Brown, Dale - Independent 01 (48 page)

           
“Nor would
we wish to, sir,” Khromeyev said quickly. “But I have already pointed out why
an attack would be unwise at this time. Further, intelligence has come up with
the very credible explanation that the Americans may be simply retrieving
components.”

           
“I can’t
believe that. The Americans would not have gone to the trouble of boosting
Armstrong into a higher orbit if their only objective was to salvage scrap....
Govorov should have finished off the station while he had the chance.”

           
“Oh, I
agree, sir,” Rhomerdunov said. “But logic tells us there is no possible way
Armstrong can be repaired and reactivated in time to contribute to the American
fleet’s operation in the
Middle East
. Their rescue of a
nonoperational Armstrong is of no consequence to our operation.”

           
“I would
like to believe these assurances of yours....” The general secretary moved back
to the seat behind his desk, leaving the two men standing ill at ease. He
stared directly at them. “So your recommendation is to do nothing?”

           
“No, sir,”
Rhomerdunov said. “Not at all. I have ordered Space Defense Command on full
alert. Armstrong’s new orbit will be carefully monitored, and any other
spacecraft that attempt to dock or service the station will be tracked and
reported to the Stavka. We will also monitor the station for radar emissions in
case the Americans somehow manage to partially activate their space-based
radar—”

           
“So your
absolute assurances are not so absolute, after all.” The general secretary
shook his head. “You know as well as I the consequences of the Americans being
able to use their space-based radar. Any advantage we hoped to gain by moving
the
Arkhangel
into the area will be
largely minimized; the balance of power will be restored.”

           
“Sir,”
Khromeyev said quickly, trying to rebut but not too strongly, “the advantage of
having a crippled space station with
a partially
active radar cannot be compared with having the world’s most destructive war
vessel.”

           
“But we’ve
seen what Armstrong’s radar can do. And we have yet to see what the
Arkhangel
can do.” He paused a moment,
considering. “You’re right, though, about the effect of an attack on the
station now, without verification that the Americans are reactivating it and
right after that unfortunate incident with the American’s rescue craft. It
would no doubt turn world opinion against us, possibly even upset relations
with some of our allies. It appears then that we only have one option....”

           
“And that, sir?”
Khromeyev didn’t like where this was
heading. He wished Minister of Defense Czilikov had been at the meeting, but
Czilikov had allowed him and Rhomerdunov to report to the Soviet commander in
chief directly, assuming no action would be taken. It now appeared that was a
mistake.

           
“It should
be obvious that we cannot wait any longer to give
Arkhangel
the order to strike. I will
not
allow the advantage we now hold to slip away.”

           
Khromeyev
tried to keep his composure. “Sir, the fleets are still days apart. We can’t
mount a large enough strike force from such long range—”

           
“Then, damn
it,
augment the
Arkhangel
’s
forces with land-based bombers or cruise missiles. The heavy Tupolev bombers
and cruise missiles were most effective—”

           
“Against
targets in
Iran
,”
Rhomerdunov put in. “The bombers were able to launch their missiles while still
over their territory. If we were to strike at the
Nimitz
carrier group, the bombers would have to fly over the
Gulf
of
Oman
. They would be within range
of the
Nimitz
’s own fighters.”

           
“Then use
faster
bombers. Use those supersonic
Tupolev-22 bombers instead of the turboprop Tupolev-95s—I don’t know why the
damn things are still in our inventory anyway.”

           
“Sir....”
Khromeyev reached for the right words to tell his commander in chief that he
should leave the battle plans to his generals, “I would like to suggest we
involve Minister Czilikov. He no doubt will want a meeting of the Stavka; there
are factors involved—”

           
“I am
tired
of meetings, Khromeyev. Every hour
we delay is a wasted one, allowing the Americans to prepare defensive measures.
We have the upper hand
—now
is the
time to act.”

           
He sat back
in his chair, looked at them,
rapped
his knuckles on
the desk. “All right, brief Czilikov. Call your meeting. But by
four o’clock
... no, by
three o’clock
, I want a complete strike plan ready for
execution. Clear?”

 
          
ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

 
          
A barely heard crackle in his earset
told Saint-Michael someone on board
America
was calling him. He picked up the earphone, put it on his head.
“Saint-Michael here.”

           
“Jason,
it’s
Ann. Coming aboard.”

           
The general
was surprised. It had only been three hours since the crew had transferred over
to the spaceplane.

           
“All
right,” he said, putting on his POS mask, “come on through.” An environmental
alarm immediately sounded in the connecting tunnel. The airlock they had built
leaked connecting-tunnel air rapidly when opened, setting off the alarm.
Without a spacesuit Ann would have had about sixty seconds to get into the
connecting tunnel, seal the door and repressurize the connecting tunnel before
the atmospheric pressure reached the danger level. The repressurization always
took away a bit of air pressure from the command module, which was why
Saint-Michael had to wear a mask during a transfer. A few moments later, with
the general monitoring the transfer and repressurization, Ann entered the
command module.

           
Saint-Michael
pulled off his mask. “You came alone?”

           
“I couldn’t
sleep any longer,” she said, removing her mask. “I thought it would be nice to
spend at least a few minutes with you alone....”

           
“Sounds
like a good idea to me. We haven’t had a chance to talk since
Colorado
Springs
.”

           
“And then
you were so upset about Space Command’s decision___
You
didn’t say it but I knew it. I’m just glad all that arm twisting of yours
worked. I have to admit that right before the launch, well, I’d pretty much
given up hope.”

           
“Well, luck
had something to do with it... something we’ll need more
of
in the next few days....”

 
         
“They’ll be coming, won’t they?”

           
Saint-Michael
reached out, pulled her against him, felt her body tight against his. “Yes,” he
said. “They have to------------ I’m sure they’ve realized that
Silver
Tower
hasn’t crashed into the
atmosphere. They’re probably asking Govorov, their Elektron pilot, how bad he
thinks the station’s been damaged. If they send him up again it’ll be an act of
aggression, and they’ll want to be damn sure it’s necessary. They’re not fools
or idiots, despite what some of our armchair heroes back in D.C. might think.
Still, I’ve got to bet that Govorov will try his best to convince them he
should attack again. There was too much celebrating over how effective the
first attack was. He’ll feel that he has to finish the job
...
.
Ann, you said that Skybolt was operational.
Is
it?”

           
“I don’t
know,” she said, obviously frustrated she couldn’t answer with a flat yes. “I
haven’t had a chance to check all the systems yet, but judging by the condition
of the SBR, I don’t think so ...”

           
“We’ve got
to know. Skybolt is our only defense against those Elektron spaceplanes. As of
right now I’m putting you on Skybolt exclusively; I’ll work on the SBR as much
as I can. Marty and Ken can finish the repositioning and look after the station.
There may be another way we can protect the station until Skybolt can be
repaired. I can check on the—”

           
“Not now,
Jason. Look, you need some rest. You’ll be no use to anyone if you’re—”

           
“Right, but
we just don’t have time....” He turned to his comm panel. “I think Marty’s had
enough sleep.” He pressed his earset closer to his head and keyed the
microphone.

           
“
America
,
this is Alpha.”

           
“Good
momin’, General,” said Colonel Hampton. “Go ahead.”

           
“I need
Marty Schultz over here.”

           
“Yes, sir.”

           
“And Jon.
Have Marty bring some chow and coffee.”

           
Saint-Michael
turned back to Ann, who gave him a sour look. “I know, I know,” he said.
“There’ll be time for sacking out later. I want you on Skybolt as soon as
you’ve had something to eat. Get that gizmo of yours working,
whatever it takes.
Meantime, I’ve got me
an air force to assemble.”

           
“Air force?
You’re going to use
America
for—?”

           
“Not
America
.
If the shooting starts I want
America
as far away from it as possible—back on earth if necessary.”

           
“Then what?”

 
         
But before he could answer Marty
Schultz came in and Ann was left to speculate. Which she suspected
Saint-Michael intended anyway for the time being.

           
For Marty
Schultz this new job was nearly as painful as seeing the burned and disfigured
corpses of his fellow crewmen stacked in the docking module.
Enterprise
was
something special to him; he was the expert on its operation. He had flown on
every shuttle in the fleet, old and new, but
Enterprise
was
uniquely his.

           
He was a
child during the early shuttle free-flight tests, and it was
Enterprise
being dropped from the back of a modified Boeing 747 that had ignited his
desire to be an astronaut. He had imagined himself at the controls, retrieving
satellites, rescuing stranded cosmonauts, building a city in the sky.

           
When
Enterprise
had
been refurbished and activated as an interim replacement for the shuttle
Challenger
, Marty had set a new
challenge for himself. Every waking moment had been spent preparing to fly
aboard her, and since then he had flown
Enterprise
more
than any other person.

           
Now he saw
Enterprise
a
few hundred yards away through his bubble space helmet, and the sight tore at
his guts. He saw the initial impact point of the
Russia
hypervelocity
missile,
saw the remains of the terrible
explosion and fire in the lower decks, saw the devastation in the RCS, the nose
reaction-control system pod. The shuttle’s docking adapter and airlock were
wide open, like the open spout of a dead pilot whale washed up on a beach. Her
remote manipulator arm was sloppily sticking out of the open cargo bay, its
grappler claws extended like fingers of a hand reaching for help.

           
Well, he
was here to help. “Beginning translation,” he said.

           
“Roger,”
Colonel Hampton said from
America
.
Marty nudged his MMU thruster-control and slid toward the
shuttle.

           
“Damn it,
damage is worse than I thought,” Marty said as he approached the shuttle.

           
Hampton
glanced nervously at the inertial altimeter. “Marty, we’re only a few miles
above the atmosphere entry point. There won’t be much time. Can you fly that
thing without a forward RCS pod?”

           
“She’ll fly
just
fine.
It’ll be hard to dock
her—maybe impossible —but if she’s got power and fuel she’ll be all right.” He
had to sound as though he believed it. For his own sake as well as the others’.

           
He glided
over to the cargo bay, unclipped the MMU and stowed it in a restraining harness
on the forward bulkhead, then glided over to the docking adapter on the airlock
and slipped inside. The sight of the middeck made him recoil. “I... I’m in the
middeck,
America
.
Everything’s wiped out. There may be
nothing salvageable.” He paused for a minute longer, then, looking away from
the unidentifiable hunks of debris remaining on the crew seats, announced,
“
Moving to the flight deck.”