The chief executive, along with his secretaries of State and Defense, the Vice President, and Admiral Bergstrom, was leaning over a table in the Treaty Room of the White House, eye-balling a map of Southwest Asia. The white ties were all undone now, and the tailed jackets thrown on a chair. The group was reviewing the President's options should SPACECOM's efforts with the Constellation and Kestrel fail.
"Sir," said the admiral crisply, "there is no sense in pussyfooting. This is the only nonnuclear option we have. If we send in B-ls, they would be precluded from using their nuclear-tipped cruise missiles to blast a path to Baikonur, and that would make them sitting ducks over the flat terrain of the Kazakhstan steppes. I could round up plenty of B-l crews that would volunteer to take a shot at it, but that's not the point. The problem is having a reasonable certainty of success. Without the cruise missiles, the B-ls just don't have a piss of a chance — period."
The admiral was referring to strategic bombing doctrine that calls for using nuclear-tipped cruise missiles to take out SAM radar/missile bases and fighter airfields ahead of the B-ls' flight path — that is, to "blast a path" to the primary target, where the B-ls would drop their main bomb load. The B-l was a capable airplane, but it couldn't be expected to fight the Soviet Union's antiaircraft defenses without using all of its resources. Particularly over flat terrain where it couldn't use- its ground-hugging flight navigation system to bob and weave through valleys and mountain passes.
"But what if the stealth bombers had to make some kind of forced landing?" asked the Vice President. "Then the Russians would have the shuttle and the stealth aircraft to analyze."
The admiral released a cloud of foul-smelling cigar smoke. He was still wearing his dress whites from the state dinner. "If we don't use the stealth bomber prototypes, then we're back to using a 'surgical'—I never cared for that term — nuclear weapon to hit the Intrepid when it lands at Baikonur. And if we're going to do that, there's no sense in using the B-ls. We might as well turn the Tennessee loose."
The thought of firing a submarine-launched nuclear missile into Soviet territory didn't sit well with the group.
"Well," sighed the Secretary of State, "let's hope the Constellation gets up there before we have to make that kind of decision."
"Beg pardon, sir," said the admiral, "but if we're going to have so much as an option of using the stealth prototypes, I have to have approval to get the ball rolling now. The bombers, their crews, ground-support aircraft, weapons, and all the horseshit that goes along with it will have to fly ten thousand miles just to get to the staging area. And speaking of a staging area, I need your help."
The diplomat raised an eyebrow. "How so?"
"Diego Garcia is just too damn far away from the Iranian coast to use as a staging platform — over two thousand miles. As I explained, if it looks like the shuttle is going to come down, the bombers have to stay on station near Baikonur for almost ninety minutes to make sure both orbits of the Intrepid's reentry window are covered. That means a nine-thousand-mile round-trip between Diego Garcia and Baikonur plus ninety minutes on station near their target in a deadly situation. A crew has only so much endurance. Those macho SAC pilots will tell you it's no sweat, but we've got studies up the kazoo that prove different. Prolonged flight stress cuts down on reaction time and proficiency. And to make this confounded thing work we'd better have sharp, well-rested crews on station. So I want a staging area two thousand miles closer to the departure point than Diego Garcia — either Pakistan, 1\irkey, or Oman."
The Secretary rolled his eyes.
"What about it, Winston?" asked the President.
The Cabinet officer's male-model features were beginning to look a bit haggard. He took a deep breath. "Make it Oman. The Sultan's a good man. He'll play ball in a pinch. He knows how to keep a secret, too."
"Good," pronounced the admiral. "I'll get with you on the particulars later, Mr. Secretary, but if you gentlemen will excuse me for a moment I'll call General Dooley at SAC and get the planes in the air. I want them over the Atlantic before the sun comes up."
"Absolute security on this, Admiral," said the President in his finest ass-chewing voice. "Nobody knows about the bombers unless they have a compelling need to know. That even includes Whittenberg. Got it?"
Bergstrom said, "Yessir," and exited the room.
After the naval officer left, it was the Vice President who spoke first. "He doesn't mince words, does he?"
"Nah," agreed the President. "Besides, that's what we pay him for." While crushing out his Don Diego cigar, he turned to the Defense Secretary. "Sam, I hope none of this stealth business has to go through. When is the Constellation getting off the ground?"
The Southerner adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses and looked at his watch. "It's eleven-thirty now. She'll be launching around four-thirty a.m. day after tomorrow — by that I mean Saturday morning. About twenty-nine hours from now. Any early risers in south Florida are in for a big surprise. Uh, by the way, Mr. President, in view of the seriousness of the situation I feel we should notify the appropriate members of the Congressional leadership about the Intrepid."
The President took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose on his drill-sergeant face. "And read about it in the Washington Post in the morning? No thank you. Our honorable Speaker can't go to the men's room without holding a press conference. No. This will be our little secret until the Constellation gets up there. After that I really don't give a damn who knows.'' He paused and looked at the ceiling before continuing. "We really put all our eggs in one basket, didn't we? The Intrepid, I mean. If the Russians get their hands on that thing I'll be lucky — make that damn lucky — if the American people only lynch me."
"Us," added the Vice President.
The President gave his Veep a wry smile, then turned back to his Cabinet officer. "Sam, just so I'll know, where's that Tennessee submarine now?"
"It's cruising in the Indian Ocean about four hundred miles north of Madagascar, Mr. President."
"You mean the Malagasy Republic," corrected the Secretary of State.
"No," said the Pentagon chief with a thin smile. "I mean the Democratic Republic of Madagascar — formerly known as the Malagasy Republic."
The diplomat's ears tqrned crimson over his slipup.
The two men had sparred verbally with each other since their Moot Court competition at Columbia Law School.
"Move the Tennessee in closer. If you think that would help," offered the President.
"Yes, Mr. President," replied the Pentagon chief. "It's heading for the Iranian coast now."
The chief executive sighed. "Well, between the Constellation, the Kestrel, and the stealth bombers we should be able to nail the Intrepid before the Soviets grab her — I hope. Using the Tennessee is something I'd prefer not to think about."
The Secretary nodded. "I quite understand, Mr. President."
The door opened.
"They're in the air," announced the admiral.
In addition to the regular military air traffic control radars on the base, an Airborne Warning and Control System aircraft, better known as an AWACS E3-A Sentry, circled the perimeter of Nellis, looking for any errant low-level aircraft that might be in the vicinity. The rotating "Frisbee" radome perched on the airplane's back allowed it to sweep the mountainous nooks and crannies around Nellis where conventional radars could not see.