Brown, Dale - Independent 01 (3 page)

           
The general
grunted in acknowledgment. “Let’s start lining ’em up.”

           
“SBR
reports six missiles boosting,” the sensor tech reported. “SBR is tracking...
now confirming solid radar lock on all six missiles.” SBR was the acronym for
space-based radar, two huge, football-field-sized, phased-array radar antennas
installed on the station. Because of microgravity, the normal size limitations
of a radar antenna did not apply in space; therefore, Armstrong Station’s SBR was
dozens of times larger and hundreds of times more powerful than most moveable
earth-based radars. The SBR could scan over a thousand miles in all directions
from the station, detecting any object more than two meters in size in space,
in earth’s atmosphere and on earth itself. Although SBR stood for space-based
radar, the acronym also referred to a wide range of sensors aboard the space
station used to detect and track objects in space—radar, infrared, optical,
Doppler, magnetic anomaly, radio, radiation, and laser.

           
Saint-Michael’s
four technicians worked quickly, speaking rarely and only in clipped,
unemotional, well-rehearsed phrases. They had practiced hard for this very
important test, and they knew the eyes of the world were on them.

           
“How does
our orbit look?” Saint-Michael asked.

           
“We should
be in position to intercept throughout the boost and midcourse phases,” a tech
replied. Armstrong Station was in a seven- hundred- by one-hundred-mile
elliptical polar orbit, roughly centered near the north pole. Because the
northernmost part of the orbit was farther from earth, the station spent two
and a half of its three hour orbit over the pole, allowing it to scan longer
for attacking north- launched missiles.

           
“Missiles
are above the atmosphere,” the tech at the master multisensor console reported.
“Approaching one hundred miles altitude.”

           
“Thor
missiles ready for launch,” another tech reported. The general nodded once
again. The SBM-29A Thor missiles were Armstrong Station’s antiballistic
weapons. Resembling long metal cigars, the cylindrical missiles were simple but
effective. Ten of them were loaded into a circular free-flying carrier-ejector
“garage” that was attached to Armstrong Station’s long main structural keel by
a steel tether. The missile garage was equipped with thrusters that would allow
it to point its business end toward the attacking ICBMs in response to remote
slaving commands from the space station’s sensors.

           
“All six
ICBMs are approximately two minutes from burnout,” the main sensor tech reported.
“Approaching max firing range.”

           
“Prepare to
launch missiles,” Saint-Michael ordered. “First three missiles on full
automatic intercept during ICBM boost. Fourth missile on SBR intercept mode
only in midcourse intercept. Program fifth Thor for blind-launch intercept.
Program sixth Thor missile for full manual track in midcourse phase—Chief
Jefferson will perform the intercept. Program the remaining intercept missiles
for full automatic in case any get away.” The missile tech’s fingers flew over
his controls.

           
“SLBMs
approaching optimum range.”

           
Saint-Michael
turned to the chief sensor technician, Space Command Chief Master Sergeant Jake
Jefferson. "Ready, Jake?”
Jefferson
, a finger
lightly resting on a large steering trackball on his console, nodded.

           
The general
flipped his communications earset to stationwide intercom. “Attention on the
station. Stand by for missile launch.” He sat back and laced his fingers.
“Launch commit all Thor interceptors.”

           
A single
switch was activated. “Launch commit.”

           
The SBR
tracking computer had been feeding tracking information to the Thor ejector,
pointing the ten missiles towards the six sea- launched ballistic missiles
flying at thousands of miles an hour through space. Three of the Thor
interceptor missiles had also been receiving precise guidance information from
the SBR sensors, so their onboard sensors already knew where to look for the
SLBMs. These three missiles, with super-accurate data being constantly fed to
them, waited in the ejector for their computer-directed launch command.

           
Of the
other seven Thor missiles, two were launched immediately after Saint-Michael
issued the launch commit signal. The first of these two missiles was directed
entirely by Armstrong Station’s powerful SBR and other sensors, simulating a
failure of the Thor’s on-board trackers. The second missile, simulating a
failure of all tracking data uplink signals from Armstrong Station, relied
solely on its on-board radar and infrared sensors for the intercept.

           
Despite the
technician-induced failures, however, the two Thor missiles performed
flawlessly. Each Thor missile had a two-stage liquid-fueled engine capable of
ten thousand pounds of thrust, which instantly accelerated the
four-thousand-pound missiles to fifteen thousand miles per hour in a few
seconds. Shortly after their motors fired, a one-hundred-foot-diameter steel
mesh web unfolded from the Thor missile’s body, effectively increasing the
missile’s kill radius.

           
The first
two interceptor missiles did not need the webbing to neutralize their targets.
The space station’s SBR sensors detonated the one-thousand-pound high-explosive
flak warhead on the first Thor missile a split second before the mesh hit the
ballistic missile’s upper stage, instantly shredding the SLBM’s protective warhead
shroud, destroying the sensitive inertial guidance electronics, and sending the
entire upper stage spinning off into space. The second Thor missile, directed
by the radar seeker head on the missile itself, made a direct hit on the SLBM
upper stage moments after third-stage burnout, completely destroying the
ballistic missile.

           
“Two hits
confirmed,” a tech reported aboard the space station, and a cheer went up among
the crew. Saint-Michael gripped the armrests on his commander’s chair and
allowed himself a faint smile.

           
That was
enough for
Jefferson
. He took a deep breath and hit the
launch button on his manual control console, ejecting the Thor missile that was
to be manually guided.

           
“Thor six
away,” he announced.

           
A
split-second later, Armstrong Station’s intercept computers decided that the
two lead ballistic missiles were in proper range, and the first two fully
automatic Thor missiles were ejected from the launcher garage by blasts of
supercompressed nitrogen gas.

           
“Thors one
and two away.”

           
Saint-Michael
nodded at
Jefferson
. “You’re right on so far, Jake. Show
those guys down there what a spacer can do.”

           
Taking his
cues from the SBR-directed interceptors,
Jefferson
punched the command keys that ignited his missile’s liquid-fueled engines and
unfurled the one-hundred-foot steel snare. His computer monitor showed the
sensor image of the trailing sixth sea-launched ballistic missile, and a circle
cursor represented the sensor image of the Thor missile as it sped away from
Armstrong Station.

           
Gently,
carefully,
Jefferson
pressed the enable switch on the
side of the tracking console with his right middle finger and rested his right
thumb on the trackball. As long as he depressed the enable button, any movement
of the trackball would trigger tiny vernier thrusters on his Thor missile’s
body, which would slide the interceptor missile in any direction to align it
with its target.
Jefferson
’s job was to keep the SLBM
roughly in the center of the circle cursor all the way to impact.

           
“Direct hit
on Trident number one,” a tech reported. “Thor two is ten seconds to impact.
Thor three is launched. . . .”

           
“Three out
of six hits,” Saint-Michael said. “Good, but not good enough....”

 
         
“Good proximity hit on Trident two,”
came another report. “Four out of six destroyed....”

           
“Excellent,”
the general was saying, “excellent—”

           
“Clean miss
on Trident three!” the tech suddenly shouted. “No snare, no proximity
detonation.”

           
Saint-Michael
felt a nervous tingling in his fingers that caused him to concentrate even
harder. “Auto launch commit on Thor number seven,” he snapped. But the
technician had anticipated his command and the missile was already speeding out
of its chute.

           
Jefferson
was having problems of his own as Saint-Michael leaned over his shoulder.

           
“It’s like
tryin’ to thread a needle with two baseball gloves on,”
Jefferson
muttered. He risked glancing up from his tracking monitor at the missile-status
indicators. ‘Tve used up three-quarters of the vernier thruster fuel. This is
turning into a tail chase....”

           
“Easy,
Chief
,” the general said. “You got it wired. Relax.” He was
also talking to himself.

           
“Tridents
three and six approaching MIRV separation....”

           
Saint-Michael
sat back and looked nervously at the back of
Jefferson
’s
sweaty right hand. The two remaining SLBMs were almost ready to MIRV—each of
the missile’s ten individual reentry warheads was soon going to separate from
the carrier bus. If they did, it would be almost impossible to knock down the
small warheads.

           
Jefferson
’s
thumb barely touched the trackball’s surface as he attempted to nudge the
interceptor towards the ballistic missile bus. The sensor image of the SLBM was
becoming more and more erratic.
Jefferson
’s thumb
quivered slightly as he fought for control.

           
“You got
it, Jake. Easy, easy.. ..”

           
“It’s gonna
miss,”
Jefferson
said through clenched teeth. “Launch
another interceptor, Skipper. Fast. It’s gonna—”

           
Jefferson
’s
console instruments froze. The chief master sergeant didn’t notice the frozen
readouts... he was totally absorbed in trying to merge the two sensor images
even though he no longer had control.

           
“You
got
it,” Saint-Michael said as he read
the frozen numbers. “Twenty-five-foot snare on the webbing and a snare
detonation. Good shooting, Chief.”
Jefferson
nodded
thanks and pulled his hand away from the sweat-moistened trackball.

           
“MIRV
separation on Trident three,” a tech reported. “Thor seven is. . .” He paused,
studying the computer analysis of the sensor inputs. “It looks as if Thor seven
snared all but one of the MIRVs just after MIRV separation,” he said. “I’m
tracking one single warhead. Track appears a litle wobbly, but I think it’ll
reenter the atmosphere intact.”

           
“Will it
impact in the White Sands range?” the general asked.

           
After an
excruciatingly long pause during which Saint-Michael was about to send another
Thor in a long tail-chase after the rogue warhead, the tech responded.
“Affirmative, Skipper. Well within the range, but at least five miles outside
the target cluster on the range. Clean miss.”

           
“Okay.... Well,
we didn’t kill it but we nicked it enough to send it off course. And we got
fifty-nine of sixty warheads....”

           
“Ninety-eight
point three-three percent effective,” Colonel Wayne Marks, deputy commander for
engineering, added, slapping the technicians’ shoulders in congratulations.
“Pretty good county fair shooting, I’d say.”

           
Saint-Michael
retrieved his coffee cup. “Unless you’re under that one remaining warhead,” he
said.

 
          
USS CONSTELLATION

 
          
“Very well,” Rear Admiral Bennett
Walton said. He returned the phone labeled “CIC,” combat information center, to
its cradle and looked over at the president.

           
“Sir,
Cheyenne
Mountain
reports one Mark 21C dummy
reentry vehicle impacting at the
White
Sands
Missile
Test
Range
.”

           
The
president felt his face flush with excitement. He turned and smiled at the
secretary of defense. “One warhead? Just one?”

           
“That’s it,
sir,” Walton said. “And that one warhead was diverted off course and missed its
intended impact point by eight nautical miles. If the warhead had been active,
the fireball would not have extended to the target. Communications says
Armstrong’s after-action report is being received in CIC.”

           
The
president shook hands all around, then sat back in the carrier commander’s seat
and sipped coffee.