Silver Tower

by Dale Brown

  As spectacular as the sight looked to the men aboard the Nimitz and her support vessels, it was even more impressive to the pilot of the lead Soviet Sukhoi-24 bomber, who was viewing it out his windscreen. While trying to concentrate on radar indications, threat-warning receivers and strike-radar returns, his attention was being diverted outside to the strange flashes of light that kept dancing out of the sky. Several times a minute the clouds would erupt in a circle of light and then a streak of fire would lance down and hit the ocean. Almost each time there was an answering explosio"ut apparently the explosions were not happening on any of the American ships. The whole phenomenon reminded him of a meteor shower, the most dazzling meteor shower he or anybody else had ever seen....

  As the Soviet strike force approached the outermost American escorts, the flashes of light began to form eerie pillars of fire that seemed to block their path like a shimmering curtain pulled toward them. At the same time the intermittent threat-warnings from the American carrier-based fighters began to diminish. Had they managed to run under the F-14 Tomcats?

  Suddenly the lead Sukhoi pilot's cockpit was filled with a flash of fire and light. He struggled for control of his bomber, watching with disbelieving eyes as the radar altimeter, which measured the distance between the belly of the bomber and the deadly waves below, dipped almost to zero.

  The formation was in abrupt disarray. The curtain of flashing light was now surrounding them, and one of the twelve Sukhoi bombers had simply blown itself apart. The other bombers had broken ranks to recover from the shock of the

  explosion, and now, less than a hundred kilometers from the first escort ship and less than two hundred kilometers from the Nimitz, the strike package had virtually come apart: the precisely coordinated strike formation had suddenly turned into a gaggle of uncoordinated solo attackers. A few of them even climbed out and headed back the opposite way toward the Arkhangel, appearing to their fellow attackers like enemy aircraft and heightening the confusion.

  The Ticonderoga got off a few shots at the bombers, but the strikers had been dispersed before they reached the Aegis ship's lethal range. The crew of Ticonderoga could only look on in awe as the mysterious curtain of light moved eastward into the night.

  When the lightning bolts subsided, the air felt cleaner, colder, quieter. Even the smoke from the fires and exploding missiles seemed to dissipate. A few of the Nintitz's escorts blew their horns in celebration--of what, they couldn't possibly be sure. Even Admiral Clancy felt like tooting a horn. "Launch the Intruder tankers to refuel the fighters we sent after those cruise missiles," Clancy told Air Ops. He spoke slowly, as if afraid to disturb the mystical air that seemed to surround the fleet and the bridge. "We'll need to keep them airborne until we get the deck cleared off. As soon as possible get Kilo flight on deck to change over with the eastern patrols." He turned to Edgewater. "I want a battlestaff meeting and a full report on the status of the group in thirty minutes. "

  He put a hand on the captain's shoulder and clasped it tightly. "And get me a damned radio. I want to make a call to a certain damned space station that's been looking over us. "

  THE KREMLIN, USSR

  The sealed chamber in which the Stavka. VGK, the Soviet Supreme High Command, was meeting was deadly quiet. The general secretary sat at the head of the triangular table, staring blankly. "Strike," he said. "Destroy the Nimitz. Launch the nuclear AS-15 cruise missiles from Tashkent, or the SS-N-24 missiles from the attack submarines. Destroy the Nimitz.

  Then the whispers and muted voices began: "The American laser could intercept anything. "What if the laser strikes the Arkhanget ... ?" "The space station Armstrong can vector in American B-52s and can steer cruise missiles. . . . " "We must have time to evaluate this . . . this new development, sir," Czilikov said, abruptly riding over the sotto voce murmurs of disbelief and dismay. "We've no available ground-launch satellite interceptors, no spaceplanes ... so we can't destroy the space station, not yet. And it holds the high ground--in more ways than one, he thought--against the Arkhangel carrier group. We can't send a strike force without risking the Arkhangel. " "I will not accept it," the general secretary said, glaring at Czilikov. "I will not retreat. I will not have this nation denied access of the seas-" "Sir, we control Iran and the Persian Gulf-- "Oh? Control it with what? And for how long? It is only a matter of time before the Americans move in again. . . . " "If we withdraw, the situation remains as it is. If we

  advance against the Nimitz without further dealing with the space station Armstrong, we risk everything."

  The general secretary sat back, stared at the shaken generals ranged about him. Once, he thought, there had been a man sitting at this table who'd not been afraid to take on a challenge. A man who, like himself, would not even consider accepting defeat. Was another like him out there somewhere? He had to hope and believe so.

  Otherwise the Americans would have scored a victory far more important than the military one. They would have stolen the future. .. .

  EPILOGUE.

  January 1993 ORINDA, CALIFORNIA

  "He wanted to,be where he could see the bay," Ann said. "That's what he said in his will: 'I want to rest where I can see the bay and touch the sky where my daughter lives.' "

  She bent down and placed the bouquet of flowers on the mound of earth near the low headstone that bore the name of Captain Matthew E. Page, United States Navy. She and Jason Saint-Michael stood on a low hill on the edge of the cemetery northeast of the Alameda Naval Station. The low clouds and mists obscured San Francisco and Oakland Bay Bridge far below them in the distance, but the clouds had seemed to part just before they reached the top of the Berkeley Hills, and the sun now shone brightly on the summit.

  Saint-Michael gripped Ann's hand, released it, then moved off toward the edge of the hill and stared out into the vista below. She watched him as he moved away.

  It was obvious that the inists rolling up from San Francisco Bay had invaded his nitrogen-tortured joints: he walked with a cane now in the cool, damp air. It was an old, gnarled shillelagh given to him in a private ceremony by the president. He had accepted it with a smile and a handshake, but he'd been quiet and moody ever since.

  It had turned out tD be his retirement ceremony as well, since the doctors had decided that it would be too risky for him to go into space again. With no field unit to command and no interest in sitting behind a desk, he'd reluctantly agreed to the medical retirement that Space Command offered him. Come next month, he'd be a civilian again. Could he accept that?

  Ann had hoped that getting him to California for New Year's would somehow improve his mood, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. Her mother, Amanda, was supportive, but even her up-mood didn't really help. He was about to leave her home when the unexpected call from Admiral Clancy came, requesting his presence at the Oakland-Alameda Naval Base, headquarters of the Nimitz carrier group, the next day.

  They had stopped at her father's gravesite to lay a small bouquet on his headstone, but now she thought that it hadn't been a good idea at all. The reminder of Matthew Page's death only seemed to resurrect other painful memories of the past few months, driving, it seemed, a wedge deeper between them.

  She moved close to him, linked her arm in his as they looked out at the swirling mists of San Francisco Bay. "Strange in a way," he said, "but I miss that station. I mean, what is it anyway? Computers, instrument panel-nuts and bolts, really. But I miss the damn thing. You wouldn't believe how I miss it." He looked at her, thinking of her life-saving skill and the fierce dedication she'd shown toward Skybolt. "I take that back.... Of course, you would know."

  There was no good answer to that. What she said was, "Jason, why did you agree to come here?" "I thought I should say good-bye to your father.... When will you be going back?" "Back?" "To the station." "Never," she said. "Never? Why?" "Because that part of my life . she didn't add, his life, "is over. I would never do anything to hurt you."

  "But what about your career? That's your laser
device up there. That's yours. You can't just-" "I seem to remember this guy, a cocky sonofabitch Space Command general who said it wasn't my laser. You know something? He was right. You want to know something else? I don't want it anymore. Don't look at me that way. I just don't want anything more to do with it. I built that laser as a defensive device, Jason. Not an offensive one." "So what were we supposed to do? Let those Elektron spaceplanes use us for target practice?" "No, of course not. We had no choice--it was them or us. But Space Command's already rebuilt most of Armstrong and placed it in the same orbit over the Arabian Sea that you put it in. They're using it to shadow the Arkhangel group-- "I still don't see-" "If Skybolt is supposed to be a defensive weapon, protecting us against strategic nuclear weapons, what's Silver Tower still doing over the Arabian Sea?"

  He paused for a moment-"Surveillance. It's still by far the best surveillance platform we've got. And it can help protect the fleet from a sneak cruise-missile attack ...... "Or fighter attack? Bomber attack?"

  I I Sure .... I I

  "How about hitting the Arkhangel directly? I wonder what Skybolt would do against a carrier? Blow up a few planes on its decks? Set off a weapons magazine? Do some serious damage to electronics? Maybe even kill a few sailors on deck. Why not go one better? You don't have to be a think-tank guru to come up with the idea. Just a sincere dedicated chief of staff, secretary of defense--or president? The Russians are going to have the Brezhnev leave the Persian Gulf and sail to South Yemen for resupply. They say that it will rejoin with the Arkhangel and form a new, stronger battle group to hit the Nimitz again. So why isn't it logical we attack the Brezhnev? Attack it when it gets to port? But better still, why don't we run our laser over the Arkhangel's home port of Vladivostok? Or Murmansk? Or Leningrad? Or Moscow?" "That's going pretty far, Ann. "Maybe, but are you so sure? You used to work on Space Command planning staffs. What if you now had weapons

  with the destructive capability of Silver Tower and Skybolt? Can you really say you'd never consider using them to stop a war before it starts? Preemptive strike? Surgical strike? Or just good old saber-rattling from seven hundred miles in space?" "I don't believe we'd ever do that. "I wish you would convince me. But you know as well as 1, too much success, like Skybolt has had now,

  can breed a need for more and more. . . . I wanted to develop it for defensive reasons only. But now. . . ."

  He didn't argue with her, but turned away and stared at the huge ridgelines of fog rolling across the bay. They stood together quietly for a long time, until she noticed him shifting his weight from one leg to the other. "We should leave," she said. He followed her back to the car.

  Rush-hour traffic had thinned as they made their way down Mount Diablo Boulevard to the Nimitz Highway and on into the Oakland-Alameda Naval Base. When they reached the gate and showed their IDs, the shore patrolman pointed toward a waiting staff car parked at the reception area. "Admiral Clancy is waiting for you, General. His driver will take you and Dr. Page. "

  Puzzled, Saint-Michael returned the SP's salute, turned across traffic into the parking lot and parked beside the large navy-gray sedan. The driver saluted and held the doors open for them. "All this for a simple debriefing?" Ann said, peering out the darkened windows. She could see very little in the fog and haze surrounding the base. "We're not heading for carrier group headquarters, either. Driver, where are we going?" "Slip seventeen, ma'am." "But we are going to meet Admiral Clancy . SaintMichael said. "Yes, sir. He's waiting."

  Ann shrugged, "The boonies. We may as well sit back; it'll be a long ride."

  The base was not very large, but the warehouses, docks, and buildings that they were forced to weave among made the

  trip seem endless. After ten minutes they pulled alongside a long, dark drydock area in front of a maintenance enclosure. The drydock was filled with oil-clogged water and a bit of debris, but it was still relatively fresh-looking water; the drydock basin had only recently been filled with seawater. The enclosure was contained on all sides, but by the looks of the four-inch-diameter hawsers leading to the diesel, ship-moving -mules" on the pier, the vessel inside was huge.

  The driver stopped at the foot of a security tower located a hundred yards from the maintenance enclosure, opened the door for his two passengers, saluted, then quickly departed. "This is getting very strange," Saint-Michael said. "I wonder what-"

  Suddenly, a horn began to sound from loudspeakers on the maintenance enclosure. The two rail-mounted mules outside the enclosure were started, and the front door of the enclosure began to slide open. "I think we're about to find out."

  When the doors were fully opened the mules took up the slack on the hawsers, and with clouds of diesel exhaust billowing skyward, the tractors began to pull on the vessel hidden inside. It had only been pulled a few feet out of the building when Ann suddenly grabbed his arm. "It's the California," she said, "Number thirty-six. They brought the California back to Oakland. " But as it was gently pulled out of its enclosure it was obvious it was not the same California. "I hardly recognize her. Look-I'm not sure but I think those are twin missile-launch rails on the nose." "And two RAM missile-launchers on the forecastle," he said. "Also cannons everywhere . . . but what the hell is that?"

  The California was a bit more than halfway outside when they both gaped at a huge new structure just behind the midships masts. Four massive legs dozens of feet high and several feet wide sprawled across the entire aft section of the ship; it appeared the battleship had had to be lengthened a few feet in the stem just to accommodate the huge legs.

  Two RAM missile launchers were mounted between the legs to provide defensive cover for the rear quadrant of the

  ship, but the most impressive new feature was the device on top of the pedestal: a huge elongated dish-at leastforty feet wide and fifty feet long, arranged so that the long part of the dish was parallel to the ship's beam. The dish had two sections of steel folded down on top of it, hinged on the sides and

  supported by hydraulic pistons. "What the hell ... I've never seen anything like that," Saint-Michael said. "it looks like some kind of wing, but on a navy warship . . . ?"

  The California was towed clear of the enclosure and the maintenance and security towers surrounding it, then pulled to a halt by two mules in the rear. A gangway was set in place with the familiar "USS CALIFORNIA" on the canvas sides, but,its vessel designation no longer read "CGN-36"; it now read "DWRS-36." "Well, stop gawking and get up here," they heard from the ship. They looked up the newly painted side of the California and saw Admiral Clancy waving them toward the gangway. According to naval etiquette, they saluted the colors aft, then die officer of the deck, and then hurried up the gangplank and were met by the admiral. "Permission to come aboard, Admiral," Saint-Michael said, saluting him. Clancy returned the salute. "Get your butts up here. I've been waiting all day to show you this."

  They had to step lively to keep up with Clancy, who rushed up to the bridge and then around the catwalk facing aft across the huge device sprawled over the California's fantail. "All right, all right, Admiral," Saint-Michael said as they finally stopped and stared out over the top of the curved stack of dishlike plates mounted on the ship. "What is all this?" "The future, Jason." Clancy turned to a lieutenant commander waiting behind them. "Hit it, Commander." "Aye, sir." A few moments later a loudspeaker blared, "Attention on deck. Stand by to deploy array panels."

  A deep-throated rumbling began on the pedestal below them, and suddenly the curved panels on top of the pedestal began to move, unfolding like giant flower petals. In less than a minute they had dropped into place. The device was now an oblong dish one hundred feet long and forty feet wide at its

  broadest point, deeply curved in the center. At the precise center was a receiver horn. On the face of the dish was painted "USS CALIFORNIA." Then the dish began slowly to incline and swivel until it was pointing almost directly south, its rim almost touching the two pedestal legs supporting it. "Not a bad piece of work, right, Jas?" "Not bad,
Admiral, but what is it?" "You haven't figured it out?" He gestured at the dish with a sweeping wave of his hand. "This, sir, is my new Californiaclass SBR, fleet command and control ship. And that is my space-based radar data transreceiver. " "That's an SBR receiver? Amazing. "Dedicated one hundred percent to sending and receiving SBR data signals," Clancy said. "Four thousand square feet of antenna, over fifty tow-4he largest antennaafloat. Shielded and hardened against electromagnetic pulses and designed to operate even in a nuclear environment. But that's not the best part. I t

  Again Ann and Saint-Michael had to scramble to follow Clancy as he led them down through a series of hatches, past crewmen standing at attention along the bulkheads, and into a circular room labeled "CIC. " "The California's new combat information center. " The admiral motioned toward the center of the circle, where a raised platform, fifteen feet in diameter and curved like a shallow bowl, was under construction. "It's not quite finished but you'll get the idea. We call it the 'DANCE floor' --but you don't dance on it."

  He led them over to the platform so they could examine it. "DANCE stands for Digital Advanced Near-space Communications Equipment. A mouthful, I grant you. It's a twentyfirst century version of the old craps-table situation-boards they used to have on command ships, the ones with the operators with long croupier sticks moving little ship models around. DANCE floor is actually a horizontal screen that displays SBR data in three dimensions. With it a fleet commander can get an instant three-dimensional map of the area around his fleet for thousands of miles. Images are put on the screen by laser projectors, so ships and their datablocks

  appear to be hovering in midair in perfect relationship to the fleet. When SBR data aren't available the images can be frozen or the computer can predict where the ships or aircraft would be and update the board accordingly. We can also integrate shipborne radar and other satellite sensor data into the DANCE floor for real-time mapping.... I think that station of yours, and