"As we discussed previously, sir," recapped Whittenberg, "there's no way of telling. The configuration of the satellite indicates it could be virtually any kind of vehicle that simply hasn't jettisoned its launch shroud yet — anything from a photo reconnaissance bird to an ASAT."
The word ASAT gave the President pause. "What if it is an antisatellite weapon?"
An exasperated sigh came through the line. "My crystal ball is no better than the next person's, Mr. President; but if it is, in fact, an ASAT, then it could very well destroy the Constellation, its crew, and the Intrepid right along with it. And as I said, we would be powerless to stop it."
"Hmmmm. What about that spaceplane?"
"The Kestrel?"
"Yeah. Could that thing handle an ASAT?"
Whittenberg's voice contained the equivalent of a shrug. "An ASAT going against the Kestrel in a reciprocal — that is to say, opposite — orbit would be something of a Mexican standoff, sir. It would just depend on which spacecraft could lock on and fire the fastest."
"You mean… a quick-draw contest?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes, sir."
"Well, if that spaceplane can at least defend itself, should we forget the Constellation and launch the Kestrel instead?''
' 'We could, sir, but it would mean trading capability for time. The Constellation is completing preparations now. Fueling will commence' '—Whittenberg checked the giant watch on his wrist that all aviators wore—"about three hours from now. Preparations on the Kestrel are under way now, but the earliest we could make it ready for lift-off would be twenty-seven hours after the Constellation's first launch window. During that time the Russians might get something aloft."
"You're not giving me very attractive options, General," grumbled the President.
"That's correct, sir. And make no mistake — that mystery satellite up there could very well be an ASAT. We simply don't know. If it is, the Constellation could be destroyed and the crew killed. General McCormack has already informed the Constellation's crew of the potential risks. However, if we wait and send up the Kestrel, we're giving the Russians another twenty-seven hours to try to bring down the Intrepid for themselves. I won't make this easy for you, sir. The Constellation or the Kestrel. You've got the facts, and it's your decision. Which one do we send up?"
The President felt excruciatingly alone. It was a clear choice now. No more staff papers. No more study. No more counseling or recommendations. Decision time. His and his alone. He could be dead right or dead wrong. He felt like waffling, but then he remembered Dr. Sharp's comment about the rubidium isotope and the twenty trillion watts of power released in a single Graser pulse.
"Launch the Constellation," ordered the President.
"Yes, sir."
The sky was a purple twilight, indicating that dawn was almost upon them. To be seen in the daylight would be unforgivable; therefore, Ghost Leader was grateful when he finally heard the squeal of his tires on the runway. As his speed decreased, he turned the aircraft onto a high-speed taxiway and headed for a darkened hangar.
Waiting inside the hangar were the Omani air base commander, the senior military attache from the U.S. Embassy (an Army colonel), and two U.S. Air Force advisers who were on loan to the Royal Omani Air Force.
The barrel-chested American colonel, complete with desert fatigues and sidearm, didn't like having the Omani air base commander present — but that was the price you paid for using the Sultan's real estate. Although he grumbled, the American knew he had no real cause for a gripe. The Sultan's rich but sparsely populated little country was within spitting distance of Iran, across the Gulf of Oman. His Highness had to go eyeball to eyeball with the Ayatollah on a daily basis, and the fewer Americans on his soil, the better he liked it. Yet when the chips were down he'd play ball, just as the Secretary of State said. When the U.S. Army's Delta Force had embarked on its abortive mission to rescue hostages in the U.S. embassy in Teheran, the Sultan had allowed the Americans to use his Masirah Island as a staging area. He was a gutsy little guy.
As Ghost Leader's plane approached, one of the American Air Force advisers guided the aircraft into the darkened hangar with a bright flashlight wand, then gave the signal for the pilot to kill his engines. The process was then repeated with Ghost Two, while the C-141 Starlifter and the KC-10 tanker were directed to a different hangar.
The air base commander flipped a switch and the hangar doors rolled forward on their tracks until they closed, which plunged the hangar into total darkness. He then turned on the interior klieg lights to illuminate the black batwings, and the sight that greeted him almost caused his knees to buckle. He stood there some moments with his mouth agape, then warily approached Ghost Leader's plane.
' 'You understand you are to speak to no one about this?'' said the American colonel sternly. "Absolutely no one."
The air base commander nodded absendy. "Yes, yes, I understand. I was not told what type of aircraft we would be receiving." He gulped. "Tell me. What is it?"
Before the colonel could answer, a hatch on the underside of the batwing flipped open, and a flight-suited figure wearing a crash helmet nimbly dropped onto the tarmac. "Where's the bathroom?" he demanded.
On the northeast corner of Pad 39A, a valve was turned and the liquid contents of a giant spherical vessel began flowing into an underground fuel line. The fluid draining from the 850,000-gallon storage tank was liquid hydrogen, chilled to minus 423 degrees Fahrenheit. In liquid form, the hydrogen was incredibly light — a full gallon weighed only half a pound. And because it weighed so little, no pumps were required to transmit the fuel down the vacuum-jacketed transfer line. Instead, a small amount of the liquid H-two was allowed to "boil off," or vaporize at the top of the storage vessel, and the resulting pressure was sufficient to push the fuel down the pipeline toward the launch pad.
At the pad, the fuel traveled into a tail-mast umbilical at the bottom of the Constellation, where it gushed backward through the orbiter's own pipeline system and into the orange external tank. Like a bubbling caldron, the tank's H-two fuel compartment began filling from the bottom up, and shortly before liftoff at 4:30 a.m., the vessel would be topped off.
At launch time, the only thing that would stand between the limpet mine and 383,000 gallons of the volatile liquid hydrogen was a thin layer of the external tank's aluminum skin.
"I got a bandit at two o'clock low, moving laterally from starboard to port. Range three-eight-seven miles and increasing slightly."
"Want an attitude adjustment?" queried Monaghan.
"Negative," responded Lamborghini. "At least not yet. He's coming across our beam. I'll track him with the cone for now." He twisted the handle on the radar focusing controller, which caused the small radar dish in the Kestrel's nose cone to align with the bandit. The adjustable radar dish allowed him to sweep the airspace without having to pivot the spaceplane.
"You want to move in on this one?" asked Monaghan. The Kestrel could maneuver closer to a target if they were traveling in roughly the same direction.,