Brown, Dale - Independent 01

by Silver Tower (v1. 1)

  “Rest, hell,” Saint-Michael said after Matsui was out of earshot. “That’s their answer for everything. I’ve been in a damned coma for four weeks, what do I need more rest for?” He took Ann’s hands in his again. “I’m glad you’re here. When I heard your voice I....” He stopped, looked at her uneasily.

  She pretended not to notice. “I’ve been here every day since we got back, Jason. I—”

  He pulled her closer. “This is no sudden conversion or confession, Ann. It’s just a chance to say what I’ve felt and covered up too long. It’s as unprofessional as all get-out, but the fact is....”

  “Same here, Jason.” And she leaned down and kissed him. “Action speaks louder than words for the likes of us. Right?”

  “Damn right... but I’ve got to know about the station. They didn’t take it out altogether, did they?”

  “... It’s still up there. But—”

  “Good. After Matsui and his buddies finish poking at me I’ll get together with Jim Walker and the others and we’ll draft a plan to get the station going again. We’ll—” He stopped short, she was looking away from him. “What is it, Ann? Come on, level with me.”

  She thought she’d never get it out.... “Walker and Jefferson and—”

  “What about them?”

  No reply.

  “We got them into the lifeboat, Ann. I ejected them myself. They were all right before the attack....”

  “There was an accident.... At least they said it was an accident—”

  “What the hell kind of an accident? A malfunction? Did the lifeboat—?”

  “They’re dead, Jason. One of the Russian spaceplanes shot it down, destroyed it.”

  He said nothing.

  “The Russian pilot has claimed he thought it was one of our antisatellite missiles. He said it came out of nowhere, no identification signals, no visible markings. He said it followed him just before he was going to deorbit, so he fired a missile at it.... Walker, Marks and Jefferson died right away. Moyer was hurt during the depressurization. He lived long enough to report the attack and try to make repairs, but he couldn’t, the damage was too bad and he couldn’t get the others into rescue balls fast enough and.... Oh, God, Jason, they’re all dead, everyone, dead”

  He took hold of her by the shoulders and held her close, feeling her body shake as the tears came. A nurse entered the room, left quickly. He just held her while she cried. And this was the woman he’d once thought was so cold and unemotional. Wrong again. Hell, he felt himself close to tears, thinking of those men in the lifeboat, dying in the frigid, airless void of space.

  “When were they retrieved?”

  She shook her head.

  “They’re still up there?”

  “Shuttle flights have been suspended except for evacuation trips to the industrial space stations. The Soviets keep saying that the attack on the lifeboat was an accident, but their general secretary has also said that attacks on U.S. military manned and unmanned spacecraft will continue—”

  Anger was burning inside him, giving him strength to come to a sitting position in bed. “They’re just shooting at anything we launch? We can’t let them get away with it—”

  “You’re not going to do anyone any good if you can hardly move, let alone get up and walk out of the hospital. Let the doctors examine you. I’ll help with your therapy. Before you know it you’ll be—” “We’ve got to get organized—” He was ignoring her now—“Start holding planning sessions right here. I’ll need you to set things up for me. By the time I get out of here—”

  “Whoa....” a voice said behind Ann. “I’ve just arrived, and you’re leaving already?”

  She turned, and Saint-Michael looked over her shoulder to find U.S. Space Command head Martin Stuart coming through the door. Stuart had been appointed administrative head of Space Command after Saint-Michael had declared a preference for a duty assignment aboard Armstrong Space Station.

  “How you feeling, General? I just got the word that you’re back with us.”

  “I’m feeling fine. Looks like I’ll be checking out of here pretty quickly. Sir, I’d like to meet with you soon as possible about reactivating Armstrong.”

  “Jason, easy,” Stuart said. He looked at Ann without really recognizing her. “What about this man.... Just woke up from three weeks in a coma and he’s ready to blast off again—”

  “I feel this is urgent, I think we—”

  “Hold on, stop a minute. The doctors tell me you’ve got at least two weeks of rehabilitation here before you’ll be able to get around the way you used to. After that the procedure is at least a month of convalescent leave. We can’t even begin your medical reevaluation for duty until you come back from convalescent leave.”

  “That can be moved up, sir. With the situation in the Persian Gulf, I know these things can be signed off in no time. I also know I’ll be able to pass a flight physical after I get out of here. I guarantee it.”

  “We can’t afford to just ‘sign you off,’ Jason. You’re an astronaut, not in undergraduate pilot training. We’ll go through all the channels to make sure there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind about your fitness for duty. Then we’ll see about getting you cleared for flight duty. It may take a few weeks to convene a flight evaluation board, maybe more. Then we—”

  “So there’s doubt in people’s minds about my fitness for duty?”

  “I didn’t say that.” He looked again at Ann standing in the comer and finally recognized her. “Did you tell him about the lifeboat, Page?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That should have waited for the debriefing. You—”

  “I think it’s a disgrace that it hasn’t been retrieved yet,” Saint-Michael interrupted. “I’d like to know the reason.”

  Stuart’s face tightened. “All manned space flights have been postponed until the Russians’ intentions are made clear. We—”

  “I know a dozen shuttle and spaceplane pilots who’ll volunteer to bring those men home.”

  “That’s really not relevant—”

  “What the hell are we waiting for, General?” Saint-Michael was half-rising out of his bed. “Are we waiting for the Russians to retrieve the lifeboat for us?’ ”

  “Goddamn it, Jason....” General Stuart looked over his shoulder at the closed door, at Ann, then back at Saint-Michael. “You’ve been through a lot, General. Do yourself a favor and get some rest.” He fidgeted uneasily with his flight cap, nodded to Ann, and left the room.

  When the door closed behind Stuart, Saint-Michael let his head fall back onto his pillow. “Nice going, Jas,” he muttered to himself.

  Ann sat at the edge of the bed. “This has been tough for everyone, Jason. Most people feel like you do—that it’s outrageous to have the bodies of thirteen scientists and technicians stranded in space. They’re calling for a rescue mission and retaliation if the Russians try to stop them. The Russians are saying that we won’t rescue anybody but will put nuclear weapons in orbit to force them to withdraw from the Persian Gulf. They’re threatening to escalate the war in the Middle East if we try sending anything up to the space station.”

  Saint-Michael rubbed his temples. “I never felt so damn powerless before. What are the Russians doing in the Gulf? Have they occupied Iran yet?”

  “Things are still pretty much the same. Iran is divided in two. The Russians control the northern two-thirds of the Persian Gulf. Our rapid deployment force and the navy control the Strait of Hormuz. Each side makes several raids a week trying to get a toehold in the region but they’re always pushed back. A stalemate....”

  He shook his head. “Something’s bound to crack pretty soon.” He reached to pour himself another cup of water. “Either we both move to neutral corners pretty damn quick or someone’s going to come out swinging. I just hope we can control the escalation when it happens. ...”

  “I haven’t been given a full intelligence briefing,” Ann said, “but we hear on the news it’s getting harder and h
arder for the Russian naval forces to get fuel from their gulf suppliers. They must be getting pretty desperate for fuel if they—”

  She stopped and turned back toward Saint-Michael. He was holding trembling hands tightly over his face, and he was jerking up from the waist as if he was doing short situps. His breath came out in low, guttural grunts.

  “Jason? Jason”

  “Ann... oh, God, I’m starting to feel it again....”

  She sat down on the bed beside him, reached out to him and held his trembling body against hers. He shivered again, she could feel tears on her neck. The last barrier had been broken. She reached for the nurse’s call button, pressed it, then wrapped her arms around him as convulsions shook his body.

  THE U.S. DEFENSE INTELLIGENCE AGENCY, FIVE DAYS LATER

  Jackson Collins, as the new director of the KH-14 Block Three digital photo imagery division of the Defense Intelligence Agency, did not need to schedule an appointment in advance to see the director, but he had never taken advantage of his new position or his new privileges —until now. He came into George Sahl’s office first thing Monday morning with a locked carrying case. Sahl was dictating a letter into his computer terminal when Collins appeared, set his case down on the director’s desk and began to fumble with the combination lock’s thumbwheels.

  “C’mon, Jackson,” Sahl said, hitting the PAUSE button on his voice-recognition computer’s microphone. “I haven’t even finished my first cup of coffee.”

  Collins stopped. With him, even a lack of movement was significant. “Mr. Sahl, you told me that if I had anything significant from my section to bring it to you immediately.”

  Sahl sighed. “Yes.”

  “No matter what.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you mean it, or was that just to make me feel important?”

  Sahl rolled his eyes. “Well, dammit, let’s see what you got. Move it.”

  "Yes sir.” Collins had the locks on the chart case open in a few moments and took out several digital satellite photos.

  “Aha. We’re back to interpreting scrub photos again, Jackson?”

  “Marginally scrub. I've applied the new set of guidelines to these photos and—”

  ‘Those new guidelines—your new set of guidelines, the ones you forced on my section—haven’t been approved yet.”

  "They will be. Never mind that, sir,” Collins went on. “Recognize this location?”

  “Sure, What else would Jackson Collins, boy genius, bring me? Scrub photos of Nikolai Zhukovsksy Airfield. The same big Condor hangars.”

  “Except there are now twelve hangars there. And ten are occupied.”

  “By... ?”

  Collins displayed another photo, an enlargement of a thermal imagery photo of the tarmac just outside one of the hangars. ‘Tire tracks. Aircraft tire tracks,”

  “I know you know why this isn’t conclusive evidence....” Sahl began.

  “All right, tire tracks can be too easily faked. But if you’re moving aircraft, men and supplies in and out of Tashkent all day, every’ day in support of a major offensive in the Persian Gulf, I’m betting you don’t have time to doctor ten major hangars for a satellite overflight.”

  “Still...

  "Sir. I’ve been watching these hangars since before Feather started. I’ve seen all sorts of aircraft go in and out of these hangars. I’ve measured the tracks on every one, and in every case my identification has been confirmed by some other source.”

  Sahl looked at Collins. “With any other interpreter I’d say get out of my office until you have something concrete. But I know better now. I suppose you’ve measured these tracks, measured the tires and fit them to a particular aircraft?”

  “Yes."

  “And that was ... ?”

  "H-model Bear bombers.”

  Sahl took a closer look at the photo. “Well, that is interesting. They're a long way from home.”

  “I haven't found exactly where they're from—I think Vinnica Airbase southwest of Kiev is missing a half-dozen at least—but I’ve been checking on something even more interesting.” Collins pulled up a chair in front of Sahl’s desk. “Tashkent has been the major staging area for most of the strategic aircraft—bombers and large transports —involved with Operation Feather, right?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I think the Russians are putting AS-6 cruise missiles on those Bears parked at Tashkent.”

  Sahl frowned as he picked up the digital photographs of the large “satellite bluff’ hangars. “Now how the hell can you tell that from these photos?”

  “By this.” Collins retrieved another photo from his carrying case. This one was a more conventional optical satellite photograph taken several months earlier of a completely different, much larger military airbase. “While I was checking on things, trying to score a few points with the boss, I did some note taking on strategic cruise missiles. I wrote down every detail I could find on AS-6 and AS-4 cruise-missile operations. Of course, one of the biggest Bear bomber bases is Murmansk, so I concentrated my search there, took a lot of notes on the cruise missiles based with the Bear Gs and Hs, with particular emphasis on the support vehicles.”

  “This story, I know, must have a point. Please get to it.”

  “I’m getting there, sir. Here’s the scoop. The AS-6 missile uses kerosene liquid-fueled rocket engines, with nitric acid as the catalyst. Dangerous stuff. What’s more, the stuff has got to be pumped into the missile’s tanks under pressure to facilitate airborne ignition. They’ve built a special truck to do this. Here’s a picture of one of those trucks.”

  Sahl, looking at it under a pair of stereo magnifiers, thought it resembled a huge square-nosed firetruck with a distinctive set of sil- verized tanks on either side. The photo even showed a crew of four men in silver-colored fire suits working around the truck. Sahl checked the date-time stamp on the photo—it was recent. “Now if you could only find one of those trucks in Tashkent....”

  “Ask and ye shall receive.” Collins pulled the last photo out of his case. “Taken yesterday.”

  It was one of the most unusual photos Sahl had ever seen. It showed, quite clearly, one of the cruise-missile fuel trucks being towed by a large tractor-trailer truck after it had apparently struck an aircraft tow-bar on a flight-line access road. Sahl thought of the luck element that was required in this business of reconnaissance photography: a few seconds more or less and the accident never would have occured or the KH-14 satellite never would have spotted the truck. A few more minutes and the wreck would have been towed away without a trace and they might never have known for sure about the cruise missiles.

  “Impressive, Collins. They’ve got AS-6 or AS-4 cruise missiles in Tashkent.”

  “Probably AS-6s. They stopped production on AS-4s back in 1989 in favor of the AS-6.”

  “Those things could be real trouble—correct me if I’m wrong. The AS-6 has both a ground and ship attack version. Either a three-thousand-pound high-explosive warhead—”

  “Or a two-hundred-kiloton nuclear warhead,” Collins said. “Fairly long range on a normal launch profile—they could probably launch at high altitude as far north as Shiraz in central Iran, well out of range of our Patriot, Hawk and RAM surface-to-air missile sites, and hit the strait. If they overwhelm our perimeter defense they could launch attacks against the fleet in the Gulf of Oman.”

  Sahl did not have to think very long to reach a decision. “I need an analysis brief by one o’clock for the afternoon meeting....” But Collins was already opening his photo case again, and a red-covered folder with a security strip-seal dropped onto Sahl’s desk.

  “Jesus, Collins, am I going to have to spend the rest of my four years to retirement looking over my shoulder to see when you’re going to bury me, like you did Barnes?”

  “Nah,” Collins said “I got faith, sir.... I figure a smart man like you is going to help me move on up.”

  Sahl smiled, opening the intelligence brief. “If you can’t
beat ’em, help ’em beat up on someone else.”

  BETHESDA NAVAL HOSPITAL

  It was a sight Ann Page had never wanted to see.

  A whole section of the hospital’s intensive-care ward had been occupied by a portable hyperbaric “altitude” chamber. Jason Saint-Michael lay inside the chamber on a hard plastic table. Ann winced as she looked at his inert form—he looked even more emaciated, more drawn. Electrocardiogram and electroencephalogram leads were attached to his body, running to terminals outside the chamber, where technicians and doctors studied the sensor readouts.

  “His heart seems normal,” Doctor Matsui said as he rechecked the EKG paper strip. “Strong as a horse, as a matter of fact. He’s in excellent condition.” He shook his head. “Except for the... other thing.”

  “What happened?” Ann asked.

  “The same thing he’s been experiencing during his comatose state. His body is still throwing off the nitrogen. Nitrogen is absorbed easily in the soft tissues of the body—that’s why it accumulates in the joints, causing the bends. The general’s case is more serious. The nitrogen accumulated in his brain, causing his blackouts, seizures and the pain. He probably absorbed a lot into his brain tissue, and in normal atmospheric pressure the nitrogen bubbles slowly work their way out of the tissue and into his bloodstream, in his nerve centers.” “But all this happened a month ago,” Ann said. “He came out of the coma. Why is he still having these seizures?”

  “I don’t know.... Obviously his body is still being affected by the nitrogen bubbles in his system, or perhaps there was some sort of neural, vascular or chemical damage. I’m afraid we don’t know very much about cerebral dysbarism—fact is, we don’t know much about anything when it comes to the brain or the nervous system. But there are a few things I do know. First, General Saint-Michael is no longer • on flight status. His condition is obviously disqualifying. I’ll also have to recommend that he be relieved of duties as commander of Armstrong Space Station, or what’s left of it.”

  Ann had to turn away. What she was hearing, whether Matsui knew it or not, was in effect a death sentence. No, damn it. That wasn’t going to happen. To hell with the doctors. Matsui said he didn’t know much. Good, that put them all even—starting from scratch. She’d take those odds.