Brown, Dale - Independent 01 (22 page)

           
Czilikov,
as much as his aged face would allow, managed an almost childlike smile. “The
great American navy, confined like a spoiled brat in a crib.”

           
“Perhaps we
put too much emphasis on the disposition of the Americans’ surface forces,
sir,” Deputy Minister of Defense Marshal Yesimov, the commander in chief of the
Soviet Air Force, said. “It is the heavy and medium bombers of the American air
forces in
Turkey
and Diego Garcia that are our chief concern. Those bombers will undoubtedly be
allowed use of Saudi Arabian bases as staging areas. The
Brezhnev
's planes cannot counter enemy land-based aircraft from
Turkey
and
Saudi Arabia
and
carrier aircraft from the
Nimitz
all at once, no matter how
skilled their pilots are.”

           
Noting
something less than pleasure on the face of Admiral Chercherovin, Yesimov
hurried to put his remarks in context. “My comments are, of course, not meant
to reflect Admiral Chercherovin’s brilliant execution of phase one of Operation
Feather. What I’m concerned about is phase two. Our use of chemical weapons to
neutralize the Iranian surface-to-air missile batteries was, I feel, an...
unfortunate miscalculation. We’ve been able to land only a small regiment of
paratroopers in
Tabriz
,
Esfahan
and
Shiraz
—the chemical residues
are still too dangerous for any more than a small neutralization force. The
defenses surrounding
Tehran
were
stronger than we had anticipated and the battle for
Tehran
Airport
hasn’t yet been resolved.
Also, Bandar-Abbas was too heavily damaged to land transports at its
airfield—our carrier-based fighter-bombers were, unfortunately, a bit too
enthusiastic.”

           
Commander
of the Red Army Ilanovsky cleared his throat several times and added, “Marshal
Yesimov is correct, sir. Although we have made remarkable headway, our gains
are still not consolidated....”

           
“We must
push forward,” Czilikov said in a deep, rumbling voice. “The speed of our false
Iranian attack has frozen the Americans. They may have had plans to reestablish
ties with the present Iranian government but the distrust,
distaste
, most Americans feel toward all Muslims is still there—and
that has worked to our advantage. We’ve not even received an official protest
from the
U.S.
government.”

           
Czilikov
directed his gaze toward Ilanovsky.”
Tehran
and Bandar- Abbas must be subdued immediately. We must take control of the
Strait
of Hormuz
for our resupply ships to enter, and the central command
and control centers of the Iranian military must be neutralized. You have
explained the dangers and difficulties associated with conducting military
operations in the chemical antiexposure suits and hermetic equipment, but we
can’t wait for another twenty-four hours to consolidate our advances. At least
a full division must advance on both Bandar-Abbas and
Tehran
within six hours.”

           
“Six hours?
With full hermetic
equipment? That is impossible,” Ilanovsky said abruptly.

           
“We have
the transport resources,” Marshal Yesimov put in. “I can land a division within
an hour of notification that your shock troops have secured the airfield at
Bandar-Abbas and made sufficient repairs—”

           
“Another
raid on
Mehrabad
Airport
in
Tehran
from the
Brezhnev
should crush all opposition,”
Chercherovin said. “Doshan Tappeh Airfield in
Tehran
can be used as an alternate; a squad of shock troops has already occupied that
airport, although they hold it by a shoestring. The Antonov-124 may not be able
to land at Doshan Tappeh, but a smaller Antonov-72 or -74 should be able to
land there.”

           
“And Bandar-Abbas?”
Ilanovsky asked, trying to calm his
anger at being upstaged by the others in the general staff. “What happens after
my shock troops are put in place? They’re elite soldiers, not engineers. Who
will repair the runway?”

           
“Combat
Engineers from the
Brezhnev
will be
landed in Bandar- Abbas to make repairs,” Chercherovin replied easily, bathing
in the satisfied smile of approval from Minister of Defense Czilikov.
“Equipment can be airlifted from the
Brezhnev
easily—provided your soldiers can secure the coastline.”

           
“One
company of Seventh Shock Force can control the whole damned town,” Ilanovsky
told him. “Bring your ditch-diggers to repair the damage
your
pilots caused—my men will protect them.”

           
“Then
we’re decided,” Czilikov said, shooting a stem look at both generals. “The
Brezhnev
will be responsible for repairs
to the airfield at Bandar-Abbas and for a second heavy strike on
Tehran
.
The air force will provide air support and a second bomber strike.
Communications will be maintained so that the transports are airborne and over
Tehran
and Bandar-Abbas when the respective airfields are secure. Those two divisions
will be in
Tehran
and Bandar-Abbas
within six hours.”

           
“Meanwhile,
sir,” First Deputy Minister Khromeyev picked it up, “a full division of
hand-picked Iraqi infantry led by
Glavnyi
Marshal
Valeriy Belikov, the commander of the
Southern
Teatr
Voennykh Deistvii
will once and for all take and hold
Abadan
and Khorramshahr along the Iran-Iraq border, making it possible for Soviet
vessels to safely dock at Al-Basrah in
Iraq
.
With their country surrounded on all sides, the leaders of Alientar’s
government will have no choice but to surrender.”

           
Czilikov
scanned his battle staff. “This is the culmination of a thirty-year plan,
comrades. The actions we take in the next seventy- two hours will decide the
conflict—even, perhaps, the future of Soviet history. If we can subdue
Iran
and cause a new pro-Soviet revolution to occur in the
Middle East
,
it will signal a new era of Soviet power and influence. Who knows how far we
can go....”

           
It was a
grandiose thought, more political than was usual for Czilikov. Why, Czilikov
asked himself, had it been necessary to go against his own grain and invoke the
future like some bombastic commissar? Maybe because the feeling of ultimate
victory, somehow, wasn’t there yet. Yes... they’d made spectacular advances,
demoralized the battle-weary Iranians, caught the
United
States
napping and unprepared to take
action. But it was as if they were clinging to the pinnacle of success by a
hangnail rather than standing firmly on top of it.

           
His
generals had followed along blindly, Czilikov reminded himself. There had been
no long discussion, no arguments, no turmoil, no extended planning sessions.
They were fighting this war not so much because they believed in its objectives
as because they believed that they would be exiled or disposed of if they
refused. That was why he felt the need to remind them of their duty. Real
soldiers, real Russian warriors wouldn’t need such a reminder—but the general
staff never behaved like real Russian warriors. Czilikov thought he saw a spark
in them during the meeting, when they had argued about their forces’ respective
capabilities, but the arguments had quickly died away. True Russian warriors?
Where were they? Not here....

           
That is,
except for one. There was one....

           
“We’ll meet
again at precisely zero-three-hundred hours,” First Deputy Minister Khromeyev
said to the battle staff. “The final plans for the thrust into Bandar-Abbas and
Tehran
will be ready for
presentation and ultimate approval by the minister of defense.” Khromeyev
turned to Czilikov again.
“Tovarisch
Chayzeyaen, pazhaloosta?”
Czilikov shook his head, still lost in thought.
Cattle.
Mindless cattle      

           
“Dismissed.
Pastayach.”
The battle staff members shuffled to their feet and began to file out, but as
the large outer doors of the conference room swung open the retreating generals
and admirals abruptly stopped. Czilikov noticed it and followed Khromeyev’s
gaze out through the doorway.

           
There,
standing at attention, was General Govorov. An aide stood alongside him,
carrying a small pile of computer printouts. Govorov wore a dark gray military
space suit that he himself had designed for the “new breed” of Soviet soldier.
His boots were high-polished, his utility uniform was immaculate—overall, there
was something in his bearing that suggested limitless self-confidence.

           
Khromeyev
looked as if he were about to explode. “Govorov, I warned you to—”

           
“Comrade
Minister,” Govorov said to Czilikov, interrupting Khromeyev, “I must speak with
you.”

           
Khromeyev’s
face flushed. “Get out before I have you—”

           
“Come,”
Khromeyev heard behind him. Czilikov was on his feet, motioning to Govorov.

           
“But
Comrade Minister....” Khromeyev protested.

           
“You may
go, Khromeyev. Be sure the plans are ready for me by zero-three-hundred hours.”
A final look from Czilikov sent the stunned chief of the general staff hurrying
out the door.

           
Govorov
moved quickly into the conference room and stood in front of Czilikov, feeling
less sure of himself than his little performance had, he hoped, indicated. His
aide carried the sheaf of computer printouts as if it was dinner on a silver
tray.

           
“Sit down,
General Govorov,” Czilikov said, a smile slowly forming on his lips. “We need
to talk.”

           
Govorov
sat, reminding himself what steel was behind that smile.

 
          
July 1992

           
ARMSTRONG
SPACE STATION

           
“Attention
on the station. Shipwide message broadcast for all personnel.”

           
Saint-Michael
shifted restlessly in his seat. Colonel Walker was at his post near the master
SBR display with
Jefferson
, continuing to reprogram the
space-based radar unit for its next pass over the
Persian Gulf
conflict area. The command module was crowded with all of
Silver
Tower
’s crewmembers, including the
two civilian scientists and Will and Sontag of the space shuttle
Enterprise
, now
docked on one of the space station’s shuttle-docking bays on a resupply
mission. “Armstrong, this is
Nimitz.
How copy?”

           
Saint-Michael
checked the communications setting on his panel. “Loud and clear,
Nimitz.
Armstrong standing by.”

           
“Armstrong,
this is Secretary of Defense Edwards. I am in the White House with the Joint
Chiefs, the chairman of the National Security Council, the House and Senate
majority and minority leaders, and the chairman of the House and Senate Foreign
Affairs committees. The president and the vice-president are on their way, but
they directed me to start this transmission in case they hadn’t arrived when
your orbit brought you near
North America
.”

 
         
The transmission was clear but the
voice was barely recognizable. A computer, synchronized with the U.S. Navy’s
atomic clock in
Fort Collins
,
Colorado
,
scrambled and descrambled the laser-beam transmission five times a second, and
the resultant secure transmission wavered like an old-style short-wave radio.

           
“The
president has directed me to inform you of his decision concerning the Soviet
attack on
Iran
,”
Edwards went on. “He’s decided to intervene in the conflict to prevent further
Soviet advances into
Iran
and the
Persian Gulf
region.”

           
Ann Page
felt her face flush and her fingertips grow numb as she listened. Her
father
was down there, in the
Nimitz
's battle group— probably, she
guessed, the spearhead of the American opposing force....

           
“The president,
in consultation with our allies and with Congress, has ordered that steps be
taken by all available forces to halt any further Soviet acts of aggression in
the region. To this end he has appointed Rear Admiral Clancy, commander of the
Nimitz
carrier battle group, as overall
theater commander of Allied forces. He has taken direct command of all service
forces effective immediately.... However, Brigadier General Saint-Michael, as
commander of Armstrong Space Station, has superbly demonstrated the special
value of his installation. Therefore, by order of the president, Jason F.
Saint- Michael is hereby promoted to the rank of Space Command Lieutenant
General and is of this moment deputy commander of Allied forces in the
Persian
Gulf
region.”

           
In spite of
the serious circumstances, a ripple of applause and a few muted cheers broke
out among the crew. Saint-Michael remained stone-faced, and the congratulations
quickly petered out—this was definitely not the time nor place for applause.
And Ann in particular was upset about her father being in the eye of the coming
storm....

           
“Your
assignment, General Saint-Michael, is to direct offensive forces and position
defensive forces in support of
U.S.
operations in the
Persian Gulf
region. You are to use
all means at your disposal to warn Allied forces of attack or potential threats
against them, to direct offensive forces safely to their targets and to provide
Allied forces with as much reconnaissance data as necessary to carry out the
objectives of their missions. The president and everyone in this room here have
full confidence in you. Good luck.”

           
A moment
after the circuit went
dead,
Saint-Michael opened the
interstation address system.

           
“Attention,
a plan has already been devised and briefed to me by the Joint Chiefs to ward
off any more Soviet attacks into
Iran
.
That plan will now be implemented. Our job is to see that it’s successful. Our
other task, if not already obvious, is to survive to continue our assigned
duty. I don’t need to tell everyone here that Armstrong Station is a prime
target for attack.

           
“We have
weapons to defend ourselves with: the ten Thor antiballistic-missile
interceptors we control are now committed to use for station self-defense. A
second Thor garage is being sent to us. But our prime defense is nothing more
exotic than watchfulness and preparation. ... Effective immediately this
station is on twenty-four- hour yellow alert. The station will be on red alert
over the
Persian Gulf
horizon if hostilities of any sort
are taking place on earth or in space. I’ll review duty items to be performed
while under yellow alert.

           
“Crewmembers
will carry a portable oxygen system at all times with the mask around the neck.
Personnel off duty or sleeping will wear the mask at all times. The oxygen
supply will not be allowed to drop below three-quarters full at any time. A
fire watch will be posted in all modules, and all modules will be sealed. A
verbal cross check of connecting tunnel atmospheric security will be made to
the fire watch before moving among modules. Two off-duty personnel will be
assigned spacesuit duty in
two twelve
-hour
shifts. Their duty will be to rescue injured personnel in case of catastrophic
damage. They will prepare rescue balls and the lifeboat for station personnel.
The space- suit duty roster will be announced immediately by Colonel
Walker....”

           
He paused,
looked at Ann, who shifted uncomfortably until he went on, “I want to hear from
any research personnel who feels that the new dangers involved are
unacceptable. In the next few days you will undoubtedly be exposed to
significant risks—risks that you couldn’t have anticipated when you signed on.
Neither I nor anyone in Space Command will hold it against any of you if you
decide against continued duty aboard
Silver
Tower
during these hostilities. You
may return to earth aboard
Enterprise
when she departs tomorrow.
Thank you. This station is on yellow alert.”

           
Ann had
drawn fire-watch for the galley-computer control module, but she returned to the
command module after retrieving her portable oxygen system. Saint-Michael was
just ending another laser-transmitted message with earth when she approached
him.

           
“Congratulations
on your promotion,” she said, her smile somewhat forced.

 
         
He nodded, figuring silence was the
best tactic with her.

           
“I caught
that look when you made the announcement about leaving the station.”

           
“Well, the
announcement applied to you as much as anyone and—”

           
“I’ll tell
you right now, General, I’m not leaving.”

           
“Look, Ann,
two Pages involved in this thing could be one too many. Maybe you shouldn’t
reject the option out of hand. At least think about it.”

           
Ann thought
he was also telling her that her leaving would be doing him a favor.... It
wasn’t at all what she’d expected....

           
“Okay,” she
said quietly. “I’ll think about it.” She lingered for a moment then turned and
made her way to the connecting tunnel.

           
At the
hatch Kevin Baker, on fire-watch in the command module, checked the atmospheric
pressure of the connecting tunnel. “Pressure’s good,” he said.

           
Ann
double-checked the gauge and nodded. They had rehearsed red alert procedures
dozens of times, but it felt very different doing them for real. “Checks. Clear
to open.”

           
“What were
you talking about with the general?” Baker asked before he undogged the hatch.
“Are you on your way home?”

           
“I don’t
want to be, but....” She shook her head. “You know, I just can’t figure the man
out.”

           
“What do
you mean?”

           
“It’s just
that... hey, listen, don’t mind me. I guess I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

           
“No
problem,” Baker said as he activated the interlocks, then opened the hatch. “By
the way ... here.” He pressed a sheet of folded computer paper into her hand.

           
“What’s
this?”

           
“The
results of the MHD superconductor relay circuit tests. Better get going;
they’re checking everyone in.”

           
It took her
a few moments to double-check the atmospheric integrity of the computer-center
galley, enter the module, seal it off and report in with Colonel Walker that
all hatches were sealed. They’d been waiting for her. Next they checked and
double-checked the integrity of each module and each hatch all over the massive
installation. They had just finished the checklist when Sergeant Jefferson
announced, “Five minutes to horizon crossing. Stand by.”

           
What to do
now but listen, watch and wait for the next twelve hours? Ann fixed herself a
cup of coffee and unfolded the printout of the computer-driven MHD
superconductor relay circuit test. She let the long paper strip unroll itself
in an undulating stream across the galley and scanned the long rows and columns
of numbers, reading off the computer’s analysis of the thousands of—

           
And
there it was.
On the left MHD
control-circuit relay, three- quarters of the way through the test strip—it
would have taken at least thirty hours to find it if the check had been done by
hand—one of the sixteen thousand 256-bit data words did not agree with its
error-trapping checksum. Kevin Baker’s computer, programmed with all of the MHD
relay’s error readouts, even pinpointed the fault’s exact location—

           
“Attention
on the station. Horizon crossing—mark. Stand by for target area. The station is
on red alert. Out.”

           
Ann quickly
scanned the rest of the printout. No other faults. She depressed the intercom
button. “Colonel Walker, request permission to enter the Skybolt module.”

           
A pause,
then: “Sorry, no. We wouldn’t have fire coverage in the computer module with
you in Skybolt.”

           
“It would
only be for a moment—”

           
“We’re on
red alert,
Ann.” It was now a very
annoyed Lieutenant General Saint-Michael talking into the intercom. “We’re two
minutes from moving directly into the sights of six Soviet Gorgon antisatellite
missiles. We’re already in the sights of a two-hundred-megawatt Soviet antisatellite
laser site. The time for tinkering with Skybolt has passed. Maintain your
post.”

           
The line
snapped dead. She could feel the stares, hear the imagined whispered comments
directed at her through the walls.

           
Well,
damn
him. The man had put her in her
place by embarrassing her. Above and beyond.... For a moment there, back in the
command module, she’d actually thought he.... Cool it, you’re one of the crew,
lady, nothing more, for
sure
nothing
more. . . .

           
“SBR
contact on aircraft transponders,”
Jefferson
reported.
“Identification positive and confirmed.
Four-ship F-18
patrol from the
Nimitz"

           
Another
tech announced, “Sir, voice and data link reestablished with the
California
.”

 
          
USS CALIFORNIA

           
“Skipper,
the space station is back.”

           
Captain
Page acknowledged and put a few last sentences in his personal ship’s log
before snapping the ledger closed. “Right on time.” He fixed the headset and
keyed the microphone.

           
“Armstrong,
this is the USS
California
. How copy?
Over.”

           
“Loud and
clear,
California
,”
said General Saint-Michael. “Are you
receiving our data transmissions?”

           
Page
glanced over at Meserve, who nodded. “Digital imagery coming in clear as a
bell, Skipper.”

           
“Affirmative,
General. Congratulations on your promotion. When we get back, sir, you’re
buying the bar.”