Defcon One (1989) (22 page)

Okay, Blaylocke looked around the conference table, let's take a break, gentlemen.

The vice president faced the CIA director. Ted, I expect an immediate response when you receive any further information.

The intelligence agency boss didn't respond, only nodding yes to the imposing woman.

SHUTTLE COLUMBIA The 4.4-million-pound space shuttle, poised for flight, was bathed in soft moonlight.

The han dover/ingress personnel had already spent several hours in Columbia checking every detail in preparation for the early morning launch.

The tempo was picking up as the flight crew settled into their launch positions.

On the flight deck, Colonel Crawford, Hank Doherty, Alan Cressottie, and Doctor Tran were strapped into their seats. The astronauts were on their backs in a sitting position. Ward Culdrew was seated in the mid-deck cabin, apprehensive at not having any controls of his own.

The liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen had already been pumped into the orbiter. Mission Control now acknowledged the final countdown.

Columbia, this is Launch Control. Radio check, over.

Roger, Crawford answered, switching to Mission Control and repeating the radio check.

The crew continued with the preflight checks, including abort advisory, side hatch closure, and cabin leak check.

Control, Columbia shows cabin pressure nominal, Crawford reported.

Roger, nominal.

Crawford continued with the preflight preparations, carefully monitoring the checklist.

Control, IMU alignment complete. Crawford looked at the Inertial Measurement Unit and continued. We show two-eight degrees, three-six minutes, three-zero point three-two seconds north, by eight-zero degrees, three-six minutes one-four point eight-eight seconds west.

Over.

Concur, Columbia.

Houston, commander's voice check.

Copy, replied the distant voice.

Pilot voice check, Doherty reported.

Roger, Hank.

Five minutes passed as the flight plan was loaded into the computers.

The flight deck CRTS would now indicate any guidance navigation or control system faults, along with the launch trajectory.

Mission Control performed a mandatory check at T-minus fifteen minutes.

Columbia, we are conducting the abort check, over.

Crawford glanced at the blinking annunciator lights, then looked at Doherty. The pilot acknowledged the abort signal as Crawford keyed his microphone.

Looks good, Houston.

Crawford then copied the latest landing weather data for a return to launch site abort, or abort down range.

At the same time, three Marine Cobra gunship helicopters lifted off the shuttle runway. The trio made two sweeps down the beach and then settled into a racetrack pattern around the orbiter.

Houston, Columbia. Event timer started.

Roger.

Columbia, initiate APU pre-start.

Roger, Houston, Crawford replied. Powering up APUS.

Columbia, you are on internal power.

Copy internal, Crawford read back, checking the movement of the flight control surfaces and exercising the hydraulic systems.

At T-minus three minutes the orbiter's main engines swiveled to their launch positions.

Columbia, main engine gimbal complete.

Copy, Houston.

Columbia, H-two tank pressurization okay. You are go for launch at this time.

Go for launch, Crawford responded, adrenaline pumping more rapidly in his veins.

At T-minus twenty-five seconds the shuttle countdown switched over to onboard computers.

Fifteen seconds and counting, Houston reported in a calm, relaxed voice.

There was no reply from the shuttle crew.

Five, four we have main engine start two, one, zero.

SRB ignition, lift off! We have lift off!

At T-plus 2.64 seconds the shuttle's solid rocket boosters ignited.

The tower has been cleared. All engines look good, Houston informed the orbiter crew.

Roger, Houston. Looking' good here.

Instituting roll maneuver, Houston reported to Crawford.

Roger, rolling, Crawford responded, closely watching his attitude direction indicator (ADD.

The mammoth shuttle, belching clouds of billowing white smoke, thundering like a thousand jets, began a slow 120degree roll to a heads down crew position. The ground shook for miles in every direction.

The circling helicopter gunships spread out and descended to two hundred feet.

Roll completed, Columbia. You're looking good.

Approximately forty-five seconds into the flight, at the speed of sound (Mach One), the main engines throttled down from 100 percent to 65 percent.

Houston, main engines at sixty-five percent.

Copy, Columbia.

Twenty-eight seconds elapsed before the shuttle reached maximum dynamic pressure.

Houston, Max Q, Crawford radioed in a tense voice.

Throttle up to one hundred percent.

Everyone in Mission Control crossed their fingers, remembering this point in the Challenger disaster.

Crawford, breathing easier, looked over at Hank Doherty.

The orbiter pilot replied with a thumbs up gesture. So far, so good, boss.

Houston, we have SRB burnout.

Roger, Columbia, the relieved voice responded.

Stand by for separation.

The solid rocket boosters exploded off the shuttle, falling smoothly in a graceful arc.

Houston, we have separation, Crawford reported.

We can see that. Looks good, Columbia.

Columbia, you are negative return. Copy?

Roger, negative return, Crawford replied, realizing the cape could not be used for an emergency return.

Crawford, aware of the tension in his voice, checked with each crewman over the intercom system.

Drew, you okay down there?

My ass is so puckered, you couldn't drive a knittin' needle up it!

Next mission. Drew, Crawford said with chuckle, we'll place a stick down there so you can help drive.

Thanks, boss, the Marine pilot replied. You figure the news people are awake yet?

Laughter filled the flight deck while Crawford checked his instrument panel. They could reach orbit even if two main engines failed.

Houston, we are single engine press to MECO.

Roger, Columbia. Press to MECO.

The main engines began to throttle down to keep acceleration below 3-G.

Columbia, main engine throttle down.

Copy, Houston, Crawford responded, intently watching the instrument panel.

Another minute passed before Mission Control talked with Crawford.

Columbia, go for main engine cutoff.

Roger, main engine cut-off on schedule, Crawford replied in a more relaxed voice.

Columbia, go for external tank separation.

The huge orange tank fell away, tumbling to its destruction in the ocean far below.

We have separation; looks clean, Crawford radioed.

The shuttle rapidly approached orbital insertion.

Columbia, you are go for OMS-one burn.

' Roger, cleared for orbital maneuvering system burn number one.

The APUS were shut down and the external tank umbilical doors were closed.

Columbia, coming up on OMS-two.

Roger, Houston.

Less than a minute passed before Crawford spoke to Mission Control.

OMS-two cut-off. We have achieved orbit, Houston.

Congratulations, Columbia. Time to go to work.

MOSCOW Dimitri stared, frozen in horror, at the Volga's blood-splattered windshield.

WIPE OFF MY WINDOW! The American agent was shouting above the roar of the engine. His right arm was hanging limp, blood coursing down his sleeve.

Dimitri used his forearm to clear a section of the windshield, losing his balance as the car skidded through a corner and bounced off a curb.

Return their fire. NOW, GODDAMNIT! The CIA agent's face was ashen white.

Dimitri, shaking from shock, glanced out the rear window.

The glass was completely gone, save a few shards sticking out of the lower molding.

Shoot at the grill! Wickham ordered, knowing Dimitri would probably yank on the trigger, causing the round to go high, and, hopefully, hit the driver.

Dimitri fumbled for his Beretta. As he turned in his seat, knees drawn up, the Volga bounced through an intersection, throwing Dimitri against the passenger door.

BOOM!!

Dimitri accidentally pulled the trigger, sending a round into the seat next to the CIA agent.

GODDAMN! SHOOT THEM, NOT ME, FOR CHRISSAKE!

Dimitri, shaking violently, placed the Beretta over the front seat, staring at the black KGB car seventy meters in trail.

Grab it with both hands, like you were taught! Rest the weapon on top of the seat and aim for the grill. Wickham was yelling over the screaming engine.

BOOM! ... BOOM! BOOM!

The windshield of the KGB car shattered in an explosion of glass particles and metal fragments.

Dimitri stared, fascinated, as the pursuing automobile swerved to the right and crashed into the back of a parked truck. The entire upper body of the Volga was torn off as it nose-dived under the huge truck, decapitating the two Russians.

Outstanding, Wickham yelled. Hold on for just three minutes, okay?

Okay, Dimitri responded, looking closely at the American for the first time since he had been shot.

Dimitri could see the agent had a streak of blood across the right side of his head, slightly above his ear, where a round had grazed his skull.Blood was running down the side of his head, saturating his coat collar.

What frightened Dimitri most was the gaping wound in the agent's right shoulder. Most of the flesh, along with his coat sleeve, had been torn away on the outside.

Dimitri, take off your belt ... Make a tourniquet under my armpit and over my shoulder. The agent groaned. As close to my neck as possible.

Wickham slowed to a speed consistent with traffic and made two turns, one left and one right, then blended into the flow of vehicles on Spasskaya Boulevard.

As Dimitri applied the tourniquet, the CIA agent briefed him. We are going to steal a car, a bureaucrat's car, and drive to an outlying train station.

Dimitri gave the American an incredulous look as he twisted the tourniquet tighter.

The best disguise, under the circumstances. We have our credentials, the agent groaned again, and I can camouflage my shoulder and head.

Dimitri remained silent, brooding.

You with me, Dimitri?

Yes. I am with you.

Okay, let's move it!

Dimitri nodded, still in shock. His mind was working slowly, mechanically.

Reach in the glove box and reload your weapon. Put some extra rounds in your coat pocket.

Dimitri complied as they turned a corner next to a government building by the Hotel Minsk. Wickham drove past the parking area and turned into a narrow alley.

Dimitri stared at Wickham, thinking he was insane. Every KGB and GRU officer in Moscow was after them and the American was going to steal a Soviet government vehicle.

The Russian immigrant now understood what the CIA director of clandestine operations had meant when he said Stephen Wickham was the best in the business.

Wickham, a former Marine captain and decorated combat veteran of the Grenada invasion, was regarded as a real-life hero throughout the Central Intelligence Agency.

Wickham stopped the car, ripped off his undershirt, wrapped his head, then jammed his hat over the makeshift bandage.

The American then relocated the tourniquet under his topcoat and turned to the young spy.

Dimitri, walk across the street and wait for me by the row of trees next to the corner.

Yes sir, Dimitri replied, glancing up and down the alley.

I'll pick you up in five minutes. Don't do anything to draw attention.' Wickham looked down at his shoulder. * Understand? Yes, Dimitri said. By the row of trees.

Okay, here we go.

The two men got out of the car. Dimitri walked across the busy street while the American proceeded toward the parking area.

COBRA FLIGHT Cobra, Pinwheel. You have multiple bogies at eleven o'clock, thirty-five out, blocking three-three-zero to four-one-oh.

Roger, Pinwheel, Digennaro replied, scanning his radar scope and instrument panel.

Time, Bill. Let's climb to forty-three-oh until we have a visual.

Roger, forty-three, Parnam responded quietly, checking his radar and armament switches.