A moment of silence passed, betraying a crack in Iceberg's confidence. "I don't like the cloud cover, but there isn't much I can do about it. Since you don't have the microwave landing system, I won't have much time to line up the runway visually. That means I'll have to rely on the NavComputer almost exclusively. Are the coordinates you gave me for the runway precise?"
"Absolutely precise, Intrepid."
' 'They'd better be. Since the wind coming from the northeast, I'll make my approach from the west."
"Because of the weather we did not make arrangements for a chase plane, Intrepid. You could collide with each other in the clouds. Are you sure you will be able to make it down?" asked Malyshev.
Another moment passed before the speaker box said, unevenly, "I'm sure."
On Colonel Leonov's projection screen there was still only Tupelov's Fulcrum to be seen. The 61st Interceptors from Balkhash were thirty minutes away, and the other American stealth bomber was still out there somewhere. Who knew — maybe there were more than just die two of them. The thought caused the colonel to swear. How could they defend against something they couldn't see? In frustration he keyed his mike. "Anything yet, "Ripelov?"
"Negative, Comrade Colonel," replied the young pilot mournfully. "The area is totally socked in with thunderheads, and I am finding no gaps at all. I climbed to fifteen thousand meters to search for some holes in the cloud cover, but it is useless. I do not even know if the American bomber is in this vicinity… and I only have twenty minutes of fuel left."
"Never mind that. Stay up there as long as you can. You are authorized to eject if you have to."
"Roger, Colonel."
Another phone on Leonov's console buzzed, and he grabbed it. "Yes?" he snapped.
"Comrade Colonel," said one of the radar controllers, "I have Caspian Station on the line. They are picking up two, uh, unusual objects that have just crossed into Soviet airspace from Afghanistan."
"Marvelous," spat the colonel. "Just what I need at a time like this. What are the unidentified aircraft?"
'"I\vo objects, Comrade Colonel. One is leading the other by approximately three hundred kilometers. Their course is almost due north, altitude fifty-two thousand meters, and their speed is—" The controller cleared his throat. ' 'Their speed is approximately Mach thirteen."
Leonov didn't think he'd heard correctly. "What was that speed and altitude again?"
"Fifty-two thousand meters at Mach thirteen, Comrade Colonel."
"Mach thirteen? That is thirteen thousand kilometers per hour! Has everyone around here gone insane?"
"Look at the board, Colonel," offered the controller. Leonov spun the console dial and the projection screen zoomed out to reveal most of the Kazakhstan Republik. To the northwest there was a government aircraft — beeping its identification transponder and heading southeast at about 1,000 kilometers per hour — but the colonel didn't pay any attention to that. Instead he looked to the south, and sure enough, there were two bogies moving north at an incredible speed and altitude. They were traveling twice as high and four times as fast as the American Blackbird spy plane. They did not have the ballistic characteristics of an ICBM, but they were unlike any aircraft he'd ever seen or been briefed about. For Leonov, this was the last straw, and he was convinced the intent of these bogies — whatever they were — had to be hostile. He guessed that the American stealth bombers, and now these bogies, were undoubtedly some kind of spearhead for the horde of enemy bombers hovering over the Arctic ice cap. Who knew? The Americans might launch their ICBMs at any moment. Leonov reached for the phone that was a direct line to the duty commander of the Soviet Strategic Rocket Forces. As he raised the receiver, his hand trembled. He felt he had no choice but to recommend a first strike against the Americans.
The command and control structure of the Soviet Strategic Rocket Forces was typically Russian, which was another way of saying it was typically Byzantine. There was one hierarchy that controlled the rockets themselves, and this structure was populated by professional officers in the Soviet military. However, a separate and distinct hierarchy existed for control of the nuclear warheads, and this was staffed by a special department within the Committee for State Security.
The control station within each missile silo was partitioned into separate compartments. In one compartment were two officers responsible for fueling and firing the missile if the launch order and verification code came through the communications link with the Chelyabinsk Battle Centre. In the second compartment of the silo were two KGB officers who exercised control over arming the warheads. Technically, the military officers could launch the rocket with an unarmed warhead, but that didn't make a whole lot of sense. Unless the two KGB officers worked in unison with each other to activate the warhead, the missile would remain a dud.
Similarly, this dual control structure existed at the apex of the Strategic Rocket Forces command pyramid. In the Battle Centre, which was much like the American SAC headquarters in Omaha, there resided a general officer duty commander in the Rocket Forces, as well as a general officer duty commander of the KGB. They sat side by side in yet another Crow's Nest, overlooking yet another gigantic room with a large map projection screen.
The phone on the Crow's Nest console, which was a direct line to the Aerospace Defense Warning Centre, buzzed. The general put down his Pravda and picked up the receiver. "Battle Centre," he said casually.
"Yes, Comrade General, this is Aerospace Defense Warning Centre. We have detected two unidentified objects which have just crossed into Soviet airspace from Afghanistan… It appears they may be space reentry vehicles of some kind. Also, one of our interceptors has just shot down an American stealth bomber in Kazakhstan province, and there are a hundred American bombers over the Arctic, poised to strike. Comrade, it appears the Rodina may be under attack! A nuclear attack! I am recommending a first strike against the Americans before it is too late!"
"A stealth bomber, you say?" asked the general.
"Yes, Comrade. A Triple Red-Omicron alert must be issued to the War Council of the Central Committee immediately," pleaded Leonov.
"Certainly. You have done well to notify us, Comrade. I will implement die alert at once."
Leonov was somewhat befuddled by the general's conversational tone. "Yes, Comrade General. I urge you not to delay."
The general's voice became sharp. "You need not tell the Strategic Rocket Forces how to fulfill their duties, Comrade!"
Chastened, Leonov retreated, "Of course, General, I only meant—"
"Very well, get off this line. I will see to this matter from here."
In a somewhat puzzled voice, Leonov said, "As you wish, Comrade General."
The KGB general hung up the phone and returned to his Pravda, just before his counterpart in the Strategic Rocket Forces walked back into the Crow's Nest. "So how are you feeling now, Vladimir?" asked the portly KGB general with an air of concern.
The wiry Rocket Forces general groaned. His face was green and he was holding his stomach. "Worse, I am afraid. And I simply do not understand what is the matter. I felt fine this morning, then all of a sudden it is as if I had contracted dysentery. I have not enjoyed spending most of the day in the toilet."