Silver Tower

CHAPTER 30

Jackson Collins, as the new director of the KH-14 Block Three digital photo imagery division of the Defense Intelligence Agency, did not need to schedule an appointment in advance to see the director, but he had never taken advantage of his new position or his new privileges — until now. He came into George Sahl's office first thing Monday morning with a locked carrying case. Sahl was dictating a letter into his computer terminal when Collins appeared, set his case down on the director's desk and began to fumble with the combination lock's thumbwheels. "C'mon, Jackson," Sahl said, hitting the PAUSE button on his voice-recognition computer's microphone. "I haven't even finished my first cup of coffee."

Collins stopped. With him, even a lack of movement was significant. "Mr. Sahl, you told me that if I had anything significant from my section to bring it to you immediately."

Sahl sighed. "Yes."

"No matter what."

"Yes. "

"Did you mean it, or was that just to make me feel important?"

Sahl rolled his eyes. "Well, dammit, let's see what you got. Move it."

"Yes sir." Collins had the locks on the chart case open in a few moments and took out several digital satellite photos.

"Aha. We're back to interpreting scrub photos again, Jackson?"

"Marginally scrub. I've applied the new set of guidelines to these photos and—"

"Those new guidelines — your new set of guidelines, the ones you forced on my section — haven't been approved yet."

"They will be. Never mind that, sir," Collins went on. "Recognize this location?"

"Sure. What else would Jackson Collins, boy genius, bring me? Scrub photos of Nikolai Zhukovsky Airfield. The same big Condor hangars."

"Except there are now twelve hangars there. And ten are occupied. "

"By…?"

Collins displayed another photo, an enlargement of a thermal imagery photo of the tarmac just outside one of the hangars. "Tire tracks. Aircraft tire tracks."

"I know you know why this isn't conclusive evidence." Sahl began.

"All right, tire tracks can be too easily faked. But if you're moving aircraft, men and supplies in and out of Tashkent all day, every day, in support of a major offensive in the Persian Gulf, I'm betting you don't have time to doctor ten major hangars for a satellite overflight."

"I still…"

"Sir, I've been watching these hangars since before Feather started. I've seen all sorts of aircraft go in and out of these hangars. I've measured the tracks on every one, and in every case my identification has been confirmed by some other source."

Sahl looked at Collins. "With any other interpreter I'd say get out of my office until you have something concrete. But I know better now. I suppose you've measured these tracks, measured the tires and fit them to a particular aircraft?"

"Yes."

"And that was."

"H-model Bear bombers."

Sahl took a closer look at the photo. "Well, that is interesting. They're a long way from home."

"I haven't found exactly where they're from — I think Vinnica Airbase southwest of Kiev is missing a half-dozen at least — but I've been checking on something even more interesting." Collins pulled up a chair in front of Sahl's desk. "Tashkent has been the major staging area for most of the strategic aircraft — bombers and large transports — involved with Operation Feather, right?"

"Go ahead."

"I think the Russians are putting AS-6 cruise missiles on those Bears parked at Tashkent."

Sahl frowned as he picked up the digital photographs of the large "satellite bluff" hangars. "Now how the hell can you tell that from these photos?"

"By this." Collins retrieved another photo from his carrying case. This one was a more conventional optical satellite photograph taken several months earlier of a completely different, much larger military airbase. "While I was checking on things, trying to score a few points with the boss, I did some note taking on strategic cruise missiles. I wrote down every detail I could find on AS-6 and AS-4 cruise-missile operations. Of course, one of the biggest Bear bomber bases is Murmansk, so I concentrated my search there, took a lot of notes on the cruise missiles based with the Bear Gs and Hs, with particular emphasis on the support vehicles."

"This story, I know, must have a point. Please get to it."

"I'm getting there, sir. Here's the scoop. The AS-6 missile uses kerosene liquid-fueled rocket engines, with nitric acid as the catalyst. Dangerous stuff. What's more, the stuff has got to be pumped into the missile's tanks under pressure to facilitate airborne ignition. They've built a special truck to do this. Here's a picture of one of those trucks."

Sahl, looking at it under a pair of stereo magnifiers, thought it resembled a huge square-nosed firetruck with a distinctive set of silverized tanks on either side. The photo even showed a crew of four men in silver-colored fire suits working around the truck. Sahl checked the date-time stamp on the photo — it was recent. "Now if you could only find one of those trucks in Tashkent…"

"Ask and ye shall receive." Collins pulled the last photo out of his case. "Taken yesterday."

It was one of the most unusual photos Sahl had ever seen.

It showed, quite clearly, one of the cruise-missile fuel trucks being towed by a large tractor-trailer truck after it had apparently struck an aircraft tow-bar on a flight-line access road. Sahl thought of the luck element that was required in this business of reconnaissance photography: a few seconds more or less and the accident never would have occurred or the KH-14 satellite never would have spotted the truck. A few more minutes and the wreck would have been towed away without a trace and they might never have known for sure about the cruise missiles.

"It's impressive, Collins. They've got AS-6 or AS-4 cruise missiles in Tashkent."

"Probably AS-6s. They stopped production on AS-4s back in 1989, in favor of the AS-6. "

"Those things could be real trouble — correct me if I'm wrong. The AS-6 has both a ground and ship attack version. Either a three-thousand-pound high-explosive warhead—"

"Or a two-hundred-kiloton nuclear warhead," Collins said. "Fairly long range on a normal launch profile — they could probably launch at high altitude as far north as Shiraz in central Iran, well out of range of our Patriot, Hawk and RAM surface-to-air missile sites, and hit the strait. If they overwhelm our perimeter defense they could launch attacks against the fleet in the Gulf of Oman."

Sahl did not have to think very long to reach a decision. "I need an analysis brief by one o'clock for the afternoon meeting…" But Collins was already opening his photo case again, arid a red-covered folder with a security strip-seal dropped onto Sahl's desk.

"Jesus, Collins, am I going to have to spend the rest of my four years to retirement looking over my shoulder to see when you're going to bury me, like you did Barnes?"

"Nah," Collins said, "I got faith, sir… I figure a smart man like you is going to help me move on up."

Sahl smiled, opening the intelligence brief. "If you can't beat 'em, help 'em beat up on someone else."

It was a sight Ann Page had never wanted to see.

A whole section of the hospital's intensive-care ward had been occupied by a portable hyperbaric "altitude" chamber. Jason Saint-Michael lay inside the chamber on a hard plastic table. Ann winced as she looked at his inert form — he looked even more emaciated, more drawn. Electrocardiogram and electroencephalogram leads were attached to his body, running to terminals outside the chamber, where technicians and doctors studied the sensor readouts. "His heart seems normal," Doctor Matsui said as he rechecked the EKG paper strip. "Strong as a horse, as a matter of fact. He's in excellent condition." He shook his head. "Except for the… other thing, "

"What happened?" Ann asked.

"The same thing he's been experiencing during his comatose state. His body is still throwing off the nitrogen. Nitrogen is absorbed easily in the soft tissues of the body — that's why it accumulates in the joints, causing the bends. The general's case is more serious. The nitrogen accumulated in his brain, causing his blackouts, seizures and the pain. He probably absorbed a lot into his brain tissue, and in normal atmospheric pressure the nitrogen bubbles slowly work their way out of the tissue and into his bloodstream, in his nerve centers. "

"But all this happened a month ago," Ann said. "He came out of the coma. Why is he still having these seizures?"

"I don't know… Obviously his body is still being affected by the nitrogen bubbles in his system, or perhaps there was some sort of neural, vascular or chemical damage. I'm afraid we don't know very much about cerebral dysbarism — fact is, we don't know much about anything when it comes to the brain or the nervous system. But there are a few things I do know. First, General Saint-Michael is no longer on flight status. His condition is obviously disqualifying. I also have to recommend his relieve as commander of Armstrong Space Station, or what's left of it."

Ann had to turn away. What she was hearing, whether Matsui knew it or not, was in effect a death sentence. No, damn it. That wasn't going to happen. To hell with the doctors. Matsui said he didn't know much. Good, that put them all even — starting from scratch. She'd take those odds.