Gilda's voice was acerbic, like the quintessential Jewish mother she was. "Time to impact now twenty-five minutes, fifty-seven seconds, vehicle count two-one-four and still increasing… initial booster separation of lead missiles should begin within thirty seconds. ,"
The pencil shafts of light continued northward, approaching the Siberian coast.
"Target prioritization complete… isotope is charging… will initiate pulse on lead elements.
"Vehicle count at three-two-seven… still increasing… lead elements have booster separation… second-stage failure on three vehicles… lead missile elements have entered exoat-mosphere… Time to impact twenty-three minutes, sixteen seconds.'' Gilda, with her pear-shaped body and ink-black curly hair, peered over her half-moon glasses and said, "Youti better move your ass, Thomas."
Havelichek's narrow face was transfixed on the screen as he kept tapping the keyboard. "Relax, Gilda. We've got another four minutes of postboost left. Besides, no sense firing unless we have a bunch of them in the exoatmosphere phase… reconfirming acquisition and tracking… isotope is energized."
"Time to impact twenty-two minutes, thirty-two seconds," said the Jewish mother.
"Auto systems engaged… Graser pulse at full power. Commence firing!"
On the screen another light beam — this one bigger and bright red — originated above Severnaya Zemlya island on the northern Siberian coast and began intersecting the leading edge of the white pencil lights, taking out ten to fifteen ICBMs with each pulse. After disposing of the lead elements, the red beam began working its way down the pencil-light forest.
Gilda watched her screen. "Eighty-three kills and climbing.'' With each "kill" the deceased white pencil light disappeared from the screen. "Uh-oh. Launch detection! FBB! Looks like SS-30s."
FBB was the acronym for "fast-burn booster," a rocket that burned super-efficient propellants and could halve the time of a typical ICBM's boost and postboost phase. The distinctive infrared signature — caused by a bigger and brighter exhaust plume — and greater velocity made FBBs easy to identify. But because of their speed, the SDI platform's battle management computer had to reprioritize the sequence of targets. Otherwise, one of the FBBs could slip by while the Graser beam was engaging slower targets.
"Target priority is adjusting," said Havelichek. The Graser beam stopped momentarily. "Isotope recharging."
"Lead missile wave is destroyed. Time to impact of new lead elements has been rolled back to twenty-four minutes, twenty-two seconds, but FBBs are moving up. Vehicle count now four-one-four.'' Gilda peered over her half-moon glasses again. "Isn't he clever? Slipping in the FBBs during an isotope recharge."
"Oh, yeah. Clever as hell," responded Havelichek, while rubbing his high forehead. "His timing is a little off, though. He should've launched them a bit sooner… Recharge complete. Graser at full pulse power. Commence firing."
Again the red beam began zapping the white pencils; but after being zapped, one pencil beam continued toward the Arctic ice cap. Havelichek turned to his assistant. "Hey, what's the deal? I thought I nailed that one."
Gilda checked her screen. "No, Thomas. You nailed the first stage of an FBB just after it separated.'' She turned to him. "So sorry. You're doing well, though. Kill count is up to one-seven-four."
He pursed his lips. "Recharging."
"Except for the one you missed, time to impact of new lead missile elements is now twenty-three minutes, fifty-two seconds… Oops! Submarine missile launch detection." She studied the readout. "South of Bermuda in the Adantic… four ballistic missiles. Bearing appears to be headed for… Washington. Impact time just over seven minutes. Looks like they're out of range for our platform."
Havelichek leaned back and smiled. "Look again." From above Newfoundland another red beam appeared and zapped the four ballistic pencil beams climbing out of the Atlantic.
Gilda scanned her clipboard with a puzzled expression. "I don't see a second platform on the defensive elements list."
Havelichek grinned. "You don't see a submarine launch on the offensive elements, either."
Gilda stared at him for a few moments, then understood— and giggled. "You are sooooo sneaky. When did you insert it?"
"Last night," replied Havelichek. "That's why I wanted to run the exercise early this morning, before Buford had a chance to recheck the program."
The red beam over the Siberian coast continued zapping the Russian ICBMs with astonishing speed until all were erased from the screen.
"Exercise concluded," announced Gilda. "Five hundred forty-three kills and one miss that impacted.'' She inspected her screen. "It appears Detroit has been totally wiped out."
Havelichek shrugged. "Doesn't bother me. I drive a Mazda.''
Just then the door burst open, revealing an ogre with cauliflower ears, who looked as if he'd once played defensive tackle for the Rams. He was puffing and pawing like a fighting bull. ' 'And just where the hell did that second platform come from?''
Havelichek greeted the ogre with a friendly smile. "Welllll, good morning, Buford."
The man's temple artery was pulsating against his scarlet face. He appeared on the edge of blind rage. "Don't 'good morning' me! I want to know where the hell that damn platform came from!"
The exchange was taking place in the Conflict Simulation Center of Lawrence Liveimore Laboratory, a facility which enabled scientists to simulate combat conditions in a computer environment. An offensive tactician would sit in one room while a defensive tactician would sit in another, and they would play out a battle scenario in a simulation powered by Livermore's Computing Center. The exercises often resembled a highly sophisticated chess match. Havelichek — and his nemesis Buford— had just finished a simulated nuclear ICBM attack on the United States. Buford was in charge of the offensive Russian missile strategy, while Havelichek played defender with the Graser weaponry aboard the SDI platform.
"Well, Buford," recalled Havelichek casually, "yesterday morning I read the battle scenario memo you sent me and I didn't see anything programmed in on a submarine launch." Buford seemed to deflate a little. "So, seeing how things were a little slow yesterday afternoon, I thought I'd check out the battle program, and lo and behold, would you believe somebody — I have no idea who — dropped in a Russkie Typhoon-class sub off the Bermuda coast. Well, figuring fair was fair, I programmed in an extra space platform late last night."
Buford tried to regain his lost momentum. "You can't expect an attack to go by strict parameters. There's always going to be an element of surprise."
Havelichek's narrow face broke into a wide grin. "I guess that's fine, just as long as you're not the one being surprised. Right, Bu?"
Buford blew a gasket. "Listen, Buster! I had an Assistant Secretary of Defense observing in the other simulator. You made me look like a fool!"
Havelichek sighed. "You don't need me to make you look like a fool, Buford."
With that, Buford emitted a little choking sound, spun on his heel, and slammed the door.
Gilda adjusted her glasses. "You were a little hard on him, weren't you?"
He shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe so. He's ridden my ass ever since I came to this place. Basically, he's just a bully. And it's gotten worse over the last six months." Havelichek was thirty-two. Buford was fifty-two. Everyone at Livermore knew that within another year or so Havelichek would be Buford's boss, and Buford wasn't coping very well. He took cheap shots at the younger man every chance he got, but Havelichek always seemed to stay one step ahead.
Havelichek was Assistant Director for Computing Sciences, Lawrence Livermore Laboratory, attached to the Strategic Defense Initiative Group. A child prodigy mathematics whiz and a computer science Ph.D. from Stanford at age twenty-three, he'd spent his entire career at Livermore and was the chief technical guru for the SDI's battle management system. It was his revolutionary design in computer technology and artificial intelligence that made operating the platform feasible. To stop a ballistic missile attack, the amount of information that had to be handled was so vast and the time required to process the data was so compressed that conventional computers — even Cray supercomputers — were woefully inadequate for the task. Havelichek had designed the revolutionary PRISM battle management computer, and it was his team who brought it to fruition. It was a foregone conclusion around Livermore that he'd be named Director of Computing Sciences for the entire laboratory before too long.