"No, sir," Rhomerdunov said. "Not at all. I have ordered Space Defense Command on full alert. Armstrong's new orbit will be carefully monitored, and any other spacecraft that attempt to dock or service the station will be tracked and reported to the Stavka. We will also monitor the station for radar emissions in case the Americans somehow manage to partially activate their space-based radar—"
"So your absolute assurances are not so absolute, after all." The general secretary shook his head. "You know as well as I the consequences of the Americans being able to use their space-based radar. Any advantage we hoped to gain by moving the Arkhangel into the area will be largely minimized; the balance of power will be restored."
"Sir," Khromeyev said quickly, trying to rebut but not too strongly, "the advantage of having a crippled space station with a partially active radar cannot be compared with having the world's most destructive war vessel. "
"But we've seen what Armstrong's radar can do. And we have yet to see what the Arkhangel can do." He paused a moment, considering. "You're right, though, about the effect of an attack on the station now, without verification that the Americans are reactivating it and right after that unfortunate incident with the Americans' rescue craft. It would no doubt turn world opinion against us, possibly even upset relations with some of our allies. It appears then that we only have one option…"
"And that, sit?" Khromeyev didn't like where this was heading. He wished Minister of Defense Czilikov had been at the meeting, but Czilikov had allowed him and Rhomerdunov to report to the Soviet commander in chief directly, assuming no action would be taken. It now appeared that was a mistake.
"It should be obvious that we cannot wait any longer to give Arkhangel the order to strike. I will not allow the advantage we now hold to slip away."
Khromeyev tried to keep his composure. "Sir, the fleets are still days apart. We can't mount a large enough strike force from such long range—"
"Then, damn it, augment the Arkhangel's forces with landbased bombers or cruise missiles. The heavy Tupolev bombers and cruise missiles were most eftective—"
"Against targets in Iran," Rhomerdunov put in. "The bombers were able to launch their missiles while still over their territory. If we were to strike at the Nimitz carrier group, the bombers would have to fly over the Gulf of Oman. They would be within range of the Nimitz's own fighters."
"Then use faster bombers. Use those supersonic Tupolev-22 bombers instead of the turboprop Tupolev-95s — I don't know why the damn things are still in our inventory anyway."
"Sir… " Khromeyev reached for the right words to tell his commander in chief that he should leave the battle plans to his generals, "I would like to suggest we involve Minister Czilikov. He no doubt will want a meeting of the Stavka; there are factors involved—"
"I am tired of meetings, Khrorneyev. Every hour we delay is a wasted one, allowing the Americans to prepare defensive measures. We have the upper hand — now is the time to act."
He sat back in his chair, looked at them, rapped his knuckles on the desk. "All right, brief Czilikov. Call your meeting. But by four o'clock… no, by three o'clock, I want a complete strike plan ready for execution. Clear?"
A barely heard crackle in his earset told Saint-Michael someone on board America was calling him. He picked up the earphone, put it on his head. "Saint-Michael here."
"Jason, it's Ann. Coming aboard." The general was surprised. It had only been three hours since the crew had transferred over to the spaceplane.
"All right," he said, putting on his POS mask, "come on through."
An environmental alarm immediately sounded in the connecting tunnel. The airlock they had built leaked connecting tunnel air rapidly when opened, setting off the alarm. Without a spacesuit Ann would have had about sixty seconds to get into the connecting tunnel, seal the door and repressurize the connecting tunnel before the atmospheric pressure reached the danger level. The repressurization always took away a bit of air pressure from the command module, which was why Saint-Michael had to wear a mask during a transfer. A few moments later, with the general monitoring the transfer and repressurization, Ann entered the command module.
Saint-Michael pulled off his mask. "You came alone?"
"I couldn't sleep any longer," she said, removing her mask. "I thought it would be nice to spend at least a few minutes with you alone…"
"Sounds like a good idea to me. We haven't had a chance to talk since Colorado Springs."
"And then you were so upset about Space Command's decision… You didn't say it but I knew it. I'm just glad all that arm twisting of yours worked. I have to admit that right before the launch, well, I'd pretty much given up hope."
"Well, luck had something to do with it… something we'll need more of in the next few days."
"They'll be coming, won't they?"
Saint-Michael reached out, pulled her against him, felt her body tight against his. "Yes," he said. "They have to… I'm sure they've realized that Silver Tower hasn't crashed into the atmosphere. They're probably asking Govorov, their Elektron pilot, how bad he thinks the station's been damaged. If they send him up again it'll be an act of aggression, and they'll want to be damn sure it's necessary. They're not fools or idiots, despite what some of our armchair heroes back in D.C. might think. Still, I've got to bet that Govorov will try his best to convince them he should attack again. There was too much celebrating over how effective the first attack was. He'll feel that he has to finish the job… Ann, you said that Skybolt was operational. Is it?"
"I don't know," she said, obviously frustrated she couldn't answer with a flat yes. "I haven't had a chance to check all the systems yet, but judging by the condition of the SBR, I don't think so…"
"We've got to know. Skybolt is our only defense against those Elektron spaceplanes. As of right now I'm putting you on Skybolt exclusively; I'll work on the SBR as much as I can. Marty and Ken can finish the repositioning and look after the station. There may be another way we can protect the station until Skybolt can be repaired. I can check on the—"
"Not now, Jason. Look, you need some rest. You'll be no use to anyone if you're—"
"Right, but we just don't have time…" He turned to his comm panel. "I think Marty's had enough sleep." He pressed his earset closer to his head and keyed the microphone. "America, this is Alpha."
"Good mornin', General," said Colonel Hampton. "Go ahead. "
"I need Marty Schultz over here."
"Yes, sir. "
"And Jon. Have Marty bring some chow and coffee."
Saint-Michael turned back to Ann, who gave him a sour look. "I know, I know," he said. "There'll be time for sacking out later. I want you on Skybolt as soon as you've had something to eat. Get that gizmo of yours working, whatever it takes. Meantime, I've got me an air force to assemble."
"Air force? You're going to use America for—?"
"Not America. If the shooting starts I want America as far away from it as possible, back on earth if necessary."
"Than what?"
But before he could answer Marty Schultz came in and Ann was left to speculate. Which she suspected Saint-Michael intended anyway for the time being.
For Marty Schultz this new job was nearly as painful as seeing the burned and disfigured corpses of his fellow crewmen stacked in the docking module. Enterprise was something special to him; he was the expert on its operation. He had flown on every shuttle in the fleet, old and new, but Enterprise was uniquely his.
He was a child during the early shuttle free-flight tests, and it was Enterprise being dropped from the back of a modified Boeing 747 that had ignited his desire to be an astronaut. He had imagined himself at the controls, retrieving satellites, rescuing stranded cosmonauts, building a city in the sky.