Brown, Dale - Independent 01 (37 page)

           
The wait
did not last long. “
Enterprise
,
this is Falcon Control,
Colorado Springs
,
on air-to-ground channel one. How do you hear?” “Loud and clear, Control.”
Saint-Michael switched his comm panel over from the direct line-of-sight UHF
channel to the main TDRS system, which relayed voice and data through four
geosynchronous satellites to a master ground station at White Sands,
New
Mexico
. As if in reply, the computer monitor
belonging to the
shuttle’s
general navigation computer
began to display several hundred lines of position and navigational update
information. For the first time in hours Ann looked hopeful. “Have you been informed
of our situation?” Saint-Michael said.

           
“Affirmative,
Enterprise
. Atlantis
will be airborne in
twenty-four hours to retrieve you.”

           
“Copy.”
Saint-Michael tried to sit back in his seat,
appeared to be exercising his hands and arms inside his spacesuit. "I’m
receiving . . . receiving computer input.”

           
“Jason?”
Ann said.

           
He turned
halfway toward her. “I... I feel weak ... my head ... hurts bad.” And then he
stopped moving.

           
“Jason?”
She unstrapped and moved her
helmet closer to his, staring into his face. Oh, God... it was twisted and
contorted, obviously he was in great pain. “Jason, can you hear me?”

           
“Get me
.. .
get me off the flight deck...
airlock
... max pressure, hurry.” One of his eyes rolled back up
into his head, and he began to shiver, an oppressive, body-contorting shaking.

           
Ann moved
free of the right seat and fumbled at his straps. “Hurry, Ann... hurry for
God’s sake....”

           
“What is
it, Jason? What’s
wrong?”

           
“Nitrogen...
too much nitrogen... not enough prebreathing oxygen... oxygen....”

           
He began to
fumble for his spacesuit’s oxygen controls. “Ann... suit pressure... increase
my suit pressure....” She reached down to his spacesuit control panel on his
chest and moved the suit pressurization selector to PRESS, increasing the suit’s
pressurization to maximum, nearly nine p.s.i.

           
What had he
said? Get him to the airlock. She lifted him up, an easy task in microgravity,
brought him over to the ladder, then carried him down to the middeck level and
into the airlock.

           
By this time
he was unconscious. She sealed the airlock behind her and studied the airlock
controls. She had received briefings on how to operate the shuttle airlock, but
that was a long time ago.... Finally she found the right switches and set the
controls to maximum pressurization. While pure oxygen was being pumped into the
chamber and the pressure slowly increased, she switched communication controls
on her spacesuit chest panel from IC to A/G.

           
“Control,
this is
Enterprise
.
Emergency.”

           
“
Enterprise
,
this is Falcon Control. Dr. Page, is
that you?”

           
“Yes.
General Saint-Michael is unconscious. He passed out a few minutes ago
complaining of extreme pain. We’re in the shuttle’s airlock with the controls
set at emergency pressurization.”

           
“Copy,
Enterprise
.
Stand by. We’re calling the flight
surgeon now.” The wait was not long. “
Enterprise
, this is Doctor Haroki Matsui.
Is General Saint-Michael wearing a spacesuit?”

           
“Yes.”

           
“Did he
complete the proper prebreathing before wearing the suit?” It was then she
finally realized what was happening. Dysbarism, the bends, occurred when the
body was moved from normal atmospheric pressure to an area of lower pressure.
If the pressure was low enough—as it was when wearing a spacesuit—nitrogen in
the bloodstream, which was denser than other dissolved gases, would bubble out
of solution. Tiny bubbles of nitrogen would then float through the bloodstream,
lodge in blood vessels or joints, grow larger and cause tremendous pain. In
many cases nitrogen bubbles in the brain caused nitrogen narcosis, which made
the victim feel angry or depressed or schizophrenic.

           
Prebreathing
pure oxygen before putting on a spacesuit was critical to flush nitrogen out of
the bloodstream. The normal prebreathing time was two hours before exposure to
a low-pressure regime. Ann had been spared the effects of dysbarism because the
rescue ball had been inflated to one standard atmosphere with pure oxygen,
which she had been breathing for hours. But Saint-Michael had been wearing a
POS off and on before putting on his spacesuit, which did not provide enough
time to flush the deadly nitrogen from his bloodstream. So he had had
absolutely no protection. The physical labor he had done on Armstrong Station
and on
Enterprise
only made things worse....

           
“No, I
don’t think he prebreathed properly,” Ann said, having sorted it out.

           
“Then it’s
dysbarism. You’ve done the only thing you can do for him now. Listen carefully.
When the pressure in the chamber exceeds ten p.s.i., the pressure in the
airlock will be greater than his suit’s pressure. Remove his helmet and yours.
Monitor the airlock pressure to make sure it climbs to at least twenty p.s.i.
on the emergency setting. If it falls below ten p.s.i. for any reason, seal him
back up in his spacesuit and set his suit controls to EMER again. Understand?”

           
“Yes.”

           
“Keep him
quiet and immobilized as much as possible. You’ll be in there for at least
twenty-four hours until the rescue craft reaches you. How do
you
feel?”

           
“I feel
like I wish you guys were here now....”

           
“No pain in
your joints? Lightheadedness? Nausea?”

           
“No, no....
”

           
“You should
be okay if you follow the same regime as prescribed for the general. We’ll fly
a hyperbaric chamber up with
Atlantis
in case he hasn’t recovered by then.”

           
“Thanks,”
Ann said. Then had a sudden thought: “Can you retrieve the lifeboat with a
hyperbaric chamber in the cargo bay? Will there be enough room?”

           
No reply.

           
“Control?
Do you copy?”

           
“Falcon
here,
Enterprise
.”

           
The controller
had come back on the channel, and his voice was muted, a monotone. Ann felt a
shiver, anticipating what was coming next.

           
“Dr. Page,
we lost contact with the lifeboat some hours ago. We were in radio contact with
them shortly after separation from Armstrong Station. About a half-hour later
they said they... sustained some damage. We lost control soon afterward....”

           
“I see.”
Her body went limp. “Control, what sort of damage? What... happened?”

           
There was a
moment’s pause, then, “The last survivor, Airman Moyer, said they were under
attack from a Soviet spaceplane. It apparently fired a single missile into the
lifeboat. They didn’t have time to get into spacesuits before their air ran
out. There were no survivors....”

 
          
August 1992
MOSCOW
,
USSR

           
Govorov
entered the Stavka conference chambers, accepting congratulations as he made
his way to his place at the conference table. He gave a polite bow, then sat
down, giving the other Stavka members their cue to follow. The Soviet general
secretary remained standing, saying, after the room had quieted, “Welcome home,
General Lieutenant Govorov. I’d like to ask you at this time to please step
forward.”

           
Govorov got
up, walked to the front of the room beside the general secretary, and stood to
attention.

           
“Attention
to orders,” Minister of Defense Czilikov said in a properly ringing voice. The
members of the Stavka got to their feet. Czilikov held up an ornately lettered
document and read: “By order of the commander in chief of the military forces
of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, Alesander Govorov is hereby
promoted to the rank of
Marshal
Kosmonatsii
, Soviet Space Defense Command, Troops of Air Defense, effective
this date. The Politburo joins with the Kollegiya and the people of the
Soviet
Union
in honoring the accomplishments of Comrade Marshal Alesander
Govorov this day.”

           
The general
secretary moved forward, unclipped Govorov’s gold and black three-star shoulder
boards and replaced them with shoulder boards carrying one large five-pointed
star underneath a gold four- blade propeller. Govorov saluted the general
secretary and turned again to face the members of the Stavka.

           
Czilikov
called out, “Present
arms”
Govorov and
the members of the Stavka saluted the hammer and sickle over the general
secretary’s right shoulder,
then
saluted Govorov, who
returned their salute.

           
“Ready,
front”
The Stavka members returned to
attention and were motioned back to their seats. When the group was settled it
was all the general secretary could do to keep to himself the Politburo’s
wanting to award Govorov the Order of Lenin for his exploits in space the
previous month, but he couldn’t reveal it—at least publicly —because of
Govorov’s accidental destruction of the American space station rescue craft,
mistaking it for a missile. It was damned unfair but there it was: he could
just imagine the international press screaming about the Russian barbarians.
True, it was against policy to shoot down a rescue craft, but it hadn’t been
intentional.... Well, perhaps later, after things had calmed down....

           
The general
secretary nodded to Czilikov, who now took the podium beside him. “I extend my
personal congratulations to Marshal Govorov, to his staff, and to every member
of his command. I also extend to him the condolences of a nation for the loss
of his comrade and wingman, Colonel Ivan Voloshin, who will receive the Order
of Lenin for his role in the attack on the American space station. His actions
are worthy of praise in any world forum.” Followed by a short, polite round of
applause. A few astute people understood that this was also a way of honoring
Govorov... once removed.

           
As for the
new Soviet hero, so far he had managed to keep his own feelings in check—about
shooting down the American escape craft, mistaking it for a new weapon. But the
honors and celebrations of his so-called great exploits by the general
secretary—reflecting, of course, on the general secretary—were beginning to get
to him. Yes, he was proud of what he
and
his men had accomplished. He believed in their mission, had fought for it, in
fact. But it wasn’t so easy to shut out of his mind what those men in that
helpless craft had suffered___ Had death been instantaneous? Who knew? He had
to hope so. If it had happened to him, he knew he would have wanted it swiftly.
There was no special honor or nobility in suffering. That was for martyrs and
sick would-be heroes. He hoped he was neither of these. Ever since it had happened—or
rather, ever since he had found out what he had done—he had thought about a
simpler time when air war was plane against plane.... He had read avidly as a
boy the accounts of wartime “dog fights,” as they were called, between airmen
in World War I and in World War II. He had always preferred that one-on-one
confrontation, between fighting men who depended on their own skill and managed
to have some respect for each other. The notion might be romantic—heaven forbid
that he should reveal that side of his character except to his wife in bed—but
he still secretly longed for that kind of combat.... All right, he chided
himself, enough of this. You are also a patriot, and it’s undermining your
usefulness to go about wringing your hands....

           
“Now to the
situation in the
Persian Gulf
region and the status of
Operation Feather,” the general secretary said, breaking through Govorov’s
thoughts.

           
Czilikov
recognized his cue. “Yes sir, there is much to report. In the weeks since the
destruction of the space station Armstrong, we have consolidated our forces in
the region, strengthening not only the battlefield units in each tactical
location but moving to unify the entire triple theater forces—the Persian Gulf
flotilla, the Iraqi unified command in the west, and the Iran-Afghanistan
command in the east. Complete unification is still weeks away. Our movement has
been delayed by American naval troops in the southern
Persian Gulf
whose efforts have been helped by seagoing and aviation forces.”

           
The general
secretary cut in. “I am beginning to believe, Admiral Chercherovin, that our
forces will never take control of the
Persian Gulf
. Your
plan to attempt to move your flotilla southward to reinforce air strikes
against Bandar-Abbas and the other southern
Iran
airfields seems to be stalled once again.”

           
“Both sides
are at an impasse, sir,” the admiral said. “The advantage is with the
ground-based defenders. They can move air-to-air missile batteries into the
area faster than we can move carrier-based fighter-bombers to the
Brezhnev
.”

           
“Supersonic
low-altitude bombers from the
Southern TVD
have had
success attacking Iranian forward enemy positions,” Chief Marshal Rhomerdunov
said. “Enemy advances to positions of tactical advantage have all been stopped
or neutralized by small-scale Tu-26 bomber attacks. The Tupolev-26s are
virtually invulnerable in the central mountains of
Iran
—”

           
“Yet the
strikes are strategically useless,” the general secretary said. “They are not
offensive moves, they gain absolutely no ground nor do they advance the
objectives of Operation Feather. They are mere
reactions
to American offensives. If this war of attrition goes on,
sooner or later the side on the offensive will take control. That should be us.
Must be. At present it clearly is not.”

           
The general
secretary turned to Czilikov. “The solution is obvious to
me.
Of the three tactical theaters of operation, the weakest is
obviously the
Persian Gulf
flotilla. We have a limited
number of vessels in the gulf with almost no hope of replenishment or
reinforcement. We have only two sources of refueling these vessels, and we are
under constant danger from attack by Iranian guerrillas on the
Kharg
Island
and
Abadan
petroleum shipping ports. The carrier
Brezhnev
must use so much of its own resources for fleet self-protection that it is
all but useless as a support vessel for other land-based strikes.... Admiral
Chercherovin, what can you say to this? Your efforts in securing the coastal
ports in the initial phases of Feather were laudable, but now that big,
expensive, vulnerable fleet stuck in the northern
Persian Gulf
is impotent. I just read a report that four Iranian madmen carrying bazookas in
an inflatable rubber speedboat inflicted extensive damage on the cruiser
Dzerzhinsky
before being destroyed. Is
that how the great Soviet navy is going to go down in defeat? By crazed Muslims
in toy rafts?”

           
“No, sir—”

           
“The time
has come, gentlemen, to make another decision on the direction of this
conflict. There has been considerable pressure from the West to withdraw from
Iran
.
The economic embargoes against our country are beginning to be felt. We are
drawing off valuable resources to maintain an uneasy stalemate that threatens
to blow up in our faces, while imports of needed raw materials and food are being
halted.” He sat, slowly folded his hands, and let his eyes wander across the
highly polished table surface. “Perhaps we should withdraw from the region....”

           
No reaction
from any of the civilian or military members of the Stavka—except for Govorov. He
put both palms down on the table as if to push himself up to his feet in anger.

           
The general
secretary was looking directly at Govorov when he made his quiet announcement,
and a knowing smile creased his face. “Or perhaps I should dismiss all of
you—all except Marshal Govorov, of course—and replace you with a military
council that will show some leadership, some initiative, some damned
backbone.”

           
Czilikov’s
face turned crimson. The general secretary ignored it. “I pledged to this
council once that I would not become the first general secretary of the
Soviet
Union
to retreat in the face of inferior forces and I will keep
that promise. In fact, I will never retreat.”

 
         
He stood and pointed a finger at
Govorov while addressing the other Stavka members. “How can you sit here after
we have just honored such a soldier as Marshal Govorov, a man who risked his
life to give this nation the advantage we so badly needed and wanted, and then,
with your silence, acquiesce in a plan for surrender and withdrawal?”

           
“What would
you have us suggest, sir?” Czilikov said. “A nuclear strike against the
Nimitz
carrier group? An atomic
cruise-missile strike against Bandar-Abbas? Perhaps a flight of SS-20 missiles
targeted against the American fleet? We can blow the
United
Arab Emirates
off the map and create a whole
new
Strait of Hormuz
....”

           
The general
secretary seemed to ignore the outburst. “I want a plan for breaking this
stalemate and accomplishing the goals of Operation Feather.” He turned to
Govorov. “Put yourself in the shoes of the minister of defense. What would you
suggest?”

           
Govorov
understood he was being wedged between the minister of defense and the general
secretary. Some unfriendly space. Well, he’d made a career out of speaking his
mind.... “I must agree with you, sir, it was important for our forces to halt
their advances while the space station Armstrong was being neutralized. A
stalemate-breaking offensive such as the one we were talking about could have
triggered a larger response, perhaps even a theater nuclear response from the
Americans. Now Armstrong Station is no longer a threat. So I believe it is
necessary to secure a strong foothold in the region, act quickly and
decisively.” He paused for a breath—and to have his head handed to him—and when
he saw they were waiting for more substance and less speech, pressed on.... “I
would suggest that two major operations begin as soon as possible. The first
would be designed to break down the land-based emplacements of the American rapid
deployment forces by overwhelming them, then attacking and occupying their
positions; the second would be to command and hold the region from the
Arabian
Sea
to the
Strait of Hormuz
and control the
access to the gulf....” The silence was a vacuum to be filled, though he
couldn’t be sure it was because of approval or the opposite. ...

           
“I also
propose a cruise-missile attack on Bandar-Abbas and the forces along the
Persian
Gulf
. This type of attack was successful on the
Nimitz
fleet in the past. The Americans
must engage the cruise missiles with their surface-to-air and air-to-air
assets. The attack should be followed immediately by heavy bomber attacks,
progressively moving to lighter fighter-bomber attacks until the targets can be
occupied by paratroopers. In two days, if the strike is swift and devastating
enough, we should be able to reoccupy Bandar-Abbas.”

           
Finally a
reaction: a murmur of voices. Then Chief Marshal Yesi- mov of the air force
said, “It
can
be done. Our older
Tupolev-95 turboprop bombers, which could not survive over the heavily defended
coastal areas around Bandar-Abbas itself, can be armed with cruise missiles
instead of gravity bombs. The bombers can launch their missiles from well
inside occupied Iranian territory, far from the American surface-to-air missile
emplacements. Each Tu-95 can carry four AS-6 missiles, which have
twelve-hundred-kilogram high-explosive warheads.”