“Sir, a bomber has just penetrated our airspace.”
“Shoot it down, goddamnit.”
“Yes, sir.”
The colonel hung up and called: “Intercept with surface-to-air immediately.”
In the complex twelve miles north of Tashkent, the laser had stopped its climb into the sky. It hung there on its hydraulic lift, while below technicians scanned instruments. With the roof opened, the morning sunlight poured onto the floor of the building. The gun was cocked, ready to perform. Only a word from Moscow was needed.
Glasov was at his station beside the laser, monitoring the telemetry that recorded the weapon’s vital functions. At 9:56 A.M., twenty-two minutes to zero hour, Anatoly Serkin appeared at his elbow, and Glasov said: “Where have you been? Moskanko is in a rage, and I have been looking all over for you.”
Serkin did not answer the question.
“Feed in the power, Glasov.”
“But we do not have to do that until Moskanko gives word to fire.”
“Feed it now. I want to make sure everything is perfect.”
“Yes, sir.” Glasov punched a button and his gauges immediately recorded a huge surge in energy intake.
When Glasov turned back from his board, Serkin was no longer beside him. He had gone down the steps of the catwalk that spiraled around the barrel of the weapon and was approaching the safety door at its base. The astounded Glasov followed him down and saw the professor working swiftly at the pressure valve that kept the door sealed tight. Serkin had it opened in seconds.
Glasov screamed: “Professor, have you gone crazy? You will be burned to death.”
Over the wasteland of the Kara Kum Desert, the electronics countermeasures officer on board the SR-71 spoke rapidly: “Six SAMs on way up.” He pressed a switch to initiate jamming of the missiles’ electronic-guidance systems.
The pilot nodded and looked out his left window. Far below, he saw flaming trails and just above them what looked like supersonic telephone poles that were reaching up to touch and kill him.
The commotion at the base of the laser had brought scientists and technicians away from their posts to the railings of the catwalks to peer below.
Serkin faintly heard Glasov screaming at him. From his left pocket he pulled the bottle of tritium and held it high. He reached into his right pocket and felt the cool disk of the shaving mirror. Serkin knew death was seconds away. When he focused the mirror in front of the escaping rays of the laser, it would reflect the rays back onto the bottle of tritium and ignite the isotope. Before Serkin’s hand was melted by the rays coming out of the bottom end of the barrel, the entire building would be demolished.
He pulled the mirror out, and Glasov saw the glint of light.
The assistant leaped down the intervening ten steps and threw himself at the professor. His hands clawed at Serkin and dragged him back from the opening. The mirror flew in one direction and splintered against a railing. The bottle of tritium fell through the grating on the catwalk and crashed harmlessly into the blackness around the hydraulic lift. Serkin was whimpering as his assistant held him down. His glasses had broken, and he could not see Glasov very well.
“Why did you stop me? It was the only way.” He cried in frustration as a voice from above said: “Take him outside.”
Glasov helped Serkin to his feet and led him up the stairs. Someone punched a button, and the microwaves of energy from the nuclear generator ceased to flood into the laser barrel. It was unharmed, still ready to fire at 10:18 A.M., Tashkent time, now just seventeen minutes away. Anatoly Serkin was marched outside.
Still jamming the electronic-guidance system of the surface-to-air missiles, the SR-71 pilot veered the plane sharply to the right. The cluster of missiles faded suddenly and fell back toward the earth. The bomber resumed course, boring across the parched and serrated crust of Central Asia while the pilot spoke briefly to Incirclik:
“First SAMs detected and evaded. ECM officer now monitoring dozen MIGs trying to catch up.”
In the Situation Room at the underground White House, General Roarke listened in on the call and relayed information to his audience: “SAMs licked so far. Incirclik says ten minutes to drop.” On the wall clock the second hand had just swept past 11:02 P.M.
In the infirmary, Colonel Lavrenti Kapitsa had just entered Joe Safcek’s room. The colonel was carrying a copy of the International Register of Handguns. Safcek acknowledged his greeting groggily just as the walkie-talkie at the colonel’s hip crackled.
“Kapitsa here.”
“Colonel,” the voice came metallically from the walkie-talkie, “we have trouble here at the laser. Dr. Serkin has just attempted to destroy the weapon, but the attempt was blocked. He is being taken out to the quadrangle now.”
“Is everything back to normal inside the building?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Colonel Kapitsa broke the connection and went to the window.
Outside, on the grassy quadrangle, the professor’s shirt, pants, and underwear had been removed, and his captors were looking him over for any further evidence of sabotage equipment. A guard put grease on his middle finger as Serkin was forced to bend over.
Across the compound, the colonel turned back from the window with a satisfied grunt and said: “Colonel Safcek, this place is crawling with fellows like you.”
Joe Safcek’s close-cropped head struggled up to look at the friendly colonel, who added: “But fortunately we have been able to catch all of you. Even our best scientists have turned against us.” The officer shook his head in disbelief.
Safcek’s face fell, and the colonel approached the bed.
“I thought I would leave something here for you to read. I was fortunate enough to learn a great deal from it this morning.”
Kapitsa opened the book to a certain page and laid it on Safcek’s lap.
“If you look closely at the picture of the Colt .45, Colonel, you will see that it has no black button on the butt.”
Safcek’s eyes betrayed him. They darted up at the smiling police officer, who shook his head in awe. “You almost fooled me, Colonel. I must admit I never thought that weapon you carried could be so deadly. My compliments to you and your scientists.”
Joe Safcek did not answer. As the realization of his ultimate failure engulfed him, his head slumped back onto the pillow.
The International Register fell to the floor, and the walkie-talkie crackled sharply:
“Colonel, you are wanted in the scientists’ briefing room right away. Marshal Moskanko’s orders.”
Kapitsa hurried out of the room. Without saying goodbye to Joe Safcek. Safcek stared straight ahead as Kapitsa’s broad back disappeared.
It was 10:06 A.M., Tashkent time. Out of breath from running, Colonel Kapitsa entered the briefing room, where Bakunin sat alone, toying idly with the fingernail scissors left by Bruk. The Colt .45 still lay on the table, its workings exposed. Beyond the marshal, Kapitsa could see on the other side of the glass wall the floor of the laser chamber. There the huge gun, under the care of a team of scientists now headed by Glasov, was poised to fire. On another wall of the briefing room, the television screen had just filled with the shape of Marshal Moskanko, talking from the command platform in the defense center room.
“Pavel Andreievich,” the defense minister shouted, “the American plane is about three hundred fifty miles out. We have a mass salvo due in three minutes from the missile batteries. Even a near miss from their atomic warheads will crack the plane like an egg. Now I want you to get right down there and make sure that laser is fired in two minutes’ time. Two minutes, do you understand? Stark has forced us into this.”