Silver Tower

CHAPTER 1

Three hundred miles east of Tokyo the aircraft carrier CV-64 USS Constellation rode the gentle swells of the north Pacific Ocean. She was cruising at only six knots, barely enough to maintain steerage way. The thirty-year-old, eighty-thousand-ton Kitty Hawk-class aircraft carrier was surrounded by an armada of eleven smaller support ships and other surface combatants arranged in a wide hexagon pattern.

The Constellation itself was buzzing with activity. Poised for battle, two F/A-18E Hornet fighter-bombers were positioned in their catapults, engines running, ready for the steam-powered push that would shoot them from zero to one hundred forty knots in three seconds. Two more F-18s on external power were parked just behind the catapult blast deflectors, ready to take their places once the first two alert birds launched. A CH-53F Super Sea Stallion III transport helicopter, its seventy-five-foot-diameter rotor slowly spinning, sat on the Constellation's flight deck just beside the "island" superstructure. Another was hovering a few hundred feet from the Constellation's fantail, ready in a few seconds to drop onto the carrier's broad stem if ordered.

The seas behind the huge carrier were patrolled by predators of a different sort — three Los Angeles-class nuclear attack submarines that hung virtually motionless in the warm Pacific currents. Their sophisticated electronic sensors registered, catalogued, analyzed and assessed each and every sound in the ocean for miles around, from the loudest clamor of propellers to the softest hiss of the smallest marine creature. Each of the sub's four torpedo tubes was loaded with long-range ASW/SOW antisubmarine missile-torpedoes, and each of the sub's vertical launch tubes was loaded with Sub-Harpoon antiship missiles.

But the man in the skipper's chair on the bridge atop the Constellation's superstructure did not notice any of these special additions to the Constellation's battle group. He was peering intently at a fifteen-inch-diameter radar scope, tracking three very large blips at its outer edge. The man looked up from the radar scope and squinted at the horizon, north between the American nuclear missile cruiser USS Long Beach and the tiny frigate USS Lockwood. "I can just barely make them out, I think," the president of the United States said. Two of the senior officials on the bridge glanced doubtfully at each other — no one, not even the president of the United States, could see a ship two hundred miles away. "'I think, sir," Rear Admiral Bennett Walton said, "that you're seeing the Jouett, one of our missile destroyer escorts. "

The president checked the radar again, pointing to a large blip. "That's the Jouett? He looks so far away."

"It's pretty hazy out, sir. The Jouett is eight miles out, but it seems farther. "

The president grunted at the scope, his expression turning pensive as the three blips moved closer to the center of the screen. "Who the hell are they, Admiral?"

Walton smiled. "It's the Kirov, Mr. President. Largest guided missile cruiser in the world. She's got the Krasina guided missile cruiser and the Kresta, an antisubmarine destroyer, with her."

"No aircraft carrier? I would have thought the Soviets would try to match the Constellation's forces."

"Sir," Secretary of Defense Linus Edwards put in, "they don't have enough forces to match even the Constellation's small battle group. It would be a waste for them to try."

The president tried his best to ignore Edwards' bravado. The secretary of defense was an old navy sea captain who thought the U.S. Navy ruled the seven seas. His background, the president reminded himself, clouded many of his opinions. He turned back to Walton. "Are you worried that the Kirov is trailing us, even though it's over two hundred miles away?"

"Sir, the Kirov is about five hundred miles closer than I'd like. She packs quite a wallop, especially at only two hundred miles distant. But we're less than a thousand miles from Vladivostok, their largest Pacific naval base, so I guess we should be thankful there's only one major battleship out there shadowing us."

He paused, glancing at a large chart of the Sea of Japan and East Asia on the bulkhead above the radar gear. "I'm more concerned about their naval aviation forces at Vladivostok they have the equivalent of four full naval air groups and nine heavy bomb wings out there, enough to invade Japan twice over. Plus there's always the threat posed by their newest carrier group — led by the Arkhangel. "

"But the Constellation and her escorts have enough firepower to take on anything the Soviets might throw at us," Edwards pointed out, "if they're reckless enough to try."

Walton moved to another radar scope beside the main sea-mapping scope. "Here's a display of aircraft, Mr. President, within five hundred miles of us. All of them are ours or Japan's, except for this guy. " Walton pointed at a highlighted blip, again at the very edge of the scope. "An Ilyushin Il-76G turbojet spy plane," the admiral explained. "It can monitor our communications, study our radar emissions, map out the positions of all our ships. We also think it can monitor the progress of this morning's test."

"How long until we start the test?" the president asked.

"We can start at any time, sir," Linus Edwards replied, checking his watch.

"Everyone's in position," Walton said. "They should be running through their final prelaunch checks now. Tracking and monitoring stations and the White Sands Missile Range target area have already reported ready."

The president nodded, then wandered out to the catwalk just outside the bridge area. Secretary Edwards and Admiral Walton followed, along with Neil McDonough, an NSC adviser, and a small knot of Marine and Secret Service guards. The president let the wind toss his thin silver hair around and inhaled deeply, breathing in the crisp salt air. "We're finally about to do it," he said excitedly, raising his voice over the sounds of jet turbines on the Constellation's seventy-four-thousand-square-foot flight deck. "I've been waiting for this demonstration for months."

"I have to admit," Edwards said, "that I feel a little uneasy about this whole thing." He did not attempt to raise his voice over the clamor of helicopters and machinery on the flight deck seventy feet below. "The first intercontinental missiles fired over the pole at the United States from Asia, and we launch them. Even with the Tridents' warheads inert, it makes me nervous."

"Your less than enthusiastic opinion of the antiballistic missile defense system is well documented, Lee," the president said. "But that's one of the reasons I scheduled this test. Your opinions carry a lot of weight. If you're unhappy with the space-based defense network, others will be. If I can convince you how valuable this system is, I think I can convince others — including the Russians."

"But a test of this magnitude?" Edwards asked. "Six D-5 phase-three sub-launched missiles flying right through Canada and across the United States? Is a test with this much potential for mishap really necessary? An ICBM has never been flown across the pole before—"

"You mean we've never flown across the pole before," the president corrected. "We've caught the Russians firing missiles from Murmansk in Europe to their Asian ranges, and there's evidence of them shooting 'ferret' missiles at Canada to test our early warning systems. We're hardly setting a precedent here."

Edwards was about to interject something but the president continued. "This test is vital, Lee. No matter how sophisticated a system is, people remain skeptical until they see it in action. Space Command briefs Congress almost every month on the results of their simulations, but no one believes how good the Thor kinetic-kill missile system really is. It's time to show them." He pointed towards the horizon, where the three Russian ships were riding beyond visual range. "Those sonsofbitches want a show, we'll give 'em a show."

He stepped back into the bridge and nodded to Admiral Walton. "Let's do it."

Walton smiled and motioned to a control panel mounted on the forward sea data console. Without hesitation the president leaned forward to the control panel and twisted a large bronze key in a triangular keyswitch. Immediately, a red light labeled "LAUNCH" illuminated and an electric horn sounded throughout the Constellation.

With a thunderous roar a geyser of water erupted less than two miles away from the Constellation, and a huge white object rose from the sea like a bellowing whale. It blasted fire of the waves, hovered about thirty feet above the water, and even seemed to slip backwards a few feet. Then, with a tremendous blast of fur, the Trident D-5/HI sea-launched ballistic missile's solid-propellant motor ignited, and the missile and its ten inert warheads roared into space.

The first Trident had hardly reached full thrust when the second missile pierced the surface of the now boiling ocean. The USS Pennsylvania, the seventh and youngest of the new fleet of Ohio-class supersubmarines, began disgorging her deadly cargo at a rate of one missile every ten seconds. The stain of white hot foam stretched from the Pennsylvania's launch point toward the Constellation, her escorts, and the thousands of men watching the awesome spectacle.

"Skipper, missile launch detection."

Brigadier General Jason Saint-Michael quickly set his coffee cup down on a Velcro mat on the bulkhead and maneuvered himself to the main sensor operator's console. On a wide two-foot by three-foot multisensor display screen, a flashing white circle was superimposed on a polar-projection map of the northern hemisphere near Japan. A few seconds later, a short column of position readouts printed on a second screen beside the main display. The general's face seemed to take on an added intensity as he read the growing column of data.

"Three hundred miles east of Tokyo, sir," the sensor operator read aloud.

"It's the exercise launch area all right…

"All sections, stand by," Saint-Michael said. "Alert the station, exercise under way, red alert." He readjusted his tiny communications earset and returned to his commander's seat — the only seat in the command module of the world's first strategic defense space station-and strapped himself in. The pedestal-mounted chair gave him a direct view of all the consoles in the space station's nerve center. He pulled out his ever-present notebook and pencil and attached the "doodlebook" to a Velcro pad on his seat's armrests to keep it from floating off in microgravity. His fingers were already making undecipherable scratches on the paper as he barked orders to his crewmen. "Okay, men," he said in a deep, resonant voice, "let's see if we can avoid letting these babies blow past us. Comm, transmit strategic warning message to Space Command, and ask them to verify that this is an exercise only."

"Already in contact with Space Command, sir," the communications tech reported. "Exercise code received and authenticated. "

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 movable 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 on-board 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. "I've 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 earner 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 little 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.

"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. "Damn, I think we've got something here…"