Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (22 page)

 
          
“Code
it,”
Markham
said.

 
          
Garrity
looked at him in surprise. “Code what?”

 
          
“Exactly
what you told me,”
Markham
said. “Everything.”

 
          
“I
told you a fairytale,” Garrity said. “A wet dream. I don’t have anything
concrete. The computer hasn’t verified any of my inquiries about the second
signal destination.”

 
          
“That
doesn’t matter,”
Markham
said. “They told us to report any findings of significance in the
Kavaznya area. I heard that request came from
very
high. Code it and send it up for the Old Man’s signature, then
send it.”

 
          
“This
isn’t a finding,” Garrity protested. “It’s an opinion ... a guess. It’s not
really even an educated guess—”

 
          
“Listen,
Garrity,”
Markham
said, “something screwy is going on. The
Russians risk a fifty million ruble bomber in a freezing rainstorm to scare us
away. Now Kavaznya is active ...”

 
          
“It’s
been active for days,” Garrity said.

 
          
“Then
how come you haven’t seen these side data signals before?” Garrity had no
answer for that.

 
          
“Something’s
going on, and we’re right on top of it,”
Markham
said. “Code exactly what you told me, then
send it.”

 
          
Garrity
shook his head. “You’re the boss. But do I need to put
my
signature on it? They’ll laugh me right outta the Service.”

 
          
“They
might give you a goddamned medal,”
Markham
said. “If you’re right.”

           
A
single green and gray camouflaged locomotive wound around a curve on a deserted
railroad siding. It pulled a quarter-mile-long train of long, six-sided rail
cars, moving easily at about twenty miles an hour.

 
          
Eight
miles away in an underground control center, a group of Air Force officers were
being briefed by another group of civilian contractors on the test that was
about to take place.

 
          
“Range
reports ready, Mr. Newcombe,” a technician said.

 
          
Newcombe,
the chief civilian contractor, nodded. “Tell them to stand by. General Taylor,
gentlemen, the range has just reported ready. All of the Air Force tracking
stations from here to Guam are ready for the first operational test launch of
America’s newest strategic weapon—the GLM- 123
Javelin
Small Mobile Intercontinental Ballistic Missile, or, as the
press has so fondly christened it, ‘Midgetman.’ ’’

 
          
“What
can I tell you about her that you don’t already know?’’ Newcombe searched the
faces around him.
Taylor
shook his head and smiled, lighting a briar pipe. These Air Force
generals had been working with him for years. Major-General Taylor, the chief
of the Strategic Development Branch, Aerospace Systems Division, Air Force
Logistics Command, was an old friend. This test—its success an almost foregone
conclusion, after seven previous successful launches—would ensure
Taylor
’s third star and another promotion. Of
course, Newcombe’s new position as senior vicepresident of the
Javelin’s
prime contractor was already
in the bag.

 
          
“The
train orbiting the test track is typical of a normal
Javelin
mobile rail deployment,” Newcombe said. “Six cars in
all—the locomotive, two missile cars, two security cars, and the launch command
and control car. Each car is super-hardened against EMP—that’s electromagnetic
pulse effect, for you neophytes—caused by nearby nuclear explosions.’’

           
“The new arms-elimination agreement
have you worried, Ed?” one of General Taylor’s aides asked Newcombe. “
Javelin
would be the first to lose
research and development funding.”

 
          
“Of
course, we all want to see world peace,” Newcombe said. “The arms-elimination
treaty would be a great breakthrough. But I feel it’s just as important to
continue with serious research and development. This will mark the culmination
of those tests—the birth of a new kind of strategic weapon for the
United States
.

 
          
“The
Javelin
is the most versatile weapon
of its kind in the world,” Newcombe continued. “Our quick-reaction rail launch
test today demonstrates just one possible way it can be deployed; we’ve done
other deployment tests that you won’t believe.

 
          
“The
Javelin
is small enough to be carried
aloft on cargo aircraft, such as a C-5B or even a modified Boeing 747, dropped
via parachute, and successfully air-launched—no silo, no launch vehicle or
submarine needed. Versions of the
Javelin
have successfully accomplished what we’ve called ‘telephone pole’ tests. We’ve
rolled a
Javelin
missile off the deck
of a Navy destroyer. In the water, it floated into a perfect upright launch
attitude and was successfully fired by remote control.

 
          
“Its
potential is unlimited. The
Javelin
has an advantage over other small tactical or strategic nuclear
vehicles—despite its small size, the
Javelin
carries three warheads, not just one or even two. In addition, the
Javelin
is designed to carry the new
maneuverable reentry warhead, which makes the
Javelin
’
s
business end
many times more survivable should the Soviets decide to redeploy antiballistic
missile defenses in the future. It might be worth it to replace cruise missiles
and gravity weapons with
Javelins
if
the arms-elimination treaty is ratified.” Interested nods from General
Taylor—he was already planning on star number four.

 
          
Newcombe
walked over to a map of the Vandenburg Air Force Base rail test track. “The
Javelin
missile has been riding
Vandenburg’s track for only a few hours. In a few moments we’ll demonstrate the
ability of our
Javelin
to launch
within sixty seconds of a launch order.

 
          
“We’ve
‘leaked’ it to the
Javelin
test crew
that the launch will be sometime this afternoon. The crew is completely
isolated and has no idea that we’re about to stage the test.

 
          
“When
the order is given, the train stops right where it is. A continually-running
ring laser gyro navigation unit instantly feeds position and gyro alignment
data to the missile guidance system. By the time the rocket is ready for
launch, the erector has raised it to firing position and the crew has
authenticated the President’s launch order.”

 
          
Newcombe
checked the control panel, then studied the map. “General, the crew is right .
. . here.” He pointed to the map. “Eight miles south of our position. We should
be able to see the launch after you transmit the launch command. Sir?”

 
          
General
Taylor stepped forward and glanced at his watch. “
Ten o’clock
on the dot,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
Newcombe directed the general to a large red button mounted on a box on the
master control panel. The Air Force general pressed the button, and Newcombe
started a clock. Everyone else glanced at his watch.

 
          
“If
you’ll follow me, gentlemen.” GeneralTaylor led the way out of the control room
and outside into a large stretch of sand dunes and low scrub trees. Newcombe
put the sun on his left shoulder and pointed westward.

 
          
“General
Taylor’s command has alerted the launch crew as well as the tracking and
telemetry stations,” he explained. “The rest is simple. While the train comes
to a complete stop, the doors of the train open and the missile canister begins
to erect. The canister is raised rearward, so the exhaust end of the missile is
hanging off the end of the railcar.

 
          
“Meanwhile,
the crew decodes and authenticates the launch order. All of the missile’s
internal ‘housekeeping’ functions are automatic. By the time the crew verifies
the message and inserts their launch keys, the missile is ready to go.”

 
          
Newcombe
checked his watch; seventy-five seconds had already elapsed. He looked up at
his military spectators.

 
          
“I
told you gents this would be a surprise ...”

 
          
At
that instant, a thunderous roar rolled across the dunes. Several of the
spectators, Newcombe included, jumped. All looked southward.

 
          
The
missile itself could not be seen except as a tiny dark speck, but the
half-mile-long tail of flame was clearly visible from eight miles away. The
pillar of fire rose, accelerating at unbelievable speed. It felt as if the
rocket exhaust was blasting at them from directly overhead.

 
          
“A
few seconds late, gents,” Newcombe said over the slowly receding noise. “But
spectacular, eh?” Newcombe pulled out a walkie-talkie. “Control, this is
Newcombe. Pipe the telemetry narrative outside, please.”

 
          
“Amazing,”
General Taylor said. “An intercontinental missile with an eight-thousand-mile
range, ready for launch in a little over sixty seconds.”

 
          
“Javelin
at sixty nautical miles
altitude, seventy-three miles down- range,” the voice of the launch controller
reported. “Expecting first stage burnout in forty seconds. Speed approaching
two thousand miles per hour. Altitude now eighty-three nautical miles, one
hundred seven miles downrange . . .”

 
          
“Very
impressive,” General Taylor said. “A most successful launch.”

 
          
“The
Javelin
hasn’t begun to perform,
General,” Newcombe said. “We’ll begin receiving telemetry from
Guam
and the
Marshall Islands
soon. They’ll tell us the progress of the
Javelin's
warheads. We expect a circular
error pattern of not more than a hundred feet.”

 
          
“One
hundred feet!” one of
Taylor
’s aides said. “After an eight thousand mile flight on a
small
ICBM? Why, that’s—”

 
          
“Unbelievable,
I know.” Newcombe smiled. “Although the
Javelin
is transportable and deployable in dozens of ways, we haven’t just created a
mini-ICBM. The
Javelin
is just as
accurate as the new MX
Peacekeeper
missile,
yet it’s one-third the size and one-half the cost.”

 
          
“Javelin
at two hundred seventy-three
miles altitude, turning further seaward now at three hundred miles downrange,”
the controller intoned. “Successful first stage burnout and second stage
ignition. Velocity seven thousand miles per hour. Inertial systems functioning
well.”

 
          
“We
can listen in on the rest of the launch from the visitor’s area,” Newcombe
said. “We have champagne ready.”

 
          
“Minor
inertial course correction,” the launch controller said. His voice sounded a
bit more strained. Newcombe shot a puzzled glance at the loudspeaker, then
wiped his face clean and replaced the puzzlement with a broad smile. No one
else had noticed the inflection, or they weren’t showing it . . .

 
          
“
Guam
reports tracking
Javelin
on course.
Javelin
at four hundred nautical miles altitude, one thousand one hundred miles
downrange,” the controller reported. Suddenly his reports were coming faster.
“Javelin
correcting course . . .
reestablished on course . . . now correcting course again for premature third-stage
ignition ...
Guam
reports loss of tracking and telemetry from
Javelin.
Mr. Newcombe, to the control
center, please.” Newcombe’s beeper went off, but he was already running for the
command center.

 
          
“We
have lost th
e Javelin,
” the
monotonous voice continued. “We have lost the
Javelin.
”

*
 
*
 
*

           
“Damage report! All Sections, damage
report!”

           
If anyone could see Commander
Markham’s hands at that moment, they would see knuckles as white as chalk as
they crushed the seatbacks he was gripping for support. Every one of the
thousands of lights in the U.S.S.
Lawrence's
intelligence section had snapped out. A few battery- powered lights
automatically came on, but they did little to penetrate the solid darkness of
the steel-lined, windowless chamber.

 
          
Markham
wondered how the order for a damage report
was being broadcast. It had to be a battery-operated backup intercom. Hand over
hand, he felt his way along the double rows of seats on either side of the
aisle toward the front of the intelligence section. He felt a few men rising
from their seats, and he risked letting go of the seatbacks to push them back
down.

 
          
“Keep
your seat, Kelly,” he ordered. “The damn lights just went out, that’s all.
Check your station.” He heard a timid, “Yes, sir” in reply.

 
          
Markham
made his way to the ship’s radio box
mounted on the section’s forward bulkhead. The radio was hardly ever used—stray
transmissions from the intel section’s computers could be picked up for miles
through such an antiquated telephone. He picked it up.