Brown, Dale - Independent 01

by Silver Tower (v1. 1)

  In the command module the engineering chief, Colonel Marks, asked Saint-Michael: “Are we going to attack their carrier, General?”

  Saint-Michael shook his head. “My orders are to protect Iran from Soviet invasion, not to destroy the Brezhnev. It seems we’ve made a hard but fair trade—the California for those Soviet transports and fighters we jumped over Tehran. If the Russians back off now this whole thing just may blow over—”

  “Aircraft launching from the Brezhnev,” Sergeant Jake Jefferson broke in. “High speed. Heading west.”

  “Westbound?”

  “Yes sir. Nimitz launching aircraft in response. Also heading west.” Jefferson turned to Saint-Michael. “Looks like no one’s going to back off today, General....”

  Saint-Michael activated his communications panel, checked the scrambler/descrambler and keyed the microphone. “Nimitz, this is Armstrong. Come in.”

  “Clancy here, Jas. Go ahead.”

  “We picked up those Flankers heading west, Admiral. Are your aircraft pursuing?”

  “Affirmative. The Air Force has a 767B AWACS orbiting east of Riyadh. It asked for protection from those Flankers until it can get some F-15 reinforcements from Kigzi Airbase. The 767B will be returning back under friendly Rapier SAM cover until our F-15s catch up to them.”

  “Copy. We’ve got the whole area covered. Are you receiving our data transmissions okay?”

  “So far. The Ticonderoga is relaying SBR surveillance data to us.

  It’s a bastardized way of doing it, but with California out of commission we don’t—”

  The transmission halted in a loud, piercing squeal that caused everyone listening in to rip their earsets away from their heads.

  “What the hell... ?”

  Just as Saint-Michael called out for a damage report a tremendous lurch threw everyone on Silver Tower towards the Velcro-covered floor. Technicians yelled out in pain—no one could stop himself as bodies slammed to the deck. It was as though they were rag dolls hurled to the floor by an angry child. The module seemed to be spinning in several directions all at once.

  General Saint-Michael, the only one secured in place, set his communications panel to stationwide address. “Attention on the station. Collision warning. Damage report on loudspeaker. Enterprise, clear for emergency disconnect. This station is on red alert.” He unfastened his safety belt and tried to rise out of his seat but found he was held fast.

  Gravity! For the first time Silver Tower had been exposed to it. Whatever caused it, the station would soon tear itself apart if the huge forces did not stop.

  With great effort Saint-Michael managed to overcome the unexpectedly severe “g” forces and haul himself out of the commander’s seat. It felt as if he was riding a fast express elevator from the first to the eighth floor—the gravity had a terrific pull after weeks of microgravity.

  Walker, Jefferson and the other techs were slowly overcoming the sudden gravity surge and struggling to their feet. Saint-Michael made his way to the station’s attitude control panel.

  “Check out Davis and Montgomery,” Saint-Michael told Walker, before turning to the panel.

  The two techs were wincing with pain on the deck. “One broken leg,” Walker reported after examining Davis. He checked the other tech. “A possible broken rib, maybe internal injuries.”

  “And there’s a fire on the number three fuel-containment vessel.” Saint-Michael hit keys on a keypad, then punched a button. “I’ve jettisoned the vessel.”

  The sudden gravity now began to subside. Saint-Michael and the others could hear the loud bangs and hisses as Silver Tower’s ten banks of powerful thrusters began to reestablish the station’s normal orbit and attitude. A few more moments and all but a barely discernible amount of gravity was gone.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “The containment vessels on the right keel below,” the general said, scanning the computer monitors. “The explosion started the station spinning.” He picked up his earset. “The damn squeal in the earsets is gone.” He replaced his earset on his left ear but used the microphone and the loudspeaker system once again:

  “Attention on the station. There has been an explosion of one of our fuel cells. Normal microgravity will be returning shortly. Report by loudspeaker to Colonel Walker any—”

  The lights in the command module dimmed nearly to black. A control panel sputtered and smoked in a cloud of sparks. The air in the module suddenly felt hot, like a sauna.

  Saint-Michael immediately put on his POS face mask and told his crew to do the same. “Off-duty personnel report to the lifeboat,” he ordered. The lifeboat was a nonmaneuverable pod fitted with life- support systems.

  As Walker began checking each man’s face mask connections and POS settings, Saint-Michael plugged his earset communications cord into the microphone jack in his own face mask. “All personnel report by module.”

  “Sergeant Bayles in the lifeboat, Skipper. I’ve got Moyer, Yemana, Kelly and the engineering techs with me. Everyone’s okay. Sleep and rec modules evacuated, checked and sealed. I’m in a spacesuit and ready to assist in personal transport.”

  Kevin Baker, still at his post monitoring the command module, fumbled with his POS mask but finally reported. “Baker here, sir. I’m okay. I can see Ann through the connecting tunnel. She looks okay, too. The main connecting tunnel outside the command module has depressurized—looks like Enterprise has emergency-disconnected. Repeat, main connecting tunnel to the shuttle is not secure.”

  “Page here. Engineering is secure. I’m on POS.”

  Saint-Michael looked over at Walker, who was standing over a space-suited crewman. “What’s the problem, Jim?”

  “Looks like Sergeant Wallis’s intercom is out, Skipper.” Saint-Michael threw his notebook toward Walker—it actually arched a bit in the tiny amount of gravity still lingering instead of floating in the usual straight line. “Pass a message to him with that. Tell him to start deploying the rescue balls, then have him help Davis and Montgomery into the lifeboat and switch places with Bayles. Have him fix his intercom in the lifeboat. Sergeant Bayles, come up here to the command module.”

  Wallis acknowledged Walker’s hastily scribbled note with a thumb’s up and started to unpack the station’s rescue balls—large man-sized sealable plastic and canvas bags. In an emergency a crewmember could seal himself inside a rescue ball and pressurize it with his portable oxygen system. The ball could then be transported by a space-suited crewman from a depressurized or contaminated module to the lifeboat, another safe pressurized module or the space shuttle or other rescue vessels. Wallis had a rescue ball open and Velcroed near each person in the command module by the time Bayles had made his way to the command module, and then helped the two injured crewmen toward the hatch to the connecting tunnel.

  “Station integrity check, all sections,” Saint-Michael ordered by loudspeaker. “Atmosphere checks okay everywhere on the station except for main transfer tunnel and docking bay. No contamination, just a heat build up....”

  “General, I think I see the problem,” Wallis reported. He was holding the stationwide address-system microphone to his helmet glass and screaming at the top of his lungs, but his voice sounded as if his head were inside a tin bucket. “I’m in the connecting tunnel between the research and sleep modules. I can see the keel. The radiators look as though they’ve been ripped apart by a... a giant lawn mower. Almost nothing—” And then only a muffled scream.

  “Wallis? Christ, what—?”

  At that instant the lights dimmed again in the command module. Control panels flickered, then returned to normal. The computer monitors began to fill with error and warning messages. The air in the module became stagnant, near unbearable.

  “Skipper....”

  “Wallis? You all right?”

  “I’m... okay. We got tagged by some kind of laser beam, sir. I saw the damned thing. It hit the heel, then passed over the pressurized modules. There’s sparks flying out of th
e keel.... I think it might be one of the SBR antennas—”

  “Can you make it to the lifeboat?”

  “I think so.... Sir, it’s the number-one SRB antenna for sure. The antenna looks chewed up and the control box is sparking—”

  “All right, good job. Now get to the lifeboat and have someone look you over. Baker, Page, report to the lifeboat. Ann, you’ll have to use the connector between Skybolt and the storage module. Do a double-check before you open the hatches, all of you. Now move.”

  Saint-Michael turned to Walker, who was checking the status and control panel with Jefferson. “Checks, General. We’ve lost the number-one SBR antenna.”

  “How about the system?”

  “The other antenna wasn’t touched,” Jefferson said. “It’s working. I can reprogram it, okay. It may not have quite the resolution or power but I think we’ll still be on-line.”

  “Any other faults?”

  “We may have lost a thruster,” Walker said and moved quickly from panel to panel, scrolling through the seemingly endless lists of error messages on the screens. “The number-one negative-Y thruster is showing zero chamber pressure. The number-two thruster is firing full-time now to compensate. We’re sucking fuel pretty bad.”

  “And with a lost fuel cell, we’ll be in trouble—fast. I’ll need endurance figures as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, sir,” Walker said, giving the general a worried look. “Skipper, could it be the laser at Sary Shagan? Is it possible ... ?”

  “Possible? It happened, Jim. They hit us with their chemical laser. The pressurized modules survived because of the silver armor, but we all know the systems mounted on the keel are vulnerable—”

  “We’re back on the horn with the Nimitz, General,” Jefferson reported.

  Saint-Michael returned to his seat and strapped in. “Nimitz, this is Armstrong. How copy?”

  “Weak but readable, Armstrong,” a radio operator replied. “Stand by for Admiral Clancy.”

  “Sir,” Walker cut in, “I’ve got Enterprise on the VHF. They’re asking for instructions.”

  “Good. Tell them to stay at least five hundred yards from the station and be ready to retrieve the lifeboat. Also tell them to keep their open cargo-bay pointed away from earth in case that damn laser fires at us again.”

  “Rog.”

  “Armstrong, this is Clancy. What the hell happened up there?”

  “We were attacked, Admiral. I’ve got half the crew in the lifeboat. Three injuries, two may be serious. Possible serious damage to our attitude-control system. One ruptured fuel tank, other collateral damage. Our SRB still shows operational. We’re going to try to make repairs.”

  “What attacked you, Jas?”

  “We figure it was our friends at Sary Shagan. I’ll get back to you when we have a full damage assessment.”

  “Okay, Jas____ Listen, Jas, I’m afraid I’ve got some very bad news...

  Saint-Michael held his breath. He had an idea what was coming.

  “It’s the California... so far we count six hundred men dead.... Matt Page didn’t make it.”

  Saint-Michael didn’t reply for a moment, then clicked the microphone back on. “I’ll let his daughter know, Admiral. Thanks for getting us word.”

  “He was hell on wheels, Jas. Did a great job. The men loved him, and that’s no B.S. Tell her.”

  “Yes, sir. I will. Armstrong out.”

  Saint-Michael scanned the command module. Of the other crewmembers only Walker seemed to have heard. He looked at the general and shook his head. Saint-Michael told himself to put Captain Page’s death out of his mind for now. Somehow he’d deal with it, with Ann... later. Right now he had this station to command. He looked to his right and saw Jefferson giving his master SBR console an affectionate pat.

  “Good news, Chief?”

  “Yes, sir, SBR is back on-line. Only a slightly narrower scan area —maybe a hundred miles less, plus a bit reduced resolution.”

  “That news might be academic if we take a few more hits from that laser....”

  Jefferson nodded and turned back to his screens, trying to assimilate the mountains of data that had been received in the short time since the SBR became operational. Less than two minutes later he called out another report.

  “Several slow-moving jet aircraft over Tehran, General. Swarms of them. Extensive fighter coverage.”

  “God, the Russians must be taking Tehran,” Walker said, looking at the display. “Three Condor transports already on the ground at Mehrabad Airport. Could be as many as six hundred troops. The Iraqis have almost reached Abadan, too.”

  Saint-Michael tried to assess possible implications. He had just finished calling Bayles and Moyer forward to help with the data transmissions and analysis when the Nimitz broke radio silence once again.

  “Looks like the shit has hit the fan for real, Jason,” Admiral Clancy was saying. “A coordinated attack. Fighters from the Brezhnev have chased away all the Hawkeye surveillance planes that we’d sent up to patrol the area. They’re mounting another air attack on Tehran, and Iraqi forces are moving across the border towards Abadan. The Soviets have got the whole northern gulf sewn up tight.”

  Bad news, no question, Saint-Michael thought. Tehran was important, of course, but there was one place that was even more critical now. He keyed his microphone, “Looks bad over Tehran and Abadan, Admiral. But those guys have left themselves a little too open over Bandar-Abbas, do you agree?”

  “On the nose, Jas. That’s where we push. I’m going to need your help on this one. Maybe even use that trump card we talked about. How much time left on your orbit?”

  “Sixty minutes.”

  “Should be enough. Just hope whatever the hell hit you doesn’t take a curtain call.”

  “Copy, Admiral. Armstrong out.” Saint-Michael turned and stared wordlessly at the master SBR monitor for a long moment.

  Walker couldn’t take the silence. “Skipper, what’s up?”

  “Clancy’s going to start an offensive....”

  “An offensive? With what? Where? The Russians are overrunning Iran from all points.”

  Saint-Michael looked at Walker. “We’re going to play some sky- poker,” he said. “Just hope our bluff works.”

  From the moment Jason Saint-Michael appeared at the hatch to the sausage-shaped crew-rescue lifeboat, Ann knew. She could read it in his face. She’d been expecting it....

  “Ann, I... I’m sorry....”

  She leaned back against a compartment. “He’s gone?” She knew, but it needed to be said so that she could begin to feel it, to really know it....

  Saint-Michael moved to her, took hold of her. “Admiral Clancy told me a few minutes ago. He said to tell you what a fine officer your father was, that the man—”

  She nodded at him, tears running down her cheeks, pushing him away and clutching at him all at the same time.

  He pulled her to him, held her as she let our her grief. They stood together that way for who knows how long, sharing the intimacy of each other in a way neither could have managed minutes before.

  Finally, Saint-Michael gently drew away from her, began to move toward the hatch. He turned around once, paused. “He did a job, Ann... maneuvered the California right in front of the missiles. If they’d gotten by, thousands would have been killed aboard the Nimitz.

  The whole group would have been forced to retreat. ... I know it’s no help now, but I want you to know....”

  She nodded. “Thanks, I know. He even used to say it was how he wanted to go. But it doesn’t make it any easier..

  “Nothing ever does,” he said, and exited the hatch, leaving her alone with her grief.

  CHAPTER 7

  July 1992

  OVER THE PERSIAN GULF, ONE HUNDRED KILOMETERS SOUTH OF THE BREZHNEV

  It appeared simple. Ridiculously simple.

  The Soviet Su-27 Flanker pilot from the Brezhnev couldn’t help smiling. After all the talk about how autonomous American fighter
pilots were, how innovative, how creatively unpredictable—here they were, ten American F-15 Eagle fighters, driving directly into the hands of their enemies.

  The Soviet aircraft carrier Brezhnev had spotted the Eagle attack formation three hundred kilometers away and had scrambled ten advanced Sukhoi-27 fighters to intercept, with ten more of the air-to-air missile-equipped fighters to follow. There were only three places from which an American counterattack on the Brezhnev could have come: Kigzi Airbase in Turkey, Riyadah in Saudi Arabia, and the Gulf of Oman, where the Nimitz was located. All of those areas had been bottled up tight by the Brezhnev's planes and ships. An attack group would have to circumnavigate the Iraqi and Soviet forces in the west, the Brezhnev and her escorts in the Persian Gulf and the destroyers and battleships in the Strait of Hormuz if they had any hope of attacking the Soviet army and navy positions in Tehran and Tabriz. It was a move of desperation.

  The closing rate between the two opposing fighter groups was well over two thousand kilometers an hour, which also favored the Soviet defenders. The F-15s from Riyadah had already been flying for nearly an hour and were probably overloaded with weapons and fuel. The Su-27s, virtually identical to the single-seat version of the American F-15, had just launched from the Brezhnev minutes ago and were loaded with AA-11 all-aspect air-to-air missiles, not fuel. The F-15s would have no time to dogfight. They would try, as their current flight profile suggested, to blow past the Su-27s, get as close as possible to the Brezhnev and launch their missiles. Desperation. Sheer desperation. .. .