Executive Intent by Dale Brown

It’s ready—all we need to do is put it all together and set it in motion.
    â€œIt’s time to make the commitment to secure the high ground for the United States of America. That’s why I’m spearheading this effort in Congress and the Pentagon to formally stand up the U.S. Space Defense Command and build this true twenty-first-century force. I’m asking for your help and support. Thank you very much. I’ll be pleased to answer any questions you might have.”
    The congressional staffer meekly raised his hand. Ann smiled and pointed to him. “Uh, Miss Secretary…?” he began.
    â€œYes, sir, what’s your question?”
    The staffer put his hand down, smiled…then his skin turned green, his eyes rolled up inside his head, and he whirled around and vomited over the side of the barge.

ONE
    One must wager on the future.
    â€”E LIE W IESEL
    A RMSTRONG S PACE S TATION
    A FEW HOURS LATER
    U.S. Air Force Brigadier General Kai Raydon expertly sailed across the command module and precisely attached himself to the commander’s console with perfectly placed touches of Velcro sneakers. He still remembered what it was like to float around in zero-g—what most Earth-bound folks called “weightlessness”—for the first time. It simply took practice to get used to the fact that there was no gravity to help you orient your body—every action has to be counteracted with an opposite action. It took a lot of banging around, but Raydon, a longtime veteran of space flight and working in space, was more accustomed to moving around in zero-g than he was in terrestrial one-g.
    The main screen at the commander’s station showed an eight-place split videoconference view, with his image in the lower right corner, and he studied his image for a few moments to make sure he looked presentable. He knew that hair had a tendency to look tangly and get rather dirty during long tours of duty in space, so he always kept his hair buzz-cut short, even when he returned to Earth. Raydon was trim and fit, thanks to a daily resistance workout regimen, especially on Armstrong Space Station, and he was careful to regulate his diet while in space to avoid loss of muscle tone and fluid imbalances. The schedule was demanding up here, but there was always time for exercise; that was one of the most important lessons he taught the young astronauts assigned to Armstrong.
    The other videoconference windows were still vacant; Raydon was the first to arrive in the virtual conference room. The windows were labeled with the names of where the feed was originating: PNSA, SECDEF, CJCS, SECNAV, SECSTATE, DCI, and CNO, all the national security bigwigs, and little old Kai Raydon, the only Air Force guy. He wouldn’t be surprised if this meeting started late, given the shitstorm that was brewing down on planet Earth.
    He checked the secondary commander’s monitor, which showed the latest satellite video feed of the aircraft carrier USS George H. W. Bush, now motionless in the South China Sea. Smoke still covered the aft half of the carrier, although he couldn’t see flames anymore. “Seeker, what’s the latest on the Bush ?” he asked on intercom.
    â€œFires are under control and the casualties have all been evacuated, sir,” Air Force Senior Master Sergeant Valerie “Seeker” Lukas, the senior noncommissioned officer and chief sensor operator aboard Armstrong Space Station, replied.
    â€œCasualty count?”
    â€œSame as last report, sir: fifteen dead, thirty-seven wounded, nine critically. Five jets and three choppers lost.”
    â€œDamn,” Raydon muttered. “Freakin’ Chinese squids. They want to play in Carnegie Hall—now they’re center stage.”
    Twenty minutes past the scheduled start time, the videoconference got under way, presided over by the president’s national security adviser, Conrad Carlyle. The chief of naval