Starfire:A Novel By Dale Brown
DEDICATION
I used to dream about being chosen to be an astronaut in the U.S. National Aeronautics and Space Administration and someday walking on the moon or doing experiments on a space station orbiting Earth. I thought there was nothing better than being in NASA . . .
. . . until the advent of private companies, universities, and individuals with the vision and determination to think outside the government-controlled bureaucratic box, accept the risks, and get the job of space travel done.
This novel is dedicated to the innovators, entrepreneurs, and the just plain bold and brash visionaries who have struck out against all odds to make manned spaceflight by nongovernmental entities a reality. What could be better than flying in space on a spacecraft you and your company designed and built?
As always, your comments are welcome at [email protected]. I can’t promise to reply to every e-mail, but I read every one.
PROLOGUE
Revenge is a kind of wild justice.
—SIR FRANCIS BACON
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
APRIL 2016
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the flight attendant said over the airliner’s public-address system, “let me be the first to welcome you to Sacramento’s Patrick S. McLanahan International Airport, where the local time is eight-oh-five P.M.” She continued with the usual warnings about staying seated with seat belts fastened and watching for loose articles in the overhead bins as the airliner taxied to its assigned gate.
One of the first-class passengers, wearing a business suit and white oxford shirt with no tie, looked up from his magazine in surprise. “They named Sacramento International after General Patrick McLanahan?” he said to his companion seated beside him. He spoke with a very slight European accent, hard to pinpoint from which country he was from to the other passengers seated around them. He was tall, bald but with a dark well-groomed goatee, and ruggedly handsome, like a recently retired professional athlete.
The woman looked at him with amusement. “You did not know that?” she asked. She had the same accent—definitely European, but hard for the other passengers within earshot to pin down. Like her companion, she was tall, beautiful without being sexy, with pinned-up, long blond hair, an athletic figure, and high cheekbones. She wore a business suit that had been made to look unbusinesslike for travel. They most definitely looked like a power couple.
“No. You made the reservations, remember. Besides, the airport code on the ticket still says ‘SMF,’ back when it was Sacramento Metropolitan Field.”
“Well, it is Sacramento-McLanahan Field now,” the woman said. “Fits perfectly, if you ask me. I think it is a great honor. Patrick McLanahan was a real hero.” The passengers across the aisle from the couple, although pretending not to eavesdrop, nodded in agreement.
“I think we do not know of half the stuff that guy did during his career—it will all be classified for the next fifty years at least,” the man said.
“Well, what we do know is more than enough to get his name on the airport in the city he was born in,” the woman said. “He deserves his own memorial in Arlington National Cemetery.” More nods of agreement from those around the couple.
The tributes to Patrick McLanahan in the terminal building continued after they left the plane. The center of the main terminal had a ten-foot-tall bronze statue of Patrick on a six-foot tall pedestal, carrying a high-tech flight helmet under one arm and a handheld computer in the other hand—the toe of the statue’s right boot was shiny from passersbys rubbing it for good luck. The walls were lined with photographs of Patrick depicting events throughout his entire military and industrial career. On display panels, children had drawn and painted pictures of EB-52 Megafortress and EB-1C Vampire bombers, with words like BOMBS AWAY, GENERAL! and THANK YOU FOR KEEPING US SAFE, PATRICK!
While waiting at the baggage carousel for their luggage, the man nodded toward an electronic billboard. “There is the ad for that tour of the McLanahan family bar and home, and his columbarium,” he remarked. “I would like to see that before we leave.”
“We do not have time,” the woman pointed out. “The only flight from New York to Sacramento was late, and we have to be in San Francisco by ten A.M. The gravesite does not open until nine, and the bar does not open until eleven.”
“Rats,” the man said. “Maybe we go early and see if someone can open it for us.” The woman shrugged noncommitally and nodded.