Flight Of The Old Dog pm-1

by Dale Brown

  "Right here. I see it every now and then. "He drew a squiggle almost parallel to the Kavaznya signal, but much smaller and of a slightly different frequency, or shape.

  "The timing is the most critical difference," Garrity explained. "The timing between Kavaznya and the second party is clear, but Kavaznya tells someone else something. And it's not just position data. I think it's a steering signal.

  "Steering what?" Markham asked.

  "Don't know," Garrity replied. "I've never seen anythin like it-hell, I'm not even sure if I am seeing it. A data signal embedded in a radar emission?" He shook his head. "I've been on duty for eighteen hours.

  I might be seeing beeps and buzzes in my dreams."

  "Code it," Markham said.

  Garrity looked at him in surprise. "Code what?"

  "Exactly what you told me," Markham asked. "Everything."

  "I told you a fairytale," Garrity asked. "A wet dream. I don't have anything concrete. The computer hasn't verified any of my inquiries about the second signal destination.

  "That doesn't matter," Markham asked. "They told us to report any findings of significance in the Kavaznya area. I heard that request came from very high. Code it and send it up for the Old Man's signature, then send it.

  "This isn't a finding," Garrity protested. "It's an opinion… a guess. It's not really even an educated guess-" "Listen, Garrity," Markham said, "something screwy is going on. The Russians risk a fifty million ruble bomber in a freezing rainstorm to scare us away. Now Kavaznya is active It's been active for days," Garrity said.

  "Then how come you haven't seen these side data signals before?"

  Garrity had no answer for that.

  "Something's going on, and we're right on top of it," Markham said.

  "Code exactly what you told me, then send it. "Garrity shook his head.

  "You're the boss. But do I need to put my signature on it?

  They'll laugh me right outta the Service.

  "They might give you a goddamned medal," Markham said."if you're right.

  VANDENBURG AIR FORCE BASE, CAUFOMM

  A single green and gray camouflaged locomotive wound around a curve on a deserted railroad siding. It pulled a quarter-mile-long train of long, six-sided rail cars, moving easily at about twenty miles an hour.

  Eight miles away in an underground control center, a group of Air Force officers were being briefed by another group of civilian contractors on the test that was about to take place.

  "Range reports ready, Mr. Newcombe," a technician said.

  Newcombe, the chief civilian contractor, nodded. "Tell them to stand by. General Taylor, gentlemen, the range has just reported ready. All of the Air Force tracking stations from here to Guam are ready for the first operational test launch of America's newest strategic weapon-the GLM- 123 Javelin Small Mobile Intercontinental Ballistic Missile, or, as the press has so fondly christened it, "Midgetman."

  "What can I tell you about her that you don't already know?" Newcombe searched the faces around him. Taylor shook his head and smiled, lighting a briar pipe. These Air Force generals had been working with him for years. MajorGeneral Taylor, the chief of the Strategic Development Branch, Aerospace Systems Division, Air Force Logistics Command, was an old friend. This test-its success an almost foregone conclusion, after seven previous successful launches-would ensure Taylor's third star and another promotion. Of course, Newcombe's new position as senior vice-president of the Javelin's prime contractor was already in the bag.

  "The train orbiting the test track is typical of a normal Javelin mobile rail deployment," Newcombe asked. "Six cars in all-the locomotive, two missile cars, two security cars, and the launch command and control car. Each car is super hardened against EMP-that's electromagnetic pulse effect, for you neophytes-caused by nearby nuclear explosions.

  "The new arms-elimination agreement have you worried, Ed?" one of General Taylor's aides asked Newcombe. "Javelun would be the first to lose research and development funding."

  "Of course, we all want to see world peace," Newcombe asked. "The arms-elimination treaty would be a great break through. But I feel it's just as important to continue with serious research and development. This will mark the culmination of those tests-the birth of a new kind of strategic weapon for the United States.

  "The Javelin is the most versatile weapon of its kind in the world," Newcombe continued. "Our quick-reaction rail launch test today demonstrates just one possible way it can be deployed; we've done other deployment tests that you won't believe.

  "The Javelin is small enough to be carried aloft on cargo aircraft, such as a C-513 or even a modified Boeing 747, Dropped via parachute, an successfullyy air-launched-no silo, no launch vehicle or submarine needed. Versions of the Javelin have successfully accomplished what we've called 'telephone pole' tests. We've rolled a Javelin missile off the deck of a Navy destroyer. In the water, it floated into a perfect upright launch attitude and was successfully fired by remote control.

  "Its potential is unlimited. The Javelin has an advantage over other small tactical or strategic nuclear vehicles-despite its small size, the Javelin carries three warheads, not just one or even two. In addition, the Javelin is designed to carry the new maneuverable reentry warhead, which makes the Javelin's business end many times more survivable should the Soviets decide to redeploy antiballistic missile defenses in the future. It might be worth it to replace cruise missiles and gravity weapons with Javelins if the arms-elimination treaty is ratified. "Interested nods from General Taylor-he was already planning on star number four.

  Newcombe walked over to a map of the Vandenburg Air Force Base rail test track. "The Javelin missile has been riding Vandenburg's track for only a few hours. In a few moments we'll demonstrate the ability of our Javelin to launch within sixty seconds of a launch order.

  "We've 'leaked' it to the Javelin test crew that the launch will be sometime this afternoon. The crew is completely isolated and has no idea that we're about to stage the test.

  "When the order is given, the train stops right where it is. A continually-running ring-laser gyro navigation unit instantly feeds position and gyro alignment data to the missile guidance system. By the time the rocket is ready for launch, the erector has raised it to firing position and the crew has authenticated the President's launch order."

  Newcombe checked the control panel, then studied the map.

  "General, the crew is right… here. "He pointed to the map.

  "Eight miles south of our position. We should be able to see the launch after you transmit the launch command. Sir?"

  General Taylor stepped forward and glanced at his watch.

  "Ten o'clock on the dot," he asked. "Let's do it. "Newcombe directed the general to a large red button mounted on a box on the master control panel. The Air Force general pressed the button, and Newcombe started a clock. Everyone else glanced at his watch.

  "If you'll follow me, gentlemen. "General Taylor led the way out of the control room and outside into a large stretch of sand dunes and low scrub trees. Newcombe put the sun on his left shoulder and pointed westward.

  "General Taylor's command has alerted the launch crew as well as the tracking and telemetry stations," he explained.

  "The rest is simple. While the train comes to a complete stop, the doors of the train open and the missile canister begins to erect. The canister is raised rearward, so the exhaust end of the missile is hanging off the end of the railcar.

  "Meanwhile, the crew decodes and authenticates the launch order. All of the missile's internal 'housekeeping' functions are automatic. By the time the crew verifies the message and inserts their launch keys, the missile is ready to go.

  Newcombe checked his watch; seventy-five seconds had already elapsed.

  He looked up at his military spectators.

  "I told you gents this would be a surprise At that instant, a thunderous roar rolled across the dunes.

  Several of the spectators, Newcombe included, jumped. All lo
oked southward.

  The missile itself could not be seen except as a tiny dark speck, but the half-mile-long tail of flame was clearly visib] from eight miles away The pillar of fire rose, accelerating at unbelievable speed. It felt as if the rocket exhaust was blasting at them from directly overhead.

  "A few seconds late, gents," Newcombe said over the slowly receding noise. "But spectacular, eh?" Newcombe pulled out a walkie-talkie.

  "Control, this is Newcombe. Pipe the telemetry narrative outside, please."

  "Amazing," General Taylor asked. "An intercontinental missile with an eight-thousand-mile range, ready for launch in a little over sixty seconds.

  "Javelin at sixty nautical miles altitude, seventy-three miles downrange," the voice of the launch controller reported.

  "Expecting first stage burnout in forty seconds. Speed approaching two thousand miles per hour. Altitude now eighty three nautical miles, one hundred seven miles down range…

  "Very impressive," General Taylor asked. "A most successful launch.

  "The Javelin hasn't begun to perform, General," New combe asked. "We'll begin receiving telemetry from Guam and the Marshall Islands soon.

  They'll tell us the progress of the Javelin's warheads. We expect a circular error pattern of not more than a hundred feet.

  "One hundred feet!" one of Taylor's aides asked. "After an eight thousand mile flight on a small I.C.B.M?Why, that's-" "Unbelievable, I know. "Newcombe smiled. "Although the Javelin is transportable and deployable in dozens of ways, we haven't just created a mini-I.C.B.M.

  The Javelin is just as accurate as the new MX Peacekeeper missile, yet it's one-third the size and one-half the cost."

  "Javelin at two hundred seventy-three miles altitude, turning further seaward now at three hundred miles downrange," the controller intoned.

  "Successful first stage burnout and second stage ignition. Velocity seven thousand miles per hour.

  "Inertial systems functioning well.

  "We can listen in on the rest of the launch from the visitor's area," Newcombe asked. "We have champagne ready."

  "Minor inertial course correction," the launch controller said. His voice sounded a bit more strained — Newcombe shot a puzzled glance at the loudspeaker, then wiped his face clean and replaced the puzzlement with a broad smile. No one else had noticed the inflection, or they weren't showing it…

  "Guam reports tracking Javelin on course. Javelin at four hundred nautical miles altitude, one thousand one hundred miles downrange," the controller reported. Suddenly his reports were coming faster.

  "Javelin con — ecting course…

  reestablished on course… now correcting course again for premature third-stage ignition… Guam reports loss of tracking and telemetry from Javelin. Mr. Newcombe, to the control center, please."

  Newcombe's beeper went off, but he was already running for the command center.

  "We have lost the Javelin," the monotonous voice continued. "We have lost the Javelin."

  ABOARD THE U.S.S. ILAWRENCE

  "Damage report!All Sections, damage report!"

  If anyone could see Commander Markham's hands at that moment, they would see knuckles as white as chalk as they crushed the seatbacks he was gripping for support. Every one of the thousands of lights in the U.S.S. Lawrence's intelligence section had snapped out. A few battery-powered lights automatically came on, but they did little to penetrate the solid darkness of the steel-lined, windowless chamber.

  Markham wondered how the order for a damage report was being broadcast.

  It had to be a battery-operated backup intercom. Hand over hand, he felt his way along the double rows of seats on either side of the aisle toward the front of the intelligence section. He felt a few men rising from their seats, and he risked letting go of the seatbacks to push them back down.

  "Keep your seat, Kelly," he ordered. "The damn lights just went out, that's all. Check your station. "He heard a timid, "Yes, sir" in reply.

  Markham made his way to the ship's radio box mounted on the section's forward bulkhead. The radio was hardly ever used-stray transmissions from the intel section's computers could be picked up for miles through such an antiquated telephone. He picked it up.

  The hum he heard in the receiver was deafening, but someone was still trying to use it. "Intel section. Do you read me?Intel section-" "Intel, Markham here," he shouted into the phone.

  "Bridge, this is Markham. How do you hear?"

  "Very weak," replied the voice-Lieutenant Commander Christopher Watanabe, the first officer, Markham guessed.

  "Damage report."

  "No structural damage noted yet, Chris," Markham said.

  "All our power is out. All our equipment is shut down."

  "Understand no structural damage," Watanabe reported back. "Could not copy the rest. Send a runner forward with a report on the double. The ship is on Condition Yellow. Repeat, Condition Yellow."

  "Copy."

  Markham dropped the phone back on its hook.

  "All right, now hear this," he called out into the pitch-dark intel section. "The ship is on Condition Yellow. Everyone, one more check of your area for damage and sing out. Kelly!"

  "Yes… yes, sir?" came the broken, timid voice again.

  "You wanna leave so fast, here's your chance. Get up here. "The young seaman ran forward. "You're the runner for our section. You don't go topside without a parka, arctic mittens, life vest, and a lifeline-and this time use the damn thing."

  Markham pushed the youngster aside and peered into the gloom of his now-impotent electronic stateroom. "Listen up.

  Any damage? Water? Cracks? Gas? Strange sounds? Sing out.

  No reply "Move out, Kelly Tell Watanabe no damage. Tell him I'll give a report on operational status myself later. "Kelly nodded and disappeared through the useless magnetic-lock security door and into the storm beyond.

  Markham started to make his way aft through his dark, dead multimillion dollar intelligence section. "Anything?" he asked no one in particular. "Battery backups?Printer buffers?

  Anything?"

  "I've got nothing," one operator asked. "That entire battery backup system we had installed is dead. It doesn't work for shit."

  "What the hell hit us?" someone else asked. "All my sensors and screens flared, like a huge power surge.then-POOF."

  "All right, all right," Markham said, pulling on an orange life vest.

  "if you don't have anything recoverable, forget it.

  Pair up and start collecting your hard copy printouts. You'll have to use the hand-crank shredders if Engineering can't get the power back on. If that doesn't work, or if you start to backlog, we'll bag the printouts and start a bonfire in the dumpster on deck. Masters, Lee, suit up and get that dumpster now. No sense in waiting until the Russians start boarding us.

  The two men hurried off.

  "Printer ribbons, handwritten notes, logbooks, memos, scribbles," Markham recited as he began to pace the aisle, monitoring the destruction preparations. "Astleman, goddamnit, put that life vest on!" Markham made his way over to Garrity's station and knelt down to face the veteran intelligence man.

  "What was it, Garrity?"

  Garrity ripped the cover off his computer printer's ribbon cartridge and wadded up the ribbon. When he turned toward Markham, there was genuine fear in his eyes.

  "I could see it comin'," he whispered. "It was like… like a wave of energy It kept on building up, then everything went dark."

  "Kavaznya?" Markham whispered. "Did it come from Kavaznya?"

  Garrity nodded, wiping a carbon-blackened hand across his sweating forehead. "Whatever the Russians got out there, Commander, if it didn't blow us out of the Pacific, it at least tagged something' else for sure.

  WASHINGTON, D.C

  "Where the hell is he?" Curtis asked Jack Pledgeman, the President's press secretary, who was trying to ignore the four star general.

  "He's late," Curtis said, loud enough for everyone in the White House Conference
Room to hear. Fortunately, the only ones who paid any attention were members of the President's immediate staff and Cabinet who were quite accustomed to Curtis' outbursts. The two dozen cameramen and technicians, Fill, putting in final touches to their extensive camera and lighting gear, were too intent on their work to notice. And the members of the White House press corps and other correspondents were outside, hoping to corral the President in the hallway for one on-one questions before the scheduled morning Cabinet photo session.

  Curtis punched a palm in irritation. "When he hears what-" "Dammit, General, keep it down," Pledgeman interrupted.

  "Those tapes are rolling over there."

  "They won't be-" "I asked you to-" Pledgemen didn't get to finish. At that instant, the President strode quickly into the room. The men and women at the large oblong conference table rose to their feet. The President was followed closely by a tight knot of reporters and correspondents. Cameras and lights clicked on and filled the room with a buzz.

  The President brushed deep, thick brown hair from his forehead and waved toward the seats. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, take your seats. "Nobody sat down until the President had stepped over the yards of sound and light cables taped to the rich carpeting and reached his executive's chair.

  A bright floodlight snapped on directly in front of the President, right over the Secretary of Health and Human Services' head. "If you don't mind?" the President said, scowling at the light. "You're going to fry one of my people."

  The light was immediately extinguished. The President nodded his thanks, removed his half-lens Ben Franklin glasses, and wiped them with a handkerchief. Pledgernan quietly admonished the photographer and pointed to a twelve-inchsquare opening in a distant corner where he could set up his camera.

  "Quite a crowd today, eh, Jack?" the President said to his press secretary. Pledgeman nodded. The President replaced his glasses on his nose and looked over his agenda for the meeting, a shortened and mostly staged version of a formal Cabinet meeting.