Red Hammer 1994 (5 page)

The triumphant reformers turned to dismantling the Kremlin-centered power structure overnight. The stated goal was a loose confederation of sovereign states with all the trappings, but the result was a ridiculous hodgepodge of squabbling ethic groups that could never get their collective act together. The experiment was doomed from the start, despite the forced shows of mutual support by all the key players and bold pronouncements giving birth to the new Commonwealth.

Over time, the miraculous transformation had collapsed, despite the heroic efforts of the popularly elected Russian president. The sick, socialist economy, originally in a tailspin, crashed and burned and never recovered. That’s when Nikolai Laptev came on the scene. The disgraced reformers had been discredited by empty shelves and a bone-weary population that craved stability at any price. With Laptev, they got it.

Like following a bad script, the State Department launched repeated fresh diplomatic initiatives to calm the turbulent seas. The military fell back on the tried and true—aggressively pushing exotic weapons systems and exploiting the United States’ technological edge to the hilt. In reality, no one had the foggiest notion how to approach this mysterious, ultranationalist beast led by Nikolai Laptev.

Laptev rode a wave of recrimination, hate, and nationalist fervor. His Liberal Democratic Party controlled the State Duma, and Laptev controlled the coveted presidency, much to the horror of the West. At first, they had tried to ignore the man, as they had when he blustered and raved as leader of the opposition in the Duma, passing off his more egregious and outrageous ranting as political food for local consumption. But eventually the clearer heads realized they would have to deal with the man. Doing so had proven nearly impossible. The vitriolic native of Saint Petersburg held sway over a disillusioned and desperate Russian people. The irony was not lost on Thomas—a democratically elected neo-fascist armed with thousands of nuclear weapons. Time would tell what Nikolai Laptev had in mind. Until then, the West, led by the United States, stumbled, loath to fully engage the despicable Russian president, but terrified of the alternative. The constant, gut-wrenching tension didn’t make for sound foreign policy.

Thomas rubbed the back of his neck. He thought again of Project Shooting Star. When it came to operational security, he was a born cynic. He’d seen more than one plan screwed up by overconfidence and both hardware and lives lost. Not to mention careers. Lingering doubts played on Thomas’s mind. He prayed they had played this one right.

CHAPTER 5

Mission Control was at full throttle when Thomas arrived a few minutes after nine. If Morgan and his boys pulled this off, it would rank as one of the most remarkable technological achievements of the century.

The first hurdle was positioning
Discovery
precisely in space. The mission director, an air force lieutenant colonel, was hunched over a console near the center of the room, looking over a young female captain’s shoulder. He was responsible for the whole show, and it had already been a long day. The bright computer graphics depicted the orbital track of the shuttle, shown in magenta, against a beautifully animated earth imprisoned within a black latitudinal and longitudinal grid.

Thomas walked over. The director had been forewarned that the secretary’s aide would be present on the floor.

“Good morning, General Thomas. Looks good so far. Take a peek here, sir,” he said, tapping the screen. “They should be in position in about fifty minutes.”

The boyish-looking colonel tapped a spot on the CRT where the distinct orbital trace crossed the Pacific Ocean a few hundred miles west of the North American continent. Thomas studied the screen but wondered if he had looked that young as a light colonel.

Over the Pacific Ocean, 170 nautical miles above the earth, the space shuttle
Discovery
prepared for her final approach for the last orbital burn. Absolute precision was the watchword.

Like bleachers filling before a basketball game, VIPs began to gather in a glass-enclosed spectator gallery above the CSOC Mission Control. From their comfortable chairs the brass had a perfect view of oversized high-definition video screens, which covered the entire front wall thirty yards away. The off-white panels were driven by customized graphics processors assisted by the CSOC’s stable of powerful computers. Live video was also pumped in for everyone’s enjoyment. The system was state of the art, providing a dazzling showcase for computer technologies just beginning to filter into the DoD world. The CSOC had been fortunate to piggyback on the National Test Bed’s proclivity to procure only the finest hardware for their extensive war-gaming simulations.

The left screen exhibited a computer-generated timeline with supporting tabular data detailing key events and milestones. As the countdown progressed, the symbols shifted in color, furnishing a comprehensive roadmap for the uninitiated.

The dominant middle screen hosted an impressive, three-dimensional computer mock-up of the entire experiment’s geometry. A bright blue globe, complete with soft white caps on each pole, slowly turned in space, blotted with the fami-liar pattern of earth’s light brown land masses. Even the la-test weather data was overlaid, painting a third of the earth in broad brushstrokes of white and gray that made the image look exactly like a photograph from space. The orbits of the shuttle and other supporting spacecraft encircled the globe with brightly colored rings. Relevant text doggedly trailed each moving object, providing the latest position and performance data. Thomas marveled at the processing engine required to unleash such a magnificent presentation in real time.

The less sensational right screen was split into two windows, the top for real-time video from a camera mounted in
Discovery
’s cargo bay, and the other signal from Vandenberg, from a camera positioned to catch the ICBM launches.

At
T
minus twenty minutes, the activity level rose to a fever pitch. Important last-minute checks had to be successfully wrapped up before committing the ICBMs. Coordination between the two sites, the CSOC and Vandenberg, had to be exact. A delayed ICBM launch, even for a few short minutes, would throw
Discovery
completely out of position, dooming any hope for a successful experiment. The shuttle would have to return to earth empty-handed.

“
Discovery
, this is Mission Control; commence laser power test at
T
minus fifteen minutes.”

“Mission Control, this is
Discovery
, all checks completed satisfactorily. Laser power level within acceptable limits. All critical temperatures within normal bands.”

“
Discovery
, Mission Control, stand by.”

Before committing the precious Vandenberg ICBMs, the laser would be fired at half power, out into dark, cold space at an azimuth safe from nosy intruders. Only then could they be sure.

“
Discovery
. Fire.”

The camera aboard
Discovery
captured the test shot magnificently. The one-megawatt chemical laser generated a brilliant, reddish-orange, pencil-thin beam that shot from
Discovery
’s cargo bay and into space, lasing for two full seconds. The man-made energy would travel forever through space, someday signaling these earthlings’ monumental triumph to some distant corner of the universe.

“Looks good, Mission Control, power level right on the button, recharging was perfect. Took about five-and-one-half seconds to regain full power.”

“Vandenberg, this is Mission Control; the test shot was a success. Start the final countdown.
Discovery
, Mission Control, we’re proceeding.”

The digital clock relentlessly crossed
T
minus three minutes. The mission director leaned back in his chair, his thin frame coiled like a spring; it was up to Vandenberg. There was nothing left to do.

The disembodied voice of the launch director at Vandenberg could be heard over the speakers. When the voice froze at
T
minus zero, the remote video camera captured the first ICBM as it leapt from its expertly camouflaged silo, ejected by a violent eruption of super-heated steam from a subterranean gas generator. The magnificent missile hung momentarily 150 feet above the ground before the first-stage rocket motor ignited in a billowing cloud of flame and smoke. The surplus Peacekeeper missile roared skyward, lazily rolling and heading out smartly over the Pacific Ocean. In tandem, the ballistic-missile trajectory was plotted on the center screen, originating from a small dot on the surface of the earth near Point Conception off the California coast.

For success, the battle manager first required a launch detection. This critical signal would flow from an early warning satellite floating high above the equator in geostationary orbit. Sensitive infrared sensors would then lock on and track the red-hot booster, developing the needed firing solution to accurately aim the laser. All this would happen in less than two hundred seconds, while the target missile was still in the boost phase. At least that was the plan.

“We have launch detection,” shouted a voice over the intercom. The left-hand screen lit up with a cascade of data signaling initial detection of the first Peacekeeper missile. Within seconds, the second missile was ejected from its silo and headed downrange in hot pursuit of the first. The two missiles were separated by only thirty seconds; the third was scheduled to trail the first pair by fifty—the extra twenty seconds providing a much-welcomed cushion.

All three missiles had been launched and the first two detected when the brilliant, electronic battle manager established a firm track on the first booster. It was seventy-five seconds into flight, fifteen seconds after the booster had shed its cumbersome first stage.

The tiny silicon brain continued to track the accelerating booster, waiting for just the right time to shoot. They needed the hot rocket as close as possible. Seconds into the tracking sequence, the laser slewed a few degrees to the right and locked on the supposed enemy target. In an instant, the chemical laser beam burst forth toward the limb of the earth, this time at full power, reaching out to deposit its lethal dose on the first ICBM. The beam found its mark and locked on the booster for over two seconds. Silence followed over the voice circuits. Floating upside down in orbit, the shuttle crews had picked up the brilliant flash. Awestruck, they groped for the right words.

Transmitted telemetry to earth indicated a kill, but the screen displaying close-up video from
Discovery
provided the unquestionable confirmation. First came the blinding laser flash, quickly followed by a bright whitish-yellow explosion as the booster disintegrated. Debris floated off in an irregular circular pattern as the blast gases dissipated. The lack of an audible explosion didn’t detract from the euphoria.

A deafening roar filled the room, but subsided quickly, tempered by the sober realization that the most challenging portion of the test was still to come. Could the laser’s power supply recharge in time? That was the Achilles’s heel.

Booster number two was deep into its trajectory, tracked by super-cooled infrared (IR) and UV sensors. Disengaged by its computer boss, the laser trained toward the rapidly rising hostile target while the prototype power-generating system struggled to regenerate. The second ICBM continued to accelerate toward the drifting shuttles, powered by its third-stage rocket motor. The laser finally locked on, but at a point much farther along the predicted trajectory than the first. There would be no time for a second shot.

The laser beam leapt from
Discovery
, arcing slightly as it reached toward the slowing spinning earth. This time there was no explosion, and a chorus of groans rose from the rows of consoles. The mission director quickly interceded to interrupt the nominal test sequence. “Break off and go for the third bird,” he ordered.
Discovery
would translate to the battle manager. The additional twenty seconds for the third booster had proved to be a godsend. Mentally counting the seconds, Thomas noticed that the power supply had not fully recharged after the wasted second shot. He and everyone else gripped their chairs and prayed it would have enough juice.

For the third and final time, the laser burned forth. This time it was a perfect shot. The reduced power level had required the beam to lase for close to three seconds, but it clearly packed enough punch. The propellant in the booster exploded violently, sending off a shower of fragments like holiday fireworks.

The entire room burst into applause, cheering wildly. The instant celebration intensified when the grinning mission director announced that the second ICBM had been knocked off course by a grazing blow and had failed to deploy its dummy reentry vehicles. As good as a hard kill, Thomas surmised. He stood in admiration as everyone slapped backs, a few of the overexcited civilians embracing in a well-earned moment of euphoria.

“Mission Control, this is
Discovery
, two for three, not bad.”

“
Discovery
, this is Mission Control, make that three for three. The second booster was knocked off course and malfunctioned. Good job! Let’s get you guys home.”