Brown, Dale - Independent 01

by Silver Tower (v1. 1)

  He pressed the LAUNCH button. Nothing.

  “Chili, check your switches. Negative launch.”

  No reply.

  “Chili!”

  Andrews strained against his harness straps and turned to look behind him, recoiling instantly at the searing blast of heat that hit him full in the face and the grisly sight of half-charred, flaming flesh that had been his WSO. That had not been turbulence he felt a moment ago. His Tomcat had taken a missile right up the tailpipe.

  The formation leader turned forward just in time to see two Sukhoi-27 fighter-bombers zip past his nose less than two hundred yards away. He yanked his stick left and up to pursue, but his Tomcat continued to loll sluggishly to the right and down. The HUD was blank. Most of the lights and gauges on his instrument panel were dark or at zero. He made sure the throttle was at military power— yes, he could still feel what he thought was thrust from his twin Pratt and Whitney turbofan engines. He began to get some stick response so he tried to reacquire visually the two Soviet fighters while he waited for his place to recover... he hoped....

  He kept one hand on the stick and the other on the throttle, believing his crippled fighter was giving chase right up to the moment it slammed into a hillside just outside the town of Humedan on Iran’s southern coast. He never had a chance even to consider reaching for the ejection handles.

  USS CALIFORNIA

  “Bridge, this is Combat. ASM contact, zero-eight-zero degrees relative, sixty nautical miles, less than one hundred feet above water.” Matthew Page reacted instantly to the report of the oncoming cruise missiles. ’’Helm, left twenty degrees, heading two-six-zero. Conn, advise Nimitz of contacts. Combat, are any Tomcats giving chase?” “No friendly fighters showing. Six Soviet fighters heading northwest back toward the Brezhnev. ”

  He hadn’t expected that the missiles would be escorted by fighters. It looked like everything might depend on his fire-power. “Combat, launch commit all Standard missiles.”

  “Launch commit, aye—” The controller barely had time to finish his acknowledge when the roar of missile-motor ignition filled the air.

  Fully automatic, the California's fore-and-aft Mark 26 dual-rail missile launchers had stood like tin soldiers at attention, pointing straight up. At launch command, two SM2-ER Standard surface-to- air missiles slid from the magazine racks below deck up into each of the launcher’s rails, and the launchers swiveled right and down until the missiles seemed to be pointing directly horizontal. There was a slight pause, then a burst of flame followed by a cloud of smoke that covered the bow and stem of the California. The launchers swiveled to vertical once again, ready for another reloading.

  “Four Standards away.”

  “My course is two-six-zero, sir,” the helmsman reported.

  “Very well. Ready the starboard Phalanx guns and both 127-millimeter guns. Combat, where are those cruise missiles?”

  “Showing heavy uplink jamming from something, possibly Soviet airborne jammers... .Wait, now showing two cruise missiles in flight, sir. Bearing zero-seven-zero, twenty miles, course one-six- zero true.”

  “Helm, hard to port, left forty degrees, launch commit all Standards and the forward one-twenty-seven. Comm, signal Nimitz to begin evasive action to starboard. Move.”

  The USS California heeled sharply to starboard as it began a hard left turn, the deck tilting far enough so that only a few feet of freeboard remained. The deck made one small pitch to port when the ship completed its emergency turn as its computerized stabilizers fought to haul the eleven-thousand-ton vessel upright. A split second after the deck leveled itself, the fire, smoke, and noise returned. Four Standard missiles immediately leapt from their rails and arched toward the gray horizon, quickly speeding away from view.

  “Four Standards away, sir. Forward one-twenty-seven ready. All Phalanx stations report ready.”

  “Commit the aft one-twenty-seven.”

  “Aye, sir.. .Nimitz reports launching aircraft but can’t maneuver to starboard. They report their Phalanx systems operational.”

  Page’s oaths were drowned out by the booming of the California's two five-inch, dual-purpose cannons. Alternating with computer-controlled precision, the two cannons fired one radar-guided three- hundred-pound flak shell every two seconds, the California seeming to jump sideways at each ear-shattering report.

  “Status! Where are those damn—?” Page’s next words caught in his throat as he stared, transfixed, out the starboard side of the bridge at an apparition that was coming ever closer.

  Like a flaming spear driving right for the heart of the California, it appeared to be flying slowly, almost lazily, its short cruciform wings and long cigar-shaped body blackened and burning. It trailed a long line of thick black smoke, and it seemed to wobble up and down unsteadily. Yet it kept coming.. ..

  “Hard starboard, flank speed,” Page ordered. The helmsman spun the wheel but his reply was drowned out by the long, whining staccato of the starboard Phalanx Close-In Weapon System, a radar- guided twenty-millimeter Vulcan multibarreled machine gun used as a last-resort defense against antiship missiles. Page watched smoke issue from the Phalanx muzzle and then an answering puff of fire from the already flaming airborne spear, followed by a deafening roar. . . .

  Just before Captain Matthew Page died, he thought of his wife Amanda, her eyes the same sky-blue as the cloudless canopy over his head. He smiled as the darkness descended on him.

  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

  Ann bypassed the safety procedures and cross checks as she hurried to the command module. Crewmembers turned toward her as she approached Saint-Michael.

  “Still no word,” the general told her. “The frigate Oliver Hazard Perry is alongside the California now.”

  “What did they say? What happened?”

  “Our ships were attacked by six Soviet medium bombers,” Jim Walker said. “The bombers had Su-27 fighters from the Brezhnev escorting them and carried Kelt antiship missiles. Apparently the Su-27s managed to down six of our Tomcats, which were pursuing. The California and the other escorts sent four of the bombers into the gulf, but the others got their missiles off. Two of the missiles hit the California broadside—”

  “At least it wasn’t nuclear,” Saint-Michael said quickly, not looking at Ann. “The California radioed a distress call and the Oliver Hazard Perry got to her within minutes. We’ll know better what the California's situation is when they put out the fires.”

  “How long... until we can restart surveillance on the area?” Ann asked, trying not to show what she was feeling.

  Saint-Michael wanted to hold her at least, but for the time being they both had their roles to play.... “Twenty minutes,” he said in answer to her question. He wished he could say more, reassure her ... but that would be phony as well as embarrassing. Looking at her, though, seeing what she must be going through in her worry about her father, he could only admire her and feel for her. A considerable lady, hell... a terrific woman....

  TYURATAM, USSR

  It was a big surprise for the junior airmen and their supervisors to see General Lieutenant Alesander Govorov, the commander of Space Defense, out early that morning inspecting the area. Accompanied by the newly promoted Colonel Nikolai Gulaev, Govorov entered the vehicle assembly building of Glowing Star, Tyuratam’s antisatellite launch site, and came up behind Starshiy Praporshchik Igor Cacreyatov, who happened to be sitting with his feet on his desk, sipping coffee laced with a bit of East German schnapps. The big senior warrant officer stared idly out the window watching the work out on launch pad two.

  “Work seems to proceed slower than usual, Airman Anokhin,” Cacreyatov said over his shoulder. “I’ll postpone the inspection of launch pad two until tomorrow, but it had better be done then or I will crack some heads.”

  Gulaev glanced at Govorov, half expected to see the Space Defense commander pull out his 7.62-millimeter Tokarav TT-33 automatic pistol and blow poor Cacreyatov away, but to Gulaev’s surprise Govorov’s face
showed a wide smile as he picked up the tiny two hundred fifty milliliter schnapps bottle, ran his nose over the mouth and nodded his approval at the scent.

  Without turning around, the senior warrant officer said, “I can tell without looking, Anokhin, that you have something in your hand that will cost you a month of kitchen duty and a week’s pay if you so much as think about stealing or drinking.”

  “I think not, Comrade.”

  Cacreyatov got to his feet in a flurry of arms and legs and stood at attention, eyes straight ahead, chest heaving.

  “I think I’ve found the reason why my Elektron project is delayed, Colonel Gulaev,” Govorov said. The thin smile stayed on his lips as he dropped the tiny bottle of schnapps onto the cold concrete floor. Cacreyatov’s reflex was to try to reach out and grab it, but he wisely kept at attention.

  “The instant that bottle hit the floor, Cacreyatov, you were no longer a starshiy praporshchik.” Govorov was no longer smiling. “What lower rank you sink to—or whether your military career comes to a sudden end—depends on your answers now and your actions in the next forty-eight hours.” He let the words sink in, then: “Now, Colonel Gulaev has reported to me that the second Elektron has been sitting beside that SL-16 booster for three days. When he inquires about its status, he gets no reply. You will give me a reply, Cacreyatov, and you will give it to me now. ”

  The freshly demoted senior warrant officer said he had no excuse, sir—

  “Wrong answer, Cacreyatov,” and Cacreyatov could almost see five thousand rubles a year fly out of his pocket. “This is not a damned military academy. When I ask a question I expect a real answer. So once again—what is the reason for the delay?”

  “Sir, I... was unclear about the procedures dealing with the Elektron. My men are not allowed to work near the Elektrons without direct supervision from Colonel Gulaev’s special personnel.”

  “Do Colonel Gulaev’s men prohibit any contact with the Elektron?”

  “No, sir...”

  “Is access limited in any section of the Elektron?”

  “Well, the cargo area is sealed, and some components in the cockpit are removed or sealed—”

  “Per my instructions,” Govorov told him. “Does this limited access to the cargo bay or those security sealed cockpit components explain the delays?”

  Cacreyatov kept his mouth shut.

  “No? Then it seems you’ve lied to me. Why the hell is that SL-16 not ready for launch?”

  “Sir, replacement parts were not ordered in time. They have just been installed, but the crews haven’t—”

  “Who didn’t order the parts in time?”

  Cacreyatov closed his eyes, bracing for the execution. “Sir, I failed to order the third-stage pressure-test fittings in time for the final mating. The tests are being completed this morning. When the tests are finished I will make the final inspection. The second SL-16 will be ready for launch in forty-eight hours.”

  Govorov nodded at the veteran maintenance officer. “Now understand this. For the good of my command I should bring you up on charges for having liquor in this building, but I can’t spare the time to court-martial you. You will lose, however, one pay grade for every hour over forty-eight that both of those SL-16s are delayed from launch readiness. You will lose another pay grade for every launch countdown hold attributable to you. If you run out of pay grades you will spend a year at hard labor for each hold. And don’t push your technicians too hard to make up for your own laziness, Cacreyatov— they might decide to get sick, and then where will you be?” He did not need to spell it out. The message was received.

  “I take responsibility for Cacreyatov’s incompetence, sir,” Gulaev said as he and Govorov headed for the exits. “If I’d supervised his section more closely I might have spotted his laziness earlier—”

  “Call it a hard lesson learned, Nikolai. No commander should operate from a chair. You were thorough in your inquiries, but you never went personally to inspect the progress on the ships.” He glanced at his deputy. “Get Elektron number two manned and ready to fly in two days. That’s the way to redeem yourself. And good luck, Nikolai.... More depends on you than you can imagine.”

  “Yes, sir.... By the way, sir, Colonel Voloshin, the pilot for Elektron Two, has already reported to Glowing Star. I’ve thoroughly examined his fitness reports and evaluations and find them to be excellent.”

  “Good....” Govorov’s voice trailed off as he caught sight of Elektron One, mounted on top of an SL-16-A booster three miles away. The three-stage solid- and liquid-propellant rocket, similar to the long abandoned American Satum-V booster, was well over two hundred twenty feet tall and weighed nearly two hundred fifty tons. It carried four “strap-on” solid propellant boosters on its lower stage to lift its payload to the required one-thousand-mile orbit around earth.

  “I want to go up to the Elektron,” Govorov said, as he got into the waiting staff car. “Arrange it, please.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gulaev said. He was on the Zil limousine’s earphone in an instant, and a few minutes later they were riding the service elevator to the SL-16’s capsule.

  Unlike the booster, the Elektron spaceplane was painted a dull gray, a color designed to help stabilize its temperature once in space. It was fifty-five feet long and thirty feet wide from wingtip to wingtip. Its nose, wing leading edges and underside were all covered with protective silica tiles. The aft end of the spaceplane was round and fit perfectly into the thirty-foot-diameter third stage of the SL-16 booster. Forward of the mating area the spaceplane’s fuselage flattened into smooth, gracefully flowing lines, making it somewhat resemble a manta ray. The cockpit was a small bump on the upper side. The bump continued down the Elektron’s spine to form the small ten-ton- capacity cargo bay and main-engine housing, then flared gently into a dorsal atmospheric stabilizer.

  Technicians accompanying Govorov and Gulaev set up safety barriers and attachments to the Elektron as Govorov inspected every square inch of the spaceplane’s surface. “Looks good,” he said as he checked the last of the tiles. “They did a tremendous job.”

  “The tiles are reinspected twice a day, sir,” Gulaev said. “That will continue right until lift-off.”

  The technicians finally unlatched the hatch on the upper side of the cockpit. As if he traveled in a spaceplane every day of his life, Govorov knocked gravel from his boots, grabbed a boarding bar mounted just above the hatch and climbed into the cockpit.

  Cacreyatov, Gulaev, the two technicians—for a brief moment all of them faded from Govorov’s mind as he slid into the seat of the Elektron spaceplane—no, he told himself, the space fighter....

  Its cockpit was futuristic, featuring advanced digital instrumentation, a wide laser-projection heads-up display and a digital computer- controlled weapons monitor panel. Three redundant microprocessors handled all on-board functions, but almost everything from orbital insertion to reentry and landing could be accomplished manually or by remote control with ground controllers. The cockpit was large enough for the cosmonaut inside to swivel around and operate a second set of controls mounted behind him, and a docking port on the Elektron’s belly allowed easy docking to Mir, the Soviet Union’s orbiting module. That was essential: on its planned seek-and-destroy missions the Elektron would most likely need a refueling before a safe landing could be attempted.

  “Excellent....” Govorov said in a half-whisper. He examined the weapons control panel and the switches mounted on the multifunction control stick, satisfying himself that the positioning was correct for a gravity-free environment. Up in space with the normal sense of up and down suspended, a pilot could not rely on muscular cues to tell in him a split-second’s time what switches to pull. So it was necessary to realign all the switches in the spaceplane cockpit to conform to a functional hierarchy.

  Gulaev looked on, thinking that he would not want to exchange places with his commander and pilot this strange craft. There was something ominous about the spaceplane’s dark interio
r. It had never struck him so before, but now.... He broke from his reverie and checked his watch. “Excuse me, General. We must report back to the command post.”

  Govorov nodded, still running his hands over the controls. A few moments later he grabbed the entry bar above the hatch and pulled himself out of the cockpit.

  “Yes,” Govorov said, “yes.... ”—and patted the exterior of this flying marvel, or was caressed a better word . .. ?

  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

  “Attention on the station. Target horizon crossing. Situation is red alert.”

  Ann was at her station in the engineering module when the latest announcement came over the speakers. Until a few minutes ago she had been trying to make up her mind about leaving Silver Tower. It had been one of the hardest decisions of her life, and what made it worse was knowing that Skybolt was literally just a hairbreadth away from operational effectiveness. If she could only do just one more test.... But there seemed no chance for that now. Things down below were happening too fast. Even she had to recognize priorities. Besides, the argument Jason... Saint-Michael... had made about there maybe being too many Pages involved in this thing was beginning to sink in. She really hated not knowing what kind of shape her father was in, or even if he—

  She’d made her decision. Go. She’d have another crack at Skybolt, maybe before too long, and meanwhile she wasn’t doing a hell of a lot here. She would miss the stubborn general, though. It felt strange to admit that, stranger still that it was true.... They’d hardly done anything but go at each other since she’d come on board. But now she felt she knew the reason for it, at least part of it. They were two of a kind, she and Saint-Michael. Both driven. Both territorial, possessive. Both unsure how to connect on an emotional level. Had he been trying to make contact with her all along and she’d been too dumb, or stubborn, to recognize it? Was their interrupted exchange before the attack on the Nimitz carrier group leading up to something? Thinking on it now, she believed so and wanted to kick herself. Great going, Page. You’ve done it again. This is a man to appreciate, for God’s sake. And he is a man... like someone else she cared about on the California.... She could hear the broadcasts and conversations about the stricken USS California but fought back the impulse to leave her station again and rush to the command module. She wriggled uncomfortably in the “g” suit she’d put on in preparation for leaving Silver Tower aboard the shuttle Enterprise and tried not to think dreary thoughts.