by M S Murdock
“Not currently,” the computer responded. After a pause it said, “Please disregard my last statement.”
“Funny,” Karkov said. “You’re becoming more like me every moment.”
A shrieking siren brought Karkov to attention in his seat. A monitor showed that a simulated flock of American sea-to-space antisatellite (SEASAT) missiles had been launched from a nuclear submarine lying in the Marianas Trench. The same monitor showed the simultaneous firing of ASATs from fighter bombers in six places around the globe.
“You have given me an easy challenge, computer,” Karkov said, responding to the computer’s attack simulation. It had been days since the computer’s last fabricated attack. The two of them had played the game so many times that timing had become nearly the only variable.
Tapping the war-control keyboard built into his seat, Karkov tipped a ground-based laser and a space mirror. Flashes erupted from Earth’s surface, and the SEASATs were destroyed in six quick bursts. An icon on the monitor showed that the Sary Shagan laser facility in Kazakhstan, USSR, would not be operational during its twenty-eight-second recharge period. An instant later, Karkov saw on the monitor another blip, which had been masked by the explosions above it. “Clever . . . clever,” Karkov muttered to the computer. “You have attempted a veiled stealth maneuver to disable our satellite.”
“Correct,” the Masterlink computer said. “I calculate that N ATO forces may pretend to comply with our demands for surrender long enough to launch missiles to blind us. In this case, they have used fighter planes to launch sixty ASATs.”
“If they do, it will cost them at least one major city?
Karkov said. “We are not authorized to make that decision,” the computer responded. “Of course we are. Do not forget: This system can be used by either side. Or both.” “Treason is specifically forbidden in my program,” said the computer.
“ Ah, but I suspect that you have already absorbed enough of my thought patterns to know that your own survival supersedes other concerns.”
“You have yet to deal with this latest missile threat,” the computer said, changing the subject back to the simulation.
“I can think of twenty ways to destroy them. But which is most elegant? Ah. It is risky, but I can afford to take risks, can I not?”
“Given your success rate, you can afford many risks before you’ll be removed from command,” the computer responded.
“I shall assume that all the missiles are aimed at us? Karkov calculated their trajectories. “Yes, they are trying to flood our defenses. I can destroy all sixty for the cost of only three space mines.”
“Elegant in concept. Risky in practice,” said the computer.
Karkov maneuvered his mines on the monitors as the simulated missiles streaked toward the satellite. Masterlink’s interior was strangely silent as the mines slowly drifted to intercept the missiles.
“We need not continue this scenario,” the computer said, abruptly blanking the monitors. “You have quite obviously won. I had expected, however, that you would summon a shuttle from the space station and shoot the missiles down.”
“I avoid using manned crafts. People cannot be trusted to act rationally under fire," ’ Karkov said.
Suddenly he realized the irony of his statement. Could my defense have failed? He wondered. Masterlink must have ended the simulation because it knew the defense would fail. But why? Could the program understand that its only value is in its relationship with me? If I am in error, then it is in error. And if we err, then we have no value. Yes, Masterlink has learned the worth of survival. And we are bound together until the end.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this driver’s seat,” said Buck, as he slithered into the Wraith’s horizontal racing-car-like cockpit.
“We had to design it that way so that the cryogenic chamber would fit,” said Huer beside him. “N ow, I won’t go too much into details, but in addition to the other monitoring devices attached to your body, this catheter in your arm will allow the life suspension device to do its job.
“If we cannot get you down immediately, you’ll have to press the eject button to survive until we can. When you press it, your body will freeze and the cryogenic capsule will eject from the aircraft. Don’t were ry. The capsule itself is titanium coated, so occasional bumps with space debris won’t damage it.
“Also, so far, you’ve been flying the Wraith without Armaments. It was nice for joy-riding, but not for where you’re going. This time you’ll be armed to the teeth.” Huer gestured back to one of the wings, where a rack of missiles rested. “In addition to all the standard F-38 hardware, you’ll have two gyro-shell guns, each with 300 self-propelled, exploding bullets.
You’ll also have beneath each wing six laser-guided ASAT missiles.”
“Nasty,” Buck commented wryly.
“They’ve got to be. They’re all that stand between Masterlink and free America,” Huer said. And between Masterlink and you, he thought forlornly.
“Anything else?” asked Buck.
“Once you’re in orbit, try to maintain radio silence. We don’t know how sophisticated Karkov’s communications devices are, and we don’t want him seeing you before you find him.”
“Gotcha.” Buck reached out of the cockpit and shook Huer’s hand. “Thanks for everything, Doc.”
“You’re more than welcome, Buck,” said Huer. He clapped Buck soundly on the chest, then sealed the cryogenic cockpit chamber and climbed back to the tarmac.
Elsewhere on Earth, the countdown for Armageddon began. NATO commanders quietly moved their troops to full alert. American naval fleets fanned out, thus lessening the chance that a Soviet nuclear attack would destroy them all. Deep in the sea, submarines went dark and awaited missile launch instructions. Across America, bombers of every sort were readied on runways, while fighters began air intercept and support maneuvers.
The President of the United States was called out of a meeting and quietly moved from the White House to the Doomsday plane. In his vest pocket he held a coin, minted in 1863 in Philadelphia, which was found in Abraham Lincoln’s vest pocket on the nigh‘ he was assassinated. A little known piece of Presidential lore was that every President since Lincoln had carried the coin, hoping that when he flipped it, it would grant him Abe Lincoln’s wisdom. Theoretically, it would be the last decision-making tool before nuclear missiles flew.
The President fidgeted now with the coin between his fingers. He knew that the decision to flip it, and the decision that lay beyond that, rested on the success of one man: Captain Buck Rogers. He put the coin back in his pocket and picked up a phone receiver. “Commence with Operation Chopping Block,” he said.
The voice on the other end repeated the instruction to confirm it. “Are we to commence with the Masterlink Decapitation, sir?”
The President felt Lincoln’s coin in his pocket. “Yes. . . . Commence operations at once.”
“Yes, sir.”
Almost immediately the antisatellite mission began. A US. Trident submarine (which did happen to be hidden in the Marianas Trench, as Masterlink had predicted) fired twelve SEASAT missiles up through the depths. Two wings of F-15 Eagle fighter planes streaked through the air, angled straight up to where computers predicted that Masterlink would be, and released rack after rack of ASATs into the black abyss. These, though, were just a smokescreen for the real mission.
“I have ignition,” Buck shouted over the roar of his jets. His eyes scanned the indicators as the plane rumbled beneath him, waiting to be unleashed. “Everything checks out,” he said. “Just give the word.”
“The runway is yours, Captain Rogers,” said the air base’s controller.
“Roger,” said Buck.
“Godspeed, Buck,” said a familiar voice.
“Thanks, Doc. See you in a bit,” responded Buck.
The Wraith thundered down the runway and lifted smoothly into the air. For all his compulsive behavior, Buck Rogers was the finest pilot in the
country, and the only one who could handle the pressures exerted by the Wraith. It steadily rose to cruising altitude, and Buck quickly reached the point at which he would turn perpendicular to the ground. He pulled back the controls, said a prayer, and shot for space.
“An American attack is confirmed. This is not a simulation,” the Masterlink program said calmly.
Karkov’s monitors flashed, as did his eyes in an instantaneous thrill. “Exactly as I had predicted: SEASATs combined with fighter-launched missiles,” the cosmonaut said. Karkov casually ordered the Soviet laser facility at Sary Shagan to begin picking off the missiles.
On his monitors Karkov saw one, then another of the satellites evaporate. But the others kept on coming. “What has happened? Why has Sary Shagan stopped firing?” he asked, concerned but not frantic.
“My sensors indicate that no attack has occurred outside that facility,” Masterlink said. “But the generator is no longer functioning, suggesting an internal strike.”
“Are any other laser facilities operable?” asked Karkov.
“No. Power supplies at the Peblinsk station will not be available for twenty-two days,” informed the computer.
Karkov gave a strange smile as Sary Shagan went black on his monitor. “Those treacherous bastards.” he said mildly. Masterlink detected a wave of excitement now passing through Karkov’s consciousness. “Construct a memo blaming the KGB for this incident,” Karkov said.
“There will be ample time for that after this conflict,” Masterlink responded, at the same time storing the obvious inconsistency away for future analysis. An incoming message from Earth interrupted the computer’s thoughts. “The secretary requests a status report.”
“Tell them that the battle will be swift, brutally successful, and-as a special bonus for the Kremlin-economical,” replied Karkov. It will also be heroic, he thought. They won’t be able to refuse me a statue . . . or anything else I desire.
Because of Sary Shagan’s failure, Karkov activated two Soviet military shuttles that were docked at what was described to the U.N. as an orbiting “space research station.” He knew that Masterlink would wonder why he had made such an order after admitting to not trusting human agents, but he reminded himself that he would grant his motherland some martyrs-not heroes, but martyrs.
Karkov then retaliated for the stupid and impulsive American attack, beginning a carefully choreographed crippling of America. A set of hunter-killer mines, looking like no more than space junk, drifted toward nine American military communications satellites and detonated.
A bogus weather satellite slowly came to life and streaked toward a nearby American space station, still partially under construction. Before the station’s occupants could react, the phony satellite disintegrated in a white-hot blast. An instant later, the Tinker-Toy-like space station floated through space as a cloud of confetti of metal, plastic, and more. Viewing the destruction on one of his monitors, Karkov saw the spectacle as an exotic dancer spinning in an ever-growing veil. How beautiful, he thought.
As for various other American satellites, Karkov simply turned the shotgun like tips of some of his “firing squad” satellites toward them and fired. In an instant, they were shredded.
He sent coded orders down to a fake fishing trawler off the Cocoa Beach, Florida, coastline. The skipper and two mates raised Soviet shoulder mounted "Fang” missile launchers, and fired their lethal spikes at three gleaming targets less than five miles away. NASA reflexes were far too slow, and orange globes of flame erupted where three American shuttles stood only minutes before.
Finally, Karkov turned his attention back to the swarm of missiles that approached him, looking like spike-shaped bullets on his screens. Though the missiles streaked toward him at thousands of miles per hour, the distance between them and Masterlink was so great that he felt more like a tennis player reacting to a slow serve than a gunfighter waiting for a bullet to strike him. Space warfare, unlike the movies, is a slow exercise, he knew. Even laser shots take some time to set up.
As his two Soviet shuttles dropped toward the planet to intercept the tighter-launched ASAT missiles, Karkov turned his attention to a much more potentially dangerous threat: the sub-launched missiles, which he had to assume (as confirming data would not arrive until it was too late) housed X-ray lasers.
The X-ray lasers looked like small Sputniks and were devilishly simple in concept. A low-yield nuclear charge was placed in the center of a ball bristling with directional laser lenses. The lenses were programmed to point at hostile targets, and when the nuclear charge was detonated, the lenses emitted brief but intense pulses of X rays toward their tar gets, destroying them either by shock wave caused by the action of X rays on the missiles’ skin, or by the effect of X rays on the missiles’ electronics.
Karkov targeted three separate weapons systems at these incoming missiles, including small rocket interceptors, which looked comically like salt shakers on his monitor but which fired thousands of destructive fragments, much like a giant shotgun. Another system was a set of electromagnetic rail guns, which shot lethal high-velocity projectiles. The last was a group of orbiting laser guns, which were primarily designed for larger nuclear missiles and were tipped to track any missiles that slipped past the interceptors.
Meanwhile, Karkov steered two protective satellites between Masterlink and the American X-ray lasers’ probable explosion points. That way, even if the unthinkable happened, and a missile made it through, he would be protected.
Buck was aimed at the sun. The F-38 shook like thunder in its ascent. Buck knew that the slightest deviation from course could throw the plane, infinitely smaller than the shuttle, into an angle that would allow natural forces to tear it apart. But he held fast to the controls and let out a loud “Whoop!”
The Wraith’s final thruster kicked in. The sun’s blinding light blocked out the center of his View and glared through his helmet’s holographic displays. But it didn’t matter. If something went wrong, he’d never know what hit him.
Screaming through the upper atmosphere, Rogers watched as the tapered titanium nose cone glowed red and fluorescent chips sloughed off. His headset shrieked static. He was plastered to his seat by gravity and was thrilled, as he knew every pilot was, by the thought of overcoming natural forces with technology.
Though he couldn’t see it, he could feel that the flesh on his face was pulled back in a terrible grinning rictus. Someday I’ve got to get a picture of this, he thought; it would make a great Christmas card.
Then it was over. His ship had punched through the outer edge of Earth’s atmospheric balloon. He was in a void. The shaking stopped. Blood coursed again through his veins, in its own way simulating the shocking vibrations. The bright sunlight was replaced by the darkness of space, and the Earth glowed brightly over his shoulder. All was silent and peaceful. Buck’s body would have floated in zero gravity, but it was held to the bottom of his capsule by his harness.
The nose cone stopped glowing, and for a moment, Buck felt the gentle soaring sensation of flying through a vacuum. Remembering his mission, he settled in like a knight upon a steed and targeted the Wraith toward Masterlink.
A terse voice spoke on his headset. “Event Number One about to occur, Captain Rogers. Take appropriate action.” It was everything Buck could do to not turn and look at the explosion of an X-ray laser, but he knew that if he did, the intense nuclear light would do worse than blind him.
Suddenly, space flashed a burning red, and the Masterlink satellite was buffeted by a shock wave, one of the X-ray lasers had gone off before expected. Karkov spun in his seat.
“Give me a damage report!” he shouted.
“Your blood pressure is skyrocketing,” the Masterlink computer announced. “Is your judgment clouded.”
“Tb hell with my blood pressure. Give me a damage report.”
Initial computations took only a minute. “The following assessment is incomplete, awaiting electromagnetic clearance of some systems. Our
shuttles are operational, though the crews are in a heightened state of anxiety.”
The report was mixed. The explosion had destroyed two of four laser platforms, one of three rail guns, one of three Soviet shuttles, and two of ten relay satellites. It was more damage than Karkov was willing to take, but the Masterlink satellite was still intact and functional. On the other side of the ledger, the explosion had also wiped out fourteen of sixty incoming American ASATs.
There would be time for anger later, Karkov knew. He turned his attention to destroying the remaining ASATs.
Buck regained control of the Wraith fifteen seconds after the blast. Particles still glowed and burned in space where errant X rays had cut through the void near him. It took him a minute to realize that the blast had affected his own craft. His helmet’s holographic display had gone berserk. Obviously, the Wraith wasn’t as tough as the technicians back at the base had thought. Then he glanced down at his backup monitor. It was gone, too. He figured that his gyro-shell guns would work, and hoped to hell that his missiles were functional, too. But he wouldn’t know that until he had to use them.
Chancing radio contact, Rogers spoke into his headset. “Rogers to Mission Command. My astrogational instruments are trashed; I’ll have to fly by the seat of my pants, which won’t be easy, since my seat is floating. How are things down there?”
“Buck, this is Huer.”
“Hey, Doc. What’s our status?”
“I’ll try to be brief. The X rays damaged him badly, but his system is still functional. Forty-two of our sixty fighter-and sub-launched ASATs were destroyed en route, but we made some hits as well. A couple of his communications satellites and a space-based laser are history. Don’t worry, we’re working on coming back for an encore.”
