Brown, Dale - Independent 01

by Silver Tower (v1. 1)

  The two NightHawk fighter bombers did not survive the killing battlefield air defenses the Soviet army had established around Tehran Airport, but before the NightHawks were destroyed by gunfire from a battery of three ZSU-23/A radar-guided antiaircraft artillery weapons, they had reduced the peripheral defenses and central command and control units to rubble.

  The hundred Soviet army troops that survived the bombing had to face an even worse threat than a surprise American stealth bomber attack: the sight of hundreds of vehicles of all descriptions slowly moving, unopposed, down Makhsus Road from Akbarabad and Tehran toward the airport. The pop-pop-pop of gunfire and the cries of blood-anger from the advancing Muslim hordes could be heard for miles.

  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

  “Attention on the station. We’re passing under target-area horizon. Stand by for recon data transmission and reconfiguration. This station is on yellow alert.”

  The command-module people relaxed, rubbing aching muscles and tired eyes—all but Saint-Michael, who watched the last transmitted picture of the northern Iran area, a hand cupped to his earset. The display was already twenty minutes old but he watched it as intently as ever, especially the IFF transponder images of the F-15E Eagle strike force, designated Tango November, and the last images of the two F/A-19C NightHawk bombers over Tehran.

  A few moments later Colonel Walker maneuvered over to him. “Message from Kigzi Airbase, General. Tango November flight is checking in. All eight of them.”

  Saint-Michael nodded. “That’s great news. We should be getting their report in—”

  He stopped. Walker obviously had more.

  “Tango Sierra flight....?”

  “The navy intercepted a broadcast in the clear from Tehran. Two American fighter bombers shot down over Mehrabad Airport.”

  Saint-Michael brought his hand down hard on the arm of his commander’s chair.

  “That Russian radio message also reported the destruction of Seventy-First Shock Troops’ headquarters at Tehran Airport,” Walker quickly added. “Thirty-eight dead or injured. Last report was that the airport was being overrun by Iranian militiamen.”

  Saint-Michael rubbed his throbbing temple. “I’d hate to be a Russian ground-pounder in Tehran right about now.”

  Walker handed Saint-Michael a printout. “I saved the best for last, General. The navy also sent along an intercepted radio message from a Russian rescue patrol in the Elburz Mountains. They’re describing debris scattered across five hundred square miles of mountains. At least seven fires out of control in the area from aircraft-crash debris.”

  Saint-Michael nodded, but his mind was still on the four men of the downed NightHawk fighter-bombers. “After twenty-one years in the service, Jim, that was the first time men under my command have died. Goddamn, and I’m sitting up here out of it—”

  “Then this is also your first major battle victory,” Walker said. “Ten American aircraft have destroyed at least seven Soviet aircraft, including a Soviet transport and supersonic bombers, plus they’ve knocked out a major occupation force headquarters and allowed local forces to retake a major airfield from hostile forces. Losses to our own have been low—two advanced aircraft, four men. Losses to the enemy... well, this battle could have been pivotal, sir. That’s not a bad day’s work, no matter where you sit.”

  Saint-Michael stared at Walker. “Thanks, but if this is what victory feels like, I’m glad I haven’t had a taste of it before this.” The general’s eyes flitted back to the SBR display and the frozen images of the NightHawk bombers.

  THE KREMLIN, USSR

  “Is it war?” Khromeyev asked in a low voice.

  Czilikov was almost too angry to reply. “They must pay. For every drop of our blood shed in Iran, for every gram of our steel lost in those Iranian mountains, the Americans must pay, and they will....” Czilikov stared at the computer-generated wall map of the Persian Gulf region. He stood and walked slowly toward it as if it depicted some gruesome atrocity. Indeed, for him it did. “Nine planes destroyed; three hundred and thirty men dead or injured in the north. Sixty dead or injured in Tehran, sixty captured. All in four hours....”

  “They came out of nowhere,” Admiral Chercherovin said. “The American fighters attacked without warning. Somehow they approached the formations in the north and south without revealing their presence, and launched missiles from long range without radar guidance. The aircrews say they never received any advanced warning. None. And it was three hours before sunrise....”

  “They were overconfident,” General Ilanovsky said between clenched teeth. “Cocky. Their incompetence caused the loss of one hundred and twenty of my best soldiers—”

  “It’s you who are the incompetent,” Chercherovin said, jabbing a finger at the commander in chief of ground forces. “You had over a hundred SPETNAZ troops at Mehrabad Airport, supposedly the elite of our army, and yet you couldn’t hold off a bunch of undisciplined militiamen.”

  “Enough,” Czilikov said. “You will stop this stupid bickering.” His ice-blue gaze took in the faces of the Kollegiya. “The pride of the Soviet Union. Heroes, all. Am I to bring this gaggle of children before the general secretary when the Stavka Council of War meets in two hours? Are we going to point fingers and accuse each other and argue like old women? We'll all be shot, and we’ll deserve it.”

  He gestured to the wall-sized computer screen. “I want an answer. I want an answer to what we’ve suffered today.” Czilikov turned to the newest addition to the group. “General Govorov. Your opinion?” Govorov stood. “Sir, there can be only one answer to how our forces were attacked so successfully: the space station Armstrong.”

  “Armstrong?” General Lichizev of the KGB shook his head. “I told you, Govorov, it’s impossible—”

  Czilikov turned again to Govorov. “Continue.”

  “Sir, as I’ve indicated before, the radar aboard Space Station Armstrong has the power to track both American and Russian aircraft. It’s a relatively simple matter for the Americans to position their aircraft for attack, using data transmissions from Armstrong. The American aircraft would not need to use their radars to find our planes. Nor would conventional radar be needed for bombing raids, cruise missile attacks, or submarine attacks....”

  “Then it’s obvious... the space station must be destroyed.” Czilikov bit off each word.

  “I agree,” Govorov said quickly, earning no points for that gratuity with Czilikov. Still, the message wasn't lost on the minister of defense: Govorov had been right, Feather had to fail as long as Armstrong Station was in orbit.

  General Marasimov, commander of the Strategic Rocket Forces, spoke up now. “An attack with the Gorgon antisatellite missiles—”

  “Will also fail,” Govorov said. “Armstrong is very well protected. The station’s Thor missiles used for antiballistic missile defense are even more capable against the clumsy Gorgon missile. The Gorgons, however, can be used as a prelude to the main attack force....”

  “The main attack force?” Czilikov said.

  Govorov glanced at his superior, Marshal Rhomerdunov, who nodded. Now. Now was the moment if there ever was one....

  “Comrade Minister,” Rhomerdunov began, and all heads turned to him, “a plan... I have a plan to deal specifically with the threat of a heavily armed and protected orbiting platform. A plan to lift the Soviet Aerospace Forces into the next century.” Govorov was careful not to show any reaction to Rhomerdunov’s plagiarism... .“A plan, sir, previously approved by the Kollegiya, to arm the Elektron spaceplane with specially designed missiles. They—”

  “Missiles?” Czilikov said. “Missiles on a one-man spaceplane? What are these missiles? I wasn’t informed—”

  “The plan was approved years ago by Kollegiya, sir,” Rhomerdunov said uneasily. “The implementation was not begun until recently.” Czilikov appeared ready to continue his questioning but held back, and Rhomerdunov, encouraged, quickly pressed on. “A group of these Elektron space fighter-planes l
ed by General Govorov will be sent to destroy this Space Station Armstrong.”

  Instead of the expected murmur of voices, there was silence, finally broken by Czilikov. “Everything that General Govorov has predicted has unfortunately come true. The American space station is indeed more powerful than we had imagined. They have, it seems, the capability of transmitting space-based radar data from the station to a variety of users—ships, ground installations, headquarters, even aircraft. They are also able to vector attack aircraft so as to avoid danger or counterattack. The time has indeed come: Armstrong Space Station must be destroyed.”

  Czilikov turned to Rhomerdunov. “That will be your assignment. It will be carried out immediately. I will inform the Stavka.” And to Govorov, “You will lead the attackers.”

  “Sir, it may still take several days, perhaps weeks, to prepare the Elektron spaceplanes for launch from Tyuratam. It will take time to mate the spaceplanes with their SL-16 Krypkei boosters. The Elektron spaceplanes are not part of the standing strategic defense force—”

  “They are now,” Czilikov said. “I authorize a minimum of two fully armed Elektron spaceplanes on ’round-the-clock alert at Tyura-tam spaceport.” He returned to his seat at the head of the oblong conference table. “But we can’t wait weeks or even days to begin our counteroffensive. Our advances have been stalled. The Americans are getting stronger and we are getting weaker. I want a plan to retake the offensive, to recoup our losses and advance Operation Feather to success. The Stavka and Politburo demand nothing less than complete victory, as do our dead comrades in Iran.”

  “The major threats to us in Iran and the Persian Gulf remain, sir,” Admiral Chercherovin said. “They are the American carrier task force in the Arabian Sea and the land-based Rapid Deployment Force bombers and long-range fighters in eastern Turkey.”

  “Saudi Arabia hasn’t yet allowed American offensive aircraft to use its bases,” Marshal Yesimov of the Air Force put in, “but the Americans may convince them. Qatar and Kuwait may also let American ships or planes use their bases. Certainly, the Iranians will agree to anything the Americans want if they are assured protection....”

  “Then swift, decisive action must be taken,” Czilikov said. “General Govorov, once more, all efforts must be made to knock out this Space Station Armstrong, and now. .. All our other actions may be pointless unless Armstrong is neutralized.”

  “I understand, sir,” Govorov said. “And perhaps all of our objectives can be accomplished at once—”

  “How?”

  Govorov fought showing even a hint of a smile. “The space station is formidable when it is protecting others from attack, but I feel it may not be so if it is forced to protect itself. ”

  “But you have said that the Elektron spaceplanes will not be ready for such an attack,” Khromeyev said. “And Marshal Rhomerdunov has said that the Gorgon antisatellite missiles are ineffectual against such a facility.”

  “That is my estimation as well. But meanwhile, there is another weapon we have not considered that may prove effective in convincing the Americans of the seriousness of moving their space station within striking distance of the Soviet Union. I refer to the laser at our Sary Shegan facility. Intelligence reports only a portion of the American space station is covered with reflective antilaser coating. Sustained bursts from our laser might do very considerable damage. . . .” Czilokov’s eyes brightened. “I want a full report on how soon the laser can be activated; I want it on my desk in an hour.” He turned to Admiral Chercherovin. “You must regain control of the region. And fast.”

  He waved off any further discussion. They all had his message— produce or else.

  CHAPTER 6

  July 1992

  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

  Saint-Michael entered the engineering module, where he found Ann. They stood together in the cramped compartment, exchanging polite nods.

  “I think this may be a good time to talk,” Saint-Michael finally said.

  Ann pretended not to hear him as she pulled a refrigeration coil from the food storage unit and began adjusting the temperature setting.

  “Ann...Saint-Michael grabbed the coil from her and replaced it in the unit. “Ann, I want you to leave on Enterprise. In four hours.” She turned and faced him. “So now you’re ordering me to go? What happened to my options?”

  “If you want to call it an order, then it’s an order.”

  She looked at him, weighing an answer, then sighed softly. “What gives, General? I mean, what the hell is this all about? I can repair Skybolt. I’ve found the problem. Only a few more days up here and I’ll have the thing licked. But you’re all fired up to see me leave without accomplishing what I came here to do. My job, for God’s sake....”

  “Ann,” he finally said, “I want you back on earth.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Safe.” His eyes narrowed with anger and frustration, but it wasn’t anger at her—it was more at himself. “Dammit Ann, do I really have to spell it out for you?” He paused, waiting for her to understand and respond. “All right, what I’m trying to say is—“

  “Attention on the station,” came the sudden blaring of the stationwide loudspeaker address system. “Emergency condition one. The station is on red alert.” Then, on the station wide earset address system: “General Saint-Michael, this is Walker. Satellite relay message from the Nimitz. They are under attack.”

  “I’ll be right there.” He turned, stopped, and lightly touched her shoulder. “Safe from this, Ann.” Then he was off to the connecting tunnel, leaving Ann with very mixed feelings....

  Saint-Michael, back in the command module, ordered: “Report.” “An Air Force 767B AWACS picked up a small flight of six fast- moving low-altitude jet aircraft over Iran,” Walker said, not taking his eyes off the master SBR status screen. “The AWACS was chased away by Su-27s from the Brezhnev, so we don’t have details. They can’t tell where the aircrafts’ origin was, but they say they’re moving too fast and too low for Silkworm missiles. They think they’re Soviet cruise missiles launching from one of the Soviet navy’s Caspian Sea bases. They’re heading south at five hundred knots, right for the Nimitz battle group.”

  “How long until we cross the target horizon?”

  “Still forty minutes. Could have been launched just after we crossed under the target horizon. They timed it perfectly. Looks like the Nimitz is stage-center, sir....”

  OVER SOUTHERN IRAN, ONE HUNDRED FIFTY MILES NORTH OF THE USS NIMITZ

  “Tally, Tally, Tally! Lead’s got ’em at eleven o’clock!”

  The commander of the lead F-14E Tomcat Plus, J. B. Andrews, tightened his grip on the throttle as his weapons systems officer called out the report. He had been staring intently at the rolling, rock-covered hills rushing under the nose of his fighter as he and five other hunters from the aircraft carrier USS Nimitz slashed across southern Iran, prowling for attacking cruise missiles.

  Andrews and his fellow VF-143 “Puking Dogs” were knifing through thick air only a thousand feet above the Iranian desert, and the Tomcats were protesting every minute of it. The fighters performed much better at a high altitude, where their “lifting body” fuselages and big computer-controlled variable-sweep wings met little resistance. Down below, the aircraft picked up every tiny wind shift, every thermal and every dust devil, creating such violent turbulence that the formation had to spread out farther and farther apart to avoid collision. Everything depended on the lead aviator’s eyes—if the leader hit the ground, the rest would surely follow.

  “Vectors, Chili,” Andrews called out.

  The backseat WSO checked the display of his enhanced digital AWG-9 attack radar. “Left ten. Altitude looks good. I’m locked on ... fifty miles now.”

  “Pirate flight, lead is locked on to bogeys, coming left.”

  “Two’s locked on.”

  “Three’s locked on.”

  “Four is no-joy.”

  “Five no-joy.”

  “Six is ... stand
by. Locked-on.”

  “We launch at twenty, Pirates. If you’re not locked on, get ready to turn tight and bob till you drop.” To conserve fuel and maximize performance, each Tomcat had only taken off with two AIM-120RC AMR A AM missiles aboard. Even so, after traveling at max afterburner for nearly twenty minutes, the fighters were fast approaching their safe fuel-turnaround point. It was essential that they launch their AIM-120RCs in the next few minutes.

  “Forty miles. Still locked on.”

  “Four is locked on.”

  “Five?”

  “Negetron. Five is boppin.”

  “Thirty miles.”

  A faint high-pitched tone activated in the lead WSO’s helmet. “Good tone. Ready.”

  “Rog. Count me down.”

  “Twenty-five.. . twenty-four... twenty-three....”

  Andrews suddenly felt that inner calm that always preceded engagement. He wasn’t thinking anymore. Reflexes had taken over. Reflexes honed in a hundred aerial maneuvers over four continents. Besides, this intercept should be no big sweat. Though cruise missiles were deadly against ships, they were sitting ducks for fighters. They couldn’t manuever or shoot back. The Tomcat’s advanced digital attack radar made it possible for Andrews to attack from as far away as fifty miles, but twenty was optimal for—

  “Pirate flight. Bandits. Two o’clock high!”

  Andrews risked a quick glance to his right, caught the glint of sunlight. Four Su-27 Flanker carrier-based fighters were diving out of the sun.

  “Two, three, four—stay on the cruise missiles. Four and five— engage.”

  “Twenty miles. Good tone....”

  Andrews saw the target and radar lock-on symbols merge and the word LAUNCH flash at the bottom of the HUD, his head’s-up display. Fighting off a massive wave of turbulence that shuddered through his Tomcat, he slid his gloved right thumb to the launch button. Suddenly, the target and radar symbols disappeared from the HUD and the word “LAUNCH” at the bottom was replaced with the word “FIRE” in the center of the display.