Red Hammer 1994

For the third and final time, the laser burned forth. This time it was a perfect shot. The reduced power level had required the beam to lase for close to three seconds, but it clearly packed enough punch. The propellant in the booster exploded violently, sending off a shower of fragments like holiday fireworks.

The entire room burst into applause, cheering wildly. The instant celebration intensified when the grinning mission director announced that the second ICBM had been knocked off course by a grazing blow and had failed to deploy its dummy reentry vehicles. As good as a hard kill, Thomas surmised. He stood in admiration as everyone slapped backs, a few of the overexcited civilians embracing in a well-earned moment of euphoria.

“Mission Control, this is Discovery, two for three, not bad.”

“Discovery, this is Mission Control, make that three for three. The second booster was knocked off course and malfunctioned. Good job! Let’s get you guys home.”

Discovery returned to earth, touching down at a backup strip at the White Sands Missile Range in New Mexico. She touched down at dusk, making it difficult to pick out her unique silhouette against the opaque blending of the darkening sky and the rugged spine of mountains to the west.

The mission director passed the word when Discovery was safe.

“General Morgan, Discovery has landed safely,” the mission director shouted, looking up, almost too weak to smile. His ordeal was over. “They reported the airspace was clear, and surveillance sweeps of the area showed no signs of intruders. We pulled it off, sir.”

Morgan, in the gallery, beamed from ear to ear. A gaggle of flag officers waited eagerly to shake his hand. Thomas stayed put on the floor and replayed the day’s momentous events. It was unmistakably the most remarkable demonstration of antiballistic-missile technology he could ever have imagined. Up until now, talk about destroying ballistic missiles in the boost phase had been just that—talk. Now there was a compact, prototype system which clearly showed the potential to significantly alter the strategic balance. Government scientists who witnessed the drama were already talking about how much better a future system could be in only two or three years—four times the power, faster recharge time, a more accurate pointing-and-tracking system, and probably one-half the weight.

The Russians? That one still bothered him. He had his doubts about strategic defenses and their effect on the nuclear equation. He hoped that wisdom wasn’t being pushed aside by euphoria run amuck.

High above the earth, coasting in an abnormal circular orbit of fifteen hundred nautical miles, a small Russian ferret satellite sprang to life, its burst communications transceiver spurting a compressed signal as it traversed Asia. Its passive IR and UV sensors had earlier detected a peculiar phenomenon over the middle of the Pacific Ocean and had dutifully reported the same.

CHAPTER 6

It was a cool, crisp morning in early May. Small, irregular puddles from the previous night’s drizzle steamed and dissolved under a bright blue, cloudless sky; the sun’s precious warmth was building in intensity. Moscow was shaking off the bitterest winter in nearly a decade. Skeleton trees struggled to unfurl their spring coats, while the usual rainbow of annuals lay moribund, bruised by recent temperature fluctuations.

Dr. Sergei Antonovich walked briskly across the old Red Square toward the massive stone edifice of the Kremlin Fortress, clutching a large, sealed brown envelope under his arm. He moved hunched over, deep in thought, his thinning gray hair blowing randomly in the light breeze from the east. He was plump and rumpled and looked every inch the research scientist. Approaching the gate beneath Savior Tower, he fumbled for the wrinkled piece of paper which commanded his presence at an emergency session of the Defense Council. Antonovich led the technical team which had been assigned to investigate strange sightings transmitted to earth by a covert reconnaissance satellite only weeks earlier. His stomach churned, a gas pain forcing him to pause and grimace. Surely there must be a mistake, he thought. Why me? Let the others handle this! Antonovich was a busy man who had better things to occupy his valuable time than stroke politicians.