"Collins," Barnes said quickly, "you can't make conclusions like that based simply on the number of rail cars in a switching yard. There could be dozens of reasons why there were more cars there… Look — and he softened his voice — these reports can set a lot of things in motion. Things that cost a lot of money and a lot of effort by a lot of people. Dangerous things. They get a lot of attention. If we're wrong and we send all these men and machines off on a wild goose chase…"
Collins' face hardened. He dropped two eleven-by-fourteen black-and-white photographs on Sahl's desk. "You can't ignore this, Mr. Sahl," he said, pointing a finger at the first photo. Sahl studied it. "What…?"
"It's a computer-enhanced KH-14 image of one side of one of the large two-acre hangars at Nikolai Zhukovsky Military Airfield at Tashkent."
Sahl peered at the highly magnified photo. Trailing behind the hangar was, he saw, a fuzzy, rectangular object. Almost no firm detail, though. He studied the photo for a moment longer, looked up at Collins. "It's a scrub photo."
"Sir, it is a photo of a GL-25 missile launcher. There are—"
"Collins, it's a scrub photo," Sahl repeated. "Magnification, contrast, grain, background — it's not worth piss for analysis. It's a scrub photo."
"Sir, I counted seventy of this same weird-looking rail car in Tashkent. All of them surrounded by guards, all of them bracketed by security rail cars. I understand no certain judgment can be made on the basis of this photo, but an educated guess can easily be made — it's a GL-25 long-range cruise missile launcher, mounted on an all-terrain carrier. Here, look — two missile canisters, the control center—"
"It looks like a concrete container to me," Barnes said. "Or a gravel container. There's nothing unusual about it."
"The KH-14 wasn't properly stabilized," Collins said, "but you can still make out the—"
"Collins, you can't make out that kind of detail on a scrub photo," Barnes snapped.
"I can. I did, sir."
"If you look at a photo — any photo — long enough," Sahl said quietly, "you'll likely see what you want to see. That's why we have parameters for how much a photo can be enlarged or cropped."
"Then I'd like to request another overflight by the KH-14," Collins said. "We need more photos of those rail cars."
"All right, all right," Sahl said. "I agree. I can start the request for some air time on KH-14 for Tashkent, but I'm not sure if they'll approve it."
"Sir, I realize you suspect this is just another junior photo interpreter trying to score points, but it's not. I really believe there's something going on. Something big."
Sahl tried to hide a wry smile, took one more look at the photos, then tossed them on the desk. "You mentioned Iran. Tell me, Collins, how could six invisible Condor transports and seventy alleged GL-25 mobile missile launchers in Tashkent lead you to the assumption that this is all part of an Iranian invasion group?"
Collins hesitated. Too late to retreat now, buddy, he told himself. "It wasn't just the missiles or the transports, sir. It's the buildup of Russian ships in the Persian Gulf and the Brezhnev carrier battle group that sneaked into the Gulf last month. It was that unsuccessful counterrevolution in Iran that CIA said was sponsored and financed by the Russians. It's—"
"It's also bull, Collins," Barnes cut in. "Your job isn't to come up with a wild hypothesis based on second- and third-hand information. Your job is to take KH-14 imagery and describe it. Period."
"I thought my job was analysis. This is important, I know it. And I know it's urgent enough to require special attention—"
"Are you sure it's not you who wants the special attention?" Barnes said, fixing him with a drop-dead stare.
Sahl raised a hand. "That's enough for now, Preston. I believe Collins is one hundred percent sincere. Give him that." He turned to the photo interpreter. "Hot dogs come by the gross around here, Mr. Collins. Plenty of people want to make the splash, but they do it knowing that they don't have to take the heat — the real heat — if they're wrong. Are you willing to take the heat?"
His question hung in the air for a moment, a long moment; then Sahl said, "Why don't we try a little experiment? I'm going to put your name on this report. I'll clear it for the director's review and put it on his desk with a recommendation based on your findings that we follow up on this with another series of KH-14 overflights. If there's any heat from the director's staff, you take it. Sound good?"
Collins looked frozen in place… It's not a KH-14 Block Three analysis, he thought, or a Satellite Photo Recce section report — it's my report. A Jackson Collins report. Okay, damn it, I asked for it… "Yes, sir — with one request. That I be given another week to make the presentation my way."
Sahl glanced at Barnes. "What's wrong with this?" and glanced at the thick report on his desk. "It's a standard section report, sir. As it stands it doesn't convince anyone of the seriousness developing at Tashkent. I mean, it didn't convince you!"
"And whose fault is that?" Barnes said.
"It's mine, sir. I'd like a chance to fix it."
Sahl was impressed. This wasn't what you'd expect from a youngster. "I'm putting it on the director's staff-meeting agenda for Friday," he said. "This is Tuesday. You have until Friday morning to redo the report and refine your presentation. If you can't do it by then, forget it. This division doesn't operate on your personal timetable or mine or anybody's."
No hesitation this time from Collins. "Thank you, sir. I'll be ready."
He hoped.
CHAPTER 9
"Your turn. "
Ann selected two fifty-pound tension bands, slipped them onto the bars on the Soloflex machine, and floated over to the bench and sat down. "One hundred pounds. Very impressive," Ted Moyer, an electronics tech, said approvingly. No reply from Ann. "You're very quiet today."
"Living in space," Ann said, "definitely isn't as glamorous or as 'cosmically uplifting' as I thought it'd be." She rubbed an ache out of her left tricep. "At first, it was all very exciting — orbiting hundreds of miles above Earth. But the novelty has definitely worn off."
"Well," Moyer said, trying to boost her morale, "we're doing something that only a few hundred people have ever done."
She acted as if she hadn't heard him. "Take weight training. I love to run, but pumping iron — or, in space, pumping rubber — was never my idea of fun."
"You're good at it."
"I do it because it helps keep me fit and because we're required to do it. I could spend hours on the bicycle or treadmill, but after a half hour on the Soloflex machine I'm ready to volunteer to change CO2 scrubbers, vacuum the walls, anything. "
Moyer gave a sympathetic nod. Ann laid down on the machine's bench, centered the bar above her chest-and found herself immediately focusing on a hand hold on the ceiling and consciously controlling her breathing. "Still getting the spins, Ann?"
"Damn," she said as she fought for control. "They told me it would only take a matter of days and I'd get over it. But it's just not going away."
Moyer let her lie quietly on the workout bench for a few moments. Then: "Better?"
"Yeah," she said, blinking and taking a few deep breaths. She tried performing a few more repetitions but the nausea returned.
"Why don't you call it a workout," Moyer said, realizing she had a ways to go before she was fully acclimated.