"Hold on, stop a minute. The doctors tell me you've got at least two weeks of rehabilitation here before you'll be able to get around the way you used to. After that the procedure is at least a month of convalescent leave. We can't even begin your medical reevaluation for duty until you come back from convalescent leave."
"That can be moved up, sir. With the situation in the Persian Gulf, I know these things can be signed off in no time. I also know I'll be able to pass a flight physical after I get out of here. I guarantee it."
"We can't afford to just 'sign you off,' Jason. You're an astronaut, not in undergraduate pilot training. We'll go through all the channels to make sure there's no doubt in anyone's mind about your fitness for duty. Then we'll see about getting you cleared for flight duty. It may take a few weeks to convene a flight evaluation board, maybe more. Then we—"
"So there's doubt in people's minds about my fitness for duty?"
"I didn't say that." He looked again at Ann standing in the corner and finally recognized her. "Did you tell him about the lifeboat, Page?"
"Yes, sir."
"That should have waited for the debriefing. You —"
"I think it's a disgrace that it hasn't been retrieved yet," Saint-Michael interrupted. "I'd like to know the reason."
Stuart's face tightened. "All manned space flights have been postponed until the Russians' intentions are made clear. We—"
"I know a dozen shuttle and spaceplane pilots who'll volunteer to bring those men home."
"That's really not relevant—"
"What the hell are we waiting for, General?" Saint-Michael was half-rising out of his bed. "Are we waiting for the Russians to retrieve the lifeboat for us?"
"Goddamn it, Jason…" General Stuart looked over his shoulder at the closed door, at Ann, then back at Saint-Michael. "You've been through a lot, General. Do yourself a favor and get some rest." He fidgeted uneasily with his flight cap, nodded to Ann, and left the room.
When the door closed behind Stuart, Saint-Michael let his head fall back onto his pillow, "Nice going, Jas," he muttered to himself.
Ann sat at the edge of the bed. "This has been tough for everyone, Jason. Most people feel like you do — that it's outrageous to have the bodies of thirteen scientists and technicians stranded in space. They're calling for a rescue mission and retaliation if the Russians try to stop them. The Russians are saying that we won't rescue anybody but will put nuclear weapons in orbit to force them to withdraw from the Persian Gulf. They're threatening to escalate the war in the Middle East if we try sending anything up to the space station."
Saint-Michael rubbed his temples. "I never felt so damn powerless before. What, are the Russians doing in the Gulf? Have they occupied Iran yet?"
"Things are still pretty much the same. Iran is divided in two. The Russians control the northern two-thirds of the Persian Gulf. Our rapid deployment force and the navy control the Strait of Hormuz. Each side makes several raids a week trying to get a toehold in the region but they're always pushed back. A stalemate…"
He shook his head. "Something's bound to crack pretty soon. He reached to pour himself another cup of water. "Either we both move to neutral comers pretty damn quick or someone's going to come out swinging. I just hope we can control the escalation when it happens…"
"I haven't been given a full intelligence briefing," Ann said, "but we hear on the news it's getting harder and harder for the Russian naval forces to get fuel from their gulf suppliers. They must be getting pretty desperate for fuel if they—"
She stopped and turned back toward Saint-Michael. He was holding trembling hands tightly over his face, and he was jerking up from the waist as if he was doing short simps, His breath came out in low, guttural grunts.
"Jason? Jason."
"Ann… oh, God, I'm starting to feel it again…"
She sat down on the bed beside him, reached out to him and held his trembling body against hers. He shivered again, she could feel tears on her neck. The last barrier had been broken. She reached for the nurse's call button, pressed it, then wrapped her arms around him as convulsions shook his body.
CHAPTER 30
Jackson Collins, as the new director of the KH-14 Block Three digital photo imagery division of the Defense Intelligence Agency, did not need to schedule an appointment in advance to see the director, but he had never taken advantage of his new position or his new privileges — until now. He came into George Sahl's office first thing Monday morning with a locked carrying case. Sahl was dictating a letter into his computer terminal when Collins appeared, set his case down on the director's desk and began to fumble with the combination lock's thumbwheels. "C'mon, Jackson," Sahl said, hitting the PAUSE button on his voice-recognition computer's microphone. "I haven't even finished my first cup of coffee."
Collins stopped. With him, even a lack of movement was significant. "Mr. Sahl, you told me that if I had anything significant from my section to bring it to you immediately."
Sahl sighed. "Yes."
"No matter what."
"Yes. "
"Did you mean it, or was that just to make me feel important?"
Sahl rolled his eyes. "Well, dammit, let's see what you got. Move it."
"Yes sir." Collins had the locks on the chart case open in a few moments and took out several digital satellite photos.
"Aha. We're back to interpreting scrub photos again, Jackson?"
"Marginally scrub. I've applied the new set of guidelines to these photos and—"
"Those new guidelines — your new set of guidelines, the ones you forced on my section — haven't been approved yet."
"They will be. Never mind that, sir," Collins went on. "Recognize this location?"
"Sure. What else would Jackson Collins, boy genius, bring me? Scrub photos of Nikolai Zhukovsky Airfield. The same big Condor hangars."
"Except there are now twelve hangars there. And ten are occupied. "
"By…?"
Collins displayed another photo, an enlargement of a thermal imagery photo of the tarmac just outside one of the hangars. "Tire tracks. Aircraft tire tracks."
"I know you know why this isn't conclusive evidence." Sahl began.
"All right, tire tracks can be too easily faked. But if you're moving aircraft, men and supplies in and out of Tashkent all day, every day, in support of a major offensive in the Persian Gulf, I'm betting you don't have time to doctor ten major hangars for a satellite overflight."
"I still…"
"Sir, I've been watching these hangars since before Feather started. I've seen all sorts of aircraft go in and out of these hangars. I've measured the tracks on every one, and in every case my identification has been confirmed by some other source."
Sahl looked at Collins. "With any other interpreter I'd say get out of my office until you have something concrete. But I know better now. I suppose you've measured these tracks, measured the tires and fit them to a particular aircraft?"
"Yes."
"And that was."
"H-model Bear bombers."
Sahl took a closer look at the photo. "Well, that is interesting. They're a long way from home."
"I haven't found exactly where they're from — I think Vinnica Airbase southwest of Kiev is missing a half-dozen at least — but I've been checking on something even more interesting." Collins pulled up a chair in front of Sahl's desk. "Tashkent has been the major staging area for most of the strategic aircraft — bombers and large transports — involved with Operation Feather, right?"
"Go ahead."
"I think the Russians are putting AS-6 cruise missiles on those Bears parked at Tashkent."
Sahl frowned as he picked up the digital photographs of the large "satellite bluff" hangars. "Now how the hell can you tell that from these photos?"