by Joe Weber
Chapter Ten.
NORAD General Matuchek sat in the briefing room listening to the operations officer and the intelligence chief. The staff Intel officer was speaking.
' General, the French Spot Earth resources satellite has photographed five Soviet Typhoon submarines leaving their secret base at Gremikha, on the Kola Peninsula. All of this activity has taken place in the past fourteen hours.
Go on. Colonel, Matuchek urged.
These subs. General, are the largest in the world. They're five hundred fifty-eight feet long and carry twenty SS-N-20 ballistic missiles, which have a range of more than five thousand miles.
Where are these subs now? Matuchek asked, writing notes on his briefing folder.
We don't know, sir. Probably headed for the center of the northern Atlantic. Each missile carries six to nine multiple independently targetable nuclear warheads.
The officer paused, seeing Matuchek leafing through his folder.
General, they are capable of striking North America and Western Europe even when docked at their home port in Gremikha.
Please continue. Colonel, Matuchek requested, looking at the last page of the report.
At least eleven other subs mostly Delta-and Yankee-class boats have left port too. Another Typhoon, in the final stages of construction, is preparing to leave the shipyard at Severomorsk. Sir, missiles have already been loaded on that particular Typhoon and the boat has never been to sea.
What do you read from this? Matuchek placed his pen on the table and folded his arms.
Sir, the submarine bases at Polyarnyy and Petropavlovsk are empty, along with the secret base at Gremikha. The Soviets protect their fleet, especially the Typhoons, like mother hens.
I believe, sir, they're going to use these weapons on us.
Matuchek glanced at his watch, keeping in mind his briefing with the Joint Chiefs of Staff in eight minutes.
Colonel, Matuchek hesitated, you may be absolutely correct.
However, our immediate threat is the approaching Soviet bombers. They can do a lot of damage with their nuclear cruise missiles.
I couldn't agree more. General. Their long-range airborne missiles do constitute a tremendous threat to. our major coast cities, especially if they're used in conjunction with nuclear weapons launched from submarines.
What is your recommendation. Colonel? Matuchek continued, not waiting for a reply. The submarine problem is not a NORAD priority, as you well know, until the missiles break the surface of the water.
I recognize that, General. My recommendation is to push the Joint Chiefs to focus more ASW coverage in the North Atlantic. The Russians can sit out there, with near impunity, and blast the hell out of Europe and North America. We really need all the naval air coverage we can concentrate in the North Atlantic.
The small briefing room remained quiet while Matuchek organized his thoughts. Okay, Colonel, I'll suggest a stepped-up effort. The Navy isn't going to appreciate the Air Force recommending any... Matuchek paused. You get the picture?
Yes sir. We need a more concerted naval effort, though, or we're going to be vulnerable in the midsection.
Alright, Jim. I appreciate all the work you and Matt have done. Keep me informed.
Yes, sir.
Matuchek reached for the door handle leading to the private, sealed room where he would confer with the Joint Chiefs in three minutes.
As he swung the door open, a loud horn blared, startling him. The raucous sound signified a change in the Defense Condition.
Matuchek changed course, almost jogging, as he stepped onto a narrow threshold overlooking the central operations room.
The two briefing officers followed closely behind.
CINCNORAD stared at the status board, then audibly sighed.
A large DEFCON-Three display had replaced the Defense Condition-Two light.
Well, things are looking up, Matuchek said as he turned to reenter the sealed briefing room.
The two younger officers were visibly relieved, grins creasing their faces.
MOSCOW Dimitri stood by the row of trees, nervously glancing up and down the street. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then back again while he watched the parking area where the American had disappeared.
His numbed mind tried to sort out what had happened in the past two hours. It seemed like ages since he had slept in his bed, or, more importantly, had a cigarette. He had left them in Wickham's apartment in their hasty escape.
Dimitri thought about Svetlana momentarily, then snapped back to the present when the dark Lada, bearing government markings, pulled alongside the curb.
LET'S GO, the American shouted in Russian, barely stopping the car.
Dimitri bolted into the automobile, catching his coat in the door.
Wickham roared into traffic as Dimitri opened the door and freed his coat.
Where are we going? Dimitri asked, his eyes darting back and forth, searching for possible threats.
To Kalinin to catch the train. Two-hour drive, at most.
We will turn off the highway at Khimki and follow the road to Kalinin.
I'll explain more when we get out of traffic. They probably won't miss this car for a couple of hours.
Dimitri sat quietly, watching the CIA agent drive with his left hand.
His right arm remained motionless with the hand through his coat front, providing a sling.
As the Lada reached the outskirts of Moscow, both men breathed easier.
Each kilometer spelled safety, more security for the agents.
Dimitri, our original plan won't work now.
What are we going to do? the young agent blurted, in a small voice, tension tightening his throat.
I'll need your help, so listen closely.
Dimitri nodded, rising in his seat to look behind the automobile.
His heart still pounded. What would they do to Svetlana?
He ached to go back to her, then realized he could never return.
When we get to Kalinin, we'll submerge the car in the river. Then we'll separate to enter the train station a few minutes apart.
Dimitri's eyes appeared glazed.
Are you listening, god damnit?
Yes sir, Dimitri replied, focusing on Wickham's face.
When we enter the station, Dimitri, you go into the John, the men's room, and enter a stall. Stay in there until the train arrives. I'll come and get you when it's time to board.
I understand. Where are we going?
The agent checked in every direction, awkwardly downshifted for a corner, then continued.
The train will take us close to Leningrad. We'll get off outside Novgorod, next to the Volkhov River.
Then we go by truck again ... ? Dimitri interjected, hoping their escape would be in a familiar, nonthreatening environment.
No, that's too risky. Intelligence has informed us the Soviets are on to the ruse. We lost two men eight months ago. The Russian border guards knew precisely where our agents were concealed in the truck. We had to resort to hiding our people inside the trucks a few months after your insertion.
How then--? Dimitri stopped himself, seeing the look on the American's face.
When we get off the train near Novgorod, at night, I'll send a prearranged signal via satellite. That will set the rescue operation in motion.
The American braked for another turn and continued his brief to Dimitri.I have a satellite transmitter sewn inside my topcoat. We can send only coded messages. No voice.
Without hesitating, the agent continued. When we are in place, at the pickup point, I'll send a coded message and the helos will be enroute almost immediately.
Helicopters? Dimitri was astonished.
That's correct. The extraction procedure has been rehearsed many times.
I have a UHF radio built into the satellite transmitter.
I will be able to talk with the pilots when they are within fifteen or twenty miles of our position.
The Lada rounded a c
orner and the American continued his explanation to the frightened young operative. Dimitri, when we get close to Kal OH SHIT!
Both men saw the checkpoint simultaneously. The guard house and closed gate were only four hundred meters away as the American started slowing the Lada.
Dimitri, quick, grab the scarf from my right coat pocket and wrap it once around my neck.
Dimitri complied, initially fumbling to unfold the brown knit fabric.
Make sure it covers the blood around my collar.
It's covered, Dimitri responded, his voice again choked in near panic.
Drape the end over my torn shoulder. Wickham squirmed as a sharp pain shot through his shoulder. Got it? It's completely covered, Dimitri said as he spread the scarf over the agent's wound.
Okay, Dimitri, I'll talk. We're agriculture inspectors, so act like one. Wickham motioned to Dimitri. Get out your credentials.
The Lada slowed as the American glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. No trace of blood visible, at least from the left side.
Two guards, one with a Kalashnikov rifle and the other brandishing a submachine gun, stood in front of the closed gate.
Both Russian guards raised their hands, motioning for the Lada to stop.
Get a hold on yourself, Dimitri, or we're both dead. Act the part you're supposed to be. Wickham lowered his voice.
Official.
The American brought the automobile to a smooth stop as the guards approached the Lada, one on each side.
Greetings, comrades, the American said, displaying his credentials.
The guard studied the papers closely, then looked at the American and Dimitri.
Step out and open the trunk, the Soviet guard sternly ordered.
Yes, comrade, the American replied, opening the door gingerly with his left arm.
Wickham's mind raced, knowing he didn't have a key to the trunk. He had hot-wired the ignition to start the car.
The American rounded the end of the automobile, appearing to search for a key.
What is wrong with your arm. Comrade Inspector? the Russian holding the Kalashnikov rifle asked, suspicion written on his face.
Farming accident, comrade. Wickham appeared nonchalant.
Many years ago in Groznyy.
The American was in pain and he hoped it didn't show on his face.
Comrade Inspector, this is not an Agriculture Bureau automobile.
This is registered to the State Medical Department.
That is true, comrade. Our vehicle was in for routine service and inspection. The Bureau Directorate procured this automobile for our trip.
The other guard, listening to the conversation, was examining Dimitri's credentials through the open passenger window.
Open the trunk. Comrade Inspector, the guard again ordered, tapping the metal with the barrel of his weapon.
I'm afraid they didn't give me a key to the trunk. The inept blunderheads, responded the American as he noticed the other guard carrying Dimitri's credentials into the guard house. If he got on the phone with the false papers, it was all over.
Comrade Inspector, let me have your key to the ignition, the guard ordered in a loud voice, raising the barrel of the rifle strapped over his shoulder.
Yes, of course, Wickham replied as he approached the open driver's door. He reached inside, as if to retrieve the key, and noticed the other guard dialing the wall-mounted phone.
SHUTTLE COLUMBIA The orbiter drifted effortlessly over the azure Pacific Ocean, inverted, top facing the planet, as the crew prepared to extend the remote manipulator arm.
Maj. Ward Culdrew, the mission specialist, looked through the aft crew station windows. The three satellites appeared unharmed after the rocket flight into space.
Doctor Minh Tran, mission payload specialist, stood at the pay load handler station. Tran was preparing to operate the remote manipulator system.
Hank Doherty was at the pilot's position in the center of the aft crew station. His job would entail maneuvering Columbia during the satellite deployment procedure.
Alan Cressottie manned the other mission payload specialist position, ready to assist any crew member, while Colonel Crawford supervised the operation from the forward flight deck.
The shuttle was parked in orbit in the lower Van Alien belt. The crew could not spend long periods at this altitude because of the radiation hazard.
Stand by to deploy the RMS, Culdrew ordered.
The cargo-bay floodlights were on, creating eerie shadows toward the rear of the compartment, along with the television cameras and viewing monitors.
Okay, Minh, do your stuff, Culdrew said in a quiet, respectful tone.
Doctor Tran turned his switch to the orbiter unloaded position.
He then selected shoulder and pitch on the joint switch.
Everyone watched intently as the diminutive Tran maneuvered the remote arm to a position to extract the first satellite.
The mission payload specialist then switched to orbiter loaded and approached the first SDI satellite, using a television camera mounted on the end of the remote control arm.
Looks good, Columbia, Houston radioed.
Mission Control was monitoring the deployment via television downlink.
We hope so, Crawford replied tentatively. He knew what hung in the balance.
A collective sigh announced the end effector mating with the satellite package grapple.
Got it, Houston, Crawford radioed.
Copy. You're go for deployment.
Tran suppressed a grin and prepared to lift the antimissile satellite out of the cargo bay.
Hold your breath, boys, Culdrew whispered.
Tran gently raised the satellite package, stopped momentarily, flexed his fingers, and regripped the rotational hand controller.
Nice and easy. Doc, Culdrew said in a soothing, quiet voice.
You're doing great.
Tran manipulated the satellite out of the cargo bay, then stopped the arm, frozen in place.
Okay, Doc, let me know when you're ready, Doherty announced as he prepared to maneuver the shuttle clear of the satellite.
Stand by, Tran replied, checking his switches. Everything looked normal to the small physicist.
Columbia, Houston. Looks mighty fine, guys. You're ahead of schedule.
Roger, Crawford replied, watching Doherty's every move. This was a critical maneuver. The first of three in the next thirty-five minutes, Crawford thought as he watched the crew work in total harmony.
Tran, making sure the satellite was stable, announced he was ready for deployment. Ready for payload release in fifteen seconds.
Set, Doherty answered, checking his reaction control system (RCS) thrusters.
Tran made one last check and released the satellite from the arm.
Released. The astronaut stared, transfixed.
Roger, Doherty replied, deftly maneuvering Columbia away from the satellite.
Outstanding, Columbia. Two to go, Houston radioed as the orbiter moved slowly away from the satellite.
LAJES The last of the dessert plates were being cleared when the president addressed the Soviet leader again.
We are not naive. Secretary Zhilinkhov. We realize your space-based antisatellite weapons, kinetic-energy shrapnel weapons, and powerful lasers are in place for one reason, to defeat us in space. The sole intent is to reduce, if not eliminate, our ability to communicate and navigate. Our effectiveness to defend ourselves. We have reason.
Mister Secretary, to believe your government has used the powerful laser at Sary Shagan to damage two American satellites.
The president noticed Zhilinkhov's eye twitch.
The most recent incident happened during the past two months.
What is your point. Mister President? the interpreter asked in a pleasant manner. Zhilinkhov was strained, but businesslike.
The point. Secretary Zhilinkhov, is that we are not a threat to you r the Soviet people. We can achieve, working together, a peaceful
coexistence through de-escalation of arms. We must exchange our collective technical knowledge. Two powers working together for the enrichment of all people.
The president again waited for a response. The Russian remained quiet.
A disturbance at the entrance to the hangar startled the delegation.
The Soviet foreign minister, who had left the room to receive a message, barged through the door and strode angrily toward Zhilinkhov, gesturing for the general secretary to join him in conference.
Grant Wilkinson looked over at the president, then removed his glasses and slowly rubbed the bridge of his nose. When he looked up, the president was shaking his head in resignation.
The president, apprehension gnawing at his stomach, watched the agitated foreign minister confer with Zhilinkhov. The general secretary's face blotched, then turned a deep red, almost purple color.
Wilkinson leaned over to the president. Here comes the space shuttle broadside. You might as well enjoy a rum crook and relax.
Good advice, the president responded as he withdrew a cigar. His eyes squinted behind the match, making him appear tired.
Wish I were enjoying this someplace else, the president said quietly, closely watching the Soviet leaders.
The Kremlin boss, obviously upset, was marching back to his seat opposite the American. He reached his chair and launched into a loud harangue. The bombastic, ranting speech was mostly incoherent to the American delegation. The Russian interpreter stepped away from the general secretary, not sure how to react.
Wilkinson made the first move, then sat back as he observed his boss lean forward.
The president spoke forcefully to Zhilinkhov, projecting his voice from the diaphragm. Secretary Zhilinkhov! We can't understand you.
Calm down!
Both men were talking simultaneously, causing further confusion.
Suddenly, without warning, Zhilinkhov stopped shouting.
He pointed his finger at the American and started talking slowly, in a
low, controlled tone. The interpreter tentatively stepped closer to the
general secretary. You have deceived us. Tricked us again with
I'm not following you .Mister Zhilinkhov. We, as a government, have
never
You lied about your space war defense!
