Part 20 (1/2)
What was holding Was.h.i.+ngton up? the colonel asked himself. All he needed was a simple yes or no. He checked his boards. Three KH-type photoreconnaissance satellites were currently in orbit, plus nine electronic surveillance birds. That was his low-level ”constellation.” He didn't fear for his higher-flying navigation and communications satellites, but the twelve in low earth orbit, especially the KHs, were valuable and vulnerable. Two of them had Russian killersats in close proximity, and one of his birds was now approaching Soviet territory, with another only forty minutes behind. The third Key-Hole bird didn't have a satellite a.s.signed yet, but the last pa.s.s over Leninsk showed another F-type booster being fueled on the pad.
”Take another look at the trailer,” he ordered.
A technician made the requisite commands, and half a world away, the satellite fired its alt.i.tude control thrusters and pivoted in s.p.a.ce to allow its cameras to search for the Russian killer satellite. It had held position fifty miles behind, and nine miles below the American satellite, but now was . . . gone.
”They moved it. They moved it in the last half hour.” He lifted the phone to tell CINC-NORAD that he was moving the satellite on his own authority. Too late. As the satellite turned again to point its cameras at the ground, a cylindrical ma.s.s covered a sizable percentage of the earth's face-there was a flash and the TV screen went blank. Just like that.
”Chris, you have those maneuver commands set up?”
”Yes, sir,” the captain answered, still staring at the screen.
”Execute them right now!”
The captain called up the command sequence on his computer console and punched Enter. The colonel's phone rang as the satellites' onboard rocket motors made subtle changes in their orbital paths.
”Argus Control,” the colonel answered.
”This is CINC-NORAD. What the h.e.l.l happened?”
”That Russian killersat closed and detonated. We have no signal from the KH-11, sir. I must a.s.sume they have successfully negated the bird. I've just ordered the other two Key-Holes to make a hundred-foot-per-second delta-V. Tell Was.h.i.+ngton they waited too long, sir.”
18.
Polar Glory
KIEV, THE UKRAINE.
It had been decided that all Soviet theater and front commanders would be briefed on developments in Germany. Alekseyev and his superior knew why: if anyone were to be relieved from his command, the new man would have to know the situation. They listened to the intelligence report with fascination. Neither of them had expected many of the Spetznaz attacks to fare well, but it seemed that some had been successful, especially those in the German ports. Then the operational intelligence brief got to the bridges on the Elbe.
”Why weren't we warned about this?” CINC-Southwest demanded.
”Comrade General,” the Air Force officer responded. ”Our information was that this Stealth aircraft was a prototype, not yet in regular service. Somehow the Americans have managed to construct a number of them, at least part of a squadron. They used it to eliminate our airborne radar coverage, thus paving the way for a ma.s.sive penetration raid against our airfields and lines of supply, plus a well-planned air battle against our all-weather fighter aircraft. Their mission was successful, but not decisively so.”
”Oh, and the commander of Air Forces West was arrested for successfully repelling it, eh?” Alekseyev snarled. ”How many aircraft did we lose?”
”I am not authorized to reveal that, Comrade General.”
”Can you tell us of the bridges, then!”
”Most of the bridges on the Elbe have been damaged to some extent or another, plus attacks on the bridging units stationed near them for tactical replacement.”
”The f.u.c.king maniac-he had his bridging units right next to the primary targets!” Southwest looked up at the ceiling as though expecting an air attack right there in Kiev.
”That is where the roads are, Comrade General,” the intelligence officer said quietly. Alekseyev waved him out of the room.
”Not a good start, Pasha.” Already a general had been arrested. His replacement had not yet been named.
Alekseyev nodded agreement, then checked his watch. ”The tanks will cross the border in thirty minutes, and we have a few surprises in store for them. Only half of their reinforcements are in place. They still have not achieved the psychological degree of preparedness that our men have. Our first blow will hurt them. If our friend in Berlin has made his deployments properly.”
KEFLAVIK, ICELAND.
”Perfect weather,” First Lieutenant Mike Edwards p.r.o.nounced, looking up from the chart just off the facsimile machine. ”We have this strong cold front due in from Canada in twenty to twenty-four hours. That'll bring a lot of rain with it, maybe an inch worth, but for all of today we have clear skies-less than two-tenths high clouds-and no precip. Surface winds west to southwest at fifteen to twenty knots. And lots of 's.h.i.+ne,” he concluded with a grin. The sun had risen for the last time nearly five weeks before, and wouldn't truly set for another five. They were so close to the North Pole here in Iceland that in summer the sun wandered in a lazy circle around the azure sky, dipping fractionally below the northwestern horizon but never truly setting. It was something that took getting used to.
”Fighter weather,” agreed Lieutenant Colonel Bill Jeffers, commander of the 57th Fighter Interceptor Squadron, the ”Black Knights,” most of whose F-15 Eagle interceptors were sitting in the open a bare hundred yards away. The pilots were in those fighters, waiting. They'd been waiting for ninety minutes now. Two hours before, they'd been warned of a large number of Soviet aircraft taking off from their tactical air bases on the Kola Peninsula, destination unknown.
Keflavik was always a busy place, but for the last week it had been a madhouse. The airport was a combination Navy and Air Force base and a busy international airport at which many airliners stopped to refuel.
The past week had seen this traffic supplemented by grim tactical fighters transiting from the United States and Canada to Europe, cargo aircraft transporting overloads of critical equipment, and airliners returning to America crowded with pale tourists and dependents of the military men who were now on the battle line. The same had happened to Keflavik. Three thousand wives and children had been evacuated. The base facility was cleared for action. If the Soviets kicked off the war that seemed to be springing from the ground like a new volcano, Keflavik was as ready as it could be.
”With your permission, Colonel, I want to check a few things at the tower. This forecast is pretty solid, for the next twelve hours anyway.”
”Jet stream?” Colonel Jeffers looked up from the yard-square chart of isobars and wind-trees.
”Same place it's been all week, sir, no sign at all of a change.”
”Okay, go ahead.”
Edwards put on his cap and walked out the door. He wore a thin blue officer's jacket over his Marine-style fatigues, pleased that the Air Force was still pretty casual about dress codes. His jeep held the rest of his ”battle gear,” a .38 revolver and pistol belt, and the field jacket that went with the camouflage gear everybody had been issued three days before. They'd thought of everything, Edwards reflected as he started up the jeep for the quarter-mile drive to the tower. Even the flak jacket.
Keflavik had to get hit, Edwards reminded himself. Everybody knew it, prepared for it, and then tried not to think about it. This most isolated of all NATO outposts on the western coast of Iceland was the barred gate to the North Atlantic. If Ivan wanted to fight a naval war, Iceland had to be neutralized. From Keflavik's four runways flew eighteen Eagle interceptors, nine sub-hunting P-3C Orions, and deadliest of all, three E-3A AWACS birds, the eyes of the fighters. Two were operating now; one was circling twenty miles northeast of Cape Fontur, the other directly over Ritstain, 150 miles north of Keflavik. This was most unusual. With only three AWACS birds available, keeping one constantly in the air was difficult enough. The commander of the Iceland defense forces was taking all of this very seriously. Edwards shrugged. If there really were Backfires bearing down on them, there was nothing else for him to do. He was the brand-new squadron meteorological officer, and he'd just given his weather report.
Edwards parked his jeep in an officer's slot next to the tower and decided to take his .38 with him. The lot was not fenced, and there was no telling if someone might want to ”borrow” his handgun. The base was crawling with a company of Marines and another of Air Force police, all looking very nasty with their M-16 rifles and web belts festooned with grenades. He hoped they'd be careful with those. Late the next day, a whole Marine Amphibious Unit was due to arrive to beef up base security, something that should have been done a week earlier but had been delayed, partly because of the Icelandic sensitivity regarding large numbers of armed foreigners, but mainly due to the unreal speed with which this crisis had developed. He trotted up the outside stairs and found the tower's control room crowded with eight people rather than the usual five.
”Hi, Jerry,” he said to the boss, Navy lieutenant Jerry Simon. The Icelandic civilian controllers who usually worked here were nowhere to be seen. Well, Edwards thought, there's no civilian traffic for them to control.
”Morning, Mike,” was the response. The ongoing joke at Keflavik. It was 0315 hours local time. Morning. The sun was already up, glaring in at them from the northeast through roll-down shades inside of the tilted gla.s.s windows.
”Let's have an att.i.tude check!” Edwards said as he walked over to his meteorological instruments.
”I hate this f.u.c.king place!” the tower crew answered at once.