“Yes, a couple years after retiring from the Sacramento Police Department and opening up McLanahan’s in Old Town Sacramento.”
“A shameless plug for your family tavern, eh, General?” the host asked, trying to liven up the conversation.
“I’m not ashamed of McLanahan’s in Old Town Sacramento at all, Megyn.”
“Another plug. Good. Okay, that’s enough, General, you did your job fantastically,” the host said, laughing. “Was this heart condition already noted on your records, and if so what were you doing flying repeatedly to Armstrong Space Station?”
“I did report the family history on my medical records,” Patrick replied, “and I get a Class One Air Force flight physical twice a year, plus pre- and post-space flight checkups, and no problems have ever been detected before. Even though long-QT syndrome is a common disqualifying condition in the astronaut corps, I wasn’t specifically tested for it because, as I said, technically I’m not an astronaut — I’m a unit commander and engineer who just happens to get to ride on his unit’s research vehicles whenever I feel it’s necessary.”
“So do you feel that your lack of astronaut training and screening contributed to onset of this medical condition?”
“One of the things we’re trying to prove with the Black Stallion spaceplane and Armstrong Space Station program, Megyn, is to make space more accessible to everyday folks.”
“And it appears that the answer might be, ‘No, they can’t,’ is that right?”
“I don’t know all there is to know about long-QT syndrome, Megyn, but if it’s commonly found only in combat aviators over the age of fifty who have to go into space frequently, perhaps we can test for it and exclude only those who show a proclivity for that disease,” Patrick said. “I don’t see why it has to disqualify everyone.”
“But it is disqualifying for you?”
“I’m not ready to throw in the towel yet,” Patrick said with a confident smile. “We have some incredible technology at our disposal, and new and better technologies being developed every day. If I can, I’ll keep on flying, believe me.”
“You haven’t seen enough combat and orbited the Earth enough times already, General?” the host said with an amused laugh. “As I understand it, you’ve been on the station several times just in the past few months. That’s more than a NASA astronaut goes into space in his entire career, isn’t that true? John Glenn only flew in space twice.”
“Pioneers like Senator John Glenn will always be the inspiration our future astronauts need to summon the courage and fortitude to undergo the rigorous preparation for space,” Patrick replied, “but as I said, one goal of our military space program is to gain greater access to space. I don’t consider episodes like mine a setback. It’s all part of the learning experience.”
“But you have to think of yourself and your family too, don’t you, General?”
“Of course — my son sees me on TV more than he does in person,” Patrick said gamely. “But no aviator likes to lose his wings, Megyn — we have an inbred aversion to doctors, hospitals, weight scales, eye charts, sphygmomanometers, and anything else that can keep us from flying…”
“Okay, General, you lost me there. Sphygmo…sphygmo…what is that, one of your high-tech laser ray guns?”
“A blood pressure tester.”
“Oh.”
“It’ll be up to the flight docs, but you can bet I’ll be fighting disqualification the whole way,” Patrick said. A beep in his communications earset got his attention, and he turned and briefly activated his command monitor and read the display. “Sorry, Megyn, I have to go. Thanks for having me on this morning.” The host was able to get out a confused and startled “But General, we’re
“COMPSCAN alert in the target region, sir, and it says it’s a big one, although we might have nothing but a big glitch on our hands,” Master Sergeant Valerie “Seeker” Lukas replied. The COMPSCAN, or Comparison Scans, collected and compared radar and imaging infrared data during sensor sweeps and alerted the crew whenever there was a significant buildup of personnel or equipment in a particular target region — thanks to the power and resolution of Armstrong’s space-based radar and other satellites and unmanned aircraft, the target region could be as large as continent, and the change between comparison scans could be as small as four or five vehicles.
“What’s the target?”
“Soltanabad, a highway airfield about a hundred miles west of Mashhad. Imaged recently by the new Night Owl unmanned reconnaissance plane Captain Noble just launched.” Seeker studied the reconnaissance file on the area before continuing: “Attacked once by the Air Battle Force with a Vampire bomber with runway-cratering munitions last year because it was suspected of being used to fly in weapons and supplies to the Islamists operating out of Mashhad. The highway portion of the base was reopened by the Revolutionary Guards Corps, reportedly for relief and humanitarian supply shipments. We put the entire base on the ‘watch’ list and launched the Night Owl over the area to be sure they weren’t repairing the ramps and taxiways or flying military stuff in there.”
“Let’s see what they’re doing,” Patrick said. A few moments later an incredibly detailed overhead image of the spot came up on his monitor. It clearly showed the four-lane highway with aircraft distance marks, taxi lines, and touchdown zone designations — it looked like a typical military runway, only with cars and trucks running on it. On both the north and south sides of the highway/airstrip were wide paved areas with aircraft taxiways, large aircraft parking areas, and the remnants of bombed-out buildings. Many of the destroyed buildings had been razed and a number of tents of various sizes put in their place, some with the seal of the Red Crescent humanitarian relief organization on them. “Do those tents look like they have open sides to you, Master Sergeant?” Patrick asked.
Seeker peered closer at the image, then magnified it until it started to lose resolution. “Yes, sir,” she replied, unsure of why the general had asked — it was fairly plain to her. Per agreement between the United Nations, Buzhazi’s Persian occupying force, and the Iranian government-in-exile, large tents set up in certain combat areas servicing refugees or others traveling through the Iranian deserts had to have open sides during reconnaissance flyover time periods so all sides could see inside, or they could be designated as hostile emplacements and attacked.
“Looks like a big shadow on that side, that’s all,” Patrick said. “This photo was taken during nighttime, correct?” Lukas nodded. “The sides look open, but the shadows on the ground from the nearby floodlights are making it look…I don’t know, they just don’t look right to me, that’s all.” He zoomed in again on the former aircraft parking ramps. Both paved areas were dotted with dozens of bomb craters, from several yards to over a hundred feet wide, with huge chunks of concrete heaved up around the edges. “Still looks busted up to me. How old is this image?”
“Just two hours, sir. No way they could have repaired all those craters and brought in aircraft in two hours.”
“Let’s see the scans compared by the computer.” The image split first into two, then four, then sixteen shots of the same spot taken over a period of several days. The pictures appeared identical.
“Looks like a glitch — false alarm,” Seeker said. “I’ll reset the images and take a look at the comparison parameters for—”
“Wait a minute,” Patrick said. “What is the computer saying has changed?” A moment later, the computer had drawn rectangles around several of the craters. The craters were precisely the same — the only difference was that the rectangles were not exactly oriented the same in all the images. “I still don’t get what COMPSCAN is flagging.”
“Me neither, sir,” Seeker admitted. “Could be just a looking-angle computation error.”
“But we’re sun-synchronous on this part of the world, right?”
“Yes, sir. We’re precisely over Tehran at the same time — approximately two A.M. local — every day.”
“So the looking angle should be the same except for minor station or sensor attitude changes, which the computer should be correcting for,” Patrick said.
“Obviously something’s screwed up in the adjustment routine, sir,” Seeker said apologetically, anchoring herself at her terminal to begin work. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it straightened out. Sorry about that, sir. These things need recalibrating — obviously a bit more often that I thought. I should probably look at the station attitude gyro compensation readouts and fuel consumption figures to see if there’s a major shift taking place — we might have to
