by Jeff Edwards
President Wainright massaged his temples. “You’re saying that I’ve backed myself into a corner, and I don’t have any viable options?”
The Secretary of Defense shook her head. “Not at all, Mr. President. We’re saying that circumstances have backed us all into a corner, and we don’t have any attractive options. We’ve got choices, sir. You have choices. Unfortunately, they just don’t happen to be the particular choices we want right now.”
“It comes down to the same thing,” the president said.
General Gilmore frowned. “We don’t always get to choose the battlefield,” he said. “But we do get to choose how we fight, and who we fight against. That doesn’t mean we can force someone to become our ally, but it does mean that we can make them regret becoming our enemy.”
The president made a dismissive gesture. “Alright. Enough with the saber rattling. I take it your recommendation is that we throw in with India.”
“Yes, sir,” the general said. “Either that, or pull out of the region, and keep our heads down until the Indians and the Chinese sort it out for themselves.”
The president sat without speaking for several minutes. Finally, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the conference table. “I’m not ready to decide yet. I need to think about this.”
“We don’t have a lot of time, sir,” the CNO said.
“I realize that,” the president said. “You’ve all made that point abundantly clear. But this is an enormous decision, with far-reaching repercussions. I’m not going to make it on the spur of the moment.”
“Understood,” the Secretary of Defense said. “But I have a recommendation while you’re thinking it over.”
“What’s that?” the president asked.
“I think we should authorize the Navy to take out that Chinese satellite,” SECDEF said. “If you decide to pull out of the region, it will make repositioning our forces a lot safer. And if you decide to fight, we sure as hell aren’t going to want that thing hanging over the battlespace.”
President Wainwright glanced around, taking a silent census of everyone at the table. Every head nodded.
“Fine,” he said. “Do it. Shoot the damned thing down.”
CHAPTER 38
USS TOWERS (DDG-103)
BAY OF BENGAL
MONDAY; 01 DECEMBER
1127 hours (11:27 AM)
TIME ZONE +6 ‘FOXTROT’
Lieutenant Lambert, the ship’s Combat Systems Officer, walked into CIC and headed straight for the spot where Captain Bowie and Commander Silva were standing.
“Looking good, Skipper,” Lambert said. “The patch is loaded, and SPY is back up and tracking.”
The ‘patch’ was a software application that modified the operating parameters of the ship’s AN/SPY-1D(V)2 radar system, to allow it to track targets at altitudes above 200,000 feet. With an output power level of over four megawatts, managed by a high–data-rate multi-function computer control system, SPY was quite capable of detecting objects from the surface of the earth all the way up to low orbit. In addition to near-earth satellites, the system could (and would) track any piece of space junk large enough to provide a detectable radar return. As there were an estimated ten-million pieces of manmade debris left in orbit by more than a half-century of manned and unmanned space launches, this could easily flood the radar’s display screens with useless false contacts.
To prevent this irrelevant data from overwhelming the system operators, the SPY software had a built-in subroutine that forced the radar to disregard all contacts above 200,000 feet during normal operations. On those rare occasions where it was tactically desirable to track objects in space, there was the patch: a small packet of uploadable program code that removed SPY’s electronic muzzle, and allowed the radar to see to the very edge of its power radius.
The Combat Systems Officer’s report confirmed that this task had just been completed. The patch had been uploaded. SPY had been unmuzzled, and the radar was now capable of tracking targets in space.
Captain Bowie nodded. “Good work. How long will it take us to get a track on Redbird One?”
“Shouldn’t be long,” the Lieutenant said. “SPY has probably already latched on to it, but it’ll take our operators fifteen minutes or so to sort out the sheep from the goats, and get solid identification on the target.”
It took eight minutes for the Air Search operators to identify the particular radar reflection that corresponded to the Chinese surveillance satellite, and another twelve minutes for them to cross-check the contact’s position and motion against the orbital tracking data provided by the Air Force.
Finally, the Air Supervisor’s voice came over the tactical net. “TAO—Air. We have a high-confidence track on Redbird One. This contact designated as Track Zero Zero One.”
The Tactical Action Officer keyed his mike. “TAO, aye.”
The TAO turned to Captain Bowie. “Locked on and tracking, Captain. Request batteries released.”
The captain smiled. “You’re absolutely totally completely positive that we’re tracking the right satellite? Because if I give the order and we accidentally take out the Disney Channel, I’m never going to be able to show my face in the O-Club again. Not to mention the NEX or the commissary.”
The Tactical Action Officer answered with an exaggerated shrug. “I can’t say that I’m absolutely totally completely positive that we’re tracking the right satellite. But I’m absolutely totally mostly positive. Is that good enough?”
“I guess it’ll have to be,” Bowie said. “Very well. You have batteries released.”
The TAO grinned and spoke into his headset. “Weapons Control—TAO. Engage Zero Zero One with missiles.”
“TAO—Weapons Control. Engage Zero Zero One with missiles, aye.”
An armored hatch flipped open on the destroyer’s aft missile deck, exposing the weatherproof fly-through cover that sealed the upper end of a vertical launch missile cell. A half millisecond later, the fly-through cover was blown to shreds as an SM-3 Block II missile roared out of its launch cell and shot into the sky on a ribbon of fire and exhaust gasses.
In Combat Information Center, the Weapons Control Officer keyed the microphone of his headset. “TAO—Weapons Control. Bird away, no apparent casualties.” The thunder of the departing missile was already fading as he spoke.
SM-3 Missile:
The first stage booster fired for six seconds before it burned out and dropped away, to tumble back into the ocean. By the time the Dual Thrust Rocket Motor of the second stage ignited, the missile was above the troposphere and climbing past 70,000 feet, where the blue of the sky began to darken.
The initial high-velocity pulse of the second stage burn lasted seven seconds, and then the missile coasted for nearly a half minute without thrust, passing out of the stratosphere and into the mesosphere. The sky was fully black now and the apparent flatness of the earth had given way to the curvature of its true spherical shape.
Temporarily deprived of thrust, the weapon lost only a fraction of its speed, due to a combination of inertia, the reduction in mass caused by the ejection of the first stage, and the rapid decline in atmospheric drag. Although the tenuous wisps of the ionosphere extended out to an altitude of about 700 miles, the majority of the planet’s atmosphere—more than 99% of its molecular gas content—had been left behind.
The second stage reignited for a thirty-five second sustainment burn before its fuel reserve was consumed, and the empty hulk of the expended booster was ejected. Nearly three-quarters of the missile’s mass had now been used up and jettisoned.
The guidance section of the missile took a GPS fix, and made minor corrections to the burn vector of the third stage rocket motor. This stage was also designed for two firings, the first at high-thrust, and the second at lower-thrust with lateral corrections to refine the trajectory in the terminal phase.
The third stage did not immediately detach when its final boost was complete. Instead, the onboard compute
r triggered the third stage attitude thrusters and pitched the nose of the weapon downward, away from the direction of the flight path. A ring of tiny explosive blocks detonated simultaneously, fracturing the locking collar that held the nosecone of the missile in place. In the near-vacuum of space, the protective aerodynamic shell was no longer required. It fell toward the atmosphere, where it would burn up on reentry.
This final task complete, the third stage attitude thrusters fired again, swinging the weapon back up to the proper angle for the intercept. With the nosecone removed, the odd elongated torus shape of the Lightweight Exo-Atmospheric Projectile was exposed.
The LEAP weighed only twenty pounds, and it carried no explosive charge. It didn’t need one. The kinetic warhead was moving more than 5,900 miles per hour. Combined with the orbital speed of the target satellite, this yielded a closing velocity of 22,783 miles per hour.
Thirty seconds prior to impact, the LEAP detached itself from the third stage booster. Its onboard sensors acquired the target without difficulty, took a final GPS fix, and utilized a series of rapid pulses from its maneuvering thrusters to refine the angle of approach.
The Chinese Haiyang HY-3satellite was hardened against shock damage. It was designed to withstand micro meteor impacts, and collisions with manmade space debris. It was not designed to survive 96,000,000 foot-pounds of brute mechanical force from a twenty pound projectile with a combined impact velocity of more than 22,000 miles per hour.
Exactly 297.352 seconds after launch, the LEAP warhead obliterated Redbird One with 130 megajoules of thermo-kinetic energy. A human observer, had any been present, would have been instantly and permanently blinded by the fierce intensity of the resulting flash.
But the only human witnesses were 130 miles below, watching the engagement from their radar screens. Their sensors and display systems would recognize and record the fact of the satellite’s destruction, but they would carry no sense of the raw power that had just been unleashed on their command.
USS Towers:
“TAO—Air. We have confirmed intercept on Track Zero Zero One. We are picking up a growing debris field downrange from the projected impact point.”
The Tactical Action Officer turned toward the captain. “I’d call that a kill, Skipper.”
Bowie acknowledge the report, and looked around CIC until he spotted OS2 Kenfield. The beefy Operations Specialist was huddled over an electronic plotting table.
Captain Bowie caught the man’s eye, and nodded. “Hey, Big Country… Give us a song.”
The big Sailor grinned. “Is that an order, sir?”
“You bet your ass it is,” Bowie said.
The Sailor nodded. “Aye-aye, Captain!” He cleared his throat and took a very deep breath.
Commander Silva was now familiar enough with OS2 Kenfield’s musical repertoire to know what was coming next. She suppressed an urge to cover her ears.
If anything, Big Country’s rebel yell was even louder than the last one. It seemed to rattle the very air, and—as before—it was instantly joined by the yells of every man and woman in Combat Information Center.
Bowie smiled in approval and appreciation.
As the collective bellow trailed off into silence, Commander Silva leaned closer to Bowie. “Before we get too carried away with the celebration, somebody better make sure that the Disney Channel is still on the air. If we just whacked the wrong satellite, we’re all going to have to change our names and move to Cleveland.”
CHAPTER 39
WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, DC
MONDAY; 01 DECEMBER
1:09 AM EST
President Dalton Wainright sat alone in the Oval Office, hunched over his desk. His forehead rested on the polished wooden surface that had once been the hull timbers of HMS Resolute. With the exceptions of Johnson, Nixon, and Ford, every U.S. president since 1880 had used the Resolute desk, either in the Oval Office, the presidential office that had preceded the oval, or president’s study in the White House residence.
Wainwright wished that he could somehow use the desk to mentally summon the wisdom of his predecessors. Perhaps if he concentrated deeply enough, their collective knowledge and insight would well up from the russet-colored wood and seep into his brain.
In 1899, William McKinley had signed the treaty with Spain from the Resolute desk, bringing a formal end to the Spanish-American War. Nearly a half-century later, the modesty panel had been installed to cover the kneehole, because Franklin D. Roosevelt preferred to keep his leg braces out of public view. Roosevelt had died before the modification was completed, leaving both the desk and the closing chapters of World War II in the hands of Harry Truman.
Truman had sat at the desk while agonizing over whether or not to drop atomic bombs on the cities of Japan. John F. Kennedy had coped with Bay of Pigs and the Cuban Missile Crisis from this spot, managing to drag the world back from the edge of nuclear war, despite Nikita Khrushchev’s promise that the Soviet Union would ‘bury’ the United States of America.
So much history had been made at this desk. So many bills had been signed into law or vetoed here. The futures of nations had been decided from the very place where Dalton Wainwright now sat.
But if there was such a thing as genius loci, Wainwright could not tap into it. For all its impressive legacy, the desk was not a talisman. It contained no power and conferred no special insight.
He raised his head about two inches and then let it drop back to the wooden surface with a dull thud.
“I’ve told you before, Dal” a voice said, “you’re not going to get anywhere by banging your head on the desk.”
Wainwright sat up. No one entered the Oval Office without an invitation, especially not at one in the morning.
Standing in the doorway of the presidential secretary’s office was former president Frank Chandler, Wainwright’s old boss, and the man who had dumped the presidency in his lap.
Wainwright stood up. “How the hell did you get in here? Did somebody forget to take your key when they booted you out of the building?”
Chandler grinned. “Nah. I left a window open so I can sneak back in whenever I want.”
The two men walked toward each other. They met near the middle of the room and shook hands.
“Damn, it’s good to see you, Frank,” the president said. “But seriously, how did you get in here? Am I going to have to fire the Secret Service or something?”
Frank Chandler shook his head. “Nope. I’m here as the personal guest of your Chief of Staff. He called and told me that you were banging your head on the furniture again, so naturally I came right over.”
“Ratted out by my own people,” Wainwright said in mock disgust. “Where is my faithful Chief of Staff, anyway? I want to kick his ass for hauling you in here without talking to me first.”
“I think he’s skulking in his office,” Chandler said. “Probably hoping that you won’t kick his ass for hauling me in here.”
“I’ll fire the little traitor tomorrow,” Wainwright said. “Or maybe I’ll have him shot.”
Chandler glanced toward the Resolute desk. “That thing is a national treasure, Dal. If you’ve got to thump your skull on the furnishings, we can get you something from IKEA, so you don’t go damaging presidential heirlooms.”
Both men laughed. They found seats in the big circle of chairs, and settled in comfortably. And suddenly, the humor was gone from the room.
“I wouldn’t have called you,” Wainwright said. “But I’m glad you’re here.”
Chandler loosened his necktie. “Well, you know the old saying… I serve at the pleasure of the president.”
Wainwright stared at his former chief executive for a few seconds, but there was no trace of irony in the other man’s voice.
“I’m in over my head,” he said finally. “I mean, I knew that I was out of my fighting weight the moment you asked me to be your running mate. But I didn’t really think we could win the election, and a vice-presidenti
al bid seemed like a nice way to finish out my political career.”
Chandler shrugged. “I didn’t expect to win either,” he said. “I think you knew that when I invited you on to my ticket. But here we are…”
President Wainwright nodded. “Here we are… Or at least, here I am. Because you left me holding the bag, Frank.”
The former president shrugged again. “My political career was dead after Kamchatka. You know that, Dal. I was the first president to order a nuclear attack since Harry Truman. And unlike Harry, I hadn’t just accepted the surrender of the Nazi powers.”
Chandler sighed. “If I hadn’t resigned, I would have been impeached. Either way, you were going to end up sitting in the big chair. So I decided to go gracefully, while that was still an option.”
“I know you didn’t have much of a choice,” Wainwright said. “And I know you played the best hand you could with the cards you were dealt. But what I don’t know, is what I’m supposed to do now…”
Frank Chandler leaned back in his chair. “Oh… That’s simple. Listen to your people, but think for yourself. And try to make the best decisions you can.”
He wiped his hands briskly, as though brushing off the dust at the end of a job well done. “If that’s all you need to know, I’m going to get back on the plane and head home.”
“I’m not joking,” the president said. “I’ve got serious problems here.”
“I’m not joking either,” Chandler said. “And that was a serious answer. It may seem trite, but I just told you everything you need to know to handle this job.”
Wainwright snorted. “Look, I’m not sure how much you know about the situation in Asia, but the whole damned continent is getting ready to implode.”
He looked at his watch. “A little over an hour ago, we shot down a Chinese surveillance satellite over the Bay of Bengal. About forty-one hours from now, the Republic of India is going to conduct a crippling attack against the national infrastructure of the People’s Republic of China. Unless my military advisors and the entire intelligence community are completely out to lunch, China is probably going to respond with a strategic nuclear strike. And the only way I can get the Indian government to back down, is to step into the fight and help them take on the Chinese military.”
