"Yessir," replied the burly chief of staff. He turned and nodded to Lamborghini. "Go ahead, Colonel."
"Sir," began Lamborghini from the lectern, "three days ago on four November, at twelve thirty-two hours Zulu time, the seventh Soviet shuttle mission was launched from the Baikonur Cosmodrome in a polar orbit with eighty-three degrees inclination. The mission continued for seventeen orbits with an apogee of one hundred sixty-nine miles and a perigee of one hundred forty-two miles."
On the screen above the colonel, a Mercator world map appeared with a wavy line indicating the Suslov's initial orbital path.
"Shortly after we obtained the launch detection, verification, and plot of the spacecraft we scrambled Spyglass to grab some pix, but there was a delay due to the fact she was on temporary assignment in Australia."
The squat but massive chief of staff leaned over and muttered to the CinC, "She was taking some downrange imagery on a Midgetman test shot out of Vandenberg."
Lamborghini waited until the chief of staff had finished his comment, then continued, "When Spyglass finally made it out of the Royal Australian Air Force base at Woomera and got into position, she caught the orbiter at the precise moment of retro-fire on orbit seventeen at an altitude of one hundred fifty-seven nautical miles."
The map was replaced by a photograph of the Suslov with a fiery tail.
"Pure-dee luck," said the Bull.
"Certainly was," agreed Whittenberg, as he took a gulp of coffee from a mug emblazoned with the SPACECOM insignia.
Lamborghini continued, "An hour and fifty-three minutes after the Spyglass flyby we had a KH-12 pass over Baikonur which caught the shuttle on the ground at the end of the recovery runway."
A new slide came on the screen depicting what appeared to be the Suslov with various vehicles parked around it.
"We had an IR pass ninety-seven minutes later, after sunset; but as you can see''—another slide popped up, this one showing a grainy infrared image with a reddish hue—"the orbiter had not been moved. Only some of the vehicles had been withdrawn."
The heat-sensitive elements of the KH-12's infrared system clearly showed the outline of the replica Suslov. Had the genuine Suslov survived, its surface would have remained quite hot from the reentry friction. The heating coils that ran under the replica's skin had the same effect on the satellite's sensors, so no one in the room had any reason to suspect the shuttle was a phony.
"SIGINT?" queried Whittenberg, using the acronym for "signals intelligence."
"Only traffic analysis, sir," replied Lamborghini. "The Soviets had two tracking ships deployed — the Marshal Nedelin and Vladimir Komarov in the Pacific and Indian oceans respectively — and NSA monitored most of their transmissions through the Eardrum system. But as is the case with many of their sensitive missions, the radio transmissions were scrambled."
"All right," said Whittenberg, "the Vice President is going to ask me what it all means, so let's crystallize our position."
"I think it's quite apparent, General," said the deputy chief of staff for operations, a tall, thin brigadier who was never without his meerschaum pipe. Because his mathematical skills were legendary, Brig. Gen. John Fairchild had long since been stuck with the call sign of Sir Isaac, in honor of Sir Isaac Newton. He lit up his pipe and continued: "Our initial SDI testing" — you couldn't call Star Wars "Star Wars" at Cheyenne Mountain— ' 'demonstrated that the shuttle was vital, even crucial, in retrieving essential parts for repair. We were all surprised to find its uniquely critical role evolved into providing the transport downlink from the prototype platform, rather than carrying equipment up to it. We simply did not foresee how fundamental that element was. In any case, as our testing progressed, the Russians saw they would have to have a viable shuttle program if they were to build a Star Wa-er, SDI system."
Everyone chuckled, and Sir Isaac's ears turned a slight shade of pink over his gaffe.
"Well, what I'm trying to say," added Sir Isaac defensively, "is that we've learned you can't build and maintain an SDI platform without a shuttle system. As long as the Russians didn't have a shuttle they would've had a bitch of a time maintaining a platform. Now they have one."
"And that is definitely bad news," grumbled the Bull.
"I'm afraid it is," agreed Whittenberg.
"At least they haven't matched our technical breakthrough," said the adjutant.
"So far," countered the CinC as he turned to Lamborghini. "Colonel, time's running short. Would you be good enough to sum things up for us?"
"Yes, sir," said Lamborghini as he quickly shuffled his notes. "There was a time gap of one year, one month, and four days between the previous Soviet shuttle mission and the one that occurred on 4 November. Because of the time expended between launches, we speculated something was wrong with their program. With this successful mission it appears they fixed whatever the problem was and are back in business. This is historically characteristic of their space program — that is, to continue to press forward even after major setbacks. An operational shuttle provides them with the missing transport link to assemble and maintain an SDI platform in space. Their heavy-lifit capability already surpasses our own."
"Thank you, Colonel." Whittenberg looked up and down the table. "Anyone have any parting remarks? Anything we haven't covered? The floor is open for speculation. I won't hold anybody to their comments." And they knew he meant it.
"Sir?" It was Maj. Lydia Strand, Lamborghini's intel deputy — a striking brunette whose looks were surpassed only by her intelligence.
"Yes, Major?" prompted the CinC.
"Well, sir," she offered, "after the Russians' previous shuttle launch there was an absolute crackdown on access by the Western press to officials in the Soviet space program. I mean, zip has come out of there over the last year, and the Russians always play their space heroes up to the nth degree."
"As we have," Whittenberg pointed out.
"Yes, sir," agreed Strand, but added, "I would be curious to see what happens to press access after this mission."
The SPACECOM CinC pondered the thought for a moment, then said, "Your point is well taken, Major. I'll mention it to the Vice President if you have no objection."
Strand smiled. "No, sir. No objection."
The General Secretary stood by the bay window of his baronial office, watching the season's first snowfall drift down onto Cathedral Square/ It was a great irony that the Kremlin was populated by a regime which passionately embraced atheism, yet within its stone walls was a network of old structures that recalled the passionate faith of the Russian soul. Walking across the Kremlin grounds, one could see separate churches honoring the Archangel Michael, the Twelve Apostles, the Dormition of the Virgin, and the Annunciation. Additionally, there was the Church of the Deposition of the Virgin's Robe, as well as Wall
Towers dedicated to Saint Peter, Saint Nicholas, and the Saviour.
To be sure, for the Party faithful there was also a statue of Lenin to complement the mausoleum that held his waxy embalmed remains. But by and large, the Kremlin grounds were dominated by beautiful old churches capped with onionlike domes, and the falling snow gave the scene a fairyland appearance. The snowfall, although late in coming for the year, was the time-honored sign that the city would soon be in the full grip of another leaden winter. But the General Secretary's mind did not absorb the spectacular view from his window or the turning of the seasons. Instead, he pondered the future — in particular his future — and the Politburo meeting that would convene in two hours. His eneigetic mind tried to anticipate the various courses the conclave could take, and he found none of the alternatives appealing.