Silver Tower

CHAPTER 32

The meeting of Space command officers and crewmen was called to attention as General Martin Stuart, commander of the Space Command, entered the small conference room. Under more normal circumstances, Stuart would have told everyone to be seated immediately, but this time he was silent. He took his seat at the head of the Oval conference table, and motioned for the others to do likewise, remaining silent as the room quieted down.

Jason Saint-Michael sat alone, on the left side of the table from Stuart, as if he represented some sort of contagion. Dr. Matsui, his flight surgeon, sat behind him, almost as if disassociating himself from his patient.

Across from Saint-Michael sat a small group of Space Command officers. Ann Page was among them, seated alongside shuttle mission specialist Captain Marty Schultz. Schultz's customary youthful grin was gone. Ann looked uneasily, almost furtively, from General Stuart and back to Saint-Michael.

"All right," Stuart began, "we're here to select a crew to return to Armstrong Station on the spaceplane America, recover the bodies of the dead crewmen, then detach the Skybolt module from the station and attach a PAM payload booster to it and send it to a higher storage orbit until it can be retrieved via shuttle. This sortie must be accomplished within the next eight days, before Armstrong reenters earth's atmosphere. Let's get started." Stuart opened four folders on the desk in front of him, scanned them, but returned his attention to Jason Saint-Michael. "You're recommending these crewmen for the rescue sortie, General?"

"Yes, sir." Saint-Michael nodded to the most senior officer across the table from him. "Colonel Jonathan Hampton is the only choice as pilot, He's the senior hypersonic transportation system pilot in the command besides myself." He even spelled out HTS for them. "Only two sorties aboard America and one station docking, but one year as operations officer of the HTS cadre and one year as a simulator instructor at Little Rock… Major Ken Horvath as first officer was a choice among many qualified people. He topped out best in examination and simulator scores of all recent HTS-school graduates… Captain Schultz was again the only real choice of all volunteers for this trip. He's qualified both as an HTS and shuttle-flight engineer and payload specialist. He also had a special claim for being included on this flight: he crewed with Colonels Will and Sontag aboard Enterprise for most of his career…"

"Can you give me your assurance, Captain Schultz," General Stuart said, "that the… personal nature of this duty won't affect your performance?"

"I'll tell you what I told General Saint-Michael, sir. I feel like I have a duty to Colonel Will and Colonel Sontag to fly this mission: I demand the opportunity to do it."

Stuart nodded, looked again to Saint-Michael. "Of course, General, Dr. Ann Page here is the best qualified for the… other task on this sortie."

Stuart folded his hands on Ann's personnel file and shook his head. "I disagree, Jason. Dr. Page has gone through enough already. I don't see any need to put her through—"

"Excuse me, sir," Ann said, "you're talking about me as if I weren't here. The fact is, you have no alternative. I happen to be best qualified to handle Skybolt, and I'm the only person familiar with the laser who is qualified for space flight. I'm also a volunteer—"

"I question that more than anything else," Stuart broke in. "Do you think it's wise to cause your family more worry after what they went through two months ago? The Armstrong attack, your father's death…"

"General, I don't want to be a bore, and I think you know I'm no radical feminist or whatever, but such considerations really are no more relevant for me than for any of the men. But I should tell you, my only family is MY mother, and she's in full agreement with me." Feeling wanned up, Ann kept going. "The thing both of us have a hard time accepting is the way this country is being affected by threats from the Soviets. How can they tell us when to retrieve our own dead? How can they tell us we can only use an HTS spaceplane instead of a shuttle to approach Armstrong Station?"

"They have the capability to intercept any spacecraft they feel is hostile," Stuart said. "That's a fact: A shuttle sortie to Armstrong could be seen as an attempt by us to rearm the station, for all they know with offensive nuclear weapons. A spaceplane doesn't have the cargo capacity to—"

"So why don't we tell them that if they shoot down any more unarmed American spacecraft we'll… retaliate?… Why are we being pushed around by—"

"Ann," Saint-Michael said, giving her a look. She turned to him, asking with her eyes why he was silencing her. He tried to signal back that the argument was going to be made, and soon.

"The decision has already been made," Stuart said, stifling his irritation and surprise. Dr. Page was obviously more than a lady scientist. "Our government has decided it is not going to risk a nuclear confrontation over Armstrong Space Station. I'm sorry. There are three other private commercial and government research space stations in orbit that need servicing. If we challenge the Soviets on Armstrong, which as you know is badly damaged, and only a few days from reentering the atmosphere, they could shut off all sorties to the other stations."

Ann was about to respond by pointing out that it never paid to give in to blackmailers but thought better of it. The real issue here was her involvement in the flight. "All right, General. So we use the HTS. We play the game by the Russians' rules. But please… no one touches Skybolt but me. It may sound arrogant to say so, but there's no other mission payload specialist qualified to detach Skybolt from the station and attach the payload assist module to it. Remember, Skybolt is a free-electron laser. It uses a controlled nuclear reaction to create the electron-particle stream necessary for lasing. There's just too much to know about fissionable materials aid triggering devices to make it safe for anyone but me to do it."

Stuart looked steadily at her, finally nodded, more in grudging acceptance than approval. "All right, the crew list is approved as presented. The sortie is scheduled to depart in four days. That will give you three days to recover the crewmen, detach the Skybolt module, attach the PAM, and boost it into its storage orbit. Any difficulties with that rough itinerary?"

"I have a problem with the setup, sir," Saint-Michael said.

Gene Stuart had been steeling himself for this. "I told you that I'd listen to your arguments during this meeting, Jason. I don't know what good it will do, but I'll take your recommendations to the Pentagon and even see to it that they get to the president. But I don't think—"

"Ann was right, sit," Saint-Michael began in a rush, trying to provoke Stuart into listening. "We are giving in to blackmail — or, more accurately, to terrorism. We can't let Silver Tower be destroyed. We have got to reactivate the station, put it back into its earth suiveillance orbit and repair its systems as soon as possible—"

"You're suggesting putting it back into the orbit over the Persian Gulf?" Stuart asked. He shook his head as if he hadn't heard Saint-Michael correctly. "You want to put Armstrong over that laser again? Put it in an orbit where the Soviets can accurately track it and send killer satellites to engage it? That's crazy, Jason. Why?" Privately Stuart thought he knew why: Jason was still far from a well man. His doctor was with him and obviously didn't approve his getting involved…

"Because the station's SBR and sensors will be needed in a few days. It will take the Arkhangel carrier battle group ten days to reach the Arabian Sea within striking distance of the Nimitz. The SBR has to be up and running before that."

"But the Soviet's laser—"

"The laser at Sary Shagan was hardly effective against the station," Saint-Michael interrupted. "True, we suffered some damage, but the station was still operational. If the laser had been any more powerful we would have been out of business long before the spaceplane attack… Sir, the SEIR has proved its value. It will be needed more than ever if the Nimitz carrier group is cornered in the Gulf of Oman. They'll have their hands full watching the Arkhangel and her escorts, and if they get driven closer and closer to land the Soviets can engage with land-based missiles. They'll need our SBR to protect them." He paused for a moment. "And Skybolt as well."

"Skybolt?" Stuart asked. "What has Skybolt got to do with it?"

"Skybolt is operational, General," Ann put in quickly. As Stuart's face went from surprised to skeptical, she hurried on: "It's working again, sir. I managed to repair it just as the Gorgon missile attack was beginning." She paused for a moment, then added, "And I shot down the second Soviet spaceplane with the laser."

"What?" Stuart turned on Saint-Michael, who was studying Ann before meeting his commander's surprised expression.

"I can't verify that, sir. I was in the command module during the attack, and all power had been lost. We were getting nailed by those spaceplanes — I couldn't tell if the sounds were from the MHD reactor or, from the Soviet missiles.

"Well, damn it, I showed a solid lock-on to one of the spaceplanes attacking us, and a solid data link between Skybolt and SBR," Ann said. "The Soviets reported losing one of their spaceplanes during the attack — doesn't that prove it works?"

"Not necessarily, " Stuart said. "The Soviets claim we shot one of the Thor missiles at the spaceplane… That was the provocation for their attack. They said nothing about the laser."

"That definitely is not true," Saint-Michael said. "All of the garaged Thor missiles were expended during the Gorgon missile attacks. Baker and Yemana detached only two Thors from the ten spares; one missed, the other was never fired. There are eight Thors still on board."

"And I tell you, sir, with respect, Skybolt works," Ann said. "It destroyed that spaceplane. I believe that the laser can protect Armstrong Station from spaceplane attack, and it can protect the Nimitz from any more of those AS-6 cruise-missile attacks too."

"Impossible. Shoot hundreds of miles through the atmosphere and destroy a cruise missile? You've only had one operational test of Skybolt, and until shown otherwise, it failed. Now you're saying it can protect a fleet of ships hundreds of miles away?" Stuart shook his head. "I know how committed you are to your project, Dr. Page, but a this sounds too far-fetched—"

"If the SBR can track it, Skybolt can hit it," Ann pressed. "With the laser guided by the SBR and the MHD running at full power, it has the power to shoot through a thousand miles of atmosphere and destroy its target. I don't believe an AS-6 is armored well enough to take a laser burst, even attenuated by the atmosphere."

General Stuart stared at a coffee mug ring on his otherwise polished oak conference table without really noticing it. "Armstrong Station can survive," Saint-Michael said. "We don't have to burn thirty billion dollars worth of hardware up in the atmosphere. If the Russians decide to go all out, Silver Tower's SBR could be critical."

Stuart finally looked up. "All right, Jason, I'll take your recommendation to the Joint Chiefs tonight and ask that it be presented to the president tomorrow. That'll leave him three days to make his decision."

"Thank you, sir." Saint-Michael knew he couldn't count on Stuart to state his case as strongly as he would want. He just hoped the president would see the logic of reactivating the station. Well, one thing was sure: If the plan was approved, he was going to be part of it. Better start pitching now… General, if we get the green light I want to pilot America."

Stuart immediately shook his head. "No way, Jason. You're grounded. Hampton is still the pilot, no matter what the man decides."

"Sir, you don't have any choice on this one. If the plan is authorized you'll need a station commander on Armstrong — someone who's checked out on SBR and all of the station's subsystems. Hampton's the best HTS jockey we have, but he's not a station commander."

"Jason," — Stuart's patience was wearing thin — "all we need is someone to keep things together until the station gets oriented—"

"That someone would have to take the first officer's place aboard America, leaving Hampton with the job of putting the HTS into orbit by himself. He's good, but he's not that good."

"If it came to that, Jason, I'm sure we could rig up a makeshift seat for the extra crewmember. I'm still not convinced you're essential."

"Sir, nobody knows that station better than I do,"

"What about your dysbarism, sir?" Horvath asked, fearing he might lose his chance at his first real ride in the hypersonic spaceplane America. "What if your episodes recur in space?"

"America is a spacesuit-environment craft. As long as I prebreathe oxygen and stay in a spacesuit I'll be just fine."

"Jason, you don't know that," Dr. Matsui said from behind him. Saint-Michael didn't bother turning around. "The lower pressure in the suit could trigger a seizure. The excitement, the adrenaline — even the noise could set you off. And if there was an emergency-rapid decompression, a suit puncture—"

"Then we're out both an HTS pilot and a station commander," Stuart finished for him, "and we bring you back in America's cargo hold, along with all your crew."

That last hit Saint-Michael hard. His crew. Would he be endangering them by heading up the mission? It was one thing to take chances with his own life, but with the lives of the crew… He scanned the faces of the others in the room. What he saw renewed his determination.

"Look, General," Saint-Michael said, "there's no denying me risking my life by going up there. We all will. It goes, as they say, with the territory. But I think the chances are better than even we'll put that station back in business. Right now, all things considered, 'better than even' seems like pretty good odds."

Stuart said nothing for a long moment. Then: "Like I said, Jas, I'll take your proposal to the Pentagon. I'll tell them you want in — let them decide."

Good old Martin Stuart, Saint-Michael thought. Always an expert at passing the buck. Well, nothing to do now but wait… and hope. His thoughts drifted… then fixed on an image of Jim Walker stepping into the lifeboat. That look on his face. What was it? A parting look… a final farewell…?

Saint-Michael's own face hardened as he stood in the Space Command conference room. Somehow, some way, he had to get back on board that station.

The Chevy Blazer turned off the main highway, down a graded dirt road with a large sign that read "Calhan Municipal Airport Welcomes You."

Ann looked at Saint-Michael. "An airport? You live on an airport?"

"I get that reaction all the time. I guess I'm one of the few people who've gotten the chance to fulfill a childhood fantasy. When I was a kid, I used to wash airplanes, pump gas and sweep out hangars to pay for flying lessons. I got my pilot's license before I got a driver's license. I was always at the airport. Years later, when I was reassigned to Colorado Springs, I began hunting around for a place and ran across this abandoned county airport. Thirty acres, a hangar, fuel storage, a house, a terminal building and a paved runway. Plus I've got fresh air — sweetened once in a while from the stockyards up the road — the open sky, and the Rocky Mountains. And all it cost me was the back taxes. Paradise."

They pulled up in front of an old but imposing ranch-style house surrounded by trees several hundred yards from the terminal building. Ann was surprised to see a beacon light revolving on a tower near the terminal. "The airport's active now," he explained. "Another deal I made with the county."

"Doesn't the noise ever bother you? It would drive me crazy."

"It's not that active. Besides, I'm hardly ever here."

"You have your own plane?"

"Yes, A beauty." They got out of the car and made their way through the darkness to the house. "Of course, if the docs at Space Command don't give me a clean bill of health I'll have trouble flying even my Piper Malibu."

He punched a code into a keyless door lock and swung the door open. To her surprise, lights immediately went on in the foyer and front two rooms. "I'm also into gadgets," he said. "If houses can be described as 'high tech,' then this one is." He helped her take off her coat and hung it in the front closet just off the white tiled foyer.

"It's warm in here," Ann said. "You keep the heat on all the time when you're gone?"

"Another gadget. Before I leave headquarters I call home. When the computer answers, I punch a code into the phone that tells the computer to turn on the heat or air-conditioning, outside lights, everything — it even makes a pot of coffee.

Ann smiled back, pleased to be seeing a new side of him. He led her into the great room, an oak-paneled palace dominated by a cathedral ceiling and a massive stone fireplace. She sat on a leather sofa in front of the fireplace, and he poured a snifter of Grand Marnier for both of them. When he returned with the liqueur he was pleased to see her curled up against one of the big arm pillows.

"You look right at home," he said. She smiled, accepted the snifter.

He went to the fireplace and within a few minutes had a roaring fire built, then returned to the sofa and sat beside her, watching the logs being consumed by the blaze. After a while she moved toward him — Ann Page was neither coy nor a tease — and put her head on his shoulder. He reached over and brushed her hair from her forehead. "It's peaceful here," she said. She looked up at him, watched the reflections of fire in his eyes. "What do you think they'll say? I mean, about reactivating the station? About your going along?"

"I'm counting on a yea to both points."

"But what if—"

"I can't think about that now," he said. "I think my desire to get back to the station, the feeling I've got to and will, is what's helped me fight off this damn sickness. And you've been an important part of it. I hope you realize that."

"Jason."

He would have been a fool or worse not to understahd that the time was now. He kissed her. She pressed against him, holding the kiss for as long as possible. When they parted, they looked into each other's eyes, reading thoughts and desire — thee same for them both. "Make love to me, Jason. Now."

And General Saint-Michael, for once in his life, did precisely as he was told. Afterward they shared the unspoken feeling that their loving time together was unlikely to be repeated soon. The dark void of space lay ahead, a place with no promises, and a future unknown.

The computer-synthesized voice that came through the Pentagon's "safe-line" sounded like Jason Saint-Michael, but General Stuart could tell immediately that a machine had answered. No matter. It was five o'clock in the morning in Colorado, seven A.M. in Washington. Give the man a rest.

When the voice was replaced by a beep, Stuart said, "Jason, Stuart here. I just left a meeting with the Joint Chiefs. The president and his cabinet were listening in on a video teleconference. Not the news you'd hoped for, I'm afraid. The secretary of defense is dead set against the station and he convinced the president to deny your request.

"I'm real sorry, Jason, but the decision is to give you a medical retirement. America will be piloted by Hampton. The crew will be responsible for salvaging bodies and boosting Skybolt into storage. That's it, Jason. Sorry…"

As he returned the receiver to its cradle, Martin Stuart admitted to himself that he had been hoping to get Saint-Michael's machine. He and Jason had knocked heads a fair amount over the years, but he'd always respected the young general, considered him a brilliant field commander. It would have given him no pleasure to tell Saint-Michael directly that Space Command no longer had use for his services. So he was a coward. In this case, he had no apologies. He just hoped Jason would come to accept it. But did he really believe there was a chance of that?