THE WHITE HOUSE
The White House Situation Room was in upheaval when the vice president walked into the chaos.
“Gentlemen.” All conversations stopped, heads turning toward Blaylocke.
“The president has landed at Andrews and he is boarding Marine One at this time. I believe it would be prudent for us to await his arrival before we initiate any contact with the Kremlin.”
Everyone agreed, standing by their seats until the vice president sat down at the head of the conference table.
Blaylocke surveyed the situation status displays, then turned to the group. “Cliff, can you give us an update on Columbia?”
The secretary of defense paused momentarily, then addressed the staff.
“NASA scientists, along with Doctor Hays, believe the Russians used an antisatellite killer, one of their new ASAT satellites, to hit the space shuttle.”
“How so?” asked General Vandermeer.
“The source of energy—the brilliant light—combined with the destruction, points to a laser beam. Nothing else would have the same effect, or the same properties.”
Blaylocke interrupted. “What about the crew? Can the shuttle make a safe descent, considering the damage it sustained?”
Howard half-turned toward the vice president. “Mission Control isn’t sure at this point. The crew used emergency extinguishers to put out two small electrical fires. Their hydraulic systems were damaged, too. The commander also reported a slight loss in cabin pressure.”
Howard lifted his water glass, sipping two swallows, then continued. “To make matters worse, NASA engineers aren’t sure the shuttle has the structural integrity to survive the reentry.”
“What’s the primary reason?” Blaylocke asked, weariness showing in her eyes.
“They aren’t sure if the vertical stabilizer, the tail, will remain intact when they penetrate the lower, denser atmosphere.”
The room was totally quiet as Howard continued the brief. “Also, the structural load on the orbiter will be tremendous because of the damage to the cargo-bay doors. The fuselage section, from the middle of the cargo bay to the tail, is extensively damaged. The big question seems to be whether or not the cargo doors will remain locked and provide the strength to keep Columbia in one piece during the high-speed reentry.”
General Vandermeer indicated that he had a question. “Is it possible to launch one of the other shuttles and rescue the crew in low orbit?”
Howard turned to Vandermeer. “That really isn’t an option, General. In fact, Columbia should be reentering now. We should know something soon.”
Blaylocke thanked the secretary and turned to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Admiral Chambers, will you give us an overview of the global situation to this point?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Chambers replied, spreading three briefing sheets, side by side, on the table.
“The Russian bomber groups have entered large holding patterns. There is a constant shuttle of tanker aircraft supplying the bombers. A large number of the escort fighters have returned to coastal bases. We anticipate they’ll be returning to the bombers soon.”
“What about the submarines?” Blaylocke asked, looking at her watch.
“Their big boomers, at least the ones we’ve detected, have moved into firing positions. They are well spaced to inflict the maximum damage. We’ve got every operable sub stalking them, along with the P-3s, Vikings, and our ASW helicopters.”
Chambers reached for a different briefing sheet. “Our bombers, including the Stealth aircraft, are cycling on and off station. Our missile forces, both ground- and submarine-based, are at the ready. Also,” Chambers continued, scanning the third sheet of paper, “the activated reserve and guard units are ready for immediate deployment.”
Chambers looked up at Blaylocke. “Our F–117 As, the Stealth fighters, are strategically stationed at NATO bases. We are keeping six airborne around the clock until this crisis is over. The Navy carrier groups are in excellent positions to respond to any hostility. They have over twenty squadrons of Navy and Marine Corps aircraft at coast bases standing by to supplement the air wings on board the carriers.”
An aide stepped into the room and announced the arrival of Marine One.
“Thank you, Commander,” Blaylocke replied, then addressed Chambers. “How long can we keep this up? What’s your estimate?”
Chambers frowned, then placed his papers in a neat stack.
“We can remain in this posture for a protracted period of time, no question. The primary problem, as we see it, is the inevitable encounter that will lead to further escalations, and, possibly, a nuclear showdown.”
Another aide, wearing the uniform of an Army lieutenant colonel, entered the room. He approached the vice president and handed her a message.
Blaylocke read the contents, then sighed in despair, and removed her glasses. “Gentlemen, we’ve lost another SDI satellite.”
The group sat stunned as Blaylocke turned to the defense secretary. “Cliff, your recommendation.”
“It’s time to take action,” Cliff Howard said, balling a piece of paper in his hand. “Past time. The Soviets know we don’t need SDI to win a nuclear war. It only lessens our casualty rate. Our conventional and nuclear delivery systems are much more accurate and reliable than theirs.”
“The former general secretary,” Chambers politely interrupted, “didn’t believe we needed SDI to win. That’s why he was so willing to compromise. Zhilinkhov on the other hand, well, we simply don’t know what he believes.”
“True,” Howard continued, “we don’t know. However, the Soviets are aware of our standoff strike capability, the accuracy of our weapons. Also, in my opinion, what they fear most is our Stealth bomber.”
Chambers looked at Blaylocke. “That’s true, to a degree. The Soviets know any massive strike to Russia would be evident on radar scopes very quickly. They would have time to respond in kind. What they are most concerned about is having thirty or forty B-2 bombers, loaded with nuclear weapons, undetected on radar, over the Soviet Union. They wouldn’t have any warning time.”
“My point,” Howard broke in. “I think the recent deployment of the Stealth aircraft, both the fighter/attack airplane and the bomber, has caused Zhilinkhov to react. I don’t think his primary concern is SDI. I may be wrong.”
MOSCOW
Zhilinkhov, tired from his trip to Lajes, waited while the cardiologist closed his bag, retrieved his topcoat, and walked through the huge doors of the Kremlin residence.
The general secretary looked at the capsule of blood pressure medicine, then decided he needed a Stolichnaya on ice.
“Well, comrades, the American space defense system is no longer fully operable. Our plan will work, without question. We will pull back, then mount a massive first strike as soon as the Americans return to a normal status.” Zhilinkhov smiled, pleased with his efforts.
The Politburo members, along with Defense Minister Trofim Porfir’yev, did not appear convinced. The men remained quiet, each with a vodka in his hand.
“Well,” Zhilinkhov asked, “what is your opinion, my friends? You do not seem to share my joy.”
The senior Politburo member, Pulaev, carefully placed his glass on the end table, inhaled his cigar, ashed, then looked at Zhilinkhov. “Viktor Pavlovich, we are very concerned.”
“Concerned?” Zhilinkhov replied, a quizzical look on his puffy red face. “Concerned about what?”
“The spy, the CIA agent planted here in your quarters. How did the blundering idiots at KGB allow that to happen?” The elder politician, jaw set, was loudly grinding his teeth.
“Calm yourself, my friend, or you’ll be needing this medicine, too.”
Zhilinkhov’s attempt at humor fell on deaf ears. “There is no need to worry. Colonel General Vranesevic, the GRU commander, assures me they have the spies contained. It is only a matter of time, comrades.”
“What about the rest of your staff, Viktor Pavlovich? How many other spies have infiltrated our walls?” The Politburo chief drank the last of his vodka while he waited for the general secretary to answer.
Zhilinkhov scowled. “They have been checked, all of them, and interrogated. There are no other spies, believe me. Colonel General Vranesevic does not believe the American agent knows anything valuable. The KGB didn’t find any electronic eavesdropping equipment or transmitters anywhere on or around the—”
“Our present KGB, with respect, Viktor Pavlovich, couldn’t track a hemorrhaging elephant in a snow field.”
Zhilinkhov sat back, pulled out a fresh cigar, chewed on the end, then responded. “I have sent word to KGB headquarters. If the two American spies escape, Chervenok will be relieved of command. Does that satisfy you, my friends?”
The Politburo members looked shocked. The senior member spoke again.
“Viktor Pavlovich, what in the name of …? Chervenok is a candidate for the Politburo! He has many influential friends, many ties with leaders in the Central Committee. This is not good, Viktor Pavlovich. Not good …”
“It will pass,” Zhilinkhov replied, “as all things do eventually.”
The general secretary smiled, lighted his cigar, then added to his statement. “Please relax. The American spy, and our traitor, will be caught. No information will leak out. Chervenok will be spared, and our plan will bear fruit.”
Zhilinkhov puffed on his cigar, then rose to his feet, walking slowly to the open bar. He poured a large quantity of Stolichnaya in a glass, then turned to his friends. “Comrades, trust me.”
NEAR NOVGOROD
“Just five or six more kilometers, Dimitri. We’ll take a break in a few minutes.”
“Okay,” Dimitri replied, breathing hard, his breath condensing in the cold February air.
The late afternoon light was fading under the low overcast as the two men trudged through the deserted fields. Small snowflakes had started falling, drifting lazily through the sparse trees.
“Do you think they got your message?” Dimitri asked, shivering uncontrollably.
“Let’s not borrow trouble, huh? We’ve got enough problems,” Wickham panted.
Both agents walked another kilometer in silence, staying close to a collective farm.
The American broke the silence. “Dimitri, if we encounter anyone, let me do the talking.”
Wickham glanced at Dimitri, who nodded in return. “We had an accident and left our car. That’s how we got in this shape. We still have our credentials, so—”
The American abruptly stopped, dropping to the ground on his hands and knees. He motioned Dimitri to follow him. The two men sprinted to a tree line and dove into the underbrush, breathing heavily.
“What is it?” Dimitri asked, his grimy face contorted in fear.
“You hear that?” Wickham briefly glanced at Dimitri, then back to the sky. “The choppers are back!” The American looked back along their path. “Son-of-a-bitch! They must have found where we crossed the road.”
Dimitri stared at the approaching helicopters, his mind confused and fatigued. He had never been so tired in his life. The agent reeked from crawling through the garbage pile and his hand still ached.
The Soviet Mi-28s were clattering along, hugging the tree-tops. They looked menacing, even from a distance. Both agents watched the helicopters flow over the landscape, nimble, deadly, probing every foot of terrain.
“Dimitri, they’ve got infrared sensors. We’ve got to get out of here!” Wickham grimaced in pain as he bumped his shoulder turning around.
“I don’t understand,” Dimitri replied, shivering in the semi-darkness. “What is infrared?”
“They can spot body heat in total darkness. Especially in cold conditions like this.”
The American frantically scanned the terrain in all directions, then motioned for Dimitri to follow him.
After traveling sixty meters in the brush, hugging the tree line, Wickham stopped.
“Dimitri, our only chance is to make a run for those animal pens.” The agent pointed toward two fenced areas next to a feeding trough. “It’s dark enough for us to conceal ourselves in the middle of the pigs and sheep. We’ve got to blend our body temperatures in with the animals.”
Dimitri nodded in silence.
“Let’s go,” the American yelled as they crashed through the brush, stumbling, then vaulted over the fence and sprinted to the edge of the pens.
Both men, panting, lay flat on their stomachs next to the crude fence. They could hear the sound of the helicopters growing closer.
“Okay … we’ve got to move slowly to the edge of the sheep … can’t scare them.” The American paused to catch his breath. “Then we ease under the fence and remain still until the choppers are gone.”
Dimitri nodded, then crawled forward on the cold, moist ground. The stench, overpowering, swept both men with revulsion.
The sheep, alarmed by the sound of the approaching helicopters, gave little attention to the two figures lying next to the herd.
The two Soviet gunships, searchlights ablaze, slowly tracked over the collective farm. Both helicopters continually S-turned as they remained on their base course toward Novgorod.
Wickham and Dimitri watched, not moving, not breathing, as the closest Russian helicopter flew directly over the two animal pens. The glare of the spotlight blinded the agents as it slowly crossed the sheep enclosure.
THE WHITE HOUSE
The president stepped off the air-stair door of Marine One, smartly saluted the Marine sentry, and walked briskly into the White House. The president’s military aide, hurrying to catch the commander-in-chief, struggled with an oversized attaché case and two umbrellas.
Grant Wilkinson and Herb Kohlhammer, followed by a second aide, stepped out of the Marine helicopter and hurried across the lawn.
The weather was cold and dismal. Ice pellets and snow granules fell sporadically, mixed with fog and low clouds. The skies threatened a major winter storm at any moment.
Susan Blaylocke and Cliff Howard greeted the president as he entered the Situation Room.
“Have we heard from the Soviet Ambassador?” the president asked, removing his topcoat and scarf.
“Yes, Mister President. He is on his way here, along with the deputy foreign minister,” Blaylocke responded. “They should be here in the next five to ten minutes.”
“Good,” the president replied, then looked at Howard.
“Cliff, explain to me, in detail, what happened to our shuttle.”
The secretary of defense waited until the president and the arriving staff members were seated.
“Doctor Hays at NASA has informed me, approximately thirty minutes ago, that Columbia was the target of Soviet laser weapons. He—”
“How do they know, Cliff? What… How can they substantiate their conclusions?” the president asked, then waited for Howard to compose his thoughts.
“Well, sir, the measuring devices—the data NASA receives from the orbiter—indicates the strikes were highly charged beams. Doctor Hays explained, in layman’s terms, the possibilities.”
Howard reached for his reading glasses and opened his notes.
“There are, according to Doctor Hays and his associates, only three ways to damage the shuttle in such a fashion. First, and least likely, is a killer satellite, in the same orbit, that destroys its victims with barrages of pellets. Shrapnel lasers, if you will.”
The president frowned, cleaning his glasses.
“Second,” Howard continued, “is the remote chance that Russia has developed a ground-based laser powerful and accurate enough to pinpoint the orbiter. Doctor Hays has projected a random profile of—”
“Excuse me, Cliff,” Grant Wilkinson interjected, “but the Soviets do have a laser base at Sary Shagan capable of damaging or destroying our satellites, especially the delicate sensors and solar power cells. They have already damaged a Lacrosse satellite, and knocked out one of the Magnum birds.”
Howard looked directly at Wilkinson. “That’s true, Grant, but the ground-based laser, powerful as it may be, doesn’t have the destructive capability to blast sections … actually disintegrate major structural components of the orbiter. Besides, the Soviet lasers, ground-based and space-based, have a difficult time tracking and aiming. They take a high number of shots for every hit they achieve. We’ve been monitoring their efforts—it’s documented.”
“Alright, Cliff,” the president interrupted, “what is Doctor Hays’s hypothesis?”
“Well, sir, he doesn’t consider his conclusions hypothetical beca—”
“I understand,” the president interjected. “What evidence is Doctor Hays using to support his findings?”
“That is the next point, sir.”
Howard readjusted his glasses, looking over the top of the frames at his audience. “Third, and most plausible of the scenarios, is a space-based laser. We have evidence that the Soviets have been pouring over a billion dollars a year into a fast-paced program to develop space weaponry. Doctor Hays stated—”
“If what you’re saying is true,” the president interrupted, “then all our satellites, not to mention the shuttles, are now vulnerable to Soviet laser weapons. Right?”
“Not entirely, sir. As you know, we’ve lost another SDI satellite, presumably to the same weapon that damaged the shuttle.” Howard made a note on his pad. “The Soviets might be able to damage a number of our satellites, but it would take a prolonged period of time, much longer than they could afford. Our missiles would be striking Moscow before their lasers would make any major difference.”
Howard waited a couple of seconds before continuing. “Another important factor in this finding—one we can’t overlook—is the crew. Their observations corroborate the technical information received at Houston when the laser initially struck Columbia.”
“What, exactly, did the crew experience, Cliff?” the president asked.
“They were in shock, obviously. But they reported brilliant flashes of light, not unlike lightning, that temporarily blinded them. The destructive force was simply devastating. Sir, this was no chance meeting with meteorites.”
Howard took a deep breath, then continued. “The Soviets are going to press us to the edge of the abyss, I’m afraid, if we don’t respond in a forceful manner.”
The room remained quiet until the president spoke.
“How is the crew, Cliff? What are their chances of surviving the reentry?”
“Doctor Hays said the crew is fine at the moment. They did lose the payload specialist, as I’m sure you are aware.”
“Yes,” the president replied. “I’ve sent my condolences to Doctor Tran’s widow.”
“No one knows the odds for survival of the crew,” Howard continued. “Doctor Hays was pessimistic, actually. He indicated NASA was preparing for the worst. They are flying the families to Houston as soon as possible.”
“Susan,” the president asked, “what about the recovery effort going on in Russia? Our two fleeing CIA operatives?”
“Sir, we haven’t been informed of any changes. The only conclusive information is over an hour old. The agents sent the extraction signal and the rescue effort is under way.”
The president lighted his familiar cigar and addressed his staff.
“Lajes was a disaster, to put it succinctly. Grant and I believe Zhilinkhov is not mentally sound,” the president looked around the table, “and that scares us.”
Blaylocke was surprised. “How do you mean, sir?”
“Susan,” the president hesitated, forming his thoughts, “the general secretary vacillates from one extreme to the other, then rants and raves, followed by comic smiles and low guttural accusations. He is clearly schizophrenic, in my estimation.”
“What do you believe is his primary motive for pushing us to the brink of war?” Blaylocke asked, feeling a resurgence in her stamina.
“We’re stymied, Susan.” The president looked over to Wilkinson. “Grant, why don’t you explain your theory about Zhilinkhov.”
Wilkinson placed his pen on his desk pad.
“At first, it appeared as if Zhilinkhov wanted to pressure us into compromising the SDI program. Then, after the confrontation in Lajes, we were perplexed. Nothing computed. Nothing in the realm of logic, that is.
“When we were informed of the attack on the shuttle, along with the loss of another SDI satellite, the warning lights started glowing.”
The president spoke. “Grant believes we should plan for the worst—even a preemptive strike.”
Loud murmurs filled the room.
The president gestured to Wilkinson. “Will you run through your event sequence for us?”
“Yes, sir,” Wilkinson responded, opening his glasses. “The previous general secretary, a man of basic equanimity, died in a mysterious plane crash. Zhilinkhov, from the bowels of obscurity, was in power within hours. The Soviet economy is in complete shambles. The Russians have been deeply embarrassed, twice, by being caught violating the INF Treaty. The United States is about to jump at least a half decade ahead in spacebased missile defense technology.”
Wilkinson waited while everyone grasped his reasoning before continuing.
“Pressure. Real Soviet hard-line pressure from the ruling class. Pressure brought on by the West. The United States, more to the point.”
Wilkinson looked at Chambers. “Evidence indicates there has been a strong shift, or fragmentation, within the Politburo. The political direction of the Soviet Union has made a complete reversal during the past four weeks.”
Everyone, including Admiral Chambers, listened intently.
“My supposition,” Wilkinson continued, “is that Zhilinkhov, the majority—or all—of the Politburo, and hand-picked senior military officers, are behind this effort.”
The chief of staff looked at the president, who expressed his approval. “Go ahead, Grant.”
“The ruling hierarchy has no time left to dispatch officials to plead their case on Capitol Hill. No time for a renewed disinformation campaign. No time for exploiting pacifist sentiment among the religious sector. No time left, gentlemen.”
Wilkinson could see a few heads, including Susan Blaylocke’s, nod in approval. He looked directly at Admiral Chambers before speaking.
“The Soviet system is falling apart, and further behind, even though they have an ambitious and sophisticated space colonization and exploration program. This past holiday season was terribly bleak for the Soviets, purported to have been the worst in over seventy years. TASS and Izvestia reported stores and shelves were virtually empty, provoking an unprecedented public outcry. The Soviet press ignored senior party officials and bitterly criticized perestroika’s failure. They published hundreds of reader complaints.”
Wilkinson looked around the table. “The continuing decline of the Communist party, in my thinking, is why we have seen the drastic changes in the Kremlin. The Party has both feet in the coffin, and they are afraid—paranoid, if you will—that we are going to close the lid.”
Wilkinson paused, then added the bottom line. “We have a resurrected hard-line fanatic, under tremendous pressure to save the Communist system, holding the match closer and closer to the fuse.
“Zhilinkhov wants to see if we’ll flinch and use our extinguishers to put out the flame. If he gets it next to the fuse, as he has now, and we don’t do anything, he is home free. Sure, Russia will take some hits, but they’ll survive, and we’ll be blasted into oblivion. Zhilinkhov will become the Soviet hero of the century, and the Communist party will finally rule the globe.”
Wilkinson cleared his throat. “Zhilinkhov will blow out the match, laugh, watch us put away the extinguishers, then strike the fuse before we can react,” he concluded, sitting back, ready to field the questions.
Blaylocke spoke first. “Grant, I’m not the greatest military strategist, but if you are correct, it means we can’t downgrade from our current posture and readiness.”
“Precisely,” Wilkinson replied. “Zhilinkhov holds the match. If he backs away, he knows we’ll have to back away, eventually. Zhilinkhov knows we can’t tell the American people, and our military personnel, that we’ll have to remain in DEFCON-Two indefinitely.”
Admiral Grabow, chief of Naval Operations, quiet to this point, interrupted. “I’m not sure that is categorically true, Mister Wilkinson.”
“Zhilinkhov realizes, clearly,” Wilkinson paused, directing his words to Grabow, “that we can’t convince our citizens that he is going to blow us to kingdom come. Zhilinkhov knows that we, this administration, would be the ones to appear insane.”
Wilkinson waited a moment, giving Grabow an opportunity to speak. The admiral remained quiet, though not convinced.
The chief of staff addressed the group. “I may be off the mark. Then again, there may be more to this than any of us can imagine. I’m only planning for the worst, as I see the picture.”
The president interrupted, a look of frustration on his face. “Are those goddamn Russians here yet?”
“Yes, sir,” Herb Kohlhammer responded, rising from his chair. “They’re outside. I’ll get them.”
“I’m open for recommendations,” the president said, not pleased with his predicament. “I agree with Susan. We’re going to have to respond in a firm manner. We will retaliate militarily to any future Soviet transgressions.”