Executive Intent

“ Gipper Range Control, this is Midnight One, I show two minutes to release,” Scott Bream radioed. “Checklist is complete up here.”

“Copy that,” the senior controller at the Ronald Reagan Ballistic Missile Test Site in the Kwajalein Atoll responded. “Range is clear and ready.”

“Range is clear, SC,” Bream reported to Boomer. “Release program up and running.”

“Checked,” Boomer said. “Counting down, thirty seconds to go.”

“Select computer control to ‘AUTO,’” Bream reminded his spacecraft commander.

“Nah, I think I’ll hand-fly this one,” Boomer said.

“The test program called for ‘AUTO’ maneuvering.”

“I asked about it, and they said it was okay.”

A moment later: “Midnight, this is Casino, select ‘AUTO’ maneuvering, Boomer,” the chief engineer of Sky Masters Inc. and builder of the test article, Dr. Jonathan Colin Masters, radioed from the company headquarters in Las Vegas. Masters was an executive vice president and chief of design for Sky Masters. “Don’t screw around now.”

“C’mon, Doc,” Boomer protested, “it’ll be okay.”

“Boomer, if we didn’t have half the Pentagon watching, I’d say okay,” Masters said. “Switch it to ‘AUTO.’ You can fly the reentry and landing.”

“You’re all as bad as the military,” Boomer said. He sighed and configured the mission computer as necessary. “Maneuvering mode set to ‘AUTO.’ Where’s the fun in that?” Moments later hydrazine maneuvering jets arrayed around the Midnight spaceplane came to life, which stabilized the craft during release and would maneuver the spaceplane away from the test article after release.

“Bay doors already open…maneuvering complete…payload locks released, extender arms powering up, standing by for release…now,” Bream reported. They heard a low rumble behind them as the extender arms lifted the payload out of the cargo bay, then several short bangs as the thrusters maneuvered the payload ahead and away from the Midnight spaceplane. “Payload in sight,” Bream radioed back to Sky Masters headquarters. “It looks good.”

The payload was the experimental Trinity mission module, a twelve-foot-long robotic multimission spacecraft with a rocket booster in the rear; maneuvering thrusters; a guidance, datalink, and sensor section in the nose; and three chambers inside. Trinity was able to reposition itself into different orbits, detect and track other spacecraft, rendezvous and even refuel with a spaceplane or the Armstrong Space Station, and deploy and retrieve packages stowed in its mission chambers.

“Lost sight of it,” Bream reported as the craft moved away in its own orbit. “Cargo-bay doors closed, the spacecraft is secure.”

“That’s the way I like every flight-boring and secure,” Boomer said. He checked the flight computer. “Looks like thirty minutes to our orbit transfer burn, and then three hours until we chase down Armstrong. Wish we could be down there to watch this thing light off.”

RONALD REAGAN BALLISTIC MISSILE TEST SITE, KWAJALEIN ATOLL, PACIFIC OCEAN

THAT SAME TIME

“We’re just two minutes to release, everybody,” Deputy Undersecretary of the Air Force for Space Ann Page announced as she lowered the headset, which allowed her to listen in on the communications between the Midnight, range control, and Sky Masters headquarters. “C’mon over here for the best view.”

It was a balmy and tranquil day on the water, but that didn’t prevent several observers from shakily stepping across the deck, holding on to railings and bulkheads. Ann felt as if she were on a cruise ship instead of a barge, and the heat and humidity that was obviously upsetting some of the observers felt heavenly to her. Fifty-nine years of age, auburn hair almost completely gray now, and with so many lines and wrinkles that she was actually considering cosmetic surgery, Ann Page nonetheless felt these were the best times of her life.

“Are…are you quite sure we’re safe, this close to the target area, Dr. Page?” a pale-faced congressional staffer asked. He was sweating so badly that she thought he had fallen overboard. “How far did you say we were?”

“Four miles,” Ann replied. “I won’t lie to you, Mr. Wilkerson: Our previous tests were very good, but not perfect. We’re launching from a platform ninety miles in space, traveling over seventeen thousand miles an hour, shooting at a wobbly target that is also spinning at nine hundred miles an hour-that’s how fast the Earth rotates. The projectiles are unguided-we use mathematics to do the aiming. That’s why the weapon is designed only for large-area or slowly moving targets. Only a computer can make the calculations, and if they’re wrong…well, we probably won’t feel a thing.” That certainly did not make the young staffer look any better, and he turned away as if looking for an unoccupied place to vomit into the ocean.