Mounted on the shielding were multi-tube rocket batteries intended to smash any warhead that came close enough to Fortress to do harm. The primary defenses were out of the scale of the picture, however, the constellation of X-ray lasers which orbited with the space station. Each was a small nuclear weapon which, when triggered, sent in the moment of its dissolution up to a hundred and forty-four simultaneous pulses, each capable of destroying any missile or warhead which had risen above the blanket of the atmosphere.
“It’s everything President Kennedy dreamed of,” Kelly agreed, aware of what he was saying and too tired to more than wonder why he was now voicing an opinion that could cost him a job he needed. “An orbital arsenal defended by X-ray lasers and armored with lunar slag that can stop the beam weapons which the lasers can’t.”
Bianci nodded, both because he agreed and because he wanted to be able to agree with his aide on a matter of such emotional importance to him. “A point in vacuum,” he said in a voice that carried a touch of courtliness with no sign of accent from his Italian grandparents, “that can be defended as regions smothered in an atmosphere can’t be. No matter how many missiles the Russians build, no matter how accurate they become, they can’t pierce the defenses of Fortress and knock out our retaliatory capability – as they could with missile silos on Earth.”
“And could with submarine launchers,” Kelly said, nodding in the same rhythm as his employer, “if they can find the subs – which we can’t prove they won’t be able to do tomorrow with hardware no more unlikely than radar would’ve seemed fifty years ago.”
“Then what’s the problem with Fortress?” said Bianci, relaxing.
“Fortress is the ultimate offensive weapon,” Kelly said softly, straightening his fingers and looking at the backs of his hands. Philosophy wasn’t something he really got upset about, and that’s all they were discussing here. If space weaponry ever became more than a matter of philosophy, all the survivors were going to get real upset. . . . “Well, nothing’s ultimate, say the ‘here-and-now maximum’ offensive weapon.”
“Defensive weapon in our hands, of course,” the representative said, more in correction than as part of an expected argument. His buttocks shifted enough that the desk scraped beneath him.
“Boss,” said Tom Kelly, standing and swinging the solid chair to the side rather than stepping around it, “it’s defensive because the Reds – or whoever the hell – know that if they attack us, Fortress’ll blast ’em back to the Neolithic – with bone cancer. You think nobody’d do that, not a risk but a guarantee. …”
The squat aide had taken two absentminded steps deeper into the bull pen. Now he turned and smiled as he faced his employer. “And I ‘spect you’re right, Carlo, for the politicians. But I’ve met folks who weren’t going to back off whatever happened to them or behind ’em.” He sighed, then added, “Hell, boss. On bad days I’ve been that sorta folks.”
Congressman Bianci looked at his subordinate and, as if he had no inkling of what had just been admitted, said, “Then we can agree that we’re safe so long as the politicians control the Kremlin – as they have at least since Rasputin died” – Kelly chuckled – “and that was true even under Stalin.”
“Oh, hell, yes, Carlo,” agreed Kelly easily and honestly. “Fortress is the most practical road to peace – bottom line peace – that anybody’s come up with yet.” He grinned in a way that would have been boyish except for the lines in and on his face. “There’s just a certain beauty to a fleet of mirrors up there” – he gestured toward the ceiling and beyond with his trigger finger – “reflecting laser beams into however many warheads’re coming over.”
“We’ll think about it,” said Bianci, straightening onto his feet again. “Specifically, you’ll have me a report in sixty days on the probable result of moving the project to Space Command. If we do decide to save it, there’s no point in making a ‘logical’ change that results in a balls-up.”