The Copernicus Option

By Philip Bosshardt

The time is July 2068. U.S. President LaTonya Kendrick is the first chief of state to travel into space, to a conference at an international lunar base called Copernicus City. En route to a landing, Space Force One collides with another spacecraft on a routine supply run to the joint Chinese/Russian base on the Far Side. The lander crashes and all are killed but the President’s body is never found.
The collision was no accident, as U.S. authorities learn a day later, when a terrorist group called SQ claims responsibility, adding that they have President Kendrick in custody.
Now a frantic manhunt and rescue effort on two worlds begins, headed by Secret Service agent Frank Craft. There is a deadline and ransom demands. SQ is outwardly an Arab organization headed by Muhammad Hamoud al-Rashid, a self-styled Islamic ‘messiah’ or Mahdi. But the terrorists are a front, behind which is a concerted effort by the Russians to distract America from their own ambitious agenda, on the Earth and the Moon. Beset by seizures, al-Rashid sought treatment years ago from the Russians. An AI device called a neurolific was implanted in his brain, which, in addition to controlling the seizures, also allows the Russians to send signals which al-Rashid interprets as visions and the voice of God, but which allow his handlers to communicate ‘suggestions’ and ‘ideas’ to the Mahdi.
Racing against a deadline and Russian efforts to conceal their own involvement, Craft’s investigation and rescue efforts lead him and the rescue task force from the Moon to Athens, Greece, from Washington to Moscow, from Saudi Arabia to Madagascar and the Seychelles Islands.
It’s a disgruntled terrorist at the heart of SQ who unwittingly gives the Americans a clue as to the President’s whereabouts. The final efforts to locate and rescue the President before the deadline expires, sends Craft into low earth orbit in a heart-pounding chase against time and the laws of physics. The Mahdi has promised a spectacular in the skies over Mecca as proof of his ‘coming.’
Frank Craft’s job is to prevent that from happening.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philip Bosshardt
• Release date: Sep 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215275474

Philip Bosshardt

Philip Bosshardt is a native of Atlanta, Georgia. He works for a large company that makes products everyone uses...just check out the drinks aisle at your grocery store. He’s been happily married for over 20 years. He’s also a Georgia Tech graduate in Industrial Engineering. He loves water sports in any form and swims 3-4 miles a week in anything resembling water. He and his wife have no children. They do, however, have one terribly spoiled Keeshond dog named Kelsey.For details on his series Tales of the Quantum Corps, visit his blog at qcorpstimes.blogspot.com or his website at http://philbosshardt.wix.com/philip-bosshardt.

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The Copernicus Option

Published by Philip Bosshardt at Smashwords

Copyright 2023 Philip Bosshardt

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Chapter 1

Lunar Gateway Station

Lunar Orbit

July 10, 2068

0745 hours

Upon first seeing the lunar lander they called Space Force One, President Latonya Kendrick felt a chill course down her spine. The sky was a deep black, save for the tawny crater-strewn lunar landscape below and Kendrick managed to take a shallow breath and focus her eyes inside the small compartment as Secret Service agent Andy Givens helped her to her seat. Space Force One was due to depart in less than an hour and Kendrick’s eyeballs hadn’t yet settled down from the jarring view outside Gateway’s portholes.

This was nothing like the old Baltimore projects she had grown up in and the thought that she had been hurled farther and faster than any of the other girls on Prospect Street brought a wry, albeit slightly sickly smile to her lips.

Her bone and ivory hairpiece clicked and clattered as she was strapped into her seat.

She squinted for a few seconds through the harsh sun glare of the porthole in hopes of catching her first glimpse of the stars; they had told her to watch for the stars back on the ground.

It was probably just as well NASA had insisted on a qualified mission specialist to ride jump seat with the President on the flight deck; the workload was high enough to require three people during the descent and even she was lucky to be allowed up here. Andy Givens was down on a lower deck all by himself. Probably strapped in and just as white-knuckled as I am, too.

Gateway sep, came the laconic voice of Jason Wilks, Space Force One’s commander. He waved his hand over the computer keyboard and the screens changed to another set of displays instantly. Kendrick noted a winking note on one of the screens: LC-50…LC-50…LC-50. She tried to remember what that was supposed to mean…something about their descent to the lunar surface most likely.

Roger, copy sep, came the reply from CapCom on board Gateway Station. Have a great ride down, guys.

Just then, Space Force One lurched slightly as she pivoted about to set up for PDI…the Powered Descent Initiate burn. There was a faint smooth hum from somewhere behind them and Kendrick realized the Altair-class lander’s thrusters were firing continuously to orient the ship properly for her descent. She was amazed at how quiet the cabin seemed to be and found herself watching the practiced hands of the ship’s co-pilot, Luis Gomez, sitting ahead of her in the right- hand seat, following a list of checklist items on a pad strapped to his knee. Mission specialist Natalie Coxe leaned over and gently squeezed the President’s shaking knees.

Don’t worry, Madame President. Piece of cake.

Kendrick checked a map she was holding, comparing it to what she saw out the porthole. The map and her view seemed to coincide; they were flying less than fifteen kilometers above the Mare Crisium—the Sea of Crises—on their orbital track. Kendrick sniffed…Sea of Crises…how appropriate for a President. She was glad when the lava-filled plain passed behind them and they headed across the north end of Tranquillitatis.

Wilks and Gomez watched the trajectory plot on the board carefully as Space Force One completed her PDI burn and began her initial pitch-over, slowing noticeably. The plot showed several lines, indicating nominal and actual course, all converging on an actual window in space, the entry point called High Gate, where the lander would begin firing her descent engines continuously, maneuvering and navigating across the gray mangled moonscape as they fell toward the computer’s projected LZ, the north landing pad at Copernicus City.

The descent and landing would take half an hour.

Landing ops one-oh-three, Gomez called out and quickly flipped the checklist to another page. Up ahead of them, the display screens flickered and changed again.

LaTonya Kendrick watched a few seconds longer, satisfied that everything was under control. She willed her fists to relax and hoped Natalie Coxe next to her didn’t notice the white knuckles. It wouldn’t do for the Commander-in-Chief to have white knuckles. Kendrick went back to squinting out the windows, hoping to see a few stars through the bright moonglare. Her neck ached from the stop-and-start accelerations and her stomach was doing backflips but otherwise, she was comfortable, even beginning to relax. She figured a little upset stomach was a cheap price to pay for the political payoff this first Presidential trip into space would gain for her at the convention a few months away. Lord knows the campaign could use it, she thought.

It was supposed to be an auspicious moment. UNISPACE—the World Space Organization—was hosting a conference of major space-faring nations…the S5 Summit. The US would have a major role to play as co-host and the whole affair was set to begin in two days’ time at the international lunar base Copernicus City.

It was the first time an American President, or any head of state, for that matter, had ever gone into space…or to the Moon.

Ten minutes after PDI, the cabin of Space Force One was still and quiet, save for the whirring of air pumps and the endless creaking and flexing of the lander’s crew compartment. Kendrick strained against her seat straps to see out the closest porthole. She felt like she was falling—they were falling at a rate of several hundred meters per second—and for a few seconds, she closed her eyes.

The moonscape below was a scabrous, battered and tortured world, gray or dingy brown according to the sun angle. Space Force One continued her steep descent without incident, the craters and rilles and vertiginous mountains rolling by one after another: the Haemus Mountains, the Appenines, Manilius Crater. Natalie Coxe, the Mission Specialist next to her, had noticed a sickly pallor on the Kendrick’s face.

You okay, Madame President? You don’t look so well.

I’m okay, she croaked out. Just a little dizzy…probably I should stop looking out of the porthole.

Coxe agreed. Yes, ma’am. Keep your eyes focused on something inside the cabin. You know, sometimes, when I’m on a descent, it reminds me of the Outer Banks…you know, Nags Head, Kitty Hawk, Kill Devil Hills and all those dunes. I close my eyes and imagine myself coming in for a landing at some of my favorite beaches.

The President agreed. It does resemble that, doesn’t it?

Coxe drew in a deep breath. She’d done this approach to Copernicus City—CC, to the locals, a few dozen times, since Space Force had TDY’ed her to the Moon for this tour. It is a beautiful sight…sort of a desolate beauty, I guess.

Kendrick nodded. Beautiful, my ass, Lieutenant. It’s magnificent, it’s glorious. It’s absolutely perfect for our campaign theme. What you see out there is the very image of the New Foundation. She sighed, groped for her binoculars and trained them again on an oncoming mountain range that seemed awfully close by. I only wish Jordan Kelly could see this.

Twenty-two minutes, came a call from the flight deck. It was Wilks, the commander, expertly guiding Space Force One down her descent corridor toward CC. To Gomez: Advise OTC, all looking good here.

Several hundred kilometers away, tucked into a windowless bunker on CC’s Level Two, Orbit Traffic Control was a blur of activity as the base made ready for the arrival of the President, the first of half a dozen chiefs of state over the next day and a half. Watch supervisor Jenn Carson watched carefully as a blinking light coursed its way across the map of the standard approach corridor, taking Space Force One across the Mare Vaporum and the lower end of the Ocean of Storms on an ever-descending trajectory straight into CC and the north landing pad.

Low Gate in eighty seconds, came the voice of LUNATRAC analyst Tom Wadkins. She should be pitching over any second now.

Carson was about to inquire as to other traffic in the area when analyst Mattie Morris, alongside Wadkins, saw a bright red light suddenly erupt on her own display.

COMBO alarm, Super. Intersect alarm…some kind of proximity violation. COMBO was a program running on OTC’s main computer…Computation of Miss Between Orbits.

Carson blinked. What the hell…with all the NOTAS notices we put out—who is it?

Morris’ fingers played over her keyboard, changing the display, zeroing in on the intruder.

"Looks like Caravan…number twenty-eight. Pan Arab Space Agency. Supposed to be a routine supply run to Tian Jia, the Chinese Far Side base."

Carson frowned, rubbed her chin. Give me the numbers.

Morris and Wadkins both ran the routines. COMBO’s interfacing with LUNATRAC. I’ve got a P of about point nine two…and its rising….

"Crap…collision course. Raise Caravan right now…get ‘em on the line. They’ve got to change course immediately."

Wadkins shook his head. I’ve been trying. They’re not responding. We’ve got basic telemetry, per treaty. And we’re skin-tracking ‘em out of Censorinus but no comms.

Send out a Flash on LunarNet, all-frequency blast. They’ve got to respond to that or it’s a serious violation.

Morris complied, repeatedly triggering the emergency comm, shaking his head. Nothing, Captain. No dice. And, according to LUNATRAC, they’re still maneuvering…it’s not a ballistic course.

"What the frap’s going on…are they crazy up there? Advise Space Force One…abort standard landing."

Morris sent the signal but didn’t get a return. SF1’s not responding either."

Carson blinked. Jesus, Mary and Joseph…Tom, check your displays. Run diagnostics.

"They may have detected Caravan, Captain…maybe they’re already maneuvering to avoid collision…you know how that can play havoc with S-band. I’ll keep transmitting."

"Make it Flash One…all frequencies. Space Force One has to stop their descent now and abort to low orbit."

Tension rose in the control room as other watch-standers came over to the LUNATRAC console, silently observing, muttering to themselves behind Carson. Out of the corner of her eye, Carson saw Colonel Bruns, OTC day-shift chief, rubbing his chin uneasily. Their eyes met and Carson was about to speak, when Wadkins’ shrill voice cut in over the din.

Proximity alarm! Flash alarm… he pointed to his display. The flashing red icons had merged into one and a bright flashing square blinked on and off at them.

The room was deathly silent for a few moments.

Then, in a low, almost inaudible voice, Mattie Morris cleared her throat. Station Censorinus has lost telemetry. She’s reporting skin-tracking multiple objects….

They collided, someone behind Carson muttered.

Debris—

Maybe the Arabs were having maneuvering difficulties. Or comms on the blink—

Cut the chatter back there, will you? It doesn’t matter now, Carson decided. Can Censorinus confirm intercept? Can they confirm a collision?

Checking now, Lieutenant, said Morris. She chanced a sideways glance at Wadkins, saw the other analyst grim, silently shaking his head.

This can’t be happening….

Negative. But multiple objects are being tracked.

Carson thought. Where is that cluster of objects now?

Morris sucked on a finger, then massaged her keyboard. Altitude fourteen kilometers, descending in a ballistic free fall. Track will take them right over us in about…ten minutes, maybe less.

Carson snapped a finger. We ought to be able to get optical and visual from the scopes on Mount Rathmore. Advise the observatory now.

Morris sent the notice.

Colonel Bruns leaned over Morris’ shoulder to see the display better. Can LUNATRAC project an impact point?

Everyone winced at the sound of the word impact. Morris ran the numbers.

Projecting landfall at ten oh seven hours, local…looks like nineteen point four kilometers west northwest of CC. Inside the crater, but near the western walls.

God, said Carson. It may even hit the walls.

There something else, Lieutenant— interrupted Tom Wadkins. LUNATRAC’s tracking another piece—an object—on an outbound trajectory.

Outbound? What do you mean?

The collision— there, he’d said what no one wanted to hear——must have kicked pieces higher, into low orbit. The largest piece’s heading away from the Moon…it may have enough velocity to escape completely.

Bruns asked, "Caravan?"

Wadkins said, Unknown, sir. Possibly…or a part of it. Whatever it is, it’s got a pretty high velocity. Either it escapes completely or it winds up in one hell of a high elliptical orbit. LUNATRAC’s chewing now…we should get apolune figures in a moment.

Carson shared a worried glance with Bruns, both thinking the same thing. Contact Shevchenko. Tell him to get his rescue hoppers ready to go.

Bruns added. I want a recovery force over the impact point the second that cluster of objects comes down.

White House Situation Room

Washington, DC

July 10, 2068

8:00 pm

For Harry Blanchard, the White House Situation Room always brought back memories of cheap motels. Nondescript brown wood paneling, LED lights too bright, mahogany table buffed to a high gloss over too many coffee stains to count, and black vinyl chairs that squeaked—it could have been Chicago or Denver or Atlanta or St. Louis—any town that the Secret Service had an office in. Any town he had to sit for hours upon infinite hours, dickering with the local cops over security arrangements for the President, or some other Notable Dignitary.

How he had grown to despise it. The lukewarm coffee, the stale cigarettes, the parched throats and aching backs. He searched the assembled faces for any hint that this meeting would be different.

Right away, he felt the tension. The Situation Room was built for tension; it was never used for anything less than a major crisis. Something about the shape of the room, he had long ago decided; something about the proportions encouraged a strong sense of dread. He had read once about the way the Russians had designed prison cells, so that a man could neither stand up nor lie down. Maybe it was the same principle. A gruff voice interrupted his thoughts.

What’s all this about? I left the best barbecue sauce on the East Coast simmering in my backyard.

General Wright Morley, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, eased himself into a chair beside Blanchard. He mopped his face with a napkin from the stack by the coffee pot and plopped a battered attaché case on the table. Blanchard winced and got up, wandering over to a map of the Western Hemisphere.

Art Stapleton removed his glasses and methodically cleaned them with a felt cloth. General, barbecue is an atavistic regression to the days of our rather unkempt pioneer brethren, wouldn’t you say?

Gentlemen, please, I’ve sent copies of a brief agenda to your tablets and devices. Henry Lucas Clay was the President’s National Security Advisor. He ran his hands through his gray crewcut as he stood at the head of the table. I think you can read my scribbling. The Vice President is on his way now; he should be here any minute. Let me see— he began to tick off names under his breath—have we got everyone else here?

Kate Dennis called to say she would be a few minutes late, Harry Blanchard said. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin and stood behind his chair, hands in his pockets.

Morley snorted. State is always behind the times.

Walt Rounds mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. Christ, it’s hot in here. Can’t we get some air? The FBI Director folded his wet handkerchief into a neat square and pressed it into a shirt pocket.

Please familiarize yourself with the— Clay stopped at the appearance of Katherine Dennis. The Secretary of State swept into the room with an armful of papers, a tablet and an umbrella; Washington’s mid-summer humidity had brought twilight thundershowers. Her white hair was plastered ungraciously to her forehead. She unloaded her armful on the table.

Sorry I’m late, Luke, but we had a late dispatch from Riyadh. Is the Vice President--?

Here he is.

Vice President Chester Lansing came in and went quickly to the head of the table. He was an ascetic, scholarly man and he stared grimly at the wood grain of the table as everyone shuffled chairs and took their seats. His black frame dataspec glasses slid to the edge of his nose and seemed in danger of dropping off.

Kate Dennis nudged a stack of teletype flimsies toward him. Chet, we just got the background stuff from the embassy…I had ‘em printed from the download.

Lansing took a deep breath and held it for a long moment. He seemed in great pain when the sigh finally came out. What do we know?

Damn little. The group taking responsibility has a history…I’m sure Art will corroborate that. But beyond the ultimatum we got from New York, we don’t have much to go on.

The Vice President jammed his hands in his pockets. All right. We’ll deal with what we have. Everybody be seated, please. We may as well get started. He sat down and steepled his hands on the table. "I presume everybody’s aware of what’s happened. The President’s lander, Space Force One, was involved in a collision while on approach to Copernicus City, on the Moon. Kate, will you read the note?"

Yes, sir. The Secretary of State lifted her glasses to read. "This message—this ultimatum—was received at WorldNet News in New York at a few minutes past 6 p.m., Eastern time. By email…we’re trying to backtrace it now. I might add that at the Vice President’s personal request, Ralph Wesley, President of WorldNet, has delayed broadcasting the contents of this message until 9 p.m. tonight. Here’s the message:

‘The American infidel President, Zionist LaTonya Kendrick, is now a prisoner of war of Sayf-il-Qu’ran. By this action, the Arab peoples will decapitate the criminal leaders of their imperialist barbarian oppressors. Islam will bloom in the fertility of their blood. The scourge of God returns.

‘SQ is the living body of the Arab peoples’ dreams. How often have the few conquered the many through the will of God? The Rain of Fire is near.

‘God is most merciful and compassionate. God is great!

‘He accepts as Zakat:

‘1. Payment of one trillion American dollars

‘2. Transfer of certain Pacific territories—Guam, Hawaii, Samoa, and others to a protectorate to be designated, set up and managed by the People’s Republic of China

‘3. United Nations recognition for a Palestinian state in the West Bank and Gaza and a seat for SQ in the General Assembly

‘4. End of American relations with the criminal murderer House of Saud

‘5. A station on the Moon for all peoples of Islam

‘6. End of American support for the outlaw thieves of Israel.

‘Arab patience is limited. Zakat will be collected on 8, Zul-Hijja, 1416 A.H.’

Katherine Dennis looked up and swallowed hard as she lay the tablet down. For a few moments, no one stirred.

It’s a goddamned trick, grumbled Walt Rounds. Some kind of sick joke by a bunch of Arab loonies.

It’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard of, said Clay. "Why the hell wasn’t I notified when this came in? How do we even know it’s real anyway? We know the President boarded Space Force One at Gateway on time. The ultimatum implies the President’s alive…after a collision in space no less…like Walt said, it’s got to be a trick."

The Vice President took off his glasses and rubbed tired eyes. General Morley, you have the latest information from Copernicus City?

Hmmm…yes, sir…I do. He fumbled with his own wristpad and tapped on it a few times, squinting at the tiny text and images. Seconds later, a full 3-d projection of the image appeared over top of the table, for all to read.

"At 1912 hours Eastern time this evening, Space Force One apparently suffered some kind of collision with a Pan Arab Space Agency lander on routine supply run to the Chinese Far Side base called Tian Jia. Five minutes later, Space Force One—or what was left of her—was tracked by Station Censorinus—they’re in the southeast corner of the Sea of Serenity. She—that is to say, an apparent debris cloud of multiple objects—was in a descending, ballistic free fall, projected impact inside Copernicus crater, about nineteen kilometers west of CC, near the western walls of the crater. Actual point of landfall is indeterminate pending further analysis by Space Force and their LUNATRAC system. Space Force rescue and recovery efforts are already ongoing; we’re fortunate that the point of impact is within a few minutes’ hopper flight from CC. We’ve had intermittent power outages and computer dropouts at Cheyenne Mountain, Sunnyvale, Johnson Space Center and several other command centers here on Earth, at the same time. Our data is spotty and unreliable from 1735 hours to approximately 1900 hours. We don’t believe this is a coincidence and is likely a result of activated malware resident in our systems. General Billy Abelson, CinCSpace, reported to me while I was being driven over here that their program verification software seems to be on the blink. He’s unable to verify more than five percent of LUNATRAC tracking inputs and he’s working with Space Force CC to fix that."

That’s all fine and good, General Morley, said Art Stapleton, but what about now? What’s happening now?

Morley glowered, unhappy with being grilled like a suspect by the CIA Director. "I can’t say for sure. At 1922 hours, just as I was pulling in through the White House gates, I got a dispatch saying that LUNATRAC was now completely down. From an old Baker-Nunn camera at Mount Rathmore, just above Copernicus City, we did get an optical image of the debris from Space Force One though. Visuals confirm what LUNATRAC had already detected before it went down. By the way, Mr. Vice President, we’ve had indications from monitored radio traffic in Europe and the Far East that both the Russians and the Chinese have slightly upgraded their alert status."

That’s just great, said Clay. "The President was aboard Space Force One and now it’s crashed. Don’t we have other intel and tracking sources?"

We do, sir, and we’ve still got conferencing capability with our sensor sites, here on Earth and at the Moon, but the data’s being lost at Cheyenne Mountain. LUNATRAC’s not giving believable outputs at the moment.

The Vice President rubbed his chin and peered over the rims of his glasses at Morley. Any idea what’s wrong, General? It seems to me that Space Force should somehow know what happened up there.

Abelson assures me they’re working on it right now. It’s simply a matter of getting around the bugs and the malware we’ve found in LUNATRAC’s software.

Stapleton spoke up. Any chance those bugs are deliberate, General?

Morley darkened but shook his head. Not probable, not with the checks we have in the system. It’s just a matter of time.

Stapleton pressed the matter. "Time…General, we don’t have time. Your data says LUNATRAC detected a piece of the collision that apparently got kicked into a higher orbit, maybe even far enough to depart the Moon. My people believe it’s the Caravan lander or part of it."

Morley acknowledged the fact. Art, we’re aware of that and we’re tracking it now. The object does have enough velocity to escape the Moon. Trajectory analysis supports the conclusion that it’s heading back toward Earth.

They discussed the upcoming search and rescue efforts on the Moon. Some felt that Caravan 28 may have maneuvered after the collision or seen something to indicate where the President or her body might have gone. Some thought it even possible Caravan 28 had taken the President from the doomed Space Force One.

Morley added that additional Space Force recovery assets were heading to the crash site from Lunar Gateway and from Earth orbit.

He said, We are closely tracking any vehicle or object approaching low Earth orbit from the Moon.

The Vice President interrupted, I hope someone’s in contact with the Pan Arab Space Agency…where are they anyway?

UAE, sir, said Kate Dennis. "Just outside Dubai and yes, we are trying to contact them, see if they know anything about Caravan 28’s status."

The Vice President fiddled with his own tablet, turning it end for end. Finally, he set the thing down and glared at Stapleton. Art, what about this…group---whatever they call themselves. What have you got on them?

Stapleton thumbed and swiped through screens on his own tablet until he found what he was looking for. SQ, they call themselves. Existence known since— he ran a finger down the page—" September, 1971…almost a century now. First came to notice after a bombing at a community center at the ARAMCO compound in Dhahran, Saudi Arabia. Place called Little Main Street. Seven critical injuries, three children killed. Apparently occurred on a Saturday morning during a time of activity at the center. SQ sent a note to a number of newspapers and radio stations at the time. Al Bilad and News from Saudi Arabia are cited here."

SQ—that stands for something--?

Sayf il-Qu’ran. It’s in the ultimatum. It means Sword of the Koran. We don’t know much about the leadership today but our intel AI—SHERLOCK—has strong correlations from multiple sources that there are definite Russian and Chinese connections with this group…possible financial or even technical connections.

You mentioned current leadership.

Yes, sir…Israeli Mossad has given us one name that keeps cropping up in their sights: Mohammed Hamoud al-Rashid. The Israelis think he’s the number one man. Their analysis is that al-Rashid proclaims himself to be some kind of Islamic savior…the Mahdi it’s called. Means the Right-Guided One. Our own station analysts in Riyadh more or less concur. We have one report saying al-Rashid and the whole SQ bunch are Shiite in orientation, which puts them at odds with the royal family in Saudi Arabia. We’ve got sources in the Eastern Province who are saying that al-Rashid is proclaiming himself the Twelfth Imam, just like Khomeini a century ago in Iran. The Shiites believe the Twelfth Imam has been in hiding for over a thousand years; he’s supposed to bring justice when he returns at the end of time.

So we’re dealing with madmen again? asked Walt Rounds. Muslim fanatics.

Very clever fanatics, Walt. Very sophisticated technically, to have pulled off something like this, if in fact they did.

And very dangerous, said the Vice President. Especially, if they had Chinese or Russian help. That’s what scares me…to think the Russians and the Chinese may have been involved in something like this…we have to take this ultimatum seriously.

Henry Lucas Clay idly tapped a much-chewed pencil on the table. You really think the Russians are involved? Or the Chinese? To seize or assassinate a head of state…that’s an act of war.

It’s a possibility we can’t afford to ignore. SHERLOCK’s analysis is pretty compelling but it’s not a slam dunk. We need more data and we’re squeezing our sources pretty hard right now as it is.

The Vice President stared stonily at them both. God help us all if that turns out to be true. He nodded at Harry Blanchard. "What about the Secret Service, Harry? You had an agent on board Space Force One, didn’t you?"

Yes, sir. Andy Givens, right out of the Washington Field Office. Twelve years’ experience, several citations for meritorious service, close to President Kendrick personally, since he was assigned to the protective detail. He was recommended most strongly by Frank Craft, our Special Agent in charge of the Washington—

The Vice President held up his hand. It’s all right, Harry. You don’t have to defend the choice to me. You had no word of any problems, no irregularities before the trip?

Blanchard wet his lips. None, sir. We had our own secure circuit through the people at Houston and Gateway, patched right into the Presidential Protective Division office next door. Andy was apparently giving nothing but A-OKs right up to the…end. He grimaced at his choice of words.

There was a gentle knock on the door and Clay got up to open it. A young courier handed him a sealed leather pouch.,

Clay examined the tag. It’s for you, General. He gave the bag to Morley and watched as the General broke open the purple MOST TOP SECRET seal. Morley frowned as he scanned several papers inside a manilla folder.

What now? the Vice President asked.

More tracking information from NORAD and LUNATRAC, Morley told them. They’re continuing to process scattered inputs from isolated sites around the Moon, trying to piece together as thorough a picture as they can.

And--?

"Well, sir, the data seems to show Space Force One on a normal descent profile as of 1938 hours our time. She was dropping out of Gateway orbit—headed for the High Gate point, and was acquired for a few seconds by a station at Plutarch—that’s east of the Sea of Crises—and was expected to perform her pitchover maneuver just before coming to Low Gate. A few minutes after that was when the collision—if that’s what it was—occurred. Morley paused and looked up, conscious of the cold sweat tickling his eyebrows. There’s something else too. NORAD-SPACETRACK back here on Earth is reporting that the reason they lost contact with that object that hit Space Force One and was kicked off into an escape trajectory, headed back here, was because of a combined system outage at Cheyenne Mountain and other key junctions. There’s a report here from a Colonel Radnor, Security Branch at the Mountain, saying they now suspect a high probability of deliberate sabotage."

Probability! sputtered Stapleton. I’d say a damn good probability, if you ask me.

Clay interjected. Chet, I think it may be time to consider invoking the Twenty-fifth Amendment. The government needs to have continuity.

We don’t know the President’s status, Blanchard said. "We can’t be certain of her incapacity until we find something in the wreckage of Space Force One."

That’s exactly my point, Luke. Yeah, this ultimatum implies the President is alive and is being held hostage somewhere but look at it like this: The Twenty-fifth Amendment provides, in paragraph four, that when the Vice President and a majority of the cabinet officers declare to Congress that the President is unable to perform her duties, then the Vice President becomes Acting President. We have to be prepared for the worst.

The Vice President mulled the thought over. Kendrick was popular politically; the time didn’t seem right. It seems a little premature, Henry. We don’t want to make matters worse than they are.

Clay fumed at the man’s timidity. Lansing had long been backroom Washington’s favorite whipping boy; he’d never been able to shake the label of Little Professor. We have no choice. You have no choice, Chet. The nation needs guidance, especially now. You saw the same newscasts I did. What do you think the average guy on the street is going to think after seeing the look of those reporters down at Houston? Anne Shannon’s face was white.

Mr. Vice President, said Harry Blanchard. As far as the Secret Service is concerned, you’ll be treated as the Acting President. I’m ordering the protective detail beefed up immediately. I’d like to respectfully insist that you remain in the White House for the time being. At least until we have more information on the President’s status.

Lansing winced at the thought.

General Morley snorted. Seems like the wolf’s already gotten into the barn, Blanchard, don’t you think?

Blanchard reddened but the Vice President interrupted. Gentlemen, we’ll have plenty of time for recriminations later. Leave that to the press. The issue at hand is what kind of response are we going to make to this ultimatum? What the hell are we going to do?

Art Stapleton jabbed at the air with the stem of his glasses. The date they’ve given us here—from the Islamic calendar—is about three weeks’ time. Their deadline is July 31. That’s what we have to work with.

The Vice President drummed his fingers nervously. "General Morley, do we know when this Caravan ship is expected to return to Earth…or if it’s expected to return to Earth?"

Morley shook his head and quickly consulted his tablet and some papers. "Not precisely, sir. Normally, these Pan Arab Space Agency—PASA—cargo ships come down in the Indian Ocean just south of the Arabian peninsula. These aren’t normal circumstances, however. Frankly, if our tracking is accurate, we’re not even sure she’s coming back to Earth…the data suggest that unless there are problems or course changes, she’ll impact somewhere in the Indian Ocean, maybe even in the western Pacific. We don’t yet know if Caravan’s even intact, or under control. Dubai Control’s not telling us anything."

We have ships—naval forces—and aircraft where she’s expected to come down?

"Yes, sir. The Woodrow Wilson carrier strike group is steaming from Singapore now, on her way to a regular patrol station in the Indian Ocean. Right now, according to NORAD, that seems to be the most probable area where Caravan will come down. We have aircraft and rescue facilities at Singapore, plus facilities in western Australia and Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean. The Indonesians and the Aussies have also promised full cooperation. The Aussies have several P-8s vectoring into the most probable impact area. They have Sea King and Sea Stallion helicopters staging from the Northwest Cape right now. He looked down at his tablet again. I only hope to God she doesn’t come down inside China."

The Vice President nodded. I don’t like that word ‘impact.’ He unclenched his fists and rubbed sweat from his hands. He had been looking forward to a quiet evening with a book by Will Durant. We need more information. I’ve never felt so helpless.

Mr. Vice President, I’d like to suggest that we compose an answer to this SQ group, said Art Stapleton, just in case we need to move quickly.

What kind of answer?

"A request, actually. Something to engage them in dialogue. We’ve documented so many times in the past how important it is to give terrorists at least the illusion of cooperating with their demands, as a way of gaining time. We should request to meet with them, on neutral ground, pending the outcome of Space Force One’s recovery, of course. Sound them out a little, gain a bit of a psychological edge, face to face, if they’ll agree. Anything to stall for time and fish for more information. Weaknesses that can be exploited. To be honest, we don’t have much to go on. We need to take the advantage away from them, put them on the defensive."

We can’t just cave in like that, Walt Rounds snapped. Every kook political band on earth would be standing in line. I say a flat refusal—now, in public, and out loud. Let ‘em know the U.S. doesn’t make deals.

Baloney, Walt, and you know it. The FBI makes deals with kidnappers all the time. You just don’t keep them.

The Vice President let the arguments fly back and forth for a few minutes. He wondered if they knew how scared he was; he could feel sweat trickling down his back. Finally, he held up a hand. We don’t have much choice, Walt. We can’t afford to be caught with our guard down now. I’ll order a special planning group to be formed immediately—Luke, I want you to chair it.

Yes, sir.

Also, I want Art and Harry Blanchard, and you, too, Kate. We need State’s input here.

Clay spoke up. Chet, I’d like for all of us to be clear on one thing: this secret meeting with SQ is to be exploratory only. Nobody’s authorized to make any offers yet.

Art Stapleton frowned. That’s something that should be decided by the Vice President, Luke. You’re taking awfully big liberties here. Or have you forgotten who chairs the National Security Council in the President’s absence?

Clay bristled but Lansing interjected before the men could argue further. That’s enough. I concur with what Luke says. The planning group I’ve just designated will work out the details of the meeting. He stood up abruptly. Now, I’ve got to get ready for the press conference and I want to visit with John Kendrick before I go on the air. I don’t have to remind you to keep the deliberations of this meeting strictly to yourselves.

What about the ultimatum? asked Kate Dennis. WorldNet is going to broadcast the whole thing after 9 p.m.

Lansing nodded grimly. I know. I’m hoping I can do a little arm-twisting on Ralph Wesley. We’ve got to have the cooperation of the press on this.

Harry Blanchard rose with the Vice President. I’d like to discuss some additional security arrangements with you, sir.

Lansing was half way out the door. Very well. Come along. But make it quick. He stopped before shutting the door. Keep me informed at every stage, Luke. I want some kind of plan for flushing these terrorists out by the time I get back from the East Room. He started out, then stopped and turned. "General Morley, see to it I have a direct link to that aircraft carrier from the White House. I want to be able to talk with that captain when they recover the Caravan ship."

Yes, sir, Morley replied. He began to sweep up his papers.

The Vice President abruptly vanished down the hall, Harry Blanchard hustling after him.

I just hope they have something to recover, Morley muttered, to no one in particular.

Washington, D.C.

8:30 pm

The Carter Barron Amphitheater was ablaze with vivid spears of a laser light show, less than five miles from the White House Situation Room. Surrounded by dozens of holograms and ghostly avatars, Frank Craft sat with his two teen-aged daughters, Kristy and Laurie, only ten rows from the front stage, where before them pranced a troop of iridescent horses, their spectral riders wheeling for another violent pass at each other. The joust had been underway for several minutes now, each clash more spectacular than the last, with explosions of light like a million shards of glass bursting overhead. Frank hugged his daughters in anticipation of the next detonation, this time to be accompanied by dazzling petals of fireworks behind them.

The music was Tchaikovsky, building to a deafening thunderclap, just as the medieval riders swept past each other on the stage. The audience roared their approval and Frank felt his daughters’ eyes studying him with amusement.

Kristy squeezed his shoulder. You’re just like a kid, Daddy! she yelled in his ear, with Tchaikovsky’s drums booming all around them. Admit it! She grinned at him and gave her sister a knowing look.

Frank nodded and shrugged them both off. Ahead of them, the horsemen flashed by again, this time merging into an eruption of flame, arrowing up into the sky right into the center of a gaudy blue pinwheel of fireworks. He clapped long and loud as the audience rose to its feet, showered with an eerie mist of light, the second act of the show winding down to its conclusion.

I just want my daughters to have a little culture, from time to time, that’s all.

Laurie punched him in the arm. Daddy, you can’t call this culture. This is fun!

Frank laughed and hugged them both. The music died away and they all stood there, deafened for a few minutes. A Coke and peanut vendor called out behind them and Frank hailed him down. He fished for his wallet.

Your mother thinks I took you to that concert on the Mall tonight.

Kristy made a face and accepted the Coke that Frank had just bought her. The Symphony’s boring. Besides, since when did you decide we needed this culture trip anyway? You weren’t home long enough to care before.

A lot’s changed since your mother and I separated, Frank told her. And don’t drink so fast. You’ll get a headache.

Daddy…honestly.

Frank looked at his watch. It was just after 9:30. Since you two know-it-alls don’t seem to care for my idea of culture, what say we cut out now and beat the traffic?

And go where? Laurie asked.

Home, Frank tried.

No good—you’ll have to do better than that.

Frank shrugged and began to gather up the towels they had been sitting on. Well, then, what? The old man can’t stay out too much later, you know. Gotta work tomorrow.

Take us dancing! Kristy asked. Take us to Georgetown. There’s that dynamite place on Wisconsin—what’s it called--?

’Kickers,’ Laurie said. Take us to Kickers.

They began to pick their way down the steps and around the blankets and box suppers sprawled across the lawn. You’re not old enough.

Daddy! You promised us some culture. Remember?

Your mother would have my hide. Besides, the cops would never let you in.

Kristy pouted and folded her arms. Bryan takes me down there all the time. And you’re twice as old as he is.

Thanks a lot. I thought I told you to stop seeing that bum.

Bryan is not a bum. You and Mom don’t like him because he’s a free spirit, that’s all. He has an independent mind.

He’s a bum, Kristy. Believe me. I see them all the time. He rides that motorcycle like he’s just robbed a bank. He’s filthy. He’s loud. He’s already dropped out of school—and by the way, young lady, don’t you go getting any ideas like that—and on top of it all, he’s strange.

Bryan is not strange. He’s just…sensitive, that’s all. He’s not any stranger than that Mr. Van Deventer, or whatever his name is, that Mom’s been seeing.

They came to the gate and pushed through the turnstile, heading out across the parking lot. The girls weaved in and out among the cars, while Frank chose the most direct path to where he thought he’d parked.

Your mother’s got a new boyfriend, huh?

Kristy skimmed a layer of rain off the top of a car and flung it at Laurie. Talk about creepy. He’s some kind of old guy. I don’t know—maybe fifty or more—with a pointy beard. Mom says he’s a painter.

Maybe he does nudes, Laurie said.

Anyway, she’s been seeing a lot of him. Like three times a week. Like last week, she missed two days of work because they stayed out so late.

Cute, Frank muttered. He stopped in the middle of the aisle. Where’d I park that damn car—

There it is—right where we left it. Throw me the keys!

Frank tossed Laurie the key fob and she scampered ahead. It was hot and humid and he wished they’d picked up another Coke on the way out. Kristy gave him some of hers and fanned his face with a tattered program.

I swear Laurie and me should just run away. They all climbed into the car and Frank turned on the air conditioning full. He sank back in the seat and mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.

I mean, really, Mom’s hardly ever there. I wish, sometimes—

Frank tapped the screen and the motors whirred to life. The motor pool autocar could drive itself, as long as the start and end points were programmed in. He checked the screen to make sure and satisfied himself that Benjamin—that was the name the girls had given to the autocar—was programmed and enabled properly.

All safeties engaged. Check. End point and way points loaded. Check. No warning flags or red lights. Check.

He tapped GO on the screen and sat back to make faces at himself in the mirror as Benjamin steered them expertly out of the driveway, negotiating early-evening strollers, pedestrians and cars hunting for parking, then merged smoothly with building southbound traffic on Rock Creek Parkway.

Sometimes, what? Frank asked.

Kristy stared morosely out the window. Oh, I don’t know. Maybe we should have stayed with you.

Frank unbuttoned his shirt a little more. They came to the exit and pulled out onto Blagden Avenue into light traffic. The car went a few blocks, then turned south onto 16th Street, following its programmed route.

We went over all that at the hearing, remember? The Judge asked both of you which one you wanted to live with.

I know. But it’s different now. Mom’s too strict. She’s never there anymore. It’s like she’s gotten all cranky since you split. Maybe we were wrong.

Well, we can request another hearing next year, you know.

But that’s too long. God, that’s forever. I’ll flip out or go crazy before then.

Well, just don’t go getting any crazy ideas about skipping town with Wonderboy.

Yeah, I know. You’ll sick the old Secret Service on me.

Laurie poked her father in the shoulder. Daddy, I think that policeman behind us wants you to stop—

What? Frank looked up in the mirror. A D.C. Metro policeman had pulled up right behind them, blue lights flashing. The officer motioned with his hand for Frank to pull off to the side of the road. He located a spot in front of the Italian Embassy, pressed SAFETY STOP on the panel and obliged.

The officer leaped out of his patrol car and ran up alongside Frank before he could get out.

Are you Frank Craft? he asked. He hastily consulted a wristpad. License plate: Virginia EBD-616?

Craft nodded, puzzled. That’s right. What’s wrong, officer?

His nameplate said Cooper and he slumped with relief, trying to get his breath back. Thank God. We got this APB on your plate—an emergency request from the U.S. Secret Service. You’re an agent--?

That’s right. What’s up? What’s going on?

Cooper showed him the wristpad display. Don’t know, sir. But you’re needed at Secret Service headquarters right away. The bulletin’s out all over the District and the metro area—these plates and this car.

Frank studied the screen carefully. It was smudged with sweat and chocolate:

SUBJ TO REPORT HQ SOONEST…IMPERATIVE…CONTACT ASAP…LP# VA EBD-616

Frank looked up and studied Cooper’s face. He was young, freshly-shaven, the look of a puppy eager to please.

What’s this about, Officer? My pad never went off. He checked the screen of his own wristpad for messages, then sheepishly realized he’d turned it off for the laser show. He snapped his wrist forward, turning the unit back on. Notice chimes buzzed insistently.

Cooper shrugged. Maybe it has something to do with the President.

Frank Craft’s eyes narrowed. What’s happened to the President?

You mean you don’t know? Jesus, man, where’ve you been? It’s all over the news. He told Craft what had happened. Kristy and Laurie got out of the car and came up just in time to see the blood drain from their father’s face.

How long has this been out?

Cooper checked his watch. An hour, maybe. I got it over the radio inside my unit.

I’ve got to get back. Kristy, you and Laurie get back in the car. We’re going home.

Look, Mr. Craft, if you want…I can take your daughters. Dispatch said you were to be found and given escort to the White House pronto. VIP service. Why don’t you follow me down there and I’ll take your kids?

Let’s do it. Girls, get in with the officer. He’s taking you to your mother’s right now.

What’s the matter?

No time for questions now, sweetheart. Just do as I say. Frank climbed back into his car and had it moving before the door was shut, re-programming its route over to Pennsylvania Avenue. He pulled up behind Cooper’s patrol car, nearly tapping the bumper, before the officer could shepherd the girls into the back seat and climb in himself. Together, they sped off down 16th Street, through heavy post-holiday traffic, siren wailing in the stifling early evening air.

Moscow, 4:00 a.m.

The man by the window hunched forward just enough to breathe a patch of fog on the double-paned windows. He lifted a finger to scratch out a few letters but checked himself, sensing the curious stares of the men at the table behind him. Anatoli Skripkin had been Foreign Minister for over six years now, a voting member of the Presidential Council and its Emergency State Defense Committee for three, and still he felt the same deep aching chill in his bones whenever he waited in this coffin of a room, with these haunted men, breathing their stale sweat, waiting like doomed ants for the slow, measured trod of heavy feet on the carpet outside.

No doubt Dmitri Luganin was aware of the theater of the moment. Why else summon all voting members resident in Moscow at 4 a.m. to the Kremlin, to the second-floor conference chamber in the severe, trapezoidal Arsenal Building and play captive audience to the limitless ego on a night like this? Skripkin smiled faintly at the misty reflection of his face in the steaming window. Dmitri Andreyevich is no mere apprentice director at the Taganka Theater. His stage would never be so confined by such mundane things as walls or a building. No, it must be true drama to bring out the cream of the Russian elite on such a night of ‘Moscow tears.’

Another roll of thunder and wind-lashed rain gusts peppered the window. Skripkin turned just in time to see the heavy oak doors thrust open abruptly. All breathing stopped. He slid silently into his seat.

Dmitri Andreyevich Luganin was there in the doorway, more solid than the lintel itself. His cheeks sagged unusually low in the shadows; Skripkin took note of the black button eyes that reflected nothing. Luganin swallowed and maneuvered his cane so that the momentum would pull him further into the room. As always, his manservant-aide-therapist bot Fyodor stood by for assistance.

I have important news, comrades, Luganin told them. He settled into his chair, heaving several deep breaths. We have solemn business tonight. I will have tea while you scan the news summaries before you.

Certainly, Dmitri Andreyevich, Malyshev said. He pressed a button recessed into the side of a small box in front of him. Instantly, Fyodor and two other men appeared. Serve, he told them and seconds later, a stainless-steel cart was wheeled into the chamber, covered with bottles of vodka and several steaming samovars, as well as plates of salted fish, caviar, and an assortment of fruits and vegetables. Seat by seat, the cart made its way around the table, as Luganin sipped imperiously at the edge of his cup, his face wreathed in steam. Skripkin watched the President while the others read their news sheets.

In his seat, Luganin’s body seemed to mold itself to the chair. Indeed, everywhere he stood or sat, his body seemed to liquefy and flow so as to occupy space. As if growing out of the bowels of the earth itself, Luganin was an ancient tree of limitless roots held together by will power alone and full of grumbles, grunts, wheezes, snorts and groans. He had a voice so thin and attenuated that it seemed poised on the razor’s edge of infinity. Vasily Tremenko often spoke of him as a rugged old bush, now bare of leaves, hunkered down for the winter.

With plenty of thorns for all of us, thought Skripkin.

This is incredible, stated Defense Minister Rhodeshev. His face was a perplexed frown. My commanders said nothing of this to me.

Comrade President, said Pervukhin, the Tatar, are you quite sure the agency has its facts straight?

The President— mumbled Malyshev. He licked his fingers and turned the pages again. —the President…of the United States of America? Surely--?

Luganin placed his tea cup on the table before him. "Comrades, this is not a hoax. As Vasily Sergeyevich will confirm, we have been monitoring American space communications between here and the Moon all night long. Our friends at the Yevpatoriya tracking station aren’t lying to us. This is all straight from the Tian Jia base…we have been presented with the greatest opportunity of our lives."

Skripkin stared straight ahead at the paneled walls; there was a