"But if Eardrum has problems, how do we confirm?" asked Dowd.
Sir Isaac thought for a moment. "Pete, did you say the communication was directly between an earth station and the spacecraft? It did not pass to a communications satellite — ours or theirs?"
"That is correct, sir," replied Lamborghini.
"Hmmm." Sir Isaac tapped his teeth with his pipestem. "Then to be absolutely certain, it would be best to insert a listening post between the ground station and the spacecraft, so it would be directly in the path of the transmission from either side."
There was a long pause as everyone mulled over the problem, until finally Strand said, "SR-71."
Whittenberg raised an eyebrow. "Exactly what do you mean, Major?"
"Simple, sir," she replied. "Just take a plot of the Russian earth station locations that can communicate with a spacecraft, and overlay it with the Intrepid's orbital path. Pick out a point where the two intersect, and sandwich in an SR-71 during the time window the Intrepid is overhead."
Strand made it sound simpler than it was. Ever since Francis Gary Powers's U-2 had been knocked out of the sky by a Russian SAM in 1960, overflights of Soviet territory had been a sticky subject. They still happened, but usually they were just probing flights on the periphery of the country. Spy satellites had eliminated much of the need for overflights, and improved sensors on reconnaissance aircraft allowed them to fly along the border in "stand-off" missions to pick up intelligence without crossing the border. So overflights were very rare these days. Any penetration of more than two hundred kilometers inside Soviet airspace required the approval of the Secretary of Defense.
Lamborghini went to the phone again. "Matthews, punch up the Intrepid's flight path for the next twelve hours." A few seconds later a series of wavy lines appeared on the Mercator map, each one slicing the earth a few degrees west of the previous one. The intel chief looked up at the big screen. "We should be able to plot the Russian earth stations in no time at all, and match them with the orbits.'
Whittenberg ran through everything in his mind, but it was impossible to absorb. Lord in heaven. The Intrepid talking to the Russians. It was too bitter to contemplate. If that payload fell into the wrong hands… that was all the impetus the CinC needed. "I'll call SAC and get a Blackbird for us. Pete, you and the major get cracking on coordinates where Intrepid might communicate with the ground. I'll want you to feed it to SAC's intel people as soon as you've got it. Keep in contact with the NSA people, too. Bull, I want you and Sir Isaac to start putting together contingency plans on what we should do, or could do, it the Intrepid has, in fact, become a… a… what the hell do you call something like this, anyway?"
There was no answer, until Lamborghini offered in a strained voice, "I believe the intelligence term, sir, is 'rogue elephant.' "
Back in his office, Whittenberg picked up the red phone that was a direct line to the Commander in Chief Strategic Air Command, in Omaha, Nebraska. He knew that within fifteen seconds the CinCSAC, his deputy, or his chief of staff would pick up the other end.
Having attained four-star rank, Whittenberg had precious few peers, and among his peers there were even a smaller number of people he could genuinely call his friends. But Bernard Doo-ley, CinCSAC, was one of those. They'd been pilots in the same B-52 wing and tossed down more than a few beers together. Dooley was godfather to Whittenberg's eldest daughter. It had been a dead heat between the two of them for the CinCSAC job, but when Whittenberg went to SPACECOM he was happy his old friend had gotten the post in Omaha. He was also relieved when the voice on the other end said, "Dooley."
"Bernie, it's Rodg."
"Hey, how's my favorite jockey?" It was Dooley's standard greeting, a lampoon on his friend's size and Kentucky heritage.
"Not so good," said Whittenberg. "I got a problem and I need one of your Blackbirds."
"Aw, shucks, anything for the father of my favorite daughter." Dooley had four boys and always prided himself on his female godchild. "I just talked with my recon guy this morning. His Blackirds are pretty backed up for five or six days. 'Course, for a bud like you maybe I can move your slot up a day or two. What's the problem?"
Whittenberg told him the problem.
Twelve minutes later a flash message was fired off from Omaha under the CinCSAC's personal signature to the 9th Strategic Reconnaissance Wing Detachment at Mildenhall Royal Air Force Base, England.
"But are you certain this will work?'' whimpered the General Secretary.
Vostov thought the man sounded like a little boy. "I will have to verify the exact specifications," said the Chief Designer, "but quite frankly I see no alternative. We take a small Progress solid-fuel engine and fashion a collar around the anterior end. We then insert the anterior portion into the shuttle's center main engine rocket nozzle — much like stacking one drinking glass on top of another — and clamp it to the lip of the nozzle. The collar will act as a brace to hold the engine firmly in place during the retro firing of the Progress engine. After the fiiel is spent, an explosive bolt on each clamp will fire, releasing it and triggering a small spring to push the engine out of the nozzle."
Popov was impressed. No matter how big the Chief Designer's ego might be, this demonstrated he was entided to it. The man had been roused out of his sleep in the middle of the night, told an unbelievable story, ordered to pull these politicians' asses out of the fire — and he'd done it. Of course, Popov did not belittle his own contribution. The concept, after all, was his idea.
"Extraordinary," said the General Secretary.
Vostov beamed. Perhaps the Politburo was not an impossibility after all.
The KGB chieftain exhaled a puff of smoke from his Pall Mall. "What do we have to do to bring this brilliant design to fruition?"
Vostov could see this little man was going to be nettlesome. "We must first design the collar to exact specifications so it will fit the outside of the Progress engine and the inside of the shuttle nozzle. The design must then be molded and cast.'' Vostov took a few moments to think about transport.' 'We will have to launch two vehicles — a cargo vessel to carry the components and a Soyuz to carry two cosmonauts to install the collar and engine."
"How long will all this take?" asked the General Secretary.
The two engineers looked at each other, both thinking through what had to be done. Vostov said, "To design and fabricate the collar, working around the clock, will take no less than forty-eight hours. Probably more when you consider the problems associated with the explosive bolts. Comrade Popov?"
Mentally, Popov went through his inventory of launch vehicles at the Baikonur Cosmodrome. "I can have an SL-4 booster for the Soyuz, and an SL-14 for the Progress engine ready in two to three days. However, that does not include the time you will need to load the engine and collar in a launch shroud and install them on the SL-14. We cannot do that until your fabrication is complete."
"So we would need three to four days," Vostov reflected.
"Then I would suggest you not waste any further time discussing it," said Kostiashak.
The two engineers took the Chairman's remark as more than a "suggestion."
"Chief Designer, you begin immediately on the collar design and line up the fabrication facilities," ordered Popov. "I'm sure the General Secretary will see to it you receive every assistance. I will start preparations for the launch vehicles and select the