Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01

by Flight of the Old Dog (v1. 1)

  “C’mon, General,” Mitchell said, “I’m on your side, but our information just doesn’t support your theories. The technology involved in creating a laser-based antisatellite system that can hit even a geostationary satellite is tremendous. It is almost mind-boggling to apply that same technique to shooting down warheads a little bigger than a yard in length. The degree of accuracy required is enormous.”

  “And just because we can’t do it,” Curtis said, “the Russians certainly can’t, eh, Mitch?”

  “All right, all right,” the President said. “Let’s stop trying to win debating points.” He ran a hand through his sweaty brown hair and tried hard to think. “All I see is two of our country’s leading experts arguing and contradicting one another. You say that complex could house a Soviet antisatellite or anti-ICBM laser, but then you say they don’t have the technology to deploy such a system. Excuse my impertinence, gentlemen, but it sounds like paranoia to me.”

  “I assure you, Mr. President,” Curtis said quickly, “that it’s not—” “Mitch, we need more information on that facility in Siberia,” the President said, turning to the CIA director. Can you get it for us?” “We have some possibilities, sir,” Mitchell replied. “At the very least, we should be able to get a more detailed diagram of the complex. I’ll give you a complete progress report as soon as possible.”

  “Good.” The President glanced at his watch again. “General, I realize the importance of insuring my fast departure from Washington in case of an emergency, but I simply don’t think the world situation warrants this degree of caution. I’ve got a heavy schedule today and I can’t interrupt it.”

  Curtis looked at the President disbelievingly. Wasn’t there any way to convince him of the seriousness of the damage done to the nation’s defense?

  “I want details of that plane crash as soon as possible. If the Russians aren’t cooperating in the search, I want to know about it.”

  Plane crash, Curtis thought. Not downing. Not destruction. Not murder. He’s totally disregarded my suspicions.

  “We have no evidence of any lack of cooperation, sir,” Curtis said quietly.

  “Marshall, I think it’s time for you to put some feelers out to the Russians,” the President said. “Start at the U.N. See if we can get a special Security Council meeting together. We’ll hit Karmarov with whatever information we can present there and see how the Russians react. Tell Greg Adams to hit ’em hard—accuse them of everything. See how that polite bastard Karmarov reacts. Maybe we have to jerk off these guys a little to find out what they’re up to.”

  “I’ll avoid . . . ‘jerking’ anyone off, Mr. President,” Brent said, blanching at the locker room words as if they had a foul odor.

  “Do what you have to,” the President said. He turned to Curtis. “Wilbur, I’m truly sorry for the loss of your people. Unfortunately, we don’t have enough information to accuse the Russians of foul play. We have to treat it as an accident. There’s no sign of survivors, the Russians claim they don’t have the bodies or the wreckage, and there was no cockpit voice recorder or flight data recorder even if it was recovered, is that right? A tragic loss.’’

  “Analysis of the signal data from the plane and the destroyed satellite haven’t been completed yet, sir,’’ Curtis said. “I’ll report to you when that’s finished.’’

  “That’s fine, General,’’ the President said. “Report to me directly about—”

  “I’d also like authorization to develop a response in case we find they do have an ASAT and ABM laser at that complex,” Curtis added quickly.

  “ ‘Develop a response?’ ” the President asked. “That sounds like milita- rese for an attack plan.”

  “This is getting quite out of hand, General,” Brent said. “I don’t feel it’s necessary to—”

  “Hold on, Marshall,” the President said. He looked closely at General Curtis. “Go ahead, Wilbur. What kind of response?”

  “I’m talking about what this Administration will do,” Curtis said, “// it is discovered that my suspicions are correct.”

  The President glanced at his watch again, seeing his rest time slipping away. “What you’re proposing, General—it could stir up a mess of trouble if word were to leak out. You know how close we are to signing that arms-reduction treaty.”

  “There will be nothing to leak, sir,” Curtis said. “I can handle it through my office only. It will consist only of collection and analysis of date on the Kavaznya site, and a compilation of possible options. There will be no military mobilization, no generation of forces, no funding.”

  The President stood without replying, lost in thought. Everyone in the room jumped to their feet. The President headed for the door, and General Curtis opened it for him.

  “Authorized,” he said simply as he walked past the four-star general. He stopped and glared at Curtis. “If it leaks, if it damages the negotiations in progress, you’ll answer for it. You have my guarantee ...”

  General Curtis caught up to Marshall Brent as they walked toward the underground garage of the White House.

  “Drop you somewhere, Mr. Secretary?” Curtis asked, falling into step beside Brent.

  Brent hesitated a moment, frowning at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Then, he nodded with a resigned shrug.

  “Thanks, General,” he replied. “I’m heading out to Andrews to catch the diplomatic shuttle to New York.” Curtis, his aide, and Brent climbed into an Army-green Lincoln Continental and headed out into the raw Washington weather. As the driver maneuvered onto the Beltway, Curtis signaled his aide to secure the thick glass separating the driver from his passengers.

  “Rough week, eh, General?”

  “I’ve had worse . . . and better,” Curtis replied.

  “Do you really believe they have this . . . laser of yours?”

  “I may be an old stubborn pack-mule, Mr. Secretary,” Curtis said, unbuttoning his jacket, “but I listen. Our intelligence sources have been saying for ten years that the Soviets are on the verge of developing the capability to track and hit satellites with lasers. That complex at Kavaz- nya could easily be the culmination of all that research. I have a feeling in these old bones that some young hotshot in the Pentagon is going to come running to me in the next few days with something from that RC-135’s data transmission that says the Russians have something big going on over there.”

  “I find it hard to believe,” Brent said, “that the Russians would actually conduct such an attack. The Russians may be a lot of things, but they are not reckless.”

  “Reckless ... no. But if they thought they could get away with it, they might just take the chance,” Curtis said. “Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time they fired on one of our recon planes.”

  “You’re saying they’ve fired on us before.”

  “Hell, yes,” Curtis said, laughing. “Those sons-of-bitches have brass balls sometimes. They lock onto a RC-135 with fire-control radars, like they’re gonna launch a missile at it. They shoot bullets across the aircraft’s nose, fly with overlapping wingtips. They even alter their radio navigation beacons to transmit false navigational information to aircraft near their shores, hoping to get a reconnaissance plane to fly into a restricted area. That’s why our boys aren’t allowed to use outside navigational aids. They transmit false messages or orders on high-frequency radio all the time, or interfere with real messages, or just plain jam the frequencies.”

  “But what do we do about it?”

  “Ignore them, mostly,” Curtis said. “As long as we follow the rules and no one gets hurt, we just let them make asses outta themselves. We lodge formal complaints, but they file counter-complaints just as fast and twice as wild as anything they’ve ever done. After a while, it burns itself out.”

  “But that Korea Air Lines flight flies near . . .”

  “See that? You just can’t trust ’em.” Sometimes they get serious.” Curtis was silent for a moment.

  “But that didn’t happen with our RC-135,�
� he continued. “No matter how bad the shit hit the fan, the guys aboard her would’ve stayed cool. If they were under direct attack, or even believed they might soon be under attack, they would have flushed their data.”

  “Flushed it?”

  “As they collect data on Soviet radar and other electromagnetic signals, it’s coded and stored in a buffer—a computer storage space. If there’s a hint of anything going wrong—airplane problems, attack, equipment problems—the buffer can be transmitted to a Defense Department satellite within seconds. They hit one button and it’s gone, all of it. Most operators now have a hair trigger on that button; one engine coughs a bit and the data’s gone. The buffer transmits itself periodically after a complicated error-checking routine done between the plane and the satellite.

  “If the RC-135 crew knew they were under attack, we would’ve gotten the rest of their data and an attack or distress code. Even a momentary threat signal from anywhere, especially with that plane so close to shore, would’ve caused them to flush their data. But they didn’t. They never knew what hit them.”

  “A sneak attack?” Brent suggested. “A fighter could have shot at them without their knowing it, couldn’t they?”

  Curtis nodded. “At night, a passive infrared missile attack—sure. But it’s unlikely. Those RC-135s can monitor hundreds of communications frequencies, especially Soviet Command frequencies. If the crew intercepted any air-to-ground or ground-to-air radio transmissions ordering a fighter to attack, they would have flushed their data, turned tail and run. No Soviet fighter makes a move like that unless it receives an order from the Kremlin itself—unless, of course, the intruder plane actually makes an attack. The Korean Air Lines attack was preceded by two hours of communications, all of which were monitored as far away as Japan. No. Our guys never knew what killed them.”

  Both men were silent for a long time—Brent searching for an explanation, Curtis simply hopping mad.

  “So what can we do about it?” Brent asked.

  “There ain’t shit we can do about it,” Curtis said, sighing. “Unless the Russians try to do something stupid, something really flagrant. If they have a new toy over there, they’ve had their little fun with it. But if they play with it some more, our young President may go over and kick their little butts for them.”

  “Something flagrant,” Brent said, thinking to himself.

  “That’s what I like about our boy President,” Curtis said, his voice growing suddenly exuberant. “He’s a politician and a half, but you can rile him. Just like his ol’ football quarterback days—he’s all finesse, pretty moves, bobbing and weavin’, until he’s behind by a touchdown and a field goal. Then he starts thro win’ the bomb, goin’ for the score.”

  Brent looked at Curtis and shook his head. “God help us,” he said, “if he goes all the way.”

  3 The United Nations, New York

  “This emergency meeting of the United Nations Security Council is hereby called to order,” Ian McCaan, the United Nations Secretary General and ambassador from Ireland, announced. It was almost eleven p.m. in New York. Most of the fifteen delegates and their aides and secretaries held steaming cups of coffee or tea. A few wore angry, tired faces. A few looked anxiously at, it was certain, the two principals for which this meeting was called—Gregory Adams, the ambassador from the United States, and Dmitri Karmarov, the Soviet ambassador.

  “Let the record show,” McCaan continued, his Irish brogue thick despite two decades spent in the United States, “that this meeting was urgently requested by the government of the United States of American under Provision Nine, unprovoked and excessive use of military force against an unarmed vessel or aircraft near territorial boundaries. The charge of violation of Provision Nine is hereby submitted. The United States delegation has asked that this meeting be closed to all but Security council members, although confidential audio transcripts of this emergency meeting will be made available to all member nations. Ambassador Adams, please proceed with specifications of the charge.”

  Gregory Adams adjusted his microphone and looked around the table at the other fourteen delegates. This was not a receptive, audience. The Russian ambassador looked completely bored. The other delegates looked equally uninterested, and now Adams began to question the wisdom of calling an emergency meeting under these circumstances. Adjusting the dark horn-rimmed glasses that he wore to make himself look older, he cleared his throat and began:

  “Thank you, Mr. Secretary-General. On the night of November thirteenth, two nights ago, an unarmed American RC-135 reconnaissance aircraft was making a routine patrol of the eastern shore of the Kamchatka peninsula of the Soviet Union. The aircraft had been on a peaceful training mission—”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Adams,” Dmitri Karmarov interrupted, holding his translator earpiece closer to his left hear. He smiled and said in English, “The interpreter has told me that the RC-135 was on a training mission. I wish to be clear on this point—is that the same as a spy mission, sir?” “American aircraft of all types fly near shores all over the world for a variety of reasons, Ambassador,” Adams replied. “This particular RC- 135 was on a training and routine survey mission, collecting signal coverage data for satellite navigation units for civil and military use.”

  “Navigation information!” Karmarov’s sixty-one-year-old face fairly cracked with suppressed laughter. He made an exaggerated point of hiding his face and choking down a chuckle. “Navigation information . . . very well, Mr. Adams. I apologize for the interruption.” Another stifled laugh. The rest of the delegates, although not suppressing any laughter, clearly did not believe for one moment Adams’ excuse for the RC-135’s mission. Its capabilities were well known.

  “That aircraft,” Adams said, much louder this time, “was destroyed. Suddenly, without warning and without provocation.” Adams looked at the faces of the other delegates, but found nothing in their blank expressions. “This poses a threat to air traffic for all of us, gentlemen. It was not over Soviet airspace—”

  “Incorrect, Ambassador Adams,” Karmarov said. “I have a report from our air defense radar tracking station at Kommandorskiy Island and Ossora Airbase on Ust-Kamchatka. They report the RC-135 aircraft came within thirty-three miles of our shore ...”

  “Thirty-three miles,” Adams retorted, “is hardly over Soviet airspace.” “Not according to the International Civil Aeronautics Organization,” Karmarov said. “Article Seventeen, Chapter one-thirty-one, establishes a one-hundred-and-twenty-mile-wide Air Defense Identification Zone around countries that have borders on open ocean. Flight is prohibited in the Zone without permission from the country controlling that Zone. I believe I can safely assume that your RC-135 did not have permission to enter that area ...”

  “Flight is not prohibited in an Air Defense Zone,” Adams said. He referred to a folder his aide passed to him. “According to paragraph one-thirty-seven of the ICAO regulations, Ambassador, aircraft entering an ADIZ without permission or proper identification risk engagement of a country’s sea or air defense forces for the express purpose of positive aircraft identification and precise position, altitude, airspeed, and heading verification only. They can proceed through the area as long as they do not pose a threat to air traffic or national security. They are certainly not to be fired on.”

  “An American military jet the size of the one that intruded into our airspace is most definitely a threat to our security, sir,” Karmarov said. “The Article specifies that, if the intruding aircraft is military and has the capability of carrying long-range air-to-air or air-to-ground weapons, it may be turned away from land, challenged, forced to land, or fired on.” Karmarov pointed a finger directly at Adams. “It was you who risked disaster, not us.”

  “The RC-135 has no capability of carrying weapons.”

  “Positive identification of the aircraft was never made until your government contacted us, sir,” Karmarov said. “It followed an unusual flight path for a spy plane—not the usual course. Considering
the sensitive nature of our activities in that area, I believe the Soviet government acted with considerable restraint.”

  “Restraint!” Adams said. He contorted his face to display the maximum in indignation. “You destroyed that aircraft. You fired on it without warning, without any consideration of any of the lives on board. You murdered twelve innocent men and women. An unarmed aircraft carrying out a peaceful mission!”

  “I caution you to keep your wild accusations in check, Mr. Adams,” Karmarov said, louder this time. “We deny any involvement with the missing aircraft except to warn that aircraft out of Soviet airspace. We did not know the exact identity of the aircraft until your Department of Defense notified us of the disaster. We immediately initiated an air and sea search for the aircraft. We do not know what happened to your spy plane. Do not put the blame for your unfortunate disaster on the hands of the innocent Soviet people.”

  “The RC-135 aircraft reported unusual radar emissions tracking it, just before it was attacked,” Adams said. “The crew believed it was targettracking radar signals from a ground radar installation preparing to attack.”

  “Show us the data, then,” Karmarov said. “You say it was a hostile radar. We say we had nothing but surveillance radars on the aircraft. Show us the data that you say exist, Ambassador Adams. Confront the accused with the evidence—if you can.”

  “Mr. Adams?” McCaan said, peering over his podium to the American delegate’s seat. “Can you at this time provide the Council with this information?”

  “The crucial information is being collected for presentation, Mr. Secretary-General.”

  “You mean decoded, deciphered, edited, and altered,” Heinrich Braun- mueller, the East German ambassador, said wryly. “Intelligence data takes time to be made presentable.”