Following on the heels of Dale Brown’s national bestseller Flight of the Old Dog, here is a new novel even more ambitious in scope, more intricately plotted, and more richly developed—but with all the high-tech realism that made its predecessor such an exciting discovery for so many readers.
Dale Brown has a distinct advantage over other writers of military high adventure—as a decorated Air Force officer he has flown where they can only imagine. Remarkably, as demonstrated in his previous bestseller, he also has a bom storyteller’s technique and imagination.
To wit: It is 1992. The Silver Tower is America’s first permanent space station, designed as a test bed for experiments, commanded by a powerful, nonconformist general. Its resident scientific genius is Ann Page, daughter of navy Captain Matthew Page, charged with making it an operational SDI as events in the Middle East escalate to the flashpoint- the Soviets poised to invade Iran.
No one can guess at the far-reaching confronta-
tion that is shortly to develop, or the role Silver
(Continued on back flap)
Silver Tower
Armstrong Space Station
United States Space Command
Single-Keel Long Duration Manned Orbiting Laboratory
Solar Panels Neutral Particle Beam Generator Solar Power Panels
Attitude Thrusters THOR ----- Missile Garage (free-flying)
Scale 0
50 feet
ALSO BY DALE BROWN
Flight of the Old Dog
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole
or in part in any form. Published in the United States of America
by Donald I. Fine, Inc. and in Canada by General Publishing Company Limited.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Brown, Dale, 1956-
Silver tower.
I. Title.
PS3552.R68543S5 1988 813'.54 87-46258
ISBN 1-55611-060-X (alk. paper)
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 987654321
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.
Silver Tower is dedicated to my Dad, who worked a lot of overtime to get me my first telescope that got me interested in the stars; and to my Mom, who spent a lot of long nights and early Saturday mornings ferrying me around to dozens of Science Fairs all over New York State so I could show off my telescope.
Your love and patience has paid off. See what you made me do?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank several agencies, corporations and individuals for supplying information useful in the creation of this novel.
Thanks to the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency for information on the National Aerospace Plane, the Scramjet Test Project, and the Hypersonic Technology Program; to Aerojet-General Corporation Sacramento, California, for information on the scramjet engine, space station design, and hypersonic engine design; and to British Aerospace Corporation for information on their Horizontal Takeoff and Landing (HOTOL) technology for single-stage-to-orbit spacecraft.
The National Aeronautics and Space Administration has been of significant help in gathering information for this story, especially Mark Hess of the Public Affairs Division; also the Space Transport Division, the Advanced Space Right Division, the Ames Research Center, and the Johnson Space Center were of immense help.
The primary source of information on vessels and weapons for both sides of the Iron Curtain has been the United States Naval Institute Military Database, Arlington, Virginia.
There are several very special individuals to whom I am especially grateful for their time and efforts in helping me put this story together: For insights on the unusual problems of living and working in space, I would like to thank Loren W. Acton, senior staff scientist, Palo Alto Research Laboratory, Lockheed Missiles and Space Company. Loren was a payload specialist aboard the STS 51-F, Spacelab 2 mission, flying aboard Challenger in July of 1985, and in a delightful meeting in San Francisco with members of the Association of Space Explorers USA gave me a feel for the unique stresses and unforgettable joys of traveling aboard the Space Shuttle.
For his help in gathering information on the Soviet Union’s civilian and military space programs, I would like to thank author, researcher, space expert, and good friend Dennis T. Hall, and his wife Dana. Dennis has been kind enough to take calls, send information, and answer my questions at all hours of the day, and I wish him success in his own stellar writing career.
For being there when I needed them, I would like to thank my good friends Ray and Alice Jefferson and Darrell and Susan Neufeld.
And, as always, I would like to thank Rick Horgan, senior editor at Donald I. Fine, Inc., and my wife Jean for their help and patience. Every author needs someone to bounce ideas and frustrations off, and I thank Rick and Jean for, willingly or unwillingly, being the targets. I couldn’t have done it without you.
Thanks.
Dale Brown
Fair Oaks, California, 1988
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER 1
February 1992
THE PACIFIC OCEAN
Three hundred miles east of Tokyo the aircraft carrier CV-64 USS Constellation rode the gentle swells of the north Pacific Ocean. She was cruising at only six knots, barely enough to maintain steerage way. The thirty-year-old, eighty-thousand-ton Kitty Hawk-class aircraft carrier was surrounded by an armada of eleven smaller support ships and other surface combatants arranged in an wide hexagon pattern.
The Constellation itself was buzzing with activity. Poised for battle, two F/A-18E Hornet fighter-bombers were positioned in their catapults, engines running, ready for the steam-powered push that would shoot them from zero to one hundred forty knots in three seconds. Two more F-18s on external power were parked just behind the catapult blast deflectors, ready to take their places once the first two alert birds launched. A CH-53F Super Sea Stallion III transport helicopter, its seventy-five-foot-diameter rotor slowly spinning, sat on the Constellation s flight deck just beside the “island” superstructure. Another was hovering a few hundred feet from the Constellation s fantail, ready in a few seconds to drop onto the carrier’s broad stem if ordered.
The seas behind the huge carrier were patrolled by predators of a different sort—three Los Angeles-class nuclear attack submarines that hung virtually motionless in the warm Pacific currents. Their sophisticated electronic sensors registered, catalogued, analyzed and assessed each and every sound in the ocean for miles around, from the loudest clamor of propellers to the softest hiss of the smallest marine creature. Each of the sub’s four torpedo tubes was loaded with long-range ASW/SOW antisubmarine missile-torpedoes, and each of the sub’s vertical launch tubes was loaded with Sub-Harpoon antiship missiles.
But the man in the skipper’s chair on the bridge atop the Constellation's superstructure did not notice any of these special additions to the Constellation's battle group. He was peering intently at a fifteen- inch-diameter radar scope, tracking three v
ery large blips at its outer edge. The man looked up from the radar scope and squinted at the horizon, north between the American nuclear missile cruiser USS Long Beach and the tiny frigate USS Lockwood.
“I can just barely make them out, I think,” the president of the United States said. Two of the senior officials on the bridge glanced doubtfully at each other—no one, not even the president of the United States, could see a ship two hundred miles away.
“I think, sir,” Rear Admiral Bennett Walton said, “that you’re seeing the Jouett, one of our missile destroyer escorts.”
The president checked the radar again, pointing to a large blip. “That’s the Jouett? He looks so far away.”
“It’s pretty hazy out, sir. The Jouett is eight miles out, but it seems farther.”
The president grunted at the scope, his expression turning pensive as the three blips moved closer to the center of the screen. “Who the hell are they, Admiral?”
Walton smiled. “It’s the Kirov, Mr. President. Largest guided missile cruiser in the world. She’s got the Krasina guided missile cruiser and the Kresta, an antisubmarine destroyer, with her.”
“No aircraft carrier? I would have thought the Soviets would try to match the Constellation's forces.”
“Sir,” Secretary of Defense Linus Edwards put in, “they don’t have enough forces to match even the Constellation's small battle group. It would be a waste for them to try.”
The president tried his best to ignore Edwards’ bravado. The secretary of defense was an old navy sea captain who thought the U.S. Navy ruled the seven seas. His background, the president reminded himself, clouded many of his opinions. He turned back to Walton. “Are you worried that the Kirov is trailing us, even though it’s over two hundred miles away?”
“Sir, the Kirov is about five hundred miles closer than I’d like. She packs quite a wallop, especially at only two hundred miles distant. But we’re less than a thousand miles from Vladivostok, their largest Pacific naval base, so I guess we should be thankful there’s only one major battleship out there shadowing us.”
He paused, glancing at a large chart of the Sea of Japan and East Asia on the bulkhead above the radar gear. “I’m more concerned about their naval aviation forces at Vladivostok—they have the equivalent of four full naval air groups and nine heavy bomb wings out there, enough to invade Japan twice over. Plus there’s always the threat posed by their newest carrier group—led by the Arkhangel.”
“But the Constellation and her escorts have enough firepower to take on anything the Soviets might throw at us,” Edwards pointed out, “if they’re reckless enough to try.”
Walton moved to another radar scope beside the main sea-mapping scope. “Here’s a display of aircraft, Mr. President, within five hundred miles of us. All of them are ours or Japan’s, except for this guy.” Walton pointed at a highlighted blip, again at the very edge of the scope.
“An Ilyushin IL-76G turbojet spy plane,” the admiral explained. “It can monitor our communications, study our radar emissions, map out the positions of all our ships. We also think it can monitor the progress of this morning’s test.”
“How long until we start the test?” the president asked.
“We can start at any time, sir,” Linus Edwards replied, checking his watch.
“Everyone’s in position,” Walton said. “They should be running through their final prelaunch checks now. Tracking and monitoring stations and the White Sands Missile Range target area have already reported ready.”
The president nodded, then wandered out to the catwalk just outside the bridge area. Secretary Edwards and Admiral Walton followed, along with Neil McDonough, an NSC adviser, and a small knot of Marine and Secret Service guards. The president let the wind toss his thin silver hair around and inhaled deeply, breathing in the crisp salt air.
“We’re finally about to do it,” he said excitedly, raising his voice over the sounds of jet turbines on the Constellation s seventy-four-thousand-square-foot flight deck. “I’ve been waiting for this demonstration for months.”
“I have to admit,” Edwards said, “that I feel a little uneasy about this whole thing.” He did not attempt to raise his voice over the clamor of helicopters and machinery on the flight deck seventy feet below. “The first intercontinental missiles fired over the pole at the United States from Asia—and we launch them. Even with the Tridents’ warheads inert, it makes me nervous.”
“Your less than enthusiastic opinion of the antiballistic missile defense system is well documented, Lee,” the president said. “But that’s one of the reasons I scheduled this test. Your opinions carry a lot of weight. If you’re unhappy with the space-based defense network, others will be. If I can convince you how valuable this system is, I think I can convince others—including the Russians.”
“But a test of this magnitude?” Edwards asked. “Six D-5 phase- three sub-launched missiles flying right through Canada and across the United States? Is a test with this much potential for mishap really necessary? An ICBM has never been flown across the pole before—” “You mean we've never flown across the pole before,” the president corrected. “We’ve caught the Russians firing missiles from Murmansk in Europe to their Asian ranges, and there’s evidence of them shooting ‘ferret’ missiles at Canada to test our early warning systems. We’re hardly setting a precedent here.”
Edwards was about to interject something but the president continued. “This test is vital, Lee. No matter how sophisticated a system is, people remain skeptical until they see it in action. Space Command briefs Congress almost every month on the results of their simulations, but no one believes how good the Thor kinetic-kill missile system really is. It’s time to show them.” He pointed towards the horizon, where the three Russian ships were riding beyond visual range. “Those sonsofbitches want a show, we’ll give ’em a show.”
He stepped back into the bridge and nodded to Admiral Walton. “Let’s do it.”
Walton smiled and motioned to a control panel mounted on the forward sea data console. Without hesitation the president leaned forward to the control panel and twisted a large bronze key in a triangular keyswitch. Immediately, a red light labeled “LAUNCH” illuminated and an electric horn sounded throughout the Constellation.
With a thunderous roar a geyser of water erupted less than two miles away from the Constellation, and a huge white object rose from the sea like a bellowing whale. It blasted free of the waves, hovered about thirty feet above the water, and even seemed to slip backwards a few feet. Then, with a tremendous blast of fire, the Trident D-5/III sea-launched ballistic missile’s solid-propellant motor ignited, and the missile and its ten inert warheads roared into space.
The first Trident had hardly reached full thrust when the second missile pierced the surface of the now boiling ocean. The USS Pennsylvania, the seventh and youngest of the new fleet of Ohio-class supersubmarines, began disgorging her deadly cargo at a rate of one missile every ten seconds. The stain of white hot foam stretched from the Pennsylvania's launch point toward the Constellation, her escorts, and the thousands of men watching the awesome spectacle.
ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION
“Skipper, missile launch detection.”
Brigadier General Jason Saint-Michael quickly set his coffee cup down on a Velcro mat on the bulkhead and maneuvered himself to the main sensor operator’s console. On a wide two-foot by three-foot multisensor display screen, a flashing white circle was superimposed on a polar-projection map of the northern hemisphere near Japan. A few seconds later, a short column of position readouts printed on a second screen beside the main display. The general’s face seemed to take on an added intensity as he read the growing column of data.
“Three hundred miles east of Tokyo, sir,” the sensor operator read aloud. “It’s the exercise launch area all right. ..
“All sections, stand by,” Saint-Michael said. “Alert the station, exercise under way, red alert.” He readjusted his tiny communications ear
set and returned to his commander’s seat—the only seat in the command module of the world’s first strategic defense space station —and strapped himself in. The pedestal-mounted chair gave him a direct view of all the consoles in the space station’s nerve center. He pulled out his ever-present notebook and pencil and attached the “doodlebook” to a Velcro pad on his seat’s armrests to keep it from floating off in microgravity. His fingers were already making undecipherable scratches on the paper as he barked orders to his crewmen.
“Okay, men,” he said in a deep, resonant voice, “let’s see if we can avoid letting these babies blow past us. Comm, transmit strategic warning message to Space Command, and ask them to verify that this is an exercise only.”
“Already in contact with Space Command, sir,” the communications tech reported. “Exercise code received and authenticated.”
The general grunted in acknowledgment. “Let’s start lining ’em up.”
“SBR reports six missiles boosting,” the sensor tech reported. “SBR is tracking... now confirming solid radar lock on all six missiles.” SBR was the acronym for space-based radar, two huge, football-field-sized, phased-array radar antennas installed on the station. Because of microgravity, the normal size limitations of a radar antenna did not apply in space; therefore, Armstrong Station’s SBR was dozens of times larger and hundreds of times more powerful than most moveable earth-based radars. The SBR could scan over a thousand miles in all directions from the station, detecting any object more than two meters in size in space, in earth’s atmosphere and on earth itself. Although SBR stood for space-based radar, the acronym also referred to a wide range of sensors aboard the space station used to detect and track objects in space—radar, infrared, optical, Doppler, magnetic anomaly, radio, radiation, and laser.
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