Silver Tower

CHAPTER 8

"All right, Mr. Collins," George Sahl, deputy director of operations of the Defense Intelligence Agency, said. "'You've got my attention — and apparetly the attention of your section chief." He looked warily at Preston Barnes, in charge of the KH-14 Block Three digital photo imagery satellite. "Spill it."

Jackson Collins, associate photo analyst under Barnes, cleared his throat and stepped up to Sahl. "Yes, sir. The Russians are going to invade Iran."

Barnes closed his eyes and muttered a "Collins-you-idiot" to himself and not audible to the others, he hoped. Collins noticed the deputy director's shoulders slumping. Before Sahl could say anything Barnes turned angrily toward his young photo interpreter. "Collins, didn't you ever learn how to give a proper report—?"

"Easy, Preston," Sahl said, raising a hand to silence his division chief. "I've scanned your report and your analysis, Mr. Collins. Now I want you to tell me. Briefly, please."

"Yes, sir… The military buildup around the southern TVD Headquarters at Tashkent is inconsistent with either a fall offensive in Afghanistan or the army's seasonal maneuvers scheduled for this month. The offensive—"

"What offensive?" Barnes said. "A CIA report circulated through the division last month about a suspected, unusually large-scale Russian push into Afghanistan sometime this fall."

Barnes shook his head. "The CIA calls every resupply mission to Afghanistan an offensive. Overland routes into the central highland have been cut off recently by bad weather and the Afghan government has all but folded its tents. Naturally the Russians have had to step up supply flights."

"But, sir, not with as many as six Condors… Those photos showed hangars large enough for An-124s—"

"Condors?" Sahl didn't like to hear that. "'Where did you see Condors in the southern military district?"

"It's… an educated guess, sir. Those large temporary hangars I mentioned in the report are large enough to accommodate Condors—"

"Or any other Soviet aircraft flying," Barnes said. Collins looked away — he'd never expected to have to fight off his section chief. "What else?" Sahl prompted him. "Your report mentioned the rail units. You counted forty percent more activity in the Tashkent yards. What about — that?"

"Yes, sir, the actual count is up thirty-seven percent from activity this same time last year, also several weeks prior to maneuvers, and up twenty-four percent from the Soviets' last real large-scale offensive into Afghanistan two years ago, when they put down the Qandahar uprising. And that had been the largest Soviet offensive since their invasion of Czechoslovakia. Whatever they're planning now, it'll be larger than either of those—"

"Collins," Barnes said quickly, "you can't make conclusions like that based simply on the number of rail cars in a switching yard. There could be dozens of reasons why there were more cars there… Look — and he softened his voice — these reports can set a lot of things in motion. Things that cost a lot of money and a lot of effort by a lot of people. Dangerous things. They get a lot of attention. If we're wrong and we send all these men and machines off on a wild goose chase…"

Collins' face hardened. He dropped two eleven-by-fourteen black-and-white photographs on Sahl's desk. "You can't ignore this, Mr. Sahl," he said, pointing a finger at the first photo. Sahl studied it. "What…?"

"It's a computer-enhanced KH-14 image of one side of one of the large two-acre hangars at Nikolai Zhukovsky Military Airfield at Tashkent."

Sahl peered at the highly magnified photo. Trailing behind the hangar was, he saw, a fuzzy, rectangular object. Almost no firm detail, though. He studied the photo for a moment longer, looked up at Collins. "It's a scrub photo."

"Sir, it is a photo of a GL-25 missile launcher. There are—"

"Collins, it's a scrub photo," Sahl repeated. "Magnification, contrast, grain, background — it's not worth piss for analysis. It's a scrub photo."

"Sir, I counted seventy of this same weird-looking rail car in Tashkent. All of them surrounded by guards, all of them bracketed by security rail cars. I understand no certain judgment can be made on the basis of this photo, but an educated guess can easily be made — it's a GL-25 long-range cruise missile launcher, mounted on an all-terrain carrier. Here, look — two missile canisters, the control center—"

"It looks like a concrete container to me," Barnes said. "Or a gravel container. There's nothing unusual about it."

"The KH-14 wasn't properly stabilized," Collins said, "but you can still make out the—"

"Collins, you can't make out that kind of detail on a scrub photo," Barnes snapped.

"I can. I did, sir."

"If you look at a photo — any photo — long enough," Sahl said quietly, "you'll likely see what you want to see. That's why we have parameters for how much a photo can be enlarged or cropped."

"Then I'd like to request another overflight by the KH-14," Collins said. "We need more photos of those rail cars."

"All right, all right," Sahl said. "I agree. I can start the request for some air time on KH-14 for Tashkent, but I'm not sure if they'll approve it."

"Sir, I realize you suspect this is just another junior photo interpreter trying to score points, but it's not. I really believe there's something going on. Something big."

Sahl tried to hide a wry smile, took one more look at the photos, then tossed them on the desk. "You mentioned Iran. Tell me, Collins, how could six invisible Condor transports and seventy alleged GL-25 mobile missile launchers in Tashkent lead you to the assumption that this is all part of an Iranian invasion group?"

Collins hesitated. Too late to retreat now, buddy, he told himself. "It wasn't just the missiles or the transports, sir. It's the buildup of Russian ships in the Persian Gulf and the Brezhnev carrier battle group that sneaked into the Gulf last month. It was that unsuccessful counterrevolution in Iran that CIA said was sponsored and financed by the Russians. It's—"

"It's also bull, Collins," Barnes cut in. "Your job isn't to come up with a wild hypothesis based on second- and third-hand information. Your job is to take KH-14 imagery and describe it. Period."

"I thought my job was analysis. This is important, I know it. And I know it's urgent enough to require special attention—"

"Are you sure it's not you who wants the special attention?" Barnes said, fixing him with a drop-dead stare.

Sahl raised a hand. "That's enough for now, Preston. I believe Collins is one hundred percent sincere. Give him that." He turned to the photo interpreter. "Hot dogs come by the gross around here, Mr. Collins. Plenty of people want to make the splash, but they do it knowing that they don't have to take the heat — the real heat — if they're wrong. Are you willing to take the heat?"

His question hung in the air for a moment, a long moment; then Sahl said, "Why don't we try a little experiment? I'm going to put your name on this report. I'll clear it for the director's review and put it on his desk with a recommendation based on your findings that we follow up on this with another series of KH-14 overflights. If there's any heat from the director's staff, you take it. Sound good?"

Collins looked frozen in place… It's not a KH-14 Block Three analysis, he thought, or a Satellite Photo Recce section report — it's my report. A Jackson Collins report. Okay, damn it, I asked for it… "Yes, sir — with one request. That I be given another week to make the presentation my way."

Sahl glanced at Barnes. "What's wrong with this?" and glanced at the thick report on his desk. "It's a standard section report, sir. As it stands it doesn't convince anyone of the seriousness developing at Tashkent. I mean, it didn't convince you!"

"And whose fault is that?" Barnes said.

"It's mine, sir. I'd like a chance to fix it."

Sahl was impressed. This wasn't what you'd expect from a youngster. "I'm putting it on the director's staff-meeting agenda for Friday," he said. "This is Tuesday. You have until Friday morning to redo the report and refine your presentation. If you can't do it by then, forget it. This division doesn't operate on your personal timetable or mine or anybody's."

No hesitation this time from Collins. "Thank you, sir. I'll be ready."

He hoped.