As the superheated ionized air around the heat shield subsided, the shield was ejected, exposing the millimeter-wave terminal guidance radar aboard the payload guidance bus. The radar took digital pictures of the target area, comparing terrain features to its internal database for fine course corrections, then zeroed in on the target itself. In thousandths of a second it identified the target, measured the total target area, and computed the precise instant to release the titanium sabots. Small maneuvering vanes allowed some small course corrections, but the weapon was traveling too fast for the vanes to have much effect.
Seconds before impact, the sabots separated from the guidance bus, creating a radius of destruction precisely equal to the target area. The sabots hit the Earth traveling almost two miles per second, each with the force of a two-thousand-pound high-explosive bomb, creating a crater large enough to fit a jumbo jet within it…
…but missing the target area by over a mile, completely destroying a grain-processing facility on the outskirts of a village instead. Panicked by the massive explosion that erupted so close by, the terrorists abandoned the remaining two missiles and fled.
“It missed!” Bain shouted. “The other missiles are still alive.”
“But we got the one they launched,” Phoenix said happily. “We won’t have an interceptor to get the other ones if they launch, but-”
“What…just…happened…here?” President Gardner asked in a low, completely stupefied voice. His eyes looked up from the holographic imagery of the two nearly simultaneous attacks to the faces of the advisers around him. “Was that real?”
“Sir,” General Bain said, grinning like a kid at a circus, “it looks like we just took out a ballistic missile…with a weapon fired from space.” He pumped a fist in the air. “I don’t believe it myself, but they did it. They shot down a ballistic missile from space.”
The president looked at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff in utter disbelief, then with exasperation at his senior uniformed military adviser celebrating like a kid at a Little League game. “As you were, General,” he growled. “Who knows what we hit with those meteor things. This thing’s not over.” Bain lowered his eyes contritely, but not convincingly so. Gardner glared at Phoenix angrily. “I never should have fired those meteor things at Pakistan. That was wrong advice, and I shouldn’t have had to have it shoved in my face by you.” Phoenix said nothing, but returned Gardner ’s glare with a steady gaze.
“Mr. President, it appears the terrorists are abandoning those remaining missiles,” Kai Raydon reported from Armstrong Space Station. “They’re bugging out.”
“General Bain, make sure that space station stands down and doesn’t fire any more meteors at anybody!” the president said, drawing a finger across his throat to order the link cut off. To the State Department representative: “Send an immediate message to New Delhi, tell them the missiles have been abandoned and will soon be recovered, and urge them not to retaliate,” the president said. “Tell them the emergency is over. Get Mazar on the phone-call his office every ten seconds if you have to, but I want to talk to him immediately.”
He took a breath, swallowed hard, then added, “And I want to see Page and that general on the space station, Raydon, in the Oval Office as soon as possible. I want to know everything about those weapons. Then I want to meet with Secretary Barbeau and figure out what we’re going to say to the rest of the world when the news of what we’ve just done gets out. And someone shut this damned table off.”
The room began to clear out, but just as the vice president was leaving, Gardner said, “Mr. Phoenix, a word with you.” Ken Phoenix turned and returned to the Situation Room, along with Chief of Staff Kordus; the others wore expressions signifying they were happy to be leaving. “I’ll meet you in the Oval Office in a few, Walter,” the president said. Kordus glanced warily at the president, but nodded and departed, closing the door behind him.
“What was that, Phoenix?” Gardner exclaimed after the door was closed. “What the hell do you think you were doing?”
“My job, Mr. President,” Phoenix replied flatly.
“Your job is to take over for the president if he is unable to serve and to preside over the Senate, not to call up whatever military units you feel like and issue orders to the president of the United States! And you did it in the middle of a damned crisis, in front of my entire national security team. You undermined my authority and far overstepped yours.”
“I thought part of my job was to offer advice, sir.”
“Advice, yes-then shut up and let me make the decisions, not pop off at me!” Gardner snapped. He looked at Phoenix inquisitively. “You did seem to know an awful lot about that space station and those weapons. Why is that?”
“I get the same briefings as you, Mr. President.”
“Been keeping up on the so-called Space Defense Force? Your friend McLanahan’s old wet dream, before he retired, joined up with Martindale in that illegal mercenary outfit, and screwed the pooch in Iraq?”
“I keep up on a lot of things, sir. That’s my job as well, isn’t it?”
“I see. You seem to have a lot of lofty ideas about what your job is.” Gardner sat back against the conference table, looking Phoenix up and down, studying him. “You know, Ken, I keep hearing these rumors that you intend to resign as vice president and run for the White House. Any truth to that?”
“This isn’t Paraguay, sir,” Phoenix said. “No U.S. vice president has ever resigned his office to run for president. It would be political suicide.”
“That wasn’t a yes-or-no answer, Ken,” Gardner observed. “You would at least have the decency of talking to me beforehand, open and honestly?”
“Sir, the election is in ten months. You’ve been campaigning for reelection since last September-”
“But there’s supposed to be a supersecret campaign organization in place that can get you up and running in an instant, right? That’s what I heard.” Gardner couldn’t tell if Phoenix ’s silence was an admission, a denial, confusion, uncertainty-or hopefulness.
“Listen, Ken, you’re a good guy. I’ve never said it outright, but I’m sure you’ve known this already: You’re a formidable politician. You’re very bright, folks like and respect you, your background and public record are exemplary, and you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty, like what you did in Iraq. I picked you to help unite the country after the partisan mess Martindale left it in.”
“And so I wouldn’t run against you in the last election.”
“That didn’t matter, Ken,” the president said earnestly-whether it was real or not, Phoenix couldn’t tell, which was one of the things that made Gardner such a formidable political figure.
“You’re a young guy. If you want to run for office in 2016, you’ll still be a young guy, in your midfifties, and with eight years of experience in the veep’s office. But let me give you some advice: If you resigned to run for office, you’d be committing political suicide, like you said, public and bloody. No one respects a quitter, especially a political quitter. You’d have less than one term in office, running against your former running mate, and you’d be forgotten in the dustbin of history except as the only guy to resign as vice president to run for president. Do you really want that?”
“I never said I wanted it, sir.”
“No, but you’ve never denied it either,” Gardner said. He affixed Phoenix with a direct gaze. “Start denying it. Forcefully. Or you’ll be spending a lot of time sequestered away in some undisclosed location. Understand?”
“Understood, sir.”
“And remember, there’s only one president in this country. Keep your opinions and directives to yourself unless I ask you a direct question or until you raise your right hand and say ‘So help me God’ with me either standing in the background at your inauguration or in a flag-draped box in the cargo hold of Air Force One. Don’t interfere with my Situation Room again. Clear?”