SpaceCorp (19 page)

Each tank carried enough propellant for many years of normal maneuvering. Refill tanks would be brought in by supply ship on an as-needed basis. Once the tanks were in place, the nuclear thermal rockets were maneuvered into place in a similar fashion. At 250,000 newtons each, the
Einstein
would be able to generate a million newtons in either direction. Each reactor unit was wrapped in a thermal protective shell in the event of a problem during transit to orbit. Moreover, SpaceCorp policy required that no more than one reactor unit could be carried into space at a time. That policy was the only option available in the case of the
Einstein
given the massive size of her reactors—they were the biggest units ever assembled and only one could fit in the largest space shuttle operated by SpaceCorp. It would be several months before the rockets would be fired in earnest, but until that time they would at least be able to provide electric power for the rest of the station.

One last minute decision was to put off installing the liquid oxygen augmentation tanks in the spokes. Pumped directly into the nozzles, the LOX could quadruple the thrust of each rocket. But LOX was an oxidizer and the tanks were positioned uncomfortably close to the LH
₂
tanks. A missile strike on an LH
₂
tank was a leak. A missile strike on a pair of LOX/LH
₂
tanks was an explosion. “Besides,” Mack had argued, “with a station this big, not even four million newtons would be enough thrust to outrun a
Shahab-7
.” The design review committee had agreed because it would save four weeks on a tight schedule. Jason Byerly agreed because it placed all the more importance on his laser cannon—like most government people, he feared defunding more than death and he feared death a lot.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

May 2071

Langley, Virginia

The front of the room had a large monitor of five by twelve meters that could be partitioned into independent mini-monitors. The center was a square satellite image of the White House and surrounding streets and major buildings. To the left of the White House monitor were three stacked images of buildings. The right monitor showed a set of three more stacked images, the top being a rifle of very large caliber, below it a high tech scope device, and at the bottom an image of the rifle mounted in a robotic cradle. At the front of the room was an effete looking man in his mid-thirties who brandished a red laser pointer with a familiarity that made it seem like it was part of his index finger. His audience sat in high backed overstuffed chairs around a large mahogany table. The table was shaped like a trapezoid so each member of the audience would have an unobstructed view of the screen.

“Our intel says they’re going with three sniper teams using 20mm Anzio’s mounted to remote operated cradles,” the effete man said. “Currently, the locations they have picked are:

“Sniper Team One is at a top floor office in the northwest corner of the Herbert C. Hoover Building—that’s the Commerce Building at 1401 Constitution Avenue NW. Range 405 yards.

“Sniper Team Two is at a top floor office on the north side of the Sunset Trust Bank, 1750 New York Ave NW. Range 462 yards. Note the tight gap between Corcoran Gallery of Art and the Old Executive Office Building.

“Sniper Team Three is at a top floor office in the northwest corner of the United States Department of Agriculture Forest Service Building at 1400 Independence Avenue SW. Range 1230 yards.”

A middle-aged man at the back corner of the table facing the door raised an index finger to signal a pause. “How sure are we that those positions are locked in?”

“We’re not, Chief,” the effete man said. “Right now they’re thinking they can pose as painters in order to get the occupants out of their offices for a few hours.”

A younger man sitting to the right of the chief smirked. “Painters?” This was followed by chuckles around room.

The effete man gave a self-deprecating shrug. “Hey, they’re amateurs. Probably got the idea from Hollywood.”

“I thought you said these guys were professionals,” the young man said.

“The sniper teams and their Command & Control organization are extremely professional,” the effete man said. “We’ve used them ourselves. But the rest of the plotters are a hodgepodge of right wing and religious extremists that want to assassinate the president. Lotta hate groups, white supremacists, secessionists—you name it—from remote nooks and crannies spread throughout all the hate states. The closest they come to wet work is a bunch of high profile murders and bombings—often botched but great for press.”

“And this is what’s trying to take over the country?” the chief asked.

“Not take over—disintegrate. They want to secede into their own little isolated enclaves. They feel it’s the only way they can be ‘free.’ Ironically, the goal of these enclaves—which can sometimes span several states—is to affect a rigid micro-society where no one is free. Variants from the ‘free’ standard will be shunned... or worse.”

The younger man shook his head. “Okay, but we gotta get ’em off this ‘we’re here to redecorate your office’ shtick.”

“How about bioterrorism in a letter?” the effete man asked.

“Risky,” the younger man asked. “They might not discover it in the office. We need the office cleared out, not the mail room.”

“Good point,” the chief said. “Okay, what about red noxious fumes coming from the air vents leading into the offices? We can install remote devices well in advance of A-Day.”

“I like that,” the effete man said. “We can close down a whole office wing that way. Keep the collateral casualties down when the incendiaries go off.”

“Bigger issue:” the chief said. “How do we keep the weapons from firing?”

“They always dry fire with no round in the chamber when they hook up the remote trigger,” the effete man said. “I was thinking we could file down the firing pin so it’s too short to hit the primer.”

“When you gonna pull that off?” the chief asked. “Most shooters love their weapons more than their mothers. They’ll be checking those things a hundred times before A-Day.”

“Okay, how about dud primers in the ammunition?” the effete man asked. “No lead styphnate. Pull the trigger, nothing happens.”

“Nah, they won’t decide which round to use until the last minute,” the young man said. “How you gonna get three different cases of ammo delivered to those guys? Besides, they’ll want to re-zero their sights before they deploy if they get a new lot number of ammo.”

“Can we jam the remote trigger frequency?” the chief asked.

“Hey, that’s a really good idea!” the effete man said. “But let’s make one small modification. Instead of jamming the frequency, let’s redirect it. We’ll make it switchable so they can do their remote dry fire. But when the set up teams leave the area, we switch the signal to the demolition charges. Instead of rifles going ‘bang,’ the whole site goes BOOM! No rounds down range, and POTUS lives to run back down his rabbit hole.”

The younger man looked at the chief, eye brows lifted.

“I like it,” the chief said.

“You want I should tell the Praetorian Guard?” the younger man asked.

The chief thought a moment. “No. Can’t have this getting out or we’re blown. Just tell our man, but not until the morning of... just in case there’s a change of plans.”

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

May 2071

Secure SatCom Line Tupelo to Tehran

Highway 45 ran north and south through the city of Tupelo, Mississippi. It used to be named after some forgotten 20
^th
Century hero of the Civil Rights movement. Twenty-five years ago it had been renamed Jefferson Davis Drive after the president of the Confederacy who had spent his formative years in Mississippi. Re-baptizing civil rights memorials had become an increasingly popular practice throughout the Deep South, particularly in districts where the Revived States’ Rights Democratic Party had established its chokehold on regional politics.

About a mile east of Jeff Davis Drive brought you to Elvis Presley Drive and a few blocks north brought you to what used to be called Elvis Presley Park, where the birthplace of the former king of rock and roll was still preserved in an annual coat of white wash paint and marked by a brass plaque commemorating the former singer. Oswald Perry couldn’t imagine a king—rock and roll or otherwise—living in such a tiny little thing built on squat cinder block columns.  They called it a ‘shotgun shack.’ He was told it was a popular design throughout the South after the Civil War when the textile industry needed cheap dwellings for its workers. Trailer parks had not hit the housing scene back then, but a little Internet research showed an uncanny resemblance between the two. Still, it was clean and a good hundred meters from the Senator’s mansion which suited Oswald’s greater purpose.

The senator lived in a
nouveau
antebellum style plantation mansion, complete with white columns and a giant wrap-around front porch. It had been built on top of the old Elvis Presley Museum some forty-odd years ago. The senator and his wife lived in separate bedrooms. Oswald was never sure whose preference that was. Mrs. Pitstick had been quite the looker in her prime, Miss Mississippi of 2045. Pictures of her from back then made her look like a southern coquette, almost vampy even. Since then she had been coopted by a local chapter of Femitheists—an extreme misandry cult devoted to the subjugation of men by women by culling and/or castration of males.

Mr. Pitstick kept his bedroom door locked each night, Mrs. Pitstick’s icy transformation suggesting no empathy whatsoever for the baser needs of men.  And the last five years’ employment by the senator had demonstrated Mr. Pitstick’s needs were base indeed. Fortunately, he was a creature of habit, seldom venturing across the street to Oswald’s shack until Mrs. Pitstick’s bedroom light had been out for at least thirty minutes and never when the weather was foul as it was tonight.

Feeling safe, Oswald searched the attic crawlspace for the secure satellite phone and attempted a connection with his government handler. Tonight he was going to put his foot down, damn the consequences. His soul was at stake.

“You’re late, Babak!” the handler said using Oswald’s Persian name.

“I am sorry, Excellency, but I had to wait until I was sure he would not be visiting.”

“Are you secure?”

“Yes, Excellency. It’s raining now—lots of lightning and thunder. He never ventures out on rainy nights—”

“Never mind that, report!”

“No, sir. I have something else I must discuss first. My soul is in jeopardy.”

“Nonsense! You were told before you began working for the senator what would be expected of you!”

“But sir, this has gone way beyond simple buggery. He makes me do unspeakable things!”

“But the information you provide is invaluable!”

“I fear my soul will never be pure again.”

“I’ll speak to the mullah. He will be able to explain the greater good...”

“Begging your pardon, sir, I’m sure the mullah is very learned, but I must have guidance from a higher authority.”

“Foolish boy! You think your pink arse is a subject to be brought up to an ayatollah?”

“It’s not just my arse—”

“Enough! You will carry on as ordered. But I will speak to the mullah on your behalf. Now I must know what you have found out.”

Oswald sighed. “Yes, sir. There is another layer—a deeper layer—underlying the plot to force a presidential election. This other layer includes only a small group of Dixiecrats and Mormons—South Carolina, Alabama, the senator, Georgia, Utah, and Arizona—plus two religious leaders, very high level. They do not speak of having a new election—that’s just a ruse. The real plot is assassination.”

“They mean to kill him?”

“Yes, they are using that as an excuse to say these so-called horrible assassinations must stop and the only way to do that is by returning the right to vote to the people.”

“They are assassinating their own president to demonstrate how assassinations are bad? Only in America. Go on.”

“They also speak of having Iran shoot down their new space station. Is that true, sir? Are we planning to shoot down their space station?”

“Never mind that. What else?”

“They want to assassinate the president a few days before the shoot down. They will use that as an excuse to declare martial law and disband the Federal Government. They don’t want to take over the government of America. They want to disintegrate America!”

“I don’t see the connection.”

“They will claim the Federal Government has failed to support and defend the Constitution from all enemies foreign and domestic. Then with no Federal Government, they can secede and not look like ‘bad guys’ as they put it. Apparently, this has happened before. And one more thing: when they close these meetings, they go through this ritual, the senator always says, ‘To Dixie!’ Then the senator from Utah says, ‘To Promised Land!’ Then they all say, ‘To a country of our own!’”

“Unbelievable! They’ve actually parsed up the most powerful nation on Earth into their own little enclaves.”

“What are Dixie and Promised Land?”

“Dixie dates from the American Civil War of 1860-65. Promised Land I’m not sure of. You say it was Utah that said that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Must have something to do with Mormon history. You must familiarize yourself with both in your spare time so you can put what you hear into proper context.”

“Yes, sir. And you will get the mullah for me?”

“Yes, of course. Do not fear for your soul, my boy. You are doing Allah’s work. The mullah will confirm it!”

Secure Line from the Government Ministry to the Defense Ministry, Tehran