Brown, Dale - Independent 01 (5 page)

           
“Is there a
problem, Rhomerdunov?”

           
All heads
swiveled in the direction of the seventy-year-old head of air defense forces.
Rhomerdunov straightened in his seat, stabbing an angry glare in his aide’s
direction. “No, Comrade Minister.”

           
Czilikov
nodded and was about to issue his orders to the Kollegiya when Rhomerdunov
cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Minister Czilikov”—he again looked
apprehensively in the aide’s direction—“perhaps there are some important points
to be made about this Iranian offensive.”

           
The members
of the Kollegiya froze and stared at Rhomerdunov, as if he had just badly
insulted the minister of defense. Czilikov said nothing. Then, without further
prompting, Rhomerdunov’s aide stood and straightened to attention. The officer
was tall, lean, powerfully built. Ukrainian, obviously, judging by his wide
shoulders, flat nose, and square jaw, Czilikov decided. He hit on the man’s
name as he began to speak.

           
“Sir, I
am—”

           
“I know who
you are, General Lieutenant Govorov. As the
Soviet Union
’s
first space shuttle cosmonaut and a Hero of the
Soviet Union
you’re known to us all.” Czilikov ground a fist into his palm in barely
restrained anger. “Your contributions to the scientific and military excellence
of our country forgive many... transgressions. Since you have seen fit to grant
yourself permission to speak before the Kollegiya, please proceed. I’m sure
everyone wants to hear from the new commander of the space-defense command.”

           
“My
apologies, sir,” which was as far as Govorov’s apology went Most officers below
the rank of three-star general would be a mass of jelly speaking in front of
the Kollegiya, even without committing a major breach of protocol. But it
didn’t seem to affect young Govorov.

           
“Well,
proceed,
General Lieutenant.”

 
         
Govorov stayed at attention. “It is my
opinion that this mission to attack
Iran
will ultimately fail.”

           
Rhomerdunov
straightened in his seat and looked straight ahead, as if steeling himself for
the executioner. All eyes in the room moved from Rhomerdunov’s granite face to
the surprised Marshal Czilikov.

           
“I’ve
heard,” Czilikov said, “that subtlety is not exactly your style. I see it is
true.” He looked to Rhomerdunov, who kept staring straight ahead. Well,
Czilikov thought, it seemed the old war horse Rhomerdunov wasn’t afraid to
challenge the party, even if it was indirectly through his deputy Govorov.

           
As for
Govorov, he took Czilikov’s silence as a cue to continue. “The Americans have a
device that is not only capable of warning of any impending invasion but also
of directing American and NATO counterforces. This device, sir, is the
Armstrong Space Station—”

           
“The space
station? Their military station? It’s only been in orbit for a few months—”

           
“Yes, and
it is fully operational,” Govorov said. “As we all know, sir, the Americans
have successfully completed their first operational test of their illegal Thor
space-based interceptor missile. Although the test was less than perfect—”

           
“That
is an overstatement, Govorov,”
Khromeyev put in. “The Americans called it an operational test, but it was
carefully staged to insure optimal results. In spite of their choreography, our
intelligence reported several clear misses with the Thor missile. It is an
obvious propaganda ploy—”

           
“Our intelligence
puts the effectiveness of the Thor missile at no better than eighty-three
percent,” Govorov agreed, “which my staff feels is no better than fifty percent
in an actual wartime scenario. But, sir, the Thor missile is not at issue. My
staff is more concerned with the system of advanced sensors now in use,
especially the phased- array, space-based radar aboard the space station
Armstrong. It has a far greater capability than we first estimated. We believe,
sir, that the space-based radar can track and identify objects on land, sea,
and in the air from ranges in
excess
of sixteen hundred kilometers.”

           
A clamor of
voices erupted in the conference chamber. Czilikov’s voice boomed out above
them all. “Sixteen hundred kilometers? That’s impossible. No radar can do
that.”

           
“No
earth-bound radar, sir. But a radar mounted in space has no size or
geographical limitations. It’s limited only by the power available to it—and
the space station has enough solar-energy capability to power the whole
Kremlin.”

 
         
“You are trying to tell us,” Deputy
Minister Ilanovsky said, “that a single space station can monitor all movement
of military equipment involved in Operation Feather? Thousands of vehicles
spread out over millions of cubic kilometers of space in mountainous terrain
and in bad weather? That is preposterous—”

           
“It may
sound so,” Govorov said to the commander of the army, “but our estimates
confirm it.”

           
“I say that
whether this radar can do all of these things is still immaterial,” Deputy
Minister Marasimov, the commander of Strategic Rocket Forces, said. “The
station is in polar earth orbit. It does not permanently position itself over
the
Middle East
. It can only provide short-term glimpses
of the region a few times each day.
Which would make it
impractical as a warning and control station.
”

           
Govorov
hesitated for a moment. “That’s true, but—”

           
“This
expensive toy has no more capability than an ordinary reconnaissance
satellite,” Marasimov went on, smiling benignly at young Govorov. “What you
have said about the Armstrong’s radar is true ...
if
the radar is in operation when it passes over the area,
if
it works properly,
if
its operators and interpreters
correctly analyze the images, and
if
they can get the information to regional commanders in time to be of some use.
By my count that’s four pretty damn big
ifs.”

           
Marasimov
nodded to Czilikov. “I believe our young colleague has presented some very...
interesting information, but I also believe that the radar on the American
space station would be no obstacle to the success of Feather.”

           
Govorov
looked amazed. “Excuse me, but—”

           
“Thank you,
General Lieutenant Govorov,” Czilikov said, dismissing him. “I will expect
detailed briefings on each command order of battle for Operation Feather in two
weeks.”

           
Govorov
sank back into his metal folding chair as Czilikov continued issuing his
orders. He struggled to remain poker-faced, his eyes narrowed into angry slits
as a few of the deputy ministers and marshals cast amused glances his way.

           
They can’t
believe now, Govorov told himself. But they will. The American space station
won’t just be talked, or wished, away.

 
          
EDINBURGH
,
SCOTLAND

 
          
From the northernmost cannon mounts
known as the Argyle Battery of Edinburgh Castle, the view of the New Town
section of
Edinburgh
was
breathtaking. Far below the craggy heights of the ancient castle, which seemed
to grow out of the rock like a gnarled oak, the snow- covered
Princes
Street
Gardens
stretched from St. Cuthbert’s Church to the west, to Waverley Station to the
east and far, far down the
Lothian
Valley
to the
North Sea
. Beyond Princes Street Garden, the
modem shops, hotels and homes of New Edinburgh—“new” in this instance meaning
the part of town that was only two hundred forty years old, as opposed to the
rest, which was over twelve hundred— bustled with activity despite the cold
winds and occasional snowfalls.

           
There were
a few die-hard tourists visiting this imposing stone castle overlooking
Edinburgh
,
but for the most part the site was deserted except for the warders and members
of the Castle Guard. Only a few hardy, well-dressed individuals stood by to
watch as the Royal Scots Dragoon Guard made their way to the Mill’s Mount gun
platform for the
one o’clock
signal.

           
“The
townspeople, merchants and sailors of
Edinburgh
have set their timepieces to the
one o’clock
gun ever since the time of Napoleon Bonaparte,” a tour guide was saying. His
thick Scottish brogue, dulled by the chill winds swirling around the top of the
castle, made him difficult to understand, but the man who stood a few feet to
his left, dressed in a gray trenchcoat, wool-brimmed hat, leather gloves and
sunglasses was not really listening. “It is even said that Saint Christopher,
the patron saint of travelers, stops by
Edinburgh
every day to check the spin of the earth and moon with the gun so sailors won’t
get lost.”

           
“Why do
they fire the gun at
one o’clock
?” a
man with a slight Middle Eastern accent asked. He had been waiting there for
some time, and was now standing right up near the chain and stanchions that
kept visitors away from the small fifty-five-millimeter howitzer. “It seems a
strange hour. Why not signal at
noon
?”

           
Now
the man in sunglasses was
interested, but not in the tour guide’s reply—being a native of
Scotland
,
he’d already guessed the answer.

           
“Ye forget,
sir,” the tour guide replied, his lips forming a sly smile, “you’re in
Scotland
.
Having to fire only one shot per day, rather than twelve,
appeals to a Scotman’s sense of economy.”

           
The
foreigner gave a short laugh and the tour guide went on with his well-rehearsed
script. The Scots, the man with the sunglasses observed, seemed as fond of
making fun at themselves as they were of the English and Irish.

           
Presently
the guards entered the chained-off area, and at the direction of the officer in
charge, fired one economical round to the north over the New Town. By force of
habit the man in sunglasses checked his watch—the timing was perfect. The Scots
were nothing if not both thrifty and punctual.

           
The
tourists quickly retreated out of the numbing wind that blew in from the
glacial bay called the Firth of Forth; even the Dragoon Guards’ pace seemed to
quicken as they marched off the Argyle Battery back to the massive group of
two-hundred-year-old buildings called the New Barracks.

           
The man
with the slight Middle Eastern accent turned away from the Mills’
Mount
Battery
as if reluctantly
relinquishing the sting of the icy winds on his face and walked down the
cobblestone concourse toward the Portcullis Gate. He almost walked right into
the man in the sunglasses. “Excuse me.” His voice was even colder than the
chill Scottish winds.

           
The man in
the sunglasses began in French.
“Pardonnez-moi,
Monsieur le President
Alientar.”

           
“McDonough?”

           
“Yes, Mr.
President.”

           
“I was
afraid you were not going to come. I thought your government was going to
change its mind again.”

           
“We can
talk over here, sir,” McDonough said, letting Alientar’s shot glance off him
unanswered. He led him past the former cart sheds turned souvenir shops and
down a narrow alley to the Back Parade between the Butts Battery and the
building marked “Governor’s Residence.” They then turned left across to a
cobblestone halfmoon carriageway to an entrance in the rear of the governor’s
residence.

           
“We are
going in
here?”
President Alientar
asked.

           
“The
English and Scottish governments were kind enough to offer us a secure place to
talk,” McDonough said. They walked up the stone-and-tiled portico of the rear
of the building and were immediately met by a member of the Royal Scots Dragoon
Guard in a black cold-weather uniform. No kilts, dirks or ceremonial
basket-hilt broadswords here—the guard had a very mean, modem-looking Heckler
and Koch MP5A3 assault submachine gun at portarms. He checked McDonough’s ID,
compared it against a separate roster, motioned them inside.

           
A man
dressed in household whites but clearly a member of the Dragoon Guard—the bulge
of a Special Air Services Browning high- power automatic pistol was visible
under his tunic—led the two foreigners through the outer galley and kitchen
area, through the well-appointed dining room and large sitting room and into a
smaller office area. He eyed them both suspiciously, then left without saying a
word.