Lightweight Agile Guided Experiment looked more like a lance than a rocket, and was nearly that simple. Millimeter-wave radar tracked the inbound, and the data was processed through an onboard microcomputer. The remarkable part of this was that all the parts had been taken off the shelf from existing high-tech weaponry.
Outside, men watched from behind a protective earthen berth. They saw the upward streak of yellow light and heard the roar of the solid rocket motor, then nothing for several seconds.
The FLAGE homed in on its target, maneuvering a few fractions of degrees with tiny attitude-control rockets. The nosecap blew off, and what unfolded would have looked to an outsider like a collapsing umbrella's framework, perhaps ten yards across
It looked just like a Fourth of July rocket, but without the noise. A few people cheered. Though both the target and the FLAGE 'warhead' were totally inert, the energy of the collision converted metal and ceramic to incandescent vapor.
'Four for four,' Gregory said. He tried not to yawn. He'd seen fireworks before.
'You're not going to get all the boosters, Major,' General Parks chided the younger man. 'We still need the midcourse systems, and the terminal-defense ones.'
'Yes, sir, but you don't need me here. It works.' For the first three tests, the target rocket had been fired from a Phantom fighter, and people in Washington had claimed that the test series had underestimated the difficulty of intercepting the inbound warheads. Using the SR-71 as the launch platform had been Parks's idea. Launching the drone from higher altitude, and with a higher initial speed, had made for a much faster reentry target. This test had actually made things slightly harder than was expected, and the FLAGE hadn't cared a bit. Parks had been a little worried about the missile-guidance software, but, as Gregory had noted, it worked.
'Al,' Parks said, 'I'm starting to think that this whole program is going to work.'
'Sure. Why not?' If those Agency pukes can get us the plans for the Russian laser
CARDINAL sat alone in a bare cell, one and a half meters wide, two and a half meters long. There was a bare light bulb overhead, a wooden cot with a bucket underneath, but not a window except the spy hole in the rusted iron door. The walls were solid concrete, and there was no sound at all. He couldn't hear the pacing of the corridor guard, nor even the rumble of traffic on the street outside the prison. They'd taken his uniform blouse, and belt, and his polished boots, replacing the last with cheap slippers. The cell was in the basement. That was all he knew, and he could tell from the damp air. It was cold.
But not so cold as his heart. The enormity of his crime came to him as it never had. Colonel Mikhail Semyonovich Filitov, three times Hero of the Soviet Union, was alone with his treason. He thought of the magnificent, broad land in which he lived, whose distant horizons and endless vistas were peopled with his fellow Russians. He'd served them all his life with pride and honor, and with his own blood, as the scars on his body proclaimed. He remembered the men with whom he'd served, so many of whom had died under his command. And how they had died, defiantly cursing the German tanks and guns as they burned alive in T-34s, retreating only when forced to, preferring to attack even when they knew it to be doomed. He remembered leading his troops in a hundred engagements, the frantic exhilaration that accompanied the roar of the diesel engines, the reeking clouds of smoke, the determination even unto the death that he had cheated so many times.
And he'd betrayed it all.
What would my men say of me now? He stared at the blank concrete wall opposite his cot.
What would Romanov say?
I think we both need a drink, my Captain, the voice chimed in. Only Romanov could be both serious and amused at the same time. Such thoughts are more easily considered with vodka or Samogan.
Do you know why? Misha asked.
You've never told us why, my Captain. And so Misha did. It took but a brief flicker of time.
Both your sons, and your wife. Tell me, Comrade Captain, for what did we die?
Misha didn't know that. Even during the shooting he hadn't known. He'd been a soldier, and when a soldier's country is invaded, the soldier fights to repel the enemy. So much the easier when the enemy is as brutal as the Germans were
We fought for the Soviet Union, Corporal.
Did we, now? I seem to remember fighting for Mother Russia, but mainly I remember fighting for you, Comrade Captain.
But-
A soldier fights for his comrades, my Captain. I fought for my family. You and our troop, they were my only family. I suppose you also fought for your family, the big one and the little one. I always envied you that, my Captain, and I was proud that you made me part of both in the way that you did.
But I killed you. I shouldn't have-
We all have our destiny, Comrade Captain. Mine was to die young at Vyasma without a wife, without children, but even so I did not die without a family.
I avenged you, Romanov. I got the Mark-IV that killed you.
I know. You avenged all the dead of your family. Why do you think we loved you? Why do you think we died for you?
You understand? Misha asked in surprise.
The workers and peasants may not, but your men will. We understand destiny now, as you cannot.
But what shall I do?
Captains do not ask such questions of corporals. Romanov laughed. You had all the answers to our questions.
Filitov's head jerked up as the latch slipped on the door of his cell.
Vatutin expected to find a broken man. The isolation of the cell, the prisoner stripped of identity and alone with his fears and his crimes, always had the proper effect. But while he looked at a tired, crippled old man, he saw the eyes and mouth change.
Thank you, Romanov.
'Good morning, Sir Basil,' Ryan said as he reached for the man's bags. 'Hello, Jack! I didn't know they were using you as a gofer.'
'Depends on who I'm going-fer, as they say. The car's over this way.' He waved. It was parked fifty yards away.
'Constance sends her love. How is the family?' Sir Basil Charleston asked.
'Fine, thanks. How's London?'
'Surely you haven't forgotten our winters already.'
'No.' Jack laughed as he wrenched open the door. 'I remember the beer, too.' A moment later both doors were closed and locked.
'They sweep the wheels every week,' Jack said. 'How bad is it?'
'How bad? That's what I came over here to find out. Something very odd is happening. You chaps had an op go wrong, didn't you?'
'I can say yes to that, but the rest'll have to come from the Judge. Sorry, but I was just cleared for part of it.'
'Recently, I'll wager.'
'Yep.' Ryan shifted up as he took the turn off the airport road.
'Then let's see if you can still put two and two together, Sir John.'
Jack smiled as he changed lanes to pass a truck. 'I was doing the intelligence estimate on the arms talks when I broke into it. Now I'm supposed to be looking at Narmonov's political vulnerability. Unless I'm wrong, that's why you've flown over.'
'And unless I'm very far off the mark, your op has triggered something very serious indeed.'
'Vaneyev?'
'Correct.'
'Jesus.' Ryan turned briefly. 'I hope you have some ideas, 'cause we sure as hell don't.' He took the car to seventy-five. Fifteen minutes later he pulled into Langley. They parked in the underground garage and took the VIP elevator to the seventh floor.
'Hello, Arthur. It's not often I have a knight chauffeur me about, even in London.' The head of SIS took a chair while Ryan summoned Moore's department chiefs.
