Silver Tower

CHAPTER 9

"Your turn. "

Ann selected two fifty-pound tension bands, slipped them onto the bars on the Soloflex machine, and floated over to the bench and sat down. "One hundred pounds. Very impressive," Ted Moyer, an electronics tech, said approvingly. No reply from Ann. "You're very quiet today."

"Living in space," Ann said, "definitely isn't as glamorous or as 'cosmically uplifting' as I thought it'd be." She rubbed an ache out of her left tricep. "At first, it was all very exciting — orbiting hundreds of miles above Earth. But the novelty has definitely worn off."

"Well," Moyer said, trying to boost her morale, "we're doing something that only a few hundred people have ever done."

She acted as if she hadn't heard him. "Take weight training. I love to run, but pumping iron — or, in space, pumping rubber — was never my idea of fun."

"You're good at it."

"I do it because it helps keep me fit and because we're required to do it. I could spend hours on the bicycle or treadmill, but after a half hour on the Soloflex machine I'm ready to volunteer to change CO2 scrubbers, vacuum the walls, anything. "

Moyer gave a sympathetic nod. Ann laid down on the machine's bench, centered the bar above her chest-and found herself immediately focusing on a hand hold on the ceiling and consciously controlling her breathing. "Still getting the spins, Ann?"

"Damn," she said as she fought for control. "They told me it would only take a matter of days and I'd get over it. But it's just not going away."

Moyer let her lie quietly on the workout bench for a few moments. Then: "Better?"

"Yeah," she said, blinking and taking a few deep breaths. She tried performing a few more repetitions but the nausea returned.

"Why don't you call it a workout," Moyer said, realizing she had a ways to go before she was fully acclimated.

"It's okay…?" she said.

"Sure. You've been at this for an hour. That's enough for today."

She flashed a grateful smile, then made her way "down" the exercise module, through a vertical hatch, and into the sleep area.

If you were in a bad mood, she decided, the sleep module could be a depressing place. Because of Silver Tower's lower than Earth-normal atmospheric density, and because the real noisemakers on the station — the four attitude-adjustment thrusters — were almost two hundred yards away on the ends of the station's center beam, the station was already a very quiet place to be. But the sleep module, which was well insulated and isolated from most of the station's activity, was even quieter; and, despite its light, cheery atmosphere, its plants and its decorations, it resembled a mausoleum. With three groups of two horizontal telephone-booth-sized curtained sleep chambers on each side of the module, she could not suppress the thought of rows of caskets stacked all around her.

Putting the sleep chambers out of her mind, Ann retrieved a bathrobe and headed for her PHS, personal hygiene station.

Showers in space were little more than complicated sponge baths. She first donned a pair of plastic eye protectors, like sunbathers or swimmers wear, then wet a washcloth with a stream of water. As she directed a short stream of warm water along her body, the blobs of water that didn't shoot out in all directions like soft BBs made eerie amoeba-like puddles. The puddles moved everywhere — up her back, up her legs, under her arms — as if they truly did have tiny little legs.

Next she sprayed a little liquid soap on the washcloth, scrubbed herself with the cloth and a handy water blob, then rinsed. Even a relaxed vacuum shower used about five gallons of water; the occupant might actually drown in floating water blobs if there was more than five gallons of water loose in the shower.

Before opening the shower door and reaching for a towel, she activated a rubber-covered button. A powerful fan built into the shower floor sucked the water blobs from their orbits all around her down to collectors in the floor. She swept a few persistent blobs from the shower walls, took off the plastic eye protectors, opened the stall and reached for a towel. A wide mirror mounted on the wall caught her reflection, and as she had done three weeks before in the visiting officer's quarters back in Vandenburg she stopped to take stock. Space was murder on a woman. Even though daily exercise had kept her face naturally lean, fluids and fat cells had redistributed themselves, giving her a slightly Oriental look, which contrasted with a noticeable increase in height — microgravity had awarded her three extra inches — and a loss in body weight of about six pounds.

Well, maybe as usual she was too hard on herself, but she certainly didn't feel too desirable at the moment, although normal female desires were intact. Part of it, she knew, was that her work on Skybolt had gone forward in fits and starts, with more problems to overcome than she'd anticipated. Any time her work was not going well her self-image took a hit. She knew it was irrational to link her desirability as a woman with her progress in the laboratory, but she couldn't separate the two… She had been using her intelligence and professional acumen to win acceptance for so long.

Telling herself to cut it out, she promptly ignored her own injunction, wondering what the station's commander, Brigadier General Jason Saint-Michael, thought of her work so far. A strange man, Saint-Michael. Difficult to get a fix on. Considering what Colonel Walker had told her about the general's sponsorship of her project, she had expected a warm welcome from him. But their first meeting the day after she arrived had been a very perfunctory affair indeed. When the conversation turned briefly to the laser, he had shown little enthusiasm. It seemed he was preoccupied with something else and not really listening to what she had said.

As she pulled on a fresh, powder-blue flight suit and set off for the station's galley, she mentally reviewed what else she'd learned about Saint-Michael in the short time she'd been here. Most of her information had come from the talkative engineering chief, Wayne Marks. The way Marks told it, Saint-Michael was a legend in Space Command — what some called a "fast burner. " After graduating at the top of his pilot class he'd made captain easily and become an Air Training Command instructor pilot. From ATC it was on to Air Command and Staff college at Maxwell Air Force Base, Alabama, where he wrote a paper laying out fundamentals of what would later be called the United States Space Command, an organization that would control America's space-based defensive armaments.

Saint-Michael's paper somehow found its way to the desk of the president, who liked what he read, and Saint-Michael, at age forty, found himself with a general's star and stewardship of the nascent Space Command — an organization that at the time existed only on paper. How Saint-Michael was able to build up Space Command to its present level was never precisely clear to anyone outside the inner circle of power but it was said that the general, by sheer charismatic force, had eventually been able to make converts out of his strongest adversaries. It seemed he had that sort of effect on people.

At least that was Marks's version. For her part Ann, feeling a bit let down, she admitted, by her nonreception, had failed to discern any special magnetism, animal or otherwise, in the man. He was efficient, no question, in complete command of the myriad operations aboard Silver Tower. But there was also a remoteness about him, a detached air edging on imperiousness that tended to leave her cold. If indeed he was a fast burner, he hadn't turned any of his heat her way…

She moved through the cargo docking area and across to the connecting tunnel leading to the primary docking module. As usual she stopped and admired the spectacular view of Silver Tower orbiting above planet earth. The most eerie sight was space itself — a deep, pure, haunting blackness that was remarkable for its uniformity, its lack of gradation. As a child growing up in Massachusetts she had always felt insignificant somehow, watching an approaching thunderstorm darken the landscape. During the summers she had often camped in the Maine woods, where it had been so dark she literally hadn't been able to see her hand in front of her face. But space was a million times more so. The darkness was total, absolute, shrinking, swallowing everything in it. Space somehow seemed like a living thing, like two giant hands cupped together around the tiny station, cutting out all air and light…

It took less than a minute for Ann to reach the galley and begin the delicate task of making coffee: put "coffee bag" into an insulated drinking cup, snap lid on, watch as hot water is injected in cup. By the numbers, like so much else around here. "One for me, too, please," a deep voice called out behind her. She turned and saw Jason Saint-Michael floating through the hatch. "Good morning, General," Ann said. As she placed a coffee bag into another cup, she watched the powerfully built officer plant his feet on a Velcro pad six feet away and stand with arms crossed. "I take mine black," he said.

She nodded and reached for the first cup of coffee, which had just finished. She tossed the cup over to Saint-Michael, noticing with satisfaction that it sailed directly into his hand.

"You're really becoming a pro at this."

"Fixing coffee isn't exactly high-tech, General."

"How's the space-sickness?"

She looked at him. Why the sudden interest in her? "All right. I still feel the 'leans' when I move upside-down but the nausea is going away."

"It takes some people longer to adapt." He seemed to study her for a long moment, then asked: "And how's life on the station going?"

"Life? As opposed to work?"

"I guess that's what I mean. I know there have been some problems getting the laser ready for the first beam test, but maybe you're worrying too much. You stay off by yourself when you're not working on Skybolt…"

"Does that worry you?"

"It does, frankly. You don't have to be a shrink to realize that someone who stays by herself so much may be having trouble coping. Problems like that get exaggerated in space. Up here we're all our brother's keeper…"

Ann took a sip of coffee (actually "sipping" with a straw-like drink tube on the cup was very difficult) and squinted as the liquid stung her throat. "I'm sure you're right but I don't think I'm a candidate for special treatment—"

"Anyone hassling you, bothering you in any way?" he persisted. "I know being the only female on the station can be a little awkward—"

"You know what it's like?" She smiled when she said it. "Well, I'm guessing it's a little like being the only general officer on this station."

He didn't return the smile. The lady seemed pretty damn defensive… "I can't exactly be 'one of the boys' around here, but I can't afford to alienate anyone, either. I walk a tightrope, which I imagine you have to do, too… Look, I'm just trying to help. Sorry if I'm out of line." He watched her for a moment. "You don't much like it up here, do you?"

"What I like doesn't matter. I also don't want any special treatment, okay, General? I have a job to do — and that's what matters…"

An awkward silence, then: "You're really very attractive, you know…"

She just looked at him, started to say something, then set down her coffee cup on the Velcro counter. "General, if you really knew what it's like to be the only female on this station, you wouldn't have just said that." She pushed off the floor, floated past him out through the galley hatch.

He watched her receding form, shook his head. Way to go, Jason. You really can be an ass.

"Attention on the station, two minutes… mark. Report by station when secure for test."

Ann took one last sip of water from the squeeze bottle, then stuck it on a Velcro strip on the ceiling. On earth she might have squirted the rest of the water down her shirt to help battle the heat and perspiration, but in space such a luxury was impossible. The Skybolt control module was oppressively warm, stifling; the equipment air conditioning and cooling fans may have been keeping her instruments comfortable, but the module's lone occupant felt as though she was in a sauna.

She sat at her tiny control station completely surrounded by equipment. The only illumination came from the twelve-inch computer monitor in front of her. A narrow corridor, too narrow for two people to pass by each other, led from her station to the sealed module hatch and connecting tunnel. The air had the faint smell of ozone, electrified air and sweat.

But soon after beginning work on Silver Tower, Ann had learned to ignore such things. She had no room to work in because she had four times more equipment than any other scientist or any other project ever had before. Today all the hard work and sacrifice… if that's what it had been… was about to pay off. Or so she hoped… "Skybolt is ready, Control," she reported. "System is on full automatic."

"Copy, Skybolt," Saint-Michael said over interphone. "Good luck."

"Thank you, sir. Thirty seconds."

She made one last systems check. Her master computer would make a three-second self-test of the superconducting circuits, microprocessors and relays under its control. The results of the self-test flashed on her screen: all systems go. It was working, Ann thought. It was working perfectly.

"It's not working." Chief Master Sergeant Jake Jefferson pointed to his large two-foot by three-foot rectangular display screen, representing the one-thousand-mile scan range of Silver Tower's huge space-based, phased-array radar. He had electronically squelched out all objects detected by the SBR that were less than five hundred pounds, all ground returns and all previously identified objects; even so, the screen was filled with blips. Each blip had a code assigned to it by Silver Tower's surveillance computer. On the margins of the rectangular screen, data on the object's flight path and orbit were displayed. Any object within fifty miles of Silver Tower's orbit was highlighted. The tech pointed to the nearest such object on the screen. "There it is, Skipper." Saint-Michael maneuvered himself around to the screen and anchored himself on the Velcro carpeting.

It was an Agena-Three cargo spacecraft, one of the small fleet of unmanned modules used to resupply the American and European space platforms. This one had been fitted with detection-and-analysis equipment as well as sensors to record laser hits made against it. The Skybolt computer had already been programmed to consider this Agena "hostile." For the next three hours the Agena would follow a track similar to the track a Soviet ICBM would follow from launch to impact in the United States.

"Altitude?"

"Five hundred on the nose." Jefferson pointed to the object's flight data readout, which had just appeared. "We should be picking up its identification beacon any sec—"

An extra three lines of data printed themselves just under the flight data block, identifying the newcomer as an Agena-Three unmanned spacecraft launched from Vandenburg and belonging to the United- States Space Command. The information remained on the screen for three seconds, then disappeared as the computer squelched off the identified. "Bring it back," Saint-Michael said. Jefferson punched two buttons on his keyboard, rolled a cursor over to the spot where the blip had been and pushed a button. The Agena's blip and data block returned.

"Skybolt hasn't keyed on it yet?" Saint-Michael asked.

"Negative."

"Maybe it squelched it out."

"Skybolt doesn't squelch out any targets," Colonel Walker reminded Saint-Michael. "It's supposed to track and evaluate everything detected by the SBR. If it's considered hostile, it's supposed to act."

"Maybe Skybolt wasn't reprogrammed to consider it a hostile," a technician, Sean Kelly, said.

"Or maybe Skybolt is screwing up," Saint-Michael said. Jefferson nodded in agreement, then keyed his interphone mike. "Skybolt, this is Control."

Saint-Michael grasped his shoulder. "Don't, Jake. Let's see what Skybolt does."

"Go ahead, Control," Ann replied.

Jefferson looked at Saint-Michael, then at Walker. Walker shrugged, silently deferring to his commanding officer. "Disregard," Jefferson said, and clicked off his mike.

The group watched as the Agena spacecraft marched across the screen. The SBR tracked it easily. "Still nothing?" Saint-Michael asked. "Not yet," Jefferson said. "Target on course. Thirty seconds to midcourse transition…"

Suddenly the station's warning horn blared, crowed three times; then a high-pitched computer-synthesized voice announced: "Attention on the station. Tracking hostile contact. Tracking hostile contact."

"About thirty seconds late, but it finally found it," Walker said.

"Skybolt transmitting warning message to Falcon Space Command headquarters, sir," the communications officer reported. A pause, then: "Falcon acknowledges."

"So we have a machine fighting our battles for us," Saint-Michael muttered. "Damn thing even makes radio calls."

"Attention on the station" — the computerized voice. "Impact prediction on hostile contact. Impact prediction on hostile contact."

"It's finally figured out what's going on," Saint-Michael said. "Well, let's see how well it reacts."

"Coming up on midcourse transition," Jefferson reported. "Thirty seconds to simulated warhead-bus separation."

The Agena would not actually release any warheads, but the spacecraft's orbit had been sequenced like a real ICBM to monitor Skybolt's performance. The goal was to destroy the ICBM as early as possible, either in its very vulnerable boost phase or at the latest at the apogee — the ICBM bus's highest altitude in its ballistic flight path. Once past apogee the target would become increasingly difficult to hit. "Skybolt had better damn hurry," Walker said. "The thing will MIRV any second… "

Abruptly every light aboard Silver Tower dimmed. The station's backup power systems snapped on. Warning horns blared.

"MHD reactor activated," someone in the command module called out.

"Skybolt's not tracking the Agena," Jefferson reported. He checked his instruments, squinting in the sudden gloom of the command module. "Still not tracking…"

The rest of his sentence was lost in a deafening blast. It was as if a huge bolt of lightning had just burst directly beneath them. The entire command module felt warm, and flesh crawled. "Laser firing," Jefferson shouted. "Firing… again… again… still firing…!"

Walker grasped a handhold — although the station did not move, the sudden burst of energy surging through the station made it feel as if the whole five-hundred-ton facility was cartwheeling. "Skybolt's still not tracking the target," he shouted. "It's firing, but not at the Agena."

Saint-Michael swung around to another technician near the connecting hatch to the research module. "Any hits, Bayles?"

The tech shook his head. "Clean misses. Sensors not recording any energy levels at all."

"Damn. Discharge inhibit," Saint-Michael ordered. Immediately, the crappe of electricity and the sound of lightning ceased. Slowly the cabin lights returned to normal.

Saint-Michael put a finger on his mike button, expecting the next call… "Control, this is Skybolt," Ann said over the interphone. "The laser's being inhibited in your section. Check your controls. "

"I ordered the stop," Saint-Michael said.

"Why?"

"Because it wasn't hitting anything."

Silence. Saint-Michael watched his crewmen slowly relaxing from the tumult of Skybolt's first bursts and the multiple alarms it had set off. "Station check," he said, forcibly trying to control his own accelerated breathing.

"Skybolt is ready for another series," Ann reported.

"Agena target is well past MIRV transition," technician Kelly said. "It'll go out of range in sixty seconds."

"Let's wait until the second orbit, Ann," Saint-Michael said. The techs in the command module showed they agreed with the decision by wiping sweat from foreheads and reaching for water bottles.

"But, sir—"

"The target is almost out of SBR range. You'll get another chance soon."

A long pause, then: "I'm clearing off, Control."

Walker looked over at his commander and smiled. "She didn't sound happy," Walker said.

"I'm not celebrating, either. God, I didn't know that thing made so much racket. Did we sustain any damage from the power drop?"

Walker checked with the four techs in the command module. "No damage, sir. I didn't expect that drop either, but it makes sense. The MHD reactor needs a big jolt to get started."

"But not from the main station batteries," Wayne Marks put in. "Skybolt's battery is charged from the solar arrays, but it's supposed to cut off before MHD ignition."

"Can the voltage spike suppressors handle it?"

"I don't see why not. I'll check everything out before the next test series."

Saint-Michael nodded and maneuvered over to the Agena-monitoring panel. "I really would've been happier if the laser had hit its target…"

At which point Ann entered the command center and without a word to either Saint-Michael or Walker, reached across Jefferson's shoulder and punched up the target-sensor summary on his console. "Where's the hit summary?" She scrolled through the timed readouts, then turned on Jefferson. "I said, where are the hit records?"

"That's it, Ann," Saint-Michael said. "Skybolt didn't hit the target."

"What the hell do you mean?"

"I mean, it didn't hit. Skybolt never even tracked the target. It spotted it thirty seconds after it appeared on the SBR, but it never locked on."

"But it fired. Thirty pulses, seventy-five millisecond bursts, one hundred kilowatts on the dot.

"Ann…"

"Skybolt can't fire unless it's tracking a target. It announced detection. It projected the flight path. It computed the track and fired…"

"But it never locked on," Walker insisted. "The skipper inhibited discharge when he was told Skybolt wasn't tracking and that no hits were detected. That's a proper precaution, you've got to admit."

Ann punched a few more pages on the computer screen, finally convinced herself they were right. "I don't understand. Everything checked out. The laser worked perfectly…" She turned to Saint-Michael. "Well, we'll try it again in forty minutes. We'll nail it for sure this time."

Saint-Michael nodded. "But I'll keep the beam inhibit on until we see that Skybolt has locked onto the target."

"That's really not necessary, sir."

"Ann, I can't allow that laser to fire into space indiscriminately. I don't know where it went. It could be a hazard—"

"A seventy-five-millisecond burst of only one hundred kilowatts is no hazard."

"In close range it could be. There's obviously a glitch somewhere. Skybolt is getting an erroneous tracking signal and firing when it shouldn't. For all we know we may have hit someone's satellite."

Ann looked deflated, said nothing.

"And that power surge was completely unexpected," Saint-Michael added.

"Power surge?"

"You didn't notice it?" Walker said. Ann shook her head. "It dimmed all the lights and almost took out all station power. The backups kept the main power from dumping."

"But Skybolt has its own batteries. It doesn't draw on station power at all…"

"Well, in this case it did."

"That's impossible…"

"Ann," Saint-Michael said. "What we've been saying is the truth. Skybolt didn't track the target until nearly thirty seconds after it appeared on radar. It never locked onto the target. It drew off station power to activate the MHD reactor, it fired without locking onto anything and it failed to hit the target. Period." He ignored her high dudgeon. "I'll allow a second test firing, but only after engineering confirms that our suppressors and power backups can handle another surge. If they can't assure me that this station's equipment won't suffer any damage, the tests are over until the problem is corrected. If we go ahead with the test, I'll maintain a command-beam discharge-inhibit until I see a positive target lock-on. If I don't see a lock-on to the designated target, the test is over."

"General!"

"All clear, Dr. Page?" Saint-Michael accented each. word.

Drop dead. "Clear, sir." She slid past Saint-Michael and Walker and headed back to the Skybolt control module, the two officers watching her half-glide, half-jump through the connecting hatch. "She's been working sixteen, twenty hours a day on that thing," Walker said. "I'd be pissed, too, if my pride and joy had just flunked out. "

Saint-Michael was noncommittal. "Get me a report on the power situation and the crew's technical opinion on a second test firing. Also check out the Agena and the SBR. Maybe… maybe the problem's not with Skybolt.

Walker nodded.

"And you handle the command inhibit."

"Where will you be?"

Saint-Michael watched the hatch leading to the connecting tunnel close. "In the Skybolt module. Pipe all communications down there." Without waiting for Walker's response Saint-Michael headed toward the connecting hatch.

It was a tight squeeze but a few moments later Saint-Michael had wedged himself into the narrow walkway down the middle of the Skybolt control module.

He clicked his wireless microphone on. "Control, this is Alpha. Status of the backup power systems?"

"Sir, this is Marks. Backups are fully functional. No apparent damage. They're doing what they're supposed to do."

"How much time until the Agena comes back around?"

"Estimating fifty minutes, sir."

Saint-Michael looked at Ann, who was busy pulling a relay box from an electronics cabinet and inspecting the settings on a long row of circuit boards. "You're a go for another shot."

She pretended not to hear and slapped the box back into its slot, snapped the latches shut, maneuvered toward Saint-Michael to another relay box and nearly jammed Saint-Michael in the ribs as she removed it. "Excuse me, sir."

"Listen, Page, you had better get that damned chip off your shoulder. It's too much baggage for this station—"

Ann ripped a twelve-inch-square circuit board out of the relay box with an angry yank. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, Sir." She avoided his stare and went back to her work space to find a replacement circuit board.

"You know this test will fail, too, don't you?" Saint-Michael said.

Ann turned on him. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, General. But that's all right. I knew that's how you felt right from the beginning. You never wanted this project—"

"You have got things screwed up… " He shook his head. "How did you ever get picked for this project? Sure as hell not for your glorious personality."

She plugged the new circuit board into its slot. "I'm here, sir, because this is my project. If you don't think it'll work, if you think it's all a waste of time, that's your prerogative—"

"I didn't feel that way at first. I guess it's your wonderful attitude that jams my gears—"

"My attitude has nothing to do with this project or your gears…"

"Has everything to do with it."

She ignored that and moved back to her work station, punching buttons on the keyboard hard enough to rattle the desk.

" 'My' laser, 'my' module, 'my' project. This isn't your anything," he said.

"I designed it…"

"Did you build it? Did you fly it up here? Did you hook it up by yourself? Are you going to test it yourself? Now that there's a glitch in it, I suppose you think you're going to fix it yourself. It won't tie into the SRR, it won't isolate from the stations' batteries, it won't lock on, it won't hit what it's supposed to hit. But Ms. Super Scientist is going to fix it in fifty minutes by herself, and by God she's going to have a successful second firing or else."

Ann stared at the computer screen, her lips tight. Saint-Michael was on a roll. "Far be it from you to ask for help from any of us lowly military people. Your laser won't tie in with the SBR? Well, we happen to have three SBR experts on board this station but you haven't — consulted any of them. You have a tracking problem? We have Kevin Baker, a thirty-year veteran in space-tracking hardware and software on board, but you haven't talked to him… Let me make some wild guesses here. You also haven't asked one single person, on this station or on the ground, for help. You're not in contact with anyone at your lab in Boston or your corporation in California. No one on this station knows anything about your systems. As a matter of fact, I'll bet I'm the only person on this station who's ever been inside this module since it's been activated. How am I doing?"

Ann's fingers stopped tapping on the keyboard. She looked up from her work-desk at Saint-Michael, shrugged, kept quiet. "Ann, this is a tremendous project. The first space-based antiballistic missile laser. Two hundred megawatts of energy. Capable of destroying a hundred missiles a minute, maybe more. It's a fantastic device. And it works — the laser works exactly as advertised. You've done a tremendous job."

"I hear a 'but' coming."

"You're right," the general said, smiling in spite of himself. "But… no one person can be an expert on everything. You designed the Skybolt module to 'snap together' with Silver Tower. It's a technological marvel that the thing works at all. But there's a problem, and you're stuck—"

"I am not 'stuck."

"Then why did you replace that relay circuit board?"

She narrowed her eyes, then picked up the circuit board she had removed from the electronics rack. "This? It's a tracking interface channel multiplexer board. It controls the logic channels between the SBR and the laser-mirror aiming unit…"

"But you said in Control that everything checked out OK. And your last-second self-test, which repeated out in the command module, said everything was ready. Now, how did you know which board to replace?"

Her eyes lost some of their anger, refused to meet his. "I'm… I'm trying certain critical circuits. One might be… be fused or shorted—"

"Or maybe you happen to have a spare of that particular board. Maybe you felt the wed to try something, anything, before the next Agena pass. After that, you have at least twenty-four hours to hunt for the real problem before the next pass.

She stared at her workbench. "Let me make a suggestion. If you agree, I'll pass along a request from you to meet with Colonel Marks, Kevin Baker, Chief Jefferson and Technician Moyer just before the shift change. I'll tell them you'd like to talk with them about the beam test and Skybolt's interfacing problem."

He glanced over his shoulder toward the command module. "I can almost guarantee that those guys will be tickled to get their hands on Skybolt. You'll get help out your ears. It couldn't hurt."

She looked up from her workbench. "You really do want to help?"

He touched her lightly on the shoulder. "We all want to help. And it's nothing personal, so don't get all crazy on me. We're involved in the success of this wonder device of yours, too. Hell, I might even get another star if it works… promotion by association, you might say."

She allowed a smile, then typed in a command on her keyboard and went to her microphone. "Control, this is Skybolt."

"Go ahead."

"Second Skybolt beam test is postponed for a systems check. Skybolt is in stand-by. MHD is deactivated."

"Copy and confirmed."

She looked at Saint-Michael. "I'll ask the others to meet with me, General. I guess it's about time we got acquainted."

Three days later the space station's crew gathered in the command module to hear an announcement from Saint-Michael. As was his habit, the general got straight to the point. "We're moving Silver Tower," he said.

"Moving?" Colonel Marks said, clearly upset. "Where? I haven't heard anything about this…"

"You have some special feeling for this particular orbit, Wayne?"

"It's just… unexpected, Skipper."

"Space Command and the Pentagon have brought a few items of interest to my attention that I think we can help out with. For the first time since Thor was first deployed on this station, Armstrong Station has a chance to act less like an orbiting laboratory and more like a tactical fighting unit. The primary objective of the move is reconnaissance. We have the most sophisticated space-based radars in the world on this station, but right now they're only used to scan empty sky above Russian missile silos and scan for aircraft flying over the pole. We've become little else but a redundancy, and I think we should be doing more."

Heads nodded. Ann knew that what Saint-Michael was saying was right. Silver Tower tended to be thought of solely as the perfect place to conduct weapons experiments for the Strategic Defense Initiative Organization. The Skybolt project was only one of several being conducted on board the station — others included Kevin Baker's Thor experiment, and experiments on superconductor technology and space-based radar miniaturization. Silver Tower usually had as many civilians on board as military men, and the station's docking ports were always occupied. "So what's the job?" Colonel Walker asked. "Who are we going to spy on?"

Saint-Michael brought out a chart that he had been keeping beside his work station and Velcroed it to an instrument panel. It was a Mercator projection map of the globe with a wavy line drawn through it. The uppermost crest of the line passed over Iran; the lower part of the line passed between Chile and New Zealand over the south Pacific Ocean. "I propose moving Armstrong Station to a seven-hundred- by one-hundred-mile elliptical orbit. Three-hour orbit; two hours and ten minutes over Africa and lower Asia. One-and-a-half hours within direct scanning range of Iran. And I want it in the very same track on each orbit. "

There was a low rumble of voices as the crew of Silver Tower studied the chart. It was Colonel Marks who spoke up again. "On the same track? You mean-pass over the exact same points on the earth on each orbit?"

"Exactly."

"That sounds serious, General," Walker said.

Saint-Michael nodded. "It is. I've received an… observation, I suppose is the best word… about a surprisingly large military buildup in the Soviet's southern military district. The observation hasn't alarmed many in the Pentagon because the buildup coincides in some degree with an announced Soviet military exercise and a suspected fall resupply push into Afghanistan. Even so, there are a few who believe something far more extreme may be happening… something like an invasion of Iran."

Again there was a low rumble among the crew. Saint-Michael quieted them down, then went on. "The idea of an invasion of Iran may sound far-fetched, but to me, at least, it makes sense. Iran is in a state of transition. Its people are deeply divided between the old Khomeini Islamic fundamentalists and those who genuinely want to reestablish ties with the West. The prolonged war with Iraq has weakened the country's defenses. The point is, Iran is ripe for the picking."

"So what are we supposed to do, General?" Kevin Baker asked. Baker looked ten years younger than his actual age of sixty-five as he stood in a nylon — athletic warm-up suit, fresh out of the vacuum-shower after sixteen hours in space working on the station's Thor garage. "What are the orders from Washington?"

"I'm not talking about orders from Washington. This idea is mine. As I think you know, I have a good deal of discretionary authority when it comes to the operation of this station. I use it to avoid waste, accelerate research and development and make this station the most effective military unit of its kind. At least that's what I try to do. But it's been my feeling that Armstrong's great potential has been going to waste. We spend more energy on systems to defend ourselves than we, do on providing a necessary strategic warning or tracking capability for Space Command. Now we have an opportunity to provide that capability, so I need input from you. Let's hear it."

"It'll eat up tons of fuel," Marks put in. He made a fast mental calculation. "It'll mean sideslipping the station… at about nine hundred miles every hour."

"So?"

"So!"

Saint-Michael had to work to hide a wry smile. He had just activated Marks's mental microprocessors…

"Sir, it takes three hundred pounds of liquid hydrogen and oxygen a week for station attitude adjustments — which equates to approximately three hundred miles worth of movement. You're proposing to move the station nine hundred miles laterally an hour. That's an extra nine hundred pounds of propellant an hour. That's" — a slight pause— "twenty-one thousand, six hundred pounds of fuel per day. One-third of a shuttle cargo flight full of fuel — one-fourth of an Agena-Three vessel…"

"If the proposal is approved," Saint-Michael said, "there'll be a two-per-week resupply sortie. An Agena-Three unmanned cargo module can supply us with four days' worth of fuel."

"Why an elliptical orbit, General?" Walker asked. "An elliptical orbit only gives you a look once a day at most. An equatorial orbit will give you a look several times a day."

"I did some wagging on the computer," Saint-Michael said. "A one-hundred-and-fifty-nautical-mile equatorial orbit will place us over two thousand miles from the recon target area. That's the space-based radar's extreme range limit. I believe it'll be worth the extra fuel to set up an elliptical orbit, especially if it's adjusted for earth rotation — an equatorial orbit can't be adjusted."

Saint-Michael stepped back to his chart, pointing toward the rectangle marking the recon target area. "It'll be dicey," he said quietly. "Even without the threat of a Soviet invasion of Iran or a U.S.-USSR confrontation, we'll be orbiting over the worst possible place on earth. We'll be flying almost directly over the Soviet Union's primary antisatellite unit at Tyuratam, and the Sary Shagan Missile Test Center on Lake Balkash, where the Soviets supposedly have an active antisatellite and antiballistic missile laser—"

"Not supposedly,' General," Ann put in. "A laser powerful enough to blind satellites definitely has been in operation there for twenty years. The intelligence reports are underestimates. The Russians have a functional antisatellite laser system at Sary Shagan, maybe powerful enough to damage this station."

"There's little chance of that, Dr. Page," Jefferson said. "This station is heavily armored, After all, that's why it's called Silver Tower. The titanium-silver armor is stronger than—"

"Jake, the nickname is sort of outdated," Walker interrupted. "Only the original pressurized modules have the armoring, not the add-on center beam, radar arrays, fuel tanks or solar arrays."

"Right," Ann said, "that laser at Sary Shagan could slice through every unprotected device like butter."

There was a moment of silence, then Saint-Michael turned to Colonel Marks. "Wayne, could the electrolysis unit handle seven extra thousand gallons of water per day?"

"Easy," Marks said. "The unit was designed for a station twice the size of Silver Tower." The electrolysis unit, powered by the huge solar arrays, converted Silver Tower's fuel — plain seawater — into hydrogen and oxygen gas. Radiators, perpetually facing away from the sun toward the minus-three-hundred-degree coldness of space, then condensed the gases into liquids for storage, or pumps simply sent the gases into the station's four positioning engines to adjust the station's orbit and attitude. One unmanned Agena-Three supply tanker carrying sixty thousand pounds of water from earth would be enough for satellite, shuttle, and hypersonic plane refuelings and full station operation for a month.

"General, will moving the station interfere with any further Skybolt tests?" Ann asked. "I'll be ready for another free beam-test in three days. If things go well I'll be ready for another Agena-Three live-fire target test in a week."

Saint-Michael paused. "Sorry, Ann, but I have to recommend to Space Command that the Skybolt test be postponed for now. We'd be sure to catch hell for firing the laser so close to the Soviet Union's ICBM fields."

"General," she said quietly, too quietly, "we all worked very hard to advance this project ahead of schedule after the first partial-power test failed. In my opinion, sir, a successful Skybolt test should claim higher priority than an unsolicited recon mission."

"Your comment is noted, and now—"

"Then I have your assurance, General, that my objection will be given equal weight with your own arguments when you make your proposal to Space Command."

"As commander of this station I'm obliged to include recommendations and advice from all members of my crew. I am not, however, required to give assurances to anyone." He turned to Colonel Marks. "Wayne, I'd like you to double-check my figures on the proposed orbit and fuel calculations. Colonel Walker, get together with Wayne and set up a rough resupply schedule system using both shuttle and Agenas. " He took a deep breath. "Dr. Page, please outline the delays in your program and any potential problems caused by the delays."

He scanned the faces around him. "I want the data ready for encryption and transmission by tomorrow morning. I'll propose the station repositioning for three days from now." He looked directly at Ann, who didn't blink. "That's all. "

The group filed out, a few talking briefly with Saint-Michael before leaving. Ann made sure she was the last to talk with him.

"This plan comes as quite a surprise, General. I thought we had made a commitment to the Skybolt project."

"That hasn't changed, Ann. I'm not canceling Skybolt. But Armstrong Station is an operational military base, a tactical unit first and foremost. I've been supplied with information about a situation that could develop into a direct threat against the U.S. I've studied the available information and I've formulated a response for consideration and approval by headquarters—"

"But what about—"

"Ann, you can believe me or not, but I'm telling you I will not cancel Skybolt."

Okay, okay, she thought. Better not press him any further. In fact, better try to cool it. She had to live with these guys. And, when you thought about it, her future was in Saint-Michael's hands…