“Don’t worry, Mr. President,” Raydon said. “I think you being here will have a very profound effect on people all over the world for a very long time.”
“Sure; the kids will be saying, ‘If that old fart can do it, I can do it,’ eh, General?” the president deadpanned.
“Whatever it takes, Mr. President,” Valerie Lukas said. “Whatever it takes.”
The president was surprised to find Agent Charles Spellman in a strange linen sleeping-bag-like cocoon, Velcroed vertically to the bulkhead—he looked like some sort of large insect or marsupial hanging from a tree. “Mr. President, welcome,” a very attractive dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in a white jumpsuit said, expertly floating over to him and extending a hand. “I’m Dr. Miriam Roth, the medical director. Welcome to Armstrong Space Station.”
The president shook her hand, pleased that he was getting steadily better at keeping body control in free fall. “Very nice to meet you, Doctor,” Phoenix said. To the Secret Service agent he asked, “How are you feeling, Charlie?”
“Mr. President, I am so sorry about this,” Spellman said, his deep monotone voice not masking the depth of his chagrin. His face was very puffy, as if he had been in a street fistfight, and the faintest whiff of vomit nearby was unmistakable. “I have never in my life been seasick, airsick, or carsick—I haven’t had so much as a stuffy nose in years. But when that pressure hit me, my head started to spin, and before I knew it, it was lights-out. It won’t happen again, sir.”
“Don’t worry about it, Charlie—I’ve been told that when it comes to motion sickness, there’s them that have and them that will,” the president said. To Roth, he asked, “The question is: Will he be able to return to Earth without getting another episode?”
“I think he will, Mr. President,” Miriam said. “He is certainly healthy, easily on a par with anyone on this station. I gave him a little shot of Phenergan, a longtime standard antinausea medicine, and I want to see how he tolerates it. In fifteen minutes or so, I’ll let him get out of the cocoon and try moving about station.” She gave Spellman a teasing scowl. “I think Agent Spellman failed to take the medications I prescribed before takeoff as he was advised.”
“I don’t like shots,” Spellman said gruffly. “Besides, I can’t be medicated while on duty, and I never get sick.”
“You’ve never been in space before, Agent Spellman,” Miriam said.
“I’m ready to get out now, Doc. The nausea has gone away. I’m ready to resume my duties, Mr. President.”
“Better do as the doctor says, Charlie,” the president said. “We’ve got the return flight in just a few hours, and I want you one hundred percent for that.” Spellman looked immensely disappointed, but he nodded, saying nothing.
They made their way through yet another connecting tunnel, longer this time, and entered a third module, lined with computer consoles and large-screen, high-definition monitors. “This is the command module, Mr. President, the top center module on the station,” Raydon said. He floated over to a large bank of consoles manned by six technicians. The technicians were floating before their consoles in a standing position, their feet anchored in place by footholds; checklists, clipboards, and drink containers with straws protruding were Velcro’d securely nearby. “This is the sensor fusion center. From here we collect sensor data from thousands of civil and military radars, satellites, ships, aircraft, and ground vehicles, and combine them into a strategic and tactical picture of the world military threat. Armstrong Space Station has its own radar, optical, and infrared sensors, with which we can zoom in on targets in both space and on Earth within range, but mostly we tap into other sensors around the globe to build the big picture.”
He floated across the module to four small unmanned consoles behind two sets of three consoles and computer screens, also unmanned. “This is the tactical action center, where we employ the space-based weaponry,” Raydon went on. He put a hand on a technician’s shoulder, and the man turned and smiled broadly at the president. “Mr. President, I’d like to introduce you to Henry Lathrop, our aerospace-weapons officer.” The two men shook hands, with Lathrop grinning ear to ear. Lathrop was in his late twenties, very short, very slim, wearing thick glasses and sporting a shaved head. “Henry, explain what it is you do here.”
Lathrop’s mouth dropped open as if he hadn’t expected to say anything to the president—which he hadn’t—but just as Raydon was about to be concerned, the young engineer pulled it together: “Y-yes, sir. Welcome to station, Mr. President. I am the aerospace-weapons officer. I control station’s weapons designed to work in space and in Earth’s atmosphere. We have some kinetic weapons available, but the Skybolt laser is not active per presidential order, so my only weapon is the COIL, or Chlorine-Oxygen-Iodine Laser.”