Flight Of The Old Dog

FIGHTER WEAPONS TRAINING RANGE, NELLIS AIR FORCE BASE, LAS VEGAS, NEVADA 19 — ISO IV 19

Two days after the Bomb Comp festivities ended, LieutenantGeneral Elliott rode with General Curtis in a blue Air Force four-wheel drive truck, bouncing and skidding on dark, dusty, pitted desert roads.

Elliott was wearing short-sleeved olivedrab fatigues and a blue flight cap. Curtis was wearing a conservative gray suit and tie, even in the dry desert warmth of the early evening. The sun had set a few minutes earlier beyond the beautiful mountain ranges of the high Nevada desert.

"It's incredible," Elliott said, closing the top secret file he held in his hand. "Absolutely incredible."

"And those are the things we're sure of," Curtis said.

"Those are the things that'll be presented in the United Nations. I believe-and I'm alone on this so far-that the Russians have an extremely advanced, fully operational laser defense system in place, right now. As a matter of fact, I believe it's been operational for months, ever since the Iceland summit."

"This is amazing. The Russians are further ahead of us in beam defense than anyone ever imagined. So what do we do?

Go to the United Nations?Ask them to shut the thing down?"

"That's one option we're pursuing," Curtis replied, loosening his tie against the lingering heat. "But I've been authorized to explore two other possible responses. "He paused. "Ice Fortress is one of them."

Elliott looked surprised, but nodded thoughtfully."seat SWI certainly will get people's attention," he asked. "But it's a sitting duck, if that laser is as capable as you say it is."

"They wouldn't dare shoot down a manned space platform," Curtis declared.

Elliott shook his head. "Tell that to the widows and widowers of that downed RC-135, sir."

Curtis glared at Elliott, but said, "Ice Fortress is different."

"You bet, sir," Elliott replied. "It's worse. "They rode on in silence. Elliott added: "Besides, wasn't Ice Fortress cancelled?I know the Vandenburg control center is closed."

"It was cancelled," Curtis said, "but not because it wasn't feasible.

We had to cancel it because of that damned treaty we signed. It's frustrating. The Russians can shoot down one of our RC- 135s, but we can't violate a treaty. We come out losers both ways. "His angry voice seemed loud enough to be heard by the sentries at the guard shack a hundred yards ahead of them.

"I haven't heard anything about the incident," Elliott remarked.

"Everything seems very quiet."

"The situation politically has stabilized somewhat," Curtis asked. "The White House is hoping this whole thing will just fade away. I'm sure the President will be more than happy to let the matter fizzle out, take the Russians' excuses and minimal reparations. The President is really counting on Secretary of State Brent to defuse the whole affair."

"But the Russians aren't offering excuses or reparations, are they?"

Elliott asked, stretching his aching muscles.

"Hell, why should they?" Curtis asked. "They're holding all the damn cards. We, the military, whine and bitch that the Russians are shooting down our spy satellites. Half the White House doesn't believe us-and the other half doesn't want to believe us. "He paused for a moment, then added, "I'm sorry about the RC- 135 crew, Brad. I know you worked with them in the past. I'm sorry those crewmembers died.

"I'm sorry, too, Curtis," Elliott asked. "Those men and women were doing their job, their duty, something they trained hard to perfect.

Their murder was senseless-premeditated, cruel, and senseless."

Elliott shook his head and tried not to think of the friends he had lost. "So," he said finally, "Ice Fortress is one option. And you're out here to see what else we have up our sleeves."

"Putting you in charge out here was the best move the Defense Department ever made, Brad," Curtis asked. "What we needed was a guy who never said it can't be done. A guy happy to lock horns with Congress or anyone else who stood in the way of developing new ideas.

Now, I need you to find some for me. I want-" "To take out this… this site," Elliott said quickly, glancing sideways at the driver.

"Attack it."

Curtis was somewhat taken aback. "No one said anything about 'taking out' anything, especially in goddamned Russia."

He smiled. "Jesus, Brad, you're a sonofabitch."

General Elliott smiled back at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, then leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.

"We'll walk from here, Hal. Meet us back at the guard shack in an hour.

The truck ground to a halt, and the driver, a young second lieutenant wearing fatigues and carrying a small Uzi submachine gun, trotted around to General Curtis' door and held it open for him. Both men stepped out.

"You won't get lost from here, will you, General?" the lieutenant asked Elliott in a low enough voice to keep Curtis from hearing.

"Straight down the road, about four hundred "This is my desert, Hal," Elliott growled. With a smile he said, "Get out of here. Make sure they have fresh coffee at the guard shack, and don't drink it all." The young officer saluted, trotted back to the driver's seat, and drove off.

"This, sir, is Dreamland," Elliott said, beaming. He spread his hands out across the desert as he spoke. "Ideas become reality here.

Theories become machines. Men like you don't come here just to visit-you come here to get answers."

Elliott's mind was racing-it was exhilarating for Curtis just to watch.

"Kavaznya. Heavily defended, I'd say, according to your intel.

"That would be an understatement," General Curtis replied.

"They converted their small supply airfield into a full-scale year-round base.

"Rule out a carrier task force, then," Elliott said, nodding.

"They'd be blown out of the water thirteen hundred miles north of Japan. The Russians would see a flight of F-15s and their tankers long before they reached Kavaznya, and you might need two squadrons to beat past the defense and take that complex out. "He looked at Curtis.

"Bombers. Heavy bombers. B-1s, perhaps?"

"What else would I get from an old SAC warhorse?" Curtis said, smiling.

Elliott went on: "We don't want the Russians to think we just declared war on them. One bomber, launch three, but pick the best for the attack. One lone penetrator, even against heavy defenses, has a chance. Especially a B- L" "My thoughts exactly."

It was Elliott's turn to smile. "You didn't come here to shop, did you, sir?You came to buy. Cash and carry. Price is no object. All that stuff."

"I wanted to see your little playland here, too," Curtis said, "but I knew you'd have what I'm looking for."

"I don't have a B-1 here," Elliott said as they approached the guard shack. "But I've got something… you won't believe.

"I knew you'd put on a show for me," Curtis asked. "But where the hell are we?"

"We're in Nevada, sir," Elliott said, scanning the horizon with the corners of his eyes. It was an old Navy seadog trick taught to him by his father: the corners of the eyes can detect motion easier than the center, because of the lesser concentration of light receptors at the edges."in the middle of nowhere.

That's the Groom Mountain range over there," Elliott said, pointing to the twilight-streaked horizon. "You can just barely see Bald Mountain over there. Papoose Range is over there to the south. We are on the northwest corner of Groom Lake."

"Lake?" Curtis said, kicking up a cloud of hard-packed sand and dust.

"Dry lake," Elliott explained. "Properly tested and reinforced. It makes a natural and easily concealed three-mile-long runway. "Elliott scanned the horizon, breathing in the fresh, clean, slightly chilling air. "Dreamland. They walked for a while longer. Suddenly, two streaks of light could be seen several miles in the distance, diving and turning over the nap of the rugged mountains. A moment later, two ear-shattering sonic booms rolled across the desert floor and echoed up and down the valley.

"What the hell was that?" Curtis asked.

"Red Flag," Elliott said with a smile. "Probably a couple of FB-111s on a night terrain-following sortie out there on range 74.Going max afterburners and supersonic at two hundred feet."

"But that was so close," Curtis asked. "What about-" "Relax, relax," Elliott asked. "They were at least fifteen miles away. Besides, those bomber pukes know better than to come any closer to Dreamland. The airspace from ground level to eighty thousand feet is absolutely prohibited from overflight-civilian, military, anybody. It's an instant aircrew violation and a security debriefing they'd not soon forget-I'd guarantee that.

Finally, after a few minutes of searching, Elliott spotted the low, dimly lit guardhouse and steered Curtis and himself toward it. "I come out here once a week," Elliott said, "and I still have trouble finding the damn guard shack."

"I don't think your sky-cops would let us wander around out here for too long," Curtis observed.

"True," Elliott asked. "They'd send a German shepherd to fetch us back."

A few moments later, they all ived at a small concrete block building.

The shack had one large bullet-proof double-paned glass window in front, one door, and numerous gunports around it on the other walls. A twelve-foot-tall fence stretched on either side of the building, and the fence was topped with large, silvery coils of sharp barbed wire.

Three fully rigged Air Force security guards emerged from the building and quickly and quietly surrounded Elliott and Curtis. All three were armed with M-16 rifles, one with a mean-looking M-203 grenade launcher attached to the underside of his rifle barrel. A German shepherd dog was led out and began sniffing around the two visitors. The dog took one sniff of Wilbur Curtis and sat down directly in front of him, no more than six inches from the tips of his shoes.

" Don't move, sir, " the dog handler asked. "Is your identification in your breast pocket?" Curtis nodded, once, very slowly.

The guard removed Curtis' wallet while another guard quickly pat-searched him.

"Should I raise my hands?" Curtis asked.

"He means 'don't move, sir," Elliott said, as his ID was examined.

"Bambi there weighs over a hundred and fifty pounds and could probably drag you up a vertical ladder."

"Bambi?" Curtis felt his body stiffen as he looked at the dog.

" I didn't know you were carrying a weapon," Elliott said to Curtis as the guard pulled a nine-millimeter automatic from a shoulder holster.

Curtis grunted, afraid to move his lips any further. The dog was led reluctantly to Elliott for a quick search, and then taken away.

As the two generals drank steaming cups of coffee just outside the guard shack waiting for their ID verification, Curtis surveyed what little visible landscape there was inside the compound. Inside the tall fence, the area was completely dark leading to a row of three hangars. No lights at all were visible anywhere. The large hangars were flanked by several smaller ones. A wide ramp emerged from the opposite side of each hangar, and stretched out over the horizon.

"Why no lights inside the compound, Brad?" Curtis asked after their IDs were rechecked and they were cleared inside the fence.

"Oh, they have lights on, sir," Elliott asked. "All infrared.

To the guards with their sensors and sniperscopes, it's just as clear as day. The darkness also helps the Dobermans."

Curtis gulped. "Dobermans?"

" Yes, unattended guard dogs. They're more effective if they're allowed to prowl, and they're very shy of lights. They all have laryngectomies, too, poor devils. If they spot you, they won't even give you the courtesy of a warning bark before they go for your throat.

" Curtis looked around nervously.

"They're not around now," Elliott asked. "At least, I hope they've recalled them. We'd never know what hit us if they haven't.

They reached the back entrance to the hangar after another hundred-yard walk. "One at a time," Elliott said. They heard a buzzing sound, and Elliott grabbed the doorhandle, pulled the large metallic door open, and stepped inside. A few moments later, Curtis heard the same buzzer and did the same.

Curtis was standing in a long corridor. The walls of the corridor were clear, thick plastic on all sides, even the floor, and Elliott was just stepping out of the second half of the unusual walkway. More security guards studied Curtis carefully as he walked down the corridor and stopped at a plastic door.

He was aware of a large cannon-like device tracking him as he walked along, humming like a dentist's X-ray machine. The remote-controlled lock buzzed, and he stepped into the second half of the plastic hallway Another door later, he joined up with General Elliott.

"Well, that's new even to me. "Elliott asked. "An X-ray chamber.

Must've put it in just in the past few days. It checks for implants.

That X-ray device, I'm told, can find microdot transmitters embedded in your teeth, fingernails-even your intestines.

"Hmm. I'm not sure how much good it will do," General Curtis asked. "I bet the Russians have Dreamland scoped out from six different angles.

A jackrabbit probably can't screw in this desert without some Soviet spy satellite watching him.

"Well," Elliott replied, "they might know about all the activity going on around here, and all the security, and maybe even have snapshots of you and me taking a stroll. But, at least for now, they don't know anything about… this!"

They emerged from the security chief's office into the main hangar area. Curtis let out a gasp.and even Elliott, who had seen this plane in nearly every step of its metamorphosis, felt a thrill of pride and anticipation as he studied the immense form before them.

"General Curtis," Elliott said, "meet the Old Dog."

The huge B-52 was completely black, a strange, eerie jetblack that seemed to absorb light, totally negating the effect of the hundred maintenance floodlights surrounding it. The surface was absolutely clean and as smooth as a bowling ball.

It was as if the B-52, the veteran of over thirty years of service, was in some sort of futuristic, comical costume.

"What the hell Curtis said.

"Don't recognize it, huh?" Elliott laughed. "Officially, the B-52 I-model, although it's only a B-52 H-model with a bunch of modifications. It is without a doubt one of a kind. We use it as a test bed for Stealth-type technology, air-to-air weaponry, weapons mating tests, computer hardware, everything. But she's in top flyin' condition-she can fly right now if you want. The workers have renamed her from Stratofortress to Megafortress, and you'll see why. Let me show you around."

Curtis followed Elliott around to the most prominent exterior change on the bomber-a long, needle-sharp nose and sharply angled cockpit windows.

" An SST-style nose, Brad?" Curtis asked. "Isn't this going a little too far?"

"We checked out every aspect of this plane's performance," Elliott asked. "You'd be surprised how much a long, pointed nose, pointed tip fuel tanks, more streamlined cockpit windows, smoothed and polished skin, and no external TV or infrared cameras help to increase this plane's top speed. The limiting Mach on this plane before modification was point eight-four Mach; now, the limiting Mach speed of this baby is point nine-six without the externals. And it's just as comfortable at low altitude as it is in the stratosphere."

Curtis ran his hand over the skin. "What kind of metal is this?" he asked. "Fiberglass?It's not aluminum. What is it?"

"Radar-absorbing fibersteel," Elliott asked. "A composition of fiberglass and carbon steel, stronger than aluminum but as radar-transparent as plastic.

"We can't make it invisible, of course," Elliott asked. "It's all a matter of time. If we can get thirty or forty miles closer to the target without being detected, all the expense and trouble is worth it.

If an enemy fighter has to come in another ten or twenty miles before he can get a solid missile lock-on, it just improves our chances of getting him first and surviving. At night, the special black antisearchlight paint is worth its weight in gold. This plane will be virtually invisible to the naked eye at night. A fighter can be flying side-by-side with the Megafortress and he'll never see it. "Elliott smiled as they walked around the smooth, pointed nose. "Besides, the black paint and the nose make it look mean as hell."

As they approached the huge bomber, Curtis stopped short.

"You can't… Elliott, you really did it this time, dammit., Curtis was staring at a long pylon on each wing, mounted between the fuselage and the inboard engine nacelles.

Each pylon carried six long, sleek missiles.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" Elliott asked. "Advanced MediumRange Air-to-Air Missiles. Radar guided, with terminal infrared and home-on-jam guidance. Twenty-five mile range.

High-explosive proximity flak warheads. We've modified the main attack radar to act as a guidance radar for these Scorpions."

"Scorpions," Curtis muttered. "Dammit, Elliott. We don't even have Scorpions on our front-line fighters yet."

"But I've put them on an SAC bomber, sir," Elliott said.

"And they'll go on your B-1s, too.

"Also on each wing we've put two thousand-gallon external fuel tanks instead of the one normal fifteen-hundred gallon tank. Both the missile pylons and all four external tanks are jettisonable.

" We also have split fibersteel bomb bay doors, which are lighter and more radar-transparent. You'll see why they're split in a moment.

There are many places in this beast that radar energy will just pass through with zero reflectivity. The radar cross-section of the B-52 used to double with the bomb doors open-but not anymore. By applying the same technology to a B-1, which already has half the radar cross-section of a B-52.

you can make it practically invisible."

They reached the strange, unrecognizable tail of the airplane. "We eliminated the typical horizontal and vertical stabilizers and replaced them with a short, curved V-tail assembly. We built all of the tail-warning receivers and aft jammer antennas into the tail. We've also included an infrared search and warning system that is designed to detect air-to-air missile launches from the rear."

"You took the tail guns MP" Curtis said, pointing up at the very end of the plane. "No big Gatling multibarrel gun, like on the H-models?"

"Tail guns are antiquated," Elliott asked. "Even a radar guided Gatling gun is not effective enough against the current class of Soviet fighters we're expecting. Hell, some Soviet interceptors can actually outrun a fifty-caliber shell."

Curtis checked the tail end closer. "Well, you've got something up there. A larger fire-control radar, that's for sure.

What else?A flame thrower or something?"

"Land mines, " Elliott explained. "Actually, air mines. That enclosed cannon in the back fires twelve-inch-long flak canister rockets. The aft fire-control radar on the Megafortress tracks both the rocket and the enemy fighter, and it transmits steering signals to the rockets.

When the range between the fighter and the flak rocket is down to about two hundred yards or so, the fire-control computer detonates the rocket. The explosion s a pattern of metal chips out a couple hundred yards, send which acts like thousands of fifty-caliber bullets being fired all at once. There doesn't have to be a direct hit on the fighter.

"The fire-control radar has an increased detection range of about thirty miles," Elliott continued, as Curtis shook his head. "The rockets have a range of nearly three miles, which is very close to optimum infrared missile firing range."

' "Elliott," Curtis asked. "This is too much. Way too much. I don't believe you-" "General," Elliott interrupted, "you haven't seen nothin' yet. "Elliott waved to a nearby guard standing near the left wing-tip.

The guard spoke briefly into a walkie-talkie, received a reply, then waved to the general in response. Crouching below the ebony belly of the plane, Curtis and Elliott went inside the back half of the bomb bay. Once inside, Curtis stopped short.

"What the Mounted on a large drum-like rotary launcher in the aft portion of the sixty-foot-long bomb bay were fourteen long, sleek missiles.

"Our ace-in-the-hole, sir," Elliott asked. "Ten more brandnew AIM-120

Scorpion AMRAAM missiles. They can be guided by the fire-control radar, the bombing radar, or they can home-in on an enemy fighter's radar or on the fighter jamming transmissions. We have them facing aft, but they can attack any threat at any angle. If one of those radars has found a fighter, or if the threat-warning receivers can see it, a missile can hit it. The rotary launcher can pump out a missile once every two seconds."

" Unbelievable," Curtis asked. "Well, I suppose I should say it's about time, eh, Brad?Nuclear bombers with little machine guns going against Mach one fighters seemed awfully silly to me. "He examined the launcher. "I can't wait for you to tell me what the other rockets do."

"Ah, yes. Glad you reminded me," Elliott asked. "Four AGM-88B HARM missiles. HARM stands for High-speed Anti-Radiation Missile. They were the stars over Libya in 1985.The missiles home-in on either the radars themselves or, if the radars are turned off, they'll fly the last computed path to the target.

"Twenty-two air-to-air missiles, four air-to-ground missiles, and a total of fifty air mine rockets, all for bomber selfdefense," Elliott said, summing up. "Together with the usual chaff and flares and specialized electronic countermeasure packages installed on board, we think we've greatly increased the chances of this Megafortress reaching the target. Like I said, sir-a flying battleship."

"Armed to the teeth, all right," Curtis said. He closely examined the long, slender missiles on their launcher and looked forward. "What's this?"

"The only space left for offensive weaponry," Elliott explained. "In using the Megafortress as a test-bed we've concentrated mostly on defensive armament for strategic bombers. But she can still carry fifteen thousands pounds of ordnance-nukes, iron bombs, missiles, mines, anything. Or we can put extra fuel, additional defensive missiles, decoys, even personnel up there. How about side gunners, like a B-17 in World War Two?We've already done that with the Old Dog.

"We've been running tests with the new AGM-130 Striker TV/infrared guided glide bomb, the biggest non-nuclear bomb in the inventory. The damn thing weighs a ton and a half but can glide twelve miles when released at low altitudes."

"I don't believe it," Curtis asked. "This thing is amazing."

The two men exited the bomb bay, and several security officers closed the four clamshell bomb bay doors. Elliott then led Curtis to the entrance hatch on the bomber's belly and both men climbed inside.

"Hard to believe," Curtis commented, "that a huge plane like this has so little room inside."

"Believe me, this is spacious now compared to a line B-52," Elliott asked. "A lot of things have been taken out, miniaturized, or moved to the fuselage area. There's almost room on the lower deck here for a couple airliner seats-in a line Buff, you can't stand side-by-side down here. We've taken out as much extraneous stuff as possible to lighten the plane."

They sat in the navigators' seats downstairs.

"Where's all the navigation and bombing stuff down here?"

Curtis asked, examining the blank panels before him. The entire compartment was almost devoid of equipment. There was the radar navigator's ten-inch radar scope and associated controls on the left side, plus a small video monitor beside it with a small typewriter keyboard. Between the left and right sides were three small control panels. The navigator's side had a few flight instruments, but nothing else. All the rest of the equipment slots were covered with blank plastic panels.

"The world's biggest video game," Elliott said with a smile.

"Simple, straightforward navigation. The Megafortress uses the Satellite Global Positioning System for navigation, along with a ring-laser gyro inertial navigation set. The INS is updated by the satellite, so the radar scope isn't needed for navigation-we've modified it more for threat detection than for navigation.

"The radar nav uses a plug-in cartridge with all the navigation points and computer subroutines in it. The gyro takes three minutes to spin-up to full alignment, and it's accurate to a quarter of a degree per hour just by itself. The satellite system automatically locks onto two of the eight Air Force navigation satellites orbiting the Earth and fixes its position once every five minutes, and it's accurate to a few feet every time. The radar nav also has a combination computer and TV monitor and a keyboard for reprogramming the computer.

Elliott pointed to the ten-inch attack radar scope. "The Old Dog now has a Hughes APG -75 attack radar from the Navy F/A-18 Hornet fighter, which can feed targeting and tracking information to any of the Scorpion missiles. The radar can also serv e as a navigation radar, if necessary, and it can be used as a terrain-avoidance mapping display "There's more, sir," Elliott asked. "Let's go upstairs."

The two men climbed another ladder to the upper deck.

"Pilots won't be happy about this," Elliott commented, "but we didn't do much in the pilot's compartment. Their job hasn't changed much.

This Megafortress has the capability of automatically monitoring its fuel system and electrical panel, so it frees the co-pilot to help out.

"One major addition is the automatic terrain avoidance system," Elliott explained. "It's an adaptation of the cruise missile's terrain comparison system. We needed a system that could help the Old Dog fly as close to the earth as possible, but without using radar transmissions that would give away the plane's location.

"The satellite navigation system and inertial nav system sends present position, heading, and groundspeed information to a computer, which already has all significant terrain and man-made obstacles for the proposed flight planned region programmed into it. The system finds where it is and figures out what altitude is safe for the proposed flight path. It then sends instructions to the autopilot to fly a set altitude over the terrain. Radar is only used intermittently as a back-up to the syst.e.m. so electronic emissions that could expose the plane's position are almost eliminated."

They half-walked, half-crawled aft of the cockpit to the defensive crew compartment. "Not many changes at the electronic warfare officer's station, either," Elliott asked. "His equipment is more specialized and a bit more automatic. The gunner's station is quite different. He has an eight-inch firecontrol radar, the controls and indicators for the defensive missile launcher, and the controls for the air mine cannons and forward-firing missiles.

He'll be one busy man back here."

"All off-the-shelf, General?" Curtis asked, finding his tongue.

"If it wasn't, sir, you'd know about it. You didn't."

Elliott led Curtis back down the entrance way ladder. A pair of security guards climbed inside and did a quick inspection of the bomber interior while Curtis and Elliott were watched.

After the guards reemerged, the two men were free to leave.

Elliott escorted Curtis toward the exit.

"You realize, Brad," Curtis said as they headed for the security gate, "that this whole trip was just a friendly visit. I wasn't asking about any special project or piece of equipment.

Just a friendly visit, that's all."

"Perfectly clear, General," Elliott said.

"Good. Now that we understand each other, I want to know-" "My test bed B-1B arrives in three weeks," Elliott interrupted him. "It's been on the books for months, far earlier than your meeting with the President. No connection could ever be made.

Curtis smiled. Then: "Only one B-1T' Elliott thought for a moment.

"I'm having lunch with the commander of the test and evaluation unit at Edwards in a few days. Colonel Jim Anderson, a real fireball but a great stick. I wanted to invite him in on some of the new Old Dog weapons tests I'm conducting. I think he can supply us with a B-1

A-model the contractors aren't using. We won't be able to bring it here to Dreamland without raising some curiosity, but I think he can arrange to have it….. at our immediate disposal. We can get it here when….. the time comes."

Curtis shook his head in disbelief. "And I thought I had influence."

He smiled — "If I didn't know better, Brad, I'd say you knew what I was thinking all along."

"After Andy Wyatt got hold of me, sir," Elliott said, "I didn't spend time shining my latrines up for your visit. "He thought for a moment, then said, "it just so happens that those Old Dog tests will coincide perfectly with the refit of those B-1s. Most of the equipment you've seen here tonight can be put in those B-1s in no time at all."

"All right, all right, Brad.

This is starting to get spooky," Curtis asked. "Remember, I never asked you for anything, you never saw those intelligence notes, and "I understand completely, General. "He looked sideways at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and said, "Two months.

Curtis shook his head in disbelief. "You mean-?"

"The tests will be completed in two months, sir," Elliott asked. "For… whatever reason.

"I may need a plane sooner… for whatever," Curtis said.

Elliott thought for a moment-but only a moment.

"Then I'll send the Old Dog."

Curtis started to laugh but choked back the urge when he saw that Elliott was serious.

"You're crazy, Elliott Curtis asked. "A thirty-year-old B-52?You've been wandering around this desert for too long.

Elliott smiled. "Just a thought, General," he asked. "Just a thought Dowwowlv MANHAnAN Andrina Asserni, confidential secretary and aide to Ambassador Dmitri Karmarov, Soviet Ambassador to the United Nations, could scarcely believe it when she was informed by security that Secretary of State Marshall Brent was waiting in the outer reception area of the Ambassador's private residence.

"Show him in immediately," she told the guard. And a minute later he appeared.

"Secretary Brent…

"Zdrastwayti. Good evening, Miss Asserni," Marshall Brent said in fluent Russian. Asserni's eyes twinkled. How strange and wonderful her language sounded, coming from such a tall, distinguished American.

"May I speak with the Ambassador, please?"

Asserni stammered. "Why, uh, yes… of course. My apologies, Mr. Secretary. Please, please come in. "She stood in awe as Brent strode into the outer apartment. She had never seen the American Secretary travel like this, alone.

"My sincerest apologies, Mr. Secretary," Asserni asked. "I had no idea you would call on us — " "This is a very informal and impromptu visit, Miss Asserni, I assure-" At that instant, Ambassador Karmarov entered the outer apartment. He wore a simple blue robe in place of a coat, and carrying a can of beer, looked exactly the opposite of his stiff, official persona. "Comrade Asserni, get me the file on-" "Comrade Ambassador!"

Karmarov looked up from his papers and took a step back.

"Marshall… Brent… I mean, Mr. Secretary."

"I hope I am not intruding, Ambassador Karrnarov "No… no, of course not. "He turned to Asserni and handed her the documents he was carrying. "Take the Secretary's coat, Asserni, what possesses you?

Why wasn't I notified?" Brent removed his long dark coat with slippery ease, and Asserni took it in her arms like a newborn baby.

"This is an unexpected surprise "Ochin zhal. I do apologize for any inconvenience this visit has caused, Ambassador," Brent asked. "But I was hoping to speak with you on an urgent matter.

"Of… of course. "Karmarov motioned to his inner apartment. "Do come in. "He turned to Asserni. "Bring coffee and brandy immediately.

And I will strangle anyone who interrupts us. Is that understood?"

Asserni was too astonished to reply. As she hurried off to the kitchen, Karmarov followed the tall, lean, impeccably dressed American into his inner apartment and closed the door behind him.

The Russian ambassador's apartment resembled a large study, with walls covered mostly with floor-to-ceiling shelves of books of all kinds The most imposing item in the room was Karmarov's massive desk, a huge, ornately carved antique, well over half the width of the apartment itself. Brent ran a hand over plush leather chairs, noticing that the coffee table in the center of the apartment was genuine Chippendale.

"A most exquisite room, Ambassador Karmarov," Brent said without turning around. Karmarov wrung his hands with impatience as he waved Asserni into the apartment. She set the tray with a silver urn, a long fluted decanter of brandy, china cups, and large snifters onto the Chippendale table and hurried out.

"Balshoye spasibe. Thank you," Karmarov said.

"Mr. Secretary, we may speak English if you prefer. You need not-" "I am in Russia now, Mr. Ambassador," Brent said, continuing in urban Muscovite Russian. "It would be a presumption to speak anything but your native tongue."

Brent turned, his hands folded behind his back. The two men observed each other for a moment. Karmarov saw a tall, elegant frame; a silver-maned head; a firm chin thrust defiantly up and outward; a thin silver mustache perfectly symmetrical.

The suit was conservative, tailored to razor-sharp perfection, the shoes were polished to a gleaming shine despite the harsh Manhattan streets.

Brent saw a shorter but powerful man, with a full head of gray hair atop broad shoulders. The years of plush living in the most fashionable section of New York had begun to tell on the Ambassador's waistline and chin, but Karmarov's eyes were still as fiery and bright as in his revolutionary youth.

Karmarov finally motioned Brent forward. "Pazhaloosta saditis. Please sit down, Mr. Secretary."

Brent took the wide-armed leather chair offered him by the Russian and lightly seated himself. He kept his knees, legs and back perfectly straight as Karmarov joined him. Karmarov reached for the coffee urn but, correctly interpreting a sly grin in Brent's eyes, his hand slipped over to the decanter. He poured a generous amount of brandy for both of them and offered one to the American Secretary of State.

"To your health, Mr. Secretary," Karmarov said in English.

Brent raised his glass. "Za vasha zdarovye!And to you and yours, Ambassador," Brent replied.

They let the strong spirits flood their insides, then Brent set his glass down on the table.

Karmarov spoke first. "I am totally embarrassed, Mr. Secretary," he asked. "I had no idea "It is I who should apologize, sir," Brent said.

"This may seem most inappropriate, but I simply felt that I must speak with you immediately."

"By all means," Karmarov said. He took a bigger sip of brandy.

"It concerns the fears some in my government have of the research being done at the Kavaznya complex," Brent began.

"They feel-" "Please. Mr. Secretary," Karmarov said, his eyes serious.

"I am not permitted to discuss Kavaznya. It is more than a classified facility, sir. It is a forbidden subject."

"Then permit me to speak," Brent asked. "Consider this a message from my government to yours-you need not reply."

Brent interlaced his fingers and let his arms rest on the chair's wide armrests. "The Pentagon is convinced on what I feel is sketchy " information, that your government is responsible for the destruction of an American reconnaissance satellite and an American RC-135 aircraft."

Kannarov said immediately, "My government has already categorically denied any involvement-" '.Yes, Ambassador. I know," Brent interrupted. He picked up his brandy snifter, passed his nose over it, letting the palm of his left hand warm the liqueur. He settled back into his chair.

"Allow me to be frank with you, Ambassador," Brent said.

Karmarov's eyes widened. "I am not a friend of my country's military hierarchy. I believe it was Montesquieu who once said 'if our world should ever be ruined, it will be by the warriors.

"He referred to Europe, I believe," Karmarov said, his eyes narrowing.

Brent nodded.

"It applies to affairs between our nations as well," Brent continued.

"Ambassador, we are on the threshold of an historic arms-control agreement. In the two years since those negotiations have been conducted, both sides have mainaged to keep the uniformed military out of the negotiations. We have dealt on a level never before attempted-instead of throwing our bloody swords on the table and staring into each other's faces to see who will blink first, like some medieval combat, we have sat down like men and talked true disarmament.

"Ambassador, in our lifetime we can see nuclear weapons eliminated.

Not just a phony controlled escalation, not even a numerical reduction.

No, I talk of true disarmament."

Brent swirled the brandy in his glass and stared into it. "But there are those who see disarmament as a weakness. They seek to disrupt our efforts at every turn. It is the actions of these 'disrupters' that I wish to warn your government about, Ambassador.

"What… actions, Mr. Secretary?" Karmarov asked.

"As I said, there are many in my government who are convinced of your culpability in the loss of our aircraft," Brent asked. "They have conjured up a magical laser device, straight out of one of our Hollywood films, and planted it on UstKamchatkskiy, at your research center at Kavaznya. Evidence or.not, they have all but convinced the President that this laser exists and that it threatens the security of the United States."

Karmarov could not keep his eyes focused on Brent's.

Brent's fingers curled a bit tighter around the brandy snifter as he noticed Karmarov's uneasiness.

Dammit, Brent thought. Could it be true?Is it possible…?

"You must convince them. Mr. Secretary," Karmarov said quickly, forcing his eyes back toward Brent's. "I plead with you, my government is deeply and firmly committed to lasting peace and the total elimination of all nuclear weapons from the face of the globe. Nothing must interfere."

"I have come to offer you my guarantee," Brent continued, "that I will make every effort to achieve a workable arms greement. But I must tell you what is afoot. There is talk of matching the so-called killer laser with a construct of our own.

I'm not at liberty to give details, but-" "Ice Fortress."' Karmarov said suddenly. "The armed space platform!That's what your military means to deploy, isn't it?"

Brent sighed. "Again, I'm not at liberty to discuss-" "But that's it, isn't it?" Karrnarov's face was flushed with anger. "Marshall, you know that deployment of Ice Fortress is a clear violation of the 1972

Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty. It is a violation of the 1982 Space DeMilitarization Agreement. It flies in the face of our entire arms elimination negotiations. It is madness.

"Key elements in our military are convinced of the existence of a killer laser," Brent asked. "That is also a violation "Such a device-should it ever exist in our lifetime-is not a violation of the ABM Treaty," Karmarov interrupted. "The Treaty clearly never mentioned such exotic devices because they exist only in the imagination of a few excitable scientists and physicists. Why write a treaty forbidding something that does not exist?"

Karmarov's rising tone of voice, with the strained chuckle punctuating his last sentence, rang like an echo from the walls of a canyon in Brent's ears. Karmarov continued: "The Space DeMilitarization Agreement does not apply, of course, to a ground-based defensive device. It was specifically written to eliminate the placement of weapons of any kind in orbit over the Earth. It was supposed to have averted a madness that swept both our countries. It cannot be possible for your country to deploy Ice Fortress. It cannot."

"I have made no admission that such is the case," Brent asked. "But I can tell you that many options are being considered. "He looked directly into Karmarov's eyes and paused, as if to lend emphasis to what he was about to say "The laser is a menace, Dmitri," Brent said.

His voice sounded as if it came from the bottom of a deep well. "Find some way to reassure the leaders of my government that their fears about a laser at Kavaznya are groundless. Make some sort of presentation about the research you conduct there, or at least describe the facility in a bit more detail. But put the saber-rattlers to rest "I can guarantee little," Karmarov said.

We must not fail, Dmitri," Brent replied. He got up and took Karmarov's hand in his. "The future-our children's future-may depend on it. "Slowly, Brent released his grip on Karmarov's hand. He gave the Ambassador a curt nod and made his way out of the room.

Karmarov watched him leave, then sat down in one of the plush leather chairs. He did not move for a full two minutes.

Finally, he rang for Asserni.

"Do they know?" Assemi asked.

"They suspect. How could they not suspect?" Karmarov reached down to the table and gripped his snifter with both hands. "What the hell are they doing over there, Assemi?Are they trying to destroy the arms agreement?What do they want the Americans to do?"

Asserni did not reply. Karmarov stared into the brandy for a long time.

"I want the secure line to the Kremlin open al I morning, " he finally ordered.

"Of course, Comrade Ambassador."

He drained the liqueur and winced-both at the bite of the spirits and from the threats that were now bombarding him from both sides.

"What are they doing? What?"