Brown, Dale - Independent 01 (25 page)

           
“That
Russian radio message also reported the destruction of Seventy-First Shock
Troops’ headquarters at
Tehran
Airport
,”
Walker
quickly added.
“Thirty-eight dead or injured.
Last report was that the
airport was being overrun by Iranian militiamen.”

           
Saint-Michael
rubbed his throbbing temple. “I’d hate to be a Russian ground-pounder in
Tehran
right about now.”

           
Walker
handed Saint-Michael a printout. “I saved the best for last, General. The navy
also sent along an intercepted radio message from a Russian rescue patrol in
the
Elburz Mountains
. They’re describing debris
scattered across five hundred square miles of mountains. At least seven fires
out of control in the area from aircraft-crash debris.”

           
Saint-Michael
nodded, but his mind was still on the four men of the downed NightHawk
fighter-bombers. “After twenty-one years in the service, Jim, that was the
first time men under my command have died. Goddamn, and I’m sitting up here out
of it—”

           
“Then this
is also your first major battle victory,”
Walker
said. “Ten American aircraft have destroyed at least seven Soviet aircraft,
including a Soviet transport and supersonic bombers, plus they’ve knocked out a
major occupation force headquarters and allowed local forces to retake a major
airfield from hostile forces. Losses to our own have been low—two advanced
aircraft, four men. Losses to the enemy... well, this battle could have been
pivotal, sir. That’s not a bad day’s work, no matter where you sit.”

           
Saint-Michael
stared at
Walker
. “Thanks, but if
this is what victory feels like, I’m glad I haven’t had a taste of it before
this.” The general’s eyes flitted back to the SBR display and the frozen images
of the NightHawk bombers.

 
          
THE KREMLIN,
USSR

 
          
“Is it war?” Khromeyev asked in a low
voice.

           
Czilikov
was almost too angry to reply. “They must pay. For every drop of our blood shed
in
Iran
, for
every gram of our steel lost in those Iranian mountains, the Americans must
pay, and they will....” Czilikov stared at the computer-generated wall map of
the
Persian Gulf
region. He stood and walked slowly
toward it as if it depicted some gruesome atrocity. Indeed, for him it did.
“Nine planes destroyed; three hundred and thirty men dead or injured in the
north. Sixty dead or injured in
Tehran
,
sixty captured.
All in four hours
....”

           
“They came
out of nowhere,” Admiral Chercherovin said. “The American fighters attacked
without warning. Somehow they approached the formations in the north and south
without revealing their presence, and launched missiles from long range without
radar guidance. The aircrews say they never received any advanced warning.
None.
And it was three hours before
sunrise....”

           
“They were
overconfident,” General Ilanovsky said between clenched teeth. “Cocky. Their
incompetence caused the loss of one hundred and twenty of my best soldiers—”

           
“It’s
you
who are the incompetent,”
Chercherovin said, jabbing a finger at the commander in chief of ground forces.
“You had over a hundred SPETNAZ troops at
Mehrabad
Airport
, supposedly the elite of
our army, and yet you couldn’t hold off a bunch of undisciplined militiamen.”

           
“Enough,”
Czilikov said. “You will stop
this stupid bickering.” His ice-blue gaze took in the faces of the Kollegiya.
“The pride of the
Soviet Union
.
Heroes, all.
Am I to bring this
gaggle of children before the general secretary when the Stavka Council of War
meets in two hours? Are we going to point fingers and accuse each other and
argue like old women? We'll all be shot, and we’ll deserve it.”

           
He gestured
to the wall-sized computer screen. “I want an answer. I want an answer to what
we’ve suffered today.” Czilikov turned to the newest addition to the group.
“General Govorov. Your opinion?” Govorov stood. “Sir, there can be only one
answer to how our forces were attacked so successfully: the space station
Armstrong.”

           
“Armstrong?”
General Lichizev of the KGB
shook his head. “I told you, Govorov, it’s impossible—”

           
Czilikov
turned again to Govorov. “Continue.”

           
“Sir, as
I’ve indicated before, the radar aboard Space Station Armstrong has the power
to track both American and Russian aircraft. It’s a relatively simple matter
for the Americans to position their aircraft for attack, using data
transmissions from Armstrong. The American aircraft would not need to use their
radars to find our planes. Nor would conventional radar be needed for bombing
raids, cruise missile attacks, or submarine attacks....”

           
“Then it’s
obvious... the space station must be destroyed.” Czilikov bit off each word.

           
“I agree,”
Govorov said quickly, earning no points for that gratuity with Czilikov. Still,
the message wasn't lost on the minister of defense: Govorov had been right,
Feather had to fail as long as Armstrong Station was in orbit.

           
General
Marasimov, commander of the Strategic Rocket Forces, spoke up now. “An attack
with the Gorgon antisatellite missiles—”

           
“Will also
fail,” Govorov said. “Armstrong is very well protected. The station’s Thor
missiles used for antiballistic missile defense are even more capable against
the clumsy Gorgon missile. The Gorgons, however, can be used as a prelude to
the main attack force....”

           
“The main
attack force?” Czilikov said.

           
Govorov
glanced at his superior, Marshal Rhomerdunov, who nodded. Now. Now was the
moment if there ever was one....

           
“Comrade
Minister,” Rhomerdunov began, and all heads turned to him, “a plan... I have a
plan to deal specifically with the threat of a heavily armed and protected
orbiting platform. A plan to lift the Soviet Aerospace Forces into the next
century.” Govorov was careful not to show any reaction to Rhomerdunov’s
plagiarism... .“A plan, sir, previously approved by the Kollegiya, to arm the
Elektron spaceplane with specially designed missiles. They—”

           
“
Missiles?”
Czilikov said. “Missiles on a
one-man spaceplane? What are these missiles? I wasn’t informed—”

           
“The plan
was approved years ago by Kollegiya, sir,” Rhomerdunov said uneasily. “The
implementation was not begun until recently.” Czilikov appeared ready to
continue his questioning but held back, and Rhomerdunov, encouraged, quickly
pressed on. “A group of these Elektron space fighter-planes led by General
Govorov will be sent to destroy this Space Station Armstrong.”

           
Instead of
the expected murmur of voices, there was silence, finally broken by Czilikov.
“Everything that General Govorov has predicted has unfortunately come true. The
American space station is indeed more powerful than we had imagined. They have,
it seems, the capability of transmitting space-based radar data from the
station to a variety of users—ships, ground installations, headquarters, even
aircraft. They are also able to vector attack aircraft so as to avoid danger or
counterattack. The time has indeed come: Armstrong Space Station must be
destroyed.”

           
Czilikov
turned to Rhomerdunov. “That will be your assignment. It will be carried out
immediately. I will inform the Stavka.” And to Govorov, “You will lead the
attackers.”

           
“Sir, it
may still take several days, perhaps weeks, to prepare the Elektron spaceplanes
for launch from Tyuratam. It will take time to mate the spaceplanes with their
SL-16 Krypkei boosters. The Elektron spaceplanes are not part of the standing
strategic defense force—”

           
“They are
now,” Czilikov said. “I authorize a minimum of two fully armed Elektron
spaceplanes on ’round-the-clock alert at Tyura-tam spaceport.” He returned to
his seat at the head of the oblong conference table. “But we can’t wait weeks
or even days to begin our counteroffensive. Our advances have been stalled. The
Americans are getting stronger and we are getting weaker. I want a plan to
retake the offensive, to recoup our losses and advance Operation Feather to
success. The Stavka and Politburo demand nothing less than complete victory, as
do our dead comrades in
Iran
.”

           
“The major
threats to us in
Iran
and the
Persian Gulf
remain, sir,” Admiral Chercherovin
said. “They are the American carrier task force in the
Arabian Sea
and the land-based Rapid Deployment Force bombers and long-range fighters in
eastern
Turkey
.”

           
“
Saudi
Arabia
hasn’t yet allowed American offensive
aircraft to use its bases,” Marshal Yesimov of the Air Force put in, “but the
Americans may convince them.
Qatar
and
Kuwait
may
also let American ships or planes use their bases. Certainly, the Iranians will
agree to anything the Americans want if they are assured protection....”

           
“Then
swift, decisive action must be taken,” Czilikov said. “General Govorov, once
more,
all
efforts must be made to
knock out this Space Station Armstrong, and
now.
.. All our other actions may be pointless unless Armstrong is neutralized.”

           
“I
understand, sir,” Govorov said. “And perhaps all of our objectives can be
accomplished at once—”

           
“How?”

           
Govorov
fought showing even a hint of a smile. “The space station is formidable when it
is protecting others from attack, but I feel it may not be so if it is forced
to protect
itself.
”

           
“But you
have said that the Elektron spaceplanes will not be ready for such an attack,”
Khromeyev said. “And Marshal Rhomerdunov has said that the Gorgon antisatellite
missiles are ineffectual against such a facility.”

           
“That is my
estimation as well. But meanwhile, there is another weapon we have not
considered that may prove effective in convincing the Americans of the
seriousness of moving their space station within striking distance of the
Soviet
Union
. I refer to the laser at our Sary Shegan facility.
Intelligence reports only a portion of the American space station is covered
with reflective antilaser coating. Sustained bursts from our laser might do
very considerable damage. . . .” Czilokov’s eyes brightened. “I want a full
report on how soon the laser can be activated; I want it on my desk in an
hour.” He turned to Admiral Chercherovin. “You must regain control of the
region. And fast.”

           
He waved
off any further discussion. They all had his message— produce or else.

 
          
July 1992

 
          
ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

 
          
Saint-Michael entered the engineering
module, where he found Ann. They stood together in the cramped compartment,
exchanging polite nods.

           
“I think
this may be a good time to talk,” Saint-Michael finally said.

           
Ann
pretended not to hear him as she pulled a refrigeration coil from the food
storage unit and began adjusting the temperature setting.

           
“Ann...Saint-Michael
grabbed the coil from her and replaced it in the unit. “Ann, I want you to
leave on
Enterprise
.
In four hours.” She turned and faced
him. “So now you’re
ordering
me to
go? What happened to my options?”

           
“If you
want to call it an order, then it’s an order.”

           
She looked
at him, weighing an answer,
then
sighed softly. “What
gives, General? I mean, what the hell is this all about? I can repair Skybolt. I’ve
found the problem. Only a few more days up here and I’ll have the thing licked.
But you’re all fired up to see me leave without accomplishing what I came here
to do. My
job
, for God’s sake....”

 
         
“Ann,” he finally said, “I want you
back on earth.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Safe.” His eyes narrowed
with anger and frustration, but it wasn’t anger at her—it was more at himself.
“Dammit Ann, do I really have to spell it out for you?” He paused, waiting for
her to understand and respond. “All right, what I’m
trying
to say is—“

           
“Attention
on the station,” came the sudden blaring of the stationwide loudspeaker address
system. “Emergency condition one. The station is on red alert.” Then, on the
station wide earset address system: “General Saint-Michael, this is
Walker
.
Satellite relay message from the
Nimitz
.
They are under attack.”

           
“I’ll be
right there.” He turned, stopped, and lightly touched her shoulder. “Safe from
this,
Ann.” Then he was off to the
connecting tunnel, leaving Ann with very mixed feelings....

           
Saint-Michael,
back in the command module, ordered: “Report.” “An Air Force 767B AWACS picked
up a small flight of six fast- moving low-altitude jet aircraft over
Iran
,”
Walker
said, not taking his eyes
off the master SBR status screen. “The AWACS was chased away by Su-27s from the
Brezhnev,
so we don’t have details.
They can’t tell where the aircrafts’ origin was, but they say they’re moving
too fast and too low for Silkworm missiles. They think they’re Soviet cruise
missiles launching from one of the Soviet navy’s
Caspian Sea
bases. They’re heading south at five hundred knots, right for the
Nimitz
battle group.”

           
“How long until we cross the target horizon?”

           
“Still forty minutes.
Could have been launched just after we
crossed under the target horizon. They timed it perfectly. Looks like the
Nimitz
is stage-center, sir....”

 
          
OVER
SOUTHERN IRAN
,
ONE HUNDRED FIFTY MILES NORTH OF THE USS
NIMITZ

           
“Tally,
Tally, Tally! Lead’s got ’em at
eleven o’clock
!”

           
The
commander of the lead F-14E Tomcat Plus, J. B. Andrews, tightened his grip on
the throttle as his weapons systems officer called out the report. He had been
staring intently at the rolling, rock-covered hills rushing under the nose of
his fighter as he and five other hunters from the aircraft carrier USS
Nimitz
slashed across southern
Iran
,
prowling for attacking cruise missiles.

 
         
Andrews and his fellow VF-143 “Puking
Dogs” were knifing through thick air only a thousand feet above the Iranian
desert, and the Tomcats were protesting every minute of it. The fighters
performed much better at a high altitude, where their “lifting body” fuselages
and big computer-controlled variable-sweep wings met little resistance. Down
below, the aircraft picked up every tiny wind shift, every thermal and every
dust devil, creating such violent turbulence that the formation had to spread
out farther and farther apart to avoid collision. Everything depended on the
lead aviator’s eyes—if the leader hit the ground, the rest would surely follow.

           
“Vectors,
Chili,” Andrews called out.

           
The
backseat WSO checked the display of his enhanced digital AWG-9 attack radar.
“Left ten. Altitude looks good. I’m locked on ... fifty miles now.”

           
“Pirate
flight, lead is locked on to bogeys, coming left.”

           
“Two’s
locked on.”

           
“Three’s
locked on.”

           
“Four is
no-joy.”

           
“Five no-joy.”

           
“Six is ...
stand
by. Locked-on.”

           
“We launch
at twenty, Pirates. If you’re not locked on, get ready to turn tight and bob
till you drop.” To conserve fuel and maximize performance, each Tomcat had only
taken off with two AIM-120RC AMR A AM missiles aboard. Even so, after traveling
at max afterburner for nearly twenty minutes, the fighters were fast approaching
their safe fuel-turnaround point. It was essential that they launch their
AIM-120RCs in the next few minutes.

           
“Forty miles.
Still locked on.”

           
“Four is
locked on.”

           
“Five?”

           
“Negetron.
Five is boppin.”

           
“Thirty miles.”

           
A faint
high-pitched tone activated in the lead WSO’s helmet. “Good tone. Ready.”

           
“Rog.
Count me down.”

           
“Twenty-five
.. .
twenty-four... twenty-three....”

           
Andrews
suddenly felt that inner calm that always preceded engagement. He wasn’t
thinking anymore. Reflexes had taken over. Reflexes honed in a hundred aerial
maneuvers over four continents. Besides, this intercept should be no big sweat.
Though cruise missiles were deadly against ships, they were sitting ducks for
fighters. They couldn’t manuever or shoot back. The Tomcat’s advanced digital
attack radar made it possible for Andrews to attack from as far away as fifty
miles, but twenty was optimal for—

           
“Pirate flight.
Bandits.
Two
o’clock
high!”

           
Andrews
risked a quick glance to his right, caught the glint of sunlight. Four Su-27
Flanker carrier-based fighters were diving out of the sun.

           
“Two,
three, four—stay on the cruise missiles. Four and five— engage.”

           
“Twenty miles.
Good tone....”

           
Andrews saw
the target and radar lock-on symbols merge and the word LAUNCH flash at the
bottom of the HUD, his head’s-up display. Fighting off a massive wave of
turbulence that shuddered through his Tomcat, he slid his gloved right thumb to
the launch button. Suddenly, the target and radar symbols disappeared from the
HUD and the word “LAUNCH” at the bottom was replaced with the word “FIRE” in
the center of the display.

           
He pressed
the LAUNCH button. Nothing.

           
“Chili,
check your switches. Negative launch.”

           
No reply.

           
“Chili!”

           
Andrews
strained against his harness straps and turned to look behind him, recoiling
instantly at the searing blast of heat that hit him full in the face and the
grisly sight of half-charred, flaming flesh that had been his WSO. That had not
been turbulence he felt a moment ago. His Tomcat had taken a missile right up
the tailpipe.

           
The
formation leader turned forward just in time to see two Sukhoi-27
fighter-bombers zip past his nose less than two hundred yards away. He yanked his
stick left and up to pursue, but his Tomcat continued to loll sluggishly to the
right and down. The HUD was blank. Most of the lights and gauges on his
instrument panel were dark or at zero. He made sure the throttle was at
military power— yes, he could still feel what he thought was thrust from his
twin Pratt and Whitney turbofan engines. He began to get some stick response so
he tried to reacquire visually the two Soviet fighters while he waited for his
place to recover... he hoped....

           
He kept one
hand on the stick and the other on the throttle, believing his crippled fighter
was giving chase right up to the moment it slammed into a hillside just outside
the town of
Humedan
on
Iran
’s
southern coast. He never had a chance even to consider reaching for the
ejection handles.

 
 
         
USS
CALIFORNIA

 
          
“Bridge, this is Combat. ASM contact,
zero-eight-zero degrees relative, sixty nautical miles, less than one hundred
feet above water.” Matthew Page reacted instantly to the report of the oncoming
cruise missiles. ’’Helm, left twenty degrees, heading two-six-zero.
Conn
,
advise
Nimitz
of contacts. Combat, are any Tomcats giving chase?” “No friendly fighters
showing.
Six Soviet fighters heading northwest back toward
the
Brezhnev.
”

           
He hadn’t
expected that the missiles would be escorted by fighters. It looked like
everything might depend on his fire-power. “Combat, launch commit all Standard
missiles.”

           
“Launch
commit, aye—” The controller barely had time to finish his acknowledge when the
roar of missile-motor ignition filled the air.

           
Fully
automatic, the
California
's
fore-and-aft Mark 26 dual-rail missile launchers had stood like tin soldiers at
attention, pointing straight up. At launch command, two SM2-ER Standard
surface-to- air missiles slid from the magazine racks below deck up into each
of the launcher’s rails, and the launchers swiveled right and down until the
missiles seemed to be pointing directly horizontal. There was a slight pause,
then a burst of flame followed by a cloud of smoke that covered the bow and
stem of the
California
.
The launchers swiveled to vertical
once again, ready for another reloading.

           
“Four Standards away.”

           
“My course
is two-six-zero, sir,” the helmsman reported.

           
“Very well.
Ready the starboard Phalanx guns and both
127-millimeter guns. Combat, where are those cruise missiles?”

           
“Showing
heavy uplink jamming from something, possibly Soviet airborne jammers
... .
Wait, now showing two cruise missiles in flight, sir.
Bearing zero-seven-zero, twenty miles, course one-six- zero true.”

           
“Helm, hard
to port, left forty degrees, launch commit all Standards and the forward
one-twenty-seven. Comm, signal
Nimitz
to begin evasive action to starboard. Move.”

           
The USS
California
heeled sharply to starboard
as it began a hard left turn, the deck tilting far enough so that only a few
feet of freeboard remained. The deck made one small pitch to port when the ship
completed its emergency turn as its computerized stabilizers fought to haul the
eleven-thousand-ton vessel upright. A split second after the deck leveled
itself, the fire, smoke, and noise returned. Four Standard missiles immediately
leapt from their rails and arched toward the gray horizon, quickly speeding
away from view.

           
“Four Standards away, sir.
Forward one-twenty-seven ready.
All Phalanx stations report ready.”

           
“Commit the
aft one-twenty-seven.”

           
“Aye, sir
..
.
Nimitz
reports launching aircraft but
can’t maneuver to starboard. They report their Phalanx systems operational.”

           
Page’s oaths
were drowned out by the booming of the
California
's
two five-inch, dual-purpose cannons.
Alternating with computer-controlled precision, the two cannons fired one
radar-guided three- hundred-pound flak shell every two seconds, the
California
seeming to jump sideways at each ear-shattering report.