But at sixty seconds, when the Sunbeam went into its final countdown, a bright, red caution light would illuminate on Morozov’s center CRT.
“SELECTED MISSILE IN FINAL COUNTDOWN,” the message would read.
The instant the message displayed on Morozov’s screen, Ammon would make a quick turn to the west. Pushing his throttles up, he would make his last dash to the launch line. Morozov would then see the missile in its final countdown. He would read the target destination. He would feel the turn to the west. And then he would know. It might take him a moment to put it together, but soon enough, he would finally understand.
President Allen took a quick sip of ice-water and swirled it around in his mouth before washing it down his dry throat. He looked at his watch for the thousandth time in the past twenty minutes.
“Any indication the Russians arc wary?” he demanded once again.
“Negative, sir,” the communications controller replied. “As of this moment, they have no indication. The Russian tactical communications are following a very familiar pattern. There has been no movement of any of their defensive air-patrols to the southeast. They still have their forces concentrated along the northwestern corridor.”
Blake looked up, his face a tight wad of concentration, his forehead furrowed. “The missile will be airborne within two minutes, sir.”
“Any word on the target?” the President asked for the fifth time in the past half-hour.
Blake shifted again in his seat. “No, sir. Not yet. But he’s there. We will find him. I promise you that.”
Forty-five miles above the earth, centered above Moscow, the newest American satellite was working in high gear. Its enormous radar antenna had already been deployed and was being used to create a stunning visual scene, even through the darkness of night. Powerful infrared sensors, designed to detect the most minute differences in heat sources, scanned the target location with enough definition to tell which individuals were wearing coats and which ones were not, based on the heat that escaped from their bodies. Working in conjunction with a series of computer-enhanced telescoping cameras, the satellite beamed through its search area. And what it saw was no less than amazing. The detail was perfectly dear.
Inside its central computer, the satellite put the information together. The radar. The infrared. The laser sensors. The optical scene. It pulled it all together and overlapped the different images into one incredible display. Through the crystal-clear vacuum of space, it continued to search for Fedotov.
The president of Russia sat at his desk inside the old stable and stared at the tactical display board which was mounted on the far wall. The screen depicted the air-land battle as it occurred over the Ukraine. His swollen eyes ran across the depiction of the various aircraft that were preparing for battle. Twelve hundred kilometers away, the Ukrainian prime minister hunkered in a deep underground command post and stared at an identical screen.
As the president watched, he could not believe his own eyes. But there it was, right before him. Unable to be denied. The evidence could not be refuted.
For the past ten minutes, he had been watching the Ukrainians assemble what appeared to be everyone of their remaining combat aircraft. The fighters had formed into five main groups and were sweeping toward the Russian border.
They were coming after his army with everything they had. They had scrambled every remaining fighter or tactical bomber, everything that could drop a weapon or shoot a gun, and sent them over the border. Didn’t they know that they didn’t have any hope?
Vladimir Fedotov suddenly felt very cranky. His fingers tingled and the blood roared in his ears. He fidgeted in an arrogant rage.
“Fools!” he cried to himself. Who did these guys think they were!? They would attempt to challenge his army! It was unbelievable! What did they hope to accomplish? He would smash them with a flick of his wrist. He would pound them into a red pulp of meaty mess. They wouldn’t live to offend him again.
Vladimir Fedotov’s breathing quickened as he turned to face General Nahaylo, his minister of defense.
“Tell me, what have you found?” he demanded. “What are they attempting to do?”
The minister of defense wiped at his nose. The winter was young, but already he was working his way through his third serious head cold. He quickly dabbed at his eyes, then shoved the dirty handkerchief into his pocket
“Sir, there is no reason to be alarmed. They don’t have the forces to hurt us. Not even with such a massive attack. They are desperate, sir. That is all. They know we have readied our missiles, and now they do what little they can do. But it won’t matter. Not in the long run. Within a few hours, the enemy fighters will not even have a home to defend.”
There were only four men in the control room, leaving it dark and quiet, which was very unusual. Normally, the control center would have been crowded with satellite controllers, intelligence officers, Space Command watch-supervisors, and other assorted technicians, busily going about their jobs as they hustled and jabbered with one another. But tonight, almost all of these men and women had been cleared from the room, leaving it lonely and quiet.
The satellite operations officer continued to punch commands into the computer to tighten up the picture. Beside him, the CIA and DIA directors watched in silent amazement.
An image of the Russian presidential fleet garage emerged on the enormous wall screen. Moving the satellite image just five or six feet at a time, the controller scanned the garage from above, using a combination of infrared and focused X-ray to cut through the thin metal roof and provide them with a picture of what was inside.
“As you can see, gentlemen, the presidential limousine is parked here, next to the door,” the controller said, while using his computer mouse to draw a circle around a dull glob of light. “Based on this infrared return and an analysis of its intensity, we have determined that the engine block is quite cool. Between fourteen and seventeen degrees Celsius. Just better than ambient temperature inside the garage. The vehicle has not been used for some time. Therefore, the target must still be somewhere inside the Kremlin.”
“Incredible,” Weber Coy muttered, more to himself then the others.
“Yes, it really is,” the operations officer replied. “In fact, ’incredible’ might still be a bit of an understatement, for it would seem that, with the EYE, we now have a nearly unlimited opportunity to see pretty much whatever we want. All of it real-time. We watch as it happens. Instant gratification! What a beautiful thing.”
“Okay, okay.” the DIA director prodded. “We don’t have much time. Let’s go over to the square and take a look.”
The operations officer nodded to the satellite watch controller, who punched another series of keys at his computer. The image on the screen faded away and was lost in a thick darkness.
Above the earth, the EYE moved its enormous phased-arrayed radar and infrared sensors just a few millimeters to the north. The optical cameras moved just a fraction of a degree while tiny sensors refocused the lenses.
Then a startling image appeared on the screen. This one wasn’t infrared like the image before, but a relay from the satellite’s video cameras. The lighting was dim and subdued, but bright enough that the men could clearly see the cluster of military vehicles parked outside the back entrance to Fedotov’s quarters. They watched as a group of soldiers milled underneath a bright security light, talking and pointing to each other. They could see the rank on their shoulders. They could make out the mist of their breath as it condensed in the cold night air.