"Mon Dieu!"
"God in heaven!"
The small group of men standing before the television in the Oval Office collectively leapt back from the Spyglass picture on the screen, shocked by the utter devastation they'd just witnessed.
It was the President who recovered first.."Sam," he ordered in a gravelly voice, "find out what… what happened."
The Secretary of Defense picked up the phone on the coffee table and punched in the connection to the National Military Command Center in the Pentagon. He spoke rapidly, then waited for the reply. After a few more hushed words were exchanged he looked up with a red face. "Admiral Bergstrom says it was the Russians, sir. That mysterious object of theirs was apparently an antisatellite warhead. The admiral says SPACECOM caught a photograph of the missile just as it was firing to intercept the Constellation."
"All right! That does it!" The President's face turned purple with rage. "Tell Bergstrom to push the Strategic Air Command up to DEFCON Two! I want the Russians to see a goddam hornets' nest on their radar screens!"
"Yes, sir!"
His fury still building, the President turned to the Secretary of State. "Winston, go get Yakolev over here! Hog-tie him if you have to, or take some Marines and break down his goddam embassy door! But get him over here now! We're going to find out what the hell is going on!"
"Yes, Mr. President."
"I'll go with you to the embassy, Mr. Secretary," offered the
Vice President, "and help you with the collection of the ambassador."
"I appreciate that, Mr. Vice President," said the diplomat grimly. "Your assistance may be required." "Sam!"
The Defense Secretary looked up from the phone. "Yes, Mr. President?"
"Tell Bergstrom to launch that spaceplane and send in the stealth bombers if he has to, but the Russians are not getting their goddam hands on the IntrepidV' "Yes, sir!"
The President felt a large but gentle hand on his shoulder. "Steady, mon ami," whispered the voice. "Steady."
Everyone in the giant room stood as if riveted to the floor. No one could move. No one could speak. No one had been trained for something like this. Instant death on a giant screen a few feet away. It couldn't be real. Someone on one of the front consoles began sobbing.
In the Crow's Nest the green phone buzzed and the CinC picked it up with a shaky hand. "Whittenberg," he said in a whisper.
A few moments passed before Bergstrom said, "We were watching it here. It was an ASAT, wasn't it?" Even the old salt sounded subdued.
Whittenberg's throat was dry and he had a hard time forming the words. "Yes, Admiral. It was. The Hubble had it on camera just as it fired its engines."
There was another pause, and Whittenberg heard a buzz in the background. "Hold on a minute," said Bergstrom. There were some murmurs before the admiral returned.' 'That was the Secretary of Defense. They saw the whole thing at the White House. The President says get that spaceplane up there and shoot the son of a bitch down if you have to.''
"I understand, sir," replied Whittenberg solemnly.
"I'll call you back in a few minutes," said Bergstrom. "I've got to talk to General Dooley right now. The President is pushing SAC up to DEFCON Two." The line went dead.
As Whittenberg hung up his receiver, the glass door to the Crow's Nest opened. The major who was in charge of handling the Spyglass aircraft walked in, holding a sobbing lieutenant named Keith Brunswick by the arm.
"General," said the major, "I thought I'd better bring the boy up here. He wanted to tell you something."
The CinC looked at the sobbing young officer and said, "Sir Isaac, get him a chair." Fairchild quickly provided one and the lieutenant sat down with his face in his hands.
"What is it, son?" asked Whittenberg.
In a stammering voice, the stocky lieutenant sobbed, "General… I… I killed them."
"What?" asked Dowd numbly.
In a staccato voice punctuated with more sobs, Brunswick said, "I was on station nine. I was supposed to watch that Hubble telescope picture of that unknown satellite. I got… distracted by what the major was doing and started looking at his Spyglass monitor instead. I didn't see the satellite fire its engines. The guy in the next station saw it and asked if I'd seen it. If I'd been watching it… like I should have, they might've had enough warning… Oh, God, I'm sorry." The sobs continued.
Whittenberg felt like unloading on someone, but he knew this wasn't the person or the time. He extended his hand and squeezed the young officer's arm.' 'There's nothing you could've done, son. They were probably as good as dead when they lifted off. It's not your fault. It's mine.'' He looked at the major. "Take him down to the dispensary. Have the medics give him something to quiet him down."
"Yes, sir," replied the major, and he guided the lieutenant out the door.
"Bull?" asked Whittenberg.
"Yes, sir," replied Dowd softly.
"In just a second I'm going to call Chet. He pushed himself so damn hard getting the Constellation aloft, I'm afraid this may put him over the edge. I want you to go out to CSOC and… stay close to him. You two are friends, I know. Make him get some sleep. We'll need him fit for the Kestrel launch. If he gives you any trouble, call me and I'll send a medic over there."
"Right away, sir." And Dowd left.
"Sir Isaac," continued the CinC, "I want you to stay on top of things at Vandenberg. Let me know if there's so much as a whiff of a foul-up with the Kestrel."
Fairchild responded with a gende,' 'Yes, sir,'' and left for his operations office.
Whittenbeig stared at the CSOC phone for a full thirty seconds, then closed his eyes and slowly picked it up.
They were both stunned beyond words, and could only gape at the debris filling the screen.
Finally, Monaghan recovered enough to ask in a croaky voice, "Who… did you say was… on board?"
Lamborghini couldn't reply at once. His mind was groping for some equilibrium. The same dizziness had struck him when he witnessed the Challenger disaster. The shuttle was such a magnificent machine, yet so vulnerable. To see one atomized in the blink of an eye was more than the mind could absorb.
"Pete… you okay?" asked Monaghan gently.
Lamborghini's eyes were still glazed, and all he could manage was a feeble half-nod.
"We're going up, Pete. You understand that, don't you? We have to go up and nail the fucker. I need you, man. Don't crap out on me now."
Lamborghini nodded again. More firmly this time.
Monaghan turned to the tech sergeant in charge of the commo room, who was also shell-shocked. "If anybody wants us, tell 'em they can find us in the simulator hangar."
Monaghan didn't wait for a response. He took his friend by the arm and led him out of the building.
Every eye in the Flite Centre was focused on the map projection showing the ground tracks of the Intrepid, the Constellation, and the ASAT missile converging over the Arctic ice cap. The ground tracks were unchanged, even though Pirdilenko knew the ASAT missile had fired its engines and detonated its warhead. When a space vehicle altered its orbit, it took some seconds for the Aerospace Defense Warning Centre's computers to "digest" the new data and adjust the projection screen accordingly.
General Secretary Vorontsky saw the unchanged orbits and was snorting and pawing like a fighting bull. "Your antisatellite weapon has failed, Comrade. What do you have to say for yourself now? You may not have thought I meant what I said about—" '