I understand, sir," Govorov said. "And perhaps all of our objectives can be accomplished at once—"
"How?"
Govorov fought showing even a hint of a smile. "The space station is formidable when it is protecting others from attack, but I feel it may not be so if it is forced to protect itself."
"But you have said that the Elektron spaceplanes will not be ready for such an attack," Khromeyev said. "And Marshal Rhomerdunov has said that the Gorgon antisatellite missiles are ineffectual against such a facility."
"That is my estimation as well. But meanwhile, there is another weapon we have not considered that may prove effective in convincing the Americans of the seriousness of moving their space station within striking distance of the Soviet Union. I refer to the laser at our Sary Shagan facility. Intelligence reports only a portion of the American space station is covered with reflective anti-laser coating. Sustained bursts from our laser might do very considerable damage…"
Czilikov's eyes brightened. "I want a full report on how soon the laser can be activated; I want it on my desk in an hour." He turned to Admiral Chercherovin. "You must regain control of the region. And fast."
He waved off any further discussion. They all had his message — produce or else…
CHAPTER 21
Saint-Michael entered the engineering module, where he found Ann. They stood together in the cramped compartment, exchanging polite nods. "I think this may be a good time to talk," Saint-Michael finally said.
Ann pretended not to hear him as she pulled a refrigeration coil from the food storage unit and began adjusting the temperature setting. "Ann—" Saint-Michael grabbed the coil from her and replaced it in the unit. "Ann, I want you to leave on Enterprise. In four hours."
She turned and faced him. "So now you're ordering me to go? What happened to my options?"
"If you want to call it an order, then it's an order."
She looked at him, weighing an answer, then sighed softly. "What gives, General? I mean, what the hell is this all about? I can repair Skybolt. I've found the problem. Only a few more days up here and I'll have the thing licked. But you're all fired up to see me leave without accomplishing what I came here to do. My job, for God's sake…"
"Ann," he finally said, "I want you back on earth." He paused for a moment, then added, "Safe." His-eyes narrowed with anger and frustration, but it wasn't anger at her — it was more at himself. "Dammit, Ann, do I really have to spell it out for you?" He paused, waiting for her to understand and respond. "All right, what I'm trying to say is—"
"Attention on the station," came the sudden blaring of the stationwide loudspeaker address system. "Emergency condition one. The station is on red alert." Then, on the stationwide earset address system: "General Saint-Michael, this is Walker. Satellite relay message from the Nimitz. They are under attack."
"I'll be righ there." He turned, stopped, and lightly touched her shoulder. "Safe from this, Ann." Then he was off to the connecting tunnel, leaving Ann with very mixed feelings…
Saint-Michael, back in the command module, ordered: "Report."
"An Air Force 767B AWACS picked up a small flight of six fast-moving low-altitude jet aircraft over Iran," Walker said, not taking his eyes off the master SBR status screen. "The AWACS was chased away by Su-27s from the Brezhnev, so we don't have details. They can't tell where the aircrafts' origin was, but they say they're moving too fast and too low for Silkworm missiles. They think they're Soviet cruise missiles launching from one of the Soviet navy's Caspian Sea bases. They're heading south at five hundred knots, right for the Nimitz battle group."
"How long until we cross the target horizon?"
"Still forty minutes. Could have been launched just after we crossed under the target horizon. They timed it perfectly. Looks like the Nimitz is stage-center, sir…"
"Tally, Tally, Tally! Lead's got 'em at eleven o'clock!"
The commander of the lead F-14E Tomcat Plus, J. B. Andrews, tightened his grip on the throttle as his weapons systems officer called out the report. He had been staring intently at the rolling, rock-covered hills rushing under the nose of his fighter as he and five other hunters from the aircraft carrier USS Nimitz slashed across southern Iran, prowling for attacking cruise missiles.
Andrews and his fellow VF-143 "Puking Dogs" were knifing through thick air only a thousand feet above the Iranian desert, and the Tomcats were protesting every minute of it. The fighters performed much better at a high altitude, where their "lifting body" fuselages and big computer-controlled variable-sweep wings met little resistance. Down below, the aircraft picked up every tiny wind shift, every thermal and every dust devil, creating such violent turbulence that the formation had to spread out farther and farther apart to avoid collision. Everything depended on the lead aviator's eyes — if the leader hit the ground, the rest would surely follow. "Vectors, Chili," Andrews called out.
The backseat WSO checked the display of his enhanced digital AWG-9 attack radar. "Left ten. Altitude looks good. I'm locked on… fifty miles now."
"Pirate flight, lead is locked on to bogeys, coming left."
"Two's locked on."
"Three's locked on."
"Four is no-joy."
"Five no-joy. "
"Six is… stand by. Locked-on."
"We launch at twenty, Pirates. If you're not locked on, get ready to turn tight and bob till you drop." To conserve fuel and maximize performance, each Tomcat had only taken off with two AIM-120RC AMRAAM missiles aboard. Even so, after traveling at max afterburner for nearly twenty minutes the fighters were fast approaching their safe fuel-turnaround point. It was essential that they launch their AIM-120RCs in the next few minutes. "Forty miles. Still locked on."
"Four is locked on."
"Five?"
"No-joy. Five is bobbin. Thirty miles."
A faint high-pitched tone activated in the lead WSO's helmet. "Good tone. Ready."
"Rog. Count me down."
"Twenty-five… twenty-four… twenty-three…"
Andrews suddenly felt that inner calm that always preceded engagement. He wasn't thinking anymore. Reflexes had taken over. Reflexes honed in a hundred aerial maneuvers over four continents. Besides, this intercept should be no big sweat. Though cruise missiles were deadly against ships, they were sitting ducks for fighters. They couldn't maneuver or shoot back. The Tomcat's advanced digital attack radar made it possible for Andrews to attack from as far away as fifty miles, but twenty was optimal for—
"Pirate flight. Bandits. Two o'clock high!"
Andrews risked a quick glance to his right, caught the glint of sunlight. Four Su-27 Flanker carrier-based fighters were diving out of the sun. "Two, three, four — stay on the cruise missiles. Four and five — engage."
"Twenty miles. Good tone."
Andrews saw the target and radar lock-on symbols merge and the word LAUNCH flash at the bottom of the HUD, his head's-up display. Fighting off a massive wave of turbulence that shuddered through his Tomcat, he slid his gloved right thumb to the launch button. Suddenly, the target and radar symbols disappeared from the HUD and the word "LAUNCH" at the bottom was replaced with the word "FIRE" in the center of the display.
He pressed the LAUNCH button. Nothing. "Chili, check your switches. Negative launch." No reply. "Chili!" Andrews strained against his harness straps and turned to look behind him, recoiling instantly at the searing blast of heat that hit him full in the face and the grisly sight of half-charred, flaming flesh that had been his WSO. That had not been turbulence he felt a moment ago. His Tomcat had taken a missile right up the tailpipe.