Mr. Vice President,” Patrick said once they were all seated and the motorcade headed toward Phoenix ’s hotel in San Jose. “I know the family appreciates your visit very much.”
“Thank you, Patrick,” Phoenix said. He patted Patrick on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you again after Iraq. I had some doubts we’d get out of there alive.”
“Same here, sir.” Patrick had been a private contractor working in Iraq when the Turkish army invaded northern Iraq, and he and the vice president, who was there as part of a cease-fire-negotiating team, were trapped near Mosul as the fighting intensified.
“I’d like to get my hands on whoever leaked the details of the accident and McCallum’s actions to the press,” Ann Page said bitterly. “McCallum was an American astronaut, but the press has been calling him incompetent and cowardly, even before the poor guy was buried.”
“Unfortunately, a lot of the radio transmissions from space were unsecure and easily intercepted,” Kai Raydon said, “so anyone with a big enough dish could have picked them up.”
“The only other people who knew were either in the Pentagon or the White House,” Phoenix said, “and if it was from either of those places, I’ll find out, and then I’ll let you have first crack at them, Secretary Page.” Ann nodded, and her expression left little doubt that she was looking forward to that moment. “General Raydon, what’s the latest on the Kingfisher explosion?”
“Nothing definite yet, sir,” Kai said. “We did find a closed arming circuit, so we’re going over the entire arming system to find out why that circuit was closed. The boards that McCallum replaced initially reported in the green when the garage was powered up, but then the circuits closed and the thing blew.”
“You’ve got to find out what happened, General, as quickly as possible, if you want your program to survive,” Phoenix said. “The president already wants the ground-attack weapons removed from the garages, and he’s thinking about a unilateral moratorium on antisatellite weapons ahead of a global initiative to ban antisatellite weapons completely.”
“Ban all antisatellite weapons? Even defensive ones?”
“Unless we figure out a foolproof way to distinguish defensive from offensive weapons, yes,” Phoenix replied. “We’ve got China, Russia, and other countries like Pakistan complaining about weapons in space, and both China and Russia racing each other to test out a new antisatellite weapon. The Russians fired off an air-launched antisatellite missile earlier today, timed so that it could be observed by a Japanese Aegis warship.”
“The Kamareeniy, or ‘Mosquito,’ sir,” Boomer said. He shuffled uncomfortably under his heavily bandaged right shoulder, but went on: “We first saw it about three years ago; it’s based on our ASM-135 ASAT from twenty-five years ago. The Russians didn’t make a big deal out of it until recently, like the Chinese and their Dong Feng-21s. Fairly mature technology, a lot cheaper than directed-energy antisatellite weapons like lasers or microwaves, and easier to move and conceal. It was supposedly one of General Andrei Darzov’s favorite programs when he was the Russian air force’s chief of staff-the guy is a space superfreak.”
“And now he’s the Russian military chief of staff,” Patrick said. “Truznyev is a powerful president, but Darzov may hold even more sway, especially in the military-soldiers never got along well with spies. I would guess that Darzov would never allow Truznyev to sign a treaty banning space weapons of any kind. Not exactly an opportune time to start talking about eliminating antisatellite weapons.” He looked at the vice president. “Rumor has it that you are going to head up the Space Policy Review panel, sir.”
“Keeping your ear on the rail once again, I see,” Phoenix said. “You always did have your own little spy network running, and I see it hasn’t retired.” He hesitated for a moment, considering whether or not to share the results of a confidential meeting in the White House with outsiders; then decided: “Yes, I was lobbying to head up an industry leaders’ commission on space technology, but it was morphed into redrafting space policy with the direct intent to prove to the rest of the world that the United States doesn’t see space as a sovereign national defense domain, and that we will cooperate with other nations for free access to space.”
“Seems to me we should keep the systems we have in place until we have a treaty ratified.”
“The president is afraid of losing all cooperation with China,” Phoenix explained. “He wants to use diplomacy to get back in their good graces and stop an arms race in space. The rest of the National Security Council is with him.”
Except Phoenix, Patrick noted silently.
The vice president looked out the window, obviously wrestling with a tough dilemma. “I think there’s a connection between the president leaking the formation of the National Space Policy review panel and the invasion of Somalia,” he said finally. “ China feels this is their opportunity, and they’re taking advantage. But there aren’t enough pieces here yet to show the picture.” He looked at each of the others in the limousine with him. “Space is suddenly becoming a very big deal, lady and gentlemen. I hope the president sees it before we lose our edge. I need to know what happened to that weapon garage, Patrick.”
“Unfortunately, the rumor is that Secretary Banderas is going to choose someone else to head the accident investigation board,” Ann Page said.
“Yeah, I heard, too,” Phoenix said. “General Walter Wollensky, former commander of U.S. Space Command.”
“It was not Secretary Banderas’s choice,” Ann said. “Wollensky is a good guy, but he was retired after the American Holocaust because of depression-the guy lost eight thousand airmen from his command in the attacks. He got his security clearance back and was working as a consultant for some aerospace firms. He was never a fan of Armstrong Space Station or the whole U.S. Space Defense Force concept.”
“So you think he’s going to help the president kill the Kingfishers?” Phoenix asked.
Ann shrugged. “I don’t know, sir, but I wish we had a better advocate for the program on that board.”
“You’re going to have to find the answer yourselves,” Phoenix said. “Cooperate with Wollensky, but challenge his conclusions with hard evidence.”
The limousine approached the hotel at which the vice president was staying; a small crowd of onlookers and party officials were waiting for him. “More campaign stops, sir?” Patrick asked.
“Yes.” Phoenix looked weary and a little downcast. “After attending a memorial service, it’s hard sometimes to gear yourself up to do campaigning, be cheerful and upbeat, and say good things about the future.”
“Especially when it’s not necessarily your future, sir?” Patrick asked in a low voice.
Phoenix half turned toward him, but his face was absolutely expressionless. He said tonelessly, “A car will take you back to San Jose. Thank you for meeting with me on the ride over, everyone,” and then shook hands with each of them.
“Good luck, Mr. Vice President,” Patrick said.
“I’ll be in touch, Patrick. Good to see you again.” The motorcade stopped, and at that, as if someone had thrown an invisible power switch, the vice president’s shoulders straightened, a beaming smile emerged, his chin lifted, his eyes twinkled, and suddenly he was in full-blown campaign mode. He was already greeting party officials, dignitaries, and reporters, most of them by name, before he had stepped outside the opened door.
Patrick, Ann, Boomer, and Kai had to listen to several minutes of cheering, questions shouted at the vice president by the reporters arrayed outside, and his campaign-ready answers delivered enthusiastically and sincerely, but soon the motorcade was on the move again. The vice president’s car separated from the others in the detail and went to an area behind the hotel where several unmarked cars, police vehicles, and even an ambulance were prepositioned in case of any threats against the vice president. They transferred to a standard limousine, which drove off toward San Jose International Airport.
They dropped Ann Page off first at her airline ticket counter, then headed around the field to the general aviation area to drop off Patrick. “Did you get the files I sent, General?” Kai asked after Ann had left the car.
“Yes, and Dave Luger and I have been going over them,” Patrick said. “But it’s all on the Kingfisher satellite. I’d like to see a dump of all your sensor data for at least two hours preceding the explosion.”
