Adamov had paused on the step up to the wooden porch of the bungalow. Dust flew around them. The captain's eyes were bright, as bright as the full moon. Only one thought took precedence in Want's mind.
Who was Georgi Karpov?
The laser battle station, ostensibly the first component of Linchpin, in reality the very heart of Lightning, had been transferred to the main assembly building still in its component parts. The main mirror, the laser tube, the power source — each provided General Lieutenant Pyotr Rodin with a hard, diamondlike satisfaction. Each component was as evocative as memories of the ranks he had held, the promotions he had received during his years of service.
That very evening, shaving for a second time in order to appear at his most groomed here and now, he had watched his worried face in the mirror and wondered how people viewed his only son. Did they see, as vividly as he did, the weak chin, the full, loose lips, the pale, delicate skin? Did they see his wife, as he did?
No, of course not, he had reasoned; reasoned again now. They could not because they had never seen his wife. Not out here, not in Baikonur. Very few of the high command had met that quiet, mousy woman who hardly left fingerprints, never mind made an impression on anyone's memory.
And who had ruined his only son.
Dismiss—
Staring at the components of the laser weapon, he watched his son's image whirl away into the darkness in his head.
The following night the laser weapon would be lowered into the gaping cargo bay of the shuttle craft, the doors would close on it, the shuttle craft would be drawn out of the building on its short journey to join the booster stages at the launch site. There was nothing else. His son did not concern him — did not deserve his attention at this time.
Even the presence of Serov could not dim the moment, tarnish the hard glint of his pleasure. The GRU commandant was to his right, while to his left an army technician stood beside a television set mounted on a wheeled trolley. Its power lead trailed away through the small knot of aides and scientific staff and out of sight. On the television's screen, the earth glowed blue and white and green, hanging in the blackness of space. Africa lay green and brown beneath his glance.
Then the picture switched to another camera's view. The hold of the American shuttle craft, Atlantis. The picture seemed almost in black and white. In the center, two astronauts in pressure suits were working on a satellite they had rescued. They were attached to the hold by twining, snakelike cords. Rodin's fingers plucked at his lower lip. His gaze was intent, as if he were deciphering some complex puzzle. It was, however, anticipatory pleasure he experienced, not doubt or confusion.
In less than thirty-six hours' time, the Soviet shuttle would be launched into low earth orbit. Nothing could go wrong here, not with their schedule. Nothing must go wrong…
The express hoist at the launch pad needed repair. It would be used to place the shuttle craft atop the G-type booster, and now it had developed a hydraulic failure. It must be repaired. At once.
"Thirty-five hours, comrades," Rodin announced to their immediate attention. He disliked the word "comrades" — a Party word, not a military one; "gentlemen" would have fitted more easily. His eyes scanned them like some surveillance camera as his head turned once more to take in the details of the shuttle, which lay open like a gutted fish, beached on its massive transporter. The railway lines ran the length of the huge building and out into the arc-lit night. "Thirty-five hours." Power flowed like adrenaline. "The hoist is to be repaired before this craft moves from here. You have assured me it will be done."
White-coated civilians nodded, murmured again. Military aides confirmed with nodding heads, with shoulder boards and uniforms and medal ribbons. Rodin was satisfied, even though his gloved fingertips prickled with impatience. He nodded by way of reply "Good."
He turned to Serov. His son whirled back out of the darkness in his head. Why did he feel any necessity to explain to Serov? Why, why was he afraid of the man?
Because Serov had the kind of mind, stark and untroubled in its ruthless clarity, that might reach toward the final cleanness of an accident to Valery similar to that prescribed for his actor friend— and Rodin could not contemplate that thought. Guilt sprang unfamiliarly, and he hated the weakness and fear it aroused in him. He Would carry out his plan and get the boy away from Baikonur, away from Serov, back to Moscow and the academy — where he could begin to call upon favors and discretion. The boy could even stay with his mother.
He cleared his throat and said to Serov in a hard, quiet tone: Stavka requires assurances, Serov, concerning your missing technician. They've been in touch with me and specifically mentioned the Matter of security. You understand?"
Serov's face darkened at Rodin's challenging tone, but he merely said: "In two hours, comrade General, I shall be able to brief you on every aspect of security surrounding the — project. My people are updating everything at this moment."
"Good." Rodin smiled slightly at Serov's tight-lipped acquiescence.
Then the colonel hit back softly, sharply.
"We shall expect no further embarrassments from your son, comrade General. I approve your scheme to remove him to Moscow in a few hours' time."
"You approve?"
Serov continued as if Rodin had not spoken. 'The KGB are keeping the boy under discreet surveillance, but they have made no move — and they're not likely to."
"You people seem to have acted wisely, after all," Rodin replied, unable to eradicate a slight quiver from his words.
"Thank you, comrade General," Serov replied with evident irony.
Rodin turned his glance away from the GRU commandant, once more to the Raketoplan shuttle and the laser weapon's components. Light gleamed from the great shield of the main mirror. His body seemed filled with reposeful confidence. He saw the mirror, the tube, the shuttle, as extensions of his own authority, as if they were as vital to him, as much a part of him, as his limbs.
The others might, even now, change their minds. They could scrap Lightning even after it was launched. The shuttle's launch had to be on schedule, it must appear technically perfect, and it must coincide with the signing of that filthy, weak treaty in Geneva. Then they'd show their real power to the dodderers in the Kremlin. What was it Peter the Great had said, at the launching of a man-of-war in St. Petersburg? It is now our turn. You may happen even in our lifetime to put other civilized nations to the blush, and to carry the glory of the Russian name to the highest pitch. Yes, that was it. Petr Alekseevich, Peter the Great. With that treaty on the point of ratification, it was not easy to believe in sentiments as broad and certain as that — except for Lightning. Now he was poised on the edge of the great chasm of the next day and a half. After that, the defense minister, Stavka and their supporters in the Politburo, would have all the leverage they required to treble, even quadruple the budget for orbital weapon development. They would have the leverage to do anything, and he would have given it to them.
Lightning was their private tearing up of the treaty. After it, they could move forward, become the power both real and hidden. lightning promised a reincarnation of the army's waning power. No self-satisfaction could do justice to that thought. It was the arm twisted up behind the Politburo's back until it broke like a dry, old stick.