Page 38 of Stars
It seemed like a dream, some whiskey-induced fantasy he’d concocted dozing in front of the fire. But no, he had the sunburn and the hickeys to prove it was real. The feel of Sasha deep inside him.
They’d stolen every moment they could before he took off, lingering inside Sasha’s truck at Hobby Airport until the last second. Sasha had kissed him like he wouldn’t ever let go, holding Sergey’s face in his hands as his kisses never stopped.
Sasha never said it, but Sergey could see the words in his eyes, the plea, the frantic hope:I don’t want you to go.
“Only two more years on my term,” he’d whispered. “And then I am packing my bags and moving to Texas.”
Sasha had kissed him again. “Promise?”
“I promise, Sashunya. And I always keep my word.”
Sasha had held his hand until their arms couldn’t stretch any further, until their fingertips were the only things connecting them. Sergey walked backward from Sasha’s truck, watching his lover stare forlornly after him from the front seat.
Even walking away like this, even with these separations, I would rather have him in my life than not.
He’d showered as soon as his plane leveled off, rinsing his hair with the debonder and stripping the extensions out. He toned the brunet away, forty minutes of washing and washing until his hair was back to its dull blond and gray, though perhaps it was a shade or two darker now. And then he’d collapsed, falling asleep almost before his ass hit the seat. He had twelve hours until they landed in Moscow, and he needed them.
Yuri waking him halfway through the flight was not on his schedule. “What is it?”
“We’ve received a message from Moscow.”
Only one person knew how to contact him. And he would only do so if the world was about to end. Suddenly awake, Sergey pushed to his feet and followed Yuri.
Seryozha, the message read,Soviet satellite armed with nuclear device reactivated and launching projectiles at US military satellites. We need you.
* * *
13
Johnson Space Center
Houston, Texas
“What the hellis happening up there?” President Elizabeth Wall glared from the center video conference screen in JSC’s executive boardroom. She dominated the wall-sized display, her senior staff all glaring down the long, polished conference table in the White House Situation Room and into the camera. Mark waited silently with NASA administrator Bob Meyer, Chris Slattery, Erica Hargrave, and Roxanne Villanueva.
Two years in office had changed President Wall. Reporters had noted throughout her career how timeless and flawless she appeared, both in poise and professionalism. Even in her early fifties she could pass for late thirties, and the serenity she exuded seemed to be a testament to her calming presence in government as well.
Two years with the weight of the whole world on her shoulders had begun to show. Streaks of silver wove through her ebony strands and looped into her French twist. Crow’s-feet had appeared at the corners of her eyes, furrows in her dark skin that grew deeper with each international crisis.
As secretary of state and vice president, Elizabeth Wall had been known for razor-sharp intelligence tempered by kindness. In contrast, President Wall had a reputation for aggressively pursuing her party’s interests. She remained a member of the Unity Party and had taken over as its head after Jack Spiers-Reichenbach’s resignation. The Unity Party promoted national security in the wake of Madigan’s global terrorism through full-spectrum operations, as well as an ambitious progressive domestic platform.
Lieutenant General Zach Duncan, the US Joint Space Command officer charged with securing American military space superiority and her global strike operations, spoke first from the inset video in the lower right corner. He was on a secure channel from Peterson Air Force Base, NORAD Command. “Madam President, we’ve lost five Milstar communications satellites. All were destroyed by what our initial intelligence analysis indicates is a Soviet satellite-based rail gun.”
“My doctoral thesis was on Soviet military weaponry,” President Wall said. “I don’t recall them ever possessing rail gun technology—certainly not forty years ago—and most definitely not launching one into orbit.”
“No, Madam President, our intelligence assessments over the last half century did not suggest they had one either. Our own rail gun technology is still under development, with only limited deployment in our navy. The Soviets were testing rail gun tech through the 1980s, but we never believed they were successful. They consistently ran into the same problems we did.”
“Which was?”
“Heat, Madam President. Massive amounts of heat generated by the electricity powering the rails and from the friction of the projectile as it is magnetically launched. Early attempts melted after a single use, and even our current rail gun applications have extremely limited lifespans at full-powered operations.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, General,” President Wall said, “but heat and friction would not pose a problem in space.”
General Duncan shifted. “You are not wrong, Madam President.”
“Which means the Soviets figured out the solution to a problem that still vexes our military. And they managed to hide it from the entire Western world’s intelligence community.”
Silence.
