"Second-stage cutoff... and there's third-stage ignition. Do you copy our position fix, NORAD?"
"That's a roger," acknowledged the general under Cheyenne Mountain. The signal from the early-warning satellite was linked into NORAD headquarters, and a watch crew of thirty was holding its breath, watching the image of the space booster move across the map projection. Dear God, don't let it be a nuke...
Ground-based radar in Australia now tracked the vehicle, showing the climbing third stage and the spent second stage falling into the Indian Ocean. Their information also was linked by satellite to Sunnyvale and Cheyenne Mountain.
"That looks like shroud release," the man in Sunnyvale said. The radar picture showed four new objects fluttering away from the third stage. Probably the protective aluminum shroud needed for atmospheric flight, but unnecessary weight for a space vehicle. People began to breathe more regularly. A reentry vehicle needed such a shroud, but a satellite did not. After five tense minutes, this was the first piece of good news. The FOBS didn't do that.
An Air Force RC-135 aircraft was already lifting off the ground at Tinker Air Force Base, Oklahoma, its engines firewalled as the flight crew raced the converted 707 airliner to altitude. The roof of what otherwise would be a passenger compartment held a large telescope/camera assembly used to inspect Soviet space vehicle,. In the back, technicians activated the sophisticated tracking systems used to lock the camera in on its distant target.
"Burnout", they announced at Sunnyvale. "The vehicle has achieved orbital velocity. Initial numbers look like an apogee of one hundred fifty-six miles and a perigee of one hundred forty-eight." They'd have to refine those numbers, but NORAD and Washington needed something right now.
"Your evaluation?" NORAD asked Sunnyvale.
"Everything is consistent with a radar-ocean-reconnaissance-satellite launch. The only change is the orbital insertion path was southerly instead of northerly." Which made perfectly good sense, as everyone knew. Any kind of rocket launched over the pole entailed dangers that no one wanted to contemplate.
Thirty minutes later they were sure. The crewmen on the RC-l35 got good pictures of the new Soviet satellite. Before it had completed its first revolution, it was classified as a RORSAT. The new radar-ocean-surveillance satellite would be a problem for the Navy, but not something to end the world. The people in Sunnyvale and Cheyenne Mountain maintained their vigil.
ICELAND
They followed a footpath around the mountain. Vigdis told them it was a favorite place for tourists to visit. A small glacier on the northern side of the mountain fed a half-dozen streams, which led in turn to a sizable valley full of small farms. They had a fine vantage point. Almost everything in sight was below them, including several roads that were kept under constant scrutiny. Edwards debated the advantages of cutting straight across the valley toward their objective or staying on the rough ground to the east.
"I wonder what kinda radio station that is," Smith said. There was a tower of some sort eight miles west of them.
Mike looked at Vigdis and got a shrug. She didn't listen to the radio.
"Not easy to tell from this far," Edwards observed. "But probably they have some Russians." He unfolded his big map. This part of the island showed lots of roads, but the information had to be taken with a grain of salt. Only two of the roads had decent surfaces. The rest were called "seasonal" on the map-meaning exactly what? Edwards wondered. Of these, some were well maintained, others were not. The map didn't say which was which. All of the Soviet troops they'd seen on the ground were driving jeep-type vehicles, not the tracked infantry-carriers they'd observed on the invasion day. A good driver in a four-by-four could go almost anywhere, however. How good were the Soviets at driving jeeps over broken ground... so many things to worry about, Edwards thought.
Edwards tracked his field glasses over the area to his west. He saw a twin-prop airliner lift off from a small airfield. You forgot about that, didn't you? The Russians are using those puddle-jumpers to ferry troops around...
"Sarge, what do you think?" Might as well get a professional decision.
Smith grimaced. The choice was between physical danger and physical exhaustion. Some choice, he thought. That's supposed to be why we have officers.
"I'd at least have some patrols down there, Lieutenant. Lots of roads, figure some checkpoints so they can keep an eye on the local folks. Let's say that radio's a navigation beacon. It'll be guarded. Regular radio station'll be guarded, too. All these farms-what kinda farms, Miss Vigdis?"
"Sheep, some milk cows, potatoes," she answered.
"So when the Russkies are off duty, there'll be some wandering around to get some fresh food instead of their canned crap. We would, too. I don't much like it, Lieutenant."
Edwards nodded agreement. "Okay, we head east. Just about out of food."
"There's always fish."
FASLANE, SCOTLAND
Chicago led the procession. A Royal Navy fleet tug had helped her away from the quay, and the American sub was heading out the channel at six knots. They were taking advantage of a "window" in Soviet satellite coverage. It would be at least six hours before another Russian reconnaissance satellite came overhead. Behind McCafferty came Boston, Pittsburgh, Providence, Key West, and Groton, at two-mile intervals.
"What's the sounding?" McCafferty asked over the intercom.
"Five hundred seventy feet."
Time. McCafferty ordered the lookouts below. The only ships in sight were aft. Boston was clearly visible, her black sail and twin diving planes gliding over the water like the angel of death. That was apt enough, he thought. The captain of USS Chicago made a final check of the control station atop the sail, then dropped down the ladder, pulling the hatch closed behind him. Another twenty-five feet and he was in the attack center, where he closed another hatch, turning the locking wheel as far as it would go.
"Straight board shut," the executive officer reported, going through the official litany that signified that the submarine was rigged for dive. Submariners evolved check fists long before aviators discovered them. McCafferty checked the status boards himself-and so, furtively, did several others of the attack center crew. Everything was as it should be.
"Dive. Make your depth two hundred feet," McCafferty ordered.
The submarine filled with the sound of rushing air and water, and the sleek black hull began her descent.
McCafferty reviewed the chart in his head. Seventy-four hours to the icepack, and turn east. Forty-three hours to Svyatana and turn south. Then came the really hard part.
STENDAL, GERMAN DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC
The Battle of Alfeld was turning into a living thing that ate men and tanks like a wolf eats rabbits. Alekseyev chafed at being two hundred kilometers distant from the tank division he now regarded as his own. He could not complain about his relief-which only made things worse. The new commander had staged a successful forced river crossing, putting another two regiments of mechanized infantry on the far bank, and now three ribbon bridges were being built across the Leine-or at least a spirited attempt was under way to build them, despite murderous artillery fire from NATO units.
"We have created a 'meeting engagement' Pasha," CINC-West said, staring down at the map.