Shadow Command

“Yes, sir — that’s always a wise precaution,” Carlyle said. “But if the theater commander needed to position his assets in preparation for an actual mission, we aren’t obligated to tell the Russians anything. We don’t even have to lie to them and tell them it’s a training mission or something.”

“Part of the problem with these spaceplanes, Conrad, is that they move too quickly,” Chief of Staff Kordus said. “Even if this was a routine mission, they’re around the world in the blink of an eye. We’ve got to put stricter controls on those guys.”

“If Cannon had something going, something important, he should have told me or Turner before launching that spaceplane,” the President said. “Walter’s right: those spaceplanes are too fast and too threatening to just launch them anytime, even on a perfectly peaceful, benign, routine mission — which this certainly was not. But I thought I made it clear to everyone that I didn’t want the spaceplanes up unless it was an emergency or a war. Am I mistaken about that?”

“No, sir, but apparently General Cannon thought this was a pretty serious indication, because he moved very quickly. He—”

“It doesn’t matter,” the President insisted. “The Russians spotted him, and I’m sure they’re radioing the Iranians, Turkmenis, and half the spies in the Middle East to be on the lookout for the Battle Force. The gig is blown. The Russians are hopping mad, and so will the United Nations, our allies, the media, and the American people be as soon as they find out about this—”

“Which will probably be any minute now,” Kordus added, “because we know Zevitin runs and leaks his information to the European press, who can’t wait to excoriate us on the most trivial matter. On something this big, they’ll have a field day. They’ll roast us alive for the next month.”

“Just when things were starting to settle down,” the President said wearily, lighting another cigarette, “Cannon, Backman, and especially McLanahan have managed to stir it all up again.”

“The spaceplane will be on the ground before the press can run with this, Joe,” the chief of staff said, “and we’ll just refuse to confirm or deny any of the Russians’ allegations. The thing will die out soon enough.”

“It’d better,” Gardner said. “But just to be sure, Conrad, I want the spaceplanes grounded until further notice. I want all of them to stay put. No training, no so-called routine missions, nothing.” He looked around the suite and, raising his voice just enough to show his irritation and let anyone outside the suite hear, asked, “Is that clear enough for everyone? No more unauthorized missions! They stay grounded, and that’s that!” There was a chorus of muted “Yes, Mr. President” responses.

“Find out exactly when that spaceplane will be on the ground so I can notify Zevitin before someone impeaches or assassinates his ass,” the President added. “And find out from the flight docs when McLanahan can get off that space station and be brought back to Earth so I can fire his ass too.” He took a deep drag of his cigarette, stubbed it out, then reached for his empty coffee mug. “And on your way out, have that stewardess bring me something hot.”

CHAPTER SIX

It is difficult to overcome one’s passions, and impossible to satisfy them.

— MARGUERITE DE LA SABLIERE

ABOARD THE XR-A9 BLACK STALLION SPACEPLANE

THAT SAME TIME

“Two minutes to re-entry initiation, crew,” Major Jim Terranova announced. “Re-entry countdown initiated. First auto countdown hold in one minute. Report when your checklist is complete.”

“S-One, roger,” Macomber responded.

“How are you feeling, Whack?” Terranova asked.

“Thanks to copious amounts of pure oxygen, a little Transcendental Meditation, not using the eye-pointing electronic checklists, and the mind-numbing routine of still more damned checklists to perform, I feel pretty good,” Macomber responded. “Wish this thing had windows.”

“I’ll put it on the wish list, but don’t count on it anytime soon.”

“It’s a pretty spectacular sight, guys,” Frenchy Moulain said. “This is my eleventh flight in orbit and I never get tired of it.”

“It looks pretty much the same after the first orbit,” groused Chris Wohl. “I’ve been on the station three times, and it just feels like you’re standing on a really tall TV tower, looking down.”

“Only the sergeant major could minimize a sight like this,” Moulain said. “Ask to spend a couple nights on the station, Whack. Bring lots of data cards for your camera. It’s pretty cool. You’ll find yourself waking up at all times of the night and scheduling window time a day in advance just to take a picture.”

“I doubt that very much,” Macomber said dryly. He received a notification beep in his helmet. “I’m getting another data dump from the NIRTSats, guys.” NIRTSats, or Need It Right This Second Satellites, were small “microsatellites,” no bigger than a refrigerator, designed to do a specific task such as surveillance or communications relay from low-Earth orbit. Because they were smaller, carried less positioning thruster fuel, and had substantially less solar radiation shielding, the NIRTSats stayed in orbit for very short periods of time, usually less than a month. They were launched from aircraft aboard orbital boosters or inserted into orbit from the Black Stallion spaceplanes. A constellation of four to six NIRTSats had been put into an eccentric orbit designed to maximize coverage of Iran, making multiple passes over Tehran and the major military bases throughout the country since the military coup began. “Finish your checklists and let’s go over the new stuff before we get squished again.”

“I don’t think we’ll have time unless we delay re-entry for another orbit,” Terranova said. “You’ll have to review the data after we land.”

“Listen, we have time…we’ll make the time, MC,” Macomber said. “We already launched on this mission without any proper mission planning, so we need to go over this new data right away.”

“Not another argument,” Moulain said, exasperated. “Listen, S-One, just run your checklists and get ready for re-entry. You know what happened last time you weren’t paying attention to the flight: your stomach gave you a little warning.”

“I’ll be ready, SC,” Macomber said. “Ground team, finish your checklist, report when complete, and let’s get on the new data dump. S-One is complete.” Turlock and Wohl reported complete moments later, and Macomber reported that the passengers were ready for re-entry. Moulain acknowledged the call and, tired of arguing with the zoomie again right before an important phase of flight, said nothing else.

Cautiously, Macomber opened the new satellite data file using voice commands instead of the faster but vertigo-causing eye-pointing system, allowing the data to flow onto the old imagery so he could see changes to the target area. What he got was a confusing jumble of images. “What the hell…looks like the data’s corrupted,” he said over private intercom, which allowed him to talk to his Ground Force team members without disturbing the flight crew. “Nothing’s in the right place. They’ll have to resend.”

“Wait one, sir,” Wohl said. “I’m looking at the computer frameholders on the two shots, and they’re matching up.” As Macomber understood them — which meant he didn’t understand them hardly at all — the frameholders were computer-derived marks that aligned each image with known, fixed landmarks that compensated for differences in photograph angle and axis and allowed more precise comparisons between images. “Recommend you do not delete the new data yet, sir.”

“Make it quick. I’ll rattle HQ’s cage.” Macomber cursed into his helmet, then switched over to the secure satellite communications network: “Rascal to Genesis. Resend the last TacSat images. We got garbage here.”

“Stand by, Rascal.” Jeez, I really hate that call-sign, Macomber complained to himself. A few moments later: “Rascal, this is Genesis, set code Alpha Nine, repeat, Alpha Nine. Acknowledge.”

“What? Is that the abort code?” Macomber thundered.