The formation was in abrupt disarray. The curtain of flashing light was now surrounding them, and one of the twelve Sukhoi bombers had simply blown itself apart. The other bombers had broken ranks to recover from the shock of the explosion, and now, less than a hundred kilometers from the first escort ship and less than two hundred kilometers from the Nimitz, the strike package had virtually come apart: the precisely coordinated strike formation had suddenly turned into a gaggle of uncoordinated solo attackers. A few of them even climbed out and headed back the opposite way toward the Arkhangel, appearing to their fellow attackers like enemy aircraft and heightening the confusion.
The Ticonderoga got off a few shots at the bombers, but the strikers had been dispersed before they reached the Aegis ship's lethal range. The crew of Ticonderoga could only look on in awe as the mysterious curtain of light moved eastward into the night.
When the lightning bolts subsided, the air felt cleaner, colder, quieter. Even the smoke from the fires and exploding missiles seemed to dissipate. A few of the Nimitz's escorts blew their horns in celebration — of what, they couldn't possibly be sure. Even Admiral Clancy felt like tooting a horn. "Launch the Intruder tankers to refuel the fighters we sent after those cruise missiles," Clancy told Air Ops. He spoke slowly, as if afraid to disturb the mystical air that seemed to surround the fleet and the bridge. "We'll need to keep them airborne until we get the deck cleared off. As soon as possible get Kilo flight on deck to change over with the eastern patrols." He turned to Edgewater. "I want a battle-staff meeting and a full report on the status of the group in thirty minutes. "
He put a hand on the captain's shoulder and clasped it tightly. "And get me a damned radio. I want to make a call to a certain damned space station that's been looking over us."
The sealed chamber in which the Stavka. VGK, the Soviet Supreme High Command, was meeting was deadly quiet. The general secretary sat at the head of the triangular table, staring blankly. "Strike," he said. "Destroy the Nimitz. Launch the nuclear AS-15 cruise missiles from Tashkent, or the SS-N-24 missiles from the attack submarines. Destroy the Nimitz."
Then the whispers and muted voices began: "The American laser could intercept anything.
"What if the laser strikes the Arkhangel…?"
"The space station Armstrong can vector in American B-52s and can steer cruise missiles… "
"We must have time to evaluate this… this new development, sir," Czilikov said, abruptly riding over the sotto voce murmurs of disbelief and dismay. "We've no available ground-launch satellite interceptors, no spaceplanes… so we can't destroy the space station, not yet. And it holds the high ground — in more ways than one, he thought — against the Arkhangel carrier group. We can't send a strike force without risking the Arkhangel."
"I will not accept it," the general secretary said, glaring at Czilikov. "I will not retreat. I will not have this nation denied access of the seas—"
"Sir, we control Iran and the Persian Gulf—"
"Oh? Control it with what? And for how long? It is only a matter of time before the Americans move in again…"
"If we withdraw, the situation remains as it is. If we advance against the Nimitz without further dealing with the space station Armstrong, we risk everything."
The general secretary sat back, stared at the shaken generals ranged about him. Once, he thought, there had been a man sitting at this table who'd not been afraid to take on a challenge. A man who, like himself, would not even consider accepting defeat. Was another like him out there somewhere? He had to hope and believe so.
Otherwise the Americans would have scored a victory far more important than the military one. They would have stolen the future..
EPILOGUE
"He wanted to be where he could see the bay," Ann said. "That's what he said in his wilclass="underline" "I want to rest where I can see the bay and touch the sky where my daughter lives."
She bent down and placed the bouquet of flowers on the mound of earth near the low headstone that bore the name of Captain Matthew E. Page, United States Navy. She and Jason Saint-Michael stood on a low hill on the edge of the cemetery northeast of the Alameda Naval Station. The low clouds and mists obscured San Francisco and Oakland Bay Bridge far below them in the distance, but the clouds had seemed to part just before they reached the top of the Berkeley Hills, and the sun now shone brightly on the summit.
Saint-Michael gripped Ann's hand, released it, then moved off toward the edge of the hill and stared out into the vista below. She watched him as he moved away.
It was obvious that the mists rolling up from San Francisco Bay had invaded his nitrogen-tortured joints: he walked with a cane now in the cool, damp air. It was an old, gnarled shillelagh given to him in a private ceremony by the president. He had accepted it with a smile and a handshake, but he'd been quiet and moody ever since.
It had turned out to be his retirement ceremony as well, since the doctors had decided that it would be too risky for him to go into space again. With no field unit to command and no interest in sitting behind a desk, he'd reluctantly agreed to the medical retirement that Space Command offered him. Come next month, he'd be a civilian again. Could he accept that?
Ann had hoped that getting him to California for New Year's would somehow improve his mood, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. Her mother, Amanda, was supportive, but even her up-mood didn't really help. He was about to leave her home when the unexpected call from Admiral Clancy came, requesting his presence at the Oakland-Alameda Naval Base, headquarters of the Nimitz carrier group, the next day.
They had stopped at her father's gravesite to lay a small bouquet on his headstone, but now she thought that it hadn't been a good idea at all. The reminder of Matthew Page's death only seemed to resurrect other painful memories of the past few months, driving, it seemed, a wedge deeper between them.
She moved close to him, linked her arm in his as they looked out at the swirling mists of San Francisco Bay. "Strange in a way," he said, "but I miss that station. I mean, what is it anyway? Computers, instrument panel — nuts and bolts, really. But I miss the damn thing. You wouldn't believe how I miss it." He looked at her, thinking of her life-saving skill and the fierce dedication she'd shown toward Skybolt. "I take that back… Of course, you would know."
There was no good answer to that. What she said was, "Jason, why did you agree to come here?"
"I thought I should say good-bye to your father… When will you be going back?"
"Back?"
"To the station."
"Never," she said.
"Never? Why?"
"Because that part of my life" she didn't add, his life, "is over. I would never do anything to hurt you."
"But what about your career? That's your laser device up there. That's yours. You can't just—"
"I seem to remember this guy, a cocky sonofabitch Space Command general who said it wasn't my laser. You know something? He was right. You want to know something else? I don't want it anymore. Don't look at me that way. I just don't want anything more to do with it. I built that laser as a defensive device, Jason. Not an offensive one."
"So what were we supposed to do? Let those Elektron spaceplanes use us for target practice?"
"No, of course not. We had no choice — it was them or us. But Space Command's already rebuilt most of Armstrong and placed it in the same orbit over the Arabian Sea that you put it in. They're using it to shadow the Arkhangel group—"