Tipton was rolling into his place as number four in the takeoff line when the commo officer got the alert status through his VHF radio. It was SAC policy to let bomber crews know early on what sort of alert they were carrying out. The commo officer listened sleepily until he heard a certain code word, causing him to wake up real fast. "Skipper!" he yelped through the intercom.
"Yeah?" Tipton responded. He was next in the takeoff roll.
"Base commo transmits 'Brushfire.' "
Tipton and his copilot looked at each other in disbelief.
"Brushfire? Are you sure?"
"Dead sure, Skipper," replied the commo officer.
Brushfire meant it was the probable Real Thing and the bombers were to proceed to their "Cocked Pistol" points to wait for a "go — no go" authentication signal from SAC headquarters in Omaha. Brushfire was one level below a Wildfire alert, which meant it already was the Real Thing.
Although the aircraft in front of him hadn't lifted off yet, Tipton shoved the throttles forward and started his takeoff roll. Water was injected into the Pratt & Whitney TF33-P-3 turbofon engines, goosing the thrust of the Stratofortress so it could get off the ground. Inside the monster's weapons bay were twenty nuclear-tipped cruise missiles.
Ambassador Yevgeny Yakolev had the distinction of being the only diplomat on record to have been personally manhandled by a Vice President of the United States and a Cabinet officer. Wearing only an overcoat, a pair of hastily thrown'-on trousers, and a shirt, the diplomat was literally shoved through the door of the Oval Office by the two Americans.
Stunned and groggy, Yakolev confronted a bizarre scene. Seated behind the desk was the President of the United States, and standing to his left — as was often the case — was the Secretary of Defense. But then there was something unexpected. Seated at the right side of the desk was the tall, lanky-framed President of France. The ambassador didn't like the looks of the situation as he gave a perfunctory nod to the Gallic chief of state. "Monsieur le President," he mumbled, then turned to the American. "What is the meaning of this, Mr. President? Why have I been abducted by your Vice President and Foreign Minister? This is an outrage!"
"Shut up, Mr. Ambassador," snapped the President, "and don't talk to me about outrage. I told you earlier that any tampering with our spacecraft would be considered a hostile act. I tried to warn you off then, but you wouldn't listen—"
"Is that what you have kidnapped me for? Are you still pursuing your hijacking fantasies? I told you earlier, Mr. President. The Foreign Minister and Defense Minister investigated this matter themselves at my behest. Your story of a spacecraft hijacking is nothing but a fabrication."
The door opened and an Army major stepped inside. "Mr. Secretary? Here it is, sir," said the officer as he held out a videotape.
"Thank you, Major. That will be all." The Secretary of Defense took the videotape and opened a hidden cabinet in the wall of the Oval Office, revealing the television and a videotape player. He turned on the set and dropped in the tape. "Mr. Ambassador, if you please," he said, while motioning the Russian to approach the set. "This videotape was just prepared by the White House press office from imagery supplied by United States Space Command."
He punched a button and the picture appeared. The Secretary adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses and began his narration:' 'This is a picture of a Soviet satellite taken by the Hubble space telescope orbiting three hundred sixty-eight statute miles above the earth. The satellite you see here was launched from the Plesetsk Cosmodrome at zero-four-three-six hours Greenwich Mean Time yesterday in an orbital inclination of eighty-three degrees at an altitude of two hundred twenty miles."
The picture switched to a brilliant nighttime lift-off. "This is the space shuttle Constellation lifting off two hours ago from Kennedy Space Center in Florida. Three American astronauts were on board." The image changed again. "This is a picture of the Constellation just after it reached orbit. This was taken from one of our high-altitude observation aircraft.'' The picture changed once more.' 'This is the Russian Plesetsk satellite again. As you can see, it is firing its engines on an intercept course for the Constellation. And this is…"
The final image of the Constellation erupting in a white ball spoke for itself, and a jolt passed through the ambassador's body.
It took some seconds for the shock to subside, and when it did, Yakolev knew something was very, very wrong. His mind raced. Had the Foreign Minister and Defense Minister misled him? Inconceivable. It would be political suicide for the two Politburo members. It could not happen. Yakolev was certain of that. But what had happened? This was no American propaganda ploy now. The destruction of their shuttle had to be genuine. The ambassador had to sort things out. But he needed time. Time to find out what was happening. "This is a fabrication," stated Yakolev flatly. "Nothing more than American technical trickery—"
"I can assure you this is no trickery, Monsieur I'Ambassa-deur," said the Frenchman in an icy tone. "I have been a witness to this entire aflair, and I can attest to its genuineness. Three American space pilots have been killed. Do you understand? Murdered. I came to the United States to explore the possibility of France rejoining NATO, and this unspeakable act will undoubtedly thrust my country back into that alliance as a full partner. You may even see a joint European-American space defense pact as a result of this treachery. It has set Franco-Russian relations back thirty years. And when the other leaders of the Western Alliance learn of this murder they will react as I have." He turned to his host and nodded. "Mr. President."
The American returned the nod, then refocused on the Russian. "Now you listen to me, Mr. Ambassador. I have placed the Strategic Air Command on its highest peacetime alert status, Defense Condition TWo — better known as DEFCON Two. It hasn't been that high since the Cuban missile crisis. The bombers are in the air. In short, you're looking down a gun barrel, Mr. Ambassador. If you tamper with our space shuttle Intrepid, you will get a military response in return. Do you understand that? A military response. Now you have been warned. Get out of here and convey this information to General Secretary Vorontsky immediately. Along with our demand that we expect full reparations for the loss of our spacecraft, and compensation to the families of the astronauts who were murdered."
For Yakolev, this had turned into a nightmare, and words failed him. He could only stumble out the door and retreat to the limousine for refuge. In the safety of the backseat, the scene continued swimming in his mind. A spacecraft destroyed. France back into NATO. A Euro-American space defense program. DEFCON Two. Military response. This was madness! He had to stop it. A cable must be dispatched at once.
"Thank you," said the American softly.
"It was the simple truth," replied the Frenchman. "But I must say, in view of the information provided by my intelligence source, it appears there may be some substance to your Secretary of State's theoiy."
"What do you think, Winston?" asked the President.
The Secretary with the male-model looks shrugged. "I wish I was wrong, but I'm afraid I may not be. This was a hostile act of which the Russian leadership apparently was not aware. We have no choice but to put our forces on alert. However, I feel we must be extremely careful until we find out what's happening and who's truly in charge on the other side."
"I would agree," said the Vice President.