The skipper of USS Boston nodded. He could run faster than the Russians could hunt.
“Further questions?” asked Commander, Submarines, Eastern Atlantic. “Good luck, then. We’ll give you all the support we can.”
McCafferty leafed through his briefing papers to check for the firing orders, then tucked the ops orders into his back pocket. Operation Doolittle. He and Simms left together. Their submarines were at the same quay. It was a short, quiet drive. They arrived to see Tomahawk missiles being loaded, in Chicago’s case into the twelve vertical tubes installed forward of the pressure hull in the submarine’s bow. Boston was an older boat and had had to offload some of her torpedoes to make room for them. No submarine captain is ever happy offloading torpedoes.
“Don’t worry, I’ll back you up,” McCafferty said.
“You do that. Looks like they’re almost finished. Be nice to have one more beer, wouldn’t it?” Simms chuckled.
“See you when we get back.” Simms and McCafferty shook hands. A minute later both were below, seeing to the final arrangements for going back to sea.
USS PHARRIS
The Sikorsky Sea King helicopter was a tight fit on the frigate’s helo deck, but for casualties the rules were always bent. The ten worst cases, all scald/burns and broken limbs, were loaded aboard after the helo was refueled, and Morris watched it lift off for the beach. The captain of what was left of USS Pharris put his cap back on and lit another cigarette. He still didn’t know what had gone wrong with that Victor-class. Somehow the Russian skipper had teleported himself from one place to another.
“We killed three o’ the bastards, sir,” Chief Clarke appeared at Morris’s side. “Maybe this one just got lucky.”
“Reading minds, Chief?”
“Beg pardon, sir. You wanted me to report on some things. The pumps have just about dried things out. I’d say we’re leaking ten gallons an hour at the crack on the lower starboard corner, hardly worth talking about. The bulkhead’s holding, and we got people keeping an eye on it. Same story with the tow cable. Those tugboat guys know their stuff. The engineer reports both boilers are fully repaired, number two still on line. The Prairie Masker is operating. The Sea Sparrow is working again in case we need that, but the radars’re still down.”
Morris nodded. “Thank you, Chief. How are the men?”
“Busy. Kinda quiet. Mad.”
That’s one advantage they have over me, Morris thought. They’re busy.
“If you’ll pardon me saying so, skipper, you look awful tired,” Clarke said. The bosun was worried about his captain, but had already said more than he was supposed to.
“We’ll all get a good rest soon enough.”
SUNNYVALE, CALIFORNIA
“We show one bird lifting off,” the watch officer told North American Aerospace Defense Command. “Coming out of Baikonur Kosmodrome on a heading of one-five-five, indicating a probable orbital inclination of sixty-five degrees. Signature characteristics say it’s either an SS-11 ICBM or an F-1-type space booster.”
“Only one?”
“Correct, one bird only.”
A lot of U.S. Air Force officers had suddenly become very tense. The missile was on a heading that would take it directly over the central United States in forty to fifty minutes. The rocket in question could be many things. The Russian SS-9 missile, like many American counterparts, was obsolete and had been adapted as a satellite booster rocket. Unlike its American counterparts, it had been originally designed as a fractional-orbital-bombardment system: FOBS, a missile that could put a 25-megaton nuclear warhead into a flight path mimicking that of a harmless satellite.
“Booster-engine cutoff-okay, we show separation and second-stage ignition,” the colonel said on the phone. The Russians would freak if they knew how good our cameras are, he thought. “Flight path continues as before.”
Already NORAD had flashed a warning to Washington. If this was a nuclear strike, National Command Authority was ready to react. So many current scenarios began with a large warhead exploded at orbital height over the target country, causing massive electromagnetic damage to communications systems. The SS-9 FOBS system was tailor-made for that sort of thing.
“Second-stage cutoff . . . and there’s third-stage ignition. Do you copy our position fix, NORAD?”
“That’s a roger,” acknowledged the general under Cheyenne Mountain. The signal from the early-warning satellite was linked into NORAD headquarters, and a watch crew of thirty was holding its breath, watching the image of the space booster move across the map projection. Dear God, don’t let it be a nuke . . .
Ground-based radar in Australia now tracked the vehicle, showing the climbing third stage and the spent second stage falling into the Indian Ocean. Their information also was linked by satellite to Sunnyvale and Cheyenne Mountain.
“That looks like shroud release,” the man in Sunnyvale said. The radar picture showed four new objects fluttering away from the third stage. Probably the protective aluminum shroud needed for atmospheric flight, but unnecessary weight for a space vehicle. People began to breathe more regularly. A reentry vehicle needed such a shroud, but a satellite did not. After five tense minutes, this was the first piece of good news. The FOBS didn’t do that.
An Air Force RC-135 aircraft was already lifting off the ground at Tinker Air Force Base, Oklahoma, its engines firewalled as the flight crew raced the converted 707 airliner to altitude. The roof of what otherwise would be a passenger compartment held a large telescope/camera assembly used to inspect Soviet space vehicles. In the back, technicians activated the sophisticated tracking systems used to lock the camera in on its distant target.
“Burnout”, they announced at Sunnyvale. “The vehicle has achieved orbital velocity. Initial numbers look like an apogee of one hundred fifty-six miles and a perigee of one hundred forty-eight.” They’d have to refine those numbers, but NORAD and Washington needed something right now.
“Your evaluation?” NORAD asked Sunnyvale.
“Everything is consistent with a radar-ocean-reconnaissance-satellite launch. The only change is the orbital insertion path was southerly instead of northerly.” Which made perfectly good sense, as everyone knew. Any kind of rocket launched over the pole entailed dangers that no one wanted to contemplate.
Thirty minutes later they were sure. The crewmen on the RC-135 got good pictures of the new Soviet satellite. Before it had completed its first revolution, it was classified as a RORSAT. The new radar-ocean-surveillance satellite would be a problem for the Navy, but not something to end the world. The people in Sunnyvale and Cheyenne Mountain maintained their vigil.
ICELAND
They followed a footpath around the mountain. Vigdis told them it was a favorite place for tourists to visit. A small glacier on the northern side of the mountain fed a half-dozen streams, which led in turn to a sizable valley full of small farms. They had a fine vantage point. Almost everything in sight was below them, including several roads that were kept under constant scrutiny. Edwards debated the advantages of cutting straight across the valley toward their objective or staying on the rough ground to the east.
“I wonder what kinda radio station that is,” Smith said. There was a tower of some sort eight miles west of them.
Mike looked at Vigdis and got a shrug. She didn’t listen to the radio.
“Not easy to tell from this far,” Edwards observed. “But probably they have some Russians.” He unfolded his big map. This part of the island showed lots of roads, but the information had to be taken with a grain of salt. Only two of the roads had decent surfaces. The rest were called “seasonal” on the map-meaning exactly what? Edwards wondered. Of these, some were well maintained, others were not. The map didn’t say which was which. All of the Soviet troops they’d seen on the ground were driving jeep-type vehicles, not the tracked infantry-carriers they’d observed on the invasion day. A good driver in a four-by-four could go almost anywhere, however. How good were the Soviets at driving jeeps over broken ground . . . so many things to worry about, Edwards thought.
Edwards tracked his field glasses over the area to his west. He saw a twin-prop airliner lift off from a small airfield. You forgot about that, didn’t you? The Russians are using those puddle-jumpers to ferry troops around . . .
“Sarge, what do you think?” Might as well get a professional decision.
Smith grimaced. The choice was between physical danger and physical exhaustion. Some choice, he thought. That’s supposed to be why we have officers.
“I’d at least have some patrols down there, Lieutenant. Lots of roads, figure some checkpoints so they can keep an eye on the local folks. Let’s say that radio’s a navigation beacon. It’ll be guarded. Regular radio station’ll be guarded, too. All these farms-what kinda farms, Miss Vigdis?”
“Sheep, some milk cows, potatoes,” she answered.
“So when the Russkies are off duty, there’ll be some wandering around to get some fresh food instead of their canned crap. We would, too. I don’t much like it, Lieutenant.”