Red Hammer 1994 (6 page)

Discovery
returned to earth, touching down at a backup strip at the White Sands Missile Range in New Mexico. She touched down at dusk, making it difficult to pick out her unique silhouette against the opaque blending of the darkening sky and the rugged spine of mountains to the west.

The mission director passed the word when
Discovery
was safe.

“General Morgan,
Discovery
has landed safely,” the mission director shouted, looking up, almost too weak to smile. His ordeal was over. “They reported the airspace was clear, and surveillance sweeps of the area showed no signs of intruders. We pulled it off, sir.”

Morgan, in the gallery, beamed from ear to ear. A gaggle of flag officers waited eagerly to shake his hand. Thomas stayed put on the floor and replayed the day’s momentous events. It was unmistakably the most remarkable demonstration of antiballistic-missile technology he could ever have imagined. Up until now, talk about destroying ballistic missiles in the boost phase had been just that—talk. Now there was a compact, prototype system which clearly showed the potential to significantly alter the strategic balance. Government scientists who witnessed the drama were already talking about how much better a future system could be in only two or three years—four times the power, faster recharge time, a more accurate pointing-and-tracking system, and probably one-half the weight.

The Russians? That one still bothered him. He had his doubts about strategic defenses and their effect on the nuclear equation. He hoped that wisdom wasn’t being pushed aside by euphoria run amuck.

High above the earth, coasting in an abnormal circular orbit of fifteen hundred nautical miles, a small Russian ferret satellite sprang to life, its burst communications transceiver spurting a compressed signal as it traversed Asia. Its passive IR and UV sensors had earlier detected a peculiar phenomenon over the middle of the Pacific Ocean and had dutifully reported the same.

CHAPTER 6

It was a cool, crisp morning in early May. Small, irregular puddles from the previous night’s drizzle steamed and dissolved under a bright blue, cloudless sky; the sun’s precious warmth was building in intensity. Moscow was shaking off the bitterest winter in nearly a decade. Skeleton trees struggled to unfurl their spring coats, while the usual rainbow of annuals lay moribund, bruised by recent temperature fluctuations.

Dr. Sergei Antonovich walked briskly across the old Red Square toward the massive stone edifice of the Kremlin Fortress, clutching a large, sealed brown envelope under his arm. He moved hunched over, deep in thought, his thinning gray hair blowing randomly in the light breeze from the east. He was plump and rumpled and looked every inch the research scientist. Approaching the gate beneath Savior Tower, he fumbled for the wrinkled piece of paper which commanded his presence at an emergency session of the Defense Council. Antonovich led the technical team which had been assigned to investigate strange sightings transmitted to earth by a covert reconnaissance satellite only weeks earlier. His stomach churned, a gas pain forcing him to pause and grimace. Surely there must be a mistake, he thought. Why me? Let the others handle this! Antonovich was a busy man who had better things to occupy his valuable time than stroke politicians.

The lone Kremlin guard, stone-faced and immaculate in his heavy gray overcoat and polished black leather boots, gave the old doctor a cursory glance then waved him through like a cop directing routine traffic. Antonovich’s destination was the presidium, one hundred meters down the worn cobblestone way on the right. He pressed forward gripping the package even tighter. His heart raced. He was deeply troubled by his most recent findings, those too new to receive wide dissemination. Both the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR) and the military intelligence (GRU) had been criminally remiss in not forecasting this incredible leap in American technology. Those clever Americans were wizards, thought the doctor, shaking his head admiringly. Blame would fall on someone; he was certain of that. Why couldn’t Colonel Kulencho have accompanied him? It was his responsibility to deal with the politics of the intelligence community. The doctor groaned in protest.

Antonovich paused before the impressive presidium entrance, taking a last deep, purging breath. A rush of blood surged to his head, clearing his rambling thoughts. The doctor struggled up the steep granite steps and past the twin guards bracketing the entrance. He cautiously stepped inside, stopping and fishing for his identification card lost in his coat pocket. How he hated the insolent guards at Russian government buildings. Some things never changed.

Locating the worn card amidst numerous notes and wadded receipts, Antonovich flashed it at the sour-looking young man stationed just inside the door. The soldier, no more than a teenager in a freshly pressed uniform, motioned for him to step closer, reaching out and flicking his gloved fingers in the doctor’s face. He rudely snatched the card and held it high in the air, then finally motioned toward the security desk. He had the look of a man about to kick a disobedient dog for messing on the floor.

A few meters away, lurking in the shadows, a contingent of fellow Kremlin guards congregated near an ornate wooden counter, talking quietly and eyeballing the visibly distressed old man. The contingent leader, a young-looking Interior Ministry officer stepped up. He was handsome, immaculate, and arrogant.

“What is the nature of your business?” he demanded, scanning the doctor suspiciously.

“I’m Dr. Antonovich,” he stammered. “I have an appointment with General Surikov.”

“Identification please?” The young officer cautiously reexamined the doctor’s ID. He studied it closely, as if his man had most certainly overlooked something critical. He took his time and smiled at his men. They chuckled in reply.

Antonovich fumed.

“What’s in the package? Open it,” he demanded accusingly.

Antonovich squirmed. “That’s impossible—General Surikov’s orders,” he gasped.

Antonovich was stunned when the impertinent bastard actually hesitated. “Take a seat,” he finally ordered after much thought, waving toward a nearby wooden bench.

The Interior Ministry officer picked up the receiver of a rotary-dial phone. Within seconds, his smug expression turned ashen. His head bobbed repeatedly, and a series of groveling “yes, sirs”, spewed from his lips.

“I will bring him up immediately.” The general had answered the phone, leaving the major mortified. His circled friends refrained from any outward show of pleasure.

He recovered gracefully, the mark of a true bureaucrat. “Come with me, Doctor; General Surikov will see you now.” Antonovich fell in behind the major, following closely through the dimly lit, narrow halls, glancing from side to side. Every time he passed an officer or civilian, Antonovich was greeted with a cold, hard stare that reminded him of so many robots on parade.

They found the general’s office. The major knocked and entered after receiving a grunt from behind the door. The general was a big man, powerfully built, and heavy around the middle. His freshly pressed dress uniform was complemented with rows of brightly colored ribbons, most earned as a much younger officer in the wilds of Afghanistan, capturing freedom fighters and administrating special interrogations. His ruddy complexion and square jaw elicited images of the airborne troops, not the intelligence community.

General Surikov was head of the GRU, the military’s intelligence arm, rising to the top position after his predecessor had been sacked in the recent reorganization, which had swept through the military power structure like a scythe. Antonovich had never met him before but had heard stories—especially about his violent temper.

“That will be all, Major,” Surikov said curtly. Surikov rose with an unexpected grace and extended his large, rough-hewn hand.

“Good morning, Dr. Antonovich, a pleasure to meet you. We must hurry. Unfortunately, I have not had time to thoroughly review your most recent findings. A pointing-and-tracking experiment, correct?”

He said it all so fast that Antonovich didn’t know where to begin and started to panic. “Yes, sir, but there is more. The…”

“I see,” the general replied, cutting the doctor off in mid-sentence. He was already heading out the door, signaling the stammering doctor to follow.

Antonovich shadowed Surikov to an elevator a few meters from his office. The two entered, the doctor after the general. Surikov inserted a blunt key into one of three locks, forcing the elevator to sink at a rapid rate. When the door abruptly opened, they were faced by four security guards in crisp uniforms, all heavily armed. The doctor’s eyes widened.

“Take the doctor to the briefing center, and tell Colonel Menshikov that I will inform the Defense Council he has arrived,” Surikov ordered.

The armed escort saluted then hurried Antonovich into a large, ornate conference room down the hall. The richly paneled walls were complemented by a vaulted stucco ceiling adorned with crystal chandeliers and luxurious, full-length drapes. The round table was beautifully polished hardwood, and the accompanying chairs were covered with brushed velvet. Along one wall was a row of austere wooden chairs, purposely placed for guests. Drawn drapes at one end revealed a large screen for presentations, while a small table with a viewgraph projector stood nearby. The conference table had a pad of paper and a leaded crystal glass strategically placed at each seat, along with bottles of fruit juice and mineral water—typical Russian fare.

“Take a seat,” one of the officers instructed sternly from behind.

The frightening reality began to hit home. Quietly, at the far end of the room, a door opened. The doctor had overlooked this entrance in his cursory search. First through was a Kremlin guards’ officer who signaled the others to prod the doctor to his feet. Next was a group of five high-ranking military officers, marshals and senior generals. The doctor always got badges of rank confused. They individually took station along the wall opposite from Antonovich.

After a few minutes, the Defense Council filed in. They had been in a private session debating the latest military reprisals against rebels in seven provinces. Russian forces were stretched to the breaking point. In the lead was the defense minister, looking unusually sour this fine spring day. Next was the director of the SVR, who was younger, taller, immaculately dressed, and looking bored. He was handsome with dark skin and black eyes that made him look foreign. He was a former KGB man brought out of retirement. His marching orders were to restore much of the old KGB’s internal surveillance skills that had been gutted by the last Russian president and to beef up the overseas SVR apparatus. The spying had never really stopped, as all Russian leaders, regardless of their personal ideology, felt naked without their daily dose of international gossip. It was in their blood.

The Chief of the General Staff, Marshal Kiselev, followed, stepping smartly and appearing much younger than his sixty years. He was fit and wore a dress uniform decked with row upon row of medals, fresh from a formal occasion. A civilian was close on his heels—perhaps the chief of industrial production, newly appointed. There were many new faces in the government lately. Last in line was Nikolai Laptev, looking haggard, his face a pasty white, and large, drooping bags under his eyes. Rumor had him suffering from ills that ran the gamut from daily migraines to prostate cancer. Some dared say that he was becoming unstable, succumbing to the strain, others noted his increased alcohol consumption in public—the curse of nearly every Russian leader since Stalin.

Laptev quickly sized up the room. All stood by their chairs until the Russian president gestured for them to sit. The defense minister was first to speak.

“Dr. Antonovich of the GRU’s Special Analysis Group has kindly consented to share his findings with us.”

The defense minister paused and nodded toward the doctor with a forced smile. “Thank you for attending on such short notice, Dr. Antonovich. We understand you have performed admirably under a rigorous deadline. General Surikov has sung your praises.” He swept his hand toward the waiting projector. “Doctor?”

Antonovich squirmed; the perspiration beaded on his forehead. He slowly rose and walked to the table. His legs were shaking so violently he thought they would collapse. A quick glance convinced him that his audience would offer no sympathy.

The old viewgraph machine had been switched on; the hum of its tiny rattling fan was the only sound in the room. Removing his material from the brown envelope, he paused, cleared his throat, and began, his nervousness riding on his first words.

“In the late 1980s, the GRU placed a series of experimental, stealth satellites in an unusual orbit. The purpose was twofold. First, to test American space-surveillance capabilities, and second, to analyze certain optical phenomenon which could be associated with optical sensor or weapons tests in space.” Antonovich forced himself to slow down. “Of the four satellites launched, only two reached the proper orbit. The others were lost due to a booster malfunction. Indications were that the Americans never detected the remaining two. After a series of tests, the satellites were shut down and put in a semi dormant mode, to be triggered to life by certain wavelengths of light received by onboard sensors.” The doctor glanced from side to side. They were actually listening. He breathed a sigh of relief.