by Dale Brown
dard 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 flamb 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-inillimeter 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-T' 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 seeriied 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 Caltfornia now. "What did they say? What happened?", "Our ships were attacked by six Soviet medium bombers," Jim Walker said. "The bombers had Su-2T 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
I 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 apprcWal 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.
III think not, Comrade." Cacreyatov got to his feet in a flurry of arms and legs and stood at attention, eyes straight ahead, chest heaving.
III 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. "T'his 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 scaled, 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 prrssure-test fittings in time for the final mating. The tests a
re 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.91 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-'9 "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. . . . " Govoroy'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 Saturri-V booster, was well over two hundred twenty feet tall and weighed nearly two hundred fifty tons. It carried Rw "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 carphone 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 him in a splitsecond'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 interior. 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 immites 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 recopize 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 bell 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 tying 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.
In the command module the engineering chief, Colonel Marks, asked Saint-Michael:
"Are we going,to attack their carrier, General?"
Saint-Michael shook his head. "My orders are to protect Iran from Soviet invasion, not to destroy the Brezhnev. It seems weve made a hard but fair trade---the California for those Soviet transports and fighters we jumped over Tehran. If the Russians back off now this whole thing just may blow over-' I
"Aircraft launching from the Brezhnev," Sergeant Jake Jefferson broke in. "High speed. Heading west." "Westbo
und?" "Yes sir. Nimitz launching aircraft in response. Also heading west." Jefferson turned to Saint-Michael. "Looks like no one's going to back off today, General ......
Saint-Michael activated his communications panel, checked the scrambler/descrambler and keyed the microphone. "Nimitz, this is Armstrong. Come in." "Clancy here, Jas. Go ahead." "We picked up those Flankers heading west, Admiral. Are your aircraft pursuing?" "Affirmative. The Air Force has a 767B AWACS orbiting east of Riyadh. It asked for protection from those Flankers until it can get some F- 15 reinforcements from Kigzi Airbase. The 767B will be returning back under friendly Rapier SAM cover until'our F- 15s catch up to them." "Copy. We've got the whole area covered. Are you receiving our data transmissions okay?" "So far. The Ticonderoga is relaying SBR surveillance data to us. It's a bastardized way of doing it, but with California out of commission we don't--
The transmission halted in a loud, piercing squeal that caused everyone listening in to rip their earsets away from their heads.
"What the hell ... ?" Just as Saint-Michael called out for a !damage report a tremendous lurch threw everyone on Silver Tower towards the Velcro-covered floor. Technicians yelled out in pain-no one could stop himself as bodies slammed to the deck. It was as though they were rag dolls hurled to the floor by an angry child. The module seemed to be spinning in several directions all at once.
General Saint-Michael, the only one secured in place, set his communications panel to stationwide address. "Attention on the station. Collision warning. Damage report on loudspeaker. Enterprise, clear for emergency disconnect. This station is on red alert. " He unfastened his safety belt and tried to rise out of his seat but found he was held fast.
Gravity! For the first time Silver Tower had been exposed to it. Whatever caused it, the station would soon tear itself apart if the huge forces did not stop. . With great effort Saint-Michael managed to overcome the unexpectedly severe "g- forces and haul himself out of the commander's seat. It felt as if he was riding a fast express elevator from the first to the eighth floor--the gravity had a terrific pull after weeks of microgravity.