Brown, Dale - Independent 01 (19 page)

           
“It’s just
knowing how to use the resources that are available,” Baker said. That and fifty
years experience as a computer engineer, he thought to himself. He ought to be
able to pull a rabbit out of his hat once in a while. She was the geniusy one,
but there was still room for operations guys too....

           
Slowly, the
numbers began to change as each memory location in the electronic relay was
examined, its data-correct checksum value computed, the memory location
analyzed and the resident checksum value computed. If the two checksum values
were different, it would indicate a problem in that particular memory location.
The circuit controlling that memory location could then be checked for
malfunctions, which would lead to the solution of the Skybolt laser’s tracking
and power-supply problems.

           
Baker
glanced at his watch. “Eighty seconds to check one register. Sixty-four
registers... about an hour and a half for the left MHD superconducting relay.
That’s a lot longer than I expected.”

           
“Considering it would normally take one of us about five minutes to
check each register, I’d say that’s pretty good.”

           
“Yes, well,
did you find anything else while I was programming the computer? Something we
maybe overlooked?”

           
“I wish I
had. No, everything else checked out. You were right. I think the problem is in
one of the ‘toasters.’ Why are the solutions in the last place you—”

           
Suddenly, a
shrill Klaxon alarm echoed throughout the station. The horn blared three times;
then a computer-synthesized voice announced, “Missile launch detection. Missile
launch detection.”

           
Ann
detached herself from her Velcro anchor pad and shot for the hatch to the
connecting tunnel between the experimentation module and the command center.
She was through the portal in an instant.

           
To her
surprise very little had changed in the command center. Colonel Walker was
peering at the monitor that Sergeant Jefferson had been assigned; everyone else
was closely monitoring his own instruments.

           
“Coming
through, Ann.” It was General Saint-Michael pushing past her. He caught hold of
his commander’s chair, maneuvered around it and strapped in. She noticed that
he was wearing a damp flight suit, as if he had hurriedly jumped out of the
shower after hearing the alarm. He put on his communications earset and she
quickly readjusted hers as Baker moved beside her just inside the command-module
hatch.

           
“Missile
launch detection, infrared telescopic scan and confirmed by SBR,”
Jefferson
reported.
“In the vicinity of Bandar-e Lengeh in
Iran
.”

           
“Silkworm?”

           
“Not yet
confirmed, sir... wait, now confirmed, General. SBR tracking three Silkworm-F
subsonic missiles heading two-six-one, velocity one-seven-zero knots
groundspeed and accelerating.”

           
“Target?”

           
There was
an uncomfortable pause
Then
: “Looks like three Soviet
battleships in the
Strait of Hormuz
...”

           
“Transmit
tactical warning message to all forces in the region. Continue tracking. Any
aircraft up?”

           
Soviet
airborne from the
Brezhnev
, sir. An
Antonov An-18 carrier recon plane.... SBR now reports total of five missiles in
flight from Bandar-e Lengeh.”

           
“Any of
ours up?”

           
“We’ve got
one 767B AWACS plane over
Saudi Arabia
,”
another tech reported. “No comfirmation of missile launch from him.”

           
“Status of missiles?”

           
“On course
for the destroyers, speed now three-one-zero and accelerating.... Sir, aircraft
launching from the
Brezhnev.
Two
highspeed aircraft....”

           
“The alert
fighters,”
Walker
said.
“Any chance of those fighters chasing down the
Worms
?”

           
“Range from
fighters to destroyers, one hundred twenty nautical miles. Range from missiles
to ships... mark... forty nautical miles. Groundspeed of missiles now four
hundred knots. Approximately six minutes to impact. Fighters now approaching
five hundred knots groundspeed and accelerating rapidly.”

           
“No chance
they’ll catch up,”
Walker
said.
“They’ll arrive just in time to see the
Worms
hit those ships.”

           
“They might
be able to get the Silkworms with a long-range-missile shot,” Saint-Michael
said. “How much longer do we have on this orbit?”

           
“We go out
of effective SBR scanning position in fifteen minutes.”

           
“Then let’s
get set up for regional displays of the area. Get everybody in here, Jim. We’re
going to need tactical SBR scanning recordings of the whole area. A lot of
people are going to be asking us what we saw—I want multisensor descriptions of
everything within range. Status of those Silkworms?”

           
“Impact in
five minutes. Fighters both at eleven hundred knots and steady. ETA six
minutes.”

           
Saint-Michael
shook his head. “Those Russian pilots are going to have to be very, very good
to tag those
Worms
,” he said, then
it dawned on him—the irony of the situation. Here they were in a way rooting
for the damn Russians—the bad guys. He guessed it was because the missile
attack seemed unprovoked. Except was it really unprovoked, or was it just meant
to seem that way
... ?

 
          
USS CALIFORNIA

           
“The
space station
saw the missile launch?”
Captain Matthew Page asked as a sheet of computer paper was handed to him. His
chest heaved slightly—he had sprinted the entire way from his stateroom to the
USS
California's
combat information
center when the news of the attack had been received.

           
“That’s
what they say, sir,” the operations officer told him. “About two minutes ago.
They’re tracking five Silkworm-F missiles launched from Bandar-e Lengeh, a
military base about eighty miles southwest of Bandar-Abbas in southern
Iran
.
Target is reported to be three Soviet destroyers approaching the
Strait
of Hormuz
. The Soviets have launched two Su-27B fighters from the
carrier
Brezhnev
and are pursuing.”

           
Page
studied the large wall-size computer-generated tactical display, which
integrated all of the information pouring into the
California
from all sources to give a near-real-time map of all that was going on around
them. The symbols representing the vessels in the
Persian Gulf
itself were unmoving, marked with
Xs
to show that their positions were estimates only. Only the icons representing
images from the
California
's
radar were marked with blinking
asterisks, indicating real-time positions.

           
“The
information on this board is old,” Page said irritably. “Can’t we hook into
whatever this space station is using?”

 
         
“Checking, sir.”

           
Page
studied the board. “The
Brezhnev
was
over a hundred fifty miles from the Strait. It’ll be a miracle if those
fighters can get to those destroyers in time.”

           
A warbling
tone echoed in CIC, and the operations officer picked up a black security
phone. He immediately handed it to Page, who listened intently for a few
moments.
“
California
acknowledges.
Out.”

           
He turned
to the operations officer, “Mr. Meserve, put the boat at general quarters.”

           
“Aye, sir.”
Meserve picked up another telephone. “Bridge, ops. Sound general quarters.” A
few moments later the
California
was reverberating with a series of loud electronic bells and the blaring
announcement: “General quarters.
General quarters.
All
hands man your battle stations.”

           
Meserve
stayed on the phone for another two minutes. “All stations report manned and
ready, Skipper.”

           
“Very
well.” Page again picked up the red phone, the direct communications line to
the
Nimitz.
“Sir, the
California
is
at battle stations.” He replaced the red phone in its cradle and picked up a
shipwide intercom microphone.

           
“All hands,
this is the captain. There is an attack in progress against three Soviet
destroyers in the
Strait of Hormuz
, about seven hundred
miles west-northwest of our position. The attack is coming from
Iran
and is apparently unprovoked. Two Soviet fighters are airborne heading for the
strait, so Admiral Clancy aboard
Nimitz
has ordered the battle group to general quarters. The group is not in any
present danger, but stay on your toes.
Out.”

           
Page
replaced the microphone just as Chief Petty Officer Cogley came up to him with
a steel helmet, floatation jacket and antiflash red lens goggles. “Thanks,
Cogley. I’ll be on the bridge in a few minutes.”

           
“Skipper.
Data link established with the space station.”

           
Page turned
toward the large tactical screen just as it transformed itself: the range of
the display shimmered and changed from a five- hundred-mile circular
display—the extreme range of the limited radar data received from the ships in
the
Nimitz
battle group—to a
thousand-mile-high resolution square display. Now, instead of only open ocean
to look at, the screen showed several bodies of water and the political
boundaries of a dozen countries. Each blip on the screen, aircraft as well as
ship, was labeled and identified with a real-time flashing indicator. In less
than a minute Page was able to read and assimilate the entire tactical
situation in the
Persian Gulf
.

           
“Amazing,”
Page said.

           
“Armstrong
says the data link will last only a few more minutes, Skipper.”

           
“Armstrong?”
Suddenly, Page understood what the tiny voice inside his head had been saying.
“Armstrong.
The space station. My
daughter is on that thing. What the hell is she doing over the goddamned
Persian
Gulf
?”

           
No one
replied. Captain Page wiped his forehead and realized the stuffy,
ozone-smelling walls of CIC were starting to close in on him.

           
“Meserve,
get me a printout chart of the last possible tactical display before Armstrong
stops transmitting and bring it to the bridge.”

           
“Aye, sir.”

           
Page bulled
through the corridors and stairways of the
California
,
swearing loud enough for anyone nearby
to hear. “That damned daughter of mine.... I
knew
she had no business on that damn orbiting bull’s-eye. I
knew
it....”

           
The number
of personnel on the bridge had doubled since Page had left it. The helmsman and
signalman now had partners beside them, the Marine guards were doubled, two
damage-control seamen were rechecking fire extinguishers and lookouts with
StarLite night-vision binoculars were stationed on the catwalks scanning the
horizon. Page eased into his swivel seat.

           
He picked
up a microphone. “CIC, bridge. Status?”

           
“Bridge,
CIC. Silkworm missiles are thirty seconds from impact ... sir, Russian fighters
launching missiles.”

           
“Give me a
running narrative on the action.”

           
“Aye, sir.
Now showing only one Silkworm missile in flight.... Russian fighters still
twenty miles from Soviet vessels ... not showing any Silkworm missiles in
flight... fighter images merging with ships ... carrier
Brezhnev
launching aircraft. Now four high-speed aircraft leaving
the
Brezhnev
moving northeast at
three-zero-zero knots and accelerating. . . . Slow-moving aircraft leaving the
Brezhnev.
Silver
Tower
says they’re rotorcraft.”

           
“Silver
what?”

           
“Sorry, Armstrong Space Station. ‘
Silver
Tower
’ is a nickname for the
station’s antilaser coating—”

           
Page’s
voice boomed out over the bridge.
“Antilaser
coating . ..?”