keep himself attached to various places in the main operations section of the station. Three other sensor and computer operators, all newly arrived at Silver Tower to operate its reactivated sensors, were similarly dressed and similarly attached to various parts of the module, studying multi-function touch-screen displays of satellite imagery all around Iran. “Target area two has activity!”
“About damned time,” Colonel Kai Raydon snorted. “Okay, gang, let’s get ready to rumble.” He switched his console’s display to that operator’s screen. It showed a real-time NIRTSat ultra-wideband radar image of what appeared to be tractor-trailer rigs suddenly appearing out of nowhere in the middle of the mountains of western Iran. The radar image was precisely tuned by computer to squelch out terrain and forest returns and only show moving metallic returns. “Yep, we’ve got the cockroaches coming out of the woodwork for sure.” He flipped on the secure satellite communications channel. “Genesis, this is Odin, you got a copy on our Polaroid?”
“Roger, Odin,” Patrick McLanahan responded from the White House Situation Room. The high-definition television monitors in the White House conference room had been set up to display images from not only Silver Tower’s sensors but from hundreds of other aircraft, satellite, and surface ship sensors as well, or a mosaic of all sensor data put together.
“Right where you said they’d be, General,” Raydon remarked. He watched as the station’s computers, networked in with the computers on the ground at the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center’s operations center, started calculating the proper orbital mechanics to intercept the mobile missile launchers. “Odin to Stud One-Three, how are you doing down there?”
“Happy to be back and ready to go, Odin,” Captain Hunter “Boomer” Noble responded. He was on the ground at the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center in Nevada, pulling “cockpit alert” in the second of two remaining XR-A9 Black Stallion spacecraft. Noble had been back in the United States for less than a day before being tasked for another mission, but he didn’t hesitate to accept the assignment. “Thanks again for not grounding me, Genesis.”
“No problem, One-Three,” Patrick replied. “Glad you feel up to it.”
“We need all the swinging dicks we can to fly, kid,” Raydon said. “Are you getting the pictures and the orbital insertion data?”
“Roger,” Hunter replied. A fiber-optic data cable connected to the spaceplane was busy feeding orbital information, weapon ballistics data, and precise position updates to the Black Stallion’s flight and payload computers. As he read, the computer beeped at him, warning him that the “BEFORE POWER ON” checklist was underway. He acknowledged the built-in countdown hold. “Looks like I’m counting down, guys,” he said. “I’ll talk to you once I’m airborne.”
“Contact, sir!” another sensor operator shouted. “Target area five!”
“Looks like we’ve got another fish on, Genesis,” Raydon said. He switched to the new target. This one was the most unlikely area they had under surveillance, but if they did detect activity it would be one of the most important ones to address. “Got bad news for you, Genesis: your old friend the Shahab-5 launch site is active.” He studied the latest images from the launch site. “I don’t see any rockets on the launch pad — you took care of the last one very nicely — but the latest ultra-wideband radar scans we took from the Tower tell us they have three occupied silos out there. It’s fair to say they’re all Shahab-5s, and some might have nuclear warheads.”
“Any chance they could be decoys, Odin?” Patrick asked.
“You’re the ex intel guru, sir,” Raydon said, peering at the radar images even more closely. “The ultra- wideband radar system installed on Armstrong Space Station has the capability of seeing underground, but atmospheric, angle of sight, and target composition conditions have to be perfect, and with our eighties-era computers we can’t always get a good detailed image even if we are lucky enough to get the perfect shot. The underground missile silos at Kerman are obviously Russian-designed hardened suckers. I just can’t call it for sure, Genesis. The Iranians claim the Shahab-5s are just satellite boosters, and the silos are just secure storage facilities. I don’t buy that for a second.”
“Neither do I, Kai,” Patrick said. “But we don’t have many assets out in-theater, and I need an assessment of the threat.”
“Sir, if Iran has issued this alert because of what’s happening in Tehran right now,” Raydon said, “there’s no reason I can think of for them to be warming up a space launch vehicle. I think they’re going to launch their big boys. And we know what the target will be.”
“Diego Garcia,” Patrick said.
“It’s the only logical target, sir,” Raydon said. “They can hit Israel, Egypt, Turkey, and all our bases in the Middle East with their Shahab-3s. Most of the bombers that hit Iran back in ’97 came from Diego — the Iranians know that, or if they don’t they’re not as smart as we give them credit for. And if our ‘good friends’ the Russians are sharing intel with them, which we definitely think they are, the Iranians would know that we’ve got stealth bombers out there. They’re going after Diego, sir — I’m positive. Almost.”
“Almost?”
“As positive as I’m ever going to be, General,” Raydon said. “If I thought the Iranians had the know-how, or got it from the Russians, the only other logical target for the Shahab-5 would be Silver Tower.”
“And unfortunately we don’t have the Thor defense systems up and running yet,” Ann Page chimed in from her console in the station’s anti-missile laser’s control module, “so we can’t protect ourselves from up here.”
There was a pause on the channel; then: “Boomer, I’m going to re-task your flight. Stand by.”
A few moments later: “Updates downloading, sir,” Noble reported. “Genesis, are you sure you wouldn’t want to send Stud One-One on this one and let me take the Strongbox?”
“I’ve sent you into enough hot target areas, One-Three,” Patrick replied. “You’re going to take out the Shahab-5s. I’ll give One-One the Strongbox.” Both XR-A9 spaceplanes were loaded with air-to-ground weapons — a BDU-58 Meteor re-entry carrier, carrying three 1,500-pound U.S. Air Force AGM-170D “SPAW” missiles, or Supersonic Precision Attack Weapon. The SPAW was a two-stage solid-motor and scramjet — powered missile with a range of over one hundred miles and a top sustained cruise speed of over five times the speed of sound. It used GPS and inertial en route navigation which gave it near-precision accuracy, but then its course to impact could be fine-tuned by datalinks from satellites, target designators on the ground, or by other aircraft. These D-model missiles were specially modified by the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center with thermium nitrate high explosive warheads that gave them an effective explosive yield of ten thousand pounds of TNT.
“It’s likely to be pretty hot out there near that launch area,” Boomer said. “Maybe I ought to take it instead of the ‘new guy.’” The “new guy” was Lieutenant Colonel Jack Olray, who was new to Dreamland and the XR-A9 project with just two orbital Black Stallion flights to his credit, but was a combat veteran and experienced test pilot.
“The ‘new guy’ will do just fine, One-Three,” Patrick said.
“We can handle it, One-Three,” radioed Benneton from the second Black Stallion, then added, “Thanks for your vote of confidence.” Boomer knew enough not to try to return her snide remark over the command channel — it would only encourage her to keep on giving him grief.
Besides, his countdown seemed to be progressing faster and faster, and soon they’d be underway. His crew mission commander, U.S. Navy Lieutenant Lisette “Frenchy” Moulain, another newcomer to the unit, was impatiently prompting him to acknowledge each countdown hold within seconds of it popping up on their screens. With Frenchy’s almost constant urging, it seemed only seconds later when they closed up the cockpit and were moving out. Boomer noticed Olray and Benneton closing their cockpit canopies as they taxied clear of the hangar — they would be airborne shortly afterward.
Boomer and Frenchy made their first refueling over northern Arizona, then requested and were cleared for a supersonic cruise-climb while over southern New Mexico. They cruised at eighty-five thousand feet and Mach three for just an hour, then descended just east of Puerto Rico for their second refueling. Now safely over the Atlantic Ocean northeast of Venezuela, they accelerated to Mach ten, turned slightly northeast, then began their eight- minute orbital insertion burn. By the time they had crossed the Atlantic Ocean and reached the coast of Africa near Sierra Leone, they were at seventy-seven miles altitude and traveling at twenty-five times the speed of sound.
“Everything OK back there, Frenchy?” Boomer asked after they were established in orbit.
“Of course. If it wasn’t, I’d tell you. Why did you ask?”
“That’s my way of calling for a station check,” Boomer explained.
“Then why didn’t you say that?” Boomer scowled at the rear cockpit monitor but said nothing. “I’m in the green, oxygen and pressurization good, and the payload shows safe with full connectivity and continuity. The
