"Heroes of the Soviet Union." The general secretary's voice was laced with irony. "In eight hours I go before the Politburo and tell them how I plan to proceed. As I see it we have three possible options: retreat in disgrace, hold our unsteady and embarrassing position, or attack." He turned again to Czilikov. "Do you have an answer? Is Operation Feather a failure? Do we turn and run? Will I be the first leader of the Soviet Union to order a retreat in the face of vastly inferior forces?"
"What you want, I cannot give you—"
"What? What did you say?"
"You don't want recommendations. You want to dictate. I will not be dictated to, nor will I be insulted."
The general secretary leaned toward Czilikov and in a low voice said, "Be careful what you say, old man."
"Sir, you can insult the title of Hero of the Soviet Union if YOU like, but you cannot ignore its implications. Nor can you ignore the consequences if your senior military staff should resign or retire during an operation of the magnitude of Feather…" Czilikov's face was flushed as he spoke.
The general secretary looked around the conference table. All faces were turned toward him.
"What do you see, comrade?" Czilikov went on, encouraged by the silence. "Are you perhaps trying to compute how many would follow if I leave or am removed?"
"I am always computing that, Marshal Czilikov." It was an uneasy reply.
"Sir, I am your ally," Czilikov said, his voice more conciliatory. "I believe in Operation Feather. But it's a military operation, not a political one. Occupation and control of the Transcaucasus and Persia can only be brought about with the use of military force. And it cannot happen instantly. The advances we have made in the past twenty-four hours are, I believe, nearly miraculous. Our forces have taken control of over a million square kilometers of territory in mere hours. Our objective is close at hand. But we cannot proceed rashly, or all our efforts will be for nothing."
The general secretary paused, knowing he was, at the moment, outmaneuvered and not knowing precisely what to do about it. "Well, then, Czilikov, I put it to you. I have a meeting in eight hours. What is the new military plan?"
Czilikov, nearly preened. He had, it seemed, made the general secretary back off. "The forces in Iraq, Iran and the Persian Gulf must stay in place. It is absolutely essential. They must be able to defend themselves against any attack or intrusion, but without increasing their ranks."
"No reinforcements?" the general secretary said. "If we stop hostilities, isn't that the time to enhance our forces?"
"Not immediately… sir. We must appear as if we are prepared to pull out of the area, to release our newly acquired territory. We must not, of course, retreat or give away an inch of ground."
"So we are reverting to a defensive war? I don't understand, Czilikov. If we stand still we will eventually be pushed back — if not by the Americans then by world opinion and its condemnation. Or by both."
"We will be fighting a defensive war on one front only," Czilikov said, and turned toward Marshal Rhomerdunov, the commander of aerospace forces. His old foxhole compatriot allowed a reassuring smile.
"On an entirely different front," Czilikov went on, "we will take command. And, sir, when that happens we will win much, much more than Persia and the Transcaucasus…"
He tried to be patient and gentle in his lovemaking, but he was too keyed up, too mindful of what the next day might bring. Alesander Govorov resisted his young wife's spirited foreplay and took her quickly-almost savagely. She strived to match his intensity, to counter with a frenzy of her own, but she couldn't fake her orgasm fast enough. He withdrew from her, wrapped his powerful arms around her chest as he lay behind her on his left side, then kissed the back of her neck as an unspoken apology for his clumsiness. In less than a minute he fell asleep. She pulled his arms around her tighter, accepting his apology. There would be other nights. She remembered the good ones. They were worth waiting for…
The ringing telephone jarred his eyes open. He swung his feet to the carpeted floor and stood, feeling not at all fatigued despite the few short hours of sleep. He picked up the phone and began speaking to Gulaev. "Yes. Yes, I see… Have the report ready for me. I'll be there immediately."
Govorov's wife did not get out of bed, although she was wide awake as he dressed, getting into his dark gray flight suit. She did not want to see him hurrying off to Glowing Star. If for any reason he did not return, she wanted to remember him the way he had been the night before — strong but vulnerable, impatient but sensitive, a loving, caring husband, an imperfect man. Much more than a soldier, though she was careful not to let him know such thoughts. They would have embarrassed him…
General Govorov came into the Space Combat operations center at Tyuratam. at a pace that would have left most men short of breath. Gulaev had to rush to keep up with him as they hurried into the general's office. Govorov was already holding out his hand for the Operation Alpha report as his subordinate closed the door. "It appears the Sary Shagan laser has been even more effective than we hoped, sir," Gulaev said as he passed the space defense commander a sheet of computer printouts bound in a notebook. "The station's orbit is much more erratic than before, which suggests a guidance or propulsion malfunction. Also, just a few hours ago we detected several objects near the station. Small in size, no propulsion, very hot."
Govorov studied the printouts, looked up at Gulaev. "Debris?"
"That's my guess, sir." Govorov looked down at the printout again, nodding in approval as his eyes scanned the columns of numbers. It seemed they'd managed to cripple the vaunted Armstrong Space Station, after all. It wasn't out of control yet — he would have received a report about a rescue mission — but it was damaged. Vulnerable.
A quick look at the rest of Gulaev's report brought no pleasure. "Our attacks have stopped?"
"Temporarily, sir. For safety's sake, Colonel Sokilev at Sary Shagan has limited the laser firing schedule to a five-burst volley every eight hours—"
"But my orders were to fire continuously. Why were they countermanded?"
"The pulses generated by the facility are tremendously powerful. There was a problem with some of the computer circuits shorting. The circuits are reportedly fixed, but Sokilev feels continuous firing carries too great a risk—"
"I should have been consulted. Tell Sokilev that if he goes against my command again, he will be replaced. Also tell him that I expect Operation Beta to be put into effect within the hour. Armstrong is about to pass below the horizon. If we can destroy the Americans' only other eye on the region, NORAD's launch-detection satellite, we will be able to get very close to the space station without ever being detected."
"But what about Armstrong's Thor missiles, sir? Even if the Americans only have minutes to react, they'll be able to target the spaceplanes."
"Yes, the Thors would be a problem… if we didn't have the means to get Armstrong to expend its arsenal."
"You mean the Gorgons?"
"Why not? It doesn't matter if they are all destroyed. The point is, they will draw off Armstrong's fire and allow Voloshin and me to get within range of the station."
Gulaev nodded. "I'll see to the Gorgons immediately, sir."
"Have a firing disposition report ready for me in half an hour." Gulaev saluted and turned to leave the office. "And Gulaev… "
The younger officer turned around. "Sir?"