Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (11 page)

 
          
“Ah,
yes. Glad you reminded me,” Elliott said. “Four AGM-88B HARM missiles. HARM
stands for High-speed Anti-Radiation Missile. They were the stars over
Libya
in 1985. The missiles home-in on either the
radars themselves or, if the radars are turned off, they’ll fly the last
computed path to the target.

 
          
“Twenty-two
air-to-air missiles, four air-to-ground missiles, and a total of fifty air mine
rockets, all for bomber self-defense,” Elliott said, summing up. “Together with
the usual chaff and flares and specialized electronic countermeasures packages
installed on board, we think we’ve greatly increased the chances of this
Megafortress
reaching the target. Like I
said, sir—a flying battleship.”

 
          
“Armed
to the teeth, all right,” Curtis said. He closely examined the long, slender
missiles on their launcher and looked forward. “What’s this?”

 
          
“The
only space left for offensive weaponry,” Elliott explained. “In using the
Megafortress
as a test-bed we’ve
concentrated mostly on defensive armament for strategic bombers. But she can
still carry fifteen thousand pounds of ordnance—nukes, iron bombs, missiles,
mines, anything. Or we can put extra fuel, additional defensive missiles,
decoys, even personnel up there. How about side gunners, like a B-l7 in World
War Two? We’ve already done that with the Old Dog.

 
          
“We’ve
been running tests with the new AGM-130
Striker
TV/infrared guided glide bomb, the biggest non-nuclear bomb in the inventory.
The damn thing weighs a ton and a half but can glide twelve miles when released
at low altitudes.”

 
          
“I
don’t believe it,” Curtis said. “This thing is amazing.” The two men exited the
bomb bay, and several security officers closed the four clamshell bomb bay
doors. Elliott then led Curtis to the entrance hatch on the bomber’s belly and
both men climbed inside.

 
          
“Hard
to believe,” Curtis commented, “that a huge plane like this has so little room
inside.”

 
          
“Believe
me, this is
spacious
now compared to
a line B-52,” Elliott said. “A lot of things have been taken out, miniaturized,
or moved to the fuselage area. There’s almost room on the lower deck here for a
couple airliner seats—in a line Buff, you can’t stand side-by-side down here.
We’ve taken out as much extraneous stuff as possible to lighten the plane.”

 
          
They
sat in the navigators’ seats downstairs.

 
          
“Where’s
all the navigation and bombing stuff down here?” Curtis asked, examining the
blank panels before him. The entire compartment was almost devoid of equipment.
There was the radar navigator’s ten-inch radar scope and associated controls on
the left side, plus a small video monitor beside it with a small typewriter
keyboard. Between the left and right sides were three small control panels. The
navigator’s side had a few flight instruments, but nothing else. All the rest
of the equipment slots were covered with blank plastic panels.

 
          
“The
world’s biggest video game,” Elliott said with a smile. “Simple,
straightforward navigation. The
Megafortress
uses the Satellite Global Positioning System for navigation, along with a
ring-laser gyro inertial navigation set. The INS is updated by the satellite,
so the radar scope isn’t needed for navigation—we’ve modified it more for
threat detection than for navigation.

 
          
“The
radar nav uses a plug-in cartridge with all the navigation points and computer
subroutines in it. The gyro takes three minutes to spin-up to full alignment,
and it’s accurate to a quarter of a degree per hour just by itself. The
satellite system automatically locks onto two of the eight Air Force navigation
satellites orbiting the Earth and fixes its position once every five minutes,
and it’s accurate to a few feet every time. The radar nav also has a
combination computer and TV monitor and a keyboard for reprogramming the
computer.”

 
          
Elliott
pointed to the ten-inch attack radar scope. “The Old Dog now has a Hughes
APG-75 attack radar from the Navy F/A-18
Hornet
fighter, which can feed targeting and tracking information to any of the
Scorpion
missiles. The radar can also
serve as a navigation radar, if necessary, and it can be used as a
terrain-avoidance mapping display.

 
          
“There’s
more, sir,” Elliott said, “let’s go upstairs.”

 
          
The
two men climbed another ladder to the upper deck. “Pilots won’t be happy about
this,” Elliott commented, “but we didn’t do much in the pilot’s compartment.
Their job hasn’t changed much. This
Megafortress
has the capability of automatically monitoring its fuel system and
electrical panel, so it frees the copilot to help out.

 
          
“One
major addition is the automatic terrain avoidance system,” Elliott explained.
“It’s an adaptation of the cruise missile’s terrain comparison system. We
needed a system that could help the Old Dog fly as close to the earth as
possible, but without using radar transmissions that would give away the
plane’s location.

 
          
“The
satellite navigation system and inertial nav system sends present position,
heading, and groundspeed information to a computer, which already has all
significant terrain and man-made obstacles for the proposed flight planned
region programmed into it. The system finds where it is and figures out what
altitude is safe for the proposed flight path. It then sends instructions to
the autopilot to fly a set altitude over the terrain. Radar is only used
intermittently as a back-up to the system, so electronic emissions that could
expose the plane’s position are almost eliminated.” They half-walked,
half-crawled aft of the cockpit to the defensive crew compartment. “Not many
changes at the electronic warfare officer’s station, either,” Elliott said.
“His equipment is more specialized and a bit more automatic. The gunner’s
station is quite different. He has an eight- inch fire-control radar, the
controls and indicators for the defensive missile launcher, and the controls
for the air mine cannons and forward-firing missiles. He’ll be one busy man
back here.”

 
          
“All
off-the-shelf, General?” Curtis asked, finding his tongue.

 
          
“If
it wasn’t, sir, you’d know about it. You didn’t.”

 
          
Elliott
led Curtis back down the entranceway ladder. A pair of security guards climbed
inside and did a quick inspection of the bomber interior while Curtis and
Elliott were watched. After the guards reemerged, the two men were free to
leave. Elliott escorted Curtis toward the exit.

 
          
“You
realize, Brad,” Curtis said as they headed for the security gate, “that this
whole trip was just a friendly visit. I wasn’t asking about any special project
or piece of equipment. Just a friendly visit, that’s all.”

           
“Perfectly clear, General,” Elliott
said.

           
“Good. Now that we understand each
other, I want to know—”

           
“My test bed B-1B arrives in three
weeks,” Elliott interrupted him. “It’s been on the books for months, far
earlier than your meeting with the President. No connection could ever be
made.”

           
Curtis smiled. Then: “Only one B-l?”

 
          
Elliott
thought for a moment. “I’m having lunch with the commander of the test and
evaluation unit at Edwards in a few days. Colonel Jim Anderson, a real fireball
but a great stick. I wanted to invite him in on some of the new Old Dog weapons
tests I’m conducting. I think he can supply us with a B-l A-model the
contractors aren’t using. We won’t be able to bring it here to Dreamland
without raising some curiosity, but I think he can arrange to have it... at our
immediate disposal. We can get it here when . . . the time comes.”

 
          
Curtis
shook his head in disbelief. “And I thought / had influence.” He smiled. “If I
didn’t know better, Brad, I’d say you knew what I was thinking all along.”

 
          
“After
Andy Wyatt got hold of me, sir,” Elliott said, “I didn’t spend time shining my
latrines up for your visit.” He thought for a moment, then said, “It just so
happens that those Old Dog tests will coincide perfectly with the refit of
those B-ls. Most of the equipment you’ve seen here tonight can be put in those
B-ls in no time at all.”

 
          
“All
right, all right, Brad. This is starting to get spooky,” Curtis said.
“Remember, I never asked you for anything, you never saw those intelligence
notes, and ...”

 
          
“I
understand completely, General.” He looked sideways at the Chairman of the
Joint Chiefs and said, “Two months.”

 
          
Curtis
shook his head in disbelief. “You mean—?”

 
          
“The
tests will be completed in two months, sir,” Elliott said. “For . . . whatever
reason.”

 
          
“I
may need a plane sooner ... for whatever,” Curtis said.

 
          
Elliott
thought for a moment—but only a moment.

 
          
“Then
I’ll send the Old Dog.”

 
          
Curtis
started to laugh but choked back the urge when he saw that Elliott was serious.

 
          
“You’re
crazy, Elliott...” Curtis said. “A thirty-year-old B-52? You’ve been wandering
around this desert too long.”

 
          
Elliott
smiled. “Just a thought, General,” he said. “Just a thought ...”

 
          
Andrina
Asserni, confidential secretary and aide to Ambassador Dimitri Karmarov, Soviet
Ambassador to the United Nations, could scarcely believe it when she was
informed by security that Secretary of State Marshall Brent was waiting in the
outer reception area of the Ambassador’s private residence. “Show him in
immediately,” she told the guard. And a minute later he appeared.

 
          
“Secretary
Brent . . . !”

 
          
“
Zdrastvoayti
. Good evening, Miss
Asserni,” Marshall Brent said in fluent Russian. Asserni’s eyes twinkled. How
strange and wonderful her language sounded, coming from such a tall, distinguished
American.

 
          
“May
I speak with the Ambassador, please?”

 
          
Asserni
stammered. “Why, uh, yes ... of course. My apologies, Mr. Secretary. Please,
please come in.” She stood in awe as Brent strode into the outer apartment. She
had never seen the American Secretary travel like this, alone.

 
          
“My
sincerest apologies, Mr. Secretary,” Asserni said. “I had no idea you would
call on us . . .”

 
          
“This
is a very informal and impromptu visit, Miss Asserni, I assure—”

 
          
At
that instant, Ambassador Karmarov entered the outer apartment. He wore a simple
blue robe in place of a coat, and carrying a can of beer, looked exactly the
opposite of his stiff, official persona. “Comrade Asserni, get me the file on—”

 
          
“Comrade
Ambassador!”

 
          
Karmarov
looked up from his papers and took a step back. “Marshall . . . Brent ... I
mean, Mr. Secretary . . .”

 
          
“I
hope I am not intruding, Ambassador Karmarov ...”

 
          
“No
... no, of course not.” He turned to Asserni and handed her the documents he
was carrying. “Take the Secretary’s coat, Asserni, what possesses you? Why
wasn’t I notified?” Brent removed his long dark coat with slippery ease, and
Asserni took it in her arms like a newborn baby.

 
          
“This
is an unexpected surprise . . .”

 
          
“Ochin zhal.
I do apologize for any
inconvenience this visit has caused, Ambassador,” Brent said. “But I was hoping
to speak with you on an urgent matter.”

 
          
“Of
... of
course.
” Karmarov motioned to
his inner apartment. “Do come in.” He turned to Asserni. “Bring coffee and
brandy immediately. And I will strangle anyone who interrupts us. Is that
understood?”

 
          
Asserni
was too astonished to reply. As she hurried off to the kitchen, Karmarov
followed the tall, lean, impeccably dressed American into his inner apartment
and closed the door behind him.

 
          
The
Russian ambassador’s apartment resembled a large study, with walls covered
mostly with floor-to-ceiling shelves of books of all kinds. The most imposing
item in the room was Karmarov’s massive desk, a huge, ornately carved antique,
well over half the width of the apartment itself. Brent ran a hand over plush
leather chairs, noticing that the coffee table in the center of the apartment
was genuine Chippendale.

 
          
“A
most exquisite room, Ambassador Karmarov,” Brent said without turning around.
Karmarov wrung his hands with impatience as he waved Asserni into the
apartment. She set the tray with a silver urn, a long fluted decanter of
brandy, china cups, and large snifters onto the Chippendale table and hurried
out.

 
          
“Balshoye spasibe.
Thank you,” Karmarov
said. “Mr. Secretary, we may speak English if you prefer. You need not—”

 
          
“I
am in
Russia
now, Mr. Ambassador,” Brent said, continuing in urban Muscovite
Russian. “It would be a presumption to speak anything but your native tongue.”

 
          
Brent
turned, his hands folded behind his back. The two men observed each other for a
moment. Karmarov saw a tall, elegant frame, a silvermaned head; a firm chin
thrust defiantly up and outward; a thin silver mustache perfectly symmetrical.
The suit was conservative, tailored to razor-sharp perfection, the shoes were
polished to a gleaming shine despite the harsh
Manhattan
streets.

 
          
Brent
saw a shorter but powerful man, with a full head of gray hair atop broad
shoulders. The years of plush living in the most fashionable section of
New York
had begun to tell on the Ambassador’s
waistline and chin, but Karmarov’s eyes were still as fiery and bright as in
his revolutionary youth.

 
          
Karmarov
finally motioned Brent forward.
“Pazhaloosta
saditis.
Please sit down, Mr. Secretary.”

 
          
Brent
took the wide-armed leather chair offered him by the Russian and lightly seated
himself. He kept his knees, legs and back perfectly straight as Karmarov joined
him. Karmarov reached for the coffee urn but, correctly interpreting a sly grin
in Brent’s eyes, his hand slipped over to the decanter. He poured a generous
amount of brandy for both of them and offered one to the American Secretary of
State.

 
          
“To
your health, Mr. Secretary,’’ Karmarov said in English.

 
          
Brent
raised his glass. “Za
vasha zdarovye!
And to you and yours, Ambassador,’’ Brent replied.

 
          
They
let the strong spirits flood their insides, then Brent set his glass down on
the table.

 
          
Karmarov
spoke first. “I am totally embarrassed, Mr. Secretary,’’ he said. “I had no
idea . . .”

 
          
“It
is I who should apologize, sir,’’ Brent said. “This may seem most
inappropriate, but I simply felt that I must speak with you immediately.’’

 
          
“By
all means,” Karmarov said. He took a bigger sip of brandy.

 
          
“It
concerns the fears some in my government have of the research being down at the
Kavaznya complex,” Brent began. “They feel—”

 
          
“Please,
Mr. Secretary,” Karmarov said, his eyes serious. “I am not permitted to discuss
Kavaznya. It is more than a classified facility, sir. It is a forbidden
subject.”

 
          
“Then
permit
me
to speak,” Brent said.
“Consider this a message from my government to yours—you need not reply.” Brent
interlaced his fingers and let his arms rest on the chair’s wide armrests.

 
          
“The
Pentagon is convinced, on what I feel is sketchy information, that your
government is responsible for the destruction of an American reconnaissance
satellite and an American RC-135 aircraft.”

 
          
Karmarov
said immediately, “My government has already categorically denied any
involvement—”

 
          
“Yes,
Ambassador, I know,” Brent interrupted. He picked up his brandy snifter, passed
his nose over it, letting the palm of his left hand warm the liqueur. He
settled back into his chair.

 
          
“Allow
me to be frank with you, Ambassador,” Brent said. Karmarov’s eyes widened. “I
am not a friend of my country’s military hierarchy. I believe it was
Montesquieu who once said, ‘If our world should ever be ruined, it will be by
the warriors.’ ”

 
          
“He
referred to
Europe
, I believe,” Karmarov said, his eyes
narrowing. Brent nodded.

 
          
“It
applies to affairs between our nations as well,” Brent continued. “Ambassador,
we are on the threshold of an historic arms-control agreement. In the two years
since those negotiations have been conducted, both sides have managed to keep
the uniformed military out of the negotiations.

 
          
We
have dealt on a level never before attempted—instead of throwing our bloody
swords on the table and staring into each other’s faces to see who will blink
first, like some medieval combat, we have sat down like men and talked true
disarmament.

 
          
“Ambassador,
in our lifetime we can see nuclear weapons eliminated. Not just a phony
controlled escalation, not even a numerical reduction. No, I talk of true
disarmament.”

 
          
Brent
swirled the brandy in his glass and stared into it. “But there are those who
see disarmament as a weakness. They seek to disrupt our efforts at every turn.
It is the actions of these ‘disrupters’ that I wish to warn your government
about, Ambassador.”

 
          
“What
. . . actions, Mr. Secretary?” Karmarov asked.

 
          
“As
I said, there are many in my government who are convinced of your culpability
in the loss of our aircraft,” Brent said. “They have conjured up a magical
laser device, straight out of one of our
Hollywood
films, and planted it on Ust-Kamchatkskiy,
at your research center at Kavaznya. Evidence or not, they have all but
convinced the President that this laser exists and that it threatens the
security of the
United States
.”

 
          
Karmarov
could not keep his eyes focused on Brent’s. Brent’s fingers curled a bit
tighter around the brandy snifter as he noticed Karmarov’s uneasiness.

 
          
Dammit, Brent thought. Could it be true? Is
it possible . . . ?

           
“You must convince them, Mr.
Secretary,” Karmarov said quickly, forcing his eyes back toward Brent’s. “I
plead with you, my government is deeply and firmly committed to lasting peace
and the total elimination of all nuclear weapons from the face of the globe.
Nothing must interfere.” “I have come to offer you my guarantee,” Brent
continued, “that I will make every effort to achieve a workable arms agreement.
But I must tell you what is afoot. There is talk of matching the so-called
killer laser with a construct of our own. I’m not at liberty to give details,
but—”

           
“Ice
Fortress
/” Karmarov said suddenly. “The armed space platform! That’s what
your military means to deploy, isn’t it?”

 
          
Brent
sighed. “Again, I’m not at liberty to discuss—”

 
          
“But
that’s it, isn’t it?” Karmarov’s face was flushed with anger. “
Marshall
, you know that deployment of
Ice Fortress
is a clear violation of the
1972 Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty. It is a violation of the 1982 Space
De-Militarization Agreement. It flies in the face of our entire arms
elimination negotiations. It is madness.”

 
          
“Key
elements in our military are convinced of the existence of a killer laser,”
Brent said. “That is also a violation . . .”

 
          
“Such
a device—should it ever exist in our lifetime—is not a violation of the ABM
Treaty,” Karmarov interrupted. “The Treaty clearly never mentioned such exotic
devices because they exist only in the imagination of a few excitable
scientists and physicists. Why write a treaty forbidding something that does
not exist?”

 
          
Karmarov’s
rising tone of voice, with the strained chuckle punctuating his last sentence,
rang like an echo from the walls of a canyon in Brent’s ears. Karmarov
continued: “The Space De-Militarization Agreement does not apply, of course, to
a ground-based defensive device. It was specifically written to eliminate the
placement of weapons of any kind in orbit over the Earth. It was supposed to
have averted a madness that swept both our countries. It cannot be possible for
your country to deploy
Ice Fortress.
It
cannot.”