'General, the crew is right… here. 'He pointed to the map.
'Eight miles south of our position. We should be able to see the launch after you transmit the launch command. Sir?'
General Taylor stepped forward and glanced at his watch.
'Ten o'clock on the dot,' he asked. 'Let's do it. 'Newcombe directed the general to a large red button mounted on a box on the master control panel. The Air Force general pressed the button, and Newcombe started a clock. Everyone else glanced at his watch.
'If you'll follow me, gentlemen. 'General Taylor led the way out of the control room and outside into a large stretch of sand dunes and low scrub trees. Newcombe put the sun on his left shoulder and pointed westward.
'General Taylor's command has alerted the launch crew as well as the tracking and telemetry stations,' he explained.
'The rest is simple. While the train comes to a complete stop, the doors of the train open and the missile canister begins to erect. The canister is raised rearward, so the exhaust end of the missile is hanging off the end of the railcar.
'Meanwhile, the crew decodes and authenticates the launch order. All of the missile's internal 'housekeeping' functions are automatic. By the time the crew verifies the message and inserts their launch keys, the missile is ready to go.
Newcombe checked his watch; seventy-five seconds had already elapsed.
He looked up at his military spectators.
'I told you gents this would be a surprise At that instant, a thunderous roar rolled across the dunes.
Several of the spectators, Newcombe included, jumped. All looked southward.
The missile itself could not be seen except as a tiny dark speck, but the half-mile-long tail of flame was clearly visib] from eight miles away The pillar of fire rose, accelerating at unbelievable speed. It felt as if the rocket exhaust was blasting at them from directly overhead.
'A few seconds late, gents,' Newcombe said over the slowly receding noise. 'But spectacular, eh?' Newcombe pulled out a walkie-talkie.
'Control, this is Newcombe. Pipe the telemetry narrative outside, please.'
'Amazing,' General Taylor asked. 'An intercontinental missile with an eight-thousand-mile range, ready for launch in a little over sixty seconds.
'Javelin at sixty nautical miles altitude, seventy-three miles downrange,' the voice of the launch controller reported.
'Expecting first stage burnout in forty seconds. Speed approaching two thousand miles per hour. Altitude now eighty three nautical miles, one hundred seven miles down range…
'Very impressive,' General Taylor asked. 'A most successful launch.
'The Javelin hasn't begun to perform, General,' New combe asked. 'We'll begin receiving telemetry from Guam and the Marshall Islands soon.
They'll tell us the progress of the Javelin's warheads. We expect a circular error pattern of not more than a hundred feet.
'One hundred feet!' one of Taylor's aides asked. 'After an eight thousand mile flight on a small I.C.B.M?Why, that's-' 'Unbelievable, I know. 'Newcombe smiled. 'Although the Javelin is transportable and deployable in dozens of ways, we haven't just created a mini-I.C.B.M.
The Javelin is just as accurate as the new MX Peacekeeper missile, yet it's one-third the size and one-half the cost.'
'Javelin at two hundred seventy-three miles altitude, turning further seaward now at three hundred miles downrange,' the controller intoned.
'Successful first stage burnout and second stage ignition. Velocity seven thousand miles per hour.
'Inertial systems functioning well.
'We can listen in on the rest of the launch from the visitor's area,' Newcombe asked. 'We have champagne ready.'
'Minor inertial course correction,' the launch controller said. His voice sounded a bit more strained — Newcombe shot a puzzled glance at the loudspeaker, then wiped his face clean and replaced the puzzlement with a broad smile. No one else had noticed the inflection, or they weren't showing it…
'Guam reports tracking Javelin on course. Javelin at four hundred nautical miles altitude, one thousand one hundred miles downrange,' the controller reported. Suddenly his reports were coming faster.
'Javelin con — ecting course…
reestablished on course… now correcting course again for premature third-stage ignition… Guam reports loss of tracking and telemetry from Javelin. Mr. Newcombe, to the control center, please.'
Newcombe's beeper went off, but he was already running for the command center.
'We have lost the Javelin,' the monotonous voice continued. 'We have lost the Javelin.'
ABOARD THE U.S.S. ILAWRENCE
'Damage report!All Sections, damage report!'
If anyone could see Commander Markham's hands at that moment, they would see knuckles as white as chalk as they crushed the seatbacks he was gripping for support. Every one of the thousands of lights in the U.S.S. Lawrence's intelligence section had snapped out. A few battery-powered lights automatically came on, but they did little to penetrate the solid darkness of the steel-lined, windowless chamber.
Markham wondered how the order for a damage report was being broadcast.
It had to be a battery-operated backup intercom. Hand over hand, he felt his way along the double rows of seats on either side of the aisle toward the front of the intelligence section. He felt a few men rising from their seats, and he risked letting go of the seatbacks to push them back down.
'Keep your seat, Kelly,' he ordered. 'The damn lights just went out, that's all. Check your station. 'He heard a timid, 'Yes, sir' in reply.
Markham made his way to the ship's radio box mounted on the section's forward bulkhead. The radio was hardly ever used-stray transmissions from the intel section's computers could be picked up for miles through such an antiquated telephone. He picked it up.
The hum he heard in the receiver was deafening, but someone was still trying to use it. 'Intel section. Do you read me?Intel section-' 'Intel, Markham here,' he shouted into the phone.
'Bridge, this is Markham. How do you hear?'
'Very weak,' replied the voice-Lieutenant Commander Christopher Watanabe, the first officer, Markham guessed.
'Damage report.'
'No structural damage noted yet, Chris,' Markham said.
'All our power is out. All our equipment is shut down.'
'Understand no structural damage,' Watanabe reported back. 'Could not copy the rest. Send a runner forward with a report on the double. The ship is on Condition Yellow. Repeat, Condition Yellow.'
'Copy.'
Markham dropped the phone back on its hook.
'All right, now hear this,' he called out into the pitch-dark intel section. 'The ship is on Condition Yellow. Everyone, one more check of your area for damage and sing out. Kelly!'
'Yes… yes, sir?' came the broken, timid voice again.
'You wanna leave so fast, here's your chance. Get up here. 'The young seaman ran forward. 'You're the runner for our section. You don't go topside without a parka, arctic mittens, life vest, and a lifeline-and this time use the damn thing.'
Markham pushed the youngster aside and peered into the gloom of his now-impotent electronic stateroom. 'Listen up.
Any damage? Water? Cracks? Gas? Strange sounds? Sing out.
