Brown, Dale - Independent 01

by Silver Tower (v1. 1)

  Clancy stared out the bridge through broken window panes. His rational head told him that he wouldn’t be able to see the missile, traveling low and fast and just skimming the waves, but he stood there anyway, as though mesmerized.

  “Hard port, flank speed,” Edgewater was shouting now. “Signal the fleet that Nimitz is maneuvering to port....”

  But the missile kept coming, splitting the air at supersonic speed, seeking its target, and an end to its long, lethal journey.

  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

  Skybolt fired. Saint-Michael’s body felt as though it had burst into flame. The pain was a weight, crushing him.

  A flash of light in the command module changed to a yellow glow, as if the module were a piece of burning phosphorous. A high-pitched whine blared, louder and louder, undiminished by helmet or earphones. The module, exposed to open space now, should have felt icy cold but instead it felt as if it were a boiling cauldron.

  Through it all he thought he heard a pounding from somewhere beneath him, growing more insistent as he fought to stay conscious. Then a piece of some long-destroyed console broke free and slammed into the side of his helmet, deciding the fight for him. Everything— the pain, the heat, the sound—mercifully snapped off.

  USS NIMITZ

  Back on Nimitz there was a flash of light, a split-second of pure whiteness like a powerful flashbulb going off. Clancy blinked. Was that what death was like? A quick flash? Poof and out?

  A magnum explosion now roiled the sea into foam not a half mile from Nimitz’s scarred port side. The concussion from the blast hit the Nimitz, rattling the ninety-one-thousand-ton vessel like a rick of straw in the wind, but....

  But that was all. Noise, rolling thunder, then dead silence.

  “What the hell...?” The admiral picked up the phone again. “Clancy here. What the hell happened out there? Did the missile self- destruct?”

  “Damned if I know, Admiral,” Jacobs said. “We got hit with a powerful energy surge just before that last explosion. Knocked a lot of our stuff into standby. Radars, comm, sonar—everything was bumped off the line.... We just now got it back. Could someone have popped a nuke off up there?”

  “Well, if it were a nuke I think we’d be on our way to the bottom or to the moon. Get a poll of the other ships—”

  Off the bow about ten miles in the distance, he saw what appeared to be a perfectly straight arc of lightning slice across the dark sky. Its flash was like lightning, except Clancy had never seen a straight lightning bolt before....

  This one terminated in a huge fireball with tongues of flames shooting out in all directions. The fireball flared to an enormous size, lighting the ocean like a second sun, then disappeared.

  “There it goes again, Admiral,” Jacobs said from down below. “Another glitch, we’re resetting now—”

  “Wait a minute ... wait a minute....”

  “There’s another one, sir.” This from a damage-control seaman on the bridge, pointing back toward the northwest. “They’re all around us, like some damn crazy lightning storm.”

  “That’s not lightning,” Clancy said, beginning to understand. He stared up into the night sky, shaking his head slowly at the thin clouds and hazy stars. “That, gentlemen, is our guardian angel....”

  For the next few minutes the scene around the Nimitz was eerie, unearthly, near-supernatural. A straight lightning bolt would flash, followed by a fireball near the sea. A few times the lightning would strike the sea, sending a geyser of steamy water a hundred or so feet into the air; then another bolt would strike and a fireball would erupt again.

  As spectacular as the sight looked to the men aboard the Nimitz and her support vessels, it was even more impressive to the pilot of the lead Soviet Sukhoi-24 bomber, who was viewing it out his windscreen. While trying to concentrate on radar indications, threat-warning receivers and strike-radar returns, his attention was being diverted outside to the strange flashes of light that kept dancing out of the sky. Several times a minute the clouds would erupt in a circle of light and then a streak of fire would lance down and hit the ocean. Almost each time there was an answering explosion—but apparently the explosions were not happening on any of the American ships. The whole phenomenon reminded him of a meteor shower, the most dazzling meteor shower he or anybody else had ever seen

  As the Soviet strike force approached the outermost American escorts, the flashes of light began to form eerie pillars of fire that seemed to block their path like a shimmering curtain pulled toward them. At the same time the intermittent threat-warnings from the American carrier-based fighters began to diminish. Had they managed to run under the F-14 Tomcats?

  Suddenly the lead Sukhoi pilot’s cockpit was filled with a flash of fire and light. He struggled for control of his bomber, watching with disbelieving eyes as the radar altimeter, which measured the distance between the belly of the bomber and the deadly waves below, dipped almost to zero.

  The formation was in abrupt disarray. The curtain of flashing light was now surrounding them, and one of the twelve Sukhoi bombers had simply blown itself apart. The other bombers had broken ranks to recover from the shock of the explosion, and now, less than a hundred kilometers from the first escort ship and less than two hundred kilometers from the Nimitz, the strike package had virtually come apart: the precisely coordinated strike formation had suddenly turned into gaggle of uncoordinated solo attackers. A few of them even climbed out and headed back the opposite way toward the Arkhangel, appearing to their fellow attackers like enemy aircraft and heightening the confusion.

  The Ticonderoga got off a few shots at the bombers, but the strikers had been dispersed before they reached the Aegis ship’s lethal range. The crew of Ticonderoga could only look on in awe as the mysterious curtain of light moved eastward into the night.

  When the lightning bolts subsided, the air felt cleaner, colder, quieter. Even the smoke from the fires and exploding missiles seemed to dissipate. A few of the Nimitz’s escorts blew their horns in celebration—of what, they couldn’t possibly be sure. Even Admiral Clancy felt like tooting a horn.

  “Launch the Intruder tankers to refuel the fighters we sent after those cruise missiles,” Clancy told Air Ops. He spoke slowly, as if afraid to disturb the mystical air that seemed to surround the fleet and the bridge. “We’ll need to keep them airborne until we get the deck cleared off. As soon as possible get Kilo flight on deck to change over with the eastern patrols.” He turned to Edgewater. “I want a battle- staff meeting and a full report on the status of the group in thirty minutes.”

  He put a hand on the captain’s shoulder and clasped it tightly. “And get me a damned radio. I want to make a call to a certain damned space station that’s been looking over us.”

  THE KREMLIN, USSR

  The sealed chamber in which the Stavka VGK, the Soviet Supreme High Command, was meeting was deadly quiet. The general secretary sat at the head of the triangular table, staring blankly.

  “Strike,” he said. “Destroy the Nimitz. Launch the nuclear AS-15 cruise missiles from Tashkent, or the SS-N-24 missiles from the attack submarines. Destroy the Nimitz.”

  Then the whispers and muted voices began:

  “The American laser could intercept anything....”

  “What if the laser strikes the Arkhangel...?”

  “The space station Armstrong can vector in American B-52s and can steer cruise missiles....”

  “We must have time to evaluate this... this new development, sir,” Czilikov said, abruptly riding over the sotto voce murmurs of disbelief and dismay. “We’ve no available ground-launch satellite interceptors, no spaceplanes ... so we can’t destroy the space station, not yet. And it holds the high ground”—in more ways than one, he thought— “against the Arkhangel carrier group. We can’t send a strike force without risking the Arkhangel. ”

  “I will not accept it,” the general secretary said, glaring at Czilikov. “I will not retreat. I will not have this nation denied access of
the seas—”

  “Sir, we control Iran and the Persian Gulf—”

  “Oh? Control it with what? And for how long? It is only a matter of time before the Americans move in again. ...”

  “If we withdraw, the situation remains as it is. If we advance against the Nimitz without further dealing with the space station Armstrong, we risk everything.”

  The general secretary sat back, stared at the shaken generals ranged about him. Once, he thought, there had been a man sitting at this table who’d not been afraid to take on a challenge. A man who, like himself, would not even consider accepting defeat. Was another like him out there somewhere? He had to hope and believe so.

  Otherwise the Americans would have scored a victory far more important than the military one. They would have stolen the future. ...

  EPILOGUE

  January 1993

  ORINDA, CALIFORNIA

  “He wanted to be where he could see the bay,” Ann said. “That’s what he said in his will: ‘I want to rest where I can see the bay and touch the sky where my daughter lives.’”

  She bent down and placed the bouquet of flowers on the mound of earth near the low headstone that bore the name of Captain Matthew E. Page, United States Navy. She and Jason Saint-Michael stood on a low hill on the edge of the cemetery northeast of the Alameda Naval Station. The low clouds and mists obscured San Francisco and Oakland Bay Bridge far below them in the distance, but the clouds had seemed to part just before they reached the top of the Berkeley Hills, and the sun now shone brightly on the summit.

  Saint-Michael gripped Ann’s hand, released it, then moved off toward the edge of the hill and stared out into the vista below. She watched him as he moved away.

  It was obvious that the mists rolling up from San Francisco Bay had invaded his nitrogen-tortured joints: he walked with a cane now in the cool, damp air. It was an old, gnarled shillelagh given to him in a private ceremony by the president. He had accepted it with a smile and a handshake, but he’d been quiet and moody ever since.

  It had turned out to be his retirement ceremony as well, since the doctors had decided that it would be too risky for him to go into space again. With no field unit to command and no interest in sitting behind a desk, he’d reluctantly agreed to the medical retirement that Space Command offered him. Come next month, he’d be a civilian again. Could he accept that?

  Ann had hoped that getting him to California for New Years would somehow improve his mood, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. Her mother, Amanda, was supportive, but even her up-mood didn’t really help. He was about to leave her home when the unexpected call from Admiral Clancy came, requesting his presence at the Oakland-Alameda Naval Base, headquarters of the Nimitz carrier group, the next day.

  They had stopped at her father’s gravesite to lay a small bouquet on his headstone, but now she thought that it hadn’t been a good idea at all. The reminder of Matthew Page’s death only seemed to resurrect other painful memories of the past few months, driving, it seemed, a wedge deeper between them.

  She moved close to him, linked her arm in his as they looked out at the swirling mists of San Francisco Bay.

  “Strange in a way,” he said, “but I miss that station. I mean, what is it anyway? Computers, instrument panel—nuts and bolts, really. But I miss the damn thing. You wouldn’t believe how I miss it.” He looked at her, thinking of her life-saving skill and the fierce dedication she’d shown toward Skybolt. “I take that back.... Of course, you would know.”

  There was no good answer to that. What she said was, “Jason, why did you agree to come here?”

  “I thought I should say good-bye to your father.... When will you be going back?”

  “Back?”

  “To the station.”

  “Never,” she said.

  “Never? Why?”

  “Because that part of my life ...” she didn’t add, his life, “is over. I would never do anything to hurt you.”

  “But what about your career? That’s your laser device up there. That’s yours. You can’t just—”

  “I seem to remember this guy, a cocky sonofabitch Space Command general who said it wasn’t my laser. You know something? He was right. You want to know something else? I don’t want it anymore. Don’t look at me that way. I just don’t want anything more to do with it. I built that laser as a defensive device, Jason. Not an offensive one.”

  “So what were we supposed to do? Let those Elektron spaceplanes use us for target practice?”

  “No, of course not. We had no choice—it was them or us. But Space Command’s already rebuilt most of Armstrong and placed it in the same orbit over the Arabian Sea that you put it in. They’re using it to shadow the Arkhangel group—”

  “I still don’t see—”

  “If Skybolt is supposed to be a defensive weapon, protecting us against strategic nuclear weapons, what’s Silver Tower still doing over the Arabian Sea?”

  He paused for a moment—“Surveillance. It’s still by far the best surveillance platform we’ve got. And it can help protect the fleet from a sneak cruise-missile attack....”

  “Or fighter attack? Bomber attack?”

  “Sure....”

  “How about hitting the Arkhangel directly? I wonder what Skybolt would do against a carrier? Blow up a few planes on its decks? Set off a weapons magazine? Do some serious damage to electronics? Maybe even kill a few sailors on deck. Why not go one better? You don’t have to be a think-tank guru to come up with the idea. Just a sincere dedicated chief of staff, secretary of defense—or president? The Russians are going to have the Brezhnev leave the Persian Gulf and sail to South Yemen for resupply. They say that it will rejoin with the Arkhangel and form a new, stronger battle group to hit the Nimitz again. So why isn’t it logical we attack the Brezhnev? Attack it when it gets to port? But better still, why don’t we run our laser over the ArkhangeVs home port of Vladivostok? Or Murmansk? Or Leningrad? Or Moscow?”

  “That’s going pretty far, Ann. ...”

  “Maybe, but are you so sure? You used to work on Space Command planning staffs. What if you now had weapons with the destructive capability of Silver Tower and Skybolt? Can you really say you’d never consider using them to stop a war before it starts? Preemptive strike? Surgical strike? Or just good old saber-rattling from seven hundred miles in space?”

  “I don’t believe we’d ever do that....”

  “I wish you would convince me. But you know as well as I, too much success, like Skybolt has had now, can breed a need for more and more.... I wanted to develop it for defensive reasons only. But now....”

  He didn’t argue with her, but turned away and stared at the huge ridgelines of fog rolling across the bay. They stood together quietly for a long time, until she noticed him shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

  “We should leave,” she said. He followed her back to the car.

  Rush-hour traffic had thinned as they made their way down Mount Diablo Boulevard to the Nimitz Highway and on into the Oakland- Alameda Naval Base. When they reached the gate and showed their IDs, the shore patrolman pointed toward a waiting staff car parked at the reception area.

  “Admiral Clancy is waiting for you, General. His driver will take you and Dr. Page.”

  Puzzled, Saint-Michael returned the SP’s salute, turned across traffic into the parking lot and parked beside the large navy-gray sedan. The driver saluted and held the doors open for them.

  “All this for a simple debriefing?” Ann said, peering out the darkened windows. She could see very little in the fog and haze surrounding the base. “We’re not heading for carrier group headquarters, either. Driver, where are we going?”

  “Slip seventeen, ma’am.”

  “But we are going to meet Admiral Clancy... ?” Saint-Michael said.

  “Yes, sir. He’s waiting.”

  Ann shrugged. “The boonies. We may as well sit back; it’ll be a long ride.”

  The base was not very large, bu
t the warehouses, docks, and buildings that they were forced to weave among made the trip seem endless. After ten minutes they pulled alongside a long, dark dry dock area in front of a maintenance enclosure. The dry dock was filled with oil-clogged water and a bit of debris, but it was still relatively freshlooking water; the drydock basin had only recently been filled with seawater. The enclosure was contained on all sides, but by the looks of the four-inch-diameter hawsers leading to the diesel, ship-moving “mules” on the pier, the vessel inside was huge.

  The driver stopped at the foot of a security tower located a hundred yards from the maintenance enclosure, opened the door for his two passengers, saluted, then quickly departed.

  “This is getting very strange,” Saint-Michael said. “I wonder what—”

  Suddenly, a horn began to sound from loudspeakers on the maintenance enclosure. The two rail-mounted mules outside the enclosure were started, and the front door of the enclosure began to slide open.

  “I think we’re about to find out.”

  When the doors were fully opened the mules took up the slack on the hawsers, and with clouds of diesel exhaust billowing skyward, the tractors began to pull on the vessel hidden inside. It had only been pulled a few feet out of the building when Ann suddenly grabbed his arm.

  “It’s the California,” she said. “Number thirty-six. They brought the California back to Oakland.” But as it was gently pulled out of its enclosure it was obvious it was not the same California.

  “I hardly recognize her. Look—I’m not sure but I think those are twin missile-launch rails on the nose.”

  “And two RAM missile-launchers on the forecastle,” he said. “Also cannons everywhere... but what the hell is that?”

  The California was a bit more than halfway outside when they both gaped at a huge new structure just behind the midships masts. Four massive legs dozens of feet high and several feet wide sprawled across the entire aft section of the ship; it appeared the battleship had had to be lengthened a few feet in the stem just to accommodate the huge legs.