“Have you informed NMCC?”
“Yes, sir, and we’re calling Doug Welch in also.”
“Do you have their data yet?”
“It’ll be ready when you get here.”
“Very well, Colonel. I’m on the way. Get a bird up to Shemya to fly that Army guy down.”
The Colonel aboard Cobra Belle was now talking to his communications officer, ordering him to send everything they had via digital link to NORAD and Sunnyvale. This was accomplished in under five minutes. Next the mission commander told the flight crew to return to Shemya. They still had enough fuel for two more hours of patrolling, but he figured that nothing else would be happening tonight. What had taken place to this point was enough. The Colonel had just had the privilege of witnessing something that few men in human history ever saw. He had just seen the world change, and unlike most men, he understood the significance of it. It was an honor, he told himself, that he would just as soon have never seen.
“Captain, they got there first.” Dear God.
Jack Ryan was just about to take the cloverleaf exit off I-495 when his car phone rang.
“Yes?”
“We need you back here.”
“Right.” The line clicked off. Jack took the exit and stayed in the curb lane, continuing to take another of the sweeping cloverleaf exits back onto the Washington Beltway, and back to CIA. It never failed. He’d taken the afternoon off to meet with the SEC people. It had turned out that the company officers had been cleared of any wrongdoing, and that cleared him, too—or would, if the SEC investigators ever closed their file. He’d hoped to call it a day and drive home. Ryan grumbled as he headed back toward Virginia, wondering what today’s crisis was.
Major Gregory and three members of his software team were all standing by a blackboard, diagramming the flow of their mirror-control program package when a sergeant entered the room.
“Major, you’re wanted on the phone.”
“I’m busy; can it wait?”
“It’s General Parks, sir.”
“His master’s voice,” Al Gregory grumbled. He tossed the chalk to the nearest man and walked out of the room. He was on the phone in a minute.
“There’s a helicopter on its way to pick you up,” the General said without any pleasantries.
“Sir, we’re trying to nail down—”
“There’ll be a Lear waiting for you at Kirtland. Not enough time to get you here on a commercial bird. You won’t need to pack. Get moving, Major!”
“Yessir.”
“What went wrong?” Morozov asked. The engineer stared at his console, an angry frown on his face.
“Thermal blooming. Damn! I thought we’d put that one behind us.”
Across the room, the low-powered laser system was making another image of the target. The monocolor image was like a close-up black-and-white photograph, though what would have been black was maroon instead. The television technicians made up a split-screen image to compare before and after.
“No holes,” Pokryshkin noted sourly. “So what?” Bondarenko said in surprise. “My God, man, you melted the thing! That looks like it was dipped in a ladle of molten steel.” And indeed it did. What had been flat surfaces were now rippled from the intense heat that was still radiating away. The solar cells arrayed on the body of the satellite—which were designed to absorb light energy—appeared to be burned off entirely. On closer inspection, the entire satellite body was distorted from the energy that had blasted it.
Pokryshkin nodded, but his expression hadn’t changed. “We were supposed to have chopped a hole right through it. If we can do that, it would look as though a piece of orbiting space junk had impacted the satellite. That’s the kind of energy concentration we were looking for.”
“But you can now destroy any American satellite you wish!”
“Bright Star wasn’t built to destroy satellites, Colonel. We can already do that easily enough.”
And Bondarenko got the message. Bright Star had, in fact, been built for that specific purpose, but the power breakthrough that had justified the funding for the installation exceeded expectations by a factor of four, and Pokryshkin wanted to make two leaps at once, to demonstrate an antisatellite capability and a system that could be adapted to ballistic-missile defense. This was an ambitious man, though not in the usual sense.
Bondarenko set that aside and thought about what he’d seen. What had gone wrong? It must have been thermal blooming. As the laser beams chopped through the air, they’d transferred a fractional amount of their power as heat in the atmosphere. This had roiled the air, disturbing the optical path, moving the beam on and off the target and also spreading the beam wider than its intended diameter.
But despite that, it had still been powerful enough to melt metal one hundred eighty kilometers away! the Colonel told himself. This was no failure. It was a giant leap toward a wholly new technology.
“Any damage to the system?” the General asked the project director.
“None, otherwise we’d not have gotten the follow-up image. It would appear that our atmospheric-compensation measures are sufficient for the imaging beam but not for the high-power transmission. Half a success, Comrade General.”
“Yes.” Pokryshkin rubbed his eyes for a moment and spoke more firmly. “Comrades, we have demonstrated great progress tonight, but there is still more work to be done.”
“And that’s my job,” Morozov’s neighbor said. “We’ll solve this son of a bitch!”
“Do you need another man for your team?”
“It’s part mirrors and part computers. How much do you know about those?”
“That is for you to decide. When do we begin?”
“Tomorrow. It’ll take twelve hours for the telemetry people to organize their data. I’m going to catch the next bus back to my flat and have a drink. My family is away for another week. Care to join me?”
“What do you think that was?” Abdul asked.
They had just gotten to the top of a ridge when the meteor had appeared. At least, it had looked like a meteor’s fiery track across the sky at first. But the thin golden line had hung there, and actually marched upward—very quickly, but it had been discernible.
A thin golden line, the Archer thought. The air itself had glowed. What made the air do that? He forgot where and who he now was for a moment, thinking back to his university days. Heat made air do that. Only heat. When a meteor came down, the friction of its passage . . . but this line could not have been a meteor. Even if the upward stroke had been an illusion—and he wasn’t sure of that; eyes could play tricks—the golden line had lasted for nearly five seconds. Perhaps longer, the Archer reflected. Your mind couldn’t measure time either. Hmph. He sat down abruptly and pulled out his note pad. The CIA man had given him that and told him to keep a diary of events. A useful thing to do; it hadn’t ever occurred to him. He wrote down the time, date, place, and approximate direction. In a few more days he’d be heading back to Pakistan, and perhaps the CIA man would find this interesting.
6.
One if by Land
IT was dark when he arrived. Gregory’s driver came off the George Washington Parkway toward the Pentagon’s Mall entrance. The guard raised the gate, allowing the nondescript government Ford—the Pentagon was buying Fords this year—to proceed up the ramp, loop around the handful of parked cars, and drop him off at the steps right behind a shuttle bus. Gregory knew the routine well enough: show the guard the pass, walk through the metal detector, then down the corridor filled with state flags, past the cafeteria, and down the ramp to the shopping arcade lit and decorated in the style of a 12th-century dungeon. In fact, Gregory had played Dungeons and Dragons in high school, and his first trip to the dreary polygon of a building had convinced him that the authors’ inspiration had come from this very place.
The Strategic Defense Initiative Office was beneath the Pentagon’s shopping concourse (its entrance, in fact, directly under the pastry shop), a space about a thousand feet long that had previously been the bus and taxi stand—before the advent of car bombs had persuaded the nation’s defense community that automobiles were not all that fine a thing to have under the E-ring. This portion of the building, therefore, was the newest and most secure office—for the nation’s newest and least secure military program. Here Gregory took out his other pass. He showed it to the four people at the security desk, then held it against the wall panel that interrogated its electromagnetic coding and decided that the Major could enter. This took him through a waiting room to double glass doors. He smiled at the receptionist as he went through, then at General Parks’s secretary. She nodded back, but was annoyed to be staying so late and was not in a smiling mood.