“Okay, Minh, do your stuff,” Culdrew said in a quiet, respectful tone.
Doctor Tran turned his switch to the orbiter unloaded position. He then selected shoulder and pitch on the joint switch.
Everyone watched intently as the diminutive Tran maneuvered the remote arm to a position to extract the first satellite. The mission payload specialist then switched to orbiter loaded and approached the first SDI satellite, using a television camera mounted on the end of the remote control arm.
“Looks good, Columbia,” Houston radioed.
Mission Control was monitoring the deployment via television downlink.
“We hope so,” Crawford replied tentatively. He knew what hung in the balance.
A collective sigh announced the end effector mating with the satellite package grapple.
“Got it, Houston,” Crawford radioed.
“Copy. You’re go for deployment.”
Tran suppressed a grin and prepared to lift the antimissile satellite out of the cargo bay.
“Hold your breath, boys,” Culdrew whispered.
Tran gently raised the satellite package, stopped momentarily, flexed his fingers, and regripped the rotational hand controller.
“Nice and easy, Doc,” Culdrew said in a soothing, quiet voice. “You’re doing great.”
Tran manipulated the satellite out of the cargo bay, then stopped the arm, frozen in place.
“Okay, Doc, let me know when you’re ready,” Doherty announced as he prepared to maneuver the shuttle clear of the satellite.
“Stand by,” Tran replied, checking his switches. Everything looked normal to the small physicist.
“Columbia, Houston. Looks mighty fine, guys. You’re ahead of schedule.”
“Roger,” Crawford replied, watching Doherty’s every move. This was a critical maneuver. The first of three in the next thirty-five minutes, Crawford thought as he watched the crew work in total harmony.
Tran, making sure the satellite was stable, announced he was ready for deployment. “Ready for payload release in fifteen seconds.”
“Set,” Doherty answered, checking his reaction control system (RCS) thrusters.
Tran made one last check and released the satellite from the arm. “Released.” The astronaut stared, transfixed.
“Roger,” Doherty replied, deftly maneuvering Columbia away from the satellite.
“Outstanding, Columbia. Two to go,” Houston radioed as the orbiter moved slowly away from the satellite.
The last of the dessert plates were being cleared when the president addressed the Soviet leader again.
“We are not naive, Secretary Zhilinkhov. We realize your space-based antisatellite weapons, kinetic-energy shrapnel weapons, and powerful lasers are in place for one reason, to defeat us in space. The sole intent is to reduce, if not eliminate, our ability to communicate and navigate. Our effectiveness to defend ourselves. We have reason, Mister Secretary, to believe your government has used the powerful laser at Sary Shagan to damage two American satellites.”
The president noticed Zhilinkhov’s eye twitch.
“The most recent incident happened during the past two months.”
“What is your point, Mister President?” the interpreter asked in a pleasant manner. Zhilinkhov was strained, but businesslike.
“The point, Secretary Zhilinkhov, is that we are not a threat to you or the Soviet people. We can achieve, working together, a peaceful coexistence through de-escalation of arms. We must exchange our collective technical knowledge. Two powers working together for the enrichment of all people.”
The president again waited for a response. The Russian remained quiet.
A disturbance at the entrance to the hangar startled the delegation.
The Soviet foreign minister, who had left the room to receive a message, barged through the door and strode angrily toward Zhilinkhov, gesturing for the general secretary to join him in conference.
Grant Wilkinson looked over at the president, then removed his glasses and slowly rubbed the bridge of his nose. When he looked up, the president was shaking his head in resignation.
The president, apprehension gnawing at his stomach, watched the agitated foreign minister confer with Zhilinkhov. The general secretary’s face blotched, then turned a deep red, almost purple color.
Wilkinson leaned over to the president. “Here comes the space shuttle broadside. You might as well enjoy a rum crook and relax.”
“Good advice,” the president responded as he withdrew a cigar. His eyes squinted behind the match, making him appear tired.
“Wish I were enjoying this someplace else,” the president said quietly, closely watching the Soviet leaders.
The Kremlin boss, obviously upset, was marching back to his seat opposite the American. He reached his chair and launched into a loud harangue. The bombastic, ranting speech was mostly incoherent to the American delegation. The Russian interpreter stepped away from the general secretary, not sure how to react.
Wilkinson made the first move, then sat back as he observed his boss lean forward.
The president spoke forcefully to Zhilinkhov, projecting his voice from the diaphragm. “Secretary Zhilinkhov! We can’t understand you. Calm down!”
Both men were talking simultaneously, causing further confusion.
Suddenly, without warning, Zhilinkhov stopped shouting. He pointed his finger at the American and started talking slowly, in a low, controlled tone. The interpreter tentatively stepped closer to the general secretary. “You have deceived us. Tricked us again with—”
“I’m not following you, Mister Zhilinkhov. We, as a government, have never—”
“You lied about your space war defense!” Zhilinkhov spat, thoroughly incensed.
Every person in the hangar was frozen in silence, shock registering on their faces. The usual pomp and pageantry, with the pretentious behavior, had started to evaporate when the general secretary stepped off the Ilyushin transport. The diplomatic reservoir was now bone-dry.
“We haven’t lied about anything, Mister Secretary,” the president replied in a normal, controlled voice, exhaling cigar smoke.
Zhilinkhov, still standing in front of the table, pointed his finger at the president again. “You launched your shuttle craft without warning — ahead of schedule! Even your own newspeople did not know of the secret launch.”
Zhilinkhov was livid, trembling slightly in a half crouch, knuckles on the table.
The president bolted from his chair, knocking ashes across the table. “It is OUR prerogative to launch OUR shuttle when WE deem it appropriate. WE don’t need the permission of the Soviet government, or, for that matter, the American news media.”
Zhilinkhov was beginning to perspire in the stagnant air.
“I thought, when I talked with you from Moscow,” the interpreter continued, “that we had an agreement to discuss your space defense satellites on a foundation of mutual trust.”
“Oh, we did, sir, and I’m happy to discuss them n—”
The president was abruptly cut off when the burly Russian leader slammed his fist on the table, spilling three glasses of water.
“Before you launched them,” Zhilinkhov bellowed. “You changed the date! We can not trust the Americans again. Ever!”
The president realized Zhilinkhov’s real concern was the SDI satellites. Everything else was simply window dressing. He decided to let Zhilinkhov talk himself out. The meeting was a fiasco anyway. The outcome would be futile. Back to square one, with immediate escalation of tensions.
“Also,” Zhilinkhov continued, a smile spreading across his craggy face, “two of your spies have been exposed in Moscow.”
The president reacted with a surprised look, questioning the interpreter, then glanced at Wilkinson.