“The strategic implications . . .” Ryan said, and stopped. “Jesus.”
“It’s going to change the world,” the General agreed.
“You know that they’re playing with the same thing at Dushanbe.”
“Yes, sir,” Major Gregory answered. “And they might know something that we don’t.”
Ryan nodded. Gregory was even smart enough to know that someone else might be smarter. This was some kid.
“Gentlemen, out in my helicopter is a briefcase. Could you have somebody bring it in? There are some satellite photos that you might find interesting.”
“How old are these shots?” the General asked five minutes later as he leafed through the photos.
“A couple of days,” Jack replied.
Major Gregory peered at them for a minute or so. “Okay, we have two slightly different installations here. It’s called a ‘sparse array.’ The hexagonal array—the six-pillar one—is a transmitter. The building in the middle here is probably designed to house six lasers. These pillars are optically stable mounts for mirrors. The laser beams come out of the building, reflect off the mirrors, and the mirrors are computer-controlled to concentrate the beam on a target.”
“What do you mean by optically stable?”
“The mirrors have to be controlled with a high degree of accuracy, sir,” Gregory told Ryan. “By isolating them from the surrounding ground you eliminate vibration that might come from having a man walk nearby, or driving a car around. If you jiggle the mirrors by a small multiple of the laser-light frequency, you mess up the effect you’re trying to get. Here we use shock mountings to enhance the isolation factor. It’s technique originally developed for submarines. Okay? This other diamond-shaped array is . . . oh, of course. That’s the receiver.”
”What?” Jack’s brain had just met another stone wall.
“Let’s say you want to make a really good picture of something. I mean, really good. You use a laser as your strobe light.”
“But why four mirrors?”
“It’s easier and cheaper to make four small mirrors than one big one,” Gregory explained. “Hmph. I wonder if they’re trying to do a holographic image. If they can really lock they illuminating beams in phase . . . theoretically it’s possible. There are a couple of things that make it tricky, but the Russians like the brute-force approach . . . Damn!” His eyes lit up. “That’s one hell of an interesting idea! I’ll have to think about that one.”
“You’re telling me that they built this place just to take pictures of our satellites?” Ryan demanded.
“No, sir. They can use it for that, no sweat. It makes a perfect cover. And a system that can image a satellite at geosynchronous altitude might be able to clobber one in low earth orbit. If you think of these four mirrors here as a telescope, remember that a telescope can be a lens for a camera or part of a gunsight. It could also make a damned efficient aiming system. How much power runs into this lab?” |
Ryan set down a photo. “The current power output from this dam is something like five hundred megawatts. But—”
“They’re stringing new power lines,” Gregory observed. “How come?”
“The powerhouse is two stories—you can’t tell from this angle. It looks like they’re activating the top half. That’ll bring their peak power output to something like eleven hundred megawatts.”
“How much comes into this place?”
“We call it ‘Bach.’ Maybe a hundred. The rest goes ‘Mozart,’ the town that grew up on the next hill over, they’re doubling their available power.”
“More than that, sir,” Gregory noted. “Unless they’re j to double the size of that town, why don’t you assume the increased power is just going to the lasers?”
Jack nearly choked. Why the hell didn’t you think of that! he growled at himself.
“I mean,” Gregory continued, “I mean . . . that’s like hundred megawatts of new power. Jesus, what if they made a breakthrough? How hard is it to find out what’s happening there?”
“Take a look at the photos and tell me how easy you think it would be to infiltrate the place,” Ryan suggested.
“Oh.” Gregory looked up. “It would be nice to know how much power they push out the front end of their instruments. How long has this place been there, sir?”
“About four years, and it’s not finished yet. Mozart is new. Until recently the workers were housed in this barracks and support facility. We took notice when the apartment building went up, same time as the perimeter fence. When the Russians start pampering the workers, you know that the project has a really high priority. If it has a fence and guard towers, we know it’s military.”
“How did you find it?” Gregory asked.
“By accident. The Agency was redrawing its meteorological data on the Soviet Union, and one of the technicians Bedded to do a computer analysis of the best places over there for astronomical observation. This is one of them. The weather over the last few months has been unusually cloudy, but on average the skies are about as clear there as they are here. The same is true of Sary Shagan, Semipalatinsk, and another new one, Storozhevaya.” Ryan set out some more photographs. Gregory looked at them.
“They sure are busy.”
“Good morning, Misha,” Marshal of the Soviet Union Dmitri Timofeyevich Yazov said.
“And to you, Comrade Defense Minister,” Colonel Filitov replied.
A sergeant helped the Minister off with his coat while another brought in a tray with a tea setting. Both withdrew when Misha opened his briefcase.
“So, Misha, what does my day look like?” Yazov poured two cups of tea. It was still dark outside the Council of Ministers building. The inside perimeter of the Kremlin walls was lit with harsh blue-white floods, and sentries appeared and disappeared in the splashes of light.
“A full one, Dmitri Timofeyevich,” Misha replied. Yazov wasn’t the man that Dmitri Ustinov was, but Filitov had to admit to himself that he did put in a full day’s work as a uniformed officer should. Like Filitov, Marshal Yazov was by background a tank officer. Though they had never met during the war, they did know one another by reputation. Misha’s was better as a combat officer—purists claimed that he was an old-fashioned cavalryman at heart, though Filitov cordially hated horses—while Dmitri Yazov had won a reputation early on as a brilliant staff officer and organizer—and a Party man, of course. Before everything else, Yazov was a Party man, else he would never have made the rank of Marshal. “We have that delegation coming in from the experimental station in the Tadzhik SSR.”
“Ah, ‘Bright Star.’ Yes, that report is due today, isn’t it?”
“Academicians,” Misha snorted. “They wouldn’t know what a real weapon was if I shoved it up their asses.”
“The time for lances and sabers is past, Mikhail Semyonovich,” Yazov said with a grin. Not the brilliant intellect that Ustinov had been, neither was Yazov a fool like his predecessor, Sergey Sokolov. His lack of engineering expertise was balanced by an uncanny instinct for the merits of new weapons systems, and rare insights into the people of the Soviet Army. “These inventions show extraordinary promise.”
“Of course. I only wish that we had a real soldier running the project instead of these starry-eyed professors.”
“But General Pokryshkin—”
“He was a fighter pilot. I said a soldier, Comrade Minister. Pilots will support anything that has enough buttons and dials. Besides, Pokryshkin has spent more time in universities of late than in an aircraft. They don’t even let him fly himself anymore. Pokryshkin stopped being a soldier ten years ago. Now he is the procurer for the wizards.” And he is building his own little empire down there, but that’s an issue we’ll save for another day.
“You wish a new job assignment, Misha?” Yazov inquired slyly.
“Not that one!” Filitov laughed, then turned serious. “What I am trying to say, Dmitri Timofeyevich, is that the progress assessment we get from Bright Star is—how do I say this?―warped by the fact that we don’t have a real military man on the scene. Someone who understands the vagaries of combat, someone who knows what a weapon is supposed to be.”
The Defense Minister nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I see your point. They think in terms of ‘instruments’ rather than ‘weapons,’ that is true. The complexity of the project concerns me.”
“Just how many moving parts does this new assembly have?”
“I have no idea—thousands, I should think.”
“An instrument does not become a weapon until it can be handled reliably by a private soldier—well, at least a senior lieutenant. Has anyone outside the project ever done a reliability assessment?” Filitov asked.
“No, not that I can recall.”
Filitov picked up his tea. “There you are, Dmitri Timofeyevich. Don’t you think that the Politburo will be interested in that? Until now, they have been willing to fund the experimental project, of course, but”—Filitov took a sip—”they are coming here to request funding to upgrade the site to operational status, and we have no independent assessment of the project.”