Brown, Dale - Independent 01

by Silver Tower (v1. 1)

  “It’s just knowing how to use the resources that are available,” Baker said. That and fifty years experience as a computer engineer, he thought to himself. He ought to be able to pull a rabbit out of his hat once in a while. She was the geniusy one, but there was still room for operations guys too....

  Slowly, the numbers began to change as each memory location in the electronic relay was examined, its data-correct checksum value computed, the memory location analyzed and the resident checksum value computed. If the two checksum values were different, it would indicate a problem in that particular memory location. The circuit controlling that memory location could then be checked for malfunctions, which would lead to the solution of the Skybolt laser’s tracking and power-supply problems.

  Baker glanced at his watch. “Eighty seconds to check one register. Sixty-four registers... about an hour and a half for the left MHD superconducting relay. That’s a lot longer than I expected.”

  “Considering it would normally take one of us about five minutes to check each register, I’d say that’s pretty good.”

  “Yes, well, did you find anything else while I was programming the computer? Something we maybe overlooked?”

  “I wish I had. No, everything else checked out. You were right. I think the problem is in one of the ‘toasters.’ Why are the solutions in the last place you—”

  Suddenly, a shrill Klaxon alarm echoed throughout the station. The horn blared three times; then a computer-synthesized voice announced, “Missile launch detection. Missile launch detection.”

  Ann detached herself from her Velcro anchor pad and shot for the hatch to the connecting tunnel between the experimentation module and the command center. She was through the portal in an instant.

  To her surprise very little had changed in the command center. Colonel Walker was peering at the monitor that Sergeant Jefferson had been assigned; everyone else was closely monitoring his own instruments.

  “Coming through, Ann.” It was General Saint-Michael pushing past her. He caught hold of his commander’s chair, maneuvered around it and strapped in. She noticed that he was wearing a damp flight suit, as if he had hurriedly jumped out of the shower after hearing the alarm. He put on his communications earset and she quickly readjusted hers as Baker moved beside her just inside the command-module hatch.

  “Missile launch detection, infrared telescopic scan and confirmed by SBR,” Jefferson reported. “In the vicinity of Bandar-e Lengeh in Iran.”

  “Silkworm?”

  “Not yet confirmed, sir... wait, now confirmed, General. SBR tracking three Silkworm-F subsonic missiles heading two-six-one, velocity one-seven-zero knots groundspeed and accelerating.”

  “Target?”

  There was an uncomfortable pause Then: “Looks like three Soviet battleships in the Strait of Hormuz...”

  “Transmit tactical warning message to all forces in the region. Continue tracking. Any aircraft up?”

  Soviet airborne from the Brezhnev, sir. An Antonov An-18 carrier recon plane.... SBR now reports total of five missiles in flight from Bandar-e Lengeh.”

  “Any of ours up?”

  “We’ve got one 767B AWACS plane over Saudi Arabia,” another tech reported. “No comfirmation of missile launch from him.”

  “Status of missiles?”

  “On course for the destroyers, speed now three-one-zero and accelerating.... Sir, aircraft launching from the Brezhnev. Two highspeed aircraft....”

  “The alert fighters,” Walker said. “Any chance of those fighters chasing down the Worms?”

  “Range from fighters to destroyers, one hundred twenty nautical miles. Range from missiles to ships... mark... forty nautical miles. Groundspeed of missiles now four hundred knots. Approximately six minutes to impact. Fighters now approaching five hundred knots groundspeed and accelerating rapidly.”

  “No chance they’ll catch up,” Walker said. “They’ll arrive just in time to see the Worms hit those ships.”

  “They might be able to get the Silkworms with a long-range-missile shot,” Saint-Michael said. “How much longer do we have on this orbit?”

  “We go out of effective SBR scanning position in fifteen minutes.”

  “Then let’s get set up for regional displays of the area. Get everybody in here, Jim. We’re going to need tactical SBR scanning recordings of the whole area. A lot of people are going to be asking us what we saw—I want multisensor descriptions of everything within range. Status of those Silkworms?”

  “Impact in five minutes. Fighters both at eleven hundred knots and steady. ETA six minutes.”

  Saint-Michael shook his head. “Those Russian pilots are going to have to be very, very good to tag those Worms,” he said, then it dawned on him—the irony of the situation. Here they were in a way rooting for the damn Russians—the bad guys. He guessed it was because the missile attack seemed unprovoked. Except was it really unprovoked, or was it just meant to seem that way... ?

  USS CALIFORNIA

  “The space station saw the missile launch?” Captain Matthew Page asked as a sheet of computer paper was handed to him. His chest heaved slightly—he had sprinted the entire way from his stateroom to the USS California's combat information center when the news of the attack had been received.

  “That’s what they say, sir,” the operations officer told him. “About two minutes ago. They’re tracking five Silkworm-F missiles launched from Bandar-e Lengeh, a military base about eighty miles southwest of Bandar-Abbas in southern Iran. Target is reported to be three Soviet destroyers approaching the Strait of Hormuz. The Soviets have launched two Su-27B fighters from the carrier Brezhnev and are pursuing.”

  Page studied the large wall-size computer-generated tactical display, which integrated all of the information pouring into the California from all sources to give a near-real-time map of all that was going on around them. The symbols representing the vessels in the Persian Gulf itself were unmoving, marked with Xs to show that their positions were estimates only. Only the icons representing images from the California's radar were marked with blinking asterisks, indicating real-time positions.

  “The information on this board is old,” Page said irritably. “Can’t we hook into whatever this space station is using?”

  “Checking, sir.”

  Page studied the board. “The Brezhnev was over a hundred fifty miles from the Strait. It’ll be a miracle if those fighters can get to those destroyers in time.”

  A warbling tone echoed in CIC, and the operations officer picked up a black security phone. He immediately handed it to Page, who listened intently for a few moments. “California acknowledges. Out.”

  He turned to the operations officer, “Mr. Meserve, put the boat at general quarters.”

  “Aye, sir.” Meserve picked up another telephone. “Bridge, ops. Sound general quarters.” A few moments later the California was reverberating with a series of loud electronic bells and the blaring announcement: “General quarters. General quarters. All hands man your battle stations.”

  Meserve stayed on the phone for another two minutes. “All stations report manned and ready, Skipper.”

  “Very well.” Page again picked up the red phone, the direct communications line to the Nimitz. “Sir, the California is at battle stations.” He replaced the red phone in its cradle and picked up a shipwide intercom microphone.

  “All hands, this is the captain. There is an attack in progress against three Soviet destroyers in the Strait of Hormuz, about seven hundred miles west-northwest of our position. The attack is coming from Iran and is apparently unprovoked. Two Soviet fighters are airborne heading for the strait, so Admiral Clancy aboard Nimitz has ordered the battle group to general quarters. The group is not in any present danger, but stay on your toes. Out.”

  Page replaced the microphone just as Chief Petty Officer Cogley came up to him with a steel helmet, floatation jacket and antiflash red lens goggles. “Thanks, Cogley. I’ll be on the bridge in a few minutes.”
r />   “Skipper. Data link established with the space station.”

  Page turned toward the large tactical screen just as it transformed itself: the range of the display shimmered and changed from a five- hundred-mile circular display—the extreme range of the limited radar data received from the ships in the Nimitz battle group—to a thousand-mile-high resolution square display. Now, instead of only open ocean to look at, the screen showed several bodies of water and the political boundaries of a dozen countries. Each blip on the screen, aircraft as well as ship, was labeled and identified with a real-time flashing indicator. In less than a minute Page was able to read and assimilate the entire tactical situation in the Persian Gulf.

  “Amazing,” Page said.

  “Armstrong says the data link will last only a few more minutes, Skipper.”

  “Armstrong?” Suddenly, Page understood what the tiny voice inside his head had been saying. “Armstrong. The space station. My daughter is on that thing. What the hell is she doing over the goddamned Persian Gulf?”

  No one replied. Captain Page wiped his forehead and realized the stuffy, ozone-smelling walls of CIC were starting to close in on him.

  “Meserve, get me a printout chart of the last possible tactical display before Armstrong stops transmitting and bring it to the bridge.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Page bulled through the corridors and stairways of the California, swearing loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. “That damned daughter of mine.... I knew she had no business on that damn orbiting bull’s-eye. I knew it....”

  The number of personnel on the bridge had doubled since Page had left it. The helmsman and signalman now had partners beside them, the Marine guards were doubled, two damage-control seamen were rechecking fire extinguishers and lookouts with StarLite night-vision binoculars were stationed on the catwalks scanning the horizon. Page eased into his swivel seat.

  He picked up a microphone. “CIC, bridge. Status?”

  “Bridge, CIC. Silkworm missiles are thirty seconds from impact ... sir, Russian fighters launching missiles.”

  “Give me a running narrative on the action.”

  “Aye, sir. Now showing only one Silkworm missile in flight.... Russian fighters still twenty miles from Soviet vessels ... not showing any Silkworm missiles in flight... fighter images merging with ships ... carrier Brezhnev launching aircraft. Now four high-speed aircraft leaving the Brezhnev moving northeast at three-zero-zero knots and accelerating. . . . Slow-moving aircraft leaving the Brezhnev. Silver Tower says they’re rotorcraft.”

  “Silver what?”

  “Sorry, Armstrong Space Station. ‘Silver Tower’ is a nickname for the station’s antilaser coating—”

  Page’s voice boomed out over the bridge. “Antilaser coating . ..?”

  “Armstrong reports only one minute of scanning time available, sir. .. first two Soviet jet aircraft turning northbound past the destroyers... no speed being registered by any of the three vessels. They appear to be dead in the water... losing the real-time signal from Armstrong, sir. We’ll get you the latest area chart immediately.”

  “What about that air force AWACS? Can we tie into their data transmissions?”

  “I’ll try, Skipper.”

  Page tossed the microphone down on its hook. Antilaser coating? God damn, she never said she’d be a target for damned lasers....

  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

  “Picking up emergency locator beacons from the area of those Soviet vessels, General,” Jefferson reported. “A few distress calls.”

  The command module was unusually silent. No one could speak except in muted, clipped voices. They had all witnessed, first-hand, the beginning of what appeared to be a major confrontation between Iran and the Soviet Union.

  Silver Tower was now on the short one-hour portion of its three- hour orbit, hurtling toward perigee, its closest approach to earth, only eighty miles above the edge of the atmosphere. This part of the orbit was a busy time for the crew, especially now. Along with the normal housekeeping functions of running the huge station—power collection and storage while on the “day” side of the orbit, systems maintenance, and inspections—the massive amounts of data collected by the crew had to be stored and prepared for dissemination, and then the proper preparations made in Silver Tower’s numerous sensor banks for the next two-hour pass over the conflict area.

  What made the job even more pressured was the constant stream of calls to General Saint-Michael, asking for a description of exactly what had happened in the Persian Gulf.

  “Negative,” Saint-Michael said into his earset. “Sir, I’m sorry, but I have my orders. My amended orders are to transmit my stored data to the Joint Chiefs directly.... No, we don’t have the time to retransmit it to Sixth Fleet or Seventh Fleet Headquarters. We’ll have just enough time to beam it out once before we have to start setting up for the next orbit over the area... . Yes, Admiral, it was the California that requested the data link. . .. The Nimitz listened in but it was the California that asked. .. . Yes, sir, they must have data from shortly after the Silkworm launch was detected. They may have even seen the impact themselves.. ..”

  Saint-Michael rubbed the painful throbbing in his left temple. At a slight tap on his shoulder, he opened his eyes and saw Ann moving beside his seat with a cup of coffee.

  “You look like you can use—”

  Saint-Michael shook his head and tapped his earset. “I’m on the scrambled satellite link. Admiral Walton.”

  Ann nodded, listening in as Saint-Michael took the cup of coffee and continued speaking into the microphone.

  “I’m sorry, sir? Yes, we can use the data link itself for voice as well as SBR data transmissions. It’s a frequency-agile scrambled microwave transmission. It’s not completely jam-proof or completely secure, but it’s real-time voice and data at the same time, and I think that’s what you want.... What? It was working fine with the California, Admiral....”

  “The California?” Ann said. “Where? Where is he?”

  Saint-Michael held up a hand. “Yes, Admiral. I think the Nimitz should get the data, but California seemed to be better set up to receive it. That’s your primary battle management ship, she has better satellite arrays and combat-control displays.... No, we’ll beam it to anyone who’s set up to receive it.... Yes, sir....”

  “How’s my father? Was he... in the fight?”

  “Dammit, Ann... no, Admiral. Stand by one.” Saint-Michael turned to her. “The Nimitz battle group was seven hundred miles away in the Arabian Sea when the attack started. Now please, be quiet.” He turned back to his earset and continued his conversation.

  Colonel Walker interrupted Saint-Michael’s transmission with the “CALL” function of the interstation communications system. “Ten minutes, General.”

  “Gotta go, Admiral. We’re ten minutes from horizon passage.... Thank you, sir. Armstrong out.” Saint-Michael immediately switched to station wide intercom. “Attention on the station. Message from the Joint Chiefs, transmitted through U.S. Navy Commander in Chief Pacific Forces. Well done. That goes double for me. But now we get to do it all over again—ten minutes to horizon crossing, stand by for target area.”

  THE KREMLIN, USSR

  “It. . . is .. . impossible.. . .”

  Marshal of the Soviet Union Sergei Czilikov read the dispatch slowly, his gnarled fingers digging deeply into the paper. He dismissed the messenger with a wave of his hand. First Deputy Minister Khromeyev stepped toward the minister of defense’s desk, and Czilikov handed the message to him.

  “A communication between space station Armstrong and the commander in chief of Pacific Forces in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii,” Khromeyev muttered, reading the message, “discussing the transmission of real-time, space-based radar data to ships of the Seventh Fleet detachment in the Arabian Sea.”

  “Govorov ... the space station Armstrong ... is it possible?” Czilikov asked. “That station is sixteen hundred kilometers in space, traveling twenty-eight
thousand kilometers an hour. Is it really possible that it can report on the position of all combat vehicles in that region?”

  “This message says nothing of the sort. We’ve had satellites that can transmit real-time imagery for a decade. The technology is rather commonplace. Watching a few ships in the Persian Gulf from space is child’s play and has been for years.”

  “But the attack was detected so quickly....”

  “Three hours? Sir, in these days a child in a sailboat on the Persian Gulf can report an attack to the world in three hours. I still have not seen any evidence of the American’s vaunted high-technology spacetracking system.”

  Czilikov nodded slowly. “Very well. I will go along with your assessment. Feather will continue as planned. Were there any serious casualties aboard the Sovremnnyy?”

  “No casualties, sir. An unexpectedly high number of injuries but none serious. The Sovremnnyy was hit by three missiles and suffered extreme damage, much more than planned. In addition, the patrol vessel Buchara was hit by a forth Silkworm missile. Several injuries, heavy damage but she’s still under her own power. However, sir, there are unexpected bonuses. As unfortunate as the injuries are, it should serve to fuel outrage and help win support for the operation. This is no longer an ‘unfortunate incident’—it is a major act of aggression. There also can be no charge of a contrived attack....”

  “No, but I wish it weren’t through our own ineptness that it was so.” Czilikov paused, thinking. “Strategically, we’re in good shape. The Brezhnev is still in grave danger from land-based attack, but Chercherovin assures me the carrier and her escorts in the gulf can take control of the skies until Bandar-Abbas, Tehran, Tabriz, and Hamadan airfields in Iran are taken by Rhomerdunov and Ilanovsky. Once the air force and army control those four fields, they will be able to sufficiently seal off the skies for Chercherovin to move more ships into the gulf.”

  “And the American, French and British ships in the gulf? What of them?”