Flight Of The Old Dog

WASHINGTON.D.C

General Wilbur Curtis, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, stood at ramrod attention as the President of the United States entered the White House Situation Room, the emergency alternate conference center and shelter. The President was followed closely by Marshall Brent, the Secretary of State, and Kenneth Mitchell, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

Trailing behind them was a man in civilian clothes but with a short military haircut. He carried a black leather briefcase.

The President, wearing a blue and red athletic warmup suit, glared at Curtis as he sat down at the head of a large oblong table. His thick brown hair was tangled, and beads of sweat dropped from the ends and trickled down his neck. Curtis went over to the steel vault-like door and checked that it was locked.

The President unzipped the warmup suit half-way and picked up a telephone on the table in front of him.

"Jeff?."he asked. "Have some coffee and croissants brought down to the Situation Room right away. And see if you can move the morning Budget Committee meeting to this afternoon. If you can't, let me know and I'll try to shake loose… what? No, I don't know how long this will be."

He slammed the receiver down on its cradle.

The man with the briefcase set it down at a console in a far corner of the room. He put on a headset and punched a series of numbers into the keyboard. He spoke briefly, then watched the few moments later, he nodded and indicators on the console. A turned to the President.

"Full connectivity, Mr. President," the man asked. "Sir, your helicopter is fifty seconds from touchdown on the south lawn.

Air Force One is ready for immediate takeoff."

The President said nothing. The man at the communications console was in charge of the "football," a tiny transceiver and several sets of authentication and coding documents packed inside the briefcase. That briefcase was always within arm's reach of the President. In case of a surprise attack or other emergency, the President could instantly direct all of the United States' strategic forces by typing a series of coded instructions into the miniature portable transceiver. Now, in the emergency command post under the White House, the President had instant communications capability with command centers all over the world.

"All right, General," the President asked. "This seems to be your little party. Another unscheduled emergency exercise?if so, it couldn't have come at a worse time. I was in the middle of my first workout in a week, and I've got a-" "It is no exercise, sir, " Curtis asked. "Exactly fifteen minutes ago, we received confirmation that an Alpha Omega Nine surveillance satellite was lost. It―"

"A satellite?" the President asked. "That's all?"

"This particular satellite," Curtis went on, "was this nation's primary missile-launch detection vehicle for eastern Russia and the western Pacific areas, Currently, Mr. President, we have absolutely no missile launch detection capability for an estimated one-fifth of the Soviet's ground- and sea-based intercontinental ballistic missiles."

"Surely, you're exaggerating," Kenneth Mitchell asked. "We have dozens of surveillance satellites-" "But only one over eastern Russia," Curtis interrupted, specifically designed to warn us of an I.C.B.M launch from sea or land. Now we have none-at least, until we can reposition another satellite over that area. That may take some time."

Curtis turned back to the President. "Meanwhile, sir, we need to have you available to evacuate Washington in less than ten minutes.

"Why ten minutes?" the President asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"That, Mr. President, is how much warning time we have," Curtis explained. "Ten minutes from when the Soviet I.C.B.Ms cross the horizon in the midcourse phase until the warheads impact. We believe none of those missiles would be targeted on Washington, but we can't take the chance. "The President was quiet for a moment. The stillness was broken by the arrival of the President's chief of staff, Jeffrey Hampton, followed by an aide with a tray of coffee and pastries. The aide circled the table, making sure that everyone's coffee cup was filled.

"I couldn't reach all of the Committee members, Mr. President," Hampton asked. "I'll keep trying."

"Never mind, Jeff," the President asked. "We're going to wrap this up shortly."ilk General Curtis stiffened. This President, he noted, was never very serious during the few simulations they had held, testing the emergency communications and evacuation plan.

Now it was the real thing, and he was already anxious to leave.

"I have more news, sir," Curtis said, not touching his coffee. "We lost an RC- 135 reconnaissance plane near Russia sometime this morning."

The President closed his eyes and let his coffee cup clatter back onto its saucer. "How? Where…?"

"it was on a routine training mission from Japan to Eielson Air Force Base in Fairbanks," Curtis said, "when it diverted to investigate some strange signals somewhere between the submarine base at Petropavlovsk and a large research complex north on the peninsula called Kavaznya."

The President nodded. "Any survivors?"

"None so far," Curtis asked. "Search teams from Japan are just arriving on the scene. Soviet searchers have been out there, but they haven't found anything."

The President nodded. "How many "Ten men, two women."

"Damn. "The President pressed his fingers of his right hand to his temple and gently began to massage it. "What the hell happened?Why were they over there?"

"A routine radar mapping sortie-a spy mission," Mitchell the CIA director, chimed in. "They fly off the coast, trying to get the Russians to bring a threat radar up against them. They plot out the radar's location, identify it, see what it does."

"How close to the coast were they?" the President asked.

Curtis hesitated. "How close?" the President asked again.

"Its closest approach was about thirty-five miles," Curtis replied.

"When we lost contact with the plane, they were about ninety miles from the coast.

"Well, dammit," the President said, "I'd be upset if a Russian spy plane was thirty miles from Washington. "The President turned to Brent, the Secretary of State, who anticipated the President's next question.

"Technically, Mr. President, they stayed in international airspace as long as they did not overfly Soviet territory," Brent asked. "However, the Soviets guard their ADIZ-the air defense identification zone-quite zealously. The ADIZ extends one hundred and twenty miles from shore."

"How did they shoot them down?" the President asked.

Again, Curtis hesitated. "General?"

"We… we're not sure, Mr. President," Curtis replied.

The President looked at the oak-paneled walls around him as if they had begun closing in on him. "Sir, at this time we can't even confirm that the Russians did in fact down the plane."

"You're not sure "There was no way we could be sure what happened."

"Goddamnit, General," the President asked. "We've lost twelve men and women and an unarmed spy plane and you can't tell me what happened?"

"We don't have all the data in yet, sir.

"But you are accusing the Soviets of shooting down that plane?"

Marshall Brent asked. "Without evidence?"

"It had to be the Soviets," Curtis shot back. "There was no way" Well, what have you got, General?" the President asked impatiently, pouring himself and Brent more coffee. "From the beginning. And it better be good."

Curtis cleared his throat and began: "Sir, the RC-135 concentrated its patrol on a large research area north of Petropavlovsk-"

"We've received intelligence about secret weapons research activities there," Mitchell interjected. "They've built up defenses there, too.

They have an airfield and fixed surface-to-air missile batteries almost as large as at the sub pens at Petropavlovsk. But all we're certain of is a huge nuclear power plant at the facility."

"That may not be all," Curtis asked. "We received data from the RC-135 about several new long-range early-warning and surveillance radars in the area, including one of tremendous power.it was powerful enough to disrupt the data coming from the RC-135 in all bands."

"They were jamming us?" jamming," Curtis asked. "Interference. They blotted "Not out a wide frequency spectrum with that one radar."

"So what is it out there?" the President asked everyone in the room.

"Are you saying it's a new antiaircraft site? A jammer? What?"

"We have reason to believe, sir," Curtis replied, "that the Soviets have been conducting research into high-energy antisatellite and antiballistic missile lasers at Kavaznya. That radar has enough power and enough capability to find and track objects in Earth orbit. Sir, we believe they may have a laser defense system in operation there.

The President's jaw lowered. He looked quickly at Mitchell and Brent.

"Jesus, Curtis," Mitchell said, giving the General an exasperated look.

"Pure speculation. You don't have enough information to-" "Do you know what they do have out there, Mitchell?"

Curtis asked.

"Of course," the CIA chief asked. "A huge reactor, a large airfield, increased air defense sites-but not some pie-in-thesky laser defense system. We suspect they have a myriad of weapon experiments being conducted out there-nuclear warhead production, nerve gas, maybe some particle-beam and laser experiments dealing with future antisatellite and ABM devices. But an operational system'?Impossible."

"That radar is immensely powerful," Curtis asked. "They could easily have constructed a radar with far less power to guide missiles to an atmospheric target. This one can track targets, we estimate, as far as our highest orbiting satellite-as far as thirty thousand miles." "Suspect. Possibly. Estimate. "The President glanced at his watch again. "Is that it?Nothing more definite?"

"We know it is a giant research facility," Curtis said, trying to regain his lost credibility. "They have the energy source and a tracking and targeting capability. They've also spent enough money on that complex to achieve spectacular results-" "We also know," Mitchell interrupted, "that despite the massive amount of money the Soviets have spent on research, they are still at least twenty years from developing a laser sophisticated enough to deploy a credible laser-based ABM system."

"How far are we?" Brent asked, his curiosity piqued.

"At least ten years for a laser system," Curtis asked. "Turn of the century at most. But we have a working antisatellite system now-the two F-15 antisatellite groups operational at Andrews and Tacoma. Plus we have the Ice Fortress polar missile defense space station project. We can put it up next year on the Shuttle if we want to. We can upgrade it to a rail-gun or kinetic energy ASAT system by-"

"We cancelled Ice Fortress, didn't we?" the President asked absently as he sipped his coffee. He turned to Brent. "We cancelled it, right?"

"Absolutely, sir," Brent said. He turned to Curtis. "I hope the fact has merely slipped your mind, General, that launching Ice Fortress would be a flagrant violation of the first ratified arms agreement we've had with the Soviets in over twenty years.

"Ice Fortress isn't at issue here," Curtis asked. "The point is: we can't simply double the estimate of our own technology and apply it to the Soviets. This 'just because we don't have it the Russians can't have it' is nonsense. The Russians play by a whole different set of rules than we do. They don't answer to Congress, the press, the public, or the world. They don't cancel projects, close plants, lay off workers, or worry about a budget. If they want a laser defense system now, they build one. If they need more money, they buy twenty percent less meat and thirty percent less toilet paper and to hell with public opinion.

"C'mon, General," Mitchell said, "I'm on your side, but our information just doesn't support your theories. The technology involved in creating a laser-based antisatellite system that can hit even a geostationary satellite is tremendous. It is almost mind-boggling to apply that same technique to shooting down warheads a little bigger than a yard in length. The degree of accuracy required is enormous."

"And just because we can't do it," Curtis said, "the Russians certainly can't, eh, Mitch?"

"All right, all right," the President asked. "Let's stop trying to win debating points. "He ran a hand through his sweaty brown hair and tried hard to think. "All I see is two of our country's leading experts arguing and contradicting one another. You say that complex could house a Soviet antisatellite or anti-I.C.B.M laser, but then you say they don't have the technology to deploy such a system. Excuse my impertinence, gentlemen, but it sounds like paranoia to me."

"I assure you, Mr. President," Curtis said quickly, "that it's not-" "Mitch, we need more information on that facility in Siberia," the President said, turning to the CIA director. "Can you get it for us?"

"We have some possibilities, sir," Mitchell replied. "At the very least, we should be able to get a more detailed diagram of the complex.

I'll give you a complete progress report as soon as possible.

"Good. "The President glanced at his watch again. "General, I realize the importance of insuring my fast departure from Washington in case of an emergency, but I simply don't think the world situation warrants this degree of caution. I've got a heavy schedule today and I can't interrupt it.

Curtis looked at the President disbelievingly Wasn't there any way to convince him of the seriousness of the damage done to the nation's defense?

"I want details of that plane crash as soon as possible. If the Russians aren't cooperating in the search, I want to know about it." Plane crash, Curtis thought. Not downing. Not destruction.

Not murder. He's totally disregarded my suspicions.

"We have no evidence of any lack of cooperation, sir," Curtis said quietly.

"Marshall, I think it's time for you to put some feelers out to the Russians," the President asked. "Start at the U.N. See if we can get a special Security Council meeting together. We'll hit Karmarov with whatever information we can present there and see how the Russians react. Tell Greg Adams to hit'em hard accuse them of everything. See how that polite bastard Karmarov reacts. Maybe we have to jerk off these guys a little to find out what they're up to."

"I'll avoid… 'jerking' anyone off, Mr. President," Brent said, blanching at the locker room words as if they had a foul odor.

"Do what you have to," the President said. He turned to Curtis.

"Wilbur, I'm truly sorry for the loss of your people.

Unfortunately, we don't have enough information to accuse the Russians of foul play We have to treat it as an accident. There's no sign of survivors, the Russians claim they don't have the bodies or the wreckage, and there was no cockpit voice recorder or flight data recorder even if it was recovered, is that right?A tragic loss." "Analysis of the signal data from the plane and the destroyed satellite haven't been completed yet, sir," Curtis asked. "I'll report to you when that's finished."

"That's fine, General," the President asked. "Report to me directly about-" "I'd also like authorization to develop a response in case we find they do have an ASAT and ABM laser at that complex," Curtis added quickly.

"Develop a response'?"the President asked. "That sounds like militarese for an attack plan.

"This is getting quite out of hand, General," Brent asked. "I don't feel it's necessary to-, "Hold on, Marshall," the President said. He looked closely at General Curtis. "Go ahead, Wilbur. What kind of response?"

"I'm talking about what this Administration will do," Curtis said, "if it is discovered that my suspicions are correct."

The President glanced at his watch again, seeing his rest time slipping away. "What you're proposing, General-it could stir up a mess of trouble if word were to leak out. You know how close we are to signing that arms-reduction treaty."

"There will be nothing to leak, sir," Curtis asked. "I can handle it through my office only. It will consist only of collection and analysis of data on the Kavaznya site, and a compilation of possible options. There will be no military mobilization, no generation of forces, no funding."

The President stood without replying, lost in thought.

Everyone in the room jumped to their feet. The President headed for the door, and General Curtis opened it for him.

"Authorized," he said simply as he walked past the four-star general.

He stopped and glared at Curtis. "If it leaks, if it damages the negotiations in progress, you'll answer for it. You have my guarantee General Curtis caught up to Marshall Brent as they walked toward the underground garage of the White House.

"Drop you somewhere, Mr. Secretary?" Curtis asked, falling into step beside Brent.

Brent hesitated a moment, frowning at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

Then.he nodded with a resigned shrug.

"Thanks. General."he replied. "I'm heading out to Andrews to catch the diplomatic shuttle to New York. "Curtis, his aide, and Brent climbed into an Army-green Lincoln Continental and headed out into the raw Washington weather.

As the driver maneuvered onto the Beltway, Curtis signaled his aide to secure the thick glass separating the driver from his arms passengers.

"Rough week, eh, General?"

"I've had worse… and better," Curtis replied.

"Do you really believe they have this… laser of yours?"

"I may be an old stubborn pack-mule, Mr. Secretary," Curtis said, unbuttoning his jacket, "but I listen. Our intelligence sources have been saying for ten years that the Soviets are on the verge of developing the capability to track and hit satellites with lasers.

That complex at Kavaznya could easily be the culmination of all that research. I have a feeling in these old bones that some young hotshot in the Pentagon is going to come running to me in the next few days with something from that RC-135's data transmission that says the Russians have something big going on over there."

"I find it hard to believe," Brent said, "that the Russians would actually conduct such an attack. The Russians may be a lot of things, but they are not reckless."

"Reckless no. But if they thought they could get away with it, they might just take the chance," Curtis said.

"Hell, it wouldn't be the first time they fired on one of our recon planes."

"You're saying they've fired on us before."

"Hell, yes," Curtis said, laughing. "Those sons-of-bitches have brass balls sometimes. They lock onto an RC-135 with fire-control radars, like they're gonna launch a missile at it.

They shoot bullets across the aircraft's nose, fly with overlapping wingtips. They even alter their radio navigation beacons to transmit false navigational information to aircraft near their shores, hoping to get a reconnaissance plane to fly into a restricted area. That's why our boys aren't allowed to use outside navigational aids. They transmit false messages or orders on high-frequency radio all the time, or interfere with real messages, or just plain jam the frequencies."

"But what do we do about it?"

"Ignore them, mostly," Curtis asked. "As long as we follow the rules and no one gets hurt, we just let them make asses outta themselves. We lodge formal complaints, but they file counter-complaints just as fast and twice as wild as anything they've ever done. After a while, it burns itself out."

"But that Korea Air Lines flight flies near "See that?You just can't trust 'em. Sometimes they get serious. "Curtis was silent for a moment.

"But that didn't happen with our RC-135," he continued.

No matter how bad the shit hit the fan, the guys aboard her would've stayed cool. If they were under direct attack, or even believed they might soon be under attack, they would have flushed their data."

"Flushed it?"

"As they collect data on Soviet radar and other electromagnetic signals.it's coded and stored in a buffer-a computer storage space.

If there's a hint of anything going wrong airplane problems, attack, equipment problems-the buffer can be transmitted to a Defense Department satellite within seconds. They hit one button and it's gone, all of it. Most operators now have a hair trigger on that button; one engine coughs a bit and the data's gone. The buffer transmits itself periodically after a complicated error-checking routine done L between the plane and the satellite.

"If the RC-135 crew knew they were under attack, we would I've gotten the rest of their data and an attack or distress code. Even a momentary threat signal from anywhere, especially with that plane so close to shore, would've caused them to flush their data. But they didn't. They never knew what hit them.

"A sneak attack?" Brent suggested. "A fighter could have shot at them without their knowing it, couldn't it?"

Curtis nodded. "At night.a passive infrared missile attack-sure.

But it's unlikely. Those RC-135s can monitor hundreds of communications frequencies, especially Soviet Command frequencies. If the crew intercepted any air-to ground or ground-to-air radio transmissions ordering a fighter to attack, they would have flushed their data, turned tail and run. No Soviet fighter makes a move like that unless it receives an order from the Kremlin itself-unless, of course, the intruder plane actually makes an attack. The Korean Air Lines attack was preceded by two hours of communications, all of which were monitored as far away as Japan. No. Our guys never knew what killed them."

Both men were silent for a long time-Brent searching for an explanation, Curtis simply hopping mad.

"So what can we do about it?" Brent asked.

"There ain't shit we can do about it," Curtis said, sighing.

"Unless the Russians try to do something stupid, something really flagrant. If they have a new toy over there, they've had their little fun with it. But if they play with it some more, our young President may go over and kick their little butts for them.

"Something flagrant," Brent said, thinking to himself.

"That's what I like about our boy President," Curtis said, his voice growing suddenly exuberant. "He's a politician and a half, but you can rile him. Just like his ol' football quarterback days-he's all finesse, pretty moves, bobbing and weavin', until he's behind by a touchdown and a field goal. Then he starts throwin' the bomb, going' for the score."

Brent looked at Curtis and shook his head. "God help us," he said, "if he goes all the way"