“That it will look like a black hole.”
“Precisely. Now imagine a space tug coated with this material. As long as it approaches from a parallel or higher orbit, so that space rather than the bright Earth is the background…”
“It will be fucking invisible. A black hole in black space. Have we tested this?”
“You’re aware of the X-37 spaceplane that the US Space Force flies?”
“Sure, the mini space shuttle.”
“That’s the one. Our space tug fits very nicely inside its payload bay. Space Force will loft it. It is up to the CIA to determine exactly which satellites are space weapons—not space surveillance, only the weapons. Then you will coordinate with Space Force for their clandestine deorbiting.”
“No one will ever see what caused their weapon to fall out of the sky.” Clarissa could barely catch her breath. It was beautiful.
“Precisely. Are you interested?”
Interested? Was sheinterested?
“You know,” she scrolled down to the next section, which showed a whole series of flight tests she’d never caught a hint of, “if I didn’t hate your stinking guts, Drake, I could kiss you.”
“Oh, then please remember that you hate my stinking guts.”
“Deal.” They shook on it. Then she opened the article on Monarch butterflies and began reading, completely forgetting about her champagne.