Brown, Dale - Independent 01

by Silver Tower (v1. 1)

  “They have to get past the fleet defenses first, Admiral,” Edge- water said. “We’ve got nearly a hundred missile launchers on-line, plus fifty fighters aboard Nimitz ready to fly—”

  “But we’re already stretched to the limit,” Clancy said, pointing around the periphery of his fleet’s escorts. “We’ve got Soviet ships from the Red Sea and Yemen, Soviet aircraft and cruise missiles from Iran, and the Arkhangel carrier group from the south and east.” He shook his head, trying but failing to manage a rueful smile. “Some old sea dog I turned out to be.... A carrier’s main defensive weapon is not getting itself into indefensible tactical situations in the first place. Here’s a perfect example of what not to do: getting yourself surrounded on all sides by the bad guys.... We need a good five hundred miles of reliable surveillance before we can safely secure this group. Right now we don’t have it. We need some important help if we’re going to pull this off.”

  “The best we can get out here,” Edge water said, “are our own carrier-based EF-18s and Hawkeye AWACS radar planes.”

  “Which will be prime targets when the shooting starts. And we just don’t have the assets to assign one fighter to one Hawkeye for protection.”

  “We can try another HIMLORD recon drone sortie....”

  Clancy shook his head. “Those drones are worth their weight in gold, but they’re sitting ducks against shipbome surface-to-air concentrations. We sent four of them up two days ago and the Soviets used them for target practice.” He paused for a minute, staring at the screen; then: “What about Diego Garcia? Any help from the Air Force available?”

  “Same deal with Air Force E-3C AWACs,” Edgewater said. “The Russian Su-27s will pick them off right away. Command won’t risk them so far out without fighter escort.”

  “They're trying to tell me about risk?” Clancy had no trouble getting up a sarcastic smile. “I’m up to my eyeballs in risk." He studied the huge SPY-2 Aegis repeater display in front of him. “Y’know what we need, Joe?”

  Joe knew: they needed their space-based eyes back.

  THE KREMLIN, USSR

  For the last ten minutes the general secretary had listened with scarcely disguised impatience as Khromeyev and Rhomerdunov briefed him on their conversation with Govorov about the recent movement of the space station.

  “Stop right there,” the Soviet commander in chief said, holding up his hand. “I’ve heard enough to worry me. Thank you very much. But in spite of your emphasis on Marshal Govorov’s assessment of the damage done to the station, you cannot dismiss that he did recommend a second attack.”

  “Nor would we wish to, sir,” Khromeyev said quickly. “But I have already pointed out why an attack would be unwise at this time. Further, intelligence has come up with the very credible explanation that the Americans may be simply retrieving components.”

  “I can’t believe that. The Americans would not have gone to the trouble of boosting Armstrong into a higher orbit if their only objective was to salvage scrap.... Govorov should have finished off the station while he had the chance.”

  “Oh, I agree, sir,” Rhomerdunov said. “But logic tells us there is no possible way Armstrong can be repaired and reactivated in time to contribute to the American fleet’s operation in the Middle East. Their rescue of a nonoperational Armstrong is of no consequence to our operation.”

  “I would like to believe these assurances of yours....” The general secretary moved back to the seat behind his desk, leaving the two men standing ill at ease. He stared directly at them. “So your recommendation is to do nothing?”

  “No, sir,” Rhomerdunov said. “Not at all. I have ordered Space Defense Command on full alert. Armstrong’s new orbit will be carefully monitored, and any other spacecraft that attempt to dock or service the station will be tracked and reported to the Stavka. We will also monitor the station for radar emissions in case the Americans somehow manage to partially activate their space-based radar—”

  “So your absolute assurances are not so absolute, after all.” The general secretary shook his head. “You know as well as I the consequences of the Americans being able to use their space-based radar. Any advantage we hoped to gain by moving the Arkhangel into the area will be largely minimized; the balance of power will be restored.”

  “Sir,” Khromeyev said quickly, trying to rebut but not too strongly, “the advantage of having a crippled space station with a partially active radar cannot be compared with having the world’s most destructive war vessel.”

  “But we’ve seen what Armstrong’s radar can do. And we have yet to see what the Arkhangel can do.” He paused a moment, considering. “You’re right, though, about the effect of an attack on the station now, without verification that the Americans are reactivating it and right after that unfortunate incident with the American’s rescue craft. It would no doubt turn world opinion against us, possibly even upset relations with some of our allies. It appears then that we only have one option....”

  “And that, sir?” Khromeyev didn’t like where this was heading. He wished Minister of Defense Czilikov had been at the meeting, but Czilikov had allowed him and Rhomerdunov to report to the Soviet commander in chief directly, assuming no action would be taken. It now appeared that was a mistake.

  “It should be obvious that we cannot wait any longer to give Arkhangel the order to strike. I will not allow the advantage we now hold to slip away.”

  Khromeyev tried to keep his composure. “Sir, the fleets are still days apart. We can’t mount a large enough strike force from such long range—”

  “Then, damn it, augment the Arkhangel’s forces with land-based bombers or cruise missiles. The heavy Tupolev bombers and cruise missiles were most effective—”

  “Against targets in Iran,” Rhomerdunov put in. “The bombers were able to launch their missiles while still over their territory. If we were to strike at the Nimitz carrier group, the bombers would have to fly over the Gulf of Oman. They would be within range of the Nimitz’s own fighters.”

  “Then use faster bombers. Use those supersonic Tupolev-22 bombers instead of the turboprop Tupolev-95s—I don’t know why the damn things are still in our inventory anyway.”

  “Sir....” Khromeyev reached for the right words to tell his commander in chief that he should leave the battle plans to his generals, “I would like to suggest we involve Minister Czilikov. He no doubt will want a meeting of the Stavka; there are factors involved—”

  “I am tired of meetings, Khromeyev. Every hour we delay is a wasted one, allowing the Americans to prepare defensive measures. We have the upper hand—now is the time to act.”

  He sat back in his chair, looked at them, rapped his knuckles on the desk. “All right, brief Czilikov. Call your meeting. But by four o’clock... no, by three o’clock, I want a complete strike plan ready for execution. Clear?”

  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

  A barely heard crackle in his earset told Saint-Michael someone on board America was calling him. He picked up the earphone, put it on his head. “Saint-Michael here.”

  “Jason, it’s Ann. Coming aboard.”

  The general was surprised. It had only been three hours since the crew had transferred over to the spaceplane.

  “All right,” he said, putting on his POS mask, “come on through.” An environmental alarm immediately sounded in the connecting tunnel. The airlock they had built leaked connecting-tunnel air rapidly when opened, setting off the alarm. Without a spacesuit Ann would have had about sixty seconds to get into the connecting tunnel, seal the door and repressurize the connecting tunnel before the atmospheric pressure reached the danger level. The repressurization always took away a bit of air pressure from the command module, which was why Saint-Michael had to wear a mask during a transfer. A few moments later, with the general monitoring the transfer and repressurization, Ann entered the command module.

  Saint-Michael pulled off his mask. “You came alone?”

  “I couldn’t sleep any longer,” she
said, removing her mask. “I thought it would be nice to spend at least a few minutes with you alone....”

  “Sounds like a good idea to me. We haven’t had a chance to talk since Colorado Springs.”

  “And then you were so upset about Space Command’s decision___ You didn’t say it but I knew it. I’m just glad all that arm twisting of yours worked. I have to admit that right before the launch, well, I’d pretty much given up hope.”

  “Well, luck had something to do with it... something we’ll need more of in the next few days....”

  “They’ll be coming, won’t they?”

  Saint-Michael reached out, pulled her against him, felt her body tight against his. “Yes,” he said. “They have to------------ I’m sure they’ve realized that Silver Tower hasn’t crashed into the atmosphere. They’re probably asking Govorov, their Elektron pilot, how bad he thinks the station’s been damaged. If they send him up again it’ll be an act of aggression, and they’ll want to be damn sure it’s necessary. They’re not fools or idiots, despite what some of our armchair heroes back in D.C. might think. Still, I’ve got to bet that Govorov will try his best to convince them he should attack again. There was too much celebrating over how effective the first attack was. He’ll feel that he has to finish the job... .Ann, you said that Skybolt was operational. Is it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, obviously frustrated she couldn’t answer with a flat yes. “I haven’t had a chance to check all the systems yet, but judging by the condition of the SBR, I don’t think so ...”

  “We’ve got to know. Skybolt is our only defense against those Elektron spaceplanes. As of right now I’m putting you on Skybolt exclusively; I’ll work on the SBR as much as I can. Marty and Ken can finish the repositioning and look after the station. There may be another way we can protect the station until Skybolt can be repaired. I can check on the—”

  “Not now, Jason. Look, you need some rest. You’ll be no use to anyone if you’re—”

  “Right, but we just don’t have time....” He turned to his comm panel. “I think Marty’s had enough sleep.” He pressed his earset closer to his head and keyed the microphone.

  “America, this is Alpha.”

  “Good momin’, General,” said Colonel Hampton. “Go ahead.”

  “I need Marty Schultz over here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Jon. Have Marty bring some chow and coffee.”

  Saint-Michael turned back to Ann, who gave him a sour look. “I know, I know,” he said. “There’ll be time for sacking out later. I want you on Skybolt as soon as you’ve had something to eat. Get that gizmo of yours working, whatever it takes. Meantime, I’ve got me an air force to assemble.”

  “Air force? You’re going to use America for—?”

  “Not America. If the shooting starts I want America as far away from it as possible—back on earth if necessary.”

  “Then what?”

  But before he could answer Marty Schultz came in and Ann was left to speculate. Which she suspected Saint-Michael intended anyway for the time being.

  For Marty Schultz this new job was nearly as painful as seeing the burned and disfigured corpses of his fellow crewmen stacked in the docking module. Enterprise was something special to him; he was the expert on its operation. He had flown on every shuttle in the fleet, old and new, but Enterprise was uniquely his.

  He was a child during the early shuttle free-flight tests, and it was Enterprise being dropped from the back of a modified Boeing 747 that had ignited his desire to be an astronaut. He had imagined himself at the controls, retrieving satellites, rescuing stranded cosmonauts, building a city in the sky.

  When Enterprise had been refurbished and activated as an interim replacement for the shuttle Challenger, Marty had set a new challenge for himself. Every waking moment had been spent preparing to fly aboard her, and since then he had flown Enterprise more than any other person.

  Now he saw Enterprise a few hundred yards away through his bubble space helmet, and the sight tore at his guts. He saw the initial impact point of the Russia hypervelocity missile, saw the remains of the terrible explosion and fire in the lower decks, saw the devastation in the RCS, the nose reaction-control system pod. The shuttle’s docking adapter and airlock were wide open, like the open spout of a dead pilot whale washed up on a beach. Her remote manipulator arm was sloppily sticking out of the open cargo bay, its grappler claws extended like fingers of a hand reaching for help.

  Well, he was here to help. “Beginning translation,” he said.

  “Roger,” Colonel Hampton said from America. Marty nudged his MMU thruster-control and slid toward the shuttle.

  “Damn it, damage is worse than I thought,” Marty said as he approached the shuttle.

  Hampton glanced nervously at the inertial altimeter. “Marty, we’re only a few miles above the atmosphere entry point. There won’t be much time. Can you fly that thing without a forward RCS pod?”

  “She’ll fly just fine. It’ll be hard to dock her—maybe impossible —but if she’s got power and fuel she’ll be all right.” He had to sound as though he believed it. For his own sake as well as the others’.

  He glided over to the cargo bay, unclipped the MMU and stowed it in a restraining harness on the forward bulkhead, then glided over to the docking adapter on the airlock and slipped inside. The sight of the middeck made him recoil. “I... I’m in the middeck, America. Everything’s wiped out. There may be nothing salvageable.” He paused for a minute longer, then, looking away from the unidentifiable hunks of debris remaining on the crew seats, announced, “Moving to the flight deck.”

  “Roger.”

  A few moments later Marty was in the commander’s seat and surveying the instruments. “It looks good, America. Still have battery power on. I’m going to try to repower the fuel cells.”

  He examined the electrical distribution panel on the pilot’s side of the cockpit. The switches were arranged on the panel with lines and arrows to show the relationship between the various circuits and power controls, but he knew them all by heart. As long as the cells weren’t damaged, Marty told himself, they should be working....

  “Oxygen and hydrogen manifolds one, two and three open,” he recited as he flipped switches. “DC battery power tied to essential bus. Tank heaters on....”

  He continued his litany of system checks, identifying faulty connections and making the necessary repairs. Finally the main instrument panel lights came on.

  “We’ve got it, America” Marty said excitedly. “Enterprise is alive.” His enthusiasm peaking, he finished reactivating Enterprise's fuel cells, then moved back to the left-side commander’s seat.

  “C’mon, lady,” Marty said, patting the digital autopilot panel. “I know you’re alive. Now we need to get back into the game.”

  The computer-monitor in front of him was blank except for a tiny blinking rectangle no bigger than the size of a kernel of com—but that tiny dot was the ballgame. Enterprise's brain, the GPC, was alive and awake—the problem was it had forgotten it was a General Purpose Computer. He had to perform an IPL, an initial program load, the series of commands that would tell the computer that it was a computer.

  He did it quickly, entering a series of digital commands that told the computer where in its permanent memory it could find a program that would initiate the computer’s speedy education. After each lesson the computer would perform a final exam, writing another program for itself in volatile memory that it would use to move to the next lesson. Marty coaxed each step into the process with commands that would periodically quiz the GPC on its progress. On the ground prior to launch these complicated steps were usually performed by ground personnel so that when the crew arrived on the shuttle they found a perfectly running fully educated GPC. Marty was one of the few who had taken the time to watch this procedure from the beginning.

  “How’s it going, Marty?”

  “We’re up to high school.”

  “Say ag
ain... ?”

  “We’re doing fine, just fine.”

  Thirty long minutes later the computer screen was filled with messages telling of malfunctions, environmental problems, shortages of supplies. But to Marty it all meant Enterprise was thinking once again. He entered one final code into the GPC and grabbed the flight- control stick.

  “America. Enterprise is ready to maneuver.”

  “Roger. Moving clear.” Hampton commanded America's computer to move away from Enterprise on a heading back toward the station. “Well clear.”

  “Here we go.” Marty double-checked his switch positions and nudged the stick forward.

  Nothing.

  “C’mon, baby.” He nudged the stick a bit more. Still no reaction.

  “Enterprise, any luck?”

  “Stand by.” Marty cleared the in-flight maneuvering code from the GPC and reentered it. This time the GPC refused to accept the code. He sat back in his seat, scanned the panel.

  “Last chance,” he said to the instrument panel. He checked the RCS fuel-pressure gauges, power supplies, circuit breakers, bypass circuits—all nominal.

  “We don’t have much time, Enterprise. Get her started or abandon her.”