Brown, Dale - Independent 01

by Silver Tower (v1. 1)

  “Meanwhile, sir,” First Deputy Minister Khromeyev picked it up, “a full division of hand-picked Iraqi infantry led by Glavnyi Marshal Valeriy Belikov, the commander of the Southern Teatr Voennykh Deistvii will once and for all take and hold Abadan and Khorramshahr along the Iran-Iraq border, making it possible for Soviet vessels to safely dock at Al-Basrah in Iraq. With their country surrounded on all sides, the leaders of Alientar’s government will have no choice but to surrender.”

  Czilikov scanned his battle staff. “This is the culmination of a thirty-year plan, comrades. The actions we take in the next seventy- two hours will decide the conflict—even, perhaps, the future of Soviet history. If we can subdue Iran and cause a new pro-Soviet revolution to occur in the Middle East, it will signal a new era of Soviet power and influence. Who knows how far we can go....”

  It was a grandiose thought, more political than was usual for Czilikov. Why, Czilikov asked himself, had it been necessary to go against his own grain and invoke the future like some bombastic commissar? Maybe because the feeling of ultimate victory, somehow, wasn’t there yet. Yes... they’d made spectacular advances, demoralized the battle-weary Iranians, caught the United States napping and unprepared to take action. But it was as if they were clinging to the pinnacle of success by a hangnail rather than standing firmly on top of it.

  His generals had followed along blindly, Czilikov reminded himself. There had been no long discussion, no arguments, no turmoil, no extended planning sessions. They were fighting this war not so much because they believed in its objectives as because they believed that they would be exiled or disposed of if they refused. That was why he felt the need to remind them of their duty. Real soldiers, real Russian warriors wouldn’t need such a reminder—but the general staff never behaved like real Russian warriors. Czilikov thought he saw a spark in them during the meeting, when they had argued about their forces’ respective capabilities, but the arguments had quickly died away. True Russian warriors? Where were they? Not here....

  That is, except for one. There was one....

  “We’ll meet again at precisely zero-three-hundred hours,” First Deputy Minister Khromeyev said to the battle staff. “The final plans for the thrust into Bandar-Abbas and Tehran will be ready for presentation and ultimate approval by the minister of defense.” Khromeyev turned to Czilikov again. “Tovarisch Chayzeyaen, pazhaloosta?” Czilikov shook his head, still lost in thought. Cattle. Mindless cattle

  “Dismissed. Pastayach.” The battle staff members shuffled to their feet and began to file out, but as the large outer doors of the conference room swung open the retreating generals and admirals abruptly stopped. Czilikov noticed it and followed Khromeyev’s gaze out through the doorway.

  There, standing at attention, was General Govorov. An aide stood alongside him, carrying a small pile of computer printouts. Govorov wore a dark gray military space suit that he himself had designed for the “new breed” of Soviet soldier. His boots were high-polished, his utility uniform was immaculate—overall, there was something in his bearing that suggested limitless self-confidence.

  Khromeyev looked as if he were about to explode. “Govorov, I warned you to—”

  “Comrade Minister,” Govorov said to Czilikov, interrupting Khromeyev, “I must speak with you.”

  Khromeyev’s face flushed. “Get out before I have you—”

  “Come,” Khromeyev heard behind him. Czilikov was on his feet, motioning to Govorov.

  “But Comrade Minister....” Khromeyev protested.

  “You may go, Khromeyev. Be sure the plans are ready for me by zero-three-hundred hours.” A final look from Czilikov sent the stunned chief of the general staff hurrying out the door.

  Govorov moved quickly into the conference room and stood in front of Czilikov, feeling less sure of himself than his little performance had, he hoped, indicated. His aide carried the sheaf of computer printouts as if it was dinner on a silver tray.

  “Sit down, General Govorov,” Czilikov said, a smile slowly forming on his lips. “We need to talk.”

  Govorov sat, reminding himself what steel was behind that smile.

  CHAPTER 5

  July 1992

  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

  “Attention on the station. Shipwide message broadcast for all personnel.”

  Saint-Michael shifted restlessly in his seat. Colonel Walker was at his post near the master SBR display with Jefferson, continuing to reprogram the space-based radar unit for its next pass over the Persian Gulf conflict area. The command module was crowded with all of Silver Tower’s crewmembers, including the two civilian scientists and Will and Sontag of the space shuttle Enterprise, now docked on one of the space station’s shuttle-docking bays on a resupply mission. “Armstrong, this is Nimitz. How copy?”

  Saint-Michael checked the communications setting on his panel. “Loud and clear, Nimitz. Armstrong standing by.”

  “Armstrong, this is Secretary of Defense Edwards. I am in the White House with the Joint Chiefs, the chairman of the National Security Council, the House and Senate majority and minority leaders, and the chairman of the House and Senate Foreign Affairs committees. The president and the vice-president are on their way, but they directed me to start this transmission in case they hadn’t arrived when your orbit brought you near North America.”

  The transmission was clear but the voice was barely recognizable. A computer, synchronized with the U.S. Navy’s atomic clock in Fort Collins, Colorado, scrambled and descrambled the laser-beam transmission five times a second, and the resultant secure transmission wavered like an old-style short-wave radio.

  “The president has directed me to inform you of his decision concerning the Soviet attack on Iran,” Edwards went on. “He’s decided to intervene in the conflict to prevent further Soviet advances into Iran and the Persian Gulf region.”

  Ann Page felt her face flush and her fingertips grow numb as she listened. Her father was down there, in the Nimitz's battle group— probably, she guessed, the spearhead of the American opposing force....

  “The president, in consultation with our allies and with Congress, has ordered that steps be taken by all available forces to halt any further Soviet acts of aggression in the region. To this end he has appointed Rear Admiral Clancy, commander of the Nimitz carrier battle group, as overall theater commander of Allied forces. He has taken direct command of all service forces effective immediately.... However, Brigadier General Saint-Michael, as commander of Armstrong Space Station, has superbly demonstrated the special value of his installation. Therefore, by order of the president, Jason F. Saint- Michael is hereby promoted to the rank of Space Command Lieutenant General and is of this moment deputy commander of Allied forces in the Persian Gulf region.”

  In spite of the serious circumstances, a ripple of applause and a few muted cheers broke out among the crew. Saint-Michael remained stone-faced, and the congratulations quickly petered out—this was definitely not the time nor place for applause. And Ann in particular was upset about her father being in the eye of the coming storm....

  “Your assignment, General Saint-Michael, is to direct offensive forces and position defensive forces in support of U.S. operations in the Persian Gulf region. You are to use all means at your disposal to warn Allied forces of attack or potential threats against them, to direct offensive forces safely to their targets and to provide Allied forces with as much reconnaissance data as necessary to carry out the objectives of their missions. The president and everyone in this room here have full confidence in you. Good luck.”

  A moment after the circuit went dead, Saint-Michael opened the interstation address system.

  “Attention, a plan has already been devised and briefed to me by the Joint Chiefs to ward off any more Soviet attacks into Iran. That plan will now be implemented. Our job is to see that it’s successful. Our other task, if not already obvious, is to survive to continue our assigned duty. I don’t need to tell everyone here that Armstrong Station is a pri
me target for attack.

  “We have weapons to defend ourselves with: the ten Thor antiballistic-missile interceptors we control are now committed to use for station self-defense. A second Thor garage is being sent to us. But our prime defense is nothing more exotic than watchfulness and preparation. ... Effective immediately this station is on twenty-four- hour yellow alert. The station will be on red alert over the Persian Gulf horizon if hostilities of any sort are taking place on earth or in space. I’ll review duty items to be performed while under yellow alert.

  “Crewmembers will carry a portable oxygen system at all times with the mask around the neck. Personnel off duty or sleeping will wear the mask at all times. The oxygen supply will not be allowed to drop below three-quarters full at any time. A fire watch will be posted in all modules, and all modules will be sealed. A verbal cross check of connecting tunnel atmospheric security will be made to the fire watch before moving among modules. Two off-duty personnel will be assigned spacesuit duty in two twelve-hour shifts. Their duty will be to rescue injured personnel in case of catastrophic damage. They will prepare rescue balls and the lifeboat for station personnel. The space- suit duty roster will be announced immediately by Colonel Walker....”

  He paused, looked at Ann, who shifted uncomfortably until he went on, “I want to hear from any research personnel who feels that the new dangers involved are unacceptable. In the next few days you will undoubtedly be exposed to significant risks—risks that you couldn’t have anticipated when you signed on. Neither I nor anyone in Space Command will hold it against any of you if you decide against continued duty aboard Silver Tower during these hostilities. You may return to earth aboard Enterprise when she departs tomorrow. Thank you. This station is on yellow alert.”

  Ann had drawn fire-watch for the galley-computer control module, but she returned to the command module after retrieving her portable oxygen system. Saint-Michael was just ending another laser-transmitted message with earth when she approached him.

  “Congratulations on your promotion,” she said, her smile somewhat forced.

  He nodded, figuring silence was the best tactic with her.

  “I caught that look when you made the announcement about leaving the station.”

  “Well, the announcement applied to you as much as anyone and—”

  “I’ll tell you right now, General, I’m not leaving.”

  “Look, Ann, two Pages involved in this thing could be one too many. Maybe you shouldn’t reject the option out of hand. At least think about it.”

  Ann thought he was also telling her that her leaving would be doing him a favor.... It wasn’t at all what she’d expected....

  “Okay,” she said quietly. “I’ll think about it.” She lingered for a moment then turned and made her way to the connecting tunnel.

  At the hatch Kevin Baker, on fire-watch in the command module, checked the atmospheric pressure of the connecting tunnel. “Pressure’s good,” he said.

  Ann double-checked the gauge and nodded. They had rehearsed red alert procedures dozens of times, but it felt very different doing them for real. “Checks. Clear to open.”

  “What were you talking about with the general?” Baker asked before he undogged the hatch. “Are you on your way home?”

  “I don’t want to be, but....” She shook her head. “You know, I just can’t figure the man out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just that... hey, listen, don’t mind me. I guess I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “No problem,” Baker said as he activated the interlocks, then opened the hatch. “By the way ... here.” He pressed a sheet of folded computer paper into her hand.

  “What’s this?”

  “The results of the MHD superconductor relay circuit tests. Better get going; they’re checking everyone in.”

  It took her a few moments to double-check the atmospheric integrity of the computer-center galley, enter the module, seal it off and report in with Colonel Walker that all hatches were sealed. They’d been waiting for her. Next they checked and double-checked the integrity of each module and each hatch all over the massive installation. They had just finished the checklist when Sergeant Jefferson announced, “Five minutes to horizon crossing. Stand by.”

  What to do now but listen, watch and wait for the next twelve hours? Ann fixed herself a cup of coffee and unfolded the printout of the computer-driven MHD superconductor relay circuit test. She let the long paper strip unroll itself in an undulating stream across the galley and scanned the long rows and columns of numbers, reading off the computer’s analysis of the thousands of—

  And there it was. On the left MHD control-circuit relay, three- quarters of the way through the test strip—it would have taken at least thirty hours to find it if the check had been done by hand—one of the sixteen thousand 256-bit data words did not agree with its error-trapping checksum. Kevin Baker’s computer, programmed with all of the MHD relay’s error readouts, even pinpointed the fault’s exact location—

  “Attention on the station. Horizon crossing—mark. Stand by for target area. The station is on red alert. Out.”

  Ann quickly scanned the rest of the printout. No other faults. She depressed the intercom button. “Colonel Walker, request permission to enter the Skybolt module.”

  A pause, then: “Sorry, no. We wouldn’t have fire coverage in the computer module with you in Skybolt.”

  “It would only be for a moment—”

  “We’re on red alert, Ann.” It was now a very annoyed Lieutenant General Saint-Michael talking into the intercom. “We’re two minutes from moving directly into the sights of six Soviet Gorgon antisatellite missiles. We’re already in the sights of a two-hundred-megawatt Soviet antisatellite laser site. The time for tinkering with Skybolt has passed. Maintain your post.”

  The line snapped dead. She could feel the stares, hear the imagined whispered comments directed at her through the walls.

  Well, damn him. The man had put her in her place by embarrassing her. Above and beyond.... For a moment there, back in the command module, she’d actually thought he.... Cool it, you’re one of the crew, lady, nothing more, for sure nothing more. . . .

  “SBR contact on aircraft transponders,” Jefferson reported. “Identification positive and confirmed. Four-ship F-18 patrol from the Nimitz"

  Another tech announced, “Sir, voice and data link reestablished with the California.”

  USS CALIFORNIA

  “Skipper, the space station is back.”

  Captain Page acknowledged and put a few last sentences in his personal ship’s log before snapping the ledger closed. “Right on time.” He fixed the headset and keyed the microphone.

  “Armstrong, this is the USS California. How copy? Over.”

  “Loud and clear, California,” said General Saint-Michael. “Are you receiving our data transmissions?”

  Page glanced over at Meserve, who nodded. “Digital imagery coming in clear as a bell, Skipper.”

  “Affirmative, General. Congratulations on your promotion. When we get back, sir, you’re buying the bar.”

  “A deal.”

  “Advisory for those patrol planes,” Colonel Walker cut in to the ship-to-orbit link. “Several fast patrol boats operating at their twelve o’clock, seventy nautical miles. Could be those new Iranian hydrofoils or the small corvettes they took out of mothballs. If they’re corvettes they have naval Hawk-Four surface-to-air missiles that might give the Hornets trouble.”

  “Copy, Armstrong. We’ll divert the Hornets around them. No telling who the Iranians might decide to shoot at right now.”

  “New contacts,” Sergeant Jefferson reported. “Low altitude jet aircraft heading south along the west shore of the Caspian Sea. No definite number yet.”

  “Copy that, California?” Saint-Michael asked.

  Meserve and Page were peering over the shoulders of the three radiomen who manned the data display unit of CIC’s control console. The operators we
re switching the displays back and forth, trying to keep up with the volume of data being received. Finally Page punched the mike button in frustration.

  “Armstrong, we can’t keep up with that thousand-mile display. We’re going to cut ours back down to three hundred miles. Keep us advised of activity outside the three-hundred-mile radius of the Strait of Hormuz. We’ll concentrate our surveillance in the area where the Nimitz's planes will be operating.”

  Saint-Michael said over a closed interphone, “He must think I have a hundred people up here to watch the screens. He’s got twice the people I have but he’s only watching one-tenth of the area.”

  “I think I understand his situation,” Walker said. “SBR is decades ahead of the California's technology. It’s like trying to get a drink of water from a fire hose.”

  Saint-Michael shrugged and keyed the microphone. “Roger, California. Understand.”

  “We’ve got a count on those newcomer Soviet planes,” Jefferson said. His rising, excited voice made Saint-Michael swivel around to face him. “Total of twelve aircraft. Four slow-moving planes were joined with two flights of fast-moving planes. The group is turning slightly southeast, Skipper. I think they’re heading for Tehran—”

  “Aircraft launching from the Brezhnev, sir,” a tech reported. “Two high-speed aircraft heading east-northeast.”

  Saint-Michael hit the mike button. “California, this is Armstrong. Fighters from Brezhnev heading your way.”

  The reply was immediate and, to no one’s surprise, as excited as Jefferson’s. “We got ’em, Armstrong.”

  “Be advised—twelve Soviet aircraft heading south from Lyaki, suspected target Tehran. No positive ID; it could either be another Backfire bomber strike force or a four-ship Condor troop transport formation with eight fighter escorts. Or both. Whatever, it looks like a major production.”