Brown, Dale - Independent 01

by Silver Tower (v1. 1)

  Gulaev snapped to attention and hurried out.

  As he did, Govorov glanced at the old-fashioned analogue clock on the wall. How fitting that the most technologically advanced organization in the Soviet Union used a round sweep-hand clock to tell time. Govorov hated the clock. It reminded him of what the Aerospace Forces of the Soviet Union—all of the armed forces of the Soviet Union, for that matter—were like. Some were still no further advanced than that fifty-year-old clock. And some dinosaurs would prefer they were back in the days when that clock was made, when the Soviet Union was one of the most devastated, mistrusted, divided, oligarchical and bankrupt countries on earth. Then a weak and demoralized Russian military followed Joseph Stalin, the ruthless, power-obsessed dictator, into virtual ruin. Now another weak and demoralized military was about to follow another power-hungry head of state into a certain clash with the most powerful nation on earth. This time, though, Govorov was determined to turn aside certain failure. . . .

  Gulaev was right. It was Govorov’s responsibility, his duty to do everything he could to forestall a Soviet defeat in Iran and the Persian Gulf and anywhere else. Gulaev now had the responsibility for activating the secret plan for the destruction of Armstrong Station—Govorov’s job would be to convince the minister of defense to hold off Feather until the secret operation could be set in motion.

  Govorov ordered his plane immediately fueled and ready for departure in an hour. By then Gulaev would have his orders and Govorov would be off to Moscow to try to convince the Kollegiya to avoid suicide and face facts. He would much rather be going up against the enemy. Dinosaurs were hard to kill....

  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

  As Ann Page had predicted, her report on the potential Skybolt project delays caused by moving the space station into a geosyn- cronous orbit over the Middle East had negligible effect on Space Command. Saint-Michael had gotten the green light, and for the past several days the space station’s crewmembers had worked overtime gathering information and staying on alert for a Soviet response. A Soviet response. Put that way, it sounded so neat and tidy, so impersonal and even reasonable, Ann thought. Like playing a game of chess. She imagined just how devastating a Soviet “response” might be and felt a chill. She was actually glad she had her work to concentrate on. She’d have been a nervous wreck, standing in the command module and watching the display screen read out possible threats.

  Kevin Baker put aside another relay circuit board and sat down beside her on a small workbench in the cluttered Skybolt module.

  Ann looked at him. “I was thinking about how unreal a lot of this is. What might be happening down below. The fact that we’re even up here in space at all....”

  Baker nodded. “I know what you mean. I think of all the years I spent in labs... not quite like this but you know, filled with the same clutter. And no one giving much of a damn. And now suddenly I seem to be at the center of everything that’s important, but the feeling is pretty much the same. Solve the problem, devise solutions, check out hypotheses—”

  “And what’s your favorite? Hypothesis, that is. .. . How can we get this laser of ours to do what it’s supposed to do?”

  Kevin noted the word “ours” and was pleased. “Well,” he said, looking at the maze of wires and circuit relays in front of him, “why don’t we start with this left GCS-B data relay? What do you have connected to it? Looks like platinum.”

  “It is platinum. That’s the MHD master superconductor relay. I call it the toaster.”

  “Not a bad name for it. This is the first superconducting relay I’ve seen that’s smaller than the size of a cement truck. So where’s the automatic test center?”

  Ann motioned to the ceiling and Baker let out a low groan. Working on the ceiling might have been old hat for her, but his station laboratory had been a virtual recreation of his earth-bound laboratory, where computers never floated to the ceiling. Shaking his head, he lifted toward the ceiling, anchored himself on Velcro-covered footpads and punched instructions into the test computer. The renewed frustration in his voice echoed throughout the Skybolt module.

  “What is this?” gesturing to sixteen long rows of numbers.

  “It’s a linkage of all the relative program sequence codes of the relay circuitry. There are sixty-four displays of each two hundred fifty-six bit word. You need to cross-check each display with—”

  “Wait a minute. That’s over sixteen thousand data bits....”

  “For the left MHD relay circuitry data bus,” Ann continued. “There’s another check of the right data bus and the main driver.”

  “God, how can we check all this? It’ll take days. Maybe weeks.”

  “I haven’t run through the whole check,” she told him. “The toaster has run perfectly for two years. I’ve got three hundred other components that I’d suspect before the toaster, so it gets a lower priority. I’ll check it later.”

  Baker seemed not to hear her as he twisted off four Camlock fasteners on the tiny self-test console, lifted the front panel clear and peered inside. “Good, at least you have standard connectors in this thing. I’ll rig up a fiber-optic network line from Skybolt to my lab. I can plug my computer right into this console and have it check all the data registers for us. It’ll do the check in a few minutes and give us the answer in English, not in this hexadecimal gobbledegook. You’ll be able to monitor your toaster continually after this.”

  “That’s great, Kevin. How soon can you get it set up?”

  “A few hours for the network line and connections, and a few more to write the program to compute and cross-check the checksums.”

  Ann nodded, looked at the self-test console. “Do you really think the problem is in there?”

  “Don’t know a lot about superconducting relays. In fact, I know damn little about most of the other toys you have in here. But your self-tests aren’t telling you what the problem is. We’ve gone over most everything else except this thing. I’d say the problem has to be here.” He detached himself from the ceiling and glided back to the deck.

  For the first time in days, Ann allowed herself to hope that the problem would actually be resolved—providing, of course, that no new and unanticipated glitches loused it up....

  MOSCOW, USSR

  “Are you crazy, Govorov?” First Deputy Minister of Defense Khromeyev asked in a low, biting tone. Both Govorov and Deputy Minister of Defense Rhomerdunov, commander in chief of the Soviet Aerospace Forces, stood at attention in Khromeyev’s spacious office just outside Minister of Defense Czilikov’s conference chamber. Govorov had caged his eyes forward, unblinking, but Rhomerdunov’s eyes followed Khromeyev’s nervous pacing. The two senior officers had once spent eighteen straight days together in a muddy foxhole in Mukacevo near Budapest during the last weeks of the Great Patriotic War forty-eight years earlier, and there was little Khromeyev could say or do that could really frighten Rhomerdunov. The chief of the general staff finally waved both Rhomerdunov and Govorov to chairs.

  “Sergei,” Rhomerdunov urged, “listen to what General Govorov has to say—”

  “We’ve heard it before, Alexi,” Khromeyev said. “Your cosmonaut has already made quite a name for himself in the Kremlin, thanks to his rather undisciplined speech before the Kollegiya. Now he wants to speak with the minister of defense again about postponing Operation Feather.” Khromeyev stared at both Rhomerdunov and Govorov for long, tense moments. “What the hell is going on, Govorov? Is this some sort of challenge to your superior? A move for attention? Minister of Defense Czilikov spoke with Marshal Lichizev. The GRU knows of no such super-radar on board the American space station Armstrong. They acknowledge that the sensor capabilities of the station are indeed advanced, but not advanced enough to track hundreds of land, air and sea vessels for millions of cubic kilometers—let alone direct the defenses of the American rapid deployment force in the region.”

  Khromeyev abruptly moderated his voice. “The minister of defense appreciates your concern and attention
to detail, General Govorov. But he has conducted his own surveys of members of the Kollegiya and of the scientific community and decided that the space station Armstrong is not a threat to the success or failure of Feather. Your comments have been duly noted but—”

  Govorov could no longer take it. “Excuse me, sir, but it isn’t necessary to address me like an overzealous child. I’m willing to stake my professional career on what I say. If Feather is to succeed, if this country is ever to be secure, the space station Armstrong has got to be destroyed or at least crippled.”

  “That’s enough.... Rhomerdunov,” Khromeyev said, now ignoring Govorov, “I can’t allow this insubordinate officer of yours to see the minister of defense. He’ll have all our heads, and he’ll be right. I suggest, Alexi, that you explain the chain of command to General Lieutenant Govorov. Have him review the oath he took, especially the part about unquestioningly carrying out the requirements of all military regulations and orders of commanders and superiors. He seems to have a deficient memory in that area. Explain to him that if we were not approaching a period of great need he would be relieved of his position. Be sure that he understands that the Kollegiya is not here for his personal aggrandizement. Dismissed, damn it.”

  Rhomerdunov could barely wait until he was back into his staff car. “Govorov, your career may have ended five minutes ago. Aerospace Forces won’t be heavily involved with Feather—the minute things calm down you’ll be relieved of duty and reassigned—”

  “No.”

  “Very brave of you, Alesander. Brave to the last. Your big mouth has destroyed you, just as I warned you it would.”

  “And I tell you that this has not ended. I remember my oath of allegiance very well. I swore to protect my country and my people to the last drop of blood in my body. I’m trying to do that.” As the dark Mercedes sedan swung onto the heavily crowded Volokolamskoje Highway northwest toward Moskovskij International Airport, Govorov turned intently to his superior officer.

  “I need authorization, sir,” he said in a low voice. “One launch. In twenty days. Aboard the Elektron....”

  Rhomerdunov’s face drained. “Elektron... ? Govorov, you are a fool.” He shook his head, speaking almost to himself, as if the young officer was no longer in the car. “I was wrong to try to support your ideas.... You’re letting your obsession cloud your common sense.” “You know damn well that’s not true, sir. What I’m saying is a fact. ... The power of Armstrong Station, the danger our forces will face because of it—all true. Feather will be crushed or at least helplessly stalled in the mountains or the Arabian Sea. A stalemate for Feather is just as bad as a defeat. It is a defeat.. .please, hear me out.... The Space Defense Command has the ability to stop Armstrong Station from becoming the pivotal unit in the American defense. Three Elektron spaceplanes armed with Scimitar hypervelocity projectile missiles—”

  “Scimitar? What the hell are those? I’ve never heard of them.” “Code-named Bavinash. Low-cost, so-called throwaway missiles developed in secret by my people. They are little more than long bottles of gas with a molybdenum-uranium armor-piercing nose and a rocket engine. An Elektron can carry ten of them on a rotary launcher in the cargo hold. They’re laser-guided from Elektron and they fly at nearly a kilometer a second to their target. They—”

  “You have a weapon designed for the Elektron spaceplane? But the Elektron is a cargo ship, a damn space taxi. Whatever possessed you to develop an offensive weapon for it? In secret, no less....”

  Govorov allowed a smile. “It was an American idea, actually. When I first flew the Elektron five years ago the Americans were convinced it was a Soviet space fighter plane. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have paid any attention to such blatant anti-Soviet propaganda ploys —at the time the Americans were trying to discredit our shuttle program to mask their own shuttle failures. But the idea intrigued me, and I did some research to discover the exact plans for the so-called Soviet space fighter-plane. I was shocked to learn there were no such plans. So when I was chosen to head the Space Defense Command I began a secret program to develop a twenty-first-century space force that would be superior....”

  Rhomerdunov was speechless, not able to take in what he was hearing. But as the Mercedes swung onto the specially constructed off-ramp from the Volokolamskoje Highway, he turned to Govorov, shaking his head.

  “These so-called Bavinash missiles ... are they ... ready for use?” “Within twenty days, sir.” Govorov felt his face flush with excitement, realizing that Rhomerdunov was at least listening to him. “I have already given orders.... Two Elektron spaceplanes will be readied at Tyuratam for launch in three weeks. Each will be fitted with ten Scimitar missiles—more than sufficient to destroy the American space station. As long as it exists our own survival is only a matter of time—”

  “You have already given the orders?”

  Govorov checked himself. Now, with Rhomerdunov interested in the project, this was the time for fence mending. He didn’t want his superior thinking him a loose cannon.

  “I have briefed my staff on the project, yes. But, of course, it waits for your approval. I have not ordered any attacks on Armstrong, per your orders and the orders of the Kollegiya. But I felt that, under my limited authority, at least the groundwork should be laid for preparation of the Elektrons, should my observations on the capabilities of Armstrong’s space-based radar be true....”

  The Mercedes slowed and stopped at a guard house on the outskirts of Moscow Airport. Papers were exchanged and a quick search of the car was conducted by an army sergeant accompanied by a Rottweiller guard dog. Rhomerdunov, distracted by what he’d heard, did not protest when the massive black-and-tan animal was allowed to sniff the interior of the car for explosives. A few moments later the car was speeding toward the separate VIP terminal where Rhomerdunov’s jet was waiting.

  Inside the terminal’s waiting room Rhomerdunov finally spoke to Govorov: “I’ve been ordered to Tashkent, to supervise the southern TVD air defenses in case retaliatory strikes into the Soviet Union occur during Feather. Otherwise I would go with you back to Tyura- tam to inspect this... this so-called secret space force you’ve developed. Bear this is mind, General Govorov. Normally I would consider all you have said and done as the ultimate in insubordination and abuse of power. The secret development of a weapon, regardless of its necessity, its use, or the intentions of its developer, is a treasonable offense. If the information about this Scimitar missile or the arming of Elektron spaceplanes leaks out and is discovered by the Politburo or the general staff, you may find yourself in Lubylanka Prison for a very long stay.”

  Govorov kept quiet, and it was then that Rhomerdunov decided to trust the young officer. There were really only two choices: ignore Govorov and quietly remove him as a threat to Rhomerdunov’s authority, or believe in him and his convictions and back him. If Govorov had shown any hesitation or uncertainty, Rhomerdunov would have let the matter die then and there. But with his steely blue eyes convincingly steady, Govorov looked, spoke and acted like a man firmly committed to his beliefs. And just because those beliefs were hugely upsetting didn’t make them wrong. It would have been easier to believe Govorov was carried away by his idee fixe. But if he was crazy, he was the most intelligent and well-organized psychopath in history.

  “We must take steps, Govorov, to be sure that the development of this Scimitar missile, the arming of Elektron spaceplanes and the formation of a space-borne attack unit have been thoroughly documented. These programs must become authorized as revived projects of the Aerospace Forces and the Space Defense Command, not as the clandestine and illegal activities of a renegade.”

  Govorov’s attention was on the word we, and he had to struggle to resist the urge to break out into an unmilitary cheer. Deputy First Minister of Defense Rhomerdunov had just identified himself with the plans. There was still hope....

  “We’ll discuss this further, Alesander.”

  Govorov nodded, noticing that boarding preparations were being com
pleted. An air force Starshiy Serzhant came up now to Rhomerdunov and reported that his plane was ready for boarding. Govorov picked up Rhomerdunov’s briefcase and carried it to the boarding ramp outside an Antonov An-72 military transport jet.

  “Sir.” Govorov handed the briefcase to a crewmember but looked directly at Rhomerdunov. “About my ongoing preparations ... ?”

  “They are to continue. Quietly. I will contact you when it’s possible. Be prepared to fully brief myself and the Kollegiya on the project.” He paused as a few officers stepped behind him: “And be prepared to dismantle it. Both with equal speed.”

  Govorov saluted, and Rhomerdunov stepped onto the escalator and disappeared from sight.

  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

  “It’s ready.”

  Kevin Baker and Ann Page floated next to Baker’s master laboratory-computer console, looking expectantly at a “READY” message on the terminal screen. Baker maneuvered himself down to the console near a microphone but then stopped short and motioned to Ann.

  “Be my guest.”

  Ann slipped down to the microphone. “Toaster checksum.” Her words were typed across the computer monitor screen, and immediately a message flashed across the screen: “TOASTER. CHECKSUM READY.”

  “Run,” Ann said.

  Instantly a chart was drawn on the screen showing a graphic presentation of the sixteen-thousand memory locations available in the Skybolt superconducting circuit relay. The screen asked, “WOULD YOU LIKE A TEST RESULT PRINTOUT?”

  “Yes,” Ann told it.

  Another prompt requested, “READY TO START.”

  Ann said, “Start,” and immediately several columns were filled with figures representing the memory location being examined by the computer.

  “I can’t believe you put this together in just eight hours,” Ann said to Baker. “I couldn’t have done it in eight weeks.”