This final task complete, the third stage attitude thrusters fired again, swinging the weapon back up to the proper angle for the intercept. With the nosecone removed, the odd elongated torus shape of the Lightweight Exo-Atmospheric Projectile was exposed.
The LEAP weighed only twenty pounds, and it carried no explosive charge. It didn’t need one. The kinetic warhead was moving more than 5,900 miles per hour. Combined with the orbital speed of the target satellite, this yielded a closing velocity of 22,783 miles per hour.
Thirty seconds prior to impact, the LEAP detached itself from the third stage booster. Its onboard sensors acquired the target without difficulty, took a final GPS fix, and utilized a series of rapid pulses from its maneuvering thrusters to refine the angle of approach.
The Chinese Haiyang HY-3satellite was hardened against shock damage. It was designed to withstand micro meteor impacts, and collisions with manmade space debris. It was not designed to survive 96,000,000 foot-pounds of brute mechanical force from a twenty pound projectile with a combined impact velocity of more than 22,000 miles per hour.
Exactly 297.352 seconds after launch, the LEAP warhead obliterated Redbird One with 130 megajoules of thermo-kinetic energy. A human observer, had any been present, would have been instantly and permanently blinded by the fierce intensity of the resulting flash.
But the only human witnesses were 130 miles below, watching the engagement from their radar screens. Their sensors and display systems would recognize and record the fact of the satellite’s destruction, but they would carry no sense of the raw power that had just been unleashed on their command.
USS Towers:
“TAO — Air. We have confirmed intercept on Track Zero Zero One. We are picking up a growing debris field downrange from the projected impact point.”
The Tactical Action Officer turned toward the captain. “I’d call that a kill, Skipper.”
Bowie acknowledge the report, and looked around CIC until he spotted OS2 Kenfield. The beefy Operations Specialist was huddled over an electronic plotting table.
Captain Bowie caught the man’s eye, and nodded. “Hey, Big Country… Give us a song.”
The big Sailor grinned. “Is that an order, sir?”
“You bet your ass it is,” Bowie said.
The Sailor nodded. “Aye-aye, Captain!” He cleared his throat and took a very deep breath.
Commander Silva was now familiar enough with OS2 Kenfield’s musical repertoire to know what was coming next. She suppressed an urge to cover her ears.
If anything, Big Country’s rebel yell was even louder than the last one. It seemed to rattle the very air, and — as before — it was instantly joined by the yells of every man and woman in Combat Information Center.
Bowie smiled in approval and appreciation.
As the collective bellow trailed off into silence, Commander Silva leaned closer to Bowie. “Before we get too carried away with the celebration, somebody better make sure that the Disney Channel is still on the air. If we just whacked the wrong satellite, we’re all going to have to change our names and move to Cleveland.”
CHAPTER 39
President Dalton Wainright sat alone in the Oval Office, hunched over his desk. His forehead rested on the polished wooden surface that had once been the hull timbers of HMS Resolute. With the exceptions of Johnson, Nixon, and Ford, every U.S. president since 1880 had used the Resolute desk, either in the Oval Office, the presidential office that had preceded the oval, or president’s study in the White House residence.
Wainwright wished that he could somehow use the desk to mentally summon the wisdom of his predecessors. Perhaps if he concentrated deeply enough, their collective knowledge and insight would well up from the russet-colored wood and seep into his brain.
In 1899, William McKinley had signed the treaty with Spain from the Resolute desk, bringing a formal end to the Spanish-American War. Nearly a half-century later, the modesty panel had been installed to cover the kneehole, because Franklin D. Roosevelt preferred to keep his leg braces out of public view. Roosevelt had died before the modification was completed, leaving both the desk and the closing chapters of World War II in the hands of Harry Truman.
Truman had sat at the desk while agonizing over whether or not to drop atomic bombs on the cities of Japan. John F. Kennedy had coped with Bay of Pigs and the Cuban Missile Crisis from this spot, managing to drag the world back from the edge of nuclear war, despite Nikita Khrushchev’s promise that the Soviet Union would ‘bury’ the United States of America.
So much history had been made at this desk. So many bills had been signed into law or vetoed here. The futures of nations had been decided from the very place where Dalton Wainwright now sat.
But if there was such a thing as genius loci, Wainwright could not tap into it. For all its impressive legacy, the desk was not a talisman. It contained no power and conferred no special insight.
He raised his head about two inches and then let it drop back to the wooden surface with a dull thud.
“I’ve told you before, Dal” a voice said, “you’re not going to get anywhere by banging your head on the desk.”
Wainwright sat up. No one entered the Oval Office without an invitation, especially not at one in the morning.
Standing in the doorway of the presidential secretary’s office was former president Frank Chandler, Wainwright’s old boss, and the man who had dumped the presidency in his lap.
Wainwright stood up. “How the hell did you get in here? Did somebody forget to take your key when they booted you out of the building?”
Chandler grinned. “Nah. I left a window open so I can sneak back in whenever I want.”
The two men walked toward each other. They met near the middle of the room and shook hands.
“Damn, it’s good to see you, Frank,” the president said. “But seriously, how did you get in here? Am I going to have to fire the Secret Service or something?”
Frank Chandler shook his head. “Nope. I’m here as the personal guest of your Chief of Staff. He called and told me that you were banging your head on the furniture again, so naturally I came right over.”
“Ratted out by my own people,” Wainwright said in mock disgust. “Where is my faithful Chief of Staff, anyway? I want to kick his ass for hauling you in here without talking to me first.”
“I think he’s skulking in his office,” Chandler said. “Probably hoping that you won’t kick his ass for hauling me in here.”
“I’ll fire the little traitor tomorrow,” Wainwright said. “Or maybe I’ll have him shot.”
Chandler glanced toward the Resolute desk. “That thing is a national treasure, Dal. If you’ve got to thump your skull on the furnishings, we can get you something from IKEA, so you don’t go damaging presidential heirlooms.”
Both men laughed. They found seats in the big circle of chairs, and settled in comfortably. And suddenly, the humor was gone from the room.
“I wouldn’t have called you,” Wainwright said. “But I’m glad you’re here.”
Chandler loosened his necktie. “Well, you know the old saying… I serve at the pleasure of the president.”
Wainwright stared at his former chief executive for a few seconds, but there was no trace of irony in the other man’s voice.