Brown, Dale - Independent 01

by Silver Tower (v1. 1)

  He scanned the faces around him. “I want the data ready for encryption and transmission by tomorrow morning. I’ll propose the station repositioning for three days from now.” He looked directly at Ann, who didn’t blink.

  “That’s all.” The group filed out, a few talking briefly with Saint- Michael before leaving. Ann made sure she was the last to talk with him.

  “This plan comes as quite a surprise, General. I thought we had made a commitment to the Skybolt project.”

  “That hasn’t changed, Ann. I’m not canceling Skybolt. But Armstrong Station is an operational military base, a tactical unit first and foremost. I’ve been supplied with information about a situation that could develop into a direct threat against the U.S. I’ve studied the available information and I’ve formulated a response for consideration and approval by headquarters—”

  “But what about—?”

  “Ann, you can believe me or not, but I’m telling you I will not cancel Skybolt.”

  Okay, okay, she thought. Better not press him any further. In fact, better try to cool it. She had to live with these guys. And, when you thought about it, her future was in Saint-Michael’s hands....

  CHAPTER 4

  USS CALIFORNIA

  “Dammit, Cogley,” Captain Matthew Page said, “I don’t want copies of Nimitz’s transcript of the satellite messages. It takes an extra halfhour for them to relay the messages to us and for Comm to type them out nice and pretty. Half of Asia could get blown up in a half-hour. We’ve got our own FLEETS AT terminal; I want copies of the transmissions from that.” Cogley nodded and turned but Page grabbed his arm. “Cogley, give me those messages you have. It’s better than nothing. Tell Comm I want updates every half-hour.”

  Cogley scurried away and returned a few moments later to fill Page’s coffee cup. “Thanks. Now tell Comm to start earning their salaries or I’ll keel-haul them.” Cogley disappeared.

  Page took a sip of coffee, looked skyward. “See that, Ann?” he said, half-aloud. “I call him other things besides ‘Dammit Cogley.’”

  It was the first time he had thought of his daughter since leaving Oakland, and the realization hurt him. My daughter, the astronaut. She had been on the evening news half a dozen times and in the newspapers constantly. A laser expert. Smarter, more famous, better paid and certainly better looking than her old man.

  He felt a lurch from an errant wave and his eyes quickly scanned the digital inertial sea-motion gauges and the computerized compensating equipment on the master bridge-console. All functioning normally. The Arabian Sea could be a wild place sometimes—even without the interference of other people’s navies.

  At least Ann didn’t have to deal with twelve-foot waves, he thought. They didn’t have waves in space. He remembered reading about a “solar wind” powerful enough to move huge space stations, and micrometeorites that could slice through steel. It sounded much more dangerous than the sea.

  He had always wanted to ask his daughter about things like the solar wind and micrometeorites but just never did. Funny—whenever he saw his daughter, he never thought of asking her about lasers, or space, or physics. She was a world-class scientist, one of the nation’s best. She could probably write a book about the solar wind. But whenever he saw her, she was his daughter—nothing more, nothing less, nothing else.

  You’re an old idiot, Page told himself. You’ve never let her know how proud you are of her, how happy you are about her success. You see her maybe twice a year and then it’s always “get me a beer” or “help your mother” or “when are you going to come down to earth— joke—and crank out some grandkids?”

  He went out onto the catwalk and took in the clean, crisp salt breeze and the sounds of waves crashing against the bow of his eleven-thousand-ton guided-missile cruiser. Off in the distance he could just make out the massive outline of the Nimitz as it launched another pair of F/A-18D fighters on a night patrol. The California was positioned as the “goalkeeper,” the largest and most powerful ship cruising except for the main carrier in the battle group. The California's eight antiaircraft guided-missile launchers, two 127-millimeter guns, eight Harpoon antiship missile launchers, four 324-millimeter nuclear torpedo tubes and eight ASROC antisubmarine missile launchers were the last layer of protection for the ninety-one-thousand-ton carrier and her thirty-six hundred crewmembers.

  Dammit, he thought, why feel guilty about speaking your mind? Deep down he couldn’t help feeling that Ann had no business being on a space station or flying in a contraption like the Space Shuttle. Both were dangerous enough without the Russians screaming about them being a threat. And what was wrong with asking for a few grandchildren? Ann was an only child. It would be nice to have a few rug rats around after the navy dry-docked him in a few years.

  Chief Petty Officer Cogley ran up to him now and held out a computer printout. “Message traffic from the Persian Gulf, sir.”

  “I’m not asking too much, right, Cogley? But no. She’s gotta go off and play spaceman. Big deal.”

  “Your daughter, sir?”

  “What? What about my daughter?” Page snapped himself back to the deck of the California and Cogley wisely decided not to pursue whatever the captain had been muttering about.

  “Three point ships from the Brezhnev battle group heading south for the Strait of Hormuz,” Cogley read. “Space Command thinks they’re exiting the Gulf for an early force rotation. The carrier Brezhnev herself is hanging back for now. We’ll be able to wave bye-bye to them as they exit the Gulf of Oman.”

  For a brief instant Captain Page’s mind registered the words “Space Command,” but he didn’t make the connection and assumed Cogley was referring to the air force.... They’re all the same, aren’t they? he liked to say. “Thanks, Cogley. Keep the reports coming.”

  Dark clouds raced across the skies, but Captain Page looked up and stared at the sky as if his daughter Ann could look back down at him.

  “Well, daughter, for once I’m damn glad you’re tucked away up there....”

  TYURATAM, DZEZKAZGAN PROVINCE, USSR

  For the third time that hour General-Lieutenant Alesander Govorov, rested a hand near a clear plastic-covered control panel on the master control board. He was careful to double check that the plastic cover was still in place, but he could not prevent his hand from moving toward the three switches recessed beneath the cover. Slowly, almost reverently, he tapped the plastic above the switches and imagined the results.

  Switch one: Activation of an electromechanical interlock that absolutely committed a launch and attack on the target selected by the tracking computer. Even if an explosion or massive power failure cut power to the entire launch complex, the Gorgon missile’s internal circuitry could still successfully process an attack on the target. Activation of the switch also set off several warning alarms through the antisatellite missile-launch complex and would automatically transmit warning messages to the Space Center headquarters at Baikenour, to the Kremlin, and to several alternate command and control centers throughout the Soviet Union.

  Switch two: Fully automatic launch preparation. Final inertial guidance corrections, final target processing, opening of the missile silo’s twin steel muzzle shutters, retraction of all service ports, arms, and umbilicals, and preparation of the twin one thousand decaliter chemical reagent vessels for the turbo-powered cold-launch mixing process.

  Switch three: Launch commit. The four underground turbopumps would force-mix a sodium carbonate slurry with nitric acid in a large steel vessel under the silo, yielding huge volumes of nitrogen gas in seconds. The reaction vessel would store and compress the gas until the pressure reached one million kilopascals, then force the neutral gas into the silo. The gas would spit the twenty-thousand-kilogram Gorgon missile nearly twenty meters above the silo, where the missile’s exhaust gases would not scorch or damage the silo on first-stage motor ignition. In less than fifteen minutes another missile would be hauled in place and made ready for launch.

 
Govorov could almost see the numbers on the computer monitor displaying the results. A long first-stage bum as the SAS-10 missile plowed through the thick atmosphere. A high-impulse second stage to accelerate the missile to orbital speed. A third-stage orbit-correcting bum, followed by steering bums and thruster course corrections.

  Then, close in. Acceleration to nearly three times the speed of sound—but there would be no sonic booms: the missile would be hundreds of miles above the atmosphere in space by then. Random maneuvers, some as much as forty degrees off, all with the Gorgon tracking system locked in. Then impact, explosion, destruction. The SAS-10 carried a one-thousand-kilogram high explosive flak warhead. Small by any ballistic-weapon standard but devastating to an orbiting target. Without the firmness of the earth to cushion or protect it, destruction would be total.

  Good-bye, American Space Command Brigadier General Jason Saint-Michael. Good-bye, Space Station Armstrong. The pieces of your station will create hundreds of new shooting stars every night for weeks.

  But the plastic cover remained over the three master-launch control keys, and the numbers on the computer monitors showed exactly as they had been showing for a month—Space Station Armstrong safely in its orbit, set up to watch Minister of Defense Czilikov’s folly in Iran a total of sixteen hours a day, telling the world about the big mistake the new leadership of the Soviet Union was about to make.

  Govorov turned to the chief duty officer in the Gorgon launch control and monitoring center. “Status of the target, Lieutenant Colonel Gulaev?”

  “Unchanged, sir. Station Armstrong is thirty-one minutes ten seconds from apogee. Speed and track, unchanged. We can set our chronometers by it.” He turned to face his superior officer. “They are not merely goading us, are they, Comrade General? They know about Feather?”

  Govorov was slightly taken aback by the question involving the Iran operation. Not by the fact that Gulaev, Govorov’s youngest but by far most intelligent duty commander, had discovered Feather—he was exposed to as much message traffic and strategic operational briefings as Govorov himself, and he was a bright kid. But Gulaev, the grandson of one of the Soviet Union’s most highly decorated World War II flying aces, had done what few in the Kollegiya had done: he’d pieced together the inner workings of Feather and then tied the movements and capabilities of the Americans’ most sophisticated and secret military device into the classified Soviet military operation. Gulaev was thinking several steps ahead of most of the military high command.

  “You seem to know a good deal about Armstrong,” Govorov said, “and you are talking too much about Feather. I would strongly advise you to keep your thoughts to yourself—or better yet, do not have such thoughts.”

  Gulaev looked grave, but Govorov managed an encouraging smile. “No, the Americans can’t know about Feather. The operation is too ambitious even for the Americans to imagine.”

  Gulaev nodded, but his inquisitive face was stony as he turned back to his duties. His question bothered Govorov. The Americans, he was certain, were using the powerful space-based radar on Armstrong Space Station to maintain the longest possible surveillance on the region? Why? Certainly not to watch a few ships in the Persian Gulf.

  Always believe the worst and hope for the best—at least that was what he had preached to Gulaev and the other young officers in his command. Time to get off your mindless high horse, Hero of the Soviet Union Govorov. Think like your young officers: The Americans knew or have guessed the invasion plans. Armstrong Station has detected vast numbers of weapons, numbers inconsistent with a simple exercise or with any resupply efforts into Afghanistan. In response they have moved the station into an orbit with the apogee, the highest point of the orbit, directed over the Soviet-Iran border. Moreover they have placed the station in a higher eliptical orbit, which allows them to scan the Iran-Persian Gulf area longer and places them a bit further away from any Soviet antisatellite weapons. They are expending tremendous amounts of fuel and energy to insure that the station passes over the same exact points on the globe on every orbit.. ..

  “Lieutenant Colonel Gulaev.”

  Gulaev got up from his chair and was quickly beside Govorov. “Sir?”

  Govorov put a hand on his shoulder, “Never be afraid to question everything and everyone, Lieutenant Colonel. I know it’s not wise to question those in authority, but in my command I demand it. It’s old fools like me that will drag our country down.”

  “No, General Lieutenant, you—”

  Govorov raised a hand “You were right, as usually is the case. We have to operate under the assumption that the Americans have discovered or at least suspect our plans in the Persian Gulf and Iran and have repositioned the space station to maintain an early warning and surveillance watch on the area. If our intelligence is correct, the station’s space-based radar will be able to direct forces to engage our invasion forces on several fronts at once. Comments, Lieutenant Colonel?”

  The reply came surprisingly quick. “It’s imperative that we destroy the space station Armstrong, sir.”

  “Except the Kollegiya has not authorized such an attack,” Govorov said. “We’re not at war with America. Feather is an operation to occupy Iran, take control of the Persian Gulf and prevent the reintroduction of superior American forces in the region. We are not trying to start a new Patriotic War—”

  “Then I believe, sir, that Feather will fail. Can we, can you, sir, allow that to happen?”

  Govorov winced inwardly, nodded toward his office. Gulaev set his headset down on the master console and followed him. Govorov motioned for Gulaev to close the door as he sat behind his desk in the tiny office.

  “You’ve evidently interpreted my invitation to speak your mind a bit more broadly than I intended,” Govorov said. “Space Defense Command personnel are interviewed frequently by the KGB, and remarks like ‘Feather will fail’ are bound to be remembered by some eavesdroppers, ready and willing to exploit them to advantage. Please, exercise more caution in the future. You’re a damn fine officer; I wouldn’t want to lose you to some three-man radio outpost in Siberia—or worse.”

  As he spoke, Govorov was reminded of his own highly impolitic remarks before the Kollegiya. Maybe he wasn’t the one to be giving this lecture. But then again, who better to preach than a sinner who had suffered for the same sins in the past?

  Gulaev appeared chastened.

  “You are right, of course,” Govorov said. “Feather will hardly be a surprise to anyone if the space-based radar is as effective as I believe it is.” He paused long enough for Gulaev to think he had been dismissed. Then: “Lieutenant Colonel Gulaev, I’d like your estimate of the effectiveness of the SAS-10 Gorgon missile system against the space station Armstrong.”

  Gulaev paused a moment then answered firmly. “Ineffective, sir. At most we can attack the station with six Gorgon missiles. Armstrong has ten Thor missiles it can use against them.”

  “But the effectiveness of the Thor missile system was reported at only fifty percent,” Govorov said, testing his subordinate.

  “Sir, as you know the GRU and KGB adjusted the results of the American’s live-fire test to approximate effectiveness under less than ideal conditions. The facts are that the Americans used seven Thor missiles and destroyed fifty-nine ICBM warheads. That’s an eighty- five percent effectiveness rate. No matter how extensively the test was staged, sir, the fact remains that the American space station successfully intercepted six missiles—Trident missiles, which are more elusive targets than Gorgons. The Thor missile tracked and killed an individual warhead—a much smaller target than a Gorgon. And, sir, although the present groundspeed of the station is slower, the station at apogee is at the extreme altitude length of the Gorgon. Which means that the Gorgon couldn’t tail-chase the station in its orbit but would have to fly directly at it and attack before its fuel supply was exhausted. That would make it a virtual stationary target for the Thor missile.”

  Govorov hated to consider the obvious implications o
f that.... All the plans, all the misgivings, all the perceived deficiencies of the Space Defense Command’s major weapon system that Govorov had been aware of all these years—young Gulaev had just articulated them in one breath.

  “And your alternative?” Govorov asked in a monotone that denied what he was feeling inside. “Come on, Nikolai Gulaev. I know you are going to say it....”

  “Elektron?” Gulaev said matter-of-factly.

  Without a word or expression Govorov picked up the telephone on his desk and punched an office extension. “Operations? General Govorov here. Find an immediate replacement for Lieutenant Colonel Gulaev on the console duty desk, effective immediately and until further notice. No reason... by my authority----------- Yes, I also need a clerk to get some orders cut for me---------- Yes, he’s fine ... get him in here immediately.” And he hung up.

  “Lieutenant Colonel, you have just said the magic word.” Under the bewildered gaze of the young officer he stood, walked over to a steel locker in a far comer of the office and pushed it aside, revealing a wall safe. In a few moments he was holding a red-covered notebook, which he promptly dropped into Gulaev’s hands.

  “Elektron is right. And it is now your project. Yours alone. That document outlines all the procedures necessary to implement the deployment of two Elektron spacecraft with specialized weapons. I—” Gulaev could not help but interrupt. “What sort of weapons?” “Patience. I will draft special orders authorizing you to implement those instructions. You are released from all duties except those outlined in that folder. The folder is classified top secret. Absolutely no one is authorized access to the information in it below the office of first deputy minister. Understood?”

  Govorov didn’t wait for a reply. “Collect your special orders from my office in one hour. I will expect daily reports from you on your progress. Report to your station on the main console until your replacement arrives.”