Pirdilenko stuck up his hand, indicating he wanted silence. His gaze remained on the map projection, and after a few seconds elapsed, the white lines denoting the Constellation and the ASAT missile disappeared from the screen.
There were no cheers from the room. Just a collective wince. Albeit American, three brother space pioneers had just been vaporized, and almost everyone squirmed a little. The General Secretary, however, did not squirm. Instead, with wide eyes, he asked, "Is it done?"
Pirdilenko stood up from his chair. The aloofness had returned. "Of course, General Secretary. There was an unexpected gap between the two spacecraft. Narrow, but a definite gap. I was able to trigger the device at such an angle as to destroy the rescue vessel without damaging the Intrepid." Pirdilenko's attack strategy had been quite clever. He'd placed the ASAT in a higher orbit than the target, so the downward plane of attack would destroy the Constellation and take the pellets out of the Intrepid's orbital path. It was a "pop-down" rather than a "popup" maneuver.
"Excellent work, Comrad!" Vorontsky was exultant again. "I knew all along you could do it."
Pirdilenko cleaned his sweat-stained glasses with the tail of his white laboratory coat, and in an acerbic voice he replied, "I am honored to have had your confidence. Now, if you do not object, I will be going." And he strode from the room.
"Comrade Popov?" asked the diminutive KGB Chairman.
The mournful general had placed a comforting hand on Malyshev;s shoulder. He withdrew it and turned. "Yes, Comrade Chairman?" he replied in a weary voice.
"Is there any danger of the Aerospace Defense Warning Centre investigating the, ah, 'disappearance' of the two spacecraft?"
Popov sighed.' 'Probably. But it will take them at least a week to process the data. They track fifteen thousand objects in orbit, after all. The fact that the American rescue shuttle traveled south out of the Florida cosmodrome may raise some questions. But it will take some time to look into the matter, and any investigation would not commence until after the weekend has passed."
"Very good," said Kostiashak. "When will we launch our Soyuz spacecraft?"
Popov looked at his watch. "Baikonur will be in position in approximately fourteen hours. Vostov should have loaded the docking collar into the launch shroud by now, and our cosmonauts are completing the review of their flite plans."
Kostiashak nodded. "My compliments, General." He then turned to his companion, and while stroking the lapel of his English-tailored suit, he said, "You see, General Secretary, as long as we anticipate events we can deal with any problems that arise."
Vorontsky thumped Kostiashak on the back. "As usual, you are correct, Vitali. But I must confess, the tension has left me exhausted."
"I quite understand, General Secretary," comforted Kostiashak. "It has been an ordeal for you, I laiow. Since it will be some hours before our spacecraft is launched from Baikonur, please allow me to escort you back to your apartment in Moscow. You can bathe and get a few hours' sleep in your own bed. I will monitor the situation and make sure the preparations are in order."
The bleary-eyed Vorontsky did not argue. "That is an excellent suggestion, Vitali. Let us go." He started to leave the Flite
Centre, but then his hulking body stopped abruptly. "The Americans," he said rhetorically. "We have shot down one of their spacecraft. They may react." He sounded apprehensive again.
Kostiashak was soothing. "Rest assured, General Secretary. My people in Washington are watching the American situation very carefully. We will be notified the moment anything suspicious arises. Besides, we will have their spacecraft in a matter of hours."
The former hammer thrower shrugged. "Very well, Vitali. I leave it in your hands. Let us go."
The KGB Chairman stubbed out his cigarette and smiled at Popov. "I will not be long, General."
Popov did not reply.
Maj. Rusty Tipton was settled in for the rest of the night on a bunk in the ready room — as settled in as he could get while sleeping in his flight suit. At least he didn't have to wear those infernal steel-toed flight boots when trying to sleep on alert status. The red-haired aviator had obtained a pair with Velcro wraparound tops so he could jump out of the bunk and slip on the boots in under ten seconds. Sometimes five.
B-52 crews, like Tipton's, were not like normal people who worked during the day and slept at night. Their regular routine might be twenty-four hours aloft in one of the big black monsters, down for forty-eight, airborne for twenty-four, then down for seventy-two (which would include time for classes, training, simulator, briefings, and preflight checks), then on standby status for forty-eight, which could mean one takeoff and landing after another in the black monster. The old black monster. The Stra-tofortresses that Tipton and his fellow pilots flew had been built before he was born.
Tipton's crew had already been up once since midnight for a practice alert, and he hoped that was all the action for this go-around. He was due to go on leave at the end of this alert shift— to Hawaii, where it was warm for a change. Tipton wanted everything to remain quiet until he signed out at headquarters. But with CinCSAC Bemie Dooley, you never knew — that four-star son of a bitch kept everybody on a very short leash.
The sandman was just letting Tipton drift off to slumberland when a whaaa! whaaa! whaaa! blared through the loudspeaker. Reflexively, the former Northwestern basketball forward pivoted out of the bunk, then shoved his feet into his boots and secured the Velcro flaps. He grabbed his parka and joined the mob running pell-mell down the ramp for the transport trucks, which were lined up in herringbone fashion along the tarmac. When each vehicle had its full crew complement loaded, the skipper would knock on the cab and the driver would tear out. Tipton had great confidence in his ability to survive in the air; however, surviving the ride to the aircraft was something else again. In a nuclear war, getting off the ground in one piece was half the battle. In fact, most of the Pentagon's simulated nuclear war scenarios called for half the U.S. bomber force to get nailed on the ground before takeoff. That's why speed, speed, speed was always the byword in getting the lumbering bombers airborne. Tipton was convinced the Air Force recruited frustrated drag racers for runway transport drivers.
The weather was frosty as the truck screeched to a halt in front of aircraft number41/652 of the 379th Bombardment Wing. The ground crewmen, wrapped up in their snowsuits, were already there as Tipton and his flight crew scurried up the hatch ladders. After the electronic warfare officer was on board, the ladder was removed and the hatch buttoned up.
Tipton and his copilot gave a thumbs-up sign to the ground crew chief, indicating they were ready. The two aviators had developed a knack for starting the B-52's eight engines and putting on their helmets simultaneously. All eight engines fired in sequence, the wheel chocks were pulled, and Tipton began to taxi while his copilot lowered the windshield flash protectors.
In a nuclear war environment, the fusion fireball of a hydrogen bomb — even at a distance — could easily blind a pilot. Therefore, during takeoff, flash protectors covered the windshield of the B-52, and the pilot navigated through dual, electro-optic periscopes mounted in "chin turrets" underneath the B-52's nose. The filtered infrared and low-light TV periscope system enabled the pilot to see the runway at night, or through fee flashes of nearby nuclear detonations (at least, that's how it was supposed to work).