Red Hammer 1994

Inside the sliding glass doors, a drowsy air policeman leaned on the visitor-control countertop. He snapped to attention after spotting the galaxy of stars rapidly bearing down on his exposed flank. He dispensed with the customary ID check and promptly handed Thomas a visitor no-escort-required badge. Thomas hung the plastic pouch from his pocket as he started off after the colonel.

“General Morgan has been here since 0500,” the colonel said over his shoulder.

Air Force General Anthony Morgan had been Commander in Chief, US Space Command (USCINCSPACE) for over two years. As such, he was responsible for all US military space activities, including the launch and operation of all military satellites. Dual hatted as Commander in Chief, North American Aerospace Defense Command, his men and women manned NORAD’s Cheyenne Mountain complex, nerve center of the nation’s extensive early warning and space-tracking networks. Pundits tagged him as the next Chairman of the Joint Chiefs-space was a hot area these days. Thomas couldn’t argue the point. Morgan was politically connected and had punched all the right tickets.

The colonel escorted Thomas to an out-of-the-way conference room where Morgan was seated alone with a mug of coffee in hand, reading a stack of message traffic. He was a big man, who had lost his hair but not his contagious smile. Too many years of desk duty had added a slight paunch to his once-athletic frame. He stood as they entered, smiling broadly.

“Bob, good to see you,” he greeted, extending his beefy hand. He towered over his average-sized guest. “It’s been quite a while.”

“Good to see you, General,” Thomas replied, receiving a firm shake.

“How was your trip?” Morgan added.

“Fine, sir.” Thomas unbuttoned his blue overcoat and tossed it on the polished oak conference table. “We had a smooth flight.”

“Well, tell me, how’d it go?” asked Morgan, his tone more serious.

Thomas scowled. “We barely made it. Dealing with NASA is a real pain in the ass. We came within a whisker of scrubbing the mission. And the weather for tomorrow is rotten; a storm’s moving in. We could’ve blown the whole laser test.”

Morgan nodded in agreement. The air force detested depending on the on-again, off-again shuttle team. The habitual delays were getting more frequent and played havoc with critical launch schedules. If it were up to Morgan, he’d scrap the entire fleet of flying dinosaurs and put them out to pasture in NASA’s stable of fancy visitor centers with the rest of the early space-years relics.

“How about the reporters?” Morgan asked. “They were pestering me all week. I got the feeling they were damn close, especially that one from the Washington bureau of Aviation Week, a nosy bastard, I forget his name.”

“Don’t think so, sir,” replied Thomas, leaning against a side table. “Just the usual stuff, guessing the payload and the orbital parameters. The consensus seemed to be an operational test of a new radar satellite.”

“Good,” said Morgan. “Want coffee?”

“No, thanks,” said Thomas, holding up his hand. He planned to get some sleep.

The big man walked over to a Formica countertop separating the conference room from a small galley. He grabbed a dingy Pyrex pot and topped off his mug. The strong aroma quickly filled the room, sending a pleasurable jolt through Thomas. Morgan grew serious.

“I talked to the people at Vandenberg; everything’s on track. They’ve beefed up security without raising undue suspicion, or so they tell me. All the telemetry stations are ready.” Morgan drew long and hard on his mug, wincing as the brew passed muster.

“We’re going to have quite an audience tomorrow for the show. CINCs or their deputies, senior service reps, and top civilians from the labs.”

“It should be impressive,” said Thomas, not sounding convinced.

“We have high hopes on this one.” Morgan flushed. “Could be the breakthrough we’ve all been praying for.” CINCSPACE cocked his head. “Something bothering you, Bob?”

Thomas hesitated. This wasn’t really the time, but it had to be said. He leaned against a swivel chair braced against the table. “I had time to think on the plane,” he said. “Timing could be off on this. The Russians have been irritable as hell lately. Laptev outdid himself yesterday. Called for the dismemberment of Ukraine. The Poles are scared; the Germans are scared; everyone’s scared. If the Russians detect the test, we could have hell to pay.”

Morgan’s brow knitted. “Are you suggesting we call off the test? After all we’ve accomplished?” Morgan stepped closer. “Laptev’s a blowhard, a one-man show.”

Thomas raised his palms in surrender. “No, sir, of course we can’t call it off. But the secretary has similar concerns, especially about the Russians’ surveillance capabilities.” Most military men had written off the hapless Russians and their crumbling space-surveillance assets, but not Thomas.