Oath of Office

“That shouldn’t be necessary,” Kazem said. “But I’m afraid you must remain our guest for a few more hours. Mark my words, O Guide of Emulation. This will be a boon for us and a hellish nightmare for the West.”

“Your mind is gone,” Ghorbani said. “You are as insane as the fool Tabrizi.”

“We will soon see,” Kazem said.

* * *

“I need the best astrophysicist in the free world,” President Ryan said. “And if he or she happens to be on the East Coast, so much the better. I’d like them in my office as soon as humanly possible.”

Foley stood. “On it.”

“I may know a guy,” Scott Adler said, though this sort of thing was well outside his wheelhouse. “I play poker with some guys from the poli-sci department at Annapolis. A couple of months ago one of them brought an aeronautical engineering professor — a real probability genius who cleaned us all out. I’ll have to make some calls to get his name.”

Foley was already thumb-typing again. “Dr. Randal Van Orden?”

“That’s him,” Adler said. “If that son of a gun is half as good at rocket science as he is at poker, he’s your man.”

“His CV is incredible,” Foley said, perusing her phone. “Turned down a job at NASA to teach at the Naval Academy. He’s the go-to guy when anyone has a question about satellites. And get this, he’s written papers on both the Kessler and Tabrizi theories.”

Six minutes later, Ryan had him on speakerphone.

“Dr. Van Orden, Jack Ryan here. We’re dealing with a significant problem and would welcome your expertise. I wonder if you would be willing to come to my office?”

“Without question, Mr. President,” the scientist said, sounding addled.

“I assume you have a security clearance,” Ryan said.

“I do,” Van Orden said. “My periodic work with NASA requires me to maintain a TS.”

“Top Secret is a little low for this one,” Ryan said. “But I’ll read you in when you get here.”

“Might I ask what the problem is in reference to?”

“Unfortunately, I can’t go into too much on the phone,” Ryan said. “But it has to do with papers you’ve written, specifically on Kessler and Tabrizi.”

“I see,” Van Orden said. “In that case, I have a young protégé here in The Yard who you will want to talk with. He did a recent paper on Tabrizi that was the best I’ve ever read.”

“An associate professor?” Ryan asked.

“No, sir,” Van Orden said. “A Youngster.”

A “Youngster” in Naval Academy jargon was a sophomore. “Midshipman Alex Hardy is a student of mine, and I have to say, one of the brightest minds in the field of aerospace and astronautical engineering. He personally designed the key components for the guidance system on the satellite we’re sending up next fall.”

“That might be problematic,” Ryan said.

“I assure you,” Van Orden said, “if you need answers, he will have more than I do — or anyone else, for that matter.”

Ryan said, “We’ll read him in as well. This is a matter of some urgency. I’ll have a car there to pick you up in…” He looked as his watch, then motioned to Mary Pat to get someone on the way immediately. “Shall we say thirty minutes?”

“We’ll be ready, Mr. President.”

Ryan’s hand hovered above the phone. “And Dr. Van Orden, I realize that you and Midshipman Hardy will have scheduled classes, exams and whatnot. I’ll square this with the superintendent. You may tell others with an immediate need to know that you’ve been summoned to the White House, but as far as anyone else is concerned, the purpose of your visit is classified.”

* * *

There was no denying it; Randal Van Orden kept a messy workspace. Circuit boards, rolls of soldering wire, plastic boxes of delicate heat-shielding material leaned against an ancient oscilloscope. Stacks of dog-eared papers, some decorated with rings from countless cans of Diet Coke, occupied every place on the desk where there wasn’t an electronic component or scientific instrument. Van Orden’s thoughts did not come in a linear manner, unlike most engineers he knew. The answers to whatever problem he happened to be working on at the moment appeared like tiny thought bubbles in the cluttered workspace of his mind. But if he needed to work out the load limits of a particular rocket or the right mixture of powdered metal in solid fuel engine — the answers were always there in the bubbles. Just as the soldering gun was where he needed it to be on the table. There was, indeed, a method to his mess.

It did, however, take him a moment to find his cell phone, tucked in the side pocket of the heavy-duty Saddleback Leather briefcase that his wife said looked professorial.