Sir Isaac replied with a very slow "Yes… sir."
"Both missiles, in many respects, rely on much of the same technology that has been around for years, right?" queried Whittenberg.
"To a degree, yes, sir."
"Well, I don't like it any more than you do, but we'd better see what we can do in a makeshift way to get the Kestrel up and running. Even so, we have to go ahead and send up the Constellation. If nothing else, she could prevent the Intrepid from being… well, boarded." Whittenbeig's big shoulders drooped and he shook his head. "Lord… 'boarded.' I thought piracy was a thing of the past."
His staff said nothing, but they felt a wave of sympathy for their CinC.
Whittenberg mentally shook and refocused himself. "Okay, I'll call Admiral Bergstrom and the Secretary and tell them it is our opinion the Intrepid has definitely defected, and we're sending up the Constellation to try to prevent the spacecraft from falling into Russian hands. In the meantime, we'll see what we can do with the Kestrel prototype to use it as a backup if need be. Bull, you get the honors of calling Chet at the Cape and informing him that the Intrepid has defected. I know he was busy getting the Constellation ready for launch, and I didn't want to spring this on him until we were sure, but he's got to know right away. Tell him to stay on top of the Constellation preparations and crank up the Kestrel's flight crew."
"Yes, sir," replied Dowd.
Whittenberg turned to Fairchild, his one-man brain trust. "Sir Isaac, I want you to get cracking on the Kestrel prototype. Crank up the LTV engineers and see if we can put something together for a possible launch. Anything you need, say the word."
The hawk-nosed brigadier ran a cleaner into his meerschaum pipe. "Roger, sir. And I have an idea that may allow us to put some armament on the Constellation. But I have to check a couple of things first.''
"Do it," ordered the CinC. "Major Strand, I want you to tear the service records of Kapuscinski, Mulcahey, and Rodriquez to pieces. Go back to square one. Take nothing for granted. Talk to anyone you need to, but keep the purpose under wraps. Use your own staff people, or call in CID or FBI to help you. I want to know who the hell this defector is."
"Yes, sir," replied the brunette major tentatively. "But I'm really not any kind of trained investigator."
"Granted. But you know these three men better than anyone here. Bringing someone in from the outside to head up an investigation and getting him briefed would take too much time. And time is something we have very little of at the moment."
"But what about Colonel Lamborghini?" she asked.
"I have a feeling," Whittenberg sighed, "I'm going to Washington. And he's coming with me."
Back in his office, Whittenberg once again picked up the green phone that was a direct secure line to the Chief of the General Staff of the United States Armed Forces. It rang once. "Bergstrom," came the reply.
"Yes, Admiral, it's Whittenberg at SPACECOM. Would you patch the Secretary in on this line? I have something to tell both of you."
"Hold on." There were a few buzzes and peeps before another voice came on the line. Whittenberg methodically went through the results of the SR-71 flyby and what SPACECOM planned to do to recapture the Intrepid. There was a prolonged silence before the Secretary spoke in his aristocratic Southern drawl.
"Well, General, this is definitely going to require the President's attention. I think you'd better come to Washington and bring the pertinent data with you. I'll call the White House and get a meeting of the National Security Council convened. This thing is incredible. Who the hell knows where it might lead? Maybe this is only a part of some kind of subversive plot. Maybe it's the prelude to an attack of some sort."
"I've got NORAD at full alert status," said Whittenberg. "SAC is at DEFCON Four. I wouldn't recommend going to DEFCON Three with them until we have a better handle on things. It might tip our hand."
"Agreed," said the Secretary.
"Do as the Secretary said, Rodg," ordered the Admiral. "Get your information together and hightail it to Washington by the fastest conveyance possible."
"Yes, sir. I'll be leaving Cheyenne Mountain in a few hours, as soon as I get some updated satellite pix in."
"Hmmm." Bergstrom's voice took on a guarded tone. "Since the payload was so critical on this mission, maybe we'd better get Havelichek and Sharp out here, too. I'm sure there's going to be some questions about the severity of any potential loss, and they can field the questions better than anyone I've got in the Pentagon."
Whittenberg winced at the words potential loss, but he agreed. "Yes, sir. Will you arrange for their transport?"
"They'll probably beat you here."
Maj. Gen. Chester McCormack leaned back in his office chair. Although he was fifty-two, his blond hair showed not so much as a hint of gray. He was still trim as a board and, as the phrase goes, "rakishly handsome." So handsome, in fact, that early in his career he'd taken a lot of guff for being the model in an Air Force recruiting poster. But the pretty face concealed a hard-nosed general who prized discipline and always liked to be in control.
McCormack was in his office, talking with astronauts Phillip
Heitmann and Jack Tbwnsend about the procedures they would use on their rescue mission to the Intrepid. Also present was Maj. Sandford Watkins, who would be the extravehicular specialist on the mission. Although he was an Army major, the sandy-haired "Sandy" Watkins was able to serve in SPACECOM because it was a "unified command," meaning it drew on all three branches of the armed forces for its people. Watkins had a Ph.D. in mechanical engineering from Texas A&M and had designed some modifications to the manned maneuvering unit backpack. His technical credentials and gymnast's body made him eminently qualified to handle the EVA.
"Okay," said McCormack, "loop around it at six hundred meters for an initial visual, then come in to about three hundred meters and see if you can signal with a beacon from the Constellation. If you get no response, suit up Sandy and send him over for a look-see. Remember, though, I want a minimum of three hundred meters separation at all times. Maybe their fuel cells conked out and they have an O-two leak. Who knows? But I don't want to take a chance of damaging the Constellation if Intrepid blows up for whatever reason. So keep the distance."
"Roger, General," responded Heitmann, the mission commander. "No problem. We'll be careful. What I'm concerned about is this polar launch over Florida. There's gonna be a lot of flak about that."
"No doubt. But that's a decision a little ole two-star like myself won't be making. You guys just worry about bringing whoever's left back alive."
Heitmann nodded. "Yes, sir. All I can say is that the Intrepid must've had a technical glitch of some kind. With Iceberg up there you can rule out pilot error altogether."
"No argument there," concurred the general.
The phone rang and McCormack answered. It was Dowd, the SPACECOM chief of staff, on the other end. "Yes, Bull, I'm just going over things with the crew now… Okay, hang on a second." McCormack punched some buttons on a keypad recessed into the side of his phone. "All right, can you hear me okay?… This scrambler has always given me problems… Yes… yes… go on… "