“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 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.