As the digital clock in the comer of the computer monitor rolled over from 7:59:59, a change came over the Operations Center. The blue hue that had filled the room from the more than two dozen computer screens was replaced by a flood of changing colors which were reflected on the faces and clothes of everyone in the room. The mood changed too. Though no one applauded, the release of tension was palpable as the Center came alive.
Operations Support Officer Fyodor Buriba looked at Orlov from his lone console on a table tucked into the front right corner. A smile broke through the young man's neatly trimmed black beard and his dark eyes gleamed. 'We have one hundred percent go, sir,' he said.
Sergei Orlov was standing in the middle of the large, low-ceilinged room, his hands locked behind his back as his eyes ranged from screen to screen. 'Thank you, Mr. Buriba,' Orlov said, 'and well done, everyone. All stations, double-check your data before we inform Moscow that the countdown to operations has begun.'
Orlov began walking slowly from side to side, looking over the shoulders of his staff. The twenty-four computers and monitors were arranged in a semicircle on a tightly curved, nearly horseshoe-shaped tabletop. Each monitor was manned by an operator, and he relaxed a little at 8 P.M. exactly, as the blue of each screen was replaced by a strewn of data, photographs, maps, or charts. Ten of the monitors were dedicated to satellite surveillance, four were tapped into a worldwide intelligence database that included reports legal as well as 'hacked' from police departments, embassies, and government agencies, nine others were hooked to radios and cellular telephones and received reports from operatives around the world, and one was linked directly to the office of the Ministers in the Kremlin, including Dogin. This link was manned by Corporal Ivashin, who was handpicked by Colonel Rossky and reported directly to him. All but the map screens were filled with phrases in code. The words meant nothing to Orlov, to the person at the next monitor, or to anyone else in the Center. Each station had its own code so that the damage a mole might cause would be minimized. In the event that an operative was sick, a code- breaker program could be activated by both Orlov and Rossky, each of whom knew half of the two-part password.
When the screens came to life after weeks of checking and debugging, Orlov felt the same he had each time one of the huge rockets roared to life beneath him: relief that everything came on, as scheduled. Though his life wasn't at risk the way it was every time he rode a rocket, the truth was he had never contemplated life or death as he rode into space. That wasn't what exploration or being a fighter pilot or even living from day to day was about. His reputation was more important than his life, and Orlov's only thought, ever, was that he do his best and not screw up.
The front wall of the room was covered with a world map. Images from any of the screens could be superimposed on it using a projector set in the ceiling. On the side walls were shelves of diskettes and backups, top-secret data, files, and records about governments, the military, and agencies from around the world. In the center of the back wall was a door that led to the hallway and the cryptanalysis center, security room, mess, lavatory, and exit. Doors to Orlov's and Rossky's offices were on the right and left respectively.
Standing in the heart of the Center, Orlov felt as if he were commanding a ship of the future— one that went nowhere, yet had the ability to look down from the heavens or peer under rocks on the earth, one that could know nearly anything about almost anyone in a moment. Even when he was in outer space, with the earth turning slowly beneath him, he had never felt this omniscient. And because every government required accurate, timely intelligence, his funding and the operation of the Center had been unaffected by the chaos in many quarters of Russia. He almost understood how Czar Nicholas II must have felt, living in splendid isolation until the end came. It was easy to be in a place like this and feel cut off from the day-to-day problems of others, and Orlov made sure to pick up three or four different newspapers every day so as not to lose touch with reality.
Corporal Ivashin suddenly stood, faced the General, and snapped off a salute. He removed his headset and held it out. 'General, sir,' he said, 'the radio room reports a private communication for you.'
'Thank you,' Orlov said, waving away the headset. 'I'll take it in my office.' He turned and headed toward the door on the far right.
Entering his personal code on the keypad to the left of the door, Orlov entered. His assistant, Nina Terova, poked her head from behind a divider in a back comer of the room. A stately, broad shouldered woman of thirty-five, she was dressed in a tight-fitting navy-blue jacket and skirt. She had chestnut hair worn in a bun, large eyes, a handsomely arched nose, and a deep, diagonal furrow along her forehead where a bullet had creased her skull. A former officer on the St. Petersburg police force, she also carried scars on her chest and right arm, the result of having stood her ground to bring down two men during an attempted bank robbery.
'Congratulations, General,' she said.
'Thanks,' Orlov replied as he shut the door, 'but we've still got several hundred checkpoints to go—'
'I know,' Nina said. 'And when we pass those, you won't he happy until we've put a successful day behind us, and then a week, and then a year.'
'What's life without new goals?' the General asked as he sat behind his desk, a black acrylic surface on four thin, white legs made from the remains of one of the Vostok boosters that had carried him into space. The rest of the room was decorated with photographs, models, awards, and mementoes of his years in space, including a display case with his prize possession, a switch panel from the crude capsule that had carried Yuri Gagarin on the first manned flight into outer space.
He sat in a leather-upholstered bucket chair, swung it in front of the computer, and typed in his access code. The screen quickly filled with the back of Interior Minister Dogin's head.
'Minister,' Orlov said into a condenser microphone built into the lower left comer of the monitor.
It was several seconds before Dogin turned around. Orlov wasn't sure whether the Minister liked making people wait for him, or whether he didn't like to appear to be waiting for others. In either case it was a game, and Orlov didn't like it.
The Minister smiled, 'Corporal Ivashin tells me that everything went on as planned.'
'The Corporal was out of line, not to mention premature,' Orlov said. 'We haven't reviewed the data as yet.'
'I'm sure it will check out,' Dogin said. 'And don't be hard on the Corporal for his enthusiasm, General. This is a great day for the entire team.'
The entire team, Orlov rolled the phrase over in his mind. When he was working in the space program, a team was a group of dedicated people working toward a single goal: expanding human capabilities in space. There was a political agenda, but the importance of the work itself made that seem almost trivial. Orlov didn't have a team here. He had several of them, all pulling in opposite directions. There was a group working to get the Center on-line, another group sneaking information to Dogin, and even a team of paranoid in-betweeners headed by Security Director Glinka, desperate to determine which of the other teams they should be supporting. It might very well cost him his command, but Orlov promised himself that this place would work as a team.
'As it happens,' Dogin said, 'we couldn't have timed the countdown better. There's a Gulfstream jet moving through the South Pacific toward Japan. After refueling in Tokyo, the jet will fly on to Vladivostok. I'll have my assistant send the flight path through to you. I want the Center to monitor the plane's progress. The pilot has instructions to contact you after he lands in Vladivostok, which will be at approximately five o'clock in the morning, local time. When he does, let me know and I'll give you further instructions to radio to him.'
'Is this a test of our system?' Orlov asked.
'No, General. The cargo on the Gulfstream is of vital importance to this office.'
'In that case, sir,' Orlov said, 'until everything here has been thoroughly checked, why not let Air Defense handle it? Their Radio and Electronic Technical Forces would be—'
'Extraneous and obtrusive,' Dogin said. He smiled. 'I want you to follow the plane, General. I'm confident that the Center can handle it. Any and all communications from the aircraft will come to your radio room in code, of course, and any problems or delays will be reported to me directly by you or by Colonel Rossky. Do you have any questions?'
'Several, sir,' Orlov admitted, 'but I'll log the order and do as you ask.' He entered a command, which automatically recorded the date and time, and a window opened in the bottom of the screen. He typed, Minister Dogin orders monitoring of Gulfstream jet bound for Vladivostok. He reread it and hit the Save button. It beeped to show that the save had been successful.
'Thank you, General,' said Dogin. 'All your questions will be answered in time. Now, good luck with the countdown: I look forward to hearing that the jewel in our intelligence crown is fully operational in less than three hours.'
