978080410553850595

"ZAP! POW! WHOOSH! ZOOIVH
Plenty of techno-toys and a breakneck
pace."
The Kirkus Reviews
"Z0W1E! Storming Intrepid cost me a night's sleep."
Stephen Coonts
Author of Final Flight
"FIRST RATE ... Harrison manages to blaze combat action
across space and sky while keeping his characters sharply
delineated and in focus."
Walter J. Boyne
Author of Trophy for Eagles
and The Wild Blue
"FEW BOOKS WILL MATCH STORMING INTREPID FOR
EXCITEMENT	Manages to explore not only the super-
tech of space shuttles, 'Star Wars' and other anti-satellite
weaponry in a tensely dramatic way but a sizable slice of the
politics involved on both sides of the iron curtain."
Baton Rouge Morning Advocate
"HUMS WITH VIGOR and resonates with the hottest daily
news. Fans will hope that Harrison, like his models in Cold
War intrigue, will produce more."
Library Journal

STORMING
INTREPID
Payne Harrison
IVY BOOKS • NEW YORK

Ivy Books
Published by Ballantine Books
Copyright © 1989 by Payne Harrison
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copy-
right Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine
Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and si-
multaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited,
Toronto.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy-
ing, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,
without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 88-22905
ISBN 0-8041-0553-7
This edition published by arrangement with Crown Publishers, Inc.
Publisher's Note: This is a work of fiction. The characters, inci-
dents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and
are not to be construed as real. Where the names of actual persons,
living or dead, are used, the situations, incidents, and dialogues
concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended
to depict any actual events or change the entirely fictional nature of
the work.
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Ballantine Books Edition: March 1990

For Paula,
who took my hand and walked beside me on
the
Long March (es)

Acknowledgments
There were a great many press officers within the armed
forces, NASA, and the educational community who were most
kind in providing me with data for this book. The existence of
these professionals is a reflection that the free flow of informa-
tion concerning American military and space affairs is a strength,
rather than a weakness, of our society.
I would like to extend my appreciation to Neil and Judy Rob-
inson, and to Don Davison and Lee Dean for their help when
this manuscript was in its formative stages, and to Mike Reed
and Margie Cruse for their efforts in bringing this project to
fruition.
Craig Covault and Bruce Nordwall of Aviation Week were
very generous with their time in fielding my questions, and I am
grateful to them.
To my agent Jan Miller and my editor Jim Wade, I would like
to say I was uncommonly fortunate to be in the hands of such
superb professionals.
Tom Clancy and Stephen Coonts were very kind to extend
their assistance, and it was most welcome.
A special note of thanks goes to Tom McElmurry, former
deputy commander of the Air Force test pilot school and NASA
veteran who helped manage the Skylab and space shuttle proj-
ects. Professor McElmurry was most gracious to provide a re-
view of the manuscript. Any technical errors that remain are
mine and mine alone.
Finally, for Mom, Dad, Sis, and Fannie Mae, thanks for your
help, all along the way.

The Prelude
SOUTH PACIFIC
31° 14' SOUTH, 117° 23' WEST
In the predawn twilight, the Marshal Nedelin was a ghostly,
almost surreal image—as if it were a latter-day Flying Dutchman
gliding across the sea.
Although it resembled a warship in many respects, the vessel
carried no missiles or guns on its deck. Instead, it bristled with
electronic gear of every size and description—dominated in par-
ticular by a large radome just forward of amidships. If required,
computerized controls could keep the radome's dish antenna
stable, even in heavy seas; but that was unimportant at the mo-
ment, for the Pacific Ocean was dead calm this November morn-
ing.
In spite of its vassal states and all its power and bluster, the
Soviet Union possessed few genuine friends in the world—
particularly in the region south of the Tropic of Capricorn. And
without sympathetic governments, the Kremlin had few safe
harbors where it could establish sensitive electronic outposts.
Because of this dearth of friendly real estate, the Nedelin, and
a half-dozen ships like her, had been forged in the Black Sea
shipyards of Nikolayev and dispatched across the high seas on
electronic tracking missions vital to the Motherland. They were
1

2
STORMING INTREPID
eminently capable of monitoring the outreaches of space, while
remaining safe from intrusion and totally under control of their
Soviet masters.
Below decks on this November morning, the Nedelin's com-
puters rapidly plotted a trajectory. Then, at the proper moment,
the radome's dish antenna pivoted and fired its monopulse radar
skyward, probing for an ethereal object hurtling somewhere
through the ionosphere. Back and forth the beam traveled, until
a sailor was rewarded with a luminescent blip on his cathode-
ray screen. The young man punched a button, and the ship's
UHF radio immediately transmitted a facsimile of the image to
a Molniya communications satellite, where a transponder
bounced the signal to another antenna half a world away.
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE,
SOYUZ SOVETSKIKH SOTSIALISTICHESKIKH
REPUBLIK (CCCP)
"Sixty seconds to reentry fire, Comrade General!" barked
the mission commander.
"Very well," came General Shenko's soft reply.
Col. Oleg Malyshev, the mission commander, spun his chair
back to the monitor, forcing himself to concentrate on this last,
critical leg of the journey. He'd scarcely left his post for the past
fifty-two hours, as the small army of paper tea containers sur-
rounding his feet would attest. Yet in spite of his mounting fa-
tigue, the tall, thin officer with blond hair and Slavic features
was unwilling to delegate even minor tasks during this crucial
phase of the enterprise.
Row upon row of monitors and their attending technicians
radiated out from the huge Mercator world map projection on
the forewall. Each person stared intently at his individual screen
in the spacious Flite Control Centre, and in spite of the air
conditioning that labored to keep the equipment cool, all were
sweating like pigs—their rivulets of perspiration triggered by
stress rather than heat.
Malyshev, who was unusually young to be a full colonel in
the Soviet Aerospace Forces, couldn't worry about General

THE PRELUDE
3
Shenko's nonchalant manner now. Nor could he worry about
the other general—this one in a green serge uniform—watching
attentively from the glassed-in observation deck. His only
thoughts could be of his duty. "Thirty seconds," he said into
his headset microphone, and added, "Commence final arming
sequence on engines one and two."
THE MIKHAIL SUSLOV
ALTITUDE: 163 f^LES ABOVE
THE SOUTH PACIFIC
Lt. Col. Dmitri Bulgarin popped up the arming circuit's safety
cover and flipped the toggle switch from safe to arm, causing
the nearby annunciator light to change from red to green.
"Fifteen seconds," crackled in his headset.
Although the entire reentry firing procedure could be done
automatically, Bulgarin's stick-and-rudder nature refused to en-
trust this one vital function to the spacecraft's on-board com-
puters. He was, after all, a pilot.
Bulgarin's copilot gazed through the windshield at the earth's
horizon, which appeared above them and inverted. This was
because the Suslov (named for the long-dead Politburo ideo-
logue) was traveling upside down and backward—a seemingly
unorthodox position for a winged object, but necessary for the
retrofire braking action to take effect.
The word Fire! reverberated in his eardrums and Bulgarin
mashed the trigger button, causing the Tumansky liquid-fuel
engines to thunder to life—but in the vacuum of space the thun-
der was silent. It was only from the vibration and mounting
g-forces that the two cosmonauts knew the ship's engines had
responded.

4
STORMING INTREPID
SOUTH PACIFIC
14° 16' SOUTH, 119° 27' West
ALTITUDE: 61,000 FEET
"Spyglass, this is Rabbit's Nest. Target is coming up on your
position now. Begin traverse at zero-one-seven degrees on my
mark."
"Roger that, Rabbit," replied the chief master sergeant, as
his pudgy hand gently rotated the focusing knob on his console.
The specially modified high-altitude Boeing 767 was cruising
over the South Pacific preparing to do what it did best—take a
very expensive picture. Its call sign, "Spyglass," was appro-
priate, for the 767 was a flying observatory designed to take
pictures of man-made satellites in low earth orbit. Aboard the
aircraft was an exotic reflecting telescope that could scan the
heavens through a hole in the plane's humpback roof. The scope
consisted of a network of ultrathin flexible mirrors arrayed in a
honeycomb fashion. These "rubber mirrors" could be bent and
focused by computer to compensate for atmospheric distortion
and produce images of astonishing clarity—so clear that one
could read a license plate from a hundred miles away.
The position of Spyglass over the South Pacific had been de-
termined by four NavStar global positioning satellites. From
22,300 miles above the earth, three of the satellites continually
transmitted time and positioning data to the 767, where an on-
board computer triangulated the information, then spat out the
aircraft's exact coordinates and altitude. A fourth satellite acted
as a double check to ensure the 767's internal clock was accu-
rate. It was. So accurate, in fact, that the aircraft was directly
beneath the Suslov's orbital path, which had long been tracked,
computed, and plotted by the North American Aerospace De-
fense Command's Spacetrack radar/computer network. Spyglass
was now in position to take its picture.
"Mark," said Rabbit's Nest.
"Roger," replied Spyglass, and the chief flipped a switch to
start the aircraft's digital video recorders.
"C'mon, sweetheart," coaxed the chief. "C'mon, be sweet,
lift your skirt for me."
The neighboring technician looked askance. He had always

THE PRELUDE
5
thought the chief's near-sexual relationship with the equipment
was a little bizarre, but thought it better not to say anything.
Despite the chief's urging, the TV monitor remained blank
except for the twilight sky. The Suslov spacecraft was traveling
at 17,000 miles per hour, while the Spyglass airliner limped
along at a meager 500 mph. That meant the 767 had only a tiny
window of time to find the Russian orbiter. The seconds ticked
by and the screen remained blank until, finally, the chief sighed
and decided the Suslov wasn't coming to him. He was about to
start a search pattern with the telescope when a delta-shaped
object popped onto the screen.
" Awright!" he howled. "We nailed the little bastard.' * Giddy
with his success, the chief quickly adjusted the dials for greater
magnification. Then he leaned forward to inspect the Russian
spacecraft pictured on the monitor. His concentration was so
intense that, when the image erupted before his eyes, he invol-
untarily recoiled from the screen, and it took a few seconds for
his mind to comprehend what his. eyes had witnessed. Then it
dawned on him. "Sweet Jesus!" he cried while keying his mi-
crophone. "Rabbit, this is Spyglass! We got the target on screen
and he's firing his retro rockets! I say again, target has initiated
retrofire. Christ Almighty, what a picture!"
"We copy that, Spyglass," replied a dispassionate voice. "Put
it through on RealTime."
"Roger, Rabbit," he said, while nodding to the neighboring
technician, who threw the appropriate switches. Almost im-
mediately the same image appeared on another screen at
NORAD headquarters, deep inside Cheyenne Mountain in Col-
orado.

6
STORMING INTREPID
THE MIKHAIL SUSLOV
ALTITUDE: 107 MILES
COURSE: NORTH
POSITION: CROSSING
THE ANTARCTIC CIRCLE
Twenty-three years of iron discipline in the Soviet armed
forces had prepared Dmitri Bulgarin for the next twenty minutes
of his life. He had to control the distilled fear and not let the
image of his wife and daughter intrude on his thoughts. Their
lives had been richer in many ways because he was a cosmonaut.
But the state exacted a toll for the privileges it granted, and now
the toll was due.
When the retrofire ceased, Bulgarin immediately pivoted the
spacecraft into the correct reentry attitude of 32 degrees incli-
nation. The Suslov was on a descent gradient toward the earth
and would soon begin striking the first errant molecules of the
lower ionosphere. Much like an airborne swan landing in the
water, the Suslov would decelerate from a speed of almost 17,000
miles per hour to 1,500 mph in the space of twenty minutes.
The resistance of the atmosphere, which provided the braking
action for the winged spacecraft, also generated frightful surface
friction, heating the leading edges of the vehicle to temperatures
of2,800 degrees Fahrenheit. Small wonder that most meteorites
were vaporized before they hit the earth's surface.
To keep it from being incinerated, the Soviet space shuttle,
like its American counterpart, had been surfaced with heat-
resistant silica tiles. Unlike the American shuttle, however,
something had gone horrendously wrong during the reentry
phase of the Suslov's predecessor, the Buran. While descending
from its third voyage into outer space, the Buran had burned
into a cinder.
Bulgarin was painfully aware of the previous shuttle's fate as
he watched the surface-temperature gauge start to climb and felt
the buffeting grow more intense. "Altitude eighty-three kilo-
meters . . . eighty . . . seventy-eight ..." The strain in Bul-
garin's voice became more pronounced and his radio
transmission grew weaker as the Suslov plummeted into the
"black hole" of reentry. The fireball enveloping the orbiter was

THE PRELUDE
7
so intense that it stripped the electrons from the surrounding air
molecules. As a result, for twelve minutes the spacecraft was
covered in a sheath of ions that was impenetrable to radio waves.
As a reddish glow filled the windshield, Bulgarin tightened
his grip around the control stick.
On its third voyage, the Buran shuttle had been incinerated
during its descent through the "black hole."
The Suslov was now reentering the atmosphere from its fourth
journey into outer space.
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE
As the spacecraft hurtled above the Indian Ocean, it was
tracked by the massive phased-array radar complex on the banks
of the Caspian Sea. The Flite Centre's computers digested the
radar data and plotted the orbiter's path on the large Mercator
map projection, which now held everyone's attention. There
was nothing the technicians could do but wait until the Suslov
emerged from the radio blackout.
"Eight minutes of communications blackout remaining," an-
nounced Mission Commander Malyshev, to no one in particu-
lar.
The ground track of the Suslov advanced on the screen, and
the tension in the spacious room became palpable.
"Seven minutes." Malyshev's voice was little more than a
whimper now, and his throat felt like a dusty road. He started
to reach for a nearby cup, but reconsidered. His system simply
couldn't absorb another ounce of tea.
The hulking General Shenko took a very long drag on his
Chesterfield cigarette and exhaled slowly. He loved the Ameri-
can tobacco more than he dared ever say.
Malyshev's sweat-drenched blond hair was now pasted to his
temples. He murmured. "Five minutes."
There was a collective sigh from the technicians. The Buran—
which means "snowstorm"—had disappeared with six minutes
of blackout remaining. The Suslov had now passed beyond that
threshold. Maybe the Buran tragedy had been a fluke after all.
Maybe the Russian shuttle was truly a sound spacecraft. Maybe
there was reason to hope.

8
STORMING INTREPID
"Four minutes."
Yes, maybe there was reason to hope. Even General Shenko's
basset-hound face was showing a flicker of life.
On the plot board, the Suslov's ground track advanced again.
"Three minutes." Malyshev's voice had returned. It looked
good now. Very good indeed.
"Commander!" It was the radar liaison officer over the in-
tercom. "I have the Caspian radar station. They say the image
is fading from their screen!"
There was stunned silence.
"Confirm that report!" barked Malyshev.
The radar officer held the headset tight against his ears,
then slowly relaxed in his chair. "Caspian station confirms,
and says the image fragmented before disappearing from their
scope."
"Communications officer, try to contact them!" ordered Ma-
lyshev.
The young communications officer began murmuring into his
microphone, trying unsuccessfully to mask his sobs. Colonel
Bulgarin had been his friend. At Star City he was like everyone's
favorite uncle—a person who always made you feel special. He
followed his orders and signaled the Suslov, but he knew it was
useless.
As the young officer's murmurs went on, a communal shock
spread throughout the room. Every person felt his mission and
sense of purpose had vanished along with the Suslov—every
person, that is, save for one.
"General Shenko, as a representative of the Committee for
State Security I must ask you to accompany me." The voice
was gentle. Almost benevolent.
General Shenko turned and confronted his counterpart in the
green serge uniform of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopas-
nosti. Shenko was grateful this one wasn't as arrogant as the
garden variety Chekist.
"Very well," replied Shenko. He took his pack of Chester-
fields off the console and stuffed them into the breast pocket of
his rumpled uniform, then turned to leave the Flite Centre. Over
his shoulder he gave one last instruction. "Tell Baikonur not to
waste a second," he said flatly.

THE PRELUDE	9
Malyshev nodded as he watched the door close behind his
general.
A final puff of Chesterfield smoke seemed to hang in the air.
BAIKONUR COSMODROME, TYURATAM,
KAZAKHSTAN REPUBLIK, CCCP
The gargantuan doors of the shuttle hangar slowly rumbled
open to reveal a duplicate of the Mikhail Suslov. The size, shape,
and markings of the winged spacecraft appeared to be the same
as the original shuttle, except for black, sootlike impressions
along its side. Had the genuine Suslov survived, the reentry
friction would have burned similar markings onto the white fu-
selage.
Ground technicians hurriedly hooked the nosewheel onto the
tow tractor, and as soon as the doors cleared the wingspan, the
duplicate began moving out onto the 5,000-meter runway built
especially for shuttle landings.
The special tow tractor used only a fraction of its pulling
horsepower, since the replica Suslov was fabricated from sheets
of phenolic plastic laminated to a plywood frame. Its core was
hollow except for some steel ingots loaded aboard to provide it
some stability in heavy wind.
When the decoy reached the end of the tarmac, a ground crew
detached the hitch and attached a deployed barking parachute to
the tail section. A generator cart was wheeled underneath the
craft and started, then a technician plugged the electric cable
into a connector on the decoy's belly. The connector was hooked
up to a network of heating coils imbedded in the plastic skin.
A covey of rescue and ground-service vehicles then drew up
around the decoy as if the genuine Suslov had landed.
The ground crew chief surveyed the scene and was satisfied
with himself that the exercise had gone a lot smoother—this
time.

10
STORMING INTREPID
UNITED STATES SPACE COMMAND
HEADQUARTERS, SPACE DEFENSE
OPERATIONS CENTER,
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO
Gen. Rodger Whittenberg, Commander in Chief, United
States Space Command, stared intently at the television monitor
while the Suslov's reentry burn was replayed for the third time.
"Okay, that's enough," he told the airman, then turned to the
colonel. "I want to see the digital pix from this tape as soon as
they come out of the laser printer, and I want a Keyhole pass
over Baikonur ASAP. We need to see how well that shuttle held
up on reentry."
"Yessir," replied his intelligence chief. "We had a KH-12
slated for a pass over Krasnoyarsk to check on some new ABM
construction, but that can wait. The Keyhole's flight path has
already been altered, and she'll be coming over Baikonur in
about forty minutes. We'll catch it in daylight on the first pass."
"Good . . . good." At least we don't have to worry about
getting Keyhole pix these days, Whittenberg thought.
After the American shuttle Challenger exploded in a fireball
over the Atlantic back in the 1980s, and NASA had been unable
to get so much as a kite aloft for the longest time, the United
States, the richest and most technically advanced nation on earth,
had limped along with a single KH-11 Keyhole reconnaissance
satellite in orbit. The dearth of photointelligence during that
period was grave, and it lasted over two years—largely because
the defense establishment had painted itself into a technological
corner. The new generation of reconaissance satellites, the
KH-12s, had been designed specifically for shuttle transport and
couldn't be launched by any other means. No shuttle, no satel-
lite. It was that simple.
But times had changed, and for this Whittenberg was grateful.
When the current administration came into office, the new Pres-
ident had embraced both the space program and Star Wars with
an almost rabid vengeance. Calling it his Final Frontier agenda,
he galvanized the American people behind a renewed effort in
space. So effective was he that one newspaper columnist wrote,
"The halcyon days of the Apollo program have returned to planet

THE PRELUDE
11
earth." This rekindled emphasis on space was not lost on Whit-
tenberg, who was in essence the American military space
"Czar." Now, instead of a single, aging spy satellite, he com-
manded four new-generation KH-12 satellites that crisscrossed
the globe in various orbits.
Whittenberg left the newly renovated and enlarged Space De-
fense Operations Center, usually called "SPADOC," and started
the long walk through the underground passageway toward his
office. As always, the subterranean journey irritated him. Whitten-
berg had been a pilot in the Strategic Air Command for years, and
he was the kind of man who liked wide vistas. Woricing inside a
high-tech salt mine was not to his liking, but since he'd been hand
picked for the SPACECOM post by the President, there wasn't
much he could do about it. He suppressed his discomfort one more
time and hustled down the tunnel toward his destination.
Chosen because of its location and geologic complexion,
Cheyenne Mountain had been developed into a unique engi-
neering marvel—almost on a par with the Golden Gate Bridge
or Hoover Dam. It had taken three years of blasting to hollow
out the granite innards of the mountain, and another two years
to build its four-and-a-half-acre latticework of fifteen under-
ground buildings and assorted passageways. This hard rock in-
ner sanctum housed what could best be described as the central
nervous system of America's defense capability.
In a heavily guarded compound on the exterior of Cheyenne
Mountain, a forest of antennas pulled in a kaleidoscope of sig-
nals from remote sensors all around the globe. On the Arctic
tundra the Ballistic Missile Early Warning System (BMEWS)
aimed its over-the-horizon radar toward the Soviet Union and
beamed its data back to Cheyenne Mountain. Twenty-three
thousand miles above the earth, an infrared launch detection
satellite called Teal Sapphire kept watch over Soviet missile pads,
ready to send a warning should a rocket lift off. Under the sea,
American hunter-killer submarines tracked their Russian coun-
terparts, providing location data on enemy missile boats via
ultralow-frequency radios that could transmit underwater. All
of these signals were relayed to the exterior antennas compound
by satellite, landline, or microwave link, then they were carried
by fiber-optic cables into the basement of the mountain.

12
STORMING INTREPID
SPACECOM, which included the North American Aerospace
Defense Command (NORAD) under its flag, possessed within
Cheyenne Mountain the most massive array of computing power
in the free world. Although its equipment was not as fresh from
the factory as the National Security Agency's computers, or as
state-of-the-art as those on the Star Wars platform, in terms of
sheer size and bulk Cheyenne Mountain was the world's largest
computing center. It had to be. For in the event of a nuclear
attack, it was from the mountain that the President would re-
ceive those precious minutes of warning to initiate his country's
response. The electronic sensor information collected by
NORAD was fed into the computer complex, where it was
sorted, analyzed, and collated, then routed to the proper screen
within SPADOC. All of the information on the technicians'
monitors, and on the large projection screens that dominated
SPADOC, was on call to the NORAD commander in his
"Cockpit" or "Crow's Nest," which overlooked the cavernous
room. In the event of an ICBM or bomber attack, the NORAD
commander could quickly piece together a picture of the situa-
tion and pass on warning and assessment data to the President
and major military commands.
Since it was obviously an inviting piece of real estate for Rus-
sian target selectors, Cheyenne Mountain was the most attack-
hardened facility in the U.S. inventory. To ride out an attack,
the mountain possessed sufficient food, water, and power to last
for thirty days—and in a nuclear war, thirty days is a long time.
1\vo massive 25-ton steel doors sealed off the mountain from
the outside world, and the entire complex of buildings "floated"
on a bed of thirteen hundred heavy steel springs designed to
cushion the impact of a nuclear explosion. But although it was
hardened, a direct hit by a multimegaton warhead could knock
out the fortress and render it useless.
However, in contemporary times, NORAD's role had be-
come redefined by the expansion of warfare into space. It now
kept track of some fifteen thousand pieces of man-made hard-
ware orbiting the globe, and alerted the proper authority when-
ever a satellite changed course or attempted some strange
maneuver. Yet its basic mission of hostile missile surveillance
had remained unchanged for decades.
Cheyenne Mountain was one of three military space instal-

THE PRELUDE
13
lations outside Colorado Springs—the other two being Peterson
Air Force Base and Falcon Air Force Station. The latter two
were aboveground, causing Whittenberg to envy those who
worked there.
"Coffee please, Barb," Whittenberg told his secretary while
striding into his windowless office. Windowless because fifteen
hundred feet of solid granite stood between him and the wilder-
ness exterior of the mountain fortress.
Whittenberg leaned back in his chair, rubbed his eyes, and
contemplated what he had just seen on the SPADOC monitor.
The thought of a viable Russian shuttle program profoundly
disturbed him. SPACECOM intelligence estimates showed the
United States had long held a substantial lead in shuttle delivery
systems and a technical superiority in Star Wars deployment.
The combination of the two made for a comfortable edge. But
now one of those gaps was narrowing, and he didn't like it. Not
one bit. A year had elapsed since the last Soviet shuttle launch,
leading Whittenberg and others to speculate that something was
amiss with their spacecraft. But now the Russians had renewed
their activity, putting them well on their way to a viable shuttle
program. It was following a scenario similar to their fighter
plane development, where for years Soviet aircraft had been
inferior to their Western counterparts. But slowly, with deter-
mination, the Soviets came close to catching up with the West,
developing the Su-27 Flanker and MiG-29 Fulcrum fighters in
the late 1980s. The latest models of those two aircraft were
good. Too damned good, as far as Whittenberg was concerned.
The American technical edge had eroded with fighters, and he
was afraid it could happen with the shuttle, too.
He picked up a green phone that was a direct line to the Chief
of the General Staff, United States Armed Forces—his imme-
diate superior. "Admiral," he said into the receiver. "This is
Whittenberg at SPACECOM. Here's the situation."

14
STORMING INTREPID
ALTITUDE: 512 MILES
ORBITAL INCLINATION: 73 DEGREES
Five hundred and twelve miles above the earth a tiny vent
opened on the side of the KH-12 satellite, allowing a small jet
of hydrazine fuel to escape. With this last, gentle nudge its op-
tical cameras would be in correct position to survey the entire
Baikonur Cosmodrome complex in southern Kazakhstan.
The KH-12 possessed two lenses of a fixed focal length and
one with a zoom capability which projected the target's image
onto a focal plane of electro-optic sensors rather than film. The
satellite's on-board computer converted the image to digital in-
formation, then transmitted the signal via a relay satellite to the
National Photographic Interpretation Center (NPIC), located in
a warehouse-style building at the corner of M and 1st streets in
Washington, D.C.
On command from the ground, the satellite's lens covers slid
back, allowing the cameras a full view of their target. There was
no cloud cover, and conditions were superb. As the Keyhole
traveled from north-northeast to south-southwest in a near-polar
orbit, its cameras began clicking and didn't stop for twelve min-
utes.
NATIONAL PHOTOGRAPHIC
INTERPRETATION CENTER,
WASHINGTON, D.C.
A half hour after the date arrived at NPIC, the pictures were
electronically analyzed and "massaged" by a Cray-Y/MP su-
percomputer. This computer enhancement of the Suslov"s image
was so sophisticated that it allowed the photo-interpretation an-
alyst to view the shuttle in a three-dimensional form on a color
television monitor.
After studying the 3-D image, the analyst turned off the mon-
itor and picked up one of the laser-printed color photographs
from the pile on his desk. With old-fashioned stereoscopic mag-
nifying glasses he scrutinized the shuttle carefully.

THE PRELUDE
15
Neither the old technology, nor the new, allowed him to dis-
cern that the Suslov's skin was made of plastic.
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
Col. Peter Lamborghini stood at the lectern in the giant con-
ference room and reviewed his notes. By nature, the SPACE-
COM intelligence chief liked to be precise and accurate, and he
knew General Whittenberg demanded no less. His predecessor
had been fired by Whittenberg less than a month before for
failing to measure up.
Lamborghini was a former fighter pilot who had been in the
intelligence field less than a year, but had grown in the role. So
much so that General Whittenberg—known to his staff as the CinC
(an acronym for Commander in Chief)—had tapped the colo-
nel to fill the intelligence slot usually occupied by a brigadier
general.
Running down his notes one last time, Lamborghini uncon-
sciously felt his tie to make sure it was straight. He was a second-
generation American; his father's family had come from Italy
and his mother's from Norway. The mixture of Mediterranean
and Nordic genes had produced an offspring of compact, me-
dium build with raven-black hair, angular features, and blue,
blue eyes.
Those blue eyes now looked up and down die conference table
and saw an assortment of generals and colonels who were ex-
tensions of Whittenberg's mind and authority. The responsibility
for American security above the earth's atmosphere ultimately
rested on Whittenberg's four-star shoulders—Star Wars, the mil-
itary shuttle, NORAD, and space reconnaissance had all been
consolidated under" Space Command, and it was the CinC's
charter to make it work. Whittenberg had told Lamborghini
more than once that SPACECOM was too big for one man to
grapple with by himself, so he relied heavily on the staff to be
his eyes, ears, and brains, and to always come up with the an-
swers—the right answers.
Yet in exercising his power, Whittenberg—who was very big,
very black, and very, very smart—was sometimes surprisingly
gentle. Given his six-foot-five frame and the twinkle of his four

16
STORMING INTREPID
stars, the former B-52 pilot rarely had to be gruff to get his point
across. But when required, as Lamborghini knew, the CinC
could turn into an absolute hard-ass in the blink of an eye. It
seemed Whittenberg was either the gentle giant or General Ogre,
with no middle ground between the two. The SPACECOM staff
labored assiduously to keep him in his "gentle" mode.
Lamborghini had just finished his note review when the aide
entered and announced, "Gentlemen, the commanding gen-
eral." Everyone around the huge conference table rose as Whit-
tenberg strode into the room, and as always, the tension seemed
to increase with his presence. He was closely followed by his
chief of staff, Maj. Gen. Michael Dowd, also known as the
"Bull."
"Please be seate4," said Whittenberg, while lowering him-
self into the big leather chair. As always, the CinC looked rest-
less. His close-cropped, Afro-style haircut was liberally flecked
with gray, as was the pencil-thin mustache under his pug nose.
His blue uniform had nary a wrinkle in it, and the six rows of
ribbons above his left breast pocket seemed to say, "Don't even
think about messing with me." He nodded to his chief of staff
and crisply ordered, "Okay, Bull, I have to leave for Washington
in a couple of hours to give the Vice President a personal brief-
ing, and I want to be up to speed." The Vice President was the
administration's point man for the Strategic Defense Initiative.
"Let's wrap this up as soon as we can."
"Yessir," replied the burly chief of staff. He turned and nod-
ded to Lamborghini. "Go ahead, Colonel."
"Sir," began Lamborghini from the lectern, "three days ago
on four November, at twelve thirty-two hours Zulu time, the
seventh Soviet shuttle mission was launched from the Baikonur
Cosmodrome in a polar orbit with eighty-three degrees incli-
nation. The mission continued for seventeen orbits with an
apogee of one hundred sixty-nine miles and a perigee of one
hundred forty-two miles."
On the screen above the colonel, a Mercator world map ap-
peared with a wavy line indicating the Suslov's initial orbital
path.
"Shortly after we obtained the launch detection, verification,
and plot of the spacecraft we scrambled Spyglass to grab some

THE PRELUDE
17
pix, but there was a delay due to the fact she was on temporary
assignment in Australia."
The squat but massive chief of staff leaned over and muttered
to the CinC, "She was taking some downrange imagery on a
Midgetman test shot out of Vandenberg."
Lamborghini waited until the chief of staff had finished his
comment, then continued, "When Spyglass finally made it out
of the Royal Australian Air Force base at Woomera and got into
position, she caught the orbiter at the precise moment of retro-
fire on orbit seventeen at an altitude of one hundred fifty-seven
nautical miles."
The map was replaced by a photograph of the Suslov with a
fiery tail.
"Pure-dee luck," said the Bull.
"Certainly was," agreed Whittenberg, as he took a gulp of
coffee from a mug emblazoned with the SPACECOM insignia.
Lamborghini continued, "An hour and fifty-three minutes
after the Spyglass flyby we had a KH-12 pass over Baikonur
which caught the shuttle on the ground at the end of the recovery
runway."
A new slide came on the screen depicting what appeared to
be the Suslov with various vehicles parked around it.
"We had an IR pass ninety-seven minutes later, after sunset;
but as you can see''—another slide popped up, this one showing
a grainy infrared image with a reddish hue—"the orbiter had
not been moved. Only some of the vehicles had been with-
drawn."
The heat-sensitive elements of the KH-12's infrared system
clearly showed the outline of the replica Suslov. Had the genuine
Suslov survived, its surface would have remained quite hot from
the reentry friction. The heating coils that ran under the replica's
skin had the same effect on the satellite's sensors, so no one in
the room had any reason to suspect the shuttle was a phony.
"SIGINT?" queried Whittenberg, using the acronym for
"signals intelligence."
"Only traffic analysis, sir," replied Lamborghini. "The So-
viets had two tracking ships deployed—the Marshal Nedelin and
Vladimir Komarov in the Pacific and Indian oceans respec-
tively—and NSA monitored most of their transmissions through

18
STORMING INTREPID
the Eardrum system. But as is the case with many of their sen-
sitive missions, the radio transmissions were scrambled."
"All right," said Whittenberg, "the Vice President is going
to ask me what it all means, so let's crystallize our position."
"I think it's quite apparent, General," said the deputy chief
of staff for operations, a tall, thin brigadier who was never with-
out his meerschaum pipe. Because his mathematical skills were
legendary, Brig. Gen. John Fairchild had long since been stuck
with the call sign of Sir Isaac, in honor of Sir Isaac Newton. He
lit up his pipe and continued: "Our initial SDI testing"—you
couldn't call Star Wars "Star Wars" at Cheyenne Mountain—
' 'demonstrated that the shuttle was vital, even crucial, in retriev-
ing essential parts for repair. We were all surprised to find its
uniquely critical role evolved into providing the transport down-
link from the prototype platform, rather than carrying equip-
ment up to it. We simply did not foresee how fundamental that
element was. In any case, as our testing progressed, the Rus-
sians saw they would have to have a viable shuttle program if
they were to build a Star Wa	er, SDI system."
Everyone chuckled, and Sir Isaac's ears turned a slight shade
of pink over his gaffe.
"Well, what I'm trying to say," added Sir Isaac defensively,
"is that we've learned you can't build and maintain an SDI
platform without a shuttle system. As long as the Russians didn't
have a shuttle they would've had a bitch of a time maintaining a
platform. Now they have one."
"And that is definitely bad news," grumbled the Bull.
"I'm afraid it is," agreed Whittenberg.
"At least they haven't matched our technical breakthrough,"
said the adjutant.
"So far," countered the CinC as he turned to Lamborghini.
"Colonel, time's running short. Would you be good enough to
sum things up for us?"
"Yes, sir," said Lamborghini as he quickly shuffled his notes.
"There was a time gap of one year, one month, and four days
between the previous Soviet shuttle mission and the one that
occurred on 4 November. Because of the time expended be-
tween launches, we speculated something was wrong with their
program. With this successful mission it appears they fixed
whatever the problem was and are back in business. This is

THE PRELUDE
19
historically characteristic of their space program—that is, to
continue to press forward even after major setbacks. An opera-
tional shuttle provides them with the missing transport link to
assemble and maintain an SDI platform in space. Their heavy-
lifit capability already surpasses our own."
"Thank you, Colonel." Whittenberg looked up and down
the table. "Anyone have any parting remarks? Anything we
haven't covered? The floor is open for speculation. I won't hold
anybody to their comments." And they knew he meant it.
"Sir?" It was Maj. Lydia Strand, Lamborghini's intel dep-
uty—a striking brunette whose looks were surpassed only by her
intelligence.
"Yes, Major?" prompted the CinC.
"Well, sir," she offered, "afterthe Russians' previous shuttle
launch there was an absolute crackdown on access by the West-
ern press to officials in the Soviet space program. I mean, zip
has come out of there over the last year, and the Russians always
play their space heroes up to the nth degree."
"As we have," Whittenberg pointed out.
"Yes, sir," agreed Strand, but added, "I would be curious
to see what happens to press access after this mission."
The SPACECOM CinC pondered the thought for a moment,
then said, "Your point is well taken, Major. I'll mention it to
the Vice President if you have no objection."
Strand smiled. "No, sir. No objection."
THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW, CCCP
The General Secretary stood by the bay window of his baro-
nial office, watching the season's first snowfall drift down onto
Cathedral Square/ It was a great irony that the Kremlin was
populated by a regime which passionately embraced atheism,
yet within its stone walls was a network of old structures that
recalled the passionate faith of the Russian soul. Walking across
the Kremlin grounds, one could see separate churches honoring
the Archangel Michael, the Twelve Apostles, the Dormition
of the Virgin, and the Annunciation. Additionally, there was the
Church of the Deposition of the Virgin's Robe, as well as Wall

20
STORMING INTREPID
Towers dedicated to Saint Peter, Saint Nicholas, and the Sav-
iour.
To be sure, for the Party faithful there was also a statue of
Lenin to complement the mausoleum that held his waxy em-
balmed remains. But by and large, the Kremlin grounds were
dominated by beautiful old churches capped with onionlike
domes, and the falling snow gave the scene a fairyland appear-
ance. The snowfall, although late in coming for the year, was
the time-honored sign that the city would soon be in the full grip
of another leaden winter. But the General Secretary's mind did
not absorb the spectacular view from his window or the turning
of the seasons. Instead, he pondered the future—in particular
his future—and the Politburo meeting that would convene in two
hours. His eneigetic mind tried to anticipate the various courses
the conclave could take, and he found none of the alternatives
appealing.
Alexei Fyodorovich Vorontsky had struggled all of his adult
life for the attainment of power, and upon reaching its pinnacle
he found himself shackled by the very forces that had propelled
him there. His ascension to the post of General Secretary of the
Communist Party—in essence, the contemporary Russian
throne—had been achieved by crushing those who had failed to
make the leviathan Soviet bureaucracy perform to the state's
expectations. By following such a career strategy he had no
shortfall of victims, for so ponderous was the Russian bureau-
cratic engine that no measure—no matter how harsh or sweet-
could force it to achieve the state's fanciful expectations. Year
after year GOSPLAN, the central planning bureaucracy of the
Soviet Union, generated reams of projections and production
targets for Russian factories and collective farms. The produc-
tion of everything—from toothpaste to light bulbs to cigarettes
to automobiles to nuclear reactors—was controlled by the om-
nipotent tentacles of GOSPLAN. Yet so restrictive were GOS-
PLAN's controls that production taigets were hardly ever met,
and factory managers were routinely purged and replaced with
fresh talent. The ridiculous production-targets-to-fired-managers
cycle had become almost boring in its predictability. But such
was the proletariat's paradise.
The General Secretary knew the game and played it master-
fully. As Minister of GOSPLAN he had parlayed his powerful

THE PRELUDE
21
position to a seat on the Politburo, and it was from there he'd
pulled off one of the most stunning political coups in decades
by deposing Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev as General Secre-
tary of the Communist Party.
Upon attaining the post of General Secretary, Gorbachev had
purged the "old guard," or the last remaining elements of the
Stalinist and Brezhnev eras, but only after a long and bitter
power feud with the old-line conservatives. "New blood"—as
he called it—was injected into the Politburo, and a flurry of
"progressive" programs were implemented—perestroika and
glasnost, he called them. Yet despite all of the publicity-laden
"reforms" and a missile treaty with the Americans, Russia was
still a police state. Perestroika was challenged every step of the
way by Gorbachev's political enemies, who rankled at the very
thought of dismantling their bureaucracies and cutting deals with
the Americans. Only by the slimmest of margins did Gorbachev
remain in power. His saving grace was that there was some
progress, albeit glacial, with the economy—and the troops had
come home from Afghanistan.
But then the worst possible thing had happened. KGB intel-
ligence revealed that the Americans had achieved the feared
"technological breakthrough" with their Star Wars space de-
fense system. A breakthrough so far-reaching and transcending
that the specter of an impotent Soviet nuclear force was, in fact,
a very real possibility—and it could happen much sooner than
anyone could have anticipated. Such a fearsome possibility had
unleashed violent and destabilizing forces within the Politburo,
causing its militaristic and conservative members to demand a
crash program to catch up with the Americans in space weap-
ons. Gorbachev resisted, arguing it was too expensive.
The militaristic forces—who had opposed the pullout from
Afghanistan—rallied around the GOSPLAN minister, and an-
other power struggle ensued, causing divisiveness . . . and
bloodshed. During the midst of the conflict, when it seemed he
might tip the balance and retain his post, Gorbachev flew to
Leningrad to consolidate his support among the Party leaders
there. He was successful in his mission, but on the return flight
to Moscow his Dyushin jetliner mysteriously exploded in midair.
No investigation was ever made into the "tragic incident" of
Gorbachev's demise, and from that point forward, opposition

22
STORMING INTREPID
to the GOSPLAN minister quickly melted away and he had a
cakewalk to the post of General Secretary.
Upon achieving his lifelong goal, the new General Secretary
had acted swiftly to satisfy his military and conservative con-
stituency. The missile treaty with the United States was
scrapped, Afghanistan was reinvaded, and—most critical—an
incredibly expensive crash program was launched to catch up
with the Americans' "technological breakthrough" in space de-
fenses. The General Secretary was a masterful politician, but in
satisfying his conservative constituency he now found that he
could run, but couldn't hide, from the compelling truth. And
the truth was: if the Soviet Union's five million men under arms
and 25,000 nuclear weapons were stripped away, Russia would
be a Third World country—and a poor one at that.
The General Secretary's rush to catch up with the Americans
had bloated the Soviet military budget to such a degree that the
typical Russian was being bled white, and the state's ability to
bottle up dissent became more fragile with each passing day.
Rioting over food supplies—once isolated in the more remote
Soviet republiks—was occurring with greater prevalence, in
provinces closer to Moscow. Times were bad. . . . Worse than
bad. And now his position as General Secretary was in jeopardy.
After embracing the space defense system and placing its de-
velopment in his personal portfolio, he soon learned from the
Americans' experience that a viable space shuttle fleet was an
essential tool in building and maintaining a Star Wars platform.
The Politburo would not look kindly at the loss of a second space
shuttle. Not kindly at all.
The agenda of the upcoming Politburo meeting would have
one topic—the second failed shuttle mission, which by impli-
cation would mean a failed General Secretary. And the image
of failure was frightening to him. Without a space shuttle or a
technical breakthrough like the Americans', the Rodina—the
Motherland—was stuck with an expensive, inoperable Star Wars
project and millions of hungry, and angry, citizens. These facts
would not be lost on the Politburo.
The General Secretary rubbed his eyes. In the dim light Vo-
rontsky looked like the quintessential Russian that he was. Some
said that with his swarthy features and heavy eyebrows he re-
sembled Leonid Brezhnev. His large frame had once been heavy

THE PRELUDE
23
muscled, and as a young man he'd been a hammer thrower for
the Soviet Union in the Olympics. But the hard muscles had
long since surrendered to fat. He was growing old, tired, and
soft.
A light tap on the door roused him from his stupor.
' 'Da ? " he said absently.
The door opened to reveal a wiry, diminutive man dressed in
a well-tailored English double-breasted suit.
"Ah, come in, Vitali," the General Secretary beckoned. Vi-
tali Kostiashak, Chairman of the KGB, walked up to the larger
man and spoke in measured tones—the voice of a civilized man
speaking of a grossly uncivilized act. "General Secretary, I have
come to personally inform you that General Shenko was exe-
cuted by military firing squad forty-five minutes ago. His failure
to develop an airworthy space shuttle had placed the state in
very grave jeopardy." Then he added deferentially, "I thought
it might help you," and he nodded toward the adjoining Polit-
buro conference room.
The General Secretary contemplated Vitali Kostiashak with
feelings he rarely experienced in this room—feelings of trust,
confidence, and even warmth. Always surprising was this little
Chairman, whom Vorontsky had sponsored and promoted to
the Politburo. This diminutive man who possessed a penchant
for English-tailored clothes and a complexion so dark he might
have come from New Delhi rather than the Ukraine. A scholar
with a Princeton Ph.D. and blade-sharp mind who, at times such
as this, could be ruthless beyond belief. It was Vitali Kostiashak
who had arranged for a kilogram of plastique explosive to be
concealed in the wheel well of Gorbachev's Ilyushin jet while it
was on the tarmac at Leningrad.
"General Shenko gave many years' service to his coun-
try. ... I knew jiis family. It is regrettable he should come to
such an end as this."
"General Secretary," replied the KGB chieftain, "after the
American breakthrough it became critical for us to develop our
own reusable shuttle system. It was General Shenko's respon-
sibility to bring such a system to fruition. He failed. One must
deal with such failure with ultimate firmness."
Vorontsky sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose. "As
always, Comrade Kostiashak, your analysis is most precise—

24
STORMING INTREPID
particularly as it concerns the subject of failure." His heavily
lidded eyes returned their gaze to the window, and he paused
some moments before saying, ever so softly, "I fear I will not
be General Secretary much longer, Vitali. ... So many years
I have struggled. To have come so far and to reach such an end
as this because of some damned airplane in outer space is more
than I can fathom." A moment passed, then he turned and
brought his two hammerlike fists crashing down on the desktop.
"Two billion rubles!" he cried. "Up in smoke! In an instant!
For the second time!" The outburst seemed to vent the remain-
ing energy from his lumbering body, and he collapsed into his
huge leather chair.
Kostiashak did not interrupt, but took note that his patron was
beginning to show the telltale signs of age.
The General Secretary covered his face with a pair of huge
hands. "What good is a damned shuttle if it burns up after three
or four flites? It is useless! Utterly useless!" He sighed, and
then pointed at the conference room. "They will soon be asking
for my head," he murmured apologetically, "and yours along
with mine, I'm afraid. . . . My dear friend, I hope I have not
shortened so promising a career. You are a grandmaster, are
you not? What does one do when one's king is exposed and
defenseless?"
Vorontsky raised his watermelon-sized head to face his young
protege, who had taken the liberty of lighting up a Pall Mall.
But instead of a look of dejection, the diminutive Chairman's
Indian-like features seemed vibrant, and the corners of his thin
mouth betrayed the flicker of a smile. These signs were not lost
on the General Secretary—a consummate politician who had
read through many a stone face in his career. "Vitali. What is
it? Is there something you have not told me?"
Kostiashak tapped the ask of his cigarette into a porcelain
ashtray sitting on the rosewood desk. "Yes, General Secretary.
I must confess. There is something I have not. . . disclosed."
The former hammer thrower felt his pulse quicken. ' 'Then do
not keep it from me, Vitali. Tell me what it is."
The KGB chieftain did not answer at once, but took a long
pull on his Pall Mall and exhaled slowly, causing the smoke to
rise in tiny curls around his dark eyes. In a soft voice that was
charged with an undercurrent of excitement, the grandmaster

THE PRELUDE	25
whispered, "You were mistaken, General Secretary. Our king
is not defenseless ... but to win the game we must risk every-
thing."

THE FIRST DAY
Four months later

Day 1, 1238 Hours Zulu, 4:38 a.m. Local
VANDENBERG AIR FORCE BASE,
CALIFORNIA
She was beautiful.
Poised above the Pacific surf at Point Arguello, and illumi-
nated by the gantry klieg lights, the American space shuttle
Intrepid looked both lovely and powerful as she waited for a
spark to ignite her fiery tail. The sleek-winged orbiter was
pointed skyward, married to the bright orange external fuel tank
and flanked by the pair of giant solid booster rockets. Together
the four elements made up the ' 'launch vehicle" of the Intrepid,
and her beauty was surpassed only by her complexity. Sitting
there, the spacecraft stood eleven stories high, weighed 4.5 mil-
lion pounds, contained hundreds of moving parts, and carried
so much volatile liquid fuel that the gigantic external tank con-
tained internal baffles to prevent the fluids from whirlpooling as
they were drained during launch. The orbiter-tank-booster ve-
hicle possessed six major systems—from avionics to propulsion
to life support—and hundreds of subsystems, all of which had
to work in harmony if the spacecraft was to heave itself aloft.
On this moonlit night, the landscape surrounding Space
Launch Complex Six at Vandenberg seemed deserted and eerily
still, except for the occasional jackrabbit and a wispy, cloudlike
contrail swirling around the top of the bright orange tank. Earlier
29

30
STORMING INTREPID
that morning, 143,000 gallons of liquid oxygen, chilled to minus
147 degrees centigrade, had been loaded into the giant external
tank. Once inside, the top layer of the "O-two" oxidizer became
warm enough to "boil off" and change into gaseous oxygen.
When the expanding super-cold vapor was vented from the tank,
it hit the warmer atmosphere and left a telltale contrail whipping
in the wind.
A fuzzy voice came through the headphones. "Intrepid, this
is Launch Control. Seal your O-two locks."
The shuttle commander's thumb flipped a switch that read 02
valve—et (for "external tank") from the open to the close
position. Inside the external tank an aluminum valve rotated and
the white contrail immediately disappeared. Pressure was now
building up in the liquid oxygen tank like steam in a capped tea
kettle. The Intrepid had eight minutes to launch or reopen the
valve; otherwise, the tank would rupture and the ensuing explo-
sion would turn the launch complex into a small Mount St.
Helens.
"Roger, Control. O-two locks are sealed." It was a cold,
hard, and self-confident voice that responded.
"We copy that, Intrepid. We have a visual on the O-two seal."
"Roger," came the icy reply.
Maj. Frank Mulcahey chuckled to himself that the pilot in the
adjoining chair enjoyed talking about liquid oxygen because, as
a well-worn joke around the complex suggested, the shuttle
commander's blood probably ran at about the same temperature.
"Intrepid, seal yourH-two locks," ordered Launch Control.
"Roger, Control." And the liquid hydrogen tank, which held
the second component of the shuttle's volatile fuel mixture, was
closed off.
Mulcahey, the Intrepid's copilot, was the true picture of his
Irish ancestry with his red hair and red mustache, and the tough
boxer's build that reflected his feistiness. A native of Boston,
he'd spent most of his adult life in fighter aircraft before joining
the SPACECOM astronaut corps. He now ran his brown eyes
over the multitude of gauges, dials, and liquid crystal displays
on the control panel, looking for any aberrant behavior in the
launch vehicle's subsystems.
Human eyes and reflexes were woefully inadequate to handle

THE FIRST DAY
31
the 34 million pieces of information processed during a shuttle
launch; so to fill the void, five on-board computers gobbled
through the data, monitoring thousands of functions and even
checking on one another. If a dispute arose between the com-
puters concerning a flight procedure, they would vote among
themselves to settle the argument. The shuttle was so computer-
dependent that firing the engines, lift-off, guidance, and reentry
could all be done without the human element. Mulcahey mused
to himself that the absence of the human element had extended
to the flight commander's chair. Perhaps that's how the com-
mander pictured himself—just another silicon chip or circuit
performing a function.
"Move APUs to 'inhibit.' " It was a quiet but firm order.
Mulcahey responded with a terse "Yessir" and flipped a
switch to shut down the orbiter's auxiliary power units during
the launch phase.
"Control," radioed the commander, "this is Intrepid. APUs
have been switched to 'inhibit.' Over."
"Roger, we copy, Intrepid. Out."
Mulcahey eyed the launch clock, which showed less than two
minutes to ignition of the main engines. He half turned in his
chair and said through the intercom, "How're you doing, Jerry?
Ready to go?"
Dr. Jerry Rodriquez, mission specialist, smiled and said,
"You bet. Everything's A-OK."
The two men laughed at Rodriquez's use of the expression
coined during Alan Shepard's first Mercury spaceflight. It was
now considered dated and more than a bit hokey, which was
precisely why they laughed. The Intrepid'& commander, how-
ever, did not join in the levity. His face remained impassive, his
expression remote and closed.
"Iceberg." That was the shuttle commander's call sign, and
Mulcahey figured it suited the man well; for Col. Julian Kapus-
cinski always seemed to have more of an affinity for computer
chips and flight controls than people. He rarely displayed anger,
or warmth, or humor, or any of the other emotions associated
with the human condition—in particular, fear. Whatever the
commander's faults, Mulcahey thought with admiration, Ka-
puscinski was utterly fearless. And Christ—what a flyer! On
Iceberg's second shuttle mission, this one out of the Cape, the

32
STORMING INTREPID
solid rocket boosters (SRBs) had just separated when a light
blinked on the control panel indicating a rupture in the liquid
hydrogen component of the giant external tank. Iceberg imme-
diately separated the orbiter from the tank and then, using the
maneuvering thrusters, pulled the spacecraft into a tight loop.
Nothing by the book, but if he'd waited a few seconds longer,
the ensuing explosion of the external tank would have obliterated
the orbiter. His subsequent landing on the Cape runway was
called nothing less than Promethean by columnist George Will.
Needless to say, NASA, the Air Force, several insurance
companies, and the government of Indonesia—whose $85 mil-
lion communications satellite he had saved—heaped praise upon
Iceberg by the truckload. There was even a White House cere-
mony at which the President anointed him as "a latter-day Chuck
Yeager." Yet in spite of the publicity, all Kapuscinski would say
about his salvation of the orbiter was: "It's just another flight."
Which, of course, only served to enhance his reputation.
After the hoopla died down, historical X rays taken of the
external tank before liftoff revealed a flaw in its liquid hydrogen
component. NASA engineers heaved a sigh of relief that it was
the faulty component—and not the tank system—that had bro-
ken down.
"Hmmm. That's strange."
The launch director turned his head. "What is it, Doc? Any-
thing the matter?" Launch directors typically were a little
skittish at T minus one minute and thirty-seven seconds.
The flight surgeon hesitated because it was a minor aberra-
tion, but he decided to tell the director anyway.
"It's Kapuscinski. His heart rate is at one oh six and we still
have over a minute to ignition. His pulse has never exceeded
eighty-five, even after ignition."
"Iceberg?" The launch director was incredulous. "You're
kidding? Must be something he ate. Either that or he's a little
tense about the special cargo on board."
The doctor sighed. "You're probably right. It's not something
to abort the mission, but it does concern me a little."
"Right, Doc. Let's not abort. Just keep an eye on it, okay?"
A launch director's career was not enhanced by aborts.
* * *

THE FIRST DAY
33
"Intrepid, this is Launch Control. SRB APU start is go. On-
board computers engaging now. You are cleared for launch at T
minus twenty-three seconds."
"Roger, Control," replied Iceberg. "Intrepid out."
Mulcahey felt the perspiration start to line his palms. There
were no switches to be thrown now, no buttons to be pushed.
Everything from this point was controlled by electronic im-
pulses racing through silicon wafers.
The capsule communicator, or "Cap Com" in the Launch
Control bunker, who handled radio traffic with the crew, ticked
off the countdown: "Eight . . . seven . . . six . . ."
Around the pad, six giant nozzles popped up, spewing out
horizontal geysers of water at the base of the spacecraft. The
engines of the shuttle vehicle generated such tremendous acous-
tic energy that the pad had to be cushioned with a blanket of
water during launch to prevent the sound waves from literally
bouncing back from the concrete apron and damaging the or-
biter. To provide the sound-absorbing blanket, a gravity-fed sys-
tem of deluge nozzles released 760,000 gallons of water onto
the pad and into the exhaust ducts in a thirty-second period
during liftoff.
". . . five . . . four. . ."
The three main engines on the orbiter fired in sequence within
three tenths of a second. The shuttle lurched forward about a
meter, and a Twang! reverberated in the cockpit as the "slack"
in the brackets holding the orbiter to the external tank was taken
up.
". . . three . . . two . . . one . . . SRB ignition!"
The computers triggered the two solid-fuel rocket boosters,
and their fiery plumes joined those of the orbiter in the exhaust
pit. The roar was deafening as an eruption of smoke, mixed
with steam, shot high above the launch gantry.
Mulcahey checked the main and SRB engine lights and
shouted, "All green!"
For three seconds 6.5 million pounds of thrust—roughly
equivalent to one fourth the energy blast that leveled Hiro-
shima—heaved against the combined weight of orbiter, tank,
and boosters, until finally the explosive bolts that held the solid-
fuel boosters to the pad blew and the spacecraft began its ascent.

34
STORMING INTREPID
For those in the control room the sight of a live launch, par-
ticularly at night, never failed to fire the emotions.
"Intrepid, we have lift-off! You look good. The tower's been
cleared and you are go for roll."
"Roger, Control," said the icy voice. "Starting roll maneu-
ver now."
The dialogue was superfluous, for it was the orbiter's com-
puters that commanded the booster engine nozzles to swivel, or
"gimbal," rolling the vehicle 120 degrees on its axis into a
"heads down" position.
Mulcahey said nothing as he watched the machometer and
time-lapse clock. It never ceased to amaze him that something
this big could go from zero to Mach 1 in fifty seconds.
Day 1, 1248 Hours Zulu, 2:48 p.m. Local
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE
"Launch detection, Comrade General!"
"Where?" It was a plaintive demand.
"Vandenbeig. Initial course one-eight-seven degrees. Launch
signature analysis coming up now." Mission Commander Ma-
lyshev paused, allowing the full report to trickle into his head-
phones from the Soviet Aerospace Defense Warning Centre.
"Confirmed. Infrared signature indicates shuttle vehicle launch
profile."
"I want constant updates!" wheezed the general.
"Of course, sir. The plot is coming up on the board now."
A short luminescent line, aiming south out of California, ap-
peared on the Mercator map projection.
Lt. Gen. Likady Popov slammed down the receiver and turned
to the two civilians in the glassed-in observation deck. "The
American shuttle has lifted off at the same time and direction as
we anticipated."
"Excellent!" exulted the hulking General Secretary, while
his diminutive companion—a chess player who often concealed
his emotions across the chessboard—was more circumspect.
Nevertheless, it was difficult even for him to contain his elation.
"Yes, yes. This is quite good. Very good indeed," purred

THE FIRST DAY
35
the little KGB Chairman. "There are many things to come, but
this is the most critical step, is it not?"
Popov did not respond. The harried, stocky, and overweight
general in the rumpled uniform was wary in dealing with these
two.
"Come, come, General," coaxed Kostiashak. "You must
learn to relax. Have you any idea what this can mean for us? . . .
Cigarette?"
Popov eyed the KGB chieftain. The diminutive man's black
hair was always combed straight back and never out of place,
and his Indian-like features seemed to be perpetually hidden be-
hind a veil of cigarette smoke. Cautiously, Popov extended a
hand and took a Pall Mall from the solid gold cigarette case
while the little man's other hand proffered a flame from a Dun-
hill lighter. Popov accepted the light and inhaled deeply. The
last month of his life had been sheer terror. In the dead of night,
the fifty-nine-year-old Director of Spaceflite Operations had been
roused from a peaceful sleep by a pair of goons in the green
uniforms and flown by helicopter to the KGB Chairman's dacha
on the Moskva River. Ever since then he'd been in the company
of Kostiashak himself or one of his henchmen, making prepa-
rations for something he still could not believe. An engineer by
nature and training, Popov feared the political side of Soviet
life; and he was acutely aware of the fate of his predecessor.
The late General Shenko had been a capable man.
To embark upon an exercise such as this was inconceivable
to Popov. And to do it with such oppressive secrecy—even for
a Russian—made it almost impossible. He had not seen his wife
and son since he left them in the middle of the night a month
ago. No doubt they thought he'd been arrested.
"When can we expect communication?" asked Vorontsky.
"That," replied Popov while scratching the ragged fringe of
gray hair around his bald head, "is totally out of our hands,
General Secretary."
The phone buzzed. Popov ripped the receiver off the cradle
and yelled, "What?"
"Solid boosters have separated."

36
STORMING INTREPID
Day 1, 1250 Hours Zulu
THE INTREPID
The flash from the explosive bolts caused Mulcahey to blink,
then breathe a sigh of relief. On this, his fifth shuttle mission,
it was still hard to foiget the Challenger. The image of its solid
rocket booster corkscrewing into the external tank was an in-
delible memory for him, and he was grateful the Intrepid's spent
projectiles were now tumbling toward the Pacific Ocean.
"Intrepid, this is Mission Control at CSOC." (The acronym,
which stood for Consolidated Space Operations Center, was
pronounced "See-Sock.") "We copy SRB separation."
"Roger, CSOC," replied Iceberg. "We have clean separation
onSRBs."
After the Intrepid had cleared the gantry tower at Vandenberg
Air Force Base, control of the mission immediately passed to
the CSOC at Falcon Air Force Station outside Colorado Springs.
The CSOC facility was almost identical to NASA's Mission
Control room in Houston.
"Intrepid, this is CSOC, please advise on your status, over."
Iceberg ran his eyes over the gauges. "Going through Mach
five, altitude twenty-eight miles. Main engines at ninety-eight
percent of rated power."
The combination of orbiter and external tank hurtling through
space made for an odd picture now—something akin to an air-
liner copulating with a barn silo. But even without its outrigger
boosters, the Intrepid continued to accelerate, pushing Mul-
cahey back into his seat with a force of three g's—or three times
his own weight. This would be the maximum g-force he would
experience during the mission, and ordinarily three g's would
be a piece of cake for the former test pilot. But on a shuttle
launch the g-force was constant, unlike the short duration ex-
perienced in fighter-plane turns. The copilot's stubborn nature
didn't want to admit it, but he was uncomfortable, and he'd be
glad when they reached orbit. His brown eyes kept darting over
the instruments. He felt that his fifth shuttle mission must be
charmed, because everything was operating beautifully. The
Iceberg said nothing. He never did unless speech was required.
At an altitude of eighty miles the orbiter's engines "gim-

THE FIRST DAY
37
balled" again slightly, putting the spacecraft into an ever-so-
shallow dive. The liquid fuel was almost expended now, and the
big orange external tank had to be aimed on a trajectory back
to the open sea; otherwise, pieces of it could fall back to earth,
Lord only knew where. The tank was almost half the length of
a football field, was twenty-seven feet wide, and weighed thirty-
nine tons empty. It was simply too big to burn up completely
on reentry, and so it had to be aimed at a remote comer of the
Pacific where its charred remains would splash down harm-
lessly.
The computers gave the command for the main engines to
shut down, and the orbiter and tank "coasted" together for an-
other twenty seconds. Explosive bolts fired again, and the ma-
neuvering thrusters were automatically triggered to steer the
orbiter away from the separated spent tank. Once it was clear,
Mulcahey watched Iceberg take manual control of the shuttle
and put them into position for the orbital maneuvering system
(OMS) rocket engines to fire. These were the smaller engines
which allowed the spacecraft to change orbits and also provided
the critical retrofire for their return to earth. The three astronauts
experienced a slight jolt as the OMS rockets burned for forty
seconds.
"Okay, Jerry. You can relax now. We coast for another forty-
five minutes," Mulcahey said.
Rodriquez was well aware of the flight plan and knew the
orbiter's systems better than Mulcahey. He even had one more
shuttle flight under his belt than the copilot. His Ph.D. in me-
chanical engineering from Cal Tech and seven years in training
as a mission specialist made him eminently qualified for this
particular mission.
The Intrepid was en route to the prototype platform of the
Strategic Defense Initiative, which was circling the earth in a
polar orbit of 430 miles at 83 degrees inclination. In forty-five
minutes the Intrepid would fire its OMS rockets again to execute
an orbit "insertion burn," which would place it in a roughly
circular orbit 126 miles high. After all the flight systems were
checked, another series of lift, insertion, and correction burns
would be executed to place the Intrepid in rendezvous position
with the platform, where its payload would be transferred—a
very sensitive payload. So sensitive that nothing could go wrong

38
STORMING INTREPID
with this particular mission. That was why Rodriquez, Mul-
cahey, and Iceberg had been selected. They were that good.
Actually, Iceberg hadn't been on the original manifest as flight
commander. He was the backup. The primary slot had belonged
to Jarrod McKenna, who was everybody's first choice. The
squire of the astronaut corps, McKenna looked like a test pilot
sent over from Central Casting. An all-American quarterback
from Yale (of all places) and a Rhodes scholar, he passed up the
chance to play pro football and instead joined the Air Force,
where his career took off like an F-16. Promoted early to full
colonel, he was truly the chosen of the chosen—an extraordi-
narily gifted pilot, a brilliant leader, physically attractive, and
politically acceptable to everyone. He was a natural choice for
this crucial journey. But four days prior to launch he had come
down with a severe case of intestinal flu. He'd been in the caf-
eteria and doubled over right after breakfast. Rodriquez remem-
bered it. Scared hell out of everyone. Paramedics called and
everything. The doctors said he'd pull out of it in a week or so,
but he was scrubbed for the mission. Rodriquez was disap-
pointed. He'd rather have McKenna as the jockey instead of the
Iceberg, but what did it matter—it would only be for a short
time.
As soon as they reached the platform, Rodriquez would de-
ploy the payload from the cargo bay with the remote manipulator
arm and then transfer to the platform himself to oversee instal-
lation of the two Star Wars components. Two members of the
platform crew would ride back down with the Intrepid, and that
would be that.
Rodriquez was thirty-six years old, but looked much older.
His dark Latin features were heavily lined and his hair streaked
with more gray than most men his age. His nose was flat and
his ears betrayed a hint of cauliflower. His climb out of the Los
Angeles barrio had taken a toll, but it was a toll he had been
willing to pay. Spaceflight was the payoff. He was in orbit, and
anxious to return to the SDI platform. He hadn't seen it for nine
months and was fiercely excited at the prospect of, in a sense,
laying the final brick. By now the orbiting station should have
taken on its full hexagonal shape. Powered by a nuclear reactor,
the platform was surprisingly small and manned by a crew of
thirty-two who were in the final phase of teching out and de-

THE FIRST DAY
39
bugging the systems. When it was finally operational, so the
scuttlebutt went, the platform could truly negate much of the
nuclear arsenal of the Soviet Union. Much earlier than anyone
could have dreamed just a few years ago.
Funny, he thought, that something so staggeringly powerful
would have to rely on two relatively small parts to make it all
work.
Day 1, 1310 Hours Zulu, 6:10 a.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
"Lookin' good, General," opined the bespectacled duty of-
ficer. "She's through lift-off and initial OMS burn in good shape.
Not much that could go wrong now. She'll be back on the run-
way at Vandenberg in forty-eight hours—if the weather holds."
"How long till their next OMS burn?" asked Whittenberg.
The duty officer peered at his time-lapse clock. "Thirty-eight
minutes, twenty-three seconds to the next burn, sir."
CSOC at Falcon Air Force Station outside Colorado Springs
was several miles away from Cheyenne Mountain, but its activ-
ities were also Whittenberg's responsibility. However, even with
his lofty rank, the CinC couldn't be in two places at the same
time, so he monitored shuttle missions through the Space De-
fense Operations Center inside the granite fortress.
"Okay, I'm going to get some coffee and go back to my of-
fice," said Whittenberg. "If anything, and I mean anything,
turns into a hitch, I want to know about it yesterday. Got that?"
"Yes, General," replied the duty officer.
"Pete, would you mind hanging around and keeping an eye
on things until they dock with the platform?" It was Whitten-
berg's polite way of giving an order.
"Be glad to, sir," said Lamborghini.
The general said, "Thanks," and walked out of SPADOC.
"What's with him this morning?" asked the duty officer.
"He's been pacing up and down like his wife was having trip-
lets."
Lamboighini patted the young captain on the shoulder. "Don't

40	STORMING INTREPID
worry about it, son. When you get your fourth star, you'll un-
derstand."
Day 1, 1349 Hours Zulu
THE INTREPID
"Ignition!" ordered Iceberg.
Mulcahey pressed the red button and the OMS rockets fired
in another timed burn, inserting the Intrepid into low earth orbit.
"Okay, Jerry," said Mulcahey. "We're gettin' in the groove
now. A coupla more burns and we're up to the platform." Ex-
ecuting a rendezvous with an orbiting object that was 430 miles
high and traveling at 17,000 miles an hour had to be taken in
stages, with deftness and skill.
"Rodriquez," intoned the Iceberg, "see to the doors."
"Roger . . . sir." Rodriquez had decided he didn't like Ka-
puscinski. Didn't like him at all. He truly was a real cold bas-
tard. But never mind about that now. There was work to do.
Rodriquez unplugged his intercom cord and shoved it into the
pocket of his flight suit. The crew areas of the shuttle were
environmentally controlled, and the astronauts did not wear the
pressurized space suits during lift-off—only the light blue cov-
erall flight suit and a crash helmet.
Rodriquez unbuckled his harness and giggled as he floated
out of his chair, weightless. Mulcahey knew what the feeling
was like and laughed, too. Whatever the rigors of astronaut
training, they all became worth it when you floated totally free
from gravity for the first time.
Rodriquez gently propelled himself to the aft crew station,
where he slipped his flight boots into special shoe clips. The
simple anchoring device would prevent him from drifting away
while he operated the workstation controls. The aft crew station
was U-shaped, with a battery of instruments, switches, and but-
tons. Rodriquez powered up the electronics, then peered out the
window into the cargo bay. It was pitch-black. He flipped a
safety switch and moved a lever marked crg by drs from cls
to opn. There was a hum, then a slight vibration as the latches
slipped back and hydraulic pistons engaged, pushing the 33-foot

THE FIRST DAY
41
doors open. What greeted Rodriquez was a spectacular sight—
the earth's azure horizon against a jet-black background. Had
he not been weightless his knees would have buckled, for the
scene always left him awestruck—and reminded him what a long
hard climb it had been from his impoverished youth to this win-
dow on the earth.
The skin of the shuttle became extremely hot from air friction
during launch, so the inside panels of the cargo bay doors were
lined with radiators which, when the doors opened, dissipated
the heat buildup. Without a timely venting of the heat, the life-
support system would be unable to keep the cabin cool.
"CSOC, this is Intrepid. Cargo bay doors are open and se-
cure," radioed Iceberg.
"Roger, Intrepid. Your next OMS burn is in ninety-three
minutes. Enjoy the ride. Out."
Iceberg stared out the window at the Indian Ocean. A small
bead of perspiration from his upper lip broke free and floated
in front of his eyes. He deftly caught it between his thumb and
forefinger and mashed it. His heart was racing, so he took a
long, slow breath to quiet the thumping in his chest. In a sense,
the Iceberg was melting. . . .
It had been such a long journey for him. So very, very long
to reach his elusive grail. Many times he had questioned him-
self. Questioned his purpose. Questioned his own resolve.
Questioned why he had to lead such a sterile existence. But for
each question she had had an answer. When he wavered, she
was firm. When he cried, she had consoled him. Wait ... be
patient... the time will come, one day. You are not to question,
she admonished him. You are to obey. It is your duty. And he
was never able to disobey her.
He unzipped the breast pocket of his flight suit and took out
the picture. The face that stared back at him possessed hard,
stern Slavic features.'But there was a trace of softness in her
brown eyes, penetrating eyes that had evoked the only deep
emotions Kapuscinski—the "Iceberg"—had ever known. And
as incredible as it might seem, the events that propelled him into
the left seat of this spacecraft had started with her, almost fifty
years ago.
Mulcahey craned his neck to peek at the photograph in Ka-
puscinski's hand. "Say, Beig? Uh, mind if I ask, who is that?"

42
STORMING INTREPID
Iceberg did not look at his copilot but instead continued to
stare at the worn picture. "It is my mother," he replied softly.
Mulcahey almost said, "I didn't know you had a mother,"
but caught himself before it slipped. Instead, he commented,
"Oh—I don't recall you ever mentioning her."
A pause.
"She died. When I was nineteen. ... I was in my second
year at the academy.''
"I see," said Mulcahey, but he didn't, really. He was just
trying to be polite. But the sight of Iceberg gazing at the little
photograph caused Mulcahey to eyeball the pilot more carefully.
Although his flight skills were second to none, Iceberg had al-
ways been a weird guy. He was thin—even gaunt; there wasn't
a trace of body fat on the man's physique. He worked out on a
rowing machine by the hour. His close-cropped hair was gun-
metal gray, the eyes black, and the hollow cheeks gave him an
almost cadaverous appearance. Mulcahey shrugged and looked
away.
Icebeig replaced the photograph and took another long breath.
It was now, he thought. The long journey's end was now. Slowly,
now that Mulcahey wasn't looking, he unzipped the thigh pocket
on his flight suit and extracted a small, cylindrical object about
the size of a 12-gauge shotgun shell. On the side of the cylinder
was a pressure-sensitive button that released a stainless steel
projectile, propelled by highly compressed carbon dioxide gas.
It could be used only once. And that time was now. Iceberg put
a sharp edge on his voice and barked, "What was that!?"
Mulcahey and Rodriquez both spun their heads.
"What was what?" Mulcahey asked nervously. He didn't like
the pilot's tone.
With a stone face Iceberg said, "I saw the smoke-detector
light flash."
Mulcahey's blood went cold. There was nothing more terri-
fying on a spacecraft than fire. Ever since Gus Grissom, Ed
White, and Roger Chaffee had died in an Apollo capsule fire
while on the pad at the Cape, the very thought of fire while in
space evoked a standard reaction of raw panic.
"The annunciator didn't come on!" protested Mulcahey, try-
ing to wish the danger away. "Which one was it?"
"Avionics bay number two," replied Iceberg grimly.

THE FIRST DAY
43
"Oh, shit!" cried the copilot.
The avionics bay was the worst possible place for a fire. Smoke
detectors would trigger the automatic halogen fire extinguisher
within the bay; but if that didn't work, the only way to gain
access to the bay and fight the fire was to remove bulkhead
panels in the lower-deck crew compartment. And that took time.
Time that could allow the fire to spread.
"Rodriquez!" Iceberg's command was flint. "Get down there
and see what you can make of it."
"Right! Let me get my oxygen on and—"
"Forget the oxygen! There may not be time, you fool!"
Standard safety procedures called for the flight crew to put on
their portable oxygen packs in the event of a fire, but Rodriquez
decided not to argue about procedures just now, or take offense
at Kapuscinski's remark. He'd do that later. For now, he fol-
lowed orders and pushed himself to the hatchway leading down
to the crew compartment deck. He struggled to unscrew the
hatch wheel, finding it difficult to get a foothold in the weight-
lessness.
The crew areas of the shuttle were divided into two sections.
The flight deck—which included the cockpit and cargo bay
workstation—was topside, while the crew compartment—which
contained storage, sleeping areas, kitchen, bathroom, and air-
lock access—was below. After the Challeger disaster, NASA
had decreed future orbiters would have a safety ejection mech-
anism. A slide pole escape system was installed on the older
shuttles, but the newer models—like the Intrepid— possessed an
upgraded system whereby the flight deck was a self-contained
capsule that could be ejected with all hands during launch, up
to about 120,000 feet. The hatch sealed off the flight deck from
the crew compartment until final orbit was achieved, then it was
opened to allow passage between the two chambers.
When the hatch wheel finally yielded, Rodriquez yanked the
lid back and shot through the passageway hole headfirst.
"CSOC, this is Intrepid," said Iceberg. "We have a prob-
lem."
"We read you, Intrepid. State your problem."
Iceberg had rehearsed well. ' 'We received a momentary flash-
ing light of number two smoke detector in the avionics bay. The

44
STORMING INTREPID
annunciator did not, I say again did not, go off. Rodriquez is
investigating now."
"Roger, Intrepid . . ." There was a pause. "Intrepid, we do
not, I say again we do not, copy a smoke detector alarm on the
telemetry monitor. We've alerted flight engineering. They'll be
on standby in case you need them. We recommend you proceed
with a circuit check."
"Roger, Control," replied Iceberg. "We will comply with a
circuit test of the smoke detector system. Stand by. . . ."
"Well, I don't see any other lights," said Mulcahey, starting
to relax a bit—but pulling out his auxiliary oxygen mask just the
same. "I think another detector would've gone off by now if
there was a real problem, don't you?'
They were Maj. Frank Mulcahey's last words.
In one swift movement Iceberg shoved the cylinder under his
copilot's chin and pressed the button. There was a popping sound
as the projectile shot into Mulcahey's brain, causing him to con-
vulse and give a little cry. Almost immediately blood started
oozing out of the small hole in his chin and into the weightless
chamber.
Rodriquez sailed through the hole, not stopping to secure the
hatch lid. He immediately faced a bank of storage lockers—much
like the kind one would find in a bus station. They were secured
to the bulkhead panel, which provided access to the avionics bay.
He reached behind the top locker and popped a safety catch. This
allowed one row of the lockers to come free. He ripped it away
and pushed it toward the back of the compartment.
The front bulkhead panel was secured by six recessed butter-
fly screws. The screwheads could be pried out of the recesses
with a screwdriver, or a strong fingernail, and unscrewed by
hand. Rodriquez pulled a screwdriver out of the on-board tool
kit and was starting to engage the first screw when he heard a
popping sound from above, followed by a little yelp. He hesi-
tated, and was torn between continuing his task and going back
to investigate.
Then he heard the hatch clang shut.
Iceberg slammed down the lid and spun the wheel as tight as
he possibly could. Then he unzipped the other thigh pocket on

THE FIRST DAY
45
his flight suit and pulled out a simple bicycle-cable lock—the
kind with a combination mechanism. He ran it through the hatch
wheel and around the restraining post, then locked it. There
would be some play in the wheel, but the steel cable would
prevent it from beir.g opened.
He then pushed himself back to his cockpit seat, where Mul-
cahey's blood was beginning to be a problem. Iceberg fished in
his copilot's breast pocket and came up with a handkerchief.
Most astronauts carried them, not wanting the mucus from their
sinuses to escape into the weightlessness. He capped Mulcah-
ey's chin with the handkerchief, then shoved the corners up be-
tween the flight helmet and the dead copilot's temple. He looked
at his handiwork for a few moments until satisfied it was a good
temporary plug.
Sliding back into his seat, Iceberg started flipping control
switches on the orbiter's oxygen/nitrogen life-support system,
just as he heard a metallic pounding on the hatch lid.
Rodriquez was no fool. But none of his academic or astronaut
experience had prepared him for a situation such as this. Rather
than rush for the hatch, his first instinct was to establish com-
munication. He fished out the plug to his intercom headset and
shoved it into a nearby port.
"Frank? . . . Berg? What's happening? Did you shut the hatch
because of the fire? . . . Hey, guys. What gives?"
Nothing.
He unplugged the headset and floated up to the hatch. The
wheel would turn a little, but not much. That told him something
was very wrong, for there was no locking mechanism on the
hatch wheel. He pounded on the lid with his screwdriver and
had started to yell when he heard a hissing sound.
When the Grissom-White-Chaffee Apollo capsule went up in
flames, it was largely due to its one hundred percent oxygen
atmosphere; and in the wake of that disaster some bureaucratic
chowderhead got the revelation that pure pressurized oxygen
around electrical wiring could be dangerous. So, for safety con-
siderations, the shuttle's life-support system was designed to
simulate the earth's atmosphere with a mixture of twenty-one
percent oxygen and seventy-nine percent nitrogen. The oxygen

46
STORMING INTREPID
was carried aboard the orbiter in cryogenic—that is, liquid-
form. A controlled boiling chamber converted the super-cold
liquid into vapor, then it was warmed by a heat exchanger before
being introduced into the cabin. The nitrogen was carried aboard
in pressurized tanks. The two gases were mixed through a reg-
ulator/sensor that purged the cabin atmosphere as required, and
introduced one gas or the other to keep their prescribed level
constant. There was, of course, a manual override switch on the
shuttle commander's console that controlled the regulator.
Rodriquez knew the Intrepid'& systems as well as anyone. The
hissing sound told him the purging fan had been turned on to
siphon off the existing atmosphere in the crew compartment.
The hissing, in itself, was not unusual, and a scientific instinct
tried to tell him this had something to do with the fire; but
another instinct, this one from his youth in the barrio, told him
he could be in another kind of danger.
Once again he pounded on the hatch.
"Frank! . . . Berg! . . . Somebody answer!"
Nothing.
Rodriquez began to notice his breathing was more rapid. He
floated to the oxygen indicator, and his eyes widened when he
saw the needle resting on 12% oxy . . . Then it started falling
to 11 % oxy. There was no question in his mind now. Somebody
was trying to kill him.
He thrust himself to the locker that held the portable oxygen
system. He yanked out the mask, pressed it to his face, and
flipped the switch—but no oxygen flowed to his nostrils. Be-
cause the tube wasn't transparent, he couldn't see that it was
blocked with epoxy glue which had been injected by hypoder-
mic needle. He discarded the mask and went to the second
oxygen system, only to come to another dead end. His chest was
heaving now. There was one more emergency oxygen system
on this deck, but something told him it would be just like the
others. He flew to the airlock and hit the pressurization switch
to try to get some oxygen that way, but the red mnl ovr rde
light was blinking and the air wouldn't flow. Rodriquez knew
the override switches for the airlock and the cabin environmental
system were all in the cockpit, and there wasn't anything he
could do—except, maybe . . .
He grabbed the floating screwdriver and pushed himself to the

THE FIRST DAY
47
bulkhead panel which sealed off the avionics bay. His chest was
heaving like a quarter-miler's now. Frantically he pried loose
each of the butterfly screws and unscrewed them from the panel.
He was becoming a little giddy now, and light-headed. The last
screw popped free. All the color was fading from his vision.
Everything was black-and-white.
The panel came off. The room was spinning. His hand floated
inside the bay and pulled on a drawer filled with circuit boards.
It didn't budge. He yanked again. Images were dimming. The
drawer pulled free. With his last conscious effort, Rodriquez
grasped the butt of his screwdriver and brought it down as hard
as he could on one of the brittle plastic circuit boards. It shat-
tered, causing fragments to float out of the bay and into the
cabin.
To his credit, Rodriquez had taken the only action which might
have saved his life, and that was to break the circuit which con-
trolled the purging fan and the manual override switch on the
oxygen/nitrogen regulator. But his strategy didn't quite work as
planned. The lack of oxygen in the cabin had blurred his vision,
and instead of hitting the circuit board labeled oxy/nit, Rodri-
quez brought the butt of his screwdriver down on the board
marked oms.
Day 1, 7445 Hours Zulu, 7:45 a.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
"What happened?" demanded Whittenberg.
Lamborghini nodded to the duty officer and said, "Play it
back." The young captain punched a button on the digital re-
corder and they all relived the Intrepid's last transmission.
"We notified you immediately, sir," said Lamborghini. "This
came in just seven minutes ago. CSOC has tried raising them
on all four transponders and has gotten zip. Telemetry also
ceased shortly after the transmission. Spyglass is at Andrews. If
we scramble them now they can be in position for a flyby in
about six hours."
With his jaw muscles flexing, Whittenberg nodded. Lam-
borghini grabbed the yellow phone and immediately started

48
STORMING INTREPID
barking orders. That was one thing about his intel chief, Whit-
tenberg thought. He answered your question before you asked
it, then pointed the way.
When the colonel hung up, Whittenberg looked at his watch.
It was not quite 8:00 a.m. "Assemble any of the staff who've
already arrived. Then have McCormack from CSOC piped into
the conference room on a secure line." The CinC didn't wait
for an answer, but spun on his heel and left.
Eleven minutes later the conference room was filled.
"Okay, Colonel," ordered Whittenberg. "Bring everyone up
to speed."
Lamborghini ran through a quick brief on the situation and
took his seat.
"Did we miss anything, Chet?" Whittenberg queried the
speaker-phone box.
"No, sir," replied Maj. Gen. Chester McCormack from
CSOC. "That about covers it. We even tried to raise them from
the SDI platform with no success."
"All right, gentlemen . . . and lady," said the CinC, to in-
clude Lydia Strand, Lamborghini's deputy. "That's where we
are. Where do we go from here?"
No one spoke at once, and Whittenberg didn't rush. He knew
it would take some time for them to absorb the problem. It was
the deputy chief of staff for operations—the professorial General
Fairchild—who spoke first. He was a brigadier who cut a strange-
looking figure, for his bald head was in the shape of a light bulb,
and it seemed a bit large for his thin body. His peculiar appear-
ance was further amplified by the meerschaum pipe that always
seemed to be hanging from his mouth. But when "Sir Isaac"
talked, everyone listened. "Let's consider the options," he be-
gan, through a haze of pipe smoke. "First case, there was a fire
on board that reached the liquid hydrogen or oxygen fuel cells
and blew the orbiter apart. While this is possible, I feel the fire-
suppression systems and the design of the craft make this un-
likely."
No one challenged the Ph.D. in electrical engineering from
MIT.
"Besides," he continued, "Spyglass will soon tell us if this
is so or not. . . . Second case, the spacecraft is intact, but the

THE FIRST DAY
49
crew are dead. In such case the orbiter and payload can be sal-
vaged. . . . Third case, the crew are alive but life-support sys-
tems are damaged and they are operating on emergency systems.
If they cannot effect repairs—and being without ground com-
munication, this will be difficult—they will be dead before any
rescue effort could be mounted."
No one was comfortable with the detached way Sir Isaac sized
things up.
"Fourth and final case," he concluded, "they are alive, life
support is functioning, and they have only lost their communi-
cation, and possibly some other functions."
There was another lull.
"Chet," asked Whittenberg, "they were on auto controls for
their final OMS burn, weren't they?"
The Commander of SPACECOM Flight Operations said,
"Roger, General," through the speaker box. "They had fired
their initial orbit insertion burn and were supposed to go through
a systems check before their next lift burn. They were on auto."
"So if they're alive and the computer and OMS systems
weren't damaged, they could still be programmed to fire the
next burn?" asked the CinC.
"Mmmmm," McCormack hedged. "I suppose that's possi-
ble."
"How long till the next burn was scheduled?" queried Sir
Isaac.
There was a pause, then the box spoke: "Eighteen minutes."
"Okay," said Whittenberg. "We wait eighteen minutes. If
nothing happens, we start considering the more unattractive al-
ternatives."
Day 1, 1515 Hours Zulu
THE INTREPID '
Iceberg watched carefully as the oxygen meter needle inched
back up to twenty percent. He'd kept it at one hundred percent
nitrogen in the crew compartment for twenty-five minutes, which
was long enough to asphyxiate anyone several times over. Also,
he knew Rodriquez wouldn't have procured any relief from the

50
STORMING INTREPID
portable oxygen packs. He'd taken care of those before launch,
right after the ground crew had certified them as being in great
shape. The recollection caused him to smile at his own clever-
ness.
Iceberg was sure Rodriquez had died, but he couldn't shake
a desire to be certain. He floated to the hatch, took off his hel-
met, and held his ear to the lid for some minutes, listening for
a sound. There was none. Slowly he dialed in the correct com-
bination to the bicycle lock, then removed the cable from the
hatch wheel. He carefully turned the wheel, raised the lid
slightly, and peeked through a slit. He needn't have worried.
Rodriquez was floating spread-eagled in the far corner, with the
unsecured bank of lockers lightly bumping his leg.
Iceberg lifted the hatch and secured it, then pushed himself
through. He turned Rodriquez over to see his glaring eyes and
blue face. The death mask of the mission specialist showed that
his end had been a painful one, but the grisly picture unnerved
the shuttle commander not at all. Having released the manual
override switch from his cockpit console, Iceberg started re-
pressurizing the airlock. When the light turned green he opened
the door and shoved the mission specialist's body inside. The
airlock allowed passage from the crew compartment to the cargo
bay of the orbiter. It was ordinarily used to provide access for
extravehicular activity (EVA), but Iceberg was now using it for
storage. After stuffing the remains of Rodriquez inside, he
quickly traveled back up to the flight deck and unhooked Mul-
cahey's seat restraints. He pulled the dead copilot below, shoved
the body into the airlock chamber alongside Rodriquez, and
sealed the door. It was then Iceberg noticed the floating plastic
fragments. He whirled around to look at the avionics bay. More
fragments. He shot across the deck to inspect the damage. Shards
of the shattered circuit board stuck out of the slot marked oms;
and for perhaps the first time in his life, Iceberg took in a little
gasp.
Kapuscinski's understanding of electronic flight control sys-
tems was better than that of most pilot astronauts, but still, he
was not an electrical engineer. Engineers, in fact, were often
looked upon disparagingly by pilots—and he was a superb flyer.
So the shattered circuit board gave him an intuitive feel for what
had happened, but he wasn't certain—and he was a man who

THE FIRST DAY
51
liked absolute certainties. He dashed up to the cockpit and
flipped the orbital maneuvering system switch from safe to arm.
The light stayed red, refusing to turn green. He screamed, ' 'No!''
and pounded the armrest of his chair. He tried the backup system
and the result was the same.
"No! No! No!" he wailed. Never in his life had Iceberg un-
leashed such emotion. "No, Mother, please. Tell me this cannot
be\"
With the butt of a screwdriver, Rodriquez had crippled the
circuits of Intrepid's OMS retro rockets. The spacecraft was,
quite simply, unable to return to earth.
Day 1, 1545 Hours Zulu, 8:45 a.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
Out of control.
That's what Whittenberg thought. The whole damn technol-
ogy thing had tailspun out of control. For somewhere out there,
circling around in space, was $4 billion worth of exotic hard-
ware—possibly blown to pieces by a short circuit in a five-dollar
breaker switch.
Prices had definitely gone up. As a young stableboy growing
up in Kentucky during World War II, Whittenberg had been
exercising one of the stud farm's three-year-olds when a P-51
Mustang screamed over them at treetop level. The horse was so
spooked that the animal parted company with the young rider.
It was at that point, Whittenberg told friends, that he'd decided
to forego a career as a jockey and become a pilot instead. Ev-
eryone always laughed at the story, because at six feet five inches
and 230 pounds, he was an unlikely candidate to ride at Chur-
chill Downs. But while humorous, the story was true. Being
buzzed by a P-51 was a transcending experience for the youthful
Whittenberg. Much later, when he was an instructor at the Air
Force Academy, he looked up the original 1944 cost of a P-51
aircraft. It turned out to be $47,000. About the price of a good
sports car these days.
Whittenberg also remembered his first B-52. The eight-
engined behemoth was awesome, and so damn complex! He

52
STORMING INTREPID
figured that weapons systems couldn't possibly get more compli-
cated than the cockpit of his first B-52. But they did. First the
Hound Dog missile, then laser-guided bombsights, then electronic
counter-measures, and electronic counter-countermeasures, then
cruise missiles. He'd consumed countless technical manuals dur-
ing his Strategic Air Command career, and it had reached the point
where he simply couldn't keep up. He could only manage people
whose job it was to keep up on their respective tiny pieces of the
Big Picture. He had inner doubts about his, or anyone's, ability to
tie all of the little pieces together. Sometimes, like now, it got to
him, and he almost wished that Mustang had taken a different
vector on that day so long ago . . . almost.
Whittenberg had yearned all of his life to be a fighter pilot,
and the one perk of his four-star rank that he truly relished was
his "stick time" in a Talon T-38 trainer, which allowed him to
retain his flight status. But in the early days of his career, be-
cause of his black skin and enormous size ("Sorry, Lieutenant,
we don't have a shoehorn big enough to slip you into one of
these itty bitty Sabre Jets—why don't you step into one of those
big ole bombers over yonder ... ha, ha"), he was relegated to
flying the larger aircraft.
So it was in bombers he'd made his reputation, particularly
flying missions out of Guam over North and South Vietnam—
as the ribbon on his chest denoting the Distinguished Flying
Cross would attest. It had happened on the first mission of the
Christmas bombing in 1972. The bombing raids over North
Vietnam had been halted during the fall of that year while Kis-
singer was in Paris putting a "peace agreement" together with
Hanoi's Le Due Tho. But the negotiations broke down after
Nixon's election, causing the President to embark upon a strat-
egy of bombing the Vietnamese back to the negotiating table.
Unfortunately, the bombing halt had given the North Vietnam-
ese plenty of time to repair and replenish their air defense bat-
teries.
On the first mission after the hiatus, Whittenberg's squadron
was assigned to strike the port facilities at Haiphong, which
possessed one of the heaviest concentrations of antiaircraft
weapons in the history of air combat. B-52s were a particularly
sweet target for the surface-to-air missile (SAM) batteries be-

THE FIRST DAY
53
cause of their size and lumbering speed, so on this mission a
flock of "Wild Weasels" flew in ahead of the bombers to neu-
tralize as many SAM launchers as possible. The Weasels were
specially equipped F-105 Thunderchiefs that would "clothes-
line," or intentionally 'et a SAM radar lock on to them, then
unleash their own tracking missiles to home in on and destroy
the SAM radar antenna. This would blind the SAM battery until
the antenna could be rebuilt. Unfortunately, a Weasel often had
to contend with an incoming SAM missile while lining up its
own shot. In essence, the process often became a high-speed
game of chicken, and sometimes the Weasel's missile came in
second.
On that mission over Haiphong, however, no amount of Wea-
sels could contain the flock of missiles that screamed toward
Whittenberg's squadron. The entire rim of the harbor seemed
to come alive with SAM launch signatures. Sizing up what
seemed like a hopeless situation, Whittenberg released his bomb
load prematurely and commanded his squadron to release air-
bursts of radar-confusing chaff. He then put his own lead B-52
into a steep diving turn, turning off his black box of electronic
countermeasures and turning on his navigational transponder.
The resulting multitude of radar images apparently confused the
Soviet-built fire-control computers, causing them to lock on to
the one clear signal which emerged from the electronic clutter—
i.e., Whittenberg's transponder. The remainder of his squadron
made it through unscathed that morning, but not Whittenberg.
The first incoming SAM clipped his B-52 on the wingtip, caus-
ing it to cartwheel at 23,000 feet. Whittenberg and his copilot
and tail gunner were the only ones able to eject.
Whittenberg never saw the rest of his crew again, except for
his tail gunner. They landed not far from the coast, the young
enlisted man suffering a fractured leg on impact. For eleven days
they evaded capture, the big black officer carrying the young
Louisiana airman on his back. The North Vietnamese, who had
become very astute at tracking down American pilots, combed
the area thoroughly while Whittenberg communicated via his
survival radio with Navy search-and-rescue helicopters. The
Navy choppers were able to drop some supplies, but couldn't
risk exposure long enough to make a pickup. Finally, Whitten-
berg radioed for a raft, which was dropped to them on their final

54
STORMING INTREPID
night. He carried his gunner to the coast and into the surf, then
inflated the raft and started rowing. Just before dawn he popped
a flare, and a Sikorsky Sea King plucked them out.
His entire crew received the Distinguished Flying Cross. Ex-
cept for himself and his tail gunner, the award was made post-
humously. How many airmen and B-52s had been saved that
day by his actions was impossible to tell. All Whittenberg knew
was that writing letters to his crew members' families afterward
was the toughest thing he'd ever done in his life. He almost left
the Air Force after that.
But he stayed. And his reputation grew. As squadron com-
mander, then as wing commander. Then the stars started rolling
his way. Every unit he'd touched was goosed to its top profi-
ciency. During a duty tour in Washington he took time out to
get a master's degree in international relations from Georgetown
University, and after that he was named Superintendent of the
Air Force Academy—a posting that made four stars almost a
sure thing. It became everybody's foregone conclusion that he
would eventually be CinCSAC—Commander in Chief, Strategic
Air Command. It had been his dream. But just when the apple
seemed his for the taking, the new President came into office,
along with a latter-day gunslinger for a Vice President, and the
two of them turned the Pentagon topsy-turvy to find just the
right "Space Czar" for "their" space program. The computers
kept spitting out Whittenberg's name. And so he landed in
Cheyenne Mountain. He now wished he'd wound up anyplace
else.
"All right," Whittenberg said. "I make it five minutes past
OMS burn. Anything happen on your end, Chet?"
"Negative, sir," lamented McCormack through the speaker
box. As Commander of Flight Operations, he considered the
men on board Intrepid "his" astronauts.
Whittenbeig turned to Michael Dowd and asked, "How about
it, Bull? Any deviation of their orbital path?"
The chief of staff's nickname, Bull, came partly from his
linebacker build and pugnacious appearance. And his rough fea-
tures reminded people of the bull on a package of Bull Durham
chewing tobacco. All that was missing was a ring in his nose.
He made one last query into the phone to the Spacetrack duty

THE FIRST DAY
55
officer in SPADOC, then hung up and said, "No change in orbit,
General."
"Very well," said Whittenberg, while rubbing his temples.
"Of all the options Sir Isaac has outlined for us, I have decided
that we will proceed on the premise that the Intrepid is dead in
the water and cannot maneuver, but the crew is alive. We are to
mount and execute a rescue operation with the priority of first
saving the crew, then salvaging the payload. Since time is of the
essence, we will not wait for the Spyglass pictures, but start
immediately.'' He paused just a moment to let everyone absorb
his comments, but no more than a moment, then turned to his
deputy chief of staff for operations. ' 'Okay, Sir Isaac, what's our
status?"
Like any four-star command structure, the SPACECOM staff
was huge, but out of its giant organization chart an inner circle
of advisers had emerged upon whom Whittenberg relied heavily.
Lamborghini was the former fighter pilot who had an intelli-
gence officer's instinct for finding the right answer; Bull—the
two-star chief of staff—was Whittenberg's surrogate, who raised
hell, jumped up and down, pounded the table, and made sure
the staff's work was cranked out on time; and Sir Isaac, the
operations man, was a one-man "brain trust" who spoke with
a quiet, detached air. He'd never been a pilot, but he knew more
about launch systems and the shuttle than anyone else inside or
outside SPACECOM.
There were a few moments of silence as Sir Isaac fired up his
meerschaum pipe again and contemplated the ceiling. Then,
without consulting any notes, he said, "Of the shuttle fleet,
Atlantis and Christa returned from the SDI platform just nine
and twenty-one days ago, respectively, and are in the turnaround
pipeline. Neither one could launch for another three weeks at
the very least." He paused to release a puff into the air. "Dis-
covery is slated to enter the Rockwell hangar at Palmdale in two
days for scheduled maintenance, just as the Antares comes out.
The Constellation in on the pad at the Cape, scheduled to launch
in eight days for deployment of an Anik communications satel-
lite and a COSMAX astronomical telescope."
Sir Isaac didn't say what everyone already knew—that the
Columbia had long since been retired, and the new administra-
tion had ordered up four new shuttles to get their "Final Fron-

56
STORMING INTREPID
tier" program on track. When the President announced to an
open-mouthed press corps that his fiscally conservative admin-
istration was going to buy four new orbiters at a price tag of $2
billion apiece, the former auto executive couldn't help joking
that he'd gotten a fleet discount. Yet in the same speech he'd
also announced the newest shuttle would be named Christa, in
honor of the teacher who'd died aboard the Challenger, and for
whom he'd wept on that fateful day.
"So all we have in the gate is the Constellation?" asked the
Bull.
"That's correct," replied Sir Isaac. "The soonest we could
get the Constellation off the pad would be seventy-two hours,
give or take, depending on Intrepid's flight path at the time. I
haven't run a rendezvous flight plan through the computer yet.
But if we do use the Constellation that presents us with two
problems."
Whittenberg already knew what they were, but wanted them
verbalized anyway. "Continue," he ordered.
"Yes, sir. Since the Intrepid is in a polar orbit, we'll have to
extricate the Constellation's payload. It's way too heavy for a
polar launch. That means we'll have to send up the Anik and
COSMAX later, and that screws up the scheduling pipeline for
at least a year."
Sir Isaac was referring to one of the basic limitations of orbital
mechanics. The earth rotates from west to east at about 900
mph. This provides equatorial launches, traveling east out of the
Kennedy Space Center, with extra lifting power—sort of like
jumping from a running start. Unfortunately, this "rotational
boost" is lost when a shuttle is fired into a polar orbit—which
is sort of like jumping from a standing position. As a result,
equatorial launches from Florida could handle payloads almost
twice as heavy as polar launches from Vandenberg Air Force
Base in California.
"Also," continued Sir Isaac, "there's another problem with
going out of Florida. We've only launched a few satellites into
a polar orbit from the Cape, and that was back in the sixties. As
I recall, those rockets were launched due east over the Atlantic,
then were put through a dogleg maneuver that sent them south.
There's no way we could execute a dogleg maneuver with the
Constellation. It would require too much propellant. If we launch

THE FIRST DAY
57
the Constellation from the Cape it will have to go directly south
and pass over populated areas during its ascent. I suppose such
an action would require Presidential approval of some sort."
"I think you suppose right," said Whittenberg. "You find
any flaw in his thinking, Chet?"
"Negative, General," replied McCormack.
"I agree with everything Sir Isaac has said," continued Whit-
tenberg, "but the Constellation is the only vehicle we have at
this time that can pull something like this off. It's got to be
Constellation and it's got to be now. Chet, you and Bull and Sir
Isaac start mapping out the flight plan. If Spyglass comes back
with pix showing Intrepid is blown to pieces, you can take this
matter up with my replacement. Until then, I'll talk with the
White House and NASA, and get control over the launch
switched to Chet at CSOC. Everyone else get his ass in gear. I
want that bird off the pad in seventy-two hours, max."
Day 1, 1545 Hours Zulu
THE INTREPID
Control.
That had been the guiding force of his life. Control and pur-
pose. Now, once again, he had to become a creature of absolute
discipline and retake control of himself and his situation. No
more childish outbursts. No more wailing. Once again, he told
himself, be the superb test pilot. Assess the problem and correct
it. Be scientific and detached.
First, take stock. Put things in order. There were still droplets
of blood floating in the cockpit. Iceberg drifted out of his chair
and retrieved a hand-held vacuum cleaner from the crew com-
partment. He methodically swept the flight deck's air of the red
droplets, and then went below ta clear the crew compartment
of floating circuit-board fragments. After securing the vacuum
cleaner and floating oxygen packs, he carefully inspected the
damage to the spacecraft's electronics. Iceberg cursed. That
damned Rodriquez. He'd always despised the man's flippant
manner.
It appeared the only circuit board damaged was the one

58
STORMING INTREPID
marked oms, which carried the primary and backup systems for
the maneuvering retro rockets. Carefully, Kapuscinski plucked
out the remaining shards and fragments from the circuit casing
and put them in a waste container, then gently pushed the circuit
drawer back into place. He replaced the bulkhead panel and
tightened the butterfly screws, then reattached the storage locker
to the panel. Lastly, he put the floating screwdriver back in the
tool kit. Satisfied everything was in its proper place, he returned
to the left seat of the cockpit.
Methodically, he ran through the instrument checklist and
found all major systems were functional, including the reaction
control system (RCS), which allowed the orbiter to change po-
sition up, down, and sideways, with small pitch and yaw thrus-
ters in the nose and tail. That is to say, with the RCS thrusters
the Intrepid could change its attitude in orbit, but it couldn't
change orbits or execute retrofire. Also, the circuits which al-
lowed the hydrazine and nitrogen tetroxide fuel to be transferred
from the larger OMS fuel tanks to the smaller RCS fuel tanks
that had been taken out by Rodriquez. That meant Iceberg could
maneuver the orbiter, but would have to do so sparingly with
the existing RCS fuel in the smaller tanks. Life-support systems
were in order, and there was enough oxygen and supplies for
three men for eleven days—thirty-three days for him alone.
He punched up the orbital path data on the flight computer,
which showed the Intrepid was in a circular polar orbit with an
altitude of 126 miles. If he was left in this pattern long enough,
the orbit would eventually decay and the shuttle would fall into
the atmosphere to break apart in an uncontrolled reentry. How-
ever, such an orbit decay from this altitude would probably take
a couple of months.
For the time being he was alone, with no other vehicle, from
either the SDI platform or the ground, that could be of imme-
diate clanger to him. That would change, though. It was his guess
that efforts were under way at this very moment to get some
kind of vehicle aloft—and fast. He had to find some way of
reactivating the OMS retro rockets. He'd crossed the Rubicon,
and his only way to survive was to get down from orbit before
the Americans found a way up. It had to be done, and he knew
he couldn't do it alone. He needed help, and that meant com-
municating with his new masters.

THE FIRST DAY
59
On the communications panel of the pilot's console, there was
a device which had a liquid crystal display with a numeric key-
pad underneath. It looked very much like a simple ten-key elec-
tronic calculator, but in fact it was a radio transmission
scrambling device called "Oracle." This device could be wired
into virtually any military aircraft or tactical radio and was im-
mensely popular with all three services because of its effective-
ness, simplicity, and durability. However, widespread popularity
did have its drawbacks.
The spy ring which had so devastated the Navy and compro-
mised its most jealously guarded cryptographic secrets had not
ended with the arrest of John Walker, a sleazy submarine war-
rant officer who sold out his country for some spare pocket
change. Operating independent of Walker and unbeknownst to
the FBI was another communications warrant officer—this one
on a frigate—who had copied an Oracle technical manual and
passed it to his Soviet case officer between cruises. About the
same time, a file clerk at Pacstar Communications in Los An-
geles—the manufacturer of the Oracle system—had photo-
graphed circuit diagrams of the system while the design
engineers were at lunch and passed it on to her case officer on
the West Coast. The KGB's Technical Directorate had pulled the
elements together to fashion a working model of the system.
While these intelligence losses were devastating, having an
Oracle terminal did not, in and of itself, give the owner access
to all scrambled radio traffic. Fortunately, eleven identical digits
had to be punched into the microprocessor of the Oracle trans-
ceiver for the communications to pass back and forth unscram-
bled. Without the exact same digits, the Oracle was useless; and
with 99,999,999,999 permutations and combinations, the like-
lihood of anyone tapping into the same eleven random digits
during a brief transmission was—to say the least—remote.
Iceberg punched in the eleven digits he had committed to
memory. He'd obtained the numbers from the proprietor of a
ramshackle rare bookstore in Lompoc, California—the same
person who'd given him the little cylinder with which he'd killed
Mulcahey. Next, he checked the Global Positioning System on
the Intrepid1s NavComputer, which gave him the spacecraft's
position, altitude, course, and speed (or vector).
Normally, the orbiter communicated with Mission Control at

60
STORMING INTREPID
CSOC through the tracking and data relay satellites (TDRS),
which were two geosynchronous satellites that relayed radio
transmissions from the shuttle to the ground. The Russians had
their own Kosmos 1700 communications satellites that worked
on much the same principle, but it had been decided from the
beginning that the Intrepid would not use the Kosmos system,
except as a last resort. That was because satellite relay trans-
missions were much easier to intercept than point-to-point radio
signals. Therefore, the Intrepid would aim its directional radio
antenna at a ground-based receiving station and communicate
only while it was overhead. This cut down the "time window"
for communications, but it improved security—at least long
enough to get Intrepid on the ground.
The NavComputer told Iceberg the Intrepid was over the Arc-
tic ice cap, and after one more orbit the spacecraft would be
crossing Soviet airspace in far eastern Siberia. Iceberg had
memorized the positions of the Russian ground-based Orbita
tracking stations, and he could see from the navigational plot
that he would have a communications time window of about
four minutes as he sailed over the small naval station of Valku-
mey—a dismal outpost on Chaunskaya Bay that emptied into the
East Siberian Sea. There was precious little there, except ice,
tundra, a pier—and an earth-station dish pointed expectantly at
the sky.
Day 1, 1800 Hours Zulu, 8:00 p.m. Local
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE
The communications officer sat bolt upright as if he'd been
goosed with an electric cattle prod. "Commander! I have a
transmission on the preset S-band frequency coming through
the encryption device." A table had been set up next to the
commo officer's console, with a large metallic box resting on
top of it. Several coaxial cables ran from the box and into an
open panel on the console. The commo officer held his ear-
phones tighter. "The transmission is coming through clearly
... in English."
Col. Oleg Malyshev, the mission commander who had pre-

THE FIRST DAY
61
sided over the burn-up of the Suslov, nodded to the commo
officer and said, "Switch to my microphone." The young man
did as instructed, and Malyshev listened ... not believing what
he was hearing.
"Flite Centre, this is Intrepid. Do you read? Over. . . . Flite
Centre, this is Intrepid. Do you read? Over."
Malyshev tried to ignore the three men standing over him and
concentrated on the transmission. As a former military attach^
stationed in London, Malyshev knew the English language flu-
ently. He keyed his microphone switch. "Intrepid, this is Flite
Centre. We read you five by five. Repeat, we read you five by
five. What is your status? Over."
Of the troika standing behind Malyshev, Popov was also flu-
ent in English, and Kostiashak spoke the language better than
most Englishmen. General Secretary Vorontsky had a tiny for-
eign vocabulary. All three men wore headsets.
"Flite Centre, this is Intrepid. Listen and listen good. We
have trouble. The other two crewmen are dead, but one of them
managed to damage a circuit panel before he died. The damaged
panel controls the rockets of the orbital maneuvering system.
All other systems are functional, but I cannot, repeat cannot,
fire the retro rockets."
Malyshev was stunned, but kept his mind working. The
spacecraft had only a small window of time to communicate,
and he couldn't waste a millisecond. "Intrepid, this is Flite
Centre. Can you repair the damage?"
"Negative, Centre. I do not have the on-board capability to
make any repairs. I can still maneuver the pitch and yaw thrust-
ers and my fuel cells are functioning properly, but the OMS
engines are dead. Got that? Dead. Whatever solution there is, it
has to come from you, Flite Centre, and it's got to be fast. The
Americans will not leave me up here."
"What is your life-support situation, Intrepid! Over."
"Approximately thirty days of life support," said Iceberg tes-
tily. "But we won't have near that long. Do you understand?"
The time window was about closed.
"Yes, Intrepid, we understand you. We will study the prob-
lem and advise you two orbits from "now when you pass over the
Irkutsk station."
"Roger. Will comply. Intrepid, out."

62
STORMING INTREPID
Malyshev ran a hand through his sweaty blond hair. He was
amazed at how flat and detached the American's voice had been.
Particularly since he'd just reported an unmitigated disaster.
"I did not understand the transmission," complained the Gen-
eral Secretary. "What did he say? When will he be landing?"
Popov, Kostiashak, and Malyshev all sought to avoid his in-
quiring glance, and no one volunteered to translate. Their re-
luctance was not lost on Vorontsky, who said, "Vitali—tell me
at once. What did the pilot say?"
The KGB Chairman paused, but did not mince words. "The
pilot—our pilot—had to kill the two other crewmen aboard. Ap-
parently there was a struggle of some kind, and some of the
electronic equipment aboard was damaged. His life-support sys-
tems are functioning, but he cannot fire his retro rockets. That
is to say, he does not have the capability to fire his rockets and
return to earth."
The General Secretary crashed his headset down on the con-
sole. "Cannot return to earth? You mean he has killed two
American astronauts and now he is stuck up there?'' Entire rows
of technicians slunk down into their chairs, trying to disappear
under their consoles. "Why was this not planned for? What do
you think the Americans will do? They are not going to sit on
their hands and let this spaceship and its caigo drift along! No!
They will find some way to retrieve it! Then where will we be?"
Vorontsky paused, collecting his breath and his thoughts for
another salvo. "Vitali, you are responsible for this! It was you
who persuaded me to pursue this insane conspiracy!"
Mission Commander Malyshev had been boar hunting once.
He'd seen one of the animals go berserk after being wounded by
a poorly aimed shot. It was much like this.
The KGB Chairman was surprisingly unemotional. "General
Secretary, let us not jump to premature conclusions. There is a
problem, yes. But we do not yet know the full dimensions of
the problem."
"We know the goddam ship is stuck up there and not coming
down!" screamed the General Secretary. "In St. Peter's name,
man! We are talking about our heads!"
"Quiet, both of you!" Heads spun around to look at Popov,
holding up a hand to indicate he wanted silence. This com-

THE FIRST DAY
63
manding posture was 180 degrees from his usual flustered de-
meanor. A few moments passed before he muttered, "Yes . . .
yes. It could very well work." The stocky general turned to
Malyshev. "Find Vostov. Wherever he is. And get him to the
flite conference room. Then go pull whatever engineering charts
we have on the American shuttle. Now!"
Malyshev fled from the room, joyful to be out of the danger
zone.
"What are you doing, General Popov?" queried Kostiashak.
Popov looked at the KGB chieftain and the General Secretary
with contempt. TWo space pioneers had died—Americans, true-
but kin in many ways to their Russian counterparts who ventured
into the ether, and all these two vermin could think about was
their own skins. Perhaps the contempt helped stiffen his spine.
With a look of disdain, Popov responded to the Chairman's
question with, "Do you not understand? I am an engineer."
Day 1, 1800 Hours Zulu
ALTITUDE: 22,300 NAUTICAL MILES
ORBITAL INCLINATION: 006 DEGREES
Drifting quietly in the vacuum of deep space, moving in sync
with the rotation of the earth, was a remarkable piece of engi-
neering that most technicians could only dream about and never
touch, for nothing quite like it existed on the ground. Shaped
like a huge ice cream cone with a beanie propeller on top, this
object was Eardrum, the present-day successor to a string of
satellites known by exotic code names like Rhyolite, Jumpseat,
Magnum, and Vortex. Of this technical pedigree, Eardrum was
probably the most aptly named, for it was America's biggest
electronic eavesdropper in space.
Russian radio transmissions, telephone microwaves, TV
shows, radar signals, car phones, missile telemetry—they were
all scooped up by Eardrum as if it were a giant vacuum cleaner,
then transmitted to the National Security Agency's compound
at Fort Meade, Maryland, where they were sifted and analyzed.
It was by far the largest artificial satellite circling the earth-
even eclipsing the Star Wars prototype platform in size. It was

64
STORMING INTREPID
so big, in fact, that it had had to be assembled piece by piece in
low earth orbit before being boosted to its higher, geosynchro-
nous position.
Its huge parabolic reflector had to be of enormous dimen-
sions—a diameter of 720 feet—because a high-gain antenna was
needed to capture faint radio signals. So sensitive was the ap-
paratus that, when combined with its ultrahigh-speed frequency
scanner, even directional microwave transmissions could be
picked up by the Pacific Eardrum, or its sister satellite drifting
over the Atlantic. And directional microwaves carried a treasure
trove of telephone conversations.
But there was also a dark side to possessing exotic equipment
like Eardrum. Years ago, in a case similar to that of the Walker
spy ring that ravaged the Navy, the deep dark secrets of the old
Rhyolite satellite had been compromised by two young ne'er-
do-well traitors—Christopher Boyce and Andrew Daulton Lee
(also known as the Falcon and the Snowman).
After his first briefing on the Eardrum project, Whittenberg
decided that, while he was in charge, nothing about this satellite
would have so much as a chance of being compromised. Under
his personal supervision, draconian security measures were im-
plemented. Every component of the project was kept tightly
compartmentalized, and only a tiny handful of engineers knew
the full scope of the satellite's capabilities, which were vastly
superior to those of its predecessors. Not even the chairman of
the board of TRW or the mission specialists who assembled the
components in space knew Eardrum's true powers—nor did Ice-
beig when he keyed his microphone switch over the East Sibe-
rian Sea.
Day 1, 1838 Hours Zulu, 1:38 p.m. Local
KENNEDY SPACE CENTER,
CAPE CANAVERAL, FLORIDA
Lt. Col. Phillip Heitmann banked the Gulfstream III to his
left, while watching the instruments on his head-up display. The
holographic image allowed him to look through the windshield
of the aircraft and scan his flight data at the same time. The

THE FIRST DAY
65
readout from the TACAN microwave landing system told him
he was 8.6 miles from the runway, while the altimeter indicated
the aircraft was 13,428 feet above the ocean. At 7.5 miles from
the runway Heitmann pushed the hand controller forward so the
GS-III headed down in a 22-degree glide slope—seven times
steeper than that of a commercial airliner.
The Gulfstream aircraft had been specially modified to react
and behave exactly like the shuttle ort>iter, and Heitmann was
taking his usual practice landing approaches prior to launch of
the Constellation. Every shuttle landing was a "dead stick"
landing with no propulsion whatsoever. You got only one shot
at the runway, so it had to be good. This was the second of what
would be fifteen practice approaches for himself and Maj. Jack
Townsend, his copilot. It had been six months since his last
shuttle mission, and the barrel-chested former Marine test pilot
was looking forward to his upcoming trip on the Constellation.
The Gulfstream's engines throttled back automatically at pre-
arranged settings to give it the same "feel" as the orbiter on
approach. Heitmann watched carefully as the elevation and dis-
tance clicked off. At two thousand feet altitude and 350 mph,
Townsend said, "Initiate preflare," and Heitmann pulled back
on the hand controller. The glide slope was reduced from 22
degrees to 1.5 degrees in a maneuver that consumed about fif-
teen seconds. "Arming landing gear. . . . Landing gear de-
ployed," relayed Townsend. Heitmann saw he was ninety feet
above the ground, with the black tarmac rushing up toward him.
Airspeed and altitude continued to decrease, until at 216 mph
the Gulfstream was gliding a few feet above the runway.
The aircraft's wheels did not touch down. Because the orbiter
was a much bigger flying machine than the Gulfstream, Heit-
mann kept his aircraft a few feet above the runway to simulate
the same perspective he would have from the shuttle's cockpit
on landing.
As they neared the end of the runway Townsend turned a
switch from auto to manual and said, "Green." The aircraft
was now back on manual control and Heitmann shoved the
throttles forward. The Rolls-Royce Spey engines responded with
twenty thousand pounds of thrust, and the Gulfstream picked
up speed. Townsend pushed the appropriate lever to the up po-

66
STORMING INTREPID
sition. There was a whirr and a few clunking sounds as the
landing gear retracted into the wings and nose.
"Three greens," Townsend said, adding, "Not bad for an
old fart."
Heitmann grinned. "I suppose an air crapper like you could
do better?"
"You bet your ass, old man." Townsend enjoyed ribbing
Heitmann about the gray strands in his rapidly thinning hair.
"Okay, pussy," countered the Marine pilot, "the weather's
not too bad today, so we'll let you try the next one."
This time it was Townsend who grinned. The two men were
close, and their mutual insults were a reflection of their friend-
ship. The Constellation would be their third mission together,
and they were both anxious for lift-off.
Heitmann was watching the altimeter go past five thousand
feet when his headset crackled. "GS-Three, this is Control. You
are to return to base at once."
The two pilots looked at each other—their curiosity aroused.
"Control, this is GS-Three," replied Heitmann. "What's the
deal? We just started our approaches."
"Eagle One is flying in from CSOC in Colorado. His ETA is
forty-five minutes from now, and he wants to see you both in
his office when he gets here."
"Roger, Control. You talked us into it." Heitmann banked
the Gulfstream around for a conventional landing.' 'Eagle One"
was the call sign for Maj. Gen. Chester McCormack, Com-
mander, SPACECOM Flight Operations. A Nordic-looking dy-
namo who had elevated the practice of ass-kicking to a fine art.
Nobody liked getting on his bad side.
"Got any clue why Eagle wants to see us?" Townsend
sounded a little apprehensive.
"Beats me." Heitmann shrugged. Then he turned and leveled
his gaze at his partner. "You ain't screwin' the old man's wife,
are you?" The slim, unbalding Townsend had a reputation with
the ladies.
"Certainly not," said the copilot in mock indignation.
"How about his daughter?" asked Heitmann.
Townsend paused for the full effect.' 'Not for at least a week.''
Both of them burst out laughing.
* * *

THE FIRST DAY
67
Jacob Classen chomped on a tuna fish sandwich and poured
the first of what would be many cups of coffee. Although a
voracious eater, Classen was always skinny as a rail. That was
because he ran marathons to relax. And though he was only
forty-nine years old, his hair was white. Not gray. White. He
was manager of Pad 39A at the Kennedy Space Center, and the
tension on his job fluctuated somewhere between oppressive and
unbearable. It was now rapidly approaching the unbearable
phase. His pad crew was embarking on a "fire drill" maneuver
to yank out the Constellation's delicate payload and make the
spacecraft ready for a "dry" launch, and he had no idea why.
He'd been told not to ask questions and just do it—quickly.
Not one to question his orders, even though he was a civilian
working for NASA, Classen had given instructions for the ro-
tating service structure of the gantry to be rolled into place. As
he watched from the small service trailer, the enormous super-
structure began its long, slow swing that would envelop the
orbiter like a closing door. Once in place, environmental seals
would be inflated along the side of the orbiter and the closed
payload room of the superstructure would be purged with clean
air. In this pristine environment, the cargo bay doors of the
orbiter would be opened and the payload transferred to the su-
perstructure.
Classen figured unloading the Constellation's payload was go-
ing to be a first-class pain in the ass. The Anik communications
satellite was pretty standard stuff, but the COSMAX was an
X-ray telescope and had to be handled carefully to keep its cali-
brations in line. Delicate instruments had problems enough with
the rigors of a rocket launch, but dropping them during an earth-
bound transfer could be a career-limiting experience for a pad
manager. Although the launch director was screaming at him to
hurry, Classen wasn't about to bobble that $300 million COS-
MAX.

68
STORMING INTREPID
Day 1, 1903 Hours Zulu, 2:03 p.m. Local
NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY,
FORT MEADE, MARYLAND
In the basement of the main building at the National Se-
curity Agency compound resided a machine unlike any other
computer in the world, for it was custom-designed and man-
ufactured by the NSA's own staff, in conjunction with outside
contractors. This hypersecret device—nicknamed "Pandora's
Box" by her architects—was not very big, and to the un-
trained eye it looked like nothing more than a black polyhe-
dron, four feet by four feet by eight feet, laid lengthwise.
There were no gauges or displays on the exterior aluminum
panels of the polyhedron, but inside was an intricate series
of gallium arsenide computer chips that enabled it to process
data many times faster than even a Cray-Y/MP supercom-
puter. So powerful was Pandora that it generated tremendous
heat and had to be cooled by a custom-designed air-
conditioning system. The chilled vapors were funneled up
through the floor, causing a constant hum.
When the Eardrum satellite downloaded its stewpot full of
electronic signals to the NSA's earth-station dish, they were
first converted into digital information, then fed into Pandora.
The mystical computer digested the data, then worked them
like a wrangler at a cattle chute—rapidly sorting the elec-
tronic signals by carrier band and type of transmission. After
the sorting was complete, Pandora plucked out the gemstones
in the stewpot—such as a Defense Ministry telephone call
from Moscow to Murmansk, or a conversation on a Zil lim-
ousine radio car phone—and routed them to an analyst for
examination.
If the electronic signal was telemetry—which was the trans-
mission of data from a satellite to the ground, like a spy satellite
photograph—Pandora had a slick trick up her sleeve. She could
take the date, time, and bearing of the telemetry signal, then
triangulate the position between the Pacific and Atlantic Ear-
drums and compute an orbital path for the satellite. This path
information was matched against the orbits of known Soviet

THE FIRST DAY
69
satellites so the source of the telemetry could be identified. If
there wasn't an existing Russian orbital plot in Pandora's mem-
ory banks that matched up with the signal, then the signal was
flagged on an analyst's computer screen.
As it was now.
"Coffee, Evan?"
Evan Littleton checked the dregs of his cup. "Yeah, gimme
a warmer."
"Gotcha," said his colleague, Ernie Marks, who grabbed the
cup and trotted down the hall to the coffee machine.
Littleton stretched, then tapped his keyboard to call up an-
other bunch of signals from the Eardrum satellite for analy-
sis, and found there were two flags blinking on his screen.
He found it difficult to concentrate on this, his first day back
from vacation. The bespectacled Littleton had gone cross-
country skiing in Vermont with his girlfriend of six months,
who worked in the cryptanalytic division. They had come
back engaged.
But now he put the thought of his betrothal out of his mind
and tried to focus on the two blinking flags. The first one, Lit-
tleton guessed, was probably a Progress "drone" space capsule
ferrying supplies up to the Russian Mir space station. The Prog-
ress drone had no crew and was navigated totally by an on-board
computer and ground controllers. After it docked automatically
with the space station, its cargo of food and supplies was un-
loaded, then it was jettisoned and sent back into the atmosphere
to burn up. Littleton was 98 percent sure it was a Progress drone
because the amount of telemetry was tiny, and it bore the char-
acteristics of other Progress signals. A "no brainer," Littleton
thought.
The second flagged signal was harder to figure. Its orbital
path showed a polar inclination with an altitude of 122 miles. It
matched nothing in the current inventory of orbiting Russian
vehicles, which included more than ten thousand pieces of space
hardware. He typed in the word analyze and hit enter. There
was a slight delay as his request queued up for Pandora behind
several others. Then, in a blink, the words were erased and
replaced with the cryptic message:

70
STORMING INTREPID
ANALYSIS: VOICE COMSEC
SIGNAL ORIGIN:
TERRESTRIAL: 67 DEGREES, 21 MINUTES
NORTH;
171 DEGREES, 14 MINUTES
EAST.
CELESTIAL: 71 DEGREES, 38 MINUTES
NORTH;
173 DEGREES, 51 MINUTES
EAST.
63 DEGREES, 12 MINUTES
NORTH;
169 DEGREES, 23 MINUTES
EAST.
ALTITUDE: 122.7 MILES
INCLINATION: 83 DEGREES
"VOICE COMSEC" meant it was a voice radio transmission
and the communication was secure, or scrambled—which was
typical of communications on a manned Russian Soyuz mission.
This, however, puzzled Littleton, because he hadn't seen any
alert memos about an upcoming Soyuz launch. (The Soyuz was
the Russian manned-vehicle workhorse.) Also, the tracking data
showed part of the transmission was moving and the other part
was stationary, which indicated the space vehicle was commu-
nicating directly with a ground station. This was unusual, too,
because the Soyuz ordinarily communicated with ground sta-
tions via the Kosmos 1700 satellite system—just as American
spacecraft did with the TDRS satellites. But Littleton shrugged.
Things like this had happened before. Those Russkies racked
up over a hundred launches a year, and it was easy to lose track
of one before lift-off—even a Soyuz.
He typed in the codes to transmit his data on the two flagged
telemetry items to NORAD, where the orbital path information
would be matched with the exact vehicle.
Ernie Marks returned with the coffee. "Here you go, Slugger.
Or should I say skier? Or should I say married skier?"
Littleton grinned.
"Anything of interest?" Marks asked.
"Naw, not really. I just sent a couple of unknowns to NORAD

THE FIRST DAY
71
for identification. Looks like a recently launched Progress drone
and a Soyuz. Maybe the Soyuz is heading up to the Mir to
change crews. It's about time, I suspect."
"Hmmmm," murmured Marks as he pushed his glasses up
on a crop of sandy hair—a sure sign that he was puzzled. "I
don't remember seeing anything in the alert memos about a
Soyuz on the pad."
"Yeah, well, it's happened before. Anyway, it's NORAD's
problem now." Littleton didn't even mention the ground com-
munication link. "Besides, I got a shitload of stuff to wade
through this afternoon. Can't fiitz around with this."
"Yeah," agreed Marks. "Leave it to our esteemed colleagues
in Colorado."
It never occurred to either of them that a voice transmission
above the Soviet Union could be anything but a Russian space-
craft.
Day1, 2111 Hours Zulu, 11:11 p.m. Local
MOSCOW
Grigory Vostov had retired early and was sound asleep when
he awoke to a pounding on his apartment door in the Mulzeny
Prospekt. Groggily he gained consciousness and flipped on the
bedside light.
"Who could that be?" mumbled his wife.
"Mmmphf," was the only response the middle-aged, over-
weight scientist could muster as he pulled on his robe and slippers
and absently scratched his scalp of dark, thinning hair.
Unlike the typical Russian, Vostov did not have a fearful knee-
jerk reaction to a knock on the door in the middle of the night.
That was because his technical genius insulated and protected
him from the vagaries of Russian political life, and bequeathed
upon him and his family the benefits of the nomenklatura, or
the elite of Soviet society. Quite simply, he knew himself to be
an indispensable man in the Soviet Union. The country and the
Party would protect him because they needed him. Therefore
he had no fear of them, or of the knocking on the door. In fact,
he was severely incensed at having his slumber disturbed. His

72
STORMING INTREPID
ample girth waddled through the richly appointed seven-room
apartment—a regal privilege by Moscow's standards—and
stopped at the door. "Who is there?" he demanded.
"State Security," came an equally demanding voice through
the door.
Although Vostov had friends on the Politburo, this response
unsettled him, and caused his sleepiness and aloofness from
politics to evaporate. He was indispensable—wasn't he? He had
nothing to fear—did he? Carefully he opened the door, and was
stupefied to find a KGB colonel, captain, and sergeant facing him.
"Grigory Vostov?" demanded the colonel.
"Da," said the scientist tentatively. "What is the meaning of
this?"
"You will get dressed and come with us immediately."
"But why? What is happening?"
The colonel had been told he had carte blanche to expedite
Vostov's collection. "Now, Comrade! Or you will not live to
see the dawn."
Vostov blinked with his mouth open and took a couple of
reflexive steps backward. He was often arrogant with his own
staff—it was his right, after all—but he sensed this was not the
time for a confrontation, nor were these the people with whom
to have one. Retreating back to his bedroom, he quickly threw
on some clothes and an overcoat and told his wife to keep quiet.
Downstairs the KGB colonel shoved him into a waiting Zhi-
guli sedan. The car tore through the frozen slush and headed
toward Kaliningrad, just north of the city.
By God, this was an outrage! Vostov thought, and his old
arrogance began to resurface. His friend Gudenov on the Pol-
itburo would hear about this! . . . Maybe even the General Sec-
retary himself would be told. Vostov was the Chief Designer of
the Soviet Union. One of the most prestigious positions in the
Rodina and the Academy of Sciences. He certainly would not
let a Chekist colonel get the better of him. Didn't this fool know
that he—Vostov—was a national treasure?
On October 4, 1957, an SL-1 booster lifted off the Baikonur
launch pad and heaved a twenty-seven-pound spherical object
into orbit. An object which the world came to know as Sputnik.
The guiding force behind this pioneering scientific achievement

THE FIRST DAY
73
was, for many years, a mysterious figure to the West. The So-
viets took special pains to keep everything about this man
cloaked in secrecy, and for over a decade they would refer to
him only by his title of Chief Designer. In fact, his name was
Sergei P. Korolev, and in many respects he was the Russian
counterpart to the Americans' Werner von Braun. His skills
were legendary in scope, and almost single-handedly he brought
the Russian space program to world prominence. Had it not
been for Korolev's extraordinary talents, the Soviet space effort
might still be on a par with Albania's.
On that glorious day in 1957, Vostov had been a junior engi-
neer on Korolev's staff, and his star had risen steadily ever since.
Vostov was now the Russian authority on rocketry and propul-
sion systems, and possessed a resume that was the envy of the
Soviet Academy of Sciences—he'd been Venus Lander chief en-
gineer, project director for the Salyut and Mir space stations,
and designer of the Energia heavy-lift booster vehicle.
That last one—the Energia booster—had been the only bright
spot of the Soviet shuttle program. The Energia had successfully
heaved the Buran and Suslov aloft. It was the orbiters' reentry
design that had failed somehow; and, luckily for Vostov, he'd
had nothing to do with that.
Because of his track record and his noninvolvement with the
orbiter design, a month earlier Vostov had been anointed with
the coveted title of his former mentor. He became the new Chief
Designer of the Soviet Union.
Along with the title, he was given full authority to find out
what was wrong with the Soviet shuttle and fix it. Well, he'd
soon put things right there ... he hoped. Even Vostov had to
admit the previous team of shuttle engineers were very compe-
tent . . . and they had disappeared, along with General Shenko.
Vostov's technical expertise was in rocketry and propulsion, not
aeronautics. Surely they didn't hold him responsible for the shut-
tle's failure. They'd just made him Chief Designer, hadn't they?
Hmmpff. Well, Gudenov of the Politburo would hear about this.
The Zhiguli wheeled to a stop outside the Flite Control Centre.
Vostov was hustled inside and literally shoved through a
conference-room door by the burly KGB sergeant. He was con-
fronted by three men across a long table, which was covered

74
STORMING INTREPID
with unrolled engineering diagrams. The scene astonished him.
In the center was the insufferable Popov, looking unshaven and
fatigued in a wrinkled uniform. On his right was a small, dark-
complected man in a double-breasted suit; Vostov knew the man
only by reputation but recognized him. Then the Chief Design-
er's heart skipped a beat. On Popov's left was . . . was . . .
The General Secretary barked, "Get over here, Vostov!" The
Chief Designer did as he was told. Lord in heaven. Not even
Gudenov could help him now.
"Listen to me, Chief Designer," implored Popov. "Listen and
do not interrupt. We cannot waste a single second." Little love
was lost between the two men. "An American shuttle—the In-
trepid—was launched seven hours ago from Vandenbeig. A loyal
Soviet was inserted on board as a member of the crew. He has
killed the other crew members, and the shuttle is now controlled
by our man. Do you understand what I am saying, Vostov?"
The Chief Designer was stunned, but gave a quick nod. How-
ever, his acknowledgment did not mean he believed what he
heard. How could something like this happen and he not know
of it? This couldn't be real. It had to be a dream.
"Our man controls the spacecraft, but something happened,"
continued Popov. "Pertiaps there was a struggle. The circuit
board controlling the retro rockets was damaged, and he cannot
fire them. He is stuck up there, Vostov. Do you understand?
Stuck up there. And we—you—have to get him down before the
Americans respond. Is that clear?"
Another curt nod. This was no dream. It was a nightmare.
Popov grabbed the diagrams in front of him. "As we both
know, these are the mechanical drawings of the American shut-
tle, based on information the Comrade Chairman's Technical
Directorate has provided us over the years." Popov's finger
pointed to the posterior view of the orbiter. "The American
shuttle has three large main engine rocket nozzles and two
smaller retro-rocket nozzles. They are all useless. Is it possible
to fabricate some kind of engine and attach it to the tail to bring
it down? Tell me, Chief Designer. Tell me."
For Vostov it was almost too much. The sudden awakening,
the drive in the night, the KGB, the General Secretary, and the
American shuttle they were trying to . . . to . . . hijack! Vostov
could only gape.

THE FIRST DAY
75
"We are waiting for your answer, Chief Designer." The
Chairman's words sailed across the table like a viper's hiss. "You
would not want to meet the same end as General Shenko."
Vostov gulped and tried to get a grip on himself. His engi-
neering talents had brought him this far. They would extricate
him from this predicament. He pulled the diagram toward him
and studied it for a few moments. Start with information, he
told himself. Obtain accurate data. "What is the shuttle's alti-
tude?"
Popov was quick with his response. "Circular orbit. Altitude
two zero three kilometers."
Well, thought the Chief Designer, that made things infinitely
easier. If the shuttle had been in a higher orbit it would have
been an impossible task for a—what was the American expres-
sion?—"jerry-rigged" device to bring the orbiter down. "Are
his pitch and yaw thrusters still working?"
"Da," replied Popov.
Vostov stared at the diagram. God in heaven! To capture an
American shuttle! If he could bring this off, he could well be
appointed to the Politburo. They could take the American space-
craft apart and find out what was wrong with their own orbiter.
Vostov began to grasp the import of the opportunity. "Leave
me alone for a few minutes," he commanded.
Popov jerked his head, indicating the three men should leave
the room. They walked into the hallway, leaving the Chief De-
signer transfixed before the engineering drawings.
Outside in the hall, the former hammer thrower was appre-
hensive. "Do you honestly think this can be done, Popov?"
asked Vorontsky.
Popov felt like a weary teacher tutoring a not-so-bright pupil.
"There are some things in our favor, General Secretary. First,
the Intrepid is in low earth orbit. Low enough that its orbital
path would eventually decay in two months or so, and it would
tumble in an uncontrolled reentry. The thrust required to propel
an object out of low earth orbit, even an object the size of the
shuttle, is relatively small. If the Chief Designer can come up
with a way to fabricate a thruster and attach it to the tail, then
we may be able to retrieve the vessel."
"But can he do it?" The General Secretary wanted assur-
ances.

76
STORMING INTREPID
"He is the Chief Designer of the Soviet Union, and his spe-
cialty is rocketry," Popov explained patiently. "He was Koro-
lev's star pupil, and every project he has undertaken for the
Rodina has surpassed everyone's expectations. If any of the
Motherland's sons can do it, it is he. If he cannot, then we have
failed."
The General Secretary was about to issue an unveiled threat
when Vostov's voice rumbled out of the conference room.
"Popov! Get in here!"
Day 1, 2250 Hours Zulu, 3:50 p.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
With her nose buried in a clipboard, Maj. Lydia Strand walked
through the NORAD Space Defense Operations Center, scan-
ning her satellite run sheets. NORAD's worldwide Spacetrack
radar system monitored the orbital paths of all Russian satellites,
and through telemetry analysis NORAD had a pretty good idea
which ones were photoreconnaissance birds. NORAD routinely
kept major commands informed about Russkie recon cameras
passing overhead, so sensitive American hardware could be con-
cealed from the high-resolution lenses. The F-117 Nighthawk
Stealth Fighter Squadron at Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada was
constantly ducking in and out of hangars to avoid detection, as
were the Northrop stealth bomber prototypes based there.
One irritating characteristic of recon birds—to Russians and
Americans alike—was their ability to change orbits. This hap-
pened rarely, because it consumed precious fuel, but it did hap-
pen. When a deviation was detected by the Spacetrack system,
the NORAD computers immediately started beeping and blink-
ing to notify the Spacetrack monitors in SPADOC. The new
orbital path was then plotted and the major commands, like the
Strategic Air Command, were notified.
Lydia Strand, Lamborghini's deputy, was gathering the latest
run sheets on the recon birds for a routine afternoon staff con-
ference, which was being held despite the turmoil over the In-
trepid.

THE FIRST DAY
77
She had joined Lamborghini's staff four months ago, when
her star-studded ascent up the Air Force career ladder had taken
an unexpected turn. After graduating summa cum laude in phys-
ics from the University of North Carolina, Strand had joined the
Air Force ("It seemed like fun") and entered the pilot training
program. Much to her surprise, she found herself to be a highly
skilled pilot, and she embraced her newfound love with an over-
whelming passion. She graduated number one in her flight
school class at Sheppard Air Force Base, and as a reward, re-
ceived an atypical assignment for a woman pilot—flying F-16s
back and forth to Hill Air Force Base in Utah. Hill was the
worldwide center for large-scale repair and maintenance of
the F-16, and it was her job to fly the Falcons into and out of the
garage and give them "test drives," so to speak. When repairs
were completed on an F-16, she'd take the Falcon upstairs and
put it through the wringer over the Wendover Bombing Range.
These shakedown flights usually went smoothly, but one time
there had been a glitch, and she'd had to punch out. While drift-
ing down in her parachute, she was transfixed by the sight of a
$20-million aircraft spiraling into the desert. It was a painful
spectacle, and the accident rattled her confidence—so much so
that she quit sparring with her male counterparts in practice
dogfights over the Wendover Range—contests she had regularly
won, much to the chagrin of her macho comrades.
To restore her confidence, Strand's boss persuaded her to ap-
ply to the NASA astronaut program as a pilot. While a number
of women had been selected for the astronaut corps as mission
specialists, nary a one had been assigned as a shuttle pilot be-
cause of a Catch-22—you couldn't be a shuttle pilot unless
you had experience flying high-performance aircraft. "High-
performance aircraft" was a euphemism for "combat aircraft,"
and women were barred from flying in combat. They were usu-
ally relegated to flying transports (exciting), except in excep-
tional circumstances, such as Strand's.
She'd applied to NASA shortly after the Challenger disaster,
when the space agency's fortunes were at a particularly low ebb.
Maybe some reverse discrimination was working for her during
the selection process, or maybe one of the committee's judges
was overcome by her intellect and stark beauty; but whatever
the reason, she got her acceptance letter and moved to Houston.

78
STORMING INTREPID
The two-year pilot training curriculum restored her confidence,
and she was assigned as copilot on the Antares, where she per-
formed well on a payload mission to the Star Wars platform.
Four months later she copiloted the Discovery on a satellite re-
covery mission, and again her performance was straight out of
the manual. There was chatter in high places at Houston and
Colorado Springs concerning her possible appointment as the
first woman commander of a space shuttle mission. But then an
imponderable happened. She became pregnant, and had to make
a choice—either be an astronaut, or be a mother. She opted for
the latter, and petitioned the Air Force for reassignment. The
Air Force complied and moved her to Colorado Springs, where
she landed on Lamborghini's staff. Her husband, whom she'd
met and married in Houston, was a software engineer at NASA.
He followed her to Colorado and obtained a similar job as a
civilian with CSOC.
As disappointing as it was to leave the astronaut program, she
enjoyed her intelligence billet, finding it fascinating. Almost as
fascinating as Noah, her eight-month-old son.
"Anything I should know before the staff conference?" she
asked.
T/Sgt. Bill Matthews played with his keyboard. "Ummm,
nothing new since the run sheet you have, except for a couple
of items that just came in from our spook friends at NSA. Hang
on a minute and I'll get them matched." He hit a few keystrokes
and waited for the computer's response. "Yeah, this was a Prog-
ress capsule that went up to the Mir space station yesterday.
Hasn't been jettisoned yet as far as we can tell. Telemetry anal-
ysis and Spacetrack plot both confirm."
"Okay," said the major. "Anything else?"
Matthews typed in a few more keystrokes while Strand re-
viewed her run sheets. She glanced at her watch. Only ten minutes
till the conference.
The keystrokes that Matthews punched in called for a com-
parison of the NSA telemetry data from Eardrum against the
existing orbital paths of known satellites. However, unlike the
NSA's Pandora, the NORAD computer compared the telemetry
against all known orbital paths, regardless of their country of
origin. His green CRT screen displayed the matchup:

THE FIRST DAY
79
ANALYSIS: VOICE COMSEC
SIGNAL ORIGIN:
TERRESTRIAL: 67 DEGREES, 21 MINUTES
NORTH;
171 DEGREES, 14 MINUTES
EAST.
CELESTIAL: 71 DEGREES, 38 MINUTES
NORTH;
173 DEGREES, 51 MINUTES
EAST.
63 DEGREES, 12 MINUTES
NORTH;
169 DEGREES, 23 MINUTES
EAST.
ALTITUDE: 122.7 MILES
INCLINATION: 83 DEGREES
PATH SOLUTION: STS-202L
"Uh, Major," stammered Matthews, "I, uh, think you better
look at this."
Strand looked up from her clipboard and read the screen. She
already knew that STS-202L was the latest Space Transportation
System—that is, shuttle—mission, and "COMSEC" meant it
was a secure radio transmission. She didn't pay attention to the
coordinates, and simply assumed they pinpointed the location
of the Intrepid's last transmission before it went off the air.' 'Two
zero two Lima. That's the Intrepid, isn't it?" she asked.
"Uh, yes, ma'am."
"So what about it?"
Matthews punched a few buttons, then said, "Look at the
plot of the signal source, ma'am." A Mercator world map ap-
peared on Matthews's screen with a wavy line indicating the
Intrepid's orbit. Three white dots were astride the orbit line,
blinking over far northeastern Siberia.
Strand shook her head, as if trying to clear a garbled circuit.
By nature she was a person driven by logic, and her logical mind
couldn't accept what her eyes perceived. It was like looking in
a mirror and seeing the reflection of a stranger's face—it wasn't
supposed to be there. But the blinking white lights, like Lady
Macbeth's spot, wouldn't disappear. They kept blinking and

80
STORMING INTREPID
blinking until finally evidence overcame logic, and the realiza-
tion imploded on her like a freight train.
She gasped. "But that's . . . that's ..."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Dear God . . ."
When her F-16 had flamed out over the Utah desert she'd had
the same cold, sickening, sinking feeling as she reached for the
eject handles. Something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.
Those dots on the screen. They simply could not be. Strand
looked around the room, almost in a daze. She needed help.
There was Lamboighini across the room. "Colonel!"
Whittenberg lowered himself into the big leather chair, the
strain of the afternoon having taken its toll. He'd been on the
phone for hours talking to the Chief of the General Staff, the Sec-
retary of Defense, NASA, and the Vice President, explaining in
patient detail what had happened and what they were doing to
rescue the Intrepid. Whittenberg's orders were straightforward:
"Try to rescue the crew and save the payload." At least the Spy-
glass pictures had come back showing the Intrepid was still in one
piece, so maybe there was someone up there to rescue after all.
The CinC poured some coffee from the thermos pot. He
wouldn't be getting much sleep the next few days, and SPACE-
COM had its regular business to attend to. He nodded to his
chief of staff. ' 'Okay, Bull, let's begin and wrap it up as soon as
we can. I want to check with Chet and see how things are com-
ing at the Cape."
"Yes, sir," replied Michael Dowd as he scanned the room.
"Uh, sir, I was going to lead off with intel, but Colonel Lam-
borghini doesn't seem to be here."
Whittenberg looked at the colonel's empty chair. "Hmmm.
That's odd. You can usually set your watch by him. Well, send
someone to fetch him. We'll start off with Sir Isaac instead."
Whittenberg tried not to show his irritation, but the edge on his
voice wasn't lost on anyone.
The Bull was muttering to an aide to find out where the hell
Lamborghini was when the double doors to the conference room
burst open and the SPACECOM intelligence officer lunged
through, with Major Strand on his heels. "General!" heshouted.
"We've got trouble!"

THE FIRST DAY
81
Everyone was taken aback by the force of his delivery. Lam-
borghini was always a cool one. He never got rattled. What was
happening? Had SAC gone to DEFCON One?
"Okay, Colonel," Whittenberg said cautiously. "What seems
to be the problem?"
Lamborghini went to a wall phone and punched in an exten-
sion. "Okay, Matthews, patch it through to the conference-room
screen.'' Not waiting for an answer, he went to the control switch
at the lectern. He took a few deep breaths. These men needed
accurate information, he told himself. Not hysterics. He caught
a few more breaths, then ran through a quick brief as calmly as
he could. Then he spun a dial on the lectern and a Mercator map
appeared on the big overhead screen, showing the wavy line and
blinking lights over the Siberian coast, "And that," he con-
cluded, "is the flight path of the Intrepid. The white dots are
the radio transmission points."
No one spoke, and there was a prolonged silence—until a
clunk was heard from the middle of the table. Sir Isaac's meer-
schaum pipe had fallen out of his mouth and onto the hardwood
surface.
To say the room was shocked by Lamborghini's demonstra-
tion would not capture the true essence of the moment. It was
more like a collective stroke.
"Jesus H. Christ," was all the Bull could say, while the rest
of the table looked like a mass dental examination, for every
single mouth was wide open.
As stunned as he was, Whittenberg had to summon up thirty
years of military discipline and get a grip on himself. "Colonel
. . . does this mean what I think it means? That the Intrepid is
communicating with a Russian ground station?"
"Yes, sir. That is what the data indicate."
There was a pause. "Are you certain the information is ac-
curate?" asked Dowd.
Lamborghini spoke precisely. "I just got off the phone with
the analyst at NSA. A civilian named Littleton. He's double-
checking, but the signals came through the Eardrum satellite
and went through normal analysis."
The chief of staff felt a little relieved. "Those spooks at NSA
have been wrong before." But no one echoed his opinion—or

82
STORMING INTREPID
was it wishful thinking? "Has CSOC been able to reestablish
contact with the Intrepid?" Dowd asked.
"I checked with Mission Control before I came, sir," replied
Lamborghini. "Nothing from the Intrepid since it went off the
air."
Whittenberg's mind was spinning. The Intrepid talking to the
Russians? It was not to be believed. But if it was actually hap-
pening, some member of the crew had to be doing the talking.
His gaze fell on Strand. "Major. You were in the program with
the Intrepid's crew. You probably know them better than anyone
here. Did any of them ever seem, well, unstable to you?"
Strand sorted through her memory banks carefully before an-
swering. "Rodriquez always seemed like a bit of an airhead to
me, but maybe that's because the guy was so smart. You know,
he was like the flaky kid who slept in class and never studied,
but always got A's on his tests. He never broke the rules. He
was just flaky." She conjured up the copilot. "I got to know
Frank Mulcahey fairly well. He was the practical joker. Real
solid pilot and conscientious father. Loved a good time. Air
Force Academy. Typical red-white-and-blue American boy who
was proud of his Irish ancestry." She paused.
Whittenberg prompted, "And Kapuscinski?"
She tugged at her chin. "Kind of a weird bird, sir, but of the
three he was probably the least likely to do something like this.
Whatever this is."
"Why is that?" asked Sir Isaac.
"I'm a little hazy on this, but I seem to recall his parents were
Polish refugees after the war. They'd endured some incredible
hardships at the hands of the Soviets. His mother was, uh, well,
raped by some Russian soldiers, or so went the rumor. He didn't
talk much, but if the subject of Russians ever came up during a
conversation it was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. He
hated them. Deeply. If he's diverted the Intrepid it would prob-
ably be to try to bomb Moscow. Also, sir, he's an incredible
pilot. We went one-on-one in a couple of T-38s out of the Cape
one afternoon, and he nailed me before I knew where he was
coming from."
"So, as far as you can tell," asked Whittenberg, "there's
nothing to indicate any of these men had gone . . . round the
bend, so to speak?"

THE FIRST DAY
83
"No, sir," she replied.
Whittenberg digested this for some seconds, then shook the
tree. "All right, people. Talk to me. What do we do?"
Lamborghini responded. "Well, sir, I think we should first
verify that the information is accurate."
Sir Isaac had retrieved his pipe and was rekindling the light
to calm himself. "I agree," he muttered between puffs. "If we
bump this up the line, the first thing the Pentagon will want is
confirmation. Eardrum is a powerful tool, but triangulating from
that distance leaves room for distortion and error. It's happened
before." Once more, no one challenged the electrical engineer
from MIT.
"But if Eardrum has problems, how do we confirm?" asked
Dowd.
Sir Isaac thought for a moment. "Pete, did you say the com-
munication was directly between an earth station and the space-
craft? It did not pass to a communications satellite—ours or
theirs?"
"That is correct, sir," replied Lamborghini.
"Hmmm." Sir Isaac tapped his teeth with his pipestem.
"Then to be absolutely certain, it would be best to insert a
listening post between the ground station and the spacecraft, so
it would be directly in the path of the transmission from either
side."
There was a long pause as everyone mulled over the problem,
until finally Strand said, "SR-71."
Whittenberg raised an eyebrow. "Exactly what do you mean,
Major?"
"Simple, sir," she replied. "Just take a plot of the Russian
earth station locations that can communicate with a spacecraft,
and overlay it with the Intrepid's orbital path. Pick out a point
where the two intersect, and sandwich in an SR-71 during the
time window the Intrepid is overhead."
Strand made it sound simpler than it was. Ever since Francis
Gary Powers's U-2 had been knocked out of the sky by a Russian
SAM in 1960, overflights of Soviet territory had been a sticky
subject. They still happened, but usually they were just probing
flights on the periphery of the country. Spy satellites had elim-
inated much of the need for overflights, and improved sensors
on reconnaissance aircraft allowed them to fly along the border

84
STORMING INTREPID
in "stand-off" missions to pick up intelligence without crossing
the border. So overflights were very rare these days. Any pen-
etration of more than two hundred kilometers inside Soviet air-
space required the approval of the Secretary of Defense.
Lamborghini went to the phone again. "Matthews, punch up
the Intrepid's flight path for the next twelve hours." A few sec-
onds later a series of wavy lines appeared on the Mercator map,
each one slicing the earth a few degrees west of the previous
one. The intel chief looked up at the big screen. "We should be
able to plot the Russian earth stations in no time at all, and match
them with the orbits.'
Whittenberg ran through everything in his mind, but it was
impossible to absorb. Lord in heaven. The Intrepid talking to
the Russians. It was too bitter to contemplate. If that payload
fell into the wrong hands . . . that was all the impetus the CinC
needed. "I'll call SAC and get a Blackbird for us. Pete, you and
the major get cracking on coordinates where Intrepid might
communicate with the ground. I'll want you to feed it to SAC's
intel people as soon as you've got it. Keep in contact with the
NSA people, too. Bull, I want you and Sir Isaac to start putting
together contingency plans on what we should do, or could do,
it the Intrepid has, in fact, become a . . . a . . . what the hell
do you call something like this, anyway?"
There was no answer, until Lamborghini offered in a strained
voice, "I believe the intelligence term, sir, is 'rogue ele-
phant.' "
Back in his office, Whittenberg picked up the red phone that
was a direct line to the Commander in Chief Strategic Air Com-
mand, in Omaha, Nebraska. He knew that within fifteen sec-
onds the CinCSAC, his deputy, or his chief of staff would pick
up the other end.
Having attained four-star rank, Whittenberg had precious few
peers, and among his peers there were even a smaller number
of people he could genuinely call his friends. But Bernard Doo-
ley, CinCSAC, was one of those. They'd been pilots in the same
B-52 wing and tossed down more than a few beers together.
Dooley was godfather to Whittenberg's eldest daughter. It had
been a dead heat between the two of them for the CinCSAC job,
but when Whittenberg went to SPACECOM he was happy his

THE FIRST DAY
85
old friend had gotten the post in Omaha. He was also relieved
when the voice on the other end said, "Dooley."
"Bernie, it's Rodg."
"Hey, how's my favorite jockey?" It was Dooley's standard
greeting, a lampoon on his friend's size and Kentucky heritage.
"Not so good," said Whittenberg. "I got a problem and I
need one of your Blackbirds."
"Aw, shucks, anything for the father of my favorite daugh-
ter." Dooley had four boys and always prided himself on his
female godchild. "I just talked with my recon guy this morning.
His Blackirds are pretty backed up for five or six days. 'Course,
for a bud like you maybe I can move your slot up a day or two.
What's the problem?"
Whittenberg told him the problem.
Twelve minutes later a flash message was fired off from Omaha
under the CinCSAC's personal signature to the 9th Strategic
Reconnaissance Wing Detachment at Mildenhall Royal Air
Force Base, England.
Day 1, 2250 Hours Zulu, 12:50 a.m. Local
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE
"But are you certain this will work?'' whimpered the General
Secretary.
Vostov thought the man sounded like a little boy. "I will have
to verify the exact specifications," said the Chief Designer, "but
quite frankly I see no alternative. We take a small Progress solid-
fuel engine and fashion a collar around the anterior end. We
then insert the anterior portion into the shuttle's center main
engine rocket nozzle—much like stacking one drinking glass on
top of another—and clamp it to the lip of the nozzle. The collar
will act as a brace to hold the engine firmly in place during the
retro firing of the Progress engine. After the fiiel is spent, an
explosive bolt on each clamp will fire, releasing it and triggering
a small spring to push the engine out of the nozzle."
Popov was impressed. No matter how big the Chief Design-
er's ego might be, this demonstrated he was entided to it. The

86
STORMING INTREPID
man had been roused out of his sleep in the middle of the night,
told an unbelievable story, ordered to pull these politicians' asses
out of the fire—and he'd done it. Of course, Popov did not
belittle his own contribution. The concept, after all, was his
idea.
"Extraordinary," said the General Secretary.
Vostov beamed. Perhaps the Politburo was not an impossi-
bility after all.
The KGB chieftain exhaled a puff of smoke from his Pall
Mall. "What do we have to do to bring this brilliant design to
fruition?"
Vostov could see this little man was going to be nettlesome.
"We must first design the collar to exact specifications so it will
fit the outside of the Progress engine and the inside of the shuttle
nozzle. The design must then be molded and cast.'' Vostov took
a few moments to think about transport.' 'We will have to launch
two vehicles—a cargo vessel to carry the components and a
Soyuz to carry two cosmonauts to install the collar and engine."
"How long will all this take?" asked the General Secretary.
The two engineers looked at each other, both thinking through
what had to be done. Vostov said, "To design and fabricate the
collar, working around the clock, will take no less than forty-
eight hours. Probably more when you consider the problems
associated with the explosive bolts. Comrade Popov?"
Mentally, Popov went through his inventory of launch vehi-
cles at the Baikonur Cosmodrome. "I can have an SL-4 booster
for the Soyuz, and an SL-14 for the Progress engine ready in
two to three days. However, that does not include the time you
will need to load the engine and collar in a launch shroud and
install them on the SL-14. We cannot do that until your fabri-
cation is complete."
"So we would need three to four days," Vostov reflected.
"Then I would suggest you not waste any further time dis-
cussing it," said Kostiashak.
The two engineers took the Chairman's remark as more than
a "suggestion."
"Chief Designer, you begin immediately on the collar design
and line up the fabrication facilities," ordered Popov. "I'm sure
the General Secretary will see to it you receive every assistance.
I will start preparations for the launch vehicles and select the

THE FIRST DAY
87
Soyuz crew. You will also have to coordinate with my people at
Baikonur to fit the engine and collar into the cargo shroud."
"Agreed," said Vostov. The Chief Designer scratched the
stubble on his flabby chin and paused, then asked rhetorically,
"What if the Americans try to launch a vehicle to rescue their
shuttle before our preparations are complete?"
There was another pause before the General Secretary asked
in a sheepish voice, "We can do something to stop an American
rescue, can we not, Popov?"
Popov took a deep breath. He didn't like being party to cheat-
ing—whether at cards or an international treaty. The United
States and the Soviet Union had signed a treaty outlawing anti-
satellite (ASAT) weapons two years previously. But at Voront-
sky's direction, Popov had hidden something away. "Yes,
General Secretary," he said gravely, "at Plesetsk." Popov re-
ferred to the second-largest Russian launch facility at the Ple-
setsk Cosmodrome, which handled military pay loads, and where
no treaty inspection teams from the U.N. were allowed to set
foot—ever.
"Then I suggest you make contingency preparations at Ple-
setsk as well—without delay. Is that clear, Comrade General?"
queried the KGB chieftain.
Popov sighed. "Quite clear, Comrade Chairman."
Day 1, 2331 Hours Zulu, 6:31 p.m. Local
LAUNCH CONTROL BUNKER,
KENNEDY SPACE CENTER
The supervisor held the glass doors open, allowing the jani-
torial crew to enter Firing Room Two of the Kennedy Space
Center Launch Control Complex. In the old days of the Apollo
program it took some 450 technical personnel in a bunker like
this to get a Saturn 5 rocket off the ground. But lift-off prepa-
rations were so computer-driven now that only ninety launch
technicians were required in Firing Room l\vo—one of four
such rooms at the Cape.
The cleaning crew shuffled slowly into the big room, which
was filled with consoles and computer terminals. They had lit-

88
STORMING INTREPID
tie, if any, inclination to hustle, for theirs was a lousy job that
paid the minimum wage.
The janitors ordinarily cleaned up the Space Center office
buildings at night, but when there was launch activity a cleaning
"detachment" would be farmed out to the firing room bunker
to tidy things up. Usually it was only the night before a launch
that the bunker was fully jammed. But somehow, this evening,
things seemed different.
Rosita Coronado, a small Hispanic woman wearing a blue
uniform, moved slowly down the aisle of consoles, wiping the
countertops and being careful not to disturb any papers lying
about. Then she emptied trashcans into her gurney that held
open a big plastic trash bag. No one paid much attention to her
as she methodically worked her way down the aisle. Nor had
anyone noticed she carefully avoided being assigned vacuum
cleaner duty. The reason was that she couldn't hear anything
with the machine running.
"Okay, start O-two valve seal test on fuel cell number two,
now." The skinny power systems technician killed his micro-
phone, then pulled off the headset and draped it around his neck.
He turned toward his neighbor and grumbled, "This is the most
screwed-up deal I ever heard of. The whole weekend's shot to
hell, we've got to crunch eight days of launch prep into less than
three, the payload's being yanked out. . . and they won't even
tell us what this is all about, either. It's shit like this that makes
people cut corners, and you know what happens then."
"I know, I know," said his compatriot. "I was here, in this
very chair, when Challenger went down. Mark my words, with
this kind of launch pressure, one of these days something like
that. . ."
Rosita had to keep moving, causing the voices to drift out of
earshot. She progressed slowly down the aisle, until. . .
"Say, lady?"
She didn't turn, but kept moving.
"Senora?"
Rosita stopped and turned to look at the technician with the
set of earphones slung around his neck.
"Si, senor?"
"You forgot my ashtray."
She gave him the dumbest look she could muster. "Senor?"

THE FIRST DAY
89
He held it up, full of empty butts. "The ashtray. You forgot
it. Comprende?"
She gave him a look of mock horror. "Oh, si, sehor. So
sorry." She took the ashtray from his hand and emptied it into
the plastic bag, then meticulously wiped it clean and replaced it
by his elbow.
"Gracias," he said.
She nodded and turned back down the aisle, pretending not
to hear him mutter "Dumb Mexican'' when her back was turned.
The cleaning crew finished up quicker than usual, responding
to the supervisor's entreaty of "Undele! Undele!"
Upon completing her night's labors, Rosita took the bus home
to a ramshackle frame house outside of Orlando. She didn't
bother to doff her blue uniform, but immediately went to the
bedroom closet and extracted a battered Smith-Corona type-
writer with a microcassette memory recorder.
Actually, the technician at Firing Room Two had been wrong
on both counts. Rosita wasn't dumb, and she wasn't Mexican.
Cuba was her homeland. Where many years ago, when she was
a little girl, her father and brother had died a slow and horrible
death in the cellars of Juan Batista's prisons. She and her mother
had fled to the Sierra Maestra mountains, where they took refuge
with a ragtag band of rebels under the command of a young
renegade physician named Fidel Castro. When Batista fell, it
went without saying that she became a Communist to her mar-
row. To spy for the cause was an honor. Bending over her type-
writer, she pecked out her message, in Spanish:
EXTENSIVE ACTIVITY KSC LAUNCH BUNKER.
CONVERSATIONS INDICATE PREVIOUS LAUNCH
SCHEDULE ACCELERATED. PROBABLE LAUNCH
WITHIN 72 HOURS. ONLY ROCKET ON PAD IS
SPACE SHUTTLE CONSTELLATION.
—WATER LILY
She'd chosen the code name Water Lily herself, an ironic
tribute to her successful masquerade as a refugee crossing the
Water from Cuba to the Florida Keys.
She looked at her watch. Time was short. Quickly she changed
out of the blue uniform, rewound the cassette, plucked it out of

90
STORMING INTREPID
the typewriter, and placed it into the false bottom of a makeup
compact.
She left her house and caught another bus into downtown
Orlando, where she transferred to the airport express shuttle. At
the Orlando Airport, Rosita went directly to a bench situated
near a gift shop and sat down. She took out the compact and
checked her face—and her watch. At precisely the right instant,
she closed the compact and placed it beside her, just as an aris-
tocratic Mexican woman—looking stylish in her Adolfo outfit-
sat down. Rosita left, and the recent arrival picked up the com-
pact to study her own high cheekbones and carefully applied
Lancome makeup. After indulging in a moment of self-approval,
the Latin beauty dropped the compact into her Hermes purse
and rose to catch the airport subway for the Mexicana Airline
gate.
Later that same day, Rosita's message would be encrypted
and transmitted from the Russian embassy in Mexico City to a
waiting satellite dish at 2 Dzerzhinsky Square in Moscow.

THE SECOND DAY
Days are based on 24-hour Zulu military
(Greenwich Mean) time

Day 2, 0550 Hours Zulu, 8:50 a.m. Local
MIDAIR REFUELING OVER THE BARENTS SEA
Maj. Felix "Catman" Griggs watched the fuel indicator nee-
dle creep to the top of the gauge. When it passed the full mark
at 61,000 pounds, he said, "That's it, shut 'er down."
"Roger," replied the KC-10 boom operator as he extracted
the aluminum pipe from the Blackbird's fuel inlet vent, just aft
of the rear cockpit.
A few gallons of the JP-7 fuel dribbled out of the boom and
washed over the backside of the SR-71 in sheets, causing the
aircraft's black titanium skin to glisten in the morning sun. There
was no danger of a fire, for the subzero temperature at 35,000
feet inhibited that. Besides, the JP-7 had a higher combustion
point than regular JP-4 jet fuel. That was because the Black-
bird's turbo-ramjet engines required a very special diet.
The boom operator in the underside pod of the KC-10 raised
his hand in a wave. "Tallyho, Catman. Good hunting. See you
in a little while."
"Roger, Fillup-One. Thanks. Catman out." Griggs watched
the big KC-10, a tanker version of the civilian DC-10, lumber
off on a bearing of 000, true north, where it would fly in a long
rectangle until their scheduled rendezvous later that morning.
Griggs then banked his SR-71 to a heading of 169 degrees, while
the reconnaissance systems officer (RSO) scanned the astro-
93

94
STORMING INTREPID
tracker and NavChronometer on his control panel in the back-
seat. The timing and navigation on this mission were going to
be very dicey indeed, and they would have to work in tandem
to bring it off.
The two men had been shaken out of bed in the middle of the
night, by the detachment commander no less, and hustled to the
recon briefing room at Mildenhall Royal Air Force Base. They'd
crammed five hours of mission planning into one, then hauled
ass to link up with the KC-10 over the Barents Sea.
They hadn't been told what the mission was about, but that
wasn't unusual. They were only told where and when to fly and
what to do. The what and when didn't bother Griggs. It was the
where that had shocked him out of his sleepiness in the briefing
room.
Their Blackbird was headed deep inside Soviet airspace.
Currently they were 473 miles off the Russian coast, west of
Novaya Zemlya, which was the long, desolate island that ex-
tended a Soviet finger into the Barents Sea. Griggs and his RSO
had often flown up to the edge, and even a little over, the Russian
border from Finland, or flown over the coastal submarine base
at Polyarny—taking pictures with side-oblique cameras, or col-
lecting imagery in foul weather with the Blackbird's SLAR (side-
looking airborne radar). But probing the frontier was one thing.
A deep penetration was something else again. Particularly since
they had to cross some of the world's heaviest air defenses to
complete their mission. Terrific, Griggs thought. "Talk to me,
Pretty Boy," he ordered.
The backseat RSO, Capt. Thomas "Pretty Boy" Floyd, scru-
tinized the astro-tracker navigation system and the Nav-
Chronometer while punching data into the flight computer.
"Come to one-seven-one and bring it up to six hundred knots.
We'll go to initial altitude in about forty seconds."
"Rog," replied Griggs.
Floyd ran through his flight data one more time. He didn't
have to be a Rhodes scholar to figure out they were on some
kind of ELINT (electronic intelligence) mission to listen in on
a Russian spacecraft. Probably some satellite telemetry. What
he found puzzling was why they had to listen in over Perm, seven
hundred miles inside Soviet territory. Usually the Russians
downloaded their telemetry to earth stations via a relay network

THE SECOND DAY
95
of communications satellites at unpredictable intervals, just like
the Americans. But on this mission the detachment commander
had emphasized timing, timing, timing. It simply didn't make
any sense. Oh, well, just try to concentrate on the mission,
Floyd thought. Forget about the Russkies and their nine thou-
sand surface-to-air missiles, their twenty-two hundred intercep-
tors, and their ten thousand air defense radars. They wouldn't
mind a little seven-hundred-mile penetration by the Blackbird,
would they? Naw.
"Go to initial altitude on my mark," ordered Floyd.
"Roger," replied Griggs.
"Three . . . two . . . one . . . mark!"
Despite its power, getting an aircraft as large as the SR-71
through the sound barrier was not an easy thing to do, so pilots
of the Blackbird used a maneuver to propel the aircraft past
supersonic speed while conserving fuel. Griggs pushed the dual
throttles all the way in and put the spy plane into a shallow dive.
This combination of dive/thrust rapidly pushed the machometer
indicator past the speed of sound. Griggs then pulled back on
the stick and pointed the nose of the Blackbird almost straight
up. This "dipsy-doodle" maneuver produced a slingshot effect
that catapulted the spy plane skyward at an incredible rate of
climb.
The two men felt the pressure build up in their orange space
suits while watching their altimeter needles spin round and
round.
Day 2, 0610 Hours Zulu, 9:10 a.m. Local
SOVIET AEROSPACE DEFENSE WARNING
CENTRE, MAGNITOGORSK, CCCP
"Unidentified aircraft, Sector seventeen-D, approaching the
coast on a south-southeast heading. . . . Altitude fifteen thou-
sand meters and climbing . . . fast. . . . What do you think,
Comrade Colonel?" asked the radar controller.
Looking at the map projection from his post in the Crow's
Nest, Col. Valery Leonov of the Soviet Air Defense Force said
through his telephone, "I do not have to think about it. At that

96
STORMING INTREPID
speed and rate of climb it has to be one of their SR-71s. No
matter. It will probably turn west and head toward Kola before
too long." Leonov guessed the surface-to-air missile batteries
at Archangel and Pechora already had it locked in and a target
solution computed, but neither battery was about to unload an
expensive SA-5 missile at a target that was always out of reach.
The paperwork demands of the elephantine Soviet bureaucracy
explaining wasted missiles was beyond a Westerner's compre-
hension.
After a West German teenager landed his Cessna in Red
Square several years ago, the Soviet Aerospace Defense Com-
mand had gone through a bloodletting unlike anything since
Stalin's time. Everyone from generals to lowly captains had been
busted and purged from the Air Defense Force. During this
turmoil, SAM battery commanders feverishly sought some tar-
get, any target, at which they could unleash their missiles. The
officers in the Aerospace Warning Centre were told to "damn
the paperwork" and shoot something—anything—down. It was
during that frenetic period that some zealous SAM crews suc-
cessfully defended the Motherland from two weather balloons
that had drifted over the Kola Peninsula from Norway and wasted
dozens of SA-5 missiles shooting at SR-71s probing the northern
coastline.
But slowly, things got back to normal. Paperwork demands
resurfaced, and commanders became reluctant to face the em-
barrassment of weather balloon inquiries. Pressure from supe-
riors about wasted missiles grew to the point where no one was
going to cut loose with an SA-5 unless it was a sure shot.
Even so, it was absolutely maddening for Colonel Leonov
how those Blackbird aircraft could play tag along the Rodina's
coast and the Air Defense Force couldn't do a damn thing about
it. The best surface-to-air missiles in the Soviet inventory could
only reach an altitude of thirty kilometers—roughly 95,000 feet.
The damn Blackbird could fly five kilometers above that. The
SA-5, with a conventional warhead, would explode harmlessly
below it.
The only way they might catch one, assuming they could
probe through the SR-71's devious electronic countermeasures,
was to put a high-altitude interceptor astride its flight path and
fire an air-to-air missile at it. Even then, odds were against a

THE SECOND DAY
97
hit. If the missile approached the Blackbird head-on, the mutual
closing velocity of over five thousand miles per hour was too
fast for the missile's guidance system to react and hit the target.
If a tail shot was fired, it would have to be damn close, because
the SR-71 could almost outrun a missile in a dead heat. About
the only way to nail one was to get lucky with some kind of an
underneath/side profile shot from an interceptor. But that wasn't
possible unless you knew exactly where the Blackbird was going
and could lie in wait for him. Leonov had no idea where this
one was going, so his final option was closed.
Absolutely maddening.
But still, Leonov had to at least make a gesture to show the
capitalist swine the Rodina knew he was there.
"Scramble the 11th Interceptor Regiment at Archangel," or-
dered Leonov. "If he turns west toward Kola we may at least
have a shot at him."
"At once, Comrade Colonel."
Day 2, 0615 Hours Zulu, 9:15 a.m. Local
THE BLACKBIRD
At 75,000 feet, Griggs eased back on the throttles and gently
pushed the stick forward to level off the Blackbird prior to their
final climb and high-speed run. "How're we doing, Pretty
Boy?"
"On track, Catman. Ready to go max?"
"Ready," said Griggs firmly.
Maj. Felix "Catman" Griggs physically "resembled his radio
call sign, for he was wiry and catlike and sported an upper lip
of bristly whiskers. Capt. Thomas "Pretty Boy" Floyd, how-
ever, was the antithesis of his call sign, in that his face was uglier
than a mud fence. Yet for some unfathomable reason, women
were profoundly attracted to him.
"Okay . . . okay ..." muttered Floyd nervously as he mon-
itored the readouts from the astro-tracker and NavChronometer.
"Okay . . . okay . . . okay . . . now! Put the spurs to it,
Catman!"
"Roger." Griggs shoved the dual throttles all the way for-

98
STORMING INTREPID
ward, causing the air-intake cones on the Pratt & Whitney J-58
engines to start pulsating in and out. The pulsing action regu-
lated the airflow pattern into the engines, transforming them
from turbofans to ramjets. The compressed air and JP-7 fuel
exploding in the combustion chambers produced a combined
thrust of 65,000 pounds, propelling the Blackbird at a speed
nearly twice as fast as that of the supersonic Concorde.
A product of Lockheed's famous "Skunk Works," the SR-71
looked like a black hooded cobra with wings, and had always
enjoyed a mystical reputation. No air-breathing aircraft, before
or since, had been able to match its speed and altitude capabil-
ities. Only thirty-two of the aircraft were built in the early six-
ties, causing them to be collector's items in every sense of the
term—not only because of their singular abilities, but because
the special tooling used in their construction no longer existed.
Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara had ordered Lockheed
to destroy the special tooling so the SR-71 would not compete
for funding with his pet project—the FB-111 bomber. (In fair-
ness to McNamara, the FB-111 was a fine plane for the Air
Force—if the U.S. ever went to war with Canada.)
Griggs and Floyd concentrated on their instruments with in-
tense silence as the Russian coastline approached. With any luck
at all they would complete the round trip of fifteen hundred
miles and be out of Soviet airspace in less than fifty-five min-
utes.
On the edge of the stratosphere Griggs watched the sky turn
to twilight as he leveled off for the last time. Then he let his
aircraft come up to its fastest gait, like a thoroughbred on the
backstretch.
The SR-71 was now exceeding the velocity of a .30-06 rifle
bullet.
Day 2, 0630 Hours Zulu
THE INTREPID
They had been the most exasperating hours of his life. There
was absolutely nothing, nothing, he could do but sit and wait.
To have come to the very threshold of success, then have his

THE SECOND DAY
99
triumph shattered by a broken plastic circuit board—well, it was
enough to make even an Iceberg crack.
He'd eaten a little, rehydrating some of the freeze-dried food
in the pantry. But his appetite was barely active. He'd avoided
checking on the bodies of Mulcahey and Rodriquez floating in
the airlock, for he knew they were dead. Mostly he kept himself
strapped into the command seat, watching the inverted horizon
and trying not to think of the Constellation on the pad at Ken-
nedy. Would they launch into a polar orbit from Kennedy? Prob-
ably not. He hoped the Intrepid's last message about a fire had
convinced them everyone on board was dead. They wouldn't
risk sending a shuttle near Miami. It would be a political deci-
sion to do that, and no politician would be insane enough to risk
another Challenger disaster over a major city. They'd send up a
recovery ship from Vandenberg, he kept telling himself. And
that would take time.
Iceberg willed himself not to look at the clock. When he'd
passed over Irkutsk earlier he hadn't even activated his trans-
mitter. The message from the ground had been brief: Stay off
the air. We're working on the problem. We'll contact you over
Perm.
The Intrepid was just passing over the Arctic ice cap. He'd be
able to talk to them in about twelve minutes.
Day 2, 0630 Hours Zulu, 9:30 a.m. Local
SOVIET AEROSPACE DEFENSE
WARNING CENTRE
If a Russian and an American airman could trade places be-
tween the Soviet Aerospace Defense Warning Centre in Mag-
nitogorsk and NORAD headquarters in Cheyenne Mountain,
they would be struck by the similarity of the two facilities. At
both locations large projection screens dominated the giant
room, and there were rows and rows of consoles. Both the
American and Russian centers had a Crow's Nest overlooking
the entire facility, where a colonel was on duty at all times to
respond to any ' 'bogie,'' or unidentified aircraft or missile. Still
another similar aspect was that just as CSOC Mission Control

100
STORMING INTREPID
outside Colorado Springs was separate and apart from Cheyenne
Mountain, so was the Aerospace Defense Warning Centre sep-
arate and apart from the Kaliningrad Flite Control Centre. With
General Secretary Vorontsky and KGB Chairman Kostiashak
keeping their operation tightly under wraps, not even Colonel
Leonov in the Crow's Nest was aware the orbiting spacecraft
and the Blackbird were approaching a rendezvous. To him, they
were separate and distinct.
Leonov—who was middle-aged and somewhat overweight
with a thick crop of wavy gray hair—looked at the northern
hemisphere map projection on the wall, which showed North
America and Russia in a circle around the Arctic ice cap. He
spun a dial on his control panel and the projection zoomed in
on the Soviet Union west of the Urals. A white dot moving south
was the SR-71.
Leonov scratched his chin. Blackbird overflights were rare,
and it was his guess this SR-71 was out to get something the
American spy satellites were unable to capture. What, he
couldn't imagine, but that wasn't his concern. Of the few
overflights he'd been briefed on, he knew the Blackbirds always
exited Soviet airspace at a different point from where they en-
tered. This one had not turned west toward the Kola Peninsula
as he'd expected, but instead had crossed the coastline south of
Novaya Zemlya on a bearing almost due south. If it continued
in that direction, it most certainly would not turn due west,
because it might oome within range of the Moscow antiballistic
missile defenses, and those Galosh missiles could reach the
Blackbird. Also, if it continued on its present southerly course
it would reach Afghanistan, and, in view of the Soviet reinva-
sion, that seemed an unlikely destination, to say the least.
Neighboring Iran had long been hostile to the United States, so
it certainly wouldn't land there. China, Pakistan, and some Per-
sian Gulf Arab states were possibilities, but there was no his-
torical precedence of Blackbirds operating out of those countries.
Therefore, the SR-71 would most likely turn slightly southwest
and land in Tirkey—a NATO country. Either that, or it would
turn back north and link up with another tanker for refueling.
Leonov carefully inspected the Barents Sea airspace, and the
only bogie he could find was making its way slowly toward
Spitzbergen Island. The other blips on the screen were Russian

THE SECOND DAY
101
military or civilian aircraft. He lifted the phone on his console
and punched in the radar operator who had first alerted him.
"That bogie headed toward Spitzbergen. Have you identified
it?"
"Yes, Comrade Colonel. It apparently is a tanker. We tracked
two bogies that joined into one radar signature, then divided.
The American Blackbird separated from that signature."
"Hmmm . . . Are there any other tankers east of Spitzber-
gen?"
"No, Comrade Colonel," replied the radar operator. "Only
what you see on the plot.''
So, no other bogies off the coast except for the single tanker.
That, Leonov felt, would indicate the Blackbird was surely
headed for TUrkey, because whenever an SR-71 exited over the
northern coastline on previous overflights there would always
be two tankers—one over the Barents Sea and one hovering over
the Laptev Sea. The wide spacing of the tankers gave the Black-
bird an exit point almost anywhere along the north coast of
Russia. And given the SR-71 's speed, it was an impossible task
to cover the entire coast, even for the Rodina's awesome air
defense capabilities. But since there was only one American
tanker off the northern coast, that would indicate the spy plane
was headed for 1\irkey.
Leonov pulled out a three-ring binder from under his console
and flipped it open to the section outlining the 77th Interceptor
Regiment at Tbilisi on the Tlirkish border. He found what he
was looking for and quietly swore under his breath. The 77th
Regiment had the sophisticated MiG-29 Fulcrum fighters, but
they were armed with the medium-range AA-10 radar-guided
missiles and close-range Aphid heat-seeking missiles. It would
be useless to send those against the Blackbird. The damned spy
plane would be too high, too fast, and out of range. A waste of
time. He flipped to another section in the binder, and here it
looked more promising. The 11th Interceptor Regiment out of
Archangel, which he had just scrambled, had MiG-31 Fox-
hounds, and they carried the long-range AA-9 radar-guided
missiles.
The colonel pondered this, then looked at the plot. The SR-
71 was still racing south over Russia, but the tanker over the
Barents Sea was altering its course and turning back to a south-

102
STORMING INTREPID
erly heading. Hmmm. Why was the tanker doing that if the
Blackbird was headed for Ibrkey? If, by the off chance, the spy
plane returned from whence it came, then maybe, just maybe,
he could spring a very clever surprise on the mystical American
aircraft. He pushed the button to buzz the communications of-
ficer.
"Yes, Colonel Leonov?"
"Patch me through to the squadron commander of the 11th
Interceptors who is leading the scramble."
Day 2, 0634 Hours Zulu, 9:34 a.m. Local
THE BLACKBIRD
Griggs looked down and saw the curvature of the earth, then
he turned his gaze skyward and witnessed a host of stars twin-
kling in the dark sky above him. Traveling on the edge of the
stratosphere always provided a spectacular view, but Griggs
knew his backseater was ignoring the panorama. The RSO had
his eyes glued to the instruments. "How's it lookin', Pretty
Boy?" he asked.
"So far, so good," replied Floyd. "We've been scanned by
search and SAM radars since we crossed the coastline, but
nobody's popped a missile yet. Three hundred miles to target.
I've already got the ELINT sensor going."
"Roger."
Traveling at forty miles per minute made three hundred miles
a short distance. Although it was the fastest air-breathing plane
in the world with the unclassified world speed record of 2,193.6
miles per hour (and a classified record of 2,623.4 mph), even
the SR-71 would have a very small time window with which to
eavesdrop on the Intrepid. With a speed of 17,000 mph, the
spacecraft would quickly overtake the spy plane as it flew above
Perm.

THE SECOND DAY
103
Day 2, 0642 Hours Zulu
THE INTREPID
Iceberg checked the Global Positioning System and figured
he was within range. He keyed liis mike switch. "Flite Control
Centre, this is Intrepid, do you read? Over. . . . Flite Con-
trol Centre, this is Intrepid, do you read? Over."
"This is Centre, Intrepid, we read you. Listen carefully. Our
engineering people have examined the problem, and we think
we have devised a way to get you down. But we must know, do
all of your control functions except the retro rockets work prop-
erty?"
"Yes. I've checked them a dozen times. I can do everything
except transfer fuel from the OMS tanks to the reaction control
tanks. I have plenty of fuel in the RCS tanks now, though. What
do you have in mind?"
"Intrepid, we are going to fabricate a device that will allow
us to attach one of our solid-fuel rockets to the rear of your ship.
We will be sending up a Soyuz spacecraft and a cargo vessel
with the materials and assistance to help you accomplish this. It
is taking some time to fabricate the attachment device, so we
will not be able to bring you down for four to five days. Can you
hold out that long?"
Iceberg almost laughed. "I don't like it, but what choice do
I have? Five days is a long time. The Americans might try some-
thing."
"We are watching the American situation very carefully, In-
trepid. We are prepared for any contingency. Stay off the air but
keep this channel open. We will keep you informed of any de-
velopments. You are a brave man, Intrepid. You will be gready
honored when you land."
Iceberg sighed. "Yeah. When I land. Intrepid out."

104
STORMING INTREPID
Day 2, 0642 Hours Zulu, 9:42 a.m. Local
SOVIET AEROSPACE DEFENSE
WARNING CENTRE
The other phone buzzed, and Colonel Leonov picked it up.
Now he was holding a receiver in each hand—one to the squad-
ron commander of the MiG-31 Foxhounds, and one to the radar
operator who'd just rung him.
"Colonel,.the tanker has turned again," said the radar oper-
ator. "It is now heading east on a bearing toward its previous
refueling point."
Brusquely, Leonov replied, "Very well." Then he switched
receivers and said, "Fox Leader, it appears this Blackbird air-
craft may go out the way he came in. Do you understand what
I've instructed you to do?"
"Roger, Colonel. But if we do what you suggest we will not
have much fuel to get home."
"I know that. I am a pilot myself. Do not go to afterburner
until I tell you. . . . And that is not a 'suggestion.' Is that un-
derstood?"
"Understood, Colonel," replied the leader of the Foxhounds.
"But it is on your order we are firing our missiles." Which
meant the Aerospace Warning Centre would be responsible for
the paperwork.
"We have standing orders to shoot down any aircraft that
violates Soviet airspace, Fox Leader. Is that understood?"
"Roger, Colonel. My squadron is deploying now."
Leonov's trap was really quiet ingenious. The SR-71 had
speed, but at 2,500 miles per hour it was much like a super-
tanker in that it couldn't alter course very easily. The plan had
two premises—one, that the Blackbird would exit on the same
axis that it had entered Soviet airspace; and two, that it would
be traveling with its throttle wide open. The eight interceptors
were strung out on a line one hundred miles long. If it looked
as if the Blackbird would follow the same path, they'd all go to
afterburner and scoot to their maximum altitude of eighty thou-
sand feet, where they would all fire their AA-9 missiles under-
neath and astride the enemy aircraft. Each of the Foxhounds
carried four missiles, but it was unlikely they'd have time enough

THE SECOND DAY
105
to fire more than two apiece. The AA-9s had the range to go the
final thirty thousand feet and possibly hit the SR-71 from an
angle perpendicular to its axis of advance. Even a magical air-
plane like the Blackbird would have trouble flying through six-
teen missiles . . . or so Leonov hoped.
"Colonel!" cried the young radar operator.
"Yes?"
"The spy plane is turning!"
Day 2, 0646 Hours Zulu, 9:46 a.m. Local
THE BLACKBIRD
Griggs brought his throttles back ever so carefully before
starting a long banking turn to a northern heading of 349 de-
grees.
The mission had been.laid on so fast there simply hadn't been
enough time to make arrangements with the Tbrkish government
for the Blackbird to land at Encirlik Air Base in central Tbrkey.
Nor had there been time to deploy a second refueling tanker
from Alaska with JP-7 fuel to cover the Blackbird's possible
exit points over the northeast Siberian coast. The SR-71 was
forced to violate normal procedure and go out the way it had
come in.
"Get anything?" asked Griggs.
"Yeah," replied Floyd. "There was some traffic on that
S-band freq we were told to watch out for. Hope it makes some-
body happy. Let's get outta here."
"You got it. Just keep an eye on the threat board," implored
Griggs.
"You got that straight."
Griggs finished out his turn and pushed the throttles up to
their stops.

106
STORMING INTREPID
Day 2, 0647 Hours Zulu, 9:47 a.m. Local
SOVIET AEROSPACE DEFENSE
WARNING CENTRE
The radar operator watched the blip intensely. It was going
back the same way. Almost the exact reciprocal of its original
bearing. Maybe they would bag an American Blackbird. "Col-
onel?"
"Yes, yes. I'm watching it on the plot board." Leonov picked
up his other receiver while watching the large white blip ap-
proach the string of smaller red blips. Red blips denoted the
friendly fighters. "Fox Leader, I see your aircraft are de-
ployed."
"That is correct, Comrade Colonel," replied the pilot in a
mocking voice.
I'll deal with this insolent bastard later, thought Leonov while
dabbing some perspiration from his forehead with a white hand-
kerchief. "The American spy plane is approaching your posi-
tion from the south on a bearing of one-five-nine. He will be in
range of your southernmost aircraft in approximately twelve
minutes. If he stays on this course he will, I believe the nautical
term is, 'cross the T' of all your aircraft. Go to afterburner on
my command."
"Acknowledged, Comrade Colonel. We will do more than
'cross his T.' "
Day 2, 0657 Hours Zulu, 9:57 a.m. Local
THE FOXHOUNDS
"Go to afterburners, now! Now!"
Fox Leader winced from the loud transmission in his head-
phones. Then he keyed his mike and said, "You heard the col-
onel, Comrades. Go to afterburners but do not, I repeat do not,
activate your radars until we pass twenty thousand meters. If we
are to catch this Blackbird we must surprise him." He cut in his
fighter's afterburners, injecting raw fuel directiy into the Fox-
hound's tailpipes. The twin-engine aircraft leapt in response,

THE SECOND DAY
107
and Fox Leader pointed it straight up in a textbook interceptor
climb.
Classic fighter doctrine calls for gaining altitude on your op-
ponent, then pounding on him out of the sun before he knows
you're there. A modern-day, high-tech nuance to that doctrine
calls for the use of look-down, shoot-down radar in conjunction
with a fighter's missiles. In this case, however, the Foxhounds
would be looking up and shooting up. And when they topped
out at 25,000 meters, Fox Leader wasn't going to waste a single
second loitering around looking for a nebulous target. His fuel
was rapidly disappearing with the afterburner climb, and a dead-
stick landing in the Foxhound was out of the question. Its stubby
wings gave it a glide pattern like a lead shot sinker.
They passed through 20,000 meters, and a red light blinked
on the Leader's control panel, indicating the target acquisition
radar had been activated. "Anything, Koldunov?" he asked.
The backseat weapons system officer scanned his screen.
"Nothing yet, Leader."
The altimeter dial spun past 23,000 meters. "We have him!"
cried an excited voice over the radio. "Fox Leader, this is Fox
Four! We have missile lock!"
"Then shoot! Shoot!" yelled Leader.
"Leader, this is Fox Three! We have him, too! Engaging
now!"
Fox Leader's pulse was racing. He'd never fired a missile at a
real enemy before.
Day 2, 0659 Hours Zulu, 9:59 a.m. Local
THE BLACKBIRD
"Uh-oh."
Griggs didn't like the sound of that.' 'What is it, Pretty Boy?''
"Threat board shows we've been illuminated in the X-ray
band. Looks like a bandit with Doppler radar. . . . Yeah, they've
got lock-on, and . . . hey? . . . What's this? Another illumina-
tion. It's got lock-on, too. ... I count three . . . four missiles
approaching. Christ, they're close! Where'd they come from?

108
STORMING INTREPID
Timing missile sucker on now . . . Shit! Another illumination!
What is goin' on? Catman, I don't like this."
The missile sucker was an electronic countermeasure device
that could "bend" the radar signature of the Blackbird, causing
the hostile missile to receive a false impression of the aircraft's
actual location. Like an electronic ventriloquist, the sucker
mechanism could "throw" the Blackbird's radar image up to a
mile away.
Most of the Foxhounds' missiles, however, were unable to
catch up to the SR-71, or even its false image. The spy plane's
speed was simply too great. Only a few of the projectiles reached
the periphery of the "sucker ghost,'' triggering their detonation;
and Griggs and Floyd were going too fast to see the distant
firebursts.
It was the last aircraft in Fox Leader's string that did it. In his
youthful zeal the weapons system officer, on only his third mis-
sion since flite school, loosed his missiles prematurely—letting
them fly off before his fire control radar had acquired the target.
His attempts to regain control of the AA-9s only served to con-
found them and they became, quite literally, unguided missiles.
One missile strayed and was caught between the genuine Black-
bird, the "sucker ghost," and the Foxhound's own radar sweeps
trying to regain control of it. This multitude of electronic signals
peppering the AA-9 so confused the missile that its proximity
fuse went loco and exploded.
The blast was far enough away from the SR-71 that the aircraft
was not hit directly by debris, but the spy plane had to fly through
the explosion's shock wave, which kicked it into left yaw. This
was sort of like skidding sideways in a car when the left front
tire blows out.
As the Blackbird yawed to the left, its fuselage blocked air-
flow into the port engine, causing it to flame out. Basic physics
kept Griggs and Floyd going in a straight line, and like a pair
of sunglasses on the dashboard of that skidding car, they were
smashed into the right bulkhead of the SR-71 's cockpit. Floyd
was knocked unconscious and Griggs was dazed, but the pilot
had the presence of mind to reach out and pull the starboard
throttle back slightly. Simultaneously he pressed hard on the
right rudder pedal and dropped the right wing a little. Griggs

THE SECOND DAY
109
figured they were probably dead anyway, but to have any chance
at survival he had to get the spy plane back into proper trim.
The reason the Blackbird could operate in rarefied atmos-
pheres, at altitudes in excess of 110,000 feet, was that its in-
credible speed forced enough thin air into the ramjet intakes for
combustion. Without the high-speed ram effect, airflow would
be too weak and a flameout would result. Griggs was painfully
aware of this as he tried to restart the port engine. He hit the
ignition switch but the dead ramjet refused to come alive. The
spy plane's speed had dropped too far for a restart, and Griggs
knew the Blackbird's remaining power plant would soon be-
come oxygen-starved and die. So instead of letting the starboard
engine choke itself off, he carefully eased back on the throttle
even farther. Then, using all of his pilot's instincts, he got the
aircraft into proper trim, just as the starboard ramjet started
going chug . . . chug, . . chug. He then cut the throttle com-
pletely as Floyd began to regain consciousness.
"Ca-Catman. . . what happened? . . . Damn ... my head."
"Never mind that now!" yelled Griggs. "Just hang on!"
The Blackbird was coasting down in an arc at Mach 1.9.
Griggs knew he had no choice but to take the spy plane down
to a lower altitude where he could try and restart the SR-71 's
turbofans in a thicker atmosphere. But as his aircraft descended,
he felt his gut tighten up like a board.
An unpowered supersonic dive into enemy territory was more
frightening than anything he'd ever experienced.
Day 2, 0701 Hours Zulu, 10:01 a.m. Local
SOVIET AEROSPACE DEFENSE
WARNING CENTRE
The Blackbird's radar signature was lost in the flurry of im-
ages caused by the Foxhounds' exploding missiles. But finally,
the spy plane's white blip was reacquired on the radar scope,
and the operator noticed its altitude and speed were falling.
Slowly at first, then faster.
"Colonel, I think we hit it! . . . It is falling!"
A collective cheer went up through the cavernous room, and

110
STORMING INTREPID
the loudest voice among the chorus was the colonel's. He had
shot down an American Blackbird. How glorious! Could a gen-
eral's epaulets be far behind? "Where will it impact?" Leonov
asked.
The operator studied his screen. "He is continuing to fall. It
looks like he will come down somewhere north of Pechora on
the Bolshezemelskaya Tundra."
"Obtain the closest fix that you can. The wreckage may yield
us some secrets, as that American U-2 did many years ago . . .
probably before you were born, my friend."
The young lieutenant turned around and smiled at his colonel
in the Crow's Nest. It was such a triumph—one to be savored.
Day 2, 0702 Hours Zulu, 10:02 a.m. Local
THE BLACKBIRD
A staunch Roman Catholic, Griggs whispered a prayer, while
Floyd kept up a low chant of "Ohshitohshitohshitohshit."
Their aircraft was arcing over into a steep dive and descending
through 90,000 feet.
Grigg's plan was to keep the Blackbird in proper trim as they
descended into thicker air below 50,000 feet. Then he would
open the engine cones and let the airflow hit the spinning tur-
bofan blades. If the turbofans maintained enough RPM, he could
restart the engines. A nice strategy, but plenty could go wrong.
If sufficient airspeed wasn't maintained when he opened the air
intake cones, the turbine RPMs could drop below the minimum
level required to execute an airstart. Or maybe the port engine
had been damaged in the attack, so even if they got one engine
started the spy plane would have to limp along at an altitude
well within range of SAM missiles and fighters. Lovely.
"Okay, Pretty Boy, here we go," whispered Griggs in a tight
voice. At 45,000 feet he slammed open the air intake cones and
hit the two ignition switches simultaneously. A wave of relief
swept over both men as the two turbofans came to life. Griggs
pushed the throttles halfway in to give the Blackbird enough
power to slowly pull out of its dive.
They had just plummeted through 39,000 feet.

THE SECOND DAY
111
Day 2, 0705 Hours Zulu, 10:05 a.m. Local
SOVIET AEROSPACE DEFENSE
WARNING CENTRE
The white blip halted its descent. It was moving again.
"Colonel! The American spy plane has stopped falling. . . .
He is moving again . . . slighdy in excess of Mach One."
Leonov felt a pang in his chest. "What sector?" he cried.
"Fourteen-G."
The Foxhounds had already turned for home on their thirsty
fuel tanks. To scramble another flight might take too long, so
the colonel pressed a button that connected him with the 128th
Air Defense Battery at Pechora.
"Captain Vydinsky," came the immediate reply.
"Captain, this is Aerospace Warning Centre! Do you have a
bogie on your screen in sector fourteen-G?"
"Of course," replied Vydinsky. "We have been tracking this
activity carefully. It appears some Foxhounds have been taking
shots at it."
"Is it in range?"
"Da."
"Engage it now!"
Seven seconds later four long-range SA-5 Gammon missiles
roared out of their bunker pads, which ringed the phased-array
radar complex at Pechora.
Day 2, 0706 Hours Zulu, 10:06 a.m. Local
THE BLACKBIRD
Griggs leveled off the Blackbird at 37,000 feet to check out
the systems before returning to a higher altitude.
"Aw, shit."
"What is it, Pretty Boy?"
"We got another lock-on . . . and, yep, missile fired. This
one's coming from the ground, though."
"Hit the missile sucker," ordered Griggs.
Floyd toggled some switches, but his indicator needles didn't

112	STORMING INTREPID
move. "Looks like the sucker's gone dead. Can we outrun this
one?"
"We're certainly going to try," replied Griggs in a squeaky
voice.
Luckily, they were already at supersonic speed and could forgo
the "dipsy-doodle" maneuver. Griggs shoved his throttles all
the way in and pulled back on the stick. He was at 37,000 feet,
which gave the SR-71 about a six-mile lead on the ascending
SA-5 Gammons. All he had to do was make it to the Gammons'
90,000-foot service ceiling before the missiles did.
Day 2, 0707 Hours Zulu, 10:07 a.m. Local
SOVIET AEROSPACE DEFENSE
WARNING CENTRE
The radar operator stared at his screen intently as the blip of
the blackbird raced upward, trying to shake the pursuing Gam-
mons.
"He's climbing, Colonel, but the missiles are gaining!"
Leonov's heart was pounding. "Good, good."
The young lieutenant continued watching his scope closely,
mesmerized by the scene. He'd never seen a race such as this.
The missiles were closing . . . closing . . .
Day 2, 0708 Hours Zulu, 10:08 a.m. Local
THE BLACKBIRD
The SR-71 climbed through 80,000 feet.
"They're closing fast, Catman," said Floyd in a tight voice.
"I hear you." The aircraft was now at an altitude where the
turbo-to-ramjet conversion could take place, and Griggs held
the throttles hard against their stops.
"Still closing," said Floyd.
Griggs watched his altimeter spin past 84,000 feet. "Come
on, baby, come on!"

THE SECOND DAY
113
Day 2, 0709 Hours Zulu, 10:09 a.m. Local
SOVIET AEROSPACE DEFENSE
WARNING CENTRE
The two blips almost converged.
Almost.
At 31,000 meters the Blackbird's blip continued climbing,
while those of the Gammon missiles seemed to hang in place
for a few moments before starting on a downward arc.
"Colonel. . . the American spy plane has . . . pulled away."
Leonov did not reply. He sat there dumbfounded, contem-
plating the stacks of paperwork he would be filling out, for weeks
on end.
He could kiss his general's epaulets goodbye.
Day 2, 0745 Hours Zulu, 10:45 a.m. Local
MIDAIR REFUELING OVER
THE BARENTS SEA
The boom operator deftly inserted the aluminum pipe into the
Blackbird's fueling vent.
"Contact, Catman. Starting flow now." The operator opened
a valve and the JP-7 liquid began gushing from the KC-10 into
the spy plane's near-empty fuel tanks. "So how'd it go?"
Griggs was too tired to respond intelligently. "Just a regular
milk run," he mumbled.
Day 2, 1200 Hours Zulu, 2:00 p.m. Local
STAR CITY, CCCP
Lt. Col. Vasili Lubinin attempted to guide the aluminum strut
into the nearby receptacle hub, but his initial momentum from
the backpack thruster had diminished. He was sorely tempted
to close the remaining distance with a little swimmer's kick, but
he knew such an attempt would bring an admonition from the
tank controller—because swimming kicks didn't work very well
in outer space. Luckily, his teammate, Maj. Sergei Yemitov,

114
STORMING INTREPID
reached out and pulled the strut a final meter into the hub's
waiting receptacle. Yemitov then closed a clamp over the strut
with a definitive click.
"Many thanks, Sergeivich," said Lubinin.
"We are a team, Vasilivich," responded Yemitov, as indeed
they were. So much so that the major addressed the colonel by
his first name without reservation.
"All right, you two," instructed the controller, "back up and
let us see the handiwork of this marvelous team."
The two cosmonauts readily complied, propelling themselves
away from the structure with squirts from their maneuvering
backpacks. They were traveling through a water tank roughly
half the size of Madison Square Garden, where for the last hour
they'd been constructing a large geodesic dome with prefabri-
cated aluminum struts and hubs. When the Soviet Star Wars
platform was eventually constructed it would have to be assem-
bled in orbit piece by piece, and the dome assembly was good
exercise.
Lubinin and Yemitov continued thrusting backward and up-
ward until they obtained a better perspective on their construc-
tion efforts. Their maneuvering backpacks were a modified
version of the genuine spacepack. The underwater model pro-
duced thrusting squirts of water with small internal propellers,
while the spacepack propelled itself with tiny jets of pressurized
nitrogen. The movements of the cosmonauts were slower and
more cumbersome in the water than they would be in the vac-
uum of space, but it was the best simulation that could be man-
ufactured on earth.
The two men hovered above the dome and smiled at each
other through their clear plastic helmets. They had assembled
the dome swiftly and precisely, making the most of their time,
which was limited by the oxygen in their life-support tanks. Pilot
cosmonauts like Lubinin and Yemitov typically received more
cross training—like the dome-assembly exercise—than their
American counterparts, and there were two reasons for this. For
one, the primary American space vehicle was the shutde, which
was much more complex to pilot than the Soviet Soyuz, and
therefore the flight-training demands on the American shuttle
pilots consumed the bulk of their time. The other reason was
that some Soyuz models could carry only two people; there

THE SECOND DAY
115
simply wasn't room for a third mission specialist. So Lubinin
and Yemitov spent a good deal of time in the huge training tank,
carrying out exercises to prepare them for extravehicular activity
outside the spacecraft. Someday the Rodina would build her
own Star Wars platform, and when that day came, they'd be
ready.
"Excellent work, Comrades," commented the controller.
"You may exit the tank and take some refreshment."
The two men smiled again and began propelling themselves
toward the rim of the tank, looking otherworldly in their bulky
spacesuits. Just below the rim, they lowered themselves onto an
elevator platform and shut down their backpack thrusters. Then
they helped each other disengage the maneuvering sections of
their backpacks from the life-support sections and placed the
equipment by their feet. "We are in position," said Lubinin.
'' Hoist away.'' The controller threw a switch on his console and
the platform heaved the cosmonauts out of the water. The two
men groaned as the weight of the suits settled on them for the
first time in over an hour.
Technicians helped the two men off the platform and onto the
staging area, where their helmets were removed. The cosmo-
nauts experienced a little light-headedness as they went from a
pure-oxygen environment to a normal nitrogen/oxygen mix. The
white-coated technicians had begun the unclasping and unzip-
ping process on the suits when the tank controller poked his
head through the door. "Lubinin and Yemitov. I just received a
call. General Popov wants to see the two of you in his office
immediately."
The cosmonauts looked at each other, and as well as he could,
Yemitov shrugged in his spacesuit to indicate he had no idea
what the summons was about.
"Very well," said Lubinin. "Tell the Comrade General's of-
fice we will be there as soon as we get out of these things and
change." The controller nodded and disappeared.
Doffing the suits took another five minutes. The cosmonauts
then adjourned to the locker room before peeling off the final
layer of Spandex body garments. Chilled water passed through
plastic tubes woven into the Spandex suit to keep the cosmonauts
cool; yet in spite of the coolant, they sweated while they worked.
Yemitov muttered to himself that the foul smell sometimes en-

116
STORMING INTREPID
countered inside a spacesuit certainly took some of the glamour
out of being a star voyager. After a quick shower the two men
put on their workaday flite suits and fur-lined coats, then walked
out of the simulator complex toward the headquarters building.
A recent snowfall had covered the campuslike grounds with a
white blanket.
The simulator complex building housed not only the enor-
mous water tank but also the shuttle simulator and mockups of
the Soyuz spacecraft. And it was just one piece of the sprawling
campus known as Star City, located outside Moscow. If given a
choice, Russians tend to gravitate toward single, huge enter-
prises rather than smaller, multiple endeavors—and Star City
was a prime example. It was the focal point for cosmonaut and
spaceflight training and contained the simulator complex, ad-
ministrative office buildings, an education center, athletic facil-
ities, laboratories, a movie theater, and living quarters for the
cosmonauts and their families. The creature comforts enjoyed
here were among the best the Soviet Union had to offer, includ-
ing special shops that carried scarce Western goods. An indi-
cation of the cosmonauts' fine life-style was the fact that virtually
no black market existed at Star City, and it was not unusual to
find a VCR in some of the apartments. In short, cosmonauts
had a pretty good deal by Soviet standards, and an emergency
summons from Popov could mean something was amiss.
As they husded across the grounds, Lubinin looked like a
burly football guard running interference for the nimble Yemi-
tov. The older cosmonaut was big-boned, with dark, swarthy
features, while Yemitov was compact, trim, and blond, and his
blue eyes gave him a look of vulnerability.
Lubinin read his comrade's thoughts. "Do not worry, Ser-
geivich," he comforted. "I am certain it is nothing serious."
Yemitov looked at his friend skeptically, but didn't contradict
him. "I hope you are right. I would not want anything to go
wrong just now. Sasha . . . she, she is pregnant."
Lubinin stopped in midstride. "Sergei! Why did you not tell
me? This is joyous!" He embraced his friend. "Now do not
worry. I am sure everything is all right. If not, I shall make it
right." It was a boast, but one that Lubinin could probably back
up. With the Russians' two top shuttle crews dead, he and Yem-
itov were now considered the "hot" team in the cosmonaut

THE SECOND DAY
117
corps. Yemitov had nothing to fear about his position. In fact,
it was because of his proficiency that he was being summoned
to Popov's office.
The two cosmonauts walked into the glass office building and
took the elevator to the eighth floor, where Popov's male sec-
retary pointed toward the general's office and said, "Quickly."
The cosmonauts walked in and saw the stocky Popov sitting
behind the desk, just hanging up the phone. They were shocked
by his appearance. The general looked like hell.
The aide closed the door behind them.
"Vasili . . . Sergei ... Sit down," began Popov. "I have a
mission for you. Something you cannot imagine. From this mo-
ment forward you are totally incommunicado. No contact with
anyone other than mission personnel. Is that clear? What you
are about to undertake is surely dangerous, but the two of you
are the best qualified for this task and I do not have the luxury
to ask you to volunteer. You are needed now. Are you prepared
to do your duty?"
The two cosmonauts looked at each other, then back at
Popov, and nodded.
Popov nodded as well, and said, "Good." Then he pro-
ceeded to brief them on how they were going to lasso an Amer-
ican space shuttle and bring it down to the Baikonur
Cosmodrome.
Two jaws dropped. It was Yemitov who recovered first. "You
mean we may actually capture an American shuttle?" he asked
incredulously.
"Not just the shuttle," said Popov, "but the payload as well,
which contains some critical components for their space defense
platform. It will be a windfall beyond our imagination."
"Incredible," whispered Lubinin, before regaining enough
composure to ask, "You said the pilot killed the two other
American crewmen on board?"
"Da," replied Popov. He did not amplify the statement, for
there was nothing else to say.
Lubinin looked down and shook his head. He had always felt
space travelers formed a special fraternity that somehow tran-
scended national borders. A double murder in space quickly
shot down that heroic assumption, and he found the truth pain-
ful.

118
STORMING INTREPID
"How do we proceed from here?" queried Yemitov.
Popov scratched the fringe of sweat-stained gray hair on his
bald head. "Chief Designer Vostov is over at Flite Centre. Get
over there right away and have him explain the design of the
collar mechanism. Make sure you understand everything you
need to know. There is no purpose in going into orbit and not
knowing how the damned thing works. Is that clear? If Vostov
causes any problems, let me know immediately. I am sure you
have many questions, but they will have to wait. Learn all you
can about the docking collar first. Then we will talk again. I am
handling launch preparations personally. That is all. You have a
car and driver at your disposal. Go."
Still dumbfounded, the two men rose and left.
Popov was spent. He couldn't remember when he'd slept last.
He heaved himself up and waddled to the door to speak to his
aide. "Wake me in two hours, and do not disturb me unless the
General Secretary or the Comrade Chairman calls ... no, if
they call, tell them I am out on the grounds. Only wake me if
they appear in person . . . and then take your time about it."
Popov didn't wait for an answer. He was beyond caring. Slam-
ming the door, he collapsed on the divan and was instandy
asleep.
Day 2, 1303 Hours Zulu, 3:03 p.m. Local
SHEREMETYEVO AIRPORT, MOSCOW, CCCP
There was a whirring sound as the Aeroflot jetliner's flaps
extended to 100 percent. Yuri Shevetchenko peered out the win-
dow, watching the snow-covered farm plots grow larger and
larger in his field of view. Finally they disappeared altogether,
replaced by the black runway tarmac rushing past. The middle-
aged man, wearing an ill-fitting suit, turned to his companion
and excitedly said, "Hold on, Andrei! We are going to land!"
The tires of the aircraft squealed, and all the passengers pitched
forward as the pilot engaged the thrust reversers. The jetliner's
speed decreased quickly, and the captain turned off onto a taxi-
way cleared of snow.
"Ahhhh, Moscow. Much too long, yes, Andrei?" His

THE SECOND DAY
119
younger companion smiled and nodded. Shevetchenko said,
' 'Now perhaps we can buy some decent vodka, get a real meal.''
Then he whispered like a conspirator, "And maybe find a real
woman."
The nineteen-year-old Andrei blushed, but smiled again.
"Da. It will be good to see Anna again. I only hope she has not
forgotten me. We have been away six months, after all."
"Forget a man like you? Impossible. You are unforgettable,"
joked Shevetchenko. "Besides, we have three weeks in Mos-
cow. You will probably be married by the time our leave is
finished." The young man turned red and smiled again. Shev-
etchenko was his superior, mentor, and friend. The husky, dark-
featured, fifty-two-year-old bachelor was an electrician at the
Baikonur Cosmodrome, and the slender, baby-faced Andrei was
his assistant. The older man treated him like the son he'd never
had.
The airliner braked at the gate and the flight attendants opened
the door. "We have arrived. Let us be off," commanded Shev-
etchenko, and the two men joined the surge for the door. Exiting
the airliner, they walked a couple of hundred meters down the
long concourse and entered domestic passport control, where
their internal CCCP passports were stamped by a scowling clerk
(all Russian passport officials scowl). After passing through
passport control they collected their luggage at a carousel and
went through yet another check at domestic customs control,
where their luggage was inspected by an incredibly bored uni-
formed official. Finally they walked out of the airport and clam-
bered onto a bus for the hour's ride into central Moscow. There
was little conversation between them during the journey, for
each man had his own agenda to think about. Andrei contem-
plated his Anna and the new pair of Levi's jeans he'd picked up
for her on the black market. Yuri thought of something else.
Upon arrival at the Metro station near the Rossiya Theater,
the two men exited the vehicle and prepared to part company.
"You will be sure to come to my parents' flat next Thurs-
day?" asked Andrei. He didn't ask his friend to call him, be-
cause only one in six Muscovites had a phone in their residence.
"You can be sure of it, my friend," replied Yuri. And with
that, the two men embraced. Young Andrei started walking to-
ward his parents' apartment building, while Shevetchenko dis-

120
STORMING INTREPID
appeared into the Metro subway station. He paid his five kopeks
at the kiosk and boarded the first eastbound train. The ride took
only a few minutes, and at Dzerzhinskaya Station he transferred
to a different line, traveling up to Komsomolskaya Station, where
he quickly exited.
The Moscow Metro system in general, and Komsomolskaya
Station in particular, best demonstrated how aberrations could
appear in Russia where one least expected them. While New
York City's subways are best known for their grime, graffiti, and
vigilantes, Komsomolskaya Station looked like a grand opera
house transplanted underground. It was clean as a hound's tooth.
A string of elaborate chandeliers hung from marbled archways,
illuminating frescoes and intricate mosaics that depicted scenes
from Russian history. It was a spellbinding scene for those who
experienced it for the first time. Shevetchenko, however, was
not a newcomer; and he paid little attention to the artwork as he
took the escalator up to ground level.
Pulling his coat close around him to keep out the cold, he
made his way north through Sokolniki Park, which was deserted
except for some skaters on the park's main pond. Walking slowly
through the grounds, he paused now and again to carefully check
his rear. Anyone following him would be revealed in the open,
snowpacked spaces. Satisfied he was alone, he exited the parte
and walked over a small bridge that spanned the frozen Jauza
River. The term river was perhaps a bit grandiose. In reality,
the Jauza was a minor tributary stream that fed into the larger
Moskva River. He walked a couple of blocks farther, then turned
around to retrace his steps and recross the bridge. He stopped
by the wooden sign that declared reka jauza, and took some
time to scan the area once again. Nothing. From his pocket he
extracted a simple white thumbtack and pushed it into the bot-
tom right-hand corner of the wooden sign. Hastily he left the
area in search of a cafe and warm tea.
Nightfall was quickly approaching.

THE SECOND DAY
121
Day 2, 1338 Hours Zulu, 6:38 a.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
Lamborghini gently tapped the big man's shoulder.
"General?"
Whittenberg awoke, and blinked a few times to get his bear-
ings. He looked around the conference room, then up at the
colonel. "Thanks, Pete. How long was I out?"
"A little over an hour, sir."
"What time is it?"
"Zero-six-thirty-eight, sir."
Whittenberg rubbed his eyes. "You wouldn't wake me with-
out a reason. What's the word?"
"Bad news, sir. The results of the Blackbird flyby just came
in from NSA. They definitely confirm a transmission between
the Intrepid and a Russian earth station."
Whittenberg brought his giant fist down on the table and spat,
' 'Dammit!''
"Yes, sir," agreed Lamborghini in a weary voice. "The
Blackbird almost got its ass shot off in the process, too, but
made it out okay."
That cooled off the CinC as he murmured, "Hmmm. Remind
me to send a personal note to General Dooley. I owe him one
for that. ... Is everyone here?" Bleary-eyed officers were fil-
ing back into the conference room. Uniforms were rumpled by
now, and faces unshaven. "Everybody get some coffee and sit
down. We've got to sort this thing out in a hurry."
Cups were filled and seats taken.
"All right, we have an unbelievable, unprecedented situation
here," lamented Whittenberg. "I don't know how it happened
and neither do you; but it's real, it's deadly serious, and we have
to keep our wits and deal with it. Let's take it one step at a time.
Intel, give us a recap of where we are."
Lamborghini didn't go to the lectern, but remained seated at
the table. "Sir, we have definite confirmation of a secure voice
transmission between the Intrepid and a Russian Orbita earth
station receiver at Perm. Yet the spacecraft has refused to re-
spond to any of our own transmissions—on any frequency. We
have reviewed the service records of Kapuscinski, Mulcahey,

122
STORMING INTREPID
and Rodriquez, and have found nothing anomalous to indicate
they would singly, or collectively, do something like this. In fact,
their records are unusual in that they're virtually devoid of any
black marks. The orbit pattern of the Intrepid has not changed,
and the spacecraft has gone past its first reentry window for a
touchdown at the Baikonur Cosmodrome shuttle runway—and
this brings up a tough question. If the Intrepid is indeed trying
to defect, then why hasn't it attempted reentry for a landing at
Baikonur?"
"I grant you that the spacecraft has gone past the reentry
window," concurred Whittenberg, "but even so, if it's not a
defection, what else could explain the Intrepid's scrambled radio
transmissions over Perm?"
No one had an answer.
"Very well, then," said the CinC. "Regardless of its passby
of Baikonur, we have to assume the worst—that the Intrepid is
indeed a defector. In just a little while I'm going to have to place
a conference call to Admiral Bergstrom and the Secretary of
Defense and brief them on the situation. They're going to ask
me for a proposal on how we respond to this. What do we do?"
There was a prolonged silence.
Lydia Strand, Lamborghini's deputy, absently felt the clasp
on the back of her head to make sure her long, dark hair was up
in place before saying, "Sir?"
"Yes, Major," said Whittenberg.
"I agree that the Intrepid must definitely have gone over. I
mean, there simply is no other explanation for its behavior. Now
if we take that premise as a given, it means there has to be a
reason why it passed up Baikonur on its first go-around."
"And the reason?" asked Sir Isaac as he stoked up his pipe.
Strand cocked her head to one side. "I think it can only mean
that the Intrepid is either damaged or the controlling party is not
a pilot—which would mean it was Rodriquez."
"And?'' prompted Sir Isaac again. He was following her train
of thought.
"If the shuttle is damaged, or if the controlling party is unable
to fly the spacecraft through reentry, then the Russians would
have to send someone up to repair it or fly it down, or maybe
send up one of their own shuttles and transfer the payload to it.
Whatever the case—"

THE SECOND DAY
123
"They would have a launch vehicle on the pad ready to go,
or would be hastily assembling one. Maybe as we speak." Sir
Isaac finished the thought for her, then looked at Lamborghini.
"Colonel?"
The intel chief picked up the baton. "We get every Keyhole
satellite we have to start eyeballing their launch facilities,
pronto—right, sir?"
"Right," said Whittenberg. "Tell SPADOC we want passes
over Baikonur, Plesetsk, and Kapustin Yar, ASAP. Tell them to
change orbits if need be and not to spare the fuel. Go make sure
they get it right. Now."
Lamborghini nodded and left the room.
"Any other thoughts, Major?" asked Whittenberg.
Strand furrowed her brow. "It's imperative we get to the In-
trepid before the Russians do. And whoever we send up should
have the means to prevent the Intrepid from falling into Soviet
hands."
' 'You mean, if we sent the Constellation up after Intrepid, the
Constellation should be able to shoot down or disable her?"
asked Michael Dowd, the chief of staff.
"Yes, sir," replied Strand.
"Well, that's just charming. Real charming." The veins on
Dowd's neck started to stick out. "The last time I checked I
didn't see any air-to-air missiles mounted under the Constella-
tion's wing. What are we going to do? Send the Constellation
on a ramming mission? If we do, that leaves three astronauts
marooned in orbit with no way of getting them down. Plus we
blow up a cool seven or eight billion dollars' worth of equipment
in the process. And yCm can forget about an antisatellite missile.
Our farsighted President saw fit to send those to the shredder a
year ago!"
Whittenberg reached over and gently patted his chief of staff's
ham-hock shoulder. "Take it easy, Bull. All of us are wound up
pretty tight over this thing. Rest easy. I need you."
Dowd sighed. "Yes, sir. You're right. I'm sorry. And I apol-
ogize to you, Major. I hope you know I wasn't sniping at you
personally."
"Yes, sir," replied Strand sympathetically.
"It's just, well, the Constellation has no armament, we can't
ask the pilots to go on a kamikaze mission, we have no ASATfe,

124
STORMING INTREPID
the SDI platform isn't armed yet. We're just flat on our ass. And
I feel like we're being played for some kind of suckers—that
part especially I just don't like."
Whittenberg leaned back, closed his eyes, and thought care-
fully before he spoke. "I assume everyone here has an Omega
clearance?"
All heads nodded. An Omega clearance was far over and
above a Top Secret classification. It was used for only the black-
est of the "black," or supersecret, technical programs—such as
the Eardrum satellite. The selection of the term Omega was not
an accident. Since it was the final letter of the Greek alphabet,
it signified that whoever leaked Omega material was at the end
of his career.
"What about the Kestrel?" asked Whittenberg.
Dowd raised an eyebrow, then instinctively looked around the
room. Before answering he focused on Fairchild. "Sir Isaac,
has this room been swept?" which meant electronically in-
spected for listening devices.
"Yes, Chief," responded Sir Isaac. "Just before the after-
noon conference started, as per standard procedures."
Everyone was sensitive about the Kestrel, because not only
was the technology hypersecret, its very existence could be con-
strued as a violation of the antisatellite treaty. If some errant
Congressman or staffer leaked that to The New York Times there
would be hell to pay—several times over. So far, there had been
no leaks. But now, given the Intrepufs current situation, the ASAT
treaty appeared to be a moot issue.
Still, Dowd looked around once more before speaking. "The
Kestrel? Sir, that just isn't feasible. Lockheed just delivered the
prototype a month ago. It's still going through avionics testing.
The weapons systems have never been fired in a space environ-
ment. We haven't even conducted full-scale wind-tunnel tests
yet."
"Sir Isaac, have all the avionics and weapons systems been
installed?" Whittenberg reflected that 98 percent of being a
commander was prodding people in a direction they didn't want
to go.
Sir Isaac pinched the bridge of his aquiline nose before say-
ing, "Yes, General, they've been physically installed. But as the
chief of staff said, there's still a lot of debugging to do. We

THE SECOND DAY
125
figured on four months of avionics/electronics testing at Ed-
wards, then wind-tunnel tests back at Lockheed, then static
firing of the weapons from the SDI platform, and probably a
dry-run flight before we load on the missiles for a mission test.
In all, sir, I think we're a minimum of nine months away from
a full all-systems-check ride."
Whittenberg sipped from his cup. "LTV delivered the
Phoenix-VII and the new prototype Sidewinders a few weeks
ago, didn't they?" He was referring to an updated version of
the radar-guided Phoenix missile system used by Navy intercep-
tors and a specially modified model of the infrared-guided Side-
winder air-to-air missile which had been a mainstay of American
fighter aircraft since the Vietnam War. Both missiles were man-
ufactured by LTV and had been redesigned to operate in a space
environment.
Sir Isaac replied with a very slow "Yes . . . sir."
"Both missiles, in many respects, rely on much of the same
technology that has been around for years, right?" queried
Whittenberg.
"To a degree, yes, sir."
"Well, I don't like it any more than you do, but we'd better
see what we can do in a makeshift way to get the Kestrel up and
running. Even so, we have to go ahead and send up the Con-
stellation. If nothing else, she could prevent the Intrepid from
being . . . well, boarded." Whittenbeig's big shoulders drooped
and he shook his head. "Lord . . . 'boarded.' I thought piracy
was a thing of the past."
His staff said nothing, but they felt a wave of sympathy for
their CinC.
Whittenberg mentally shook and refocused himself. "Okay,
I'll call Admiral Bergstrom and the Secretary and tell them it is
our opinion the Intrepid has definitely defected, and we're send-
ing up the Constellation to try to prevent the spacecraft from
falling into Russian hands. In the meantime, we'll see what we
can do with the Kestrel prototype to use it as a backup if need
be. Bull, you get the honors of calling Chet at the Cape and
informing him that the Intrepid has defected. I know he was
busy getting the Constellation ready for launch, and I didn't
want to spring this on him until we were sure, but he's got to

126
STORMING INTREPID
know right away. Tell him to stay on top of the Constellation
preparations and crank up the Kestrel's flight crew."
"Yes, sir," replied Dowd.
Whittenberg turned to Fairchild, his one-man brain trust. "Sir
Isaac, I want you to get cracking on the Kestrel prototype. Crank
up the LTV engineers and see if we can put something together
for a possible launch. Anything you need, say the word."
The hawk-nosed brigadier ran a cleaner into his meerschaum
pipe. "Roger, sir. And I have an idea that may allow us to put
some armament on the Constellation. But I have to check a
couple of things first.''
"Do it," ordered the CinC. "Major Strand, I want you to
tear the service records of Kapuscinski, Mulcahey, and Rodri-
quez to pieces. Go back to square one. Take nothing for granted.
Talk to anyone you need to, but keep the purpose under wraps.
Use your own staff people, or call in CID or FBI to help you. I
want to know who the hell this defector is."
"Yes, sir," replied the brunette major tentatively. "But I'm
really not any kind of trained investigator."
"Granted. But you know these three men better than anyone
here. Bringing someone in from the outside to head up an in-
vestigation and getting him briefed would take too much time.
And time is something we have very little of at the moment."
"But what about Colonel Lamborghini?" she asked.
"I have a feeling," Whittenberg sighed, "I'm going to Wash-
ington. And he's coming with me."
Back in his office, Whittenberg once again picked up the green
phone that was a direct secure line to the Chief of the General
Staff of the United States Armed Forces. It rang once. "Berg-
strom," came the reply.
"Yes, Admiral, it's Whittenberg at SPACECOM. Would you
patch the Secretary in on this line? I have something to tell both
of you."
"Hold on." There were a few buzzes and peeps before an-
other voice came on the line. Whittenberg methodically went
through the results of the SR-71 flyby and what SPACECOM
planned to do to recapture the Intrepid. There was a prolonged
silence before the Secretary spoke in his aristocratic Southern
drawl.
"Well, General, this is definitely going to require the Presi-

THE SECOND DAY
127
dent's attention. I think you'd better come to Washington and
bring the pertinent data with you. I'll call the White House and
get a meeting of the National Security Council convened. This
thing is incredible. Who the hell knows where it might lead?
Maybe this is only a part of some kind of subversive plot. Maybe
it's the prelude to an attack of some sort."
"I've got NORAD at full alert status," said Whittenberg.
"SAC is at DEFCON Four. I wouldn't recommend going to
DEFCON Three with them until we have a better handle on
things. It might tip our hand."
"Agreed," said the Secretary.
"Do as the Secretary said, Rodg," ordered the Admiral. "Get
your information together and hightail it to Washington by the
fastest conveyance possible."
"Yes, sir. I'll be leaving Cheyenne Mountain in a few hours,
as soon as I get some updated satellite pix in."
"Hmmm." Bergstrom's voice took on a guarded tone. "Since
the payload was so critical on this mission, maybe we'd better
get Havelichek and Sharp out here, too. I'm sure there's going
to be some questions about the severity of any potential loss,
and they can field the questions better than anyone I've got in
the Pentagon."
Whittenberg winced at the words potential loss, but he agreed.
"Yes, sir. Will you arrange for their transport?"
"They'll probably beat you here."
Day 2, 1500 Hours Zulu, 10:00 a.m. Local
KENNEDY SPACE CENTER
Maj. Gen. Chester McCormack leaned back in his office chair.
Although he was fifty-two, his blond hair showed not so much
as a hint of gray. He was still trim as a board and, as the phrase
goes, "rakishly handsome." So handsome, in fact, that early in
his career he'd taken a lot of guff for being the model in an Air
Force recruiting poster. But the pretty face concealed a hard-
nosed general who prized discipline and always liked to be in
control.
McCormack was in his office, talking with astronauts Phillip

128
STORMING INTREPID
Heitmann and Jack Tbwnsend about the procedures they would
use on their rescue mission to the Intrepid. Also present was
Maj. Sandford Watkins, who would be the extravehicular spe-
cialist on the mission. Although he was an Army major, the
sandy-haired "Sandy" Watkins was able to serve in SPACE-
COM because it was a "unified command," meaning it drew
on all three branches of the armed forces for its people. Watkins
had a Ph.D. in mechanical engineering from Texas A&M and
had designed some modifications to the manned maneuvering
unit backpack. His technical credentials and gymnast's body
made him eminently qualified to handle the EVA.
"Okay," said McCormack, "loop around it at six hundred
meters for an initial visual, then come in to about three hundred
meters and see if you can signal with a beacon from the Con-
stellation. If you get no response, suit up Sandy and send him
over for a look-see. Remember, though, I want a minimum of
three hundred meters separation at all times. Maybe their fuel
cells conked out and they have an O-two leak. Who knows? But
I don't want to take a chance of damaging the Constellation if
Intrepid blows up for whatever reason. So keep the distance."
"Roger, General," responded Heitmann, the mission com-
mander. "No problem. We'll be careful. What I'm concerned
about is this polar launch over Florida. There's gonna be a lot
of flak about that."
"No doubt. But that's a decision a little ole two-star like my-
self won't be making. You guys just worry about bringing
whoever's left back alive."
Heitmann nodded. "Yes, sir. All I can say is that the Intrepid
must've had a technical glitch of some kind. With Iceberg up
there you can rule out pilot error altogether."
"No argument there," concurred the general.
The phone rang and McCormack answered. It was Dowd, the
SPACECOM chief of staff, on the other end. "Yes, Bull, I'm
just going over things with the crew now. . . . Okay, hang on a
second." McCormack punched some buttons on a keypad re-
cessed into the side of his phone. "All right, can you hear me
okay? . . . This scrambler has always given me problems. . . .
Yes ... yes ... go on. . . ."
There were a prolonged silence. The shuttle crewmen were
reviewing their flight plan notes when Watkins looked up and

THE SECOND DAY
129
noticed McCormack's tanned complexion had assumed a deathly
pallor.
The general said nothing, but continued to listen to the chief
of staff. Finally, after some minutes, he silently hung up the
phone. By this time all three men had taken notice that Mc-
Cormack's face had turned ashen.
"Uh, General?" queried Townsend. "Anything wrong?"
Some seconds elapsed before McCormack could find his
voice. With a croak, he said, "There's been a change in plans."
Jacob Classen's slender frame heaved a sigh of relief as the
payload canister holding the Anik satellite and COSMAX tele-
scope was finally secured to its transporter. It had been a long
and tiresome exercise to transfer the delicate instruments from
the Constellation to the gantry, to the payload canister, and fi-
nally onto the transporter; but the unloading was finally over
with, and now maybe he could grab a little nap.
The driver of the payload transporter fired up the engine and
started backing away from the rotating gantry superstructure
with the vehicle's "creep" mode. The bizarre flatbed trans-
porter with forty-eight wheels could travel forward, backward,
sideways, or pirouette on its own axis if need be. But right now
it was simply inching away from the superstructure at 0.014
mph. Once clear of the gantry tower, it would rev up its engine
and drive off toward the payload processing building at a thun-
derous 2 mph.
Classen took off his hard hat and ran a hand through his white
hair. He handed his preflight clipboard to his deputy, then headed
for the service trailer and his cot. He had always promised him-
self not to be a victim of the proverb "Tired men make mis-
takes."
Day 2, 1500 Hours Zulu, 5:00 p.m. Local
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE
"The beauty of the design is its simplicity," crowed Vostov.
"The Progress solid-fuel engine will be secured inside of the
mating collar prior to launch. All you have to do is insert the

130
STORMING INTREPID
'male' end of the collar into the 'female' center engine nozzle,
then install the explosive bolt clamps," he said while pointing
at the diagram. "Brilliant, is it not?"
Cosmonauts Lubinin and Yemitov nodded their assent. Popov
needn't have worried that Vostov might be uncooperative. The
Chief Designer was so effusive about his design creation that the
main problem was getting the man to shut up.
"You know, of course, I completed this design in a matter of
hours, to exacting specifications."
"Yes, Comrade Chief Designer," replied the swarthy Lubi-
nin. "Which brings up an important point. The tolerances on
this mating collar must be precise. If the circumference of the
collar is too large, it will not fit into the nozzle. If it is too small,
the clamps may not reach over the lip of the nozzle. Are you
sure about the specifications?"
In a condescending voice, Vostov said, "My dear Lubinin.
The Americans are fools. They publish all of their sensitive
scientific data widely." Vostov instinctively looked around the
conference room, which had been converted into a makeshift
drafting room, before speaking. "Our Comrade Chairman of
State Security would have you believe his spies are working
feverishly to steal away our enemy's precious secrets. Hah! It is
often a matter of going into an American bookstore or library
for the data. The problem is not too little technical information.
It is too much. Look at this," he said, gesturing to a pile of
books and documents on the conference table. He extracted one
and opened it to a page which showed a cutaway schematic
diagram of the American shuttie.
Lubinin and Yemitov looked on and were surprised. Their
access to such material was limited, and they were somewhat in
awe of the pile of documents on the table. Yemitov's blue eyes
blinked as he murmured, "Amazing."
"Yes, amazing," echoed Lubinin. "But if the Americans are
such fools, Comrade Chief Designer, why do they have a suc-
cessful shuttie program, while two of the Rodina's orbiters have
burned into cinders during reentry?"
Vostov's ebullience vanished. He looked at Lubinin carefully,
detecting a steely character behind the friendly round face and
brown eyes. Apparently this cosmonaut was not one to be trifled
with. "I was allowed to examine your service record," the Chief

THE SECOND DAY
131
Designer said cautiously. "You flew combat missions in Af-
ghanistan, is that not so?"
"Da," replied Lubinin.
"It also reported you shot down two Pakistani F-16s, I be-
lieve."
Lubinin shrugged his muscular shoulders. "Da. They said
we violated their airspace. We charged them with violating Af-
ghan airspace. To tell the truth, I cannot say who violated what.
I was too busy dodging their Sidewinder missiles to pay atten-
tion to navigational matters. In any case, it taught me to respect
American equipment."
The overweight Vostov nodded his understanding. "You
know, I had nothing to do with our shuttle's airframe design,
and I have not a clue as to what caused their destruction. I was
only recendy given authority over the entire program."
"Yes, Comrade Chief Designer," said Lubinin in an under-
standing voice, "I know this. But the engineers who designed
our shuttle obviously had access to this mountain of data, and
still it failed. In view of this, you can understand my concern
about precise specifications?"
In an uncharacteristic human gesture, the Chief Designer put
his arm around the cosmonaut. "I understand, Comrade. And
Vostov shall not fail you."
"That is comforting, Comrade Chief Designer. Now then.
1\vo questions. First, how do we trigger the engine?"
It was back to business. Vostov said, "You will be given a
remote-control triggering device to ignite the solid-fuel motor.
You will have to be in EVA and outside the Soyuz capsule to
make sure it works, because the remote transmitter is small and
emits a weak line-of-sight signal. You will have to trigger it. The
American astronaut cannot. You also must communicate with
the American about the precise timing and inclination of the
firing angle. I assume that is why the two of you were selected.
You both speak English, do you not?"
Lubinin nodded, then asked, "Where do we go from here?"
"I will take the drawings to Leningrad and have the collar
cast," replied Vostov in a businesslike voice. "Popov is having
the launch vehicles prepared at Baikonur, and the collar will be
shipped there as soon as it is completed. When it arrives I will

132	STORMING INTREPID
personally supervise the welding of the collar to the Progress
engine. We will meet again at the cosmodrome."
Day 2, 1630 Hours Zulu, 8:30 a.m. Local
LAWRENCE LIVERMORE LABORATORY,
CALIFORNIA
"Boosters breaking through cloud cover. . . . Initial launch
detection profile indicates twenty-three vehicles and increasing.
Time to impact of lead missile elements is twenty-eight minutes,
twenty-three seconds. . . . Infrared and velocity analysis define
elements as SS-11, SS-18, and SS-19 booster vehicles. . . mis-
sile count now eighty-seven and increasing rapidly. . . . Time
to impact of lead elements is twenty-seven forty-two."
Thomas Havelichek scratched his dark red beard while watch-
ing a bird's-eye view of the northern hemisphere on the custom-
designed thirty-inch color monitor. Out of the Soviet Union a
forest of white pencil lights, representing intercontinental bal-
listic missiles (ICBMs), were arcing northward toward the Arc-
tic Circle. Beyond the polar ice cap lay their targets in North
America.
Havelichek could have superimposed the numeric attack data
onto his screen, but he felt it distracted his attention from the
graphic display. Instead, his assistant read out the flight profile
data on the attacking missiles, while he operated the SDI plat-
form's fire-control systems. "Okay, Gilda," he said, while tap-
ping his keyboard, "reactor power to ninety-three percent. . . .
Target acquisition and prioritization initialized. Isotope is charg-
ing ..."
Gilda's voice was acerbic, like the quintessential Jewish
mother she was. "Time to impact now twenty-five minutes,
fifty-seven seconds, vehicle count two-one-four and still in-
creasing . . . initial booster separation of lead missiles should
begin within thirty seconds . . ,"
The pencil shafts of light continued northward, approaching
the Siberian coast.
"Target prioritization complete . . . isotope is charging . . .
will initiate pulse on lead elements . .

THE SECOND DAY
133
"Vehicle count at three-two-seven . . . still increasing . . .
lead elements have booster separation . . . second-stage failure
on three vehicles. . . lead missile elements have entered exoat-
mosphere. . . . Time to impact twenty-three minutes, sixteen
seconds.'' Gilda, with her pear-shaped body and ink-black curly
hair, peered over her half-moon glasses and said, "Youti better
move your ass, Thomas."
Havelichek's narrow face was transfixed on the screen as he
kept tapping the keyboard. "Relax, Gilda. We've got another
four minutes of postboost left. Besides, no sense firing unless
we have a bunch of them in the exoatmosphere phase ... re-
confirming acquisition and tracking . . . isotope is energized."
"Time to impact twenty-two minutes, thirty-two seconds,"
said the Jewish mother.
"Auto systems engaged. . . . Graser pulse at full power.
Commence firing!"
On the screen another light beam—this one bigger and bright
red—originated above Severnaya Zemlya island on the northern
Siberian coast and began intersecting the leading edge of the
white pencil lights, taking out ten to fifteen ICBMs with each
pulse. After disposing of the lead elements, the red beam began
working its way down the pencil-light forest.
Gilda watched her screen. "Eighty-three kills and climbing.''
With each "kill" the deceased white pencil light disappeared
from the screen. "Uh-oh. Launch detection! FBB! Looks like
SS-30s."
FBB was the acronym for "fast-burn booster," a rocket that
burned super-efficient propellants and could halve the time of a
typical ICBM's boost and postboost phase. The distinctive in-
frared signature—caused by a bigger and brighter exhaust
plume—and greater velocity made FBBs easy to identify. But
because of their speed, the SDI platform's battle management
computer had to reprioritize the sequence of targets. Otherwise,
one of the FBBs could slip by while the Graser beam was en-
gaging slower targets.
"Target priority is adjusting," said Havelichek. The Graser
beam stopped momentarily. "Isotope recharging."
"Lead missile wave is destroyed. Time to impact of new lead
elements has been rolled back to twenty-four minutes, twenty-
two seconds, but FBBs are moving up. Vehicle count now four-

134
STORMING INTREPID
one-four.'' Gilda peered over her half-moon glasses again. "Isn't
he clever? Slipping in the FBBs during an isotope recharge."
"Oh, yeah. Clever as hell," responded Havelichek, while
rubbing his high forehead. "His timing is a little off, though.
He should've launched them a bit sooner. . . . Recharge com-
plete. Graser at full pulse power. Commence firing."
Again the red beam began zapping the white pencils; but after
being zapped, one pencil beam continued toward the Arctic ice
cap. Havelichek turned to his assistant. "Hey, what's the deal?
I thought I nailed that one."
Gilda checked her screen. "No, Thomas. You nailed the first
stage of an FBB just after it separated.'' She turned to him. "So
sorry. You're doing well, though. Kill count is up to one-seven-
four."
He pursed his lips. "Recharging."
"Except for the one you missed, time to impact of new lead
missile elements is now twenty-three minutes, fifty-two sec-
onds. . . . Oops! Submarine missile launch detection." She
studied the readout. "South of Bermuda in the Adantic . . . four
ballistic missiles. Bearing appears to be headed for . . . Wash-
ington. Impact time just over seven minutes. Looks like they're
out of range for our platform."
Havelichek leaned back and smiled. "Look again." From
above Newfoundland another red beam appeared and zapped
the four ballistic pencil beams climbing out of the Atlantic.
Gilda scanned her clipboard with a puzzled expression. "I
don't see a second platform on the defensive elements list."
Havelichek grinned. "You don't see a submarine launch on
the offensive elements, either."
Gilda stared at him for a few moments, then understood—
and giggled. "You are sooooo sneaky. When did you insert it?"
"Last night," replied Havelichek. "That's why I wanted to
run the exercise early this morning, before Buford had a chance
to recheck the program."
The red beam over the Siberian coast continued zapping the
Russian ICBMs with astonishing speed until all were erased
from the screen.
"Exercise concluded," announced Gilda. "Five hundred
forty-three kills and one miss that impacted.'' She inspected her
screen. "It appears Detroit has been totally wiped out."

THE SECOND DAY
135
Havelichek shrugged. "Doesn't bother me. I drive a Mazda.''
Just then the door burst open, revealing an ogre with cauli-
flower ears, who looked as if he'd once played defensive tackle
for the Rams. He was puffing and pawing like a fighting bull.
' 'And just where the hell did that second platform come from?''
Havelichek greeted the ogre with a friendly smile. "Welllll,
good morning, Buford."
The man's temple artery was pulsating against his scarlet face.
He appeared on the edge of blind rage. "Don't 'good morning'
me! I want to know where the hell that damn platform came
from!"
The exchange was taking place in the Conflict Simulation
Center of Lawrence Liveimore Laboratory, a facility which en-
abled scientists to simulate combat conditions in a computer
environment. An offensive tactician would sit in one room while
a defensive tactician would sit in another, and they would play
out a battle scenario in a simulation powered by Livermore's
Computing Center. The exercises often resembled a highly so-
phisticated chess match. Havelichek—and his nemesis Buford—
had just finished a simulated nuclear ICBM attack on the United
States. Buford was in charge of the offensive Russian missile
strategy, while Havelichek played defender with the Graser
weaponry aboard the SDI platform.
"Well, Buford," recalled Havelichek casually, "yesterday
morning I read the battle scenario memo you sent me and I
didn't see anything programmed in on a submarine launch."
Buford seemed to deflate a little. "So, seeing how things were
a little slow yesterday afternoon, I thought I'd check out the
battle program, and lo and behold, would you believe some-
body—I have no idea who—dropped in a Russkie Typhoon-class
sub off the Bermuda coast. Well, figuring fair was fair, I pro-
grammed in an extra space platform late last night."
Buford tried to regain his lost momentum. "You can't expect
an attack to go by strict parameters. There's always going to be
an element of surprise."
Havelichek's narrow face broke into a wide grin. "I guess
that's fine, just as long as you're not the one being surprised.
Right, Bu?"
Buford blew a gasket. "Listen, Buster! I had an Assistant

136
STORMING INTREPID
Secretary of Defense observing in the other simulator. You made
me look like a fool!"
Havelichek sighed. "You don't need me to make you look
like a fool, Buford."
With that, Buford emitted a little choking sound, spun on his
heel, and slammed the door.
Gilda adjusted her glasses. "You were a little hard on him,
weren't you?"
He shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe so. He's ridden my ass ever
since I came to this place. Basically, he's just a bully. And it's
gotten worse over the last six months." Havelichek was thirty-
two. Buford was fifty-two. Everyone at Livermore knew that
within another year or so Havelichek would be Buford's boss,
and Buford wasn't coping very well. He took cheap shots at the
younger man every chance he got, but Havelichek always seemed
to stay one step ahead.
Havelichek was Assistant Director for Computing Sciences,
Lawrence Livermore Laboratory, attached to the Strategic De-
fense Initiative Group. A child prodigy mathematics whiz and
a computer science Ph.D. from Stanford at age twenty-three,
he'd spent his entire career at Livermore and was the chief tech-
nical guru for the SDI's battle management system. It was his
revolutionary design in computer technology and artificial in-
telligence that made operating the platform feasible. To stop a
ballistic missile attack, the amount of information that had to be
handled was so vast and the time required to process the data
was so compressed that conventional computers—even Cray su-
percomputers—were woefully inadequate for the task. Haveli-
chek had designed the revolutionary PRISM battle management
computer, and it was his team who brought it to fruition. It was
a foregone conclusion around Livermore that he'd be named
Director of Computing Sciences for the entire laboratory before
too long.
The door opened again. This time it was a petite blonde.
"Dr. Havelichek?"
"Yes, Ginny."
"Dr. Waverly wants to see you in his office at once. He em-
phasized the 'at once.' " Waverly was Livermore's executive
director.

THE SECOND DAY
137
Havelichek looked at Gilda, and both shrugged. He said,
"Okay. Tell him I'm on my way."
He told Gilda they'd get together after lunch, then walked out
of the simulation building toward the headquarters complex.
Havelichek possessed a slender, somewhat frail-looking torso,
but his trousers concealed a pair of legs that were strong as
pistons. That was because his passion was cycling, and he rou-
tinely racked up 150 miles on his Peugeot ten-speed every week.
Those legs now carried him swiftly across the campus.
The Livermore Laboratory was a sprawling hodgepodge of
office and warehouse-type buildings that probably held the larg-
est concentration of hard-science Ph.D.s in the world. Estab-
lished in 1952 and operated joindy by the University of California
and the Department of Energy, Livermore was established with
one express purpose—research in and development of nuclear
weapons.
Since its founding, however, the laboratory had grown and
expanded to embrace a mind-numbing range of scientific and
defense projects, from laser fusion to biomedical research to
artificial intelligence. The computer center alone linked up four
thousand personal computers and nine Cray supercomputers
throughout the complex in a network called LABNET. If you
went to lunch in any of the laboratory's cafeterias you'd hear
conversations about plasma physics, laser isotope separation,
tandem mirror fusion, kilospud spectroscopy, aerojel, and multi-
megajoules rather than talk about the Rams and the Giants.
The centerpiece of Livermore, however, had became Star
Wars. And Havelichek was one of its two key players. The other
key player was waiting in Waverly's office when he arrived.
"Oh, hi, Garrett," said Havelichek as he entered the execu-
tive director's office. Sitting there was Garrett ("Don't call me
Gary") Sharp—the inventor of the Graser. At thirty-two, Hav-
elichek was the old man of the pair. Sharp was twenty-nine years
old. The younger scientist also had a beard and was of medium
build, but unlike the eagle-eyed Havelichek, Sharp wore an in-
credibly thick pair of trifocal glasses.
"You wanted to see me, sir?" Havelichek asked Waverly.
"Yes, both of you," said the portly Waverly from behind his
desk. "I know this is unexpected, but you boys are going to
Washington today."

138
STORMING INTREPID
The two scientists looked a little surprised. "What for?"
asked Sharp.
"Beats me," said Waverly while tossing down a candy from
the bowl on his desk. "All I know is that I just got off the phone
with the DOE Secretary, and he said to get the two of you to
D.C. fast. Very fast."
Havelichek's curiosity was aroused. "Okay. I've got a grip
packed in my office. I'll have Gilda call TWA—"
He was interrupted by the whop-whop-whop-whop of rotor
blades cutting through the air. Out the window they could see a
giant Sikorsky Sea King helicopter descending on the helipad
near the headquarters building. On the side of the aircraft was
painted u.s. navy.
"You can forget the grip!" shouted Waverly over the noise.
"I was just told to put you two on that helicopter—now!"
Day 2, 1630 Hours Zulu, 8:30 a.m. Local
EDWARDS AIR FORCE BASE, CALIFORNIA
The ringing pierced his unconscious like a cold ice pick, trig-
gering waves of stupefying pain that were vicious in their inten-
sity. He pulled the pillow tight around his head, but the ringing
was like a persistent jackhammer, refusing to stop its pounding
salvos. From the depths of an Olympian alcoholic haze, his hand
reached out and pushed the phone off the bedside table, causing
a crash and jingle that were too loud to bear. Enraged by the
noise, he groped for the receiver, and with all the consciousness
he could muster, a demand poured from his lips:' 'Who the fuck
is this?"
The response was not long in coming.
"This is fucking Major General Chester McCormack! Is that
you, Monaghan?"
Throughout his naval career, Cmdr. Leroy Monaghan had
employed a vast array of instant hangover cures—black coffee,
hot and cold showers, a shot glass of clam juice, and the like.
One Filipino madam told him a drop of lighter fluid on the back
of the tongue worked wonders. He tried them all with varying
degrees of success, but he never remembered anything quite so

THE SECOND DAY
139
efficacious as a pissed-off major general on the line. He sat up
at attention and stammered, "Uh, yes, sir. . . sorry, sir. Didn't
know it was you, sir. It's just that, well, I was off today, sir, and
wasn't expecting—"
"Save it, Monaghan. You're back on duty. Get your butt
cranked up and get over to the hangar, then call me back on a
secure line. I'm at my office at the Cape. Get hold of Barnes
and have him meet you there."
"Uh, yes, sir. But, uh, what is this all about?"
"Didn't they teach you anything about COMSEC in the Navy?
Just move it, Monaghan. My secure phone had better ring within
thirty minutes."
The connection was terminated.
Into the dead line Monaghan said, "Yes, fucking General,
sir," and saluted. Then he collapsed back on the bed as the
hangover rolled over him like a leaden ocean wave. "Uhhhhhhhh,
Jeeeesuuuusss.'' The elixir of the instant cure had abruptly failed
him.
The previous night a retirement party had been held for an
outgoing warrant officer at the Edwards officers club—which,
of course, degenerated into an interservice drinking bout be-
tween the Air Force retiree and Monaghan. After consuming
beer, martinis, Singapore Slings, Boilermakers, Southern Com-
fort, Black Russians, Cutty Sark, White Russians, Amaretto,
Irish whiskey, Courvoisier, Moet & Chandon champagne, and
Wild Turkey, Monaghan had no recollection of who won the
contest. Or when or how he got back to his room in the bachelor
officers' quarters. The alcohol consumption the previous night
had been staggering. Even for him.
But the yoke of duty called. He slipped down to the floor and
pulled his address book off the bedside table. When his blood-
shot brown eyes were finally able to focus, he found the number
he was looking for and groggily punched it in. After two rings
there was an answer.
"Hello?"
A pause.
"Davey . . . this is . . . Mad Dog."
"Oh, hi, Dog. What's happening? I thought we were off to-
day."
To Monaghan the voice on the other end sounded youthful

140
STORMING INTREPID
and full of pep. Disgusting. The hungover pilot struggled to
form the words. "We were off. Just got a call. We're supposed
to go to the hangar right away. . . . Meet you there."
"Darn," said Barnes. "I was gonna work on my cycle today.
But okay. I'm on my way. I'll see you there. . . . Say, you don't
sound too good. Are you okay?"
"No," mumbled Mad Dog, "I'm not," and he hung up the
phone. The trip to the bathroom was painful beyond anything
he could recall in recent memory. He filled the washbasin with
cold water and submerged his head for some minutes before
coming up for air to greet his own image in the mirror. Strands
of red hair were plastered against his rough features. He might
have been a hockey goalie who'd stopped too many pucks with
his lace. "Leroy Monaghan, Commander, United States Navy,"
he muttered to himself. "Just how the fuck did you wind up in
the middle of the fucking California desert with a bunch of
fucking air craps?" Not waiting for an answer, he resubmerged
himself before stepping into the shower.
Monaghan's route to Edwards had been circuitous indeed.
When the Kestrel project developed steam, Whittenberg de-
cided to cast out for a Navy or Marine pilot to groom as chief
test jockey for the prototype. In a quirk of timing, Whittenberg's
request for pilot candidates hit the desk of Vice Admiral "Dixie"
Creighton, Commandant, U.S. Naval Air Test Center at Patux-
ent River, Maryland, just as the commandant hung up the phone
after talking with his wife. Admiral Creighton's spouse had in-
formed her husband that their eldest daughter had been seen
sneaking out of the BOQ room of a certain Commander Mon-
aghan in the wee small hours that veiy same morning.
Within the week, Creighton had Monaghan's orders cut for
SPACECOM, and he was sent across the continent to Edwards
and the Kestrel project—much to the delight of the commandant
and his wife, and to the chagrin of their daughter. It took her an
entire week to find another pilot to bed down with.
Stumbling out of the shower, Monaghan didn't bother to
shave. He pulled on his flight suit and wobbled out the door to
his Porsche 944.

THE SECOND DAY
141
Air Force Capt. Davey Barnes buckled the chin strap on his
crash helmet and fired up his brand-new Honda 500cc Intercep-
tor motorcycle. Next to an F-16, he thought the cycle was the
most fun you could have with your clothes on. He dropped it
into gear and took off.
Barnes lived off base in an apartment in the town of Lancaster.
His route to work involved weaving through some side streets
before getting on the main highway that led to Edwards. He ap-
proached an intersection without slowing down because, having
traveled through it almost every day, he knew the cross street had
a stop sign and he had the right of way. What he didn't know was
that the driver of an approaching station wagon had dropped a
lighted cigarette between his legs and was searching frantically for
it when he barreled past the stop sign and into the intersection.
There was a skidding-crashing-scraping sound as the station wagon
clipped the front wheel of the cycle. Barnes was pitched up in the
air and did a lazy somersault over the hood of the car before com-
ing down on his left leg with a sickening crack.
Day 2, 1800 Hours Zulu, 11:00 a.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
Maj. Lydia Strand set down her coffee cup and once again
stared at the three personnel files in front of her. Each one was
crammed with evaluations, biographical data, old addresses,
transfer orders, and the melange of paperwork that military peo-
ple accumulate during their careers. She'd gone through each
file three separate times looking for some clue that would tell
her which crewman on the Intrepid was a traitor. Sitting alone
in the conference room, she felt more perplexed than ever. Her
lack of experience as an investigator left her with nothing but
her own common sense and intellect to guide an inquiry into
the lives of Kapuscinski, Mulcahey, and Rodriquez. But the gen-
eral had said, "Do it," and that was that.
CM/Sgt. Tim Kelly walked in with a fresh pack of cigarettes.
He'd been briefed early that morning on the Intrepid affair, and
had been chosen by Strand to help her sort things out. He wasn't
an investigator by trade, either, but had been in the intelligence

142
STORMING INTREPID
field for seventeen years of his thirty-year hitch. He was built
like a fireplug, and the crew cut on his bullet-shaped head was
always trimmed close. Strand had instinctively liked him from
their first encounter in the intel section.
"Any leads?" he asked.
Strand tapped the files and sighed. She was already red-eyed
and tired. "Nothing. A big zip. Each one picture-perfect. . . .
I feel a litde over my head here, but I guess we've got to do the
best we can. I talked with the chief of staff and he agreed it
might be good to have some expert assistance on this. We're
supposed to have an FBI agent assigned to us shortly." She
leaned back. "What's your guess?"
The sergeant lit up. "I would say that something like this
would have to be motivated by one of two things. Extortion or
ideology." Kelly gave credence to the truism that senior NCOs
ran the armed services. He didn't have a college degree, but the
man was a self-taught scholar. His quarters were crammed with
books on psychology, Russian history and language, Star Wars
technology, and defense strategy. During the Vietnam War he
had interrogated North Vietnamese prisoners and had been on
the intelligence crew that worked on the heartbreaking Son Tay
POW rescue mission. After Vietnam he was assigned to the
debriefing team which handled Soviet defector Viktor Belenko
when he flew his MiG-25 Foxbat fighter to Japan. The CIA had
dangled a job in front of Kelly more than once, but he elected
to stay with the Air Force.
"Extortion or ideology? How do you mean?" asked Strand.
Kelly played with his lighter and said, "I mean, he's either
defecting on his own volition or being forced to do it."
For the next hour they went back and forth over Kelly's thesis,
looking for some glimmer of an opening that would lead them
to the Intrepid's defector. They enjoyed no success.
Finally, Kelly said, "Okay, what about Kapuscinski? That's
Eastern European extraction, isn't it? Maybe he longs to be back
with the kinfolk in the old country?"
Strand opened his folder. "Two hundred and twenty-three
combat missions in Vietnam, the Distinguished Flying Cross, a
Silver Star, and two Purple Hearts. Flew F-105 Thunderchiefs
and F-4 Phantoms. He's an ace. Shot down six MiGs. Doesn't
sound like a Commie sympathizer to me."

THE SECOND DAY
143
"Me either," Kelly agreed.
"Besides," said Strand, "if you knew Iceberg, you knew his
feelings on Vietnam. He was always sorry we hadn't finished
the job with nuclear weapons."
Kelly raised an eyebrow.
"Seriously. Also, his parents came from Poland. A rumor
circulated among some people at NASA, which I happened to
overhear, that his mother had been raped by a gang of Russian
soldiers during World War II."
Kelly shook his head. "Christ. We take our safety and secu-
rity for granted, don't we? Can we talk to the mother? Is she
still living?"
Strand looked grim and replied, "No. She was killed during
a robbery in Chicago years ago."
Kelly continued toying with his lighter. "What about Rodri-
quez? He climbed out of the slums in East L.A. Scholarships
all the way. Maybe his early poverty instilled some kind of sym-
pathy for a socialist order of some kind?"
Strand thought about that one. Although incredibly bright,
Jerry was a flaky guy. Didn't care much for a U.S. presence in
Central America, she remembered. Flaunted authority some-
times. "Maybe," she said.
The phone rang, and Strand answered. After listening for a
few seconds she said, "All right. Bring him to the conference
room." She hung up and turned to Kelly. " Our G-man is here."
Shortly thereafter, an Air Police security man escorted the
FBI agent into the room. Strand and Kelly looked up . . . and
up . . . and up some more. Kelly thought the chief of staff had
mistakenly sent them someone from the Chicago Bears.
A huge hand extended and a rough voice said, "Hi. Walt
Tedesco. Special agent. FBI Denver office."
Strand and Kelly shook hands carefully—not wanting any
fractures—and introduced themselves.
The agent checked out his surroundings. "So, quite a setup
you guys have here. I went through half a dozen security checks
to get in. I had no idea all this was underground."
Kelly nodded while checking out Tedesco. The Chicago Bears
connection had occurred to him because the agent looked like
the Bears' head coach, Mike Ditka—widow's peak, mustache,

144
STORMING INTREPID
and all. "Yes, sir," said the sergeant. "We don't get many
visitors under the mountain."
"Well, I don't mind telling you I was a little flustered to get
a call from the Director himself this morning," said Tedesco,
"telling me to hightail it down here and report to you people.
I've been told to give you whatever assistance you need."
Strand was relieved. "Good. Now then, Agent Tedesco, sit
back and relax. I have something to tell you which you simply
are not going to believe; but it's important that you do believe
it. And quickly:"
For the next twenty minutes Strand crisply related the Intrepid
affair, while Kelly poured coffee and watched the G-man's eyes
get bigger and bigger. Finally, when they looked as if they would
pop from their sockets, Tedesco bolted out of his chair and
began pacing back and forth.
"This is incredible! Absolutely incredible! It's a thousand
times worse than the Walker spy ring. I know. I worked on that
case when I was stationed in California." He continued pacing
back and forth, like Ditka on the sidelines, working himself up.
He stuck out his sledgehammer fist. "Don't you worry, little
lady. I'll take it from here. I'll have twenty agents on this case
inside of an hour and we'll start ripping apart everything you've
got on these people. ..."
Oh, terrific, thought Strand. They had to send me a Mr. Ma-
cho.
". . .1 promise you by this evening we'll have—"
"No," stated Strand. .
Tedesco was knocked off balance. "Pardon?"
"I said no," she repeated.
The agent was stunned. "What the hell do you mean, no?
We've got to find out what happened. Did it occur to you there
may be more than one person involved? He may have an accom-
plice right on this base. Under your very nose. We've got to—"
"Agent Tedesco," said Strand firmly, "please listen to me
carefully. First of all, I am in charge of this investigation, by
order of General Whittenberg. Until you hear otherwise, you
are working for me. Secondly, if you unleash your SWAT team
and start turning everything topsy-turvy, people are going to
start asking questions about why we're asking questions. That
means the press probably gets involved. If there is an accom-

THE SECOND DAY
145
plice, I don't want him flushed out before we're ready, and a
newspaper story will do that in a second. Additionally, every-
thing we're doing is highly classified. So from this point it's just
the three of us. We use our brains and proceed with discretion.
We talk only to those people we need to talk to. If there's a
screw-up, it's my head, not yours. Now if you have a problem
with any of this, just say so. I '11 have my boss call your Director
and we'll secure a replacement for you without delay."
The G-man was chastened. He gulped and murmured, "Uh,
no . . . I, uh, don't think that will be necessary."
Kelly covered a smile with his hand. The FBI agent wasn't
the first man he'd seen the major cut down to size. So much for
the young lady's fear about not being up to the task at hand.
Suddenly there was a glimmer of recognition in Tedesco's
eyes. "Say, weren't you that woman pilot on the space shuttle a
couple of years back? I remember a write-up in Newsweek."
"Yes," she acknowledged. "That was me."
As if Strand had passed some litmus test, Tedesco said, "Oh,
okay."
"Fine," she replied. "Now then, here are the three personnel
files. I want your recommendation on how we should proceed—
given the restrictions we face."
With twenty-two years in the bureau, a good chunk of it in
counterespionage, Tedesco knew where to start. "After I review
the files, we start going backward—in time, that is. We go
through their living quarters and look for any physical evidence.
Talk to relatives, friends—discreetly, of course. We'll have to
develop some type of cover story. Look at bank accounts, credit
card accounts—anything that might leave a paper trail to some-
thing out of the ordinary. And that means we start wearing out
shoe leather."
"All right," agreed the major. "Each of us will take one of
the crew. Agent Tedesco, I want—"
"Call me Walt."
"Okay, Walt. You take Rodriquez—that's spelled with a Q,
not a G. I'll get you an office so you can review his file in detail.
I guess you could say he looks the shakiest to Tim and me—
sorry to say. His quarters are in Houston, though. He was a
civilian with NASA. We can arrange for your transportation.
Come to think of it, we may need some extra support from your

146
STORMING INTREPID
bureau to check out immediate and extended family to make
sure they're safe. That could be another facet to our extortion
scenario."
The agent nodded. "No problem there. We'll take care of
that right away—and be quiet about it, too. I presume family
addresses, et cetera, are in these files."
"Correct," she said. "Tim, you take your fellow Irishman,
Mulcahey. He lived on base at Peterson. He was the only one
with a wife and kids. Maybe you'd better get over there and
make sure they're okay. If they are all right, see what you can
find out about Frank—in an oblique way. Go easy when you talk
to his wife, Katy. On second thought, I know Katy. Maybe
I. . ."
"No, Major." This time it was Kelly who was firm. "I know
Frank and Katy myself. Not well, but I do know them. I'll be
careful."
Strand heaved a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Tim. You'll have to
play it by ear on how much to tell her. As Walt said, we'll dream
up a detailed cover story later."
"Understood."
Finishing up, Strand said, "I'll take Iceberg. He lived in the
BOQ at Peterson."
"Who?" asked the G-man.
"Iceberg—radio call sign for Kapuscinski. Sort of a nick-
name."
"I see," said Tedesco. "We'll need some warrants, too. I'll
take care of those on an in camera basis."
"A what basis?" asked the major.
"In camera. Lawyer talk for 'secret in the judge's cham-
bers.' " A few moments passed before Tedesco started laugh-
ing. "I'd love to see the judge's face when the U.S. Attorney
tells him the probable cause on this one."
Day 2, 1930 Hours Zulu, 1:30 p.m. Local
AN F-14 TOMCAT OVER KANSAS
The long black hose began winding into the backside of the
KC-135 tanker aircraft, yanking the fuel cone off the Tomcat's
intake nozzle. Navy Lt. Mike "Blackjack" Pershing hit a toggle

THE SECOND DAY
147
switch and watched his fighter's small fuel intake arm retract
into place at the base of the cockpit canopy. When an F-14 ran
on afterburners it consumed fuel at a prodigious rate. It was the
Tomcats' second midair refueling on this trip, and they had one
more to go before reaching Andrews Air Force Base outside
Washington, D.C. It was an unusual way to travel, but it allowed
them to finish the transcontinental journey in a littie over three
hours.
Pershing watched the tanker bank to starboard, then radioed
to his wingman in a jocular voice, "We be all full up, Sweet
Thang." He raised his left hand to flash a thumbs-up sign.
The wingman raised a thumb in reply. "Roger that, Black-
jack. Ready whenever you are."
Pershing hit his intercom switch.' 'How 'bout you back there?
You ready?"
Havelichek was definitely not ready. He wished he was back
at Livermore shooting down Russkie ICBMs on the computer.
After leaving Waverly's office, he and Garrett Sharp had been
whisked away by the helicopter to Alameda Naval Air Station
in San Francisco Bay, where they'd donned flight pressure suits
and been plunked into the backseats of two high-performance
interceptors. Next thing they knew, they were streaking across
the Great American Desert at Mach 2.
"Say," asked Pershing, starting to become concerned. "You
okay back there?"
"Uh. . . yeah, I think so," replied Havelichek in a quavering
voice. "It's just... I, well, I think we left my stomach back in
Oakland."
Pershing laughed. "Hey, don't sweat it, Rice Check." Hav-
elichek had already been anointed with an aviator call sign. "I'll
get you there with all your internal organs intact. The old man
said it would be my wings if I screwed up playing taxi on this
mission. I don't know who you guys are, but you must be some
kinda heavy-duty dudes. I'll bet we're setting a record for pro-
longed afterburner flight."
"I'm honored to be aboard," replied Rice Check nervously
as he watched the F-14's swing wing rotate into its swept-back
position.
Pershing punched his mike button again. "Kansas City Cen-
ter, this is Tango-Oscar-Mike one-one-four. You have a military

148
STORMING INTREPID
flight plan and special clearance for our mission. Request per-
mission to climb to four-seven thousand for supersonic vector
on bearing zero-eight-seven, over."
There was a brief pause. "Roger, one-one-four. We have your
flight plan. You are cleared and have no traffic in your immediate
area except for your KC one-three-five. Over."
"Thank you, Center. One-one-four, out." Pershing switched
to his flight communications frequency. "Okay, Sweet Thang,
see you at four-seven thousand on my countdown . . . three . . .
two . . . one ... hit it!"
The afterburners on the fighters kicked in, and the two Tom-
cats streaked skyward in a 80-degree climb. Havelichek was
heard to remark, "Shhheeeiiit!"
Day 2, 2003 Hours Zulu, 10:03 p.m. Local
FLITE DATA COMPUTING CENTRE,
PLESETSK COSMODROME, CCCP
"An interesting problem" commented Ivan Pirdilenko, the
Data Centre director.
"Problem?" There was apprehension in the General Secre-
tary's voice. "Why is there a problem? Our missile can shoot
down the American rescue shuttle if it is launched from their
Florida cosmodrome. Is that not so?"
Pirdilenko pulled on his Vandyke beard. "Oh, yes, of course.
We can certainly do that. But it is my understanding you do not
wish to damage the American shuttle—the Intrepid, I believe
you called it—which is already in orbit. Is that not correct?"
"Da," replied the General Secretary.
"Aha," said Pirdilenko. "Therein lies the problem."
General Secretary Vorontsky was becoming agitated, and his
heavy features turned into a scowl. "I do not understand," he
confessed.
Having sensed Popov's reluctance to employ the antisatellite
weaponry if need be, KGB Chairman Kostiashak had decided
it was best not to entrust those preparations to anyone but him-
self. He prevailed upon the General Secretary to fly with him to
the Plesetsk Cosmodrome, where the Russian antisatellite re-

THE SECOND DAY
149
sources had been hidden away from U.N. inspection teams—in
violation of the AS AT treaty signed with the Americans. At
Plesetsk they tracked down the Data Centre director, a gaunt,
spidery man of fifty named Ivan Pirdilenko, who was unim-
pressed by the lofty status of his two visitors. However, he
seemed fascinated by the technical puzzle they'd brought him.
It was Pirdilenko and his staff who formulated and programmed
the orbital paths of the seventy or so satellites that lifted off from
Plesetsk every year. He was also one of the leading authorities
on Soviet ASAT technology, having designed the weapon's
guidance system.
"It is really quite simple," Pirdilenko observed. "You said the
American rescue shuttle would undoubtedly try to rendezvous
with the Intrepid spacecraft as soon after launch as possible."
The General Secretary nodded.
Pirdilenko rose from his desk, which was surrounded by Kos-
mos computers and disk drives. "I will explain," he said pa-
tiently, then motioned to the KGB chieftan. "What is your
name?"
The small man exhaled a puff of Pall Mall smoke. "Kosti-
ashak," he replied.
The Data Centre director sounded like a strict headmaster.
"Come over here . . . and put out that cigarette. There is no
smoking in the Centre."
Kostiashak obediently crushed out his cigarette and stepped
over to Pirdilenko.
"Now then, General Secretary," began Pirdilenko, "this is
the problem. Let us say that Kostiashak here is the rescue shuttle
launching from Florida." Pirdilenko took several steps back,
putting some space between himself and Kostiashak. "Let us
further assume that / am the Intrepid, traveling in orbit at seven
kilometers per second. Since the initial lift-off and ascent of the
rescue shuttle is relatively slow, Kostiashak must launch ahead
of me if we are to rendezvous. Otherwise, I will pass him. . . .
Once he has launched and we have achieved our rendezvous"—
Pirdilenko walked up until he was abreast of the little man—"it
will be impossible to destroy the rescue vessel without damaging
the Intrepid as well. The two spacecraft will be traveling close
together, and our antisatellite weapon is not, ah, 'surgical' as

150
STORMING INTREPID
the Americans say. It scatters pellets in a wide pattern, and both
spacecraft would undoubtedly be hit." The director pulled at
his Vandyke beard again. "In order to destroy the rescue vessel
without damaging the Intrepid spacecraft, we must strike the
rescue shuttle after it has launched from Florida and is in the
ascent phase, but before it makes rendezvous with the Intrepid—
like my example with Kostiashak here. That is a terribly small
time window in which to identify, track, launch, and intercept
the target. . . and we have never attempted any test that simu-
lates such an occurrence. Now do you understand the problem,
General Secretary?"
Vorontsky was not pleased. "I am afraid I do, Comrade."
Pirdilenko continued, "Adding to this problem is the fact that
the Americans will undoubtedly launch from their Florida cos-
modrome when the Intrepid's orbit intersects their location."
The Data Centre director went to a globe on his desk that had a
maneuverable ring around it, giving it the appearance of a gy-
roscope. He placed the ring over Florida in an approximate polar
orbit. "That orbit is somewhat out of range of Plesetsk—we
would have to wait two, perhaps three, hours until we passed
under their orbital path to launch our AS AT missile. By then the
two shuttles would have had ample time to achieve their rendez-
vous."
General Secretary Vorontsky looked shaken, and Kostiashak
was wary when he asked, "Are you saying there is no way of
stopping the rescue shuttle without destroying the Intrepid as
well?"
Pirdilenko took off his glasses and cleaned them with the tail
of his white laboratory coat. "Ordinarily, yes. But in this case
we have an extraordinary advantage. This is not like a game of
chess, for we know what our opponent's next move will be, and
we can anticipate that move to. . . checkmate him, if you will.''
He replaced his glasses.
The KGB chieftain spoke but one word: "How?"
Pirdilenko seemed unconcerned that lives were at stake. He
saw it simply as a technical challenge—like a chess match. He
motioned the two men to return to the globe on his desk. "Come
closer," he beckoned, and for the next ten minutes he explained
in patient detail how his plan would work—how he would spring
his checkmate and blow the Constellation out of the sky without

THE SECOND DAY
151
harming the Intrepid. When he finished, the General Secretary
was beaming once again.
"Brilliant," proclaimed the former hammer thrower.
Kostiashak nodded agreement.
"Tell us, is there anything you require?" asked the General
Secretary. "Anything at all?"
Pirdilenko knew what he needed. "I shall require the orbital
data from the Aerospace Defense Warning Centre so I can com-
pute the intercept vectors and program the flite data into the
weapon's on-board computer."
Vorontsky was absolutely floating at this point. He'd always
been intoxicated with technology. "Amazing. You mean you
can actually program a computer that will fly into space and
guide this antisatellite weapon?"
Pirdilenko pulled open his desk drawer. "Of course, General
Secretary. Actually, we program the flite instructions onto a
silicon chip such as this"—he pulled out a sample from the
drawer and held it in his hand—"and insert the chip into the on-
board circuitry."
Vorontsky smiled, then picked up the computer chip—which
was smaller than a kopek—and inspected it reverently. "Incred-
ible," he whispered. "Which one of the Motherland's factories
produced this miracle? The Soviet Electronics Institute at Khar-
kov?"
Pirdilenko shook his head.
Having once been the GOSPLAN Minister, the General Sec-
retary prided himself on his knowledge of Soviet production
facilities. "Hmmm. Then it must have come from the Defense
Manufacturing Centre at Volgograd."
Again, Pirdilenko shook his head.
Stumped, the General Secretary asked,' 'Then who made this
device?"
''Texas Instruments," replied Pirdilenko.
''What?'' cried Vorontsky.
"Da," said Pirdilenko clinically. "We obtain them through
a shell company in France. I prefer the semiconductors of Texas
Instruments, but when they are not available we use Fujitsu.
Those come through another shell company in Singapore."
As incredible as it might sound, American, European, and
Japanese semiconductors could be found in Russian sonobuoys,

152
STORMING INTREPID
missiles, ships, and aircraft for the simple reasons that the Soviet
product often didn't measure up and many models of Western
semiconductors were widely traded on secondary world mar-
kets. Even with export restrictions and the cooperation of rep-
utable companies who manufactured the goods, Western
governments were powerless to stem the flow of sensitive tech-
nology into the Soviet Union via shell companies, subterfuge,
and espionage.
But while this technology transfer was frustrating for Western
governments, it was a great embarrassment to the General Sec-
retary. Upon learning the point of origin of the semiconductor
in his hand, his jowls fell. Throwing the silicon chip down, he
said through his teeth, "See that Comrade Pirdilenko gets ev-
erything he requires, Vitali." Then he stormed from the room.
Kostiashak decided to flout the Data Centre's "no smoking"
rule and lit up another Pall Mall. He watched the door close
behind the General Secretary before speaking. The KGB chief-
tain admired confidence and detested arrogance. Pirdilenko had
confidence—therefore Kostiashak felt at ease with him. "I will
see that you receive the data from the Aerospace Warning Cen-
tre, but do not contact them directly." Kostiashak pulled out a
card. "If you require anything, call this number—anytime, day
or night—and speak to me personally. Talk to no one about this
matter except those who are subordinate to yourself, and be sure
that you can rely on their discretion. Is that understood?"
"Ummmm." Pirdilenko's mind seemed to be elsewhere as
he continued stroking his Vandyke beard. "Did you say your
name was Kostiashak?" he asked absently.
The KGB chieftain nodded.
A few seconds elapsed before Pirdilenko's face brightened.
"Of course! I remember now. It was years ago . . . you were a
lad of, what? Thirteen? Fourteen? You defeated Berkofsky in the
Moscow District semifinals with a brilliant Sicilian Defense."
"And was beaten in the finals by Leskov," added Kostiashak.
"Bah," harrumphed Pirdilenko in dismissal. "Leskov was
an old man. He was relying on experience. I remember. I was
there. You were the sensation of the tournament. The youngest
grandmaster in years. You could have gone on to be Soviet Na-
tional Champion. Perhaps even world champion. You had the
gift. Why did you give it up?"

THE SECOND DAY
153
Kostiashak allowed himself a moment of reflection. "My fa-
ther was a diplomat. We moved abroad, and I developed . . .
other interests."
Pirdilenko sighed. "A pity. We must have a game some-
time."
The little man exhaled his smoke slowly. "You do not under-
stand, Comrade Pirdilenko. We are in the grandest game of
all."
Day 2, 2130 Hours Zulu, 4:30 p.m. Local
ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE, MARYLAND
Peter Lamborghini felt a hum and bump as the landing gear
on the T-38 Talon trainer deployed and locked. Whittenberg had
the aircraft on approach to runway zero-two left at Andrews,
while Lamborghini watched the Maryland 'woodlands from the
backseat. The SPACECOM intelligence officer was unaccus-
tomed to riding in the backseat of a T-38 and didn't like it. But
the CinC seemed to take some comfort in being at the controls
on this trip, and God knew the man could use a little comfort
right now.
Lamborghini looked at the huge lumberjack shoulders fram-
ing the canopy in front of him. He'd served under Whittenberg
for two years, and it had been the best assignment of his career-
even if it didn't involve flying. The giant black man was simply
a dream commander. Smart, tough, decisive, fair, and above all
he listened to you and acted on the facts you brought him. Lam-
boighini had known some generals who would've simply re-
jected the notion of the Intrepid communicating with the
Russians and coasted along in a fool's paradise. Not Whitten-
berg. He acted on hard data.
And Lamborghini wasn't beguiled by Whittenberg's some-
times paternal manner. The man could change into Lord of the
Jungle in a split second. Lamborghini remembered his first tour
as duty officer in the Space Defense Operations Center. He was
sitting in the SPADOC Crow's Nest that overlooked the spacious
room when Whittenberg strolled in for a casual visit. There was
a rule at SPADOC that when the duty officer picked up the

154
STORMING INTREPID
phone, he expected to talk to someone on the other end of the
line—at once. Whittenberg picked up the phone and punched a
button for a test check with one of the BMEWS radar monitors.
The operator was two stations away, conferring with a col-
league. After the third buzz, Whittenberg leaned over the Crow's
Nest rail and barked, "Somebody'd better get on that phone!"
The entire mountain reverberated from the intonation, and every
spine in SPADOC snapped ramrod straight. He handed the re-
ceiver to Lamborghini and said simply, "Never again, Colo-
nel."
In spite of that reprimand, Lamborghini was always grateful
he had landed at SPACECOM—although his career path to
Cheyenne Mountain wasn't exactly planned.
Peter and his wife, Juliet—a blond, blue-eyed beauty of Nor-
wegian extraction—got married the day after their graduation
from the University of Wisconsin. Juliet had stuck by her hus-
band through two tours in Vietnam, reared his daughters, gone
through move after move, and endured more banal cocktail par-
ties than she could count. She was also a damn smart lady who
had goals of her own. When their daughters were old enough
and the family was stationed at Hill Air Force Base in Utah,
Juliet Lamborghini enrolled at the University of Utah School of
Law. She'd kept her ambitions on the back burner long enough
to get her children reared, and now she didn't intend to put her
career aside any longer for anyone or anything.
At the same time Juliet obtained her law degree, Peter had
been promoted to full colonel and was up for vice commander
of an F-16 tactical air wing—the final stepping-stone to his own
command of a fighter wing.
The four-star Commander in Chief of the Tactical Air Com-
mand (CinCTAC) interviewed Lamborghini at length for the
job. Everything was going beautifully, until Peter proudly told
CinCTAC that Juliet would soon begin practicing law.
The gorillalike CinCTAC said, "No."
Lamborghini asked, "How come?"
CinCTAC said, "A vice commander's wife has too many
responsibilities. Tea parties. Unit picnics. Mother Superior to
the junior officers' wives. Things like that. You know. Has to
be done."

THE SECOND DAY
155
Lamborghini protested. "But I'm the one who'll be vice com-
mander. Not her. Besides, she's sacrificed enough for my career
as it is."
CinCTAC said, "Sorry. It's nonnegotiable. Take it or leave
it."
For the only time in his life, Peter Lamborghini went into a
blind rage. So much adrenaline emptied into his bloodstream
that he truly couldn't recall much of his last conversation with
the CinCTAC. All he could remember were fragments like
"Pigheaded . . . Neanderthal. . . brainless . . . throwback."
Peter didn't get the vice commander's job.
And the very next day he and Juliet decided to submit his
paperwork to retire from the Air Force. She'd practice law and
he'd open a flying school, or do something equally benign. It
was a bitter end to a gilded Air Force career.
Then he got a phone call from Rodger Whittenbeig—inquir-
ing whether Peter and Juliet would be good enough to come
down to Colorado Springs for a weekend visit? "I'll send my
Sabreliner for you," he said.
The Lamborghinis traveled to Colorado, and the weekend
was simply a dream. The two couples got along great. After a
cookout dinner, Whittenberg drew Peter aside for a private chat.
He told Peter SPACECOM had obtained approval for develop-
ment of a prototype spaceplane fighter. Code name "the Kes-
trel." A Lockheed executive would be project manager, but
Whittenbeig needed a deputy project manager who would re-
port direcdy to him at SPACECOM.
"Of course, it would also mean an orientation ride on the
shutde. Are you interested?" asked the SPACECOM four-star.
"I'd heard you weren't happy at TAC."
"You heard right," replied Peter. "But what about my wife?"
"Lovely lady," observed Whittenberg. "What about her?"
"She wants to start practicing law," said Peter cautiously.
"Fine. My wife's been a teacher for over thirty years. I think
it's important for a wife to have her own career.''
A month later Peter and Juliet moved to Colorado Springs.
Their eldest daughter transferred to the University of Colorado
in Boulder, and their youngest enrolled as a junior in the neigh-
borhood high school. Peter got his orientation ride on the shutde
Antares, while Juliet got a job in the litigation division of a

156
STORMING INTREPID
Denver law firm. Although her commute back and forth to Den-
ver was a bitch, especially in the winter, Juliet and her husband
were as happy as a couple of pigs in slop. It got even better when
Whittenberg pulled Peter onto his staff as the assistant intelli-
gence officer, and later promoted him to chief of SPACECOM's
intelligence billet. Everything seemed to be clicking on the right
cylinders.
Until the Intrepid went rogue.
The Talon touched down, and when their speed dropped
enough, Whittenberg applied the brakes.
, "Nice touchdown, sir," observed Lamborghini.
"Coming from you, Pete, that means something," replied
Whittenberg. He radioed the tower for instructions and was told
to taxi to the temporary duty hangar by the pilot's lounge.
' 'What do you make of that?'' queried the CinC as he pointed.
"A couple of Navy F- 14s are paiiked by the TDY hangar. Won-
der what they're doing on Air Force turf."
Lamborghini had spent his time at the Pentagon, too. "In
Washington it could be anything. Maybe the Navy's giving a
joyride to a couple of Senators."
"Yeah. Maybe so. I've done that a few times myself. ... Of
course, that never compared with the time I got to take up Angie
Dickinson for an 'orientation ride.' "
"Are you serious?" asked a disbelieving Lamborghini.
"When was that?"
"Back when I was superintendent at the academy. Bob Hope
came through with one of his shows and she was in the group.
I thought it would be a nice gesture to give her a spin."
"Uh-huh."
"She looked pretty good, even in a pressure suit."
It was one of those intimate moments between superior and
subordinate when the lines of authority disappeared and two
men communicated on equal terms.
Whittenberg sighed. "I hope you don't mind me laying this
briefing assignment on you, Pete. I'll field any questions that
come up, but I thought it better to have somebody else grapple
with the details."
"Noproblem, sir."
"You ever met the President?"

THE SECOND DAY
157
"No, sir," recalled Lamborghini. "I met the Vice President
a couple of times on his visits to SPACECOM, but never the
President."
"Yeah, well, I don't want to sugar-coat it for you," muttered
the CinC. "I've briefed the President and Vice President a num-
ber of times. If the two of them get their feathers up it's like
being caught between a couple of buzz saws. But like I said, I'll
handle the questions. Just lay out the situation for them."
"Yes, sir. I think I'll be able to handle it. I've briefed Admiral
Bergstrom before. If I can get by him, the President should be
a piece of cake."
Whittenberg chuckled. "Yeah, he is an old salt, isn't he?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you bring the slides?'' It was the third time Whittenberg
had asked.
"In my flight grip, sir."
Whittenberg taxied toward the ground crewman and cut his
engines when given the sign. He popped the canopy just as an
Air Force captain walked up, saluted smartly, and asked,' 'Gen-
eral Whittenberg?"
"That's me, son."
"Please come with me, sir. I've already closed out your flight
plan."
The two men climbed out of the plane, carrying their flight
grips. They entered the pilot's lounge and quickly showered off
the caked-on perspiration. Besides the cleansing, the shower
helped recharge the exhausted men. Also, Whittenberg didn't
want to face his Commander in Chief while wearing a flight
suit. He felt there was a very good chance this afternoon could
be the twilight of his military career, and if he got shot down
he was at least going to be in proper uniform.
Following the captain out to the tarmac, they boarded an Army
Blackhawk helicopter that was warming up. Upon climbing
aboard Whittenberg recognized the other two passengers.
"Hello, Dr. Havelichek, Dr. Sharp," he said in greeting. "Al-
ways nice to see the two of you. I'm sorry it had to be under
these circumstances."
"Good to see you, too, General," Havelichek shouted over
the growing noise of the rotor blades. "Can you tell us why
we're here . . . and where we're going?"

158
STORMING INTREPID
He shouted back, "You'll find out in a few minutes."
The Blackhawk lifted off, and after it gained altitude, Whit-
tenberg could see the Washington Mall in the distance.
Day 2, 2200 Hours Zulu, 5:00 p.m. Local
THE WHITE HOUSE
The Blackhawk helicopter touched down on the south lawn of
the executive mansion, and the foursome of Whittenberg, Lam-
borghini, Havelichek, and Sharp was escorted off the aircraft by
the Air Force captain. They were led to the west entry, where
the captain guided them past several uniformed guards and into
an entryway which looked like a phone booth with a rubber-
cupped camera lens protruding from the wall. Each person was
required to put his left eye against the rubber cup while a strobe
flash was triggered and an electronic photograph of his retina
was taken. The pattern of retinal blood vessels on the back side
of the eyeball is as distinctive as a fingerprint, and each man's
photograph was matched with a historical computer file of pre-
vious White House visitors. Lamborghini's in-processing took
the longest because he'd never visited the executive mansion
before, and a new file had to be created. Upon completing their
verification, they were quickly led through a doorway and into
the reception foyer of the West Wing.
Standing in the middle of the black-and-white checkered floor
was Admiral Jason Hawthorne Bergstrom, Chief of the General
Staff of the United States Armed Forces. To call the old salt
"crusty" would be an understatement. He looked as if seawater
had been hitting him in the face for thirty years—which was, in
feet, the case. His enormous bald head possessed only a fringe
of white hair around the perimeter, and between his teeth he
chewed on the biggest, most foul-smelling cigar Lamborghini
had ever seen—or whiffed. There was hardly a square inch on
the Admiral's blue Navy uniform that wasn't covered with battle
ribbons or gold braid.
Long before the new administration had taken office, one of
its priorities had been to make the Defense Department "work."
Through decades of interservice rivalry, and the propagation of

THE SECOND DAY
159
layer upon layer of bureaucrats, the Department of Defense had
succeeded in developing a structure that couldn't even manage
itself—let alone the nation's security. The "command and con-
trol" that was supposed to be exercised by the Joint Chiefs had
become a joke. There were so many lines of authority between
services and major commands that a Pentagon organization chart
looked like the tangled strings of a marionette. And weapons
procurement? That was a quagmire of pork barrels and corrup-
tion.
The Goldwater-Nichols reform law had gone a long way in
correcting those problems, but the new administration went even
farther. The old Joint Chiefs structure was scrapped, and in its
place a General Staff system was imposed. Under the Secretary
of Defense was a Chief of the General Staff who was now the
uniformed military "czar." Under him were ten major unified
commands whose commanders, or mini-czars, reported directly
to him—such as the European Theater, Pacific Theater, Strate-
gic Air Command, and Whittenberg's SPACECOM. The sepa-
rate Navy, Air Force, and Army departments still existed, but
they were pretty much for training and administrative purposes.
The Chief of the General Staff now had total control over all
promotions and budgeting for all branches of the service, and
weapons procurement was managed directly out of the White
House by a staff of professional purchasing executives.
The political hue and cry against this restructuring was unlike
anything the Defense Department had ever seen. The President
and Vice President, however, had wisely put the issue on their
election platform, and upon winning by a landslide they enjoyed
a clear mandate to carry it off. Several assistant secretaries of
defense and a dozen four-star generals had to be fired before the
Pentagon finally got the message a new era had dawned. And
the man chosen as the inaugural Chief of the General Staff was
Admiral Bergstrom.
Whittenberg extended a hand, "Hello, Admiral."
Bergstrom took it. "Hello, General." Whittenberg noticed
the old salt didn't call him Rodg as he often did.
Acknowledgments were made all around.
The admiral looked at his watch. "The Executive Committee
of the National Security Council will be convening in the Cab-

160
STORMING INTREPID
inet Room in about fifteen minutes. You got everything you
need?"
Whittenberg nodded. "I would like Colonel Lamborghini to
set up his slides prior to the meeting, and I would like to check
back with my chief of staff on a secure line to see if anything
has changed at SPACECOM since I left."
"All right. Captain, show the colonel and the good doctors
into the Cabinet Room. We'll join you shortly." He turned to
Whittenberg. "We'll use the White House Chief of Staff's office
to make your call." The two men walked past the appointments
secretary and down the hall to the corner office, which housed
the third most powerful man in the United States. "He's in with
the President right now, so go ahead." Whittenberg walked
into the office that had belonged to Alexander Meigs Haig and
James A. Baker III, as well as unfortunates like H. R. Haldeman
and Sherman Adams. He picked up the phone and punched in
the numbers. His conversation with the Bull was brief. Nothing
had changed. Whittenberg hung up.
"My chief of staff says the situation is still the same."
The admiral grunted.
"May I ask, sir," queried Whittenberg, "what has the Pres-
ident been told?"
The old salt grunted again. "This happened at a god-awful
time, you know. We're in the middle of a state visit by the new
French President. He's talking seriously about bringing France
back into NATO's military command structure, and even par-
ticipating in a Euro-American SDI program. This Intrepid thing
could blow the whole deal to shit. Anyway, the President has
been hard to pigeonhole today. We told the Vice President ev-
erything and he said hold off telling the main man until you got
here. The President knows something is wrong with Intrepid,
but he doesn't know what."
Whittenberg nodded. "So he gets all his bad news at once."
"That's about the size of it." The admiral jerked his head.
"Come on." They walked back down the hall and into the
Cabinet Room. Lamborghini was just finishing his preparations.
Whittenberg turned to Havelichek and Sharp. "Has Pete told
you what this is all about?" The two men nodded like zombies.
The Cabinet Room was a brilliant white with a dark ebony
table. At one end of the room there was a fireplace with a model

THE SECOND DAY
161
of Old Ironsides resting on the mantel, and above it was a Gil-
bert Stuart portrait of George Washington. Whittenberg, the
scientists, and the admiral took their places at one end of the
table, while two Presidential aides fretted up and down the room
restraightening pads, pencils, and ashtrays for the umpteenth
time. The President had a penchant for cigars—Cuban cigars,
before he was elected—and therefore smoking was allowed dur-
ing Cabinet meetings.
The door opened and in filed the secretaries of Defense, State,
and Treasury; the National Security Adviser; the directors of the
Central Intelligence Agency, the National Security Agency, and
the FBI; the White House Chief of Staff; and the Undersecretary
of Defense for the Strategic Defense Initiative. Lamborghini
looked at the group and swallowed discreetly. This, he thought,
is definitely the heavy artillery. A rivulet of sweat trickled down
his armpit.
For the most part, the individuals who comprised the NSC
Executive Committee (EXECCOM) possessed Ivy League ped-
igrees, with a couple of Rhodes scholars thrown in. There were
several attorneys who, as a matter of course, shuttled back and
forth between government service on the Potomac and their law
practices on the Hudson. Between tours of duty in Washington,
the lawyers would return to Manhattan to serve on the Council
of Foreign Relations, read The New York Times, lunch at the
Century Club, bill outrageous legal fees to their blue-chip cli-
ents, and embrace the illusion that the conduct of American
foreign policy fell within their personal domain. Lamborghini
looked down at his boss, who was the son of a hired hand on a
Kentucky stud farm. He was the only black face in the group,
and unlike the other men present, he hadn't been born with a
trust fund. Whittenbeig's net worth wasn't in seven figures—or
even six. But Lamborghini knew his CinC to be a fine man, so
the SPACECOM intelligence chief resolved that despite the
heavy artillery aura and the economic disparities, he was not
going to let his general down in any way, shape, or form, no
matter how intense it got.
There was no idle conversation as there usually was before an
NSC EXECCOM meeting. Everyone knew the score except the
President, and no one felt comfortable making chitchat about
the Intrepid debacle. The door opened and the President en-

162
STORMING INTREPID
tered, followed by the Vice President. Everyone rose in somber
formality.
The men who have held the office of the President of the
United States came to the office through a career in politics or,
in a few cases, the military. The two men who had just walked
into the Cabinet Room had shattered that historical axiom by
scoring the most startling upset in American political history.
The President was the son of Italian immigrants and had sky-
rocketed to fame by taking over a bankrupt car manufacturer
and turning it into a financial juggernaut, earning him the nick-
name "Patton in Pinstripes." His face resembled a cross be-
tween a boxer's and a Marine drill sergeant's, and he was known
for kicking ass harder than any CEO in American industry-
except, maybe, the Vice President.
The son of a Kansas farmer, the Vice President had attended
West Point and founded an electronics company with $3,000 in
borrowed capital. Twenty years later he sold his company to
Boeing for $1 billion. He had served several Presidents as a
private envoy. Once he mounted a private rescue mission and
sprang two American POWs from North Vietnam, years after
the war ended. He won their freedom when the United States
government was powerless to do so; and as a result, his name
became a household word. Ordinarily, being the Vice President
is much like being a professional speechmaker and partygoer—
all style and no substance. A former VP, John Nance Garner,
once remarked, "The Vice Presidency isn't worth a pitcher of
warm spit." This administration, however, had a different idea
about that, too. This Veep became the Executive Vice President
of the United States; or, in another way of speaking, he became
the country's chief operating officer. The White House Chief of
Staff reported to him, not directly to the President. He con-
trolled access to the chief executive, and he gave certain projects
his personal supervision, one of which was SPACECOM.
Since taking office with 63 percent of the popular vote, their
administration had been characterized by hard-nosed policies,
draconian budget cuts, a tax increase, a paucity of diplomatic
niceties, the first budget surplus anybody could remember, and
a trimming down of the international trade deficit. On the day
after inauguration, the two men slapped stiff tariffs on auto im-
ports for a two-year period. They told the American car makers,

THE SECOND DAY
163
"You've got two years to put your house in order, then it's open
season." The United Auto Workers and industry executives
howled, "That's not enough time!" The President snapped
back, "It's more than I got. We won World War II in four years.
Two years is plenty of time to get off your ass and make a better
car." The UAW and executives gulped, then decided to quit
fighting each other and fight the Japanese instead, and when the
tariffs came off the Americans seemed to hold their own.
Both men, however, saw space as America's future, and here
they opened the checkbook—and to spearhead their military
effort in space they selected Whittenberg, who now sat before
them.
The President took his place in the middle of the table, with
the Vice President sitting direcdy across from him.' 'All right,''
said the former auto executive, "what's this all about?"
The Vice President nodded to Bergstrom, who began. "Mr.
President, we have a serious situation with the space shuttle
Intrepid. An unprecedented situation. I've asked General Whit-
tenberg to come out from SPACECOM and oudine what's hap-
pened."
The President nodded a greeting, "Hello, General."
"Good afternoon, Mr. President. As Admiral Bergstrom has
said, we have an unprecedented problem here, and I would like
my intelligence officer to give you a detailed overview of the
situation as it now stands. Then I'll field any questions."
"Fine," said the President, apparentiy impatient to get on
with it.
"Yes, sir," said Whittenberg. "Colonel Lamborghini, if you
please."
The President cocked an eyebrow. "Lamborghini?"
"Yes, Mr. President," replied the colonel.
A genuine smile came over the former auto executive's face.
"You any relation to Ferruccio?" he asked, referring to Ferruc-
cio Lamborghini, founder of the legendary Italian sports car
company.
Lamborghini shook his head. "Only in the sense that all Ital-
ians are brothers, Mr. President."
The chief executive, who prized his Italian heritage, laughed.
"Right on, Colonel. Go ahead."
Peter began to understand why he'd been selected for this

164
STORMING INTREPID
particular briefing. He spun a dial on the lectern, causing the
lights to dim and a slide projector to come to life. "Sir, on
Wednesday, at twelve forty-seven hours Zulu time, zero four
forty-seven hours Pacific Standard Time, the space shuttle In-
trepid was launched from Vandenberg Air Force Base on a mis-
sion to ferry certain components up to the prototype SDI
platform." A slide popped up showing a globe of the earth with
the initial ground track of the Intrepid's orbit aiming out of Cal-
ifornia.
For the next twenty minutes Peter Lamborghini explained in
detail how communication had been lost with the spacecraft
after a suspected on board fire, how a rescue effort had been
started, and how the Eardrum satellite had picked up a radio
transmission between the Intrepid and "a Russian Orbita earth
station in Chaunskaya Bay, on the far northeastern coast of Si-
beria."
The President blinked. He wasn't sure he'd heard what he'd
heard. "Siberia?" he repeated.
"Yes, sir."
He blinked again. "But that's in Russia."
"Correct, sir," noted Lamborghini. Finally it hit home, and
the chief executive came out of his chair. "Our shuttle is talking
to the Russians?"
Lamborghini took a deep breath. "Yes, sir. That is what the
data indicated. That there was communication between the
spacecraft and the Soviet earth station."
"Why wasn't I told this earlier?" He eyeballed his Secretary
of Defense in the low light.
"Sir," said Lamborghini, gently but firmly, "if I may, the
Eardrum information indicated there was communication, but
as you can see on this slide, we had only three signal sources,
and the Eardrum satellite operates from such a distance that
there was significant possibility for error."
The National Security Agency Director chimed in, "That's
correct, Mr. President."
The President plopped back down in his chair and adjusted
his rimless glasses. "So? What does that mean?"
"It means we felt it prudent to confirm the information before
notifying the White House," Peter explained. "We contacted
the Strategic Air Command and arranged for an electronic lis-

THE SECOND DAY
165
tening flyby with the SR-71 reconnaissance aircraft." Another
slide flashed up showing the ground tracks of the SR-71 and the
Intrepid, and the Russian earth station at Perm. "After we re-
ceived the approval of the Secretary of Defense, the SR-71 pen-
etrated Soviet airspace and inserted itself between the spacecraft
and the earth station at Perm. The Blackbird aircraft was fired
upon during the mission but made it out safely, and it was suc-
cessful in picking up a secure voice transmission between the
Intrepid and the ground. In short, we have definite confirmation
that our spacecraft is talking to the Russians, and not to us."
The ordinarily loquacious President was at a loss for words.
"I. . .1 don't understand... I mean, how could this happen?''
Whittenberg started to interrupt, but Lamborghini kept on.
"Sir, the crew consists of Shuttle Commander Colonel Julian
Kapuscinski, Air Force Major Frank Mulcahey as copilot, and
Mission Specialist Geraldo Rodriquez, a civilian on loan from
NASA. We have reviewed the service records of these three men
in meticulous detail and have found nothing to indicate they
would do anything disloyal."
"Kapuscinski?" The President's eyebrows twitched in rec-
ognition. "Isn't he the one I decorated a year or so ago? Saved
that shuttle from blowing up?"
"Yes, sir," said Peter tiredly. "As I mentioned, the records
of all three showed they were the finest crew we had. But the
fact remains that one of the crew is in control of the spacecraft
and is talking to the Soviets. I have one of my best people work-
ing with the FBI to review the service records again to see if we
can ascertain who on board has . . . defected."
The President was still in shock. This was a little different
from choosing tailfin designs. "Well, still, I, uh, what does this
mean?"
Now Whittenberg was on. "Can we have the lights, Pete?"
The lights came on and the projector powered down.
"What it means, Mr. President," said the general, "is that
we are in jeopardy of losing the shuttle Intrepid and its payload
to the Soviet Union. There can be no other explanation of the
spacecraft's behavior as far as we can see, and there is no sense
in mincing words, sir. The loss of the shuttle would be severe,
but the loss of the payload would be devastating. With regard to
the orbiter itself, its loss would be mitigated by the fact the

166
STORMING INTREPID
Russians have already developed their own shuttle system. Their
most recent mission occurred last November, as you will prob-
ably recall. Make no mistake—losing the Intrepid would be
damaging and expensive, but it would be sustainable. However,
the loss of the pay load would be something else again. Admiral
Bergstrom has brought Drs. Havelichek and Sharp out from
Livermore to explain exacdy what is on board and what the loss
could mean. Dr. Havelichek, would you outline the situation on
the PRISM system?"
Havelichek's narrow face had turned a ghostly pale—the only
color on his countenance was now provided by his dark red
beard. He felt as if he'd just come off a merry-go-round traveling
at 78 RPM. In one day he'd gone from fighting with Buford to
supersonic flight in an F-14 to the White House—and now the
spotlight was on him. He wanted to scream," Leave me alone!''
and hide under the table; but he knew that wasn't feasible, so
he took a sip of water and cleared his throat. "Ahem, Mr. Pres-
ident, I, uh, hope you realize this is as big a shock for me as it
is for you—I was only informed a few minutes ago myself. But
I'll try to recap the situation concerning the PRISM Battle Man-
agement System and describe what is aboard the shutde."
"Please do." The President's voice had become stone cold.
Another sip of water. "Yes, sir. As you're aware, one of
the primary problems of operating an SDI system is handling
the enormous amount of information during a ballistic missile
attack—tracking missiles, prioritizing targets, dealing with
thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of ICBMs, decoys,
chaff, electronic countermeasures, and the like. Conventional
computer technology simply was not up to the task—even
supercomputers. Conventional silicon-chip technology faced
a fundamental limitation—a 'speed limit,' if you will—that
had to be overcome. That is to say, electrons pass through
conventional semiconductors at a relatively slow speed. Slow
in the scientific sense, that is. Switching time for a supercom-
puter semiconductor is about fifty picoseconds—or a trillion
switches a second.
"At Livermore," he continued, "we looked for ways around
this fundamental 'speed limit.' We did so by building upon the
research started at Bell Labs and developing a functional optical
switch that utilizes pulse laser light waves. This is quantumly

THE SECOND DAY
167
faster than electrons traveling through a solid like silicon, or
even gallium arsenide. The switching time of this optical device
is about twenty-five femtoseconds, or quadrillionths of a sec-
ond. . . . Now, in addition to that, we incorporated this optical
switch into a parallel-processing computer architecture which,
in effect, multiplies the number of computations that can be
done simultaneously."
The Secretary of the Treasury broke in. He was a white-haired
financier who had been appointed to his post just six weeks prior
and was a Star Wars neophyte. "Forgive me, Doctor, but ex-
actly what are you trying to say? In simple English?"
"Well, sir," explained Havelichek, "what it means is that we
can achieve computing speeds with the optical PRISM computer
that are about twenty-four hundred times faster than the Cray-
Y/MP supercomputer.''
The Secretary blinked. "Did you say two thousand four
hundred times faster?''
"Yes, sir, but that's not all there is to the PRISM system."
The Secretary, who had left one of Wall Street's premier in-
vestment banking firms to join the Cabinet, was mentally trying
to gauge how much money he could make underwriting the
initial public stock offering on the PRISM computer company
after he left office. He'd have to corner this Havelichek fellow
after the meeting. "There's more?" he asked.
"Yes, Mr. Secretary," replied Havelichek. "The PRISM sys-
tem uses an artificial-intelligence 'expert system' to acquire the
targets, prioritize them, and operate the Graser. The complexity
of this AI expert system is state-of-the-art, because the PRISM
computer itself was used in its formulation. It is so advanced,
in fact, that if necessary the PRISM system can reprogram cer-
tain elements of its own software while an attack is in progress
to achieve the most effective response to the incoming threat."
The Secretary was taken aback. He stroked his walruslike
mustache and muttered, "Extraordinary."
The President cut in. "Dr. Havelichek, we know all this. The
key question is, what's on board the Intrepid?"
Another sip. "Well, sir, I was working closely with Dr. Rod-
riquez, since he was going to install and power up the PRISM
system on the platform. The element that is on board the Intrepid
is the, uh, central processing unit of the system."

168
STORMING INTREPID
The President's jaw dropped. "You . . . you mean the guts
and brains of the system, don't you?"
"Well, yes, sir. That's about the size of it. I, ahem, guess I
should add that the artificial-intelligence software—the 'expert
system' stuff I was talking about—was loaded into the core
memory of the CPU before it was delivered to SPACECOM at
Vandenberg."
The President fell back in his chair and closed his eyes. "You
mean our leading-edge computer technology ... the hardware,
the software. Everything is on that shuttle?"
Havelichek gulped. "Yes, Mr. President."
"Jesus God Almighty," wheezed the chief executive.
There was a prolonged silence.
"Mr. President," lamented Whittenberg, "I'm afraid there's
more. Dr. Sharp, would you explain?"
Garrett Sharp held two Ph.D.s from Cal Tech, one in physics
and one in nuclear chemistry. To the group of heavyweights in
the Cabinet Room he looked like something of a nebbish with
his thick glasses and scraggly brown hair and beard; but he
understood the atom, and the unfathomable energy locked in-
side, perhaps as well as any living scientist. He spoke in a soft
monotone without inflection, so that a statement from him such
as, "Your hair is on fire" would carry the same urgency as
"Pass the salt." Although rarely intimidated or excited, he was
now deeply disturbed, because he knew what the loss of the
Graser could mean. "Mr. President, Mr. Vice President, in
order for everyone to understand what is involved here, I think
it best if I review a few of the technical issues first."
No one objected.
"Very well. The Graser, as most of you know, is a weapon
of staggering power. It draws on much of the laser technology
that has been around for decades, but in many ways it is quan-
tumly different. To explain, in conventional lasers the atoms of
a given substance—like a ruby crystal—are stimulated, causing
the electrons to oscillate between an energized and dormant
state. The energy of this oscillation is released in focused infra-
red light waves. During the initial development of SDI, it was
proposed that conventional lasers could be used to shoot down
hostile ICBMs. Although this made for an intriguing theory,
there were some inherent flaws in that line of thinking. First of

THE SECOND DAY
169
all, to generate a laser beam powerful enough to 'kill' a missile,
the beam would have to be of a relatively short wavelength—
that is to say, the shorter the wavelength, the stronger the beam.
But unfortunately, as the wavelength shortens, the power re-
quired to generate the beam goes up dramatically; and it simply
wasn't feasible to lift tons upon tons of power generation equip-
ment into space. Now to get around that problem, some people
in the scientific community voiced the opinion that the laser
could be based on the ground near a large power source, and
the beam could be bounced off orbiting mirrors to hit their tar-
gets. This idea also proved to be unfeasible, because the optical
and reflective surface tolerances on those mirrors would have to
be so incredibly precise that, as a practical matter, it simply
became an impossibility." Sharp paused and collected his
thoughts before going on. "In addition to these limitations was
the fact that lasers, even of short wavelengths, have relatively
narrow beams. Hitting a missile traveling at eighteen thousand
miles an hour with a narrow beam was an incredibly difficult
task—even with the rapid-fire capabilities of a laser combined
with the PRISM Battle Management System. It's sort of like
shooting a .22-caliber rifle at a clay pigeon over three thousand
miles away.
"Finally, X-ray lasers were examined, but eventually dis-
missed as potential ABM weapons because they required the
detonation of nuclear weapons as their power source. This was
deemed too 'messy' an alternative. So, in a nutshell, all of these
factors made the laser unattractive as an antiballistic missile
weapon.
"On the other hand," Sharp continued, "the gamma-ray la-
ser, or Graser, presented a very attractive alternative of unbe-
lievable potential. That's because the Graser device causes the
nucleus, not the electrons, of the atom to oscillate and generate
the energy pulse. If you gentlemen recall your basic college
physics course, you know that a proton or neutron in the nucleus
of an atom has over eighteen hundred times the mass of an
electron. Suppose, for example, an electron had the mass of a
baseball. If your son threw that baseball at your neighbor's home,
it would break a window. If he threw the equivalent weight of
one proton, it would be like throwing the family car, and it
would probably level the house. That gives you an idea of the

170
STORMING INTREPID
difference in scale between the raw material of a laser and that
of a Graser. It does not, however, give you an indication of the
scale of the energy released."
Sharp paused and took a sip of water. "With the Graser, the
nuclei of a rubidium isotope are stimulated by X rays. These
nuclei then oscillate into a 'lase' pulse, and the funneled energy
is released in the form of gamma rays. The wavelength of these
gamma rays is incredibly short—less than an angstrom—and
they are released in an energy beam approximately four kilo-
meters wide. This beam width is amply wide enough for target-
ing purposes. Indeed, it can strike down several missiles or
warheads in a single pulse. And the power requirements to op-
erate the device are minor, relative to the laser."
Sharp paused again to collect his thoughts, then continued,
"The final issue I wish to point out is that the energy released
in the Graser pulse is approximately twenty trillion watts. Quite
enough to obliterate any missile."
Again, the Treasury Secretary broke in. "Did you say twenty
trillion watts?"
"Yes, sir," replied Sharp.
The Secretary's walruslike mustache twitched as he puffed on
his cigar and mentally tried to get a handle on the number.
"That sounds like a lot," he said finally.
"Yes, sir. To give you some idea, the power output of all
electric power plants worldwide, nuclear and conventional, is
about two point three trillion watts."
It took a few seconds for the numbers to sink in on the Sec-
retary. When they ultimately registered he exclaimed, "Good
God!"
The President bored in on his new money man. "You keep
your mouth shut about what you hear in here, Milton. Under-
stand?"
The Secretary gulped. "Yes, yes, of course, Mr. President.
But, my God, the power. I had no idea. How on earth does this
contraption work?"
Sharp didn't flicker. He might have been describing how an
electric train worked. "Conceptually the process is surprisingly
simple. As I said, the nuclei of a rubidium isotope are stimulated
by X rays, then 'lase' into a pulse at the isotope's own wave-
length and are released in the form of focused gamma rays,

THE SECOND DAY
171
which are out of the visible light spectrum. I know, Mr. Sec-
retary, that the amount of energy we're talking about is beyond
comprehension, but that is the kind of power locked inside the
atom. Nuclear fission, even fusion, is relatively inefficient com-
pared to the Graser. In fact, when we make comparisons to
fusion energy in our lab work we have to use a logarithmic scale.
However, you have to keep in mind we're talking about a nano-
second pulse, not a constant. Even so, the scale is overwhelm-
ing. For example, if I had a glass"—Sharp held up his drinking
glass—"full of the rubidium isotope, the power output gener-
ated by a gamma-ray laser pulse could be equal to a hundredth
of one percent of the energy of the sun."
The Secretary's hands were shaking. "A glassful7"
"Yes, Mr. Secretary."
"That means if you had a ... a swimming pool full of this,
this iso-whatever-you-call-it, you could generate the power of
the sunT'
Sharp looked at the ceiling, running through some equations
in his head. "No. I don't think you would need an entire swim-
ming pool."
The Secretary's mustache was quivering now as he nervously
fingered his gold watch chain. "How much of this ruby stuff
does it take to make this Graser space gizmo work?"
"Approximately half a thimbleful," Sharp relied flatly.
"Haifa thimbleful?" The money man felt weak. He longed
for the frenetic stock-trading floor at his old firm. It seemed a
much safer place to be right now.
"Yes, Mr. Secretary," explained Sharp. "And that was the
major problem in developing the Graser. You see, fourteen com-
mon chemical elements make up ninety-nine percent of the
earth's mass, and the bulk of the one thousand, eight hundred
and eighty-seven isotopes that exist come from the remaining
one percent of the earth's matter. The biggest hurdle in devel-
oping the Graser was finding the right isotope with a natural
wavelength that could be used for funneling the stimulated nu-
clei. I mean, laboratories all over the world searched for years
trying to find the right isomer substance for the Graser. It was
a difficult process, but we found that an extremely rare isotope
of rubidium worked best. "

172
STORMING INTREPID
"What the hell is that? I never heard of it before," com-
plained the old financier.
"Rubidium. I guess I should point out that it is not to be
confused with ruby crystals, which are commonly used in la-
sers," explained Sharp. "It just has a similar name. Rubidium
is the sixteenth most common element found on earth. It's a
soft, silvery-white metal, and for many years it was thought to
possess only seventeen isomer forms. ... An isotope, by the
way, has the same chemical properties as a given element, but
possesses a different atomic structure.
"Anyway, a few years ago the National Laboratory at Oak
Ridge, Tbnnessee, discovered that there was an eighteenth isotope
to rubidium, and much to our surprise at Livermore, we found it
had excellent qualities for the Graser. This isotope was rubidium-
98, or Rb-98, for short. Unfortunately, however, rubidium-98 is
an extremely rare isotope. It is radioactive and has a half-life of
approximately fourteen months. We obtained it through a long and
arduous laser diffusion process at Oak Ridge, and it took us eleven
months just to produce that half thimbleful. With a half-life of
fourteen months, you can understand the production problem."
The Secretary was still aghast. "I just can't believe it. You
produce twenty trillion watts with a half thimbleful of this ruby
stuff?"
"Yes, Mr. Secretary," responded Sharp without emotion.
In a gesture he had not made since he was an altar boy, the
Secretary made the Sign of the Cross, and he didn't care who
saw it. "With something like this, you could wipe out an entire
city with a single blast, couldn't you?"
Sharp shook his head. "No, sir. The Graser only works in a
vacuum. The gamma rays rapidly disperse when they hit the
atmosphere. It can only be used against missiles when they are
in the exoatmospheric phase—or, in simpler terms, when they
are in the vacuum of space."
The Secretary sagged with relief. "Thank God for that."
Compared to the Graser, a little thermonuclear warhead seemed
like a toy.
The President was rubbing his temples. "I have to ask you,
Dr. Sharp. What part of the Graser system was aboard the In-
trepid!"

THE SECOND DAY
173
Sharp took off his glasses. "As you know, Mr. President, we
designed the Graser in components so it could be easily installed
and deployed on the platform. The structure of the device is like
a hub and spokes. The Rb-98 isotope is housed in the hub, and
the X-ray channel rods of the SDI platform are arranged around
the hub like the spokes of a bicycle wheel. The six channel rods
feed their X rays into the isotope, then the gamma rays are
pulsed out from the hub."
"You haven't answered my question, Doctor." The chief ex-
ecutive sounded like an undertaker.
"Well, sir, the hub component of the Graser was on this
flight. It really isn't very big; and as I said, it was designed for
easy deployment and installation."
The President was slow to whisper his final question. "That
hub unit. Did it contain the rubidium isotope?"
The room was deathly still.
"Yes, sir," replied Sharp.
Everyone in the room exhaled as if he'd been hammered in
the solar plexus.
The Treasury Secretary had to ask. "If the Russians got hold
of this, could they figure out what it is?"
Sharp replaced his glasses. "The Soviets have some brilliant
scientists, particularly in the field of theoretical physics. I have
no doubt that they could figure it out in a very short period of
time. Additionally, the hub unit is, as I have said, pretty much
self-contained."
The Secretary crumpled the remains of his cigar.' 'You mean,
all they have to do to make this thing work is shoot it with some
X rays?"
Sharp shrugged. "Essentially, yes. As I have said, concep-
tually the device is surprisingly simple."
Another mass exhalation.
The President asked, somewhat rhetorically, "Let me make
sure I understand what we're dealing with here. We are in danger
of losing a space shuttle, a state-of-the-art, highly classified
computer system, and an antimissile weapon that has a capabil-
ity beyond anything the Soviets ever dreamed of. . . . Admiral,
what would it mean if the Soviets captured the Intrepid intact?"
The answer was easy. "Sir, it would be nothing less than
catastrophic. A hundred times worse than the sale of that top

174
STORMING INTREPID
secret software and milling equipment to the Russians by To-
shiba and Kongsberg. That technology transfer allowed the So-
viets to fabricate submarine propellers that are only a tenth as
noisy as their old ones. Any single element on the Intrepid would
be a serious loss, but all three, particularly the Graser..." His
voice trailed off. "Additionally, to our knowledge, no other
country in the world knows about rubidium-98, nor has anyone
duplicated our laser diffusion process. We'd be handing over our
most precious defense secrets on a platter."
Now the President bored in on Whittenberg. "General, the
Intrepid must not—I repeat, must not—fall into Soviet hands,
whatever the cost. Can't we shoot the damned thing down?"
Whittenberg knew that question would be asked. "No, sir.
We no longer have any antisatellite missiles. They were de-
stroyed in compliance with the ASAT treaty signed two years
ago."
The President was slack-jawed. "Well, surely we, well, I
mean, surely we squirreled away one or two missiles just in
case, didn't we?"
Whittenberg was firm. "No, sir. We complied with the treaty.
All of our ASATs were destroyed in the presence of a United
Nations inspection team."
Now the President was angry. "Well, you'd better come up
with something, General. And fast."
The tension in the Cabinet Room was now palpable. "If I
may, sir, I would like Colonel Lamborghini to outiine our re-
sponse. Colonel?"
Again, Peter lowered the lights and fired up the projector.
This time a wide vertical pattern was painted over a map of
central Russia. The colonel spoke carefully. "Sir, while we must
assume the Intrepid is trying to defect, there is something that
has been puzzling about the spacecraft's behavior."
"What do you mean by 'puzzling'?"
Lamborghini remained cool and explained, "If the Intrepid
was going to defect, it would most certainly retrofire and land
on the Soviets' own shuttle recovery runway at the Baikonur
Cosmodrome in south-central Kazakhstan near the Aral Sea, as
shown on this slide. However, the Intrepid has already gone past
the first reentry window—as outiined by this pattern—without
returning to earth. Its orbit has remained the same."

THE SECOND DAY
175
"So what does that mean?" asked the President.
Whittenberg responded. "We can only guess, sir, but it would
seem that a defector would want to get the Intrepid down as fast
as possible. If that course of action was not taken, it could only
mean that the spacecraft had experienced some type of mal-
function, or the person in control of the vessel was unable to
pilot it down for reentry. In either case, the Soviets would have
to send someone up to retrieve the payload, and that would mean
their spacecraft were being prepared for a launch, or were al-
ready on the pad. Pete, the slides."
Lamborghini ran through the Keyhole satellite pictures of the
Baikonur, Plesetsk, and Kapustin Yar launch facilities.
"As these slides show, Mr. President, the Soviets currently
have nothing on the pad at any of their three cosmodromes, and
these pictures came in just before we left Cheyenne Mountain.
The fact that no rockets were on the pad, ready to go, would
indicate that Intrepid's pass by the reentry window was un-
planned. That means there's probably some type of problem on
board the spacecraft, and that means we've got some time."
The President perked up. "Go on. I'm listening."
"The space shuttle Constellation is on the pad at Kennedy. It
was going to be launched in a week to deploy a communications
satellite and a telescope under a civilian contract with NASA.
The mission has been transferred to SPACECOM and we are
accelerating the launch preparations to get her off the pad in
about forty-eight hours. Our instructions to the Constellation's
crew are to try to board the Intrepid, but if that proves to be
impossible, they are to disable her so she cannot execute reen-
try. Should any Soviet spacecraft appear, they are to inject them-
selves between it and the Intrepid."
The President gave a quick nod. "All right."
The Secretary of State shook his head and sighed. "Warfare
in space. I suppose it had to happen."
Whittenberg continued, "Additionally, I have ordered that
launch preparations be made for the Kestrel spaceplane proto-
type to act as backup, if need be. It is very much in the exper-
imental stage, but other than the Constellation, it is the only
vehicle we have that can be made launch-ready in a matter of
days. The weapons systems of the Kestrel are something of an

176
STORMING INTREPID
unknown—tiie missile prototypes were delivered from LTV only
a few weeks ago. But the Kestrel is better than nothing."
The President nodded again. It was some seconds before he
spoke again, and when he did his voice was dripping with
venom. "This is a potential disaster, General. It should never
have happened."
Whittenberg didn't even try to duck. Responding evenly, he
said, "Sir, I have no idea how the defection of the Intrepid
occurred. I am totally at a loss to explain it. All I can say is that
SPACECOM is my command, I personally approved the crew
assignments, and I assume full responsibility for whatever hap-
pens to this spacecraft. You may have my resignation at any
time, but I would prefer to have this matter resolved before it is
accepted." Whittenberg remembered an old bureaucratic ax-
iom: If you walk in with your head under your arm, it's hard for
anyone to decapitate you. Besides, it was how he really felt.
"No, General." For the first time the Vice President spoke
up, causing heads to turn. The Veep appeared to be a perpetual
coiled spring, with his restless energy, darting eyes, and crew
cut that looked like a crop of steel bristles sticking out of his
head. "Nobody is resigning," he said emphatically, "unless it's
me. I've been through the service files of the crew, and I agree
they all had exceptional records. Nobody could have foreseen
this. Nobody. Hell, the President and I decorated this Kapus-
cinski fellow ourselves not too long ago. I doubt if he's the
problem, but what if he was? We'd look like fools. And we were
certainly fools to have signed that antisatellite treaty." It was
rare to hear a Vice President talk in such a manner in front of
his boss. But this one had his own power base, and never shied
away from using it. Also, everyone in the room knew he was
leading in the primaries and would probably be the next Presi-
dent, and no one wanted to buck the crown prince. "So, no,"
he continued. "This isn't an equipment failure, or a system
failure, or anyone's fault. The Russians got to one of the crew.
It's as simple as that. How, I can't say. Drugs, money, sex—
who the hell knows? But there's no way any person in the system
could have stopped this. I'm totally convinced of that, and trying
to play Monday-morning quarterback won't solve a damn thing.
This situation is just a damn fluke." He looked at Whittenberg.

THE SECOND DAY
177
The two men had grown close over the years, and that bond
surfaced now. "But having said that, just fix it, Rodg."
Whittenberg nodded. "Yes, sir."
Although somewhat chastened, the President reasserted con-
trol and turned to his Director of Central Intelligence. "Bobby,
do you know anything about this?"
The DCI, a man who employed thousands upon thousands of
analysts, agents, computer specialists, and scientists, a man who
had access to some of the world's most exotic technology, a man
who presided over an operating budget greater than the gross
national product of several countries in the world, said, "No,
Mr. President."
"Well, you'd better shake the tree, and be damn quick about
it. Call in all the chits you have to, but find out whatever you
can about what the Russians are up to." The President turned
to the Secretary of Defense. "Sam, look into any, and I mean
any, contingency response we would have if the Intrepid retro-
fires before our people get up there. I'm open to anything."
The former Senator responded in his Southern drawl, "Yes,
Mr. President."
The Secretary of State was next in line. "Winston, get Am-
bassador Yakolev over here right away. I want the Russians to
know we know something's up. Maybe it'll scare 'em off."
Admiral Bergstrom injected himself. "Mr. President, do you
think it appropriate to go to a higher level of military alert? You
know, as President Nixon did back in the '73 Arab-Israeli War.
Shall we rattle a saber to let them know we mean business?"
The President scratched his head. "Winston, what do you
think?"
The Secretary of State was quick with his response. "I would
say yes, Mr. President, except for the presence of the French
President. If we went to a higher level of military alert while he
is a guest in our country it could give him the feeling of being
caught in a crossfire, and that might not be a good thing to do
in view of how well the visit has gone thus far."
"Hmmm. Good point. Very well. Stand down for the mo-
ment, Admiral. Everyone else get cracking. I've got to get
dressed for dinner. Winston, let me know the minute Yakolev
arrives. Mr. Vice President, please keep tabs on things while
I'm tied up."

178
STORMING INTREPID
"Certainly, Mr. President."
"Colonel Lamborghini?"
The intel chief was caught off guard. "Uh, yes, Mr. Presi-
dent?"
The President allowed himself the trace of a smile. "It's al-
ways nice to meet a brother. Don't let your extended family
down."
Lamborghini nodded in acknowledgment. "No, sir. I won't."
The chief executive left the room to prepare for a state dinner.
Day 2, 2300 Hours Zulu, 1:00 a.m. Local
MOSCOW
The night was achingly cold. Yuri Shevetchenko pulled his
worn workman's coat closer as he walked past the faceless ware-
house buildings in the Zuzino Prospekt. His feet had been
crunching the frozen snow for almost an hour while he mean-
dered on a labyrinthine path through the Prospekt, stopping every
few blocks to check for an unwanted companion. Finally, he
came to a doorway on Odesskaya Street and looked around one
last time. The snow-covered boulevard was deserted. The door
opened from the inside, and he quickly stepped over the thresh-
old. Warm air rushed over him as he stamped his feet. Then he
sagged against the doorway.
"Good evening, Lamplight." His host spoke Russian, but
with an unusual accent. "Drink?"
Shevetchenko sighed. "A very, very large vodka, if you
please."
His host, a man with sandy hair and unremarkable looks, was
also dressed as a workman. He motioned Lamplight toward the
potbellied stove in the middle of the room. Next to it stood a
table and two chairs. "Get warm," he offered, "I'll pour." He
produced a liter of Stolichnaya vodka and filled two glasses.
Shevetchenko drained his glass quickly and said, "Another."
His wish was granted. Lamplight lovingly studied his glass be-
fore saying, "They control alcohol very carefully at Baikonur.
It is rationed, but appetites cannot be controlled as easily. Some
of the technicians tried straining anti-icing fluid through bread

THE SECOND DAY
179
and drinking it. They went blind, I believe." He gulped down
half the glass.
"We thought you had been discovered," said the host. "It's
been over six months. I was happily surprised to have seen the
thumbtack on my way home this evening."
Lamplight nodded. "They are shorthanded at Baikonur. My
normal duty tour was extended."
Yuri Shevetchenko was a spy. Pure and simple. What's more,
he was a spy with a purpose. During Stalin's reign of terror,
when he was a small boy, some uniformed men came to his
family's apartment and took his mother and father away. He
never saw them again. No explanation. No grave. No epitaph.
Just gone. Forever. He never forgave the state for that, and took
a blood oath the state would pay. A lot of victims from that era
felt the same way, but Shevetchenko was somewhat different in
that he went about his revenge in a very methodical way, and he
was in no hurry. He took his time. The "reforms" and the
denunciation of the Stalinist era by Khrushchev and Gorbachev
impressed him not at all. The state was the state, and he was
going to even the score, however long it took. His strategy was
simple. Being a Russian, he knew the most precious thing any
Russian possessed was a secret. Find a way to compromise the
state's secrets, and the state would feel the pain.
Having no family influence, Shevetchenko attended trade
school and became a simple electrician. He was patient, and
waited for the right opportunity. When he secured a job as a
staff electrician in the Council of Ministers Building—which
was a stone's throw from the Lenin Mausoleum—he felt his time
had arrived. Surely there were all sorts of secrets in the minis-
ters' building, weren't there? While waiting for a secret to sur-
face, however, Shevetchenko stumbled onto something that was
infinitely more precious. Something that profoundly affected his
life. That discovery was White TASS.
Except for a brief period during Gorbachev's glasnost, infor-
mation within the Soviet Union has always been tightly con-
trolled. The government-sponsored newspapers, Pravda and
Isvestia, publish little hard news and are devoid of debate on
public issues. The TASS news agency—a Soviet version of the
Associated Press—is also tightly throttled. However, there is an

180
STORMING INTREPID
additional function that the TASS news agency performs which
only the privileged few in Russia know about. This is White
TASS.
In essence, White TASS is the mirror the Soviet elite hold up
to look at themselves and their country, and it works this way:
Foreign TASS correspondents stationed abroad regularly read
what the Times of London, the Washington Post, and Le Monde
have to say about the Soviet Union—such as stories on arms
control, Afghanistan, or "Kremlinology." The correspondents
condense this information and send it to Moscow on a special
White TASS circuit. Summaries of these sensitive dispatches are
prepared in the Minister of Information's office and distributed
among senior Kremlin officials. Circulation of the summaries is
severely limited, and the raw teletype White TASS dispatches
are discarded in the minister's trash cans, which are routinely
emptied into bins that are carried to the incinerator in the build-
ing's basement.
Shevetchenko was working on a basement fuse box one day
when he happened to spy a roll of White TASS teletype paper
in the trash bin. He read. And was thunderstruck. He had had
no idea what was really happening out in the world, and the
White TASS dispatches were like a revelation—a window on
the world and his own country, unlike anything he'd ever seen.
He returned night after night and pored through the dispatches.
It was in the darkened Council of Ministers basement that he
learned about the invasion of Czechoslovakia, about Afghani-
stan, about Solidarity, about Chernobyl, about how abysmally
poor his country was compared to the West. For years he read,
and his resolve to strike back at the state became more firm.
Finally, he decided it was time to establish contact with some-
one in the West. But who? And how?
As to the who, White TASS may have saved his life. Shev-
etchenko was appalled to read historical pieces on the British
intelligence community, and how it was rife with spies like Kim
Philby, Guy Burgess, Donald Maclean, and Anthony Blunt. And
as for the Americans, he was particularly shocked to read how
an unstable CIA recruit—one Edward Lee Howard—was given
precious information on America's top "human intelligence"
network in the Soviet Union and then turned traitor.
Because of these stories, Shevetchenko decided to avoid the

THE SECOND DAY
181
Americans and British directly. France and Italy were also out
of the question. Their governments were crawling with Soviet
sympathizers. So where to go? And how?
His answer came with his assignment to a work detail at the
Australian embassy. Foreign embassies in Moscow have mini-
mal custodial staffs and are forced to call on host-country sup-
port for things like plumbing and electrical repairs. While fixing
a light switch in the office of the Australian trade charge, Shev-
etchenko simply dropped a note in the man's in-basket outlining
his intentions. Shortly thereafter, he was christened with the
code name Lamplight and he had been spying ever since.
As fruitful as Lamplight's job in the Council of Ministers
Building should have been, it wasn't. His access to sensitive
documents was quite limited. Ministers and their staffs were
usually arrogant members of the Party who refused to associate
with a common workman. So when an opportunity came for a
transfer to the Baikonur Cosmodrome, Lamplight leapt at it—
ostensibly because the pay was better to compensate for the
cosmodrome's remote location. For the last five years he'd been
on a rotation routine of three months at Baikonur, one week in
Moscow. On each return he was debriefed by his Australian case
officer, and the information he provided proved invaluable.
Nothing was better than a pair of eyes and ears inside Russia's
largest launch facility.
"So what do you bring me this time, my friend?" asked the
Australian.
The two men had known each other for some time. A tape
recorder was on the table in plain view. It did, however, have a
thermite self-destruct mechanism that would trigger itself au-
tomatically unless periodically reset.
"Something that may be extraordinary. I simply do not
know." Lamplight consumed another gulp of vodka. "Four
months ago the shuttle, it was called the Suslov, was in prepa-
ration for launch. As you know, I do not work on the rockets. I
only repair the electrical equipment in the buildings. Even so, I
could see it on the launching pad. A colossal thing. Anyway, a
few days before the launch I was ordered to make a repair on a
circuit panel in one of the warehouse hangar buildings, where
security was unusually tight. I took notice of the increased se-

182
STORMING INTREPID
curity because it was just a warehouse hangar that was rarely
guarded. A soldier took me to the utility room through an out-
side door. He told me to stay in the room and make the repairs,
and not to go inside the hangar under any circumstances. He
probably would have stayed with me, but it was time for a shift
rotation and he wanted to leave."
"So you were left alone?" asked the case officer.
"Da. More vodka, please." The bottie of Stolichnaya was
half gone, and Shevetchenko continued his story. "I thought
another guard would appear, but apparendy I was misplaced in
the shift change. I went ahead and completed the repairs, and
then remained in the utility room until after midnight. I listened
through the sheet-metal door, but I could not hear anything in
the hangar. The door that opened into the hangar was padlocked
on my side. I forced it open with my tools, trying not to make
too much noise. I waited, but no one came, so I went inside.
The hangar was dimly lit and deserted . . . and there it was."
The case officer cocked an eyebrow. "There was what?"
"The Suslov shutde, or what appeared to be the Suslov. Even
the name was painted on the nose."
"What do you mean, 'appeared to be'?" queried the Austra-
lian.
Another drink.' 'It didn't look right to me somehow, so I took
my stepladder—I usually carry one with me—and used it to
climb up and inspect the rear engines and tail."
"And?" prompted the Australian.
"They were made of plastic."
"Plastic?"
"Da," said the Russian. "In fact, I could make the whole
thing wobble slighdy just by rocking back and forth on the en-
gine. I did not rock it too hard because I was afraid I might
detach the engine—or what looked like an engine—from the
body."
"You mean, you were looking at some sort of fake?"
"Da. It appeared so to me."
The case officer was incredulous. "I don't understand. Why
would they make a plastic replica of this Suslov shutde?"
Lamplight shrugged. "I have no idea. AD I know is that
shortly thereafter all support personnel—cooks, janitors, re-
pairmen like me—were bussed into Tyuratam for a week. It is

THE SECOND DAY
183
not unusual for us to be transported off the base, but ordinarily
it is just for a launch. Our remaining away for a week is unusual.
When we returned, the shuttle and booster were gone from the
pad."
"Hmmm." The case officer's mind raced. "This sounds ex-
traordinary. Did you see anything else?"
The Stolichnaya was almost all gone now. "Nothing. I re-
placed the padlock with a spare from my tool kit and was able
to leave unnoticed. I never returned."
The case officer was a pro.' 'What if somebody tries to unlock
that padlock and can't? Can it be traced to you?"
"No,'' said Lamplight with self-assurance.' 'Everyone mixes
up keys. They will simply open it the way I did and replace it."
The case officer seemed satisfied. "Good. This may be hot.
I'd better get it out fast. I'll contact you the usual way if we need
to meet again before you return to Baikonur."
Lamplight nodded and tossed down the last of the vodka. He
replaced his gloves and hat, and exited by a back door. The case
officer watched him walk down the sidewalk with a heavy gait,
then shook his head. If he himself had put away that much vodka
inside of an hour it would've meant a trip to the hospital. These
Russians must have pickled innards, he thought. As Lamplight
disappeared around a corner he whispered, "Take care, mate.''
The case officer's title in the Australian embassy was that of
assistant cultural attache. But in fact he was Moscow station
chief for the Australian Secret Intelligence Service, a small but
highly competent oiganization that was better known for its ef-
forts in the Pacific Basin. It was also highly regarded for its
ability to keep a secret.
He waited fifteen minutes before leaving after Lamplight. It
was well after 2:00 a.m., and the freezing Russian wind cut
through his coat like a well-honed blade. The Metro subway had
already shut down for the evening, so he had a long, frigid walk
back to the embassy. Additionally, he had to follow a mazelike
route to make sure no one was behind him—with a source like
Lamplight, you had to exercise extreme care. Finally, with frost-
bite approaching, he made it to the embassy gates and the wel-
coming shelter from the cold.
Upon entering the building he went directly to his office,
started some coffee, and began writing out a report in longhand.

184
STORMING INTREPID
Typewriters—even manual typewriters—could be picked up by
electronic bugs, and he had no doubt the embassy was wired
eighteen ways from Sunday. Upon finishing his report he put
the original in an envelope and sealed it with his personal wax
emblem. He addressed it "Eyes Only—Director— ASIS," then
put his feet up to wait for the dawn. The envelope would go into
the diplomatic pouch, then off on the 8:40 a.m. Aeroflot flight
to Tokyo. Upon arrival at Narita Airport, the diplomatic courier
would switch to a Qantas 747-SP airliner for the long haul to
Australia. It would be in the ASIS Director's hands in Canberra
in twenty hours. Slow, but this kind of intel you didn't even
think about entrusting to the encryption room.
He poured more coffee and thought about the warm sandy
beaches at Perth.
Day 2, 2400 Hours Zulu, 2:00 a.m. Local
FLITE DATA COMPUTING CENTRE,
PLESETSK COSMODROME
Ivan Pirdilenko's spidery frame was hunched over the com-
puter keyboard as he scrolled through the navigational program
on his monitor one last time, searching for any hidden bugs.
The flite plan for the antisatellite projectile would have to be
most precise, and because of this he was unwilling to entrust
his programming efforts to the Soviet-built Kosmos computers
in the Data Centre. Instead, he cranked out the flite plan pro-
gram on his Digital Equipment Micro VAX 3600 minicomputer.
The American VAX machine had also been purchased through
a shell company in France, and was so popular among Pirdilen-
ko's staff that he had to personally control access to it.
When he was at last satisfied the program was purged of all
bugs, he made the appropriate keystrokes and the electronic
instructions were loaded into the Texas Instruments computer
chip housed inside the navigational cartridge. After the data
transfer was complete, he rang for his assistant and detached the
coaxial cables from the cartridge.
Pirdilenko allowed himself a moment of reflection. If he pulled
this off for the General Secretary and the KGB chieftain, he

THE SECOND DAY
185
would likely be promoted to director of the entire cosmodrome.
As Data Centre Director he virtually ran the cosmodrome now,
because his superior was a Party hack who was drunk half the
time. It would be a tremendous advancement for his own career.
"You summoned me, Comrade Director?" asked the young
assistant dutifully.
Pirdilenko scratched his thinning hair with his long, skinny
fingers. "Da. Take this cartridge to Major Somolyu in Flite
Operations. Have him install it in the warhead immediately."
Pirdilenko looked at his Seiko watch. It was 2:00 a.m., but he
was accustomed to working bizarre hours. "We have over four
hours until launch. That should be ample time to complete prep-
arations."
"At once, Comrade Director."
After his assistant left, Pirdilenko pulled on his Vandyke beard
and smiled. Perhaps this Kostiashak fellow was correct, after
all. This was chess on a grand scale.

THE THIRD DAY

Day 3, 0130 Hours Zulu, 8:30 p.m. Local
THE WHITE HOUSE
The long black Cadillac Fleetwood limousine pulled through
the White House gate and up to the visitors' entrance. A Secret
Service guard opened the rear door and out stepped Ambassador
Yevgeny Yakolev, wearing tuxedo and overcoat. The well-
tailored tux fit his rotund body snugly, and a homburg hat cov-
ered the few wisps of white hair that still remained on his head.
He'd been attending a Gershwin concert at Kennedy Center when
an aide had finally tracked him down. The old diplomat refused
to wear one of those infernal beeping devices and was known
to go off by himself without telling anyone. This wasn't the first
time one of his assistants had had to play hide and seek.
Yakolev was known for two things—he was a survivor, and
he was an honest man. In Russia, those two attributes were not
always compatible. As a lad of fifteen he'd carried a machine
gun from Stalingrad to Berlin in the Great Patriotic War, then
later he'd built an academic career at Moscow State University.
His field was Western European history, and he was called upon
from time to time to perform special studies for the Foreign
Ministry, where he gained a sterling reputation for his succinct
analyses.
After Gorbachev was murdered and the GOSPLAN Minister
had clawed his way into the General Secretary's slot, the Polit-
189

190
STORMING INTREPID
buro members were apprehensive and wanted a reliable man in
Washington. A man they could trust, and one whom the Amer-
icans would trust as well. With all the upheaval going on within
the Kremlin, the Politburo didn't want the Americans skittish,
too. As a result, the new General Secretary found himself com-
pelled to select Yakolev—a man who had no vested interests or
career ambitions in the Foreign Ministry, but who was well
respected in diplomatic circles. He'd also been a professor to
several Politburo members when they were younger men attend-
ing the University, and was universally liked.
Yakolev took the post reluctandy, because he was an old wid-
ower and didn't want to leave his children and grandchildren.
Also, Western Europe was his field, not North America. But he
was a lifelong member of the Party, and he felt the posting was
his duty to the state, so he accepted.
As expected, the Americans came to respect Yakolev. He
never promised what he couldn't deliver. He wasn't intoxicated
by press conferences, but returned the phone calls of reporters.
He spoke in clear language instead of Pravda gibberish. He was
the antithesis of the legendary Anatoly Dobrynin, who had been
the Kremlin's envoy to Washington for over two decades. Do-
brynin was master of the "back channel" communique and
could change his spots faster than a chameleon. By comparison,
Yakolev was rather plodding, but he was trustworthy. What you
saw was what you got with Yakolev, and the President was aware
of this as the aging ambassador was ushered into the Oval Office
of the West Wing.
Yakolev felt something was amiss. The fact that he'd been
tracked down and taken away from his beloved Gershwin music
was one indication. The second hint was that the President was
receiving him in the Oval Office. Usually the President liked to
work out of a less formal office in the old Executive Office Build-
ing, and Yakolev had been there on many occasions. The Oval
Office was used for occasions of stiff formality, and this ap-
peared to be such an occasion, for seated behind the desk was
the President, and standing on his right was the Secretary of
State, while on his left was the Secretary of Defense. All were
wearing white tie and tails. They'd been pulled out of a state
dinner honoring the French President when the Soviet ambas-
sador was located. The Vice President had remained in the State

THE THIRD DAY
191
Dining Room to cover for the three men. All hoped they could
return before their absence became too obvious.
Sensing the somber tone of the occasion, Yakolev walked
forthrightly to the President's desk. "You wished to see me, Mr.
President?" he asked.
The chief executive nodded. "I did, Mr. Ambassador, and
I'll come right to the point. I have received some disturbing
information from my people in the Defense Department that an
agency of the Soviet government is communicating with an
American spacecraft which was launched yesterday morning
from California."
Yakolev offered a blank stare. "I beg your pardon?"
The President turned to his left. "Mr. Secretary, if you
please."
The Secretary of Defense handed the ambassador a typed
sheet outlining the specifics of the Intrepid1s behavior, and in
his gentle Southern accent he read through the details.
After the Secretary's explanation, Yakolev looked even more
befuddled. "You are saying that you have lost communication
with one of your space shuttles . . . and it is now talking with
someone inside the Soviet Union?"
"That is exactly what I am saying, Mr. Ambassador," replied
the President.
"Preposterous," said Yakolev, and in dismissal he tossed the
paper onto the President's desk.
The chief executive's voice became hard. "I assure you, Mr.
Ambassador, it is not preposterous. This spacecraft is carrying
some critical components for our Strategic Defense platform. It
went off the air without explanation. We sent one of our recon-
naissance aircraft deep into Soviet airspace to verify the radio
transmissions between this shuttle and a Russian earth station.
It was confirmed beyond question. Your people even tried to
shoot down our intelligence plane. Check it out."
Yakolev shook his head slowly. "Mr. President, I am not one
who puts much faith in this technical gadgetry you Americans
embrace so passionately. You treat it like some sort of religion.
Like your American football. I have no idea what you are talking
about, but I would wager it is some type of malfunction with
your equipment. As I recall, there was some speculation that
our Committee for State Security was responsible for blowing

192
STORMING INTREPID
up your shuttle—the Challenger, I believe it was called. Are we
to be blamed for everything that goes wrong with your space
adventures? I have heard the rumors concerning your so-called
scientific breakthrough with your space platform, but I am highly
skeptical. You have constructed this platform under the tightest
security and now you claim we are trying to seduce your space-
craft. It is absurd."
The President eyeballed Yakolev for a moment, then decided
to try another tack. "Mr. Ambassador, we've spent some time
together, have we not?" The old man nodded. "We've had din-
ner several times. You've been up to Camp David. You've played
with my grandchildren. Have you ever known me to tell you
less than the truth?"
Yakolev returned the stare. "No, Mr. President."
The chief executive softened his tone. "Then, Yevgeny, be-
lieve me. Our shuttle went off the air, and we know that some-
one in your country is communicating with it. There is no
question about it. The payload on this shuttle is critical to our
nation's defense, and if I let it fall into Russian hands, I will be
impeached on Monday and lynched on Hiesday. I cannot, I will
not, let anything happen to that shuttle. Now, I implore you.
Communicate the seriousness of this matter to your people and
let them know that any attempt to tamper with that spacecraft
will be regarded by the United States as an act of war."
Yakolev pondered the words act of war, then slowly reached
out and picked up the paper he had tossed away. In a more
deferential tone, he asked, "All of the particulars are on this
sheet?"
The Secretary of Defense responded, "Yes, Mr. Ambassa-
dor. The launch and orbit data, and information on our recon-
naissance mission."
The ambassador sighed. "Very well. I will communicate your
concerns to the Foreign Minister. But I maintain this must be a
technical malfunction." He looked at his watch. "It is well past
midnight in Moscow. I hope you realize I will not be able to
give you a response until the morning."
The President nodded. "I understand, Yevgeny. But please.
Do not take this lightly."
The butterball Russian chuckled. "Did you know, Mr. Pres-

THE THIRD DAY
193
ident, that I was wounded four times by the Germans in the
Great Patriotic War?"
The President shook his head.
"And did you know that I am missing two toes on my right
foot from frostbite I suffered during the advance on Berlin?"
"No, I didn't." The President was telling the truth, and he
was miffed that the CIA's dossier on Yakolev didn't have that
information.
"And did you know," continued the ambassador, "that I
spent much of my young manhood dodging the NKVD while
trying to build a teaching career?"
"No."
The old man smiled a paternal smile. "Now that you know
these things, perhaps you will understand why I do not get ex-
cited so easily."
Now it was the American's turn to chuckle. "Very well, Mr.
Ambassador. But please. Communicate quickly."
Yakolev nodded. "My cable will be waiting for the Foreign
Minister when he arrives in the morning."
After Yakolev had left, the President turned to his Secretary
of State. "What do you think, Winston?"
The man from Foggy Bottom—who might have stepped off
the cover of Gentlemen's Quarterly—helped himself to one of
the Don Diego cigars from the humidor on the Oval Office desk.
"Obviously, Mr. President, Yakolev is telling the truth when he
says he doesn't know anything. We've all known the man for
some time, and he has an inability to lie effectively. There's
really nothing we can do on the diplomatic end until the Foreign
Minister responds."
The President grunted. "Sam, are we sure the Intrepid is
communicating with the Russians? I mean, we'll look pretty
foolish if Yakolev is right."
The Secretary of Defense, a Southern aristocrat with bony
features and horn-rimmed glasses, fingered his white tie and
said, "Mr. President, I personally went over the telemetry data
with the National Security Agency people a dozen times. The
evidence looks solid. The Intrepid is talking to somebody in the
Soviet Union. When the Foreign Minister gets the ambassador's

194
STORMING INTREPID
cable, that will put the Russian leadership on notice that we've
been alerted. Let's hope it will scare them off."
"And if it doesn't?" asked the chief executive.
"We proceed with General Whittenberg's plan as he outlined
it in the NSC meeting," replied the Southerner. "Additionally,
Admiral Bergstrom's staff is putting together a contingency op-
eration in case there's a glitch with SPACECOM's efforts. We'll
present it to you and the Vice President after the dinner this
evening."
The President nodded. "Whittenberg knows to alert us im-
mediately if anything changes with the Intrepid's situation?"
"Of course, sir."
The President took off his rimless glasses and rubbed his eyes.
"This is the craziest damn deal I ever heard of in my life. It's a
helluva thing to happen to Rodger, too. I know you had your
eye on him to take over Bergstrom's job when the admiral retires
next year, Sam, but that may turn out to be impossible."
The Secretary of Defense became defensive, and he took off
his glasses, too—a sure sign he was getting his feathers up. "Mr.
President, I think the Vice President was correct when he said
this affair wasn't any one individual's fault. It would be unfair
to single out General Whittenberg."
"Oh, I agree completely. It's just that if the Russians do cap-
ture or mangle the Intrepid in some way, the Vice President and
I will be impeached, you and Winston will be out on the street,
and whoever is the new President will bust everyone in SPACE-
COM down to buck private—and there's not a damn thing any
of us could do about it." The chief executive checked his watch.
"Okay. Let's get back to the party."
Day 3,0130 Hours Zulu, 6:30 p.m. Local
BIGGS ARMY AIRFIELD, FORT BLISS, TEXAS
Warrant Officer Greg Hogan stepped off the loading ramp of
the C-141 Starlifter to make way for a forklift rolling into the
cargo bay. He made a notation on his clipboard, then turned to
his cigar-chomping colonel, who was wearing the crossed-

THE THIRD DAY
195
cannon-and-missile insignia of the Army's Air Defense Artillery
branch on his collar.
"Now let me make sure I've got this straight,'' queried Hogan
as he replaced the fatigue cap on his bald head. "I'm taking five
cases of Stingers, a dozen RPV target drones, and an RPV team
to Cape Canaveral?"
The colonel flicked his cigar ash. "You got it straight, Mr.
Hogan." Due to some obscure military protocol, Army warrant
officers were addressed by the title of "Mister."
Hogan absently pulled on the bill of his fatigue cap. "I would
sure appreciate it if you could tell me what this is all about, sir."
The colonel chomped down on his stogie. "All I know is that
I was told to grab my top Stinger instructor, put him on this here
Starlifter with the RPV team, tie a pretty ribbon around it all,
and kiss 'em adids—and to keep my mouth shut. I suggest you
do the same."
The Stinger was a hand-held, heat-seeking surface-to-air mis-
sile; the RPVs, or remotely piloted vehicles, were training tar-
gets; and Hogan was an instructor at the Air Defense Artillery
School at Fort Bliss.
The crew chief of the C-141 yelled down from the cargo bay,
"We're all secure up here. Let's move."
Hogan popped to attention, saluted smartly, and yelled over
the growing engine noise, "Yes, sir. I'm just hoping this aircraft
doesn't divert to Nicaragua. Or Cuba."
The colonel returned the salute. "That's what we're paid for,
Mr. Hogan."
The warrant officer sighed. "Yes, sir," he said, and walked
up into the cargo bay.
Even before the ramp had closed, the Starlifter was taxiing
toward the runway.
Day 3, 0130 Hours Zulu, 6:30 p.m. Local
PETERSON AIR FORCE BASE, COLORADO
Lydia Strand was exhausted. She'd spent the last three hours
probing around Kapuscinski's BOQ room and didn't care much
for the exercise. She found it as distasteful as it was frustrating.

196
STORMING INTREPID
Distasteful because she didn't like to violate someone's privacy,
and frustrating because she hadn't found so much as a glimmer
of a clue.
Strand was a handicapped person. But it was an invisible
handicap. She possessed a brilliant mind (the University of North
Carolina does not pass out summa degrees in physics without
good reason), but her intellect was wrapped in a package of
stunning beauty—long dark hair, cool gray eyes, and a figure
that was 9.8 on the Richter scale (although her flying career had
caused her breasts to sag a little from pulling g's in F-16's). As
she tried to do her job, too many people—men and women-
failed to look past the pretty exterior. The women would often
be envious, while the men would either fixate on her looks or
try to prove they were God's gift to the female order. Not every-
one was fair-minded like Whittenberg, Lamborghini, or Kelly.
There were plenty of people in SPACECOM who simply re-
fused to take her seriously. She had to prove herself every day,
and that caused her to remember why she loved flying, in a
dogfight there was a winner and a loser. Period. She had deflated
many a macho fighter jock in her time, and that was what kept
her going. Proving she wasn't just another pretty face.
But times like now got to her. She'd been given a heavy re-
sponsibility and wanted to produce. But she was tired and at a
dead end. She slammed the metal desk drawer.
Strand had found Iceberg lived an austere existence. In the
two-room BOQ suite there was some government-issue furni-
ture, a closet full of uniforms and a single civilian suit, a book-
shelf of flight manuals, and an issue of Flying magazine on the
coffee table. The small desk revealed nothing except a file of
paid bills, some NASA and Air Force records, bank statements,
and a box containing medals and citations. The odd thing about
it all was what she didn't find. There were no pictures on the
wall of fighter planes or spacecraft or family. No beer in the
small refrigerator. No Holy Bible on the bookshelf. No issues
of Playboy lying around. No love letters in the desk drawer from
girlfriends—or boyfriends. No fishing rods or skis in the closet.
It was as if all the humanity had been purged from the rooms,
and the remaining artifacts were government issue. After going
through his effects, all that Strand could piece together about
Iceberg was that he was a colonel in the Air Force, had won a

THE THIRD DAY
197
lot of medals, had $33,428.22 in a Mountainview Savings &
Loan account, used Crest toothpaste, and paid his bills on time.
The bills were ordinary, too. Exxon and American Express were
about it. Nothing flashy. The only thing left was a series of paid
invoices to a self-storage warehouse in Chicago.
Since the BOQ was a big washout, all Strand could think to
do was go to Chicago and track down his old home addresses.
Maybe somebody who knew him—or his parents—would still
be around and could shed some light on the guy. . . . She shiv-
ered. "Iceberg" was the right call sign for the man. Picking up
the phone, she dialed Chief Master Seigeant Kelly back at her
office.
"So how was Katy?" she asked.
"Worried," Kelly responded. "I only told her there appeared
to be a problem on the Intrepid, but couldn't talk about it be-
cause it was classified. I asked her if Frank seemed okay before
he left. She said he was thrilled to be copilot on the Intrepid and
was happy as a clam. She pressed me for more information, and
I decided to back off. Told her to call me if she had any prob-
lems."
"Good. Heard anything from Walt?"
"Just that he'd left for Houston."
"Okay, I need you to do something for me. When Walt calls
in, tell him I'll need one of those search warrants for"—she
flipped through the paid bills—"the U-Stow-It warehouse at 1731
Grindell Street in Chicago. I've drawn a big zero here, and I'm
going to Chicago to see if I can rustle up something from the
old homestead. . . . I'm starting to feel like a fool on this."
Kelly comforted her. "You're tired, Major. Go get some sack
time. There's nothing you can do in Chicago until the morning,
anyway. I'll keep the chief of staff informed."
"Thanks, Tim," she said wearily. "Have you heard from the
Colonel?"
"Yeah," replied Kelly. "He and the CinC were getting some
sleep before they flew back in their T-38. They're probably saw-
ing the logs right now."
"Think I will, too. If you would, please make some arrange-
ments for my transport to Chicago tomorrow. I'd like to depart
here at zero-six-thirty. That'll put me in there early enough to
get some work done."

198
STORMING INTREPID
"You've got it, Major."
"Thanks, Tim," she mumbled, and hung up.
She dropped the invoices into her briefcase, walked out, and
locked the door behind her. She'd give Noah his bath, kiss her
husband, and crash.
Day 3, 0130 Hours Zulu
THE INTREPID
The hickory stick came down on young Julian's shin with a
terrible whack, eliciting a terrified scream from the eleven-year-
old boy.
The adolescent thug who wielded the stick put his face close
to his victim and snarled, "You fucking little Polack. We don't
want your kind around here. Do you understand that?"
Julian struggled against the other two bullies who were pin-
ning his arms to the ground, but the thirteen-year-olds were
bigger and stronger than he.
Whack! Another scream.
The stick wielder shoved his weapon in Julian's face. "You
get your scum shit Polack ass out of our neighborhood. My old
man says your kind of filth doesn't belong in America. Go back
where you came from. You understand, Polack?"
Julian cried.
Whack!
Another scream. "Ye . . . Yes! I understand!" he wailed.
One of the bullies looked down the road and sounded an
alarm. "Davey! Somebody's coming." The three young hood-
lums quickly released their victim and fled from the vacant lot,
which was behind a construction site. The tall grass had pro-
vided them with ample concealment.
Once free, little Julian rubbed his shins, then ran home cry-
ing-	/
His mother was there, as always, and he fell sobbing into her
arms. She kissed away his tears and rocked him back and forth
in a soothing motion.
"They . . . they said we weren't . . . real Americans," he

THE THIRD DAY
199
cried. "They . . . told me to leave. . . . Oh, Momma, I want
to go away from here. I hate them. . . . They hurt me."
Victoria Kapuscinski held her son tightly, then dried his tears
and led him to the sofa. The time was now, she felt. Yes. The
time was now. She rose and dramatically closed the drapes to
darken their modest living room, then she returned to the sofa
and held him close. "Do you trust your mother, Julian?" she
asked softly.
He sobbed. "Yes, Momma."
She stroked his hair. "In all things, do you trust your mother,
Julian?"
"Oh, yes, Momma, I trust you."
She continued stroking his fine blond hair. "I have something
to tell you, Julian. A secret. Something so secret I could not tell
you before now. A secret you must never tell anyone. Since your
father died last year, there are only you and I now. Do you
understand, my son? Only you and I. If you ever tell anyone this
secret, the Americans will come and take us away, and we would
be separated forever. Do you want that to happen, Julian?"
Frightened, Julian hugged her tightly. "Oh, no, Momma, no."
"Can I tell you the secret, my son? The very special secret?
The secret you must not share with anyone? Ever?"
Slowly, Julian nodded.
"Good," his mother whispered, then repeated, "Good. Now
tell me, Julian, do you hate the American boys that hurt you?"
He hugged her. "Oh, yes, Momma. I hate them. They called
me a Polack."
She took his face in her hands. "You must hate them, Julian.
You must hate them and all of their kind, for all of your life.
They are Americans, Julian. They are evil people. All of them.
They are poison on this world. And all of your life you must
hate them and never become one of them. Do you understand
me?"
Julian nodded. "I hate them, Mother. I will always hate them.
They hurt me. I will never be one of them. I am Polish."
She stared into his eyes with an incredible intensity now. "No,
Julian. No, my son. You are not Polish."
Puzzled, the boy stared back. "If. . . if I am not Polish . . .
then what . . . what am I, Momma?"
Her eyes were like burnt embers as they held his gaze. "This

200
STORMING INTREPID
is the secret, Julian. You are about to learn your true identity.
Your true destiny. You were born in this country, my son, but
you are not an American. And you are not Polish. You are
something special. Something so very, very special."
Totally bewildered now, the boy stared back and asked,
"What am I, Mother?"
She kissed him on the forehead, and ever so softly she whis-
pered, "You are a Russian."
Iceberg came awake with a start to see beads of perspiration
floating around his face in a weightless dance. It took him a few
seconds to realize that he was in the cockpit of the Intrepid, for
the dream had been so incredibly real. He closed his eyes and
sighed before murmuring, "Yes, Mother . . . I am a Russian."
Little Julian's indoctrination began the very same day he
learned of his true heritage. And every day following, for an
hour, sometimes two, sometimes three, Victoria Kapuscinski
would drum into her son, over and over, the evils of America.
How the rich exploited the poor. How the Americans let the
Nazis overrun Mother Russia before lifting a finger to help. How
the ruling American elite kept the masses hypnotized with a
gagging river of patriotic propaganda. How the capitalist system
fostered violent criminals. How the American "democracy"
was an illusion the wealthy used to stay in power. And, finally,
Victoria told Julian the story of her own life, and how her mis-
sion from the Generalissimo was now his mission.
With the father dead, the bond between mother and son fused
until it was rock-hard—they were each other's lifeboat in a hos-
tile land. She tightly controlled his access to the "outside
world." There was no television or radio in the house. With her
hidden source of money, Victoria placed Julian in a small, all-
male private school that emphasized academics. She dropped
him off when classes began every morning and picked him up
immediately afterward. Girls were to be avoided.
It was these three elements—his isolation, the sense of pur-
pose that was drummed into him, and his life-raft relationship
with his mother—that crystallized Julian Kapuscinski's accep-
tance that he was truly a Russian.
And turned him into a borderline psychotic.

THE THIRD DAY
201
Day 3, 0146 Hours Zulu, 3:46 a.m. Local
PLESETSK COSMODROME
The technician checked the readout on his oscilloscope for
the fifth and final time. It was correct, and he turned to his
superior. "All warhead systems are verified, Comrade Major."
"Disconnect it," came the reply.
The technician unscrewed the coaxial cables from the bottom
of the cone-shaped object and clambered down the platform
ladder with his equipment. T\vo airmen unblocked the wheels
of the carriage platform and began rolling the antisatellite war-
head toward the SS-N-9 liquid-fuel booster vehicle. Major So-
molya, looking like a munchkin in his winter uniform, closely
supervised the transport. Using an electric-powered motor car-
riage—which was about the size of a Mack truck—the two tech-
nicians guided the base of the warhead inch by inch onto the
"headless" booster. Finally it was in place.
"In position, Major!" yelled one of the technicians.
The major motioned to another airman at the booster's mid-
section, where an open panel exposed some switches and dials.
"Seal it!" commanded Somolya. The airman threw a switch
which triggered a pneumatic ring seal around the base of the
warhead. A chunnnggg! sound was heard as the ring seal popped
into place. Now the ASAT warhead was permanently attached
to its maneuvering rocket, which was also the final stage of the
SS-N-9 booster.
"Close it up, Valery."
"At once, Major." The airman shut and secured the panel
door.
"Commence transport," ordered Somolya.
American launch centers typically use large "crawler" track
vehicles to transport missiles to their launch pads, but Russians
utilize a system of rails and locomotives to carry their rockets
from assembly hangars to pad. A diesel engine fired up and
began pushing the SS-N-9 rocket through the hangar doors and
into the bitteriy cold night.
Plesetsk was situated in the far northern latitudes—not too far
from the Arctic Circle. At this time of year the sun rose late and
disappeared early. The cold was a nuisance for the missile crews,

202
STORMING INTREPID
but they were used to it. The Soviet Union was far and away the
technological leader in winter launches. The Challenger disaster
had occurred when it was launched in the middle of an unusual
Florida cold snap. The frigid weather prevented the O-ring of
its solid rocket booster from sealing properly, and the Chal-
lenger went down. It was a painful lesson in cold-weather
launches.
Although smaller than Baikonur, Plesetsk possessed dozens
of launch pads and was the world's busiest spaceport. If the
Kennedy Space Center was the Neiman-Marcus of space travel,
then Plesetsk was K mart, designed for high-volume traffic. It
handled the bulk of Soviet military payloads, such as optical
reconnaissance and electronic listening satellites, and fired off
a rocket approximately every six days. Therefore the SS-N-9
booster rolling out of the hangar did not arouse undue suspicion.
Upon reaching the pad, it took about six minutes for the mis-
sile to be raised into place by a telescoping hydraulic jack. Once
it was in position against the tall gantry tower, a starfish network
of smaller gantries closed around the base of the booster to hold
it in place until launch. The major watched the scene under the
glaring klieg lights while technicians in the gantry attached the
dimethylhydrazine, nitrous oxide, and nitric acid fuel lines. An
electronic umbilical was also plugged into the side of the rocket.
It was through this umbilical that the missile's vital signs would
be monitored by the launch bunker.
Day 3, 0412 Hours Zulu, 11:12 p.m. Local
THE WHITE HOUSE
The President frowned. "Are you sure there isn't a better
way, Admiral?"
The chief executive, along with his secretaries of State and
Defense, the Vice President, and Admiral Bergstrom, was lean-
ing over a table in the Treaty Room of the White House, eye-
balling a map of Southwest Asia. The white ties were all undone
now, and the tailed jackets thrown on a chair. The group was
reviewing the President's options should SPACECOM's efforts
with the Constellation and Kestrel fail.

THE THIRD DAY
203
"Sir," said the admiral crisply, "there is no sense in pussy-
footing. This is the only nonnuclear option we have. If we send
in B-ls, they would be precluded from using their nuclear-tipped
cruise missiles to blast a path to Baikonur, and that would make
them sitting ducks over the flat terrain of the Kazakhstan steppes.
I could round up plenty of B-l crews that would volunteer to
take a shot at it, but that's not the point. The problem is having
a reasonable certainty of success. Without the cruise missiles,
the B-ls just don't have a piss of a chance—period."
The admiral was referring to strategic bombing doctrine that
calls for using nuclear-tipped cruise missiles to take out SAM
radar/missile bases and fighter airfields ahead of the B-ls' flight
path—that is, to "blast a path" to the primary target, where the
B-ls would drop their main bomb load. The B-l was a capable
airplane, but it couldn't be expected to fight the Soviet Union's
antiaircraft defenses without using all of its resources. Particu-
larly over flat terrain where it couldn't use- its ground-hugging
flight navigation system to bob and weave through valleys and
mountain passes.
"But what if the stealth bombers had to make some kind of
forced landing?" asked the Vice President. "Then the Russians
would have the shuttle and the stealth aircraft to analyze."
The admiral released a cloud of foul-smelling cigar smoke.
He was still wearing his dress whites from the state dinner. "If
we don't use the stealth bomber prototypes, then we're back to
using a 'surgical'—I never cared for that term—nuclear weapon
to hit the Intrepid when it lands at Baikonur. And if we're going
to do that, there's no sense in using the B-ls. We might as well
turn the Tennessee loose."
The thought of firing a submarine-launched nuclear missile
into Soviet territory didn't sit well with the group.
"Well," sighed the Secretary of State, "let's hope the Con-
stellation gets up there before we have to make that kind of
decision."
"Beg pardon, sir," said the admiral, "but if we're going to
have so much as an option of using the stealth prototypes, I have
to have approval to get the ball rolling now. The bombers, their
crews, ground-support aircraft, weapons, and all the horseshit
that goes along with it will have to fly ten thousand miles just to

204
STORMING INTREPID
get to the staging area. And speaking of a staging area, I need
your help."
The diplomat raised an eyebrow. "How so?"
"Diego Garcia is just too damn far away from the Iranian
coast to use as a staging platform—over two thousand miles. As
I explained, if it looks like the shuttle is going to come down,
the bombers have to stay on station near Baikonur for almost
ninety minutes to make sure both orbits of the Intrepid's reentry
window are covered. That means a nine-thousand-mile round-
trip between Diego Garcia and Baikonur plus ninety minutes on
station near their target in a deadly situation. A crew has only
so much endurance. Those macho SAC pilots will tell you it's
no sweat, but we've got studies up the kazoo that prove different.
Prolonged flight stress cuts down on reaction time and profi-
ciency. And to make this confounded thing work we'd better
have sharp, well-rested crews on station. So I want a staging
area two thousand miles closer to the departure point than Diego
Garcia—either Pakistan, 1\irkey, or Oman."
The Secretary rolled his eyes.
"What about it, Winston?" asked the President.
The Cabinet officer's male-model features were beginning to
look a bit haggard. He took a deep breath. "Make it Oman.
The Sultan's a good man. He'll play ball in a pinch. He knows
how to keep a secret, too."
"Good," pronounced the admiral. "I'll get with you on the
particulars later, Mr. Secretary, but if you gentlemen will excuse
me for a moment I'll call General Dooley at SAC and get the
planes in the air. I want them over the Atlantic before the sun
comes up."
"Absolute security on this, Admiral," said the President in
his finest ass-chewing voice. "Nobody knows about the bomb-
ers unless they have a compelling need to know. That even in-
cludes Whittenberg. Got it?"
Bergstrom said, "Yessir," and exited the room.
After the naval officer left, it was the Vice President who
spoke first. "He doesn't mince words, does he?"
"Nah," agreed the President. "Besides, that's what we pay
him for." While crushing out his Don Diego cigar, he turned
to the Defense Secretary. "Sam, I hope none of this stealth

THE THIRD DAY
205
business has to go through. When is the Constellation getting
off the ground?"
The Southerner adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses and looked
at his watch. "It's eleven-thirty now. She'll be launching around
four-thirty a.m. day after tomorrow—by that I mean Saturday
morning. About twenty-nine hours from now. Any early risers
in south Florida are in for a big surprise. Uh, by the way, Mr.
President, in view of the seriousness of the situation I feel we
should notify the appropriate members of the Congressional
leadership about the Intrepid."
The President took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of
his nose on his drill-sergeant face. "And read about it in the
Washington Post in the morning? No thank you. Our honorable
Speaker can't go to the men's room without holding a press
conference. No. This will be our little secret until the Constel-
lation gets up there. After that I really don't give a damn who
knows.'' He paused and looked at the ceiling before continuing.
"We really put all our eggs in one basket, didn't we? The In-
trepid, I mean. If the Russians get their hands on that thing I'll
be lucky—make that damn lucky—if the American people only
lynch me."
"Us," added the Vice President.
The President gave his Veep a wry smile, then turned back
to his Cabinet officer. "Sam, just so I'll know, where's that
Tennessee submarine now?"
"It's cruising in the Indian Ocean about four hundred miles
north of Madagascar, Mr. President."
"You mean the Malagasy Republic," corrected the Secretary
of State.
"No," said the Pentagon chief with a thin smile. "I mean
the Democratic Republic of Madagascar—formerly known as
the Malagasy Republic."
The diplomat's ears tqrned crimson over his slipup.
The two men had sparred verbally with each other since their
Moot Court competition at Columbia Law School.
"Move the Tennessee in closer. If you think that would help,"
offered the President.
"Yes, Mr. President," replied the Pentagon chief. "It's head-
ing for the Iranian coast now."
The chief executive sighed. "Well, between the Constella-

206
STORMING INTREPID
tion, the Kestrel, and the stealth bombers we should be able to
nail the Intrepid before the Soviets grab her—I hope. Using the
Tennessee is something I'd prefer not to think about."
The Secretary nodded. "I quite understand, Mr. President."
The door opened.
"They're in the air," announced the admiral.
Day 3, 0430 Hours Zulu, 9:30 p.m. Local
NELL9S AIR FORCE BASE, NEVADA
In addition to the regular military air traffic control radars on
the base, an Airborne Warning and Control System aircraft,
better known as an AWACS E3-A Sentry, circled the perimeter
of Nellis, looking for any errant low-level aircraft that might be
in the vicinity. The rotating "Frisbee" radome perched on the
airplane's back allowed it to sweep the mountainous nooks and
crannies around Nellis where conventional radars could not see.
"Nellis Tower," radioed the AWACS, "this is Sentry Alpha.
Looks all clear from here."
"Roger, Sentry Alpha. Thanks." The twenty-one-year-old
tower controller brushed his brown hair back from his forehead,
then keyed his mike again. "Ghostflight Three, you are cleared
for takeoff on runway zero-two right. Wind is south-southeast
at seven knots."
"Roger, tower," came the reply, and a C-141 Starlifter cargo
transport rumbled down the runway.
The tower controller watched it lift off in the moonlight, then
muttered into his microphone. "Ghostflight Four, you are
cleared for takeoff."
"Roger, tower," and a KC-10 tanker aircraft quickly fol-
lowed the Starlifter. It would act as a flying filling station for the
entire 13,000-mile journey, because touchdowns were forbidden
until the staging area was reached.
Finally, the controller punched his mike switch for the last
time and said, "Ghostflight Leader and Ghostflight Two, you
are cleared for takeoff at your discretion."
"Roger, tower, and thanks," came the firm reply.
Two objects, looking like unearthly batwings in the landing

THE THIRD DAY
207
lights, roared down the tarmac and took off into the night sky.
The controller squinted and tried to follow them with his eyes,
but with their jet-black skin, he quickly lost them in the dark-
ness.
The radar operator aboard the E3-A Sentry never saw them.
Day 3, 0430 Hours Zulu, 6:30 a.m. Local
LENINGRAD METALLURGICAL INSTITUTE,
CCCP
Chief Designer Grigory Vostov strapped on a pair of protec-
tive goggles and watched closely as the technician powered up
the Black & Decker circular handsaw. The final product was
about to be unveiled.
A loud grating sound was heard as the saw sliced through the
plaster skin covering the hardened aluminum casting. After the
cutting was finished, the technician carefully pulled the plaster
away to reveal half of the mating collar that would be used to
attach the Progress engine to the tail of the Intrepid. He then
repeated the process with the second half of the collar.
Vostov went over the castings with hand calipers, and upon
finishing he smiled to himself. The final product was superb.
The two collar halves would be welded together around the
Progress engine after they were transported to Baikonur.
Vostov had used the classic lost-wax process to cast his collar
for the Progress engine. It was a process ordinarily used for
smaller castings, but it provided a precise finished product. And
precision was what Vostov needed.
The Chief Designer had chosen the Leningrad facility because
of its up-to-date equipment and superb staff. He slapped the
chief technician on the back. "You have done well, my friend.
I will see to it that your efforts are rewarded."
"Working with you is reward enough, Comrade Chief De-
signer."
Vostov nodded in agreement.
"Are we finished here?" came a question from behind.
Vostov turned. It was the same KGB colonel who had origi-

208
STORMING INTREPID
nally roused him from his slumber in his apartment. He'd been
there all along, but Vostov had forgotten him.
With great flourish the Chief Designer announced, "We are
ready."
Day 3, 0430 Hours Zulu, 6:30 a.m. Local
PLESETSK COSMODROME
The dimethylhydrazine, nitrous oxide, and nitric acid fuel
spewed into the combustion chambers of the dual SS-N-9 en-
gines and ignited, creating a thrust of280,000 kilograms. Smoke
belched out the vectored exhaust pit, and the booster strained
against its restraining gantry for three and a half seconds.
In the launch bunker the technician shouted, "All green!"
"Release!" howled Major Somolya in reply. The technician
hit the red button on his console, and the starfish gantry fell
away, unleasing the missile into the morning darkness. As it
rose, the tail of flame quickly turned a circle of snow on the pad
into water, and then steam.
The airmen in the assembly hangar scampered to the door to
watch the surrounding white countryside grow light as day from
the exhaust plume's illumination. It was a breathtaking scene-
one they felt privileged to witness. But all too soon the rocket
veered northward and disappeared into the black morning sky,
leaving the frigid cosmodrome covered in darkness.
Day 3, 0432 Hours Zulu, 9:32 p.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
The young, baby-faced lieutenant was at his console when the
red light started blinking. He quickly grabbed the phone to the
duty officer in the SPADOC Crow's Nest. "Launch detection!"
he shouted. "It just broke through the clouds, sir!"
Sir Isaac held the phone away from his ear. "It's all right,
Lieutenant. Just settle down and give me a zoom of the location
on the center screen."
"Yes, sir!" Another shout. There weren't many secrets inside

THE THIRD DAY
209
Cheyenne Mountain, and everyone's nerves in SPADOC had
become frayed. Whether it be by the water fountain, in the caf-
eteria, or in the washroom, the one topic of discussion in the
entire complex was the Intrepid. Everyone knew something was
afoot.
"Looks like it's coming out of the Plesetsk Cosmodrome,
sir!" hollered the lieutenant.
With the CinC en route back from Washington and the chief
of staff finally getting some sleep, John Fairchild—Sir Isaac—
was minding the store inside the mountain. Everything that could
be done was being done at the Cape, at Edwards, and at Van-
denberg. Until the Constellation was ready to go, Sir Isaac felt
the best place to watch over things was in the SPADOC Crow's
Nest, where he could monitor the Intrepid minute by minute and
examine the satellite pix of the Russian launch facilities the mo-
ment they arrived. If this launch detection was indeed coming
out of Plesetsk, the Russkies had certainly wheeled out the rocket
and fired it off in a hurry. A KH-12 pass only six hours before
had showed nothing on any of Plesetsk's launch pads.
A large map of northwestern Russia was projected on the
giant center screen.
"I should have a bearing from the BMEWS radar in just a
second, sir."
"Very good, Lieutenant," said Sir Isaac patiently.
The young officer tapped his keyboard, and a luminescent line
popped up on the screen aiming north-northeast out of Plesetsk.
"Bearing zero-zero-seven, sir."
Sir Isaac tapped his hawklike nose with his pipestem. "Punch
up the Intrepid's current ground track, will you, Lieutenant?"
A few seconds later a second luminescent line appeared, par-
allel to the first and about two hundred miles to the west. The
Russian launch was directly in line with the Intrepid's orbit, but
it was traveling in the opposite direction and a little bit to the
east. Sir Isaac found this to be quite puzzling. Why would the
Russians send up something that was the direct reciprocal of
the Intrepid's flight path? It didn't make any sense. But whatever
it was, anything that close to the American shutde was too much
of a coincidence for Sir Isaac. The brigadier picked up a phone
that was a direct line into to the National Military Command

210
STORMING INTREPID
Center in the Pentagon. They would pass the word to Admiral
Bergstrom in about ninety seconds.
Day 3, 0436 Hours Zulu, 6:36 a.m. Local
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE
Mission Commander Oleg Malyshev.let the reports trickle
into his headset, then picked up the phone and buzzed the
glassed-in observation booth. "The main booster has separated
and all systems are functioning properly, Comrade General. We
will have second-stage shutdown in approximately three min-
utes."
"Very well, Commander," replied Popov as he hung up the
phone and turned to his two companions. "The antisatellite
missile is proceeding according to plan. When it reaches the top
of its elliptical orbit we will fire the engines again to propel it
into a circular flite path."
Both men nodded.
Bemoaning his exhaustion, General Secretary Vorontsky said,
"Vitali, I am going to get some sleep. Awaken me should any-
thing happen." Then he turned his swarthy face on Popov.
"When will the Soyuz launch from Baikonur?"
"In approximately forty hours," wheezed the general. "We
must wait until our launch preparations are complete and the
Intrepid's orbit passes over the cosmodrome." Popov looked as
if he had one foot in the grave. His face was gray as his cigarette
ash, and his eyes completely bloodshot.
Vorontsky nodded and left.
"Do you have all of the data you require from Pirdilenko in
Plesetsk?" asked Kostiashak.
Popov looked at the KGB Chairman. Did this man never
sleep? He seemed to possess some hidden reservoir of eneigy.
His slicked-back hair was always in place. Even the creases in
his pants remained razor sharp. "Yes, Comrade," sighed the
general. "Additionally, we routinely receive launch-detection
reports from the Aerospace Warning Centre, and we will be
able to respond immediately should the Americans launch a
rescue shuttle from their Florida cosmodrome."

THE THIRD DAY
211
Kostiashak flicked an ash. "Very well. I shall remain here to
. . . observe."
Popov found it difficult to conceal his irritation. "Well then,
Comrade Chairman, if you will excuse me. I must attend to the
launch preparations."
Kostiashak smiled politely. "By all means, General."
After Popov left, Kostiashak pulled long and hard on his Pall
Mall. He disdained Russian cigarettes, for they were like smok-
ing a rope wrapped in cardboard. American tobacco was only
one of the luxuries for which he'd developed a taste while at
Princeton. Another was Scotch whisky. He exhaled the lungful
of smoke and allowed himself a few poignant moments with his
memories. Ah, yes, America—the land of plenty. So powerful
and so rich, yet with millions in poverty. So technologically
brilliant—and metaphysically shallow. Ruled not by a king or a
parliament, but by a cabal of uncontrolled press lords. It was
not to be believed, really. Americans had no . . . discipline.
And the Chairman greatly admired discipline. But in his beloved
Russia, even Kostiashak had to admit that discipline had run
amok. The Soviet Union had turned itself into one large arma-
ments factory that could not feed itself. His country was de-
scending into an oblivion from which there would be no return.
It had to change . . . had to. And the young KGB Chairman had
reached back through time—into the inner bowels of Moscow
Centre at 2 Dzerzhinsky Square—for the instrument to make it
change.
Vitali Kostiashak had been born the son of a diplomat. Al-
though Ukranian by blood, he'd been raised in foreign embas-
sies for most of his life—where he often found himself an
unwelcome visitor in a strange land. To combat the usual iso-
lation of Russian diplomatic life—typically accentuated by the
suffocating controls imposed by the KGB rezidentura within the
embassy—the young Vitali threw himself into his studies, where
he demonstrated a singular aptitude for mathematics and chess.
When Kostiashak reached his eighteenth birthday, his father
was anointed with a prestigious posting to the Soviet embassy
in Washington, where he served on Dobrynin's staff. It was with
Ambassador Dobrynin's influence that the elder Kostiashak ob-
tained a special dispensation for his son to attend Princeton,

212
STORMING INTREPID
where the young Vitali did exceptionally well. He emerged eight
years later with a Ph.D. in international studies from the univ-
ersity's Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Af-
fairs.
While at Princeton, Kostiashak developed a fascination with
American history, in particular the American Presidents. He
found the Presidency possessed a more convoluted, more blood-
stained, more treacherous legacy than the Russian czars could
have ever hoped to achieve—from the Civil War, to Japanese-
American concentration camps during World War II, to the Ton-
kin Gulf Resolution, to John Wilkes Booth, to Teapot Dome, to
Lee Harvey Oswald, to Watergate.
Yet it was during his study of the Presidency that Kostiashak
struck upon an intellectual candle that would guide his profes-
sional life. He was in the Firestone Library, studying late one
night as he often did, learning about a particularly magnetic
President named Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Kostiashak read
that when Roosevelt was Assistant Secretary of the Navy in
1914, he'd run for the nomination to the United States Senate
from the state of New York. He was creamed by the Tammany
Hall political "machine," and was despondent over his loss.
Sensing the young man's depression, an old pol took Franklin
aside and told him in a consoling voice, "Son . . . remember.
First, you have to get elected.'' For Kostiashak, that one phrase—
"You have to get elected"—was like a revelation, for it told him
that to accomplish anything with his life—whatever it might be—
he had to be in a position of power.
With his Ph.D. from Princeton and his father's sponsorship,
he obtained a position in the Foreign Ministry, but the younger
Kostiashak soon found that power sprang from the Party, not
from the ministry's bureaucracy. In a highly unusual move, he
left the Foreign Ministry to join the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy
Bezopasnosti—the Committee for State Security. It was a move
that greatly chagrined and disappointed his father, but delighted
his new masters. Inside Russia, the KGB was looked upon with
contempt—and even though it employed a number of capable
people, it was best known as a bunch of hoodlums who did not
possess what they coveted most: class. Kostiashak was one of
the exceptions who brought the KGB some class, and his supe-
riors recognized this. As a result, his rise was meteoric, and he

THE THIRD DAY
213
became widely respected for his brilliance and charm—as well
as his ruthlessness.
It was during a counterintelligence operation that Kostiashak
hitched his wagon to the rising star of the GOSPLAN Minister,
who, upon Gorbachev's fateful demise, rewarded him with the
post of KGB Chairman. Kostiashak was thirty-seven years old.
It is difficult for those in the West to comprehend the scope
or nature of the power a KGB Chairman commands. It's as if
the reins of the FBI, CIA, Military Police, National Security
Agency, and Border Patrol were all concentrated in the hands
of a single man, who had the license to wield the power like a
Mafia enforcer—with no restraint imposed by the courts or the
press. Like many things Russian, the KGB wasn't terribly cos-
mopolitan or elegant, it was simply massive. Some 400,000 of
their number—which included agents, spies, troops, guards, data
analysts, clerks, executioners, economists, wiretappers, crypt-
analysts, cooks, forgers, microwave engineers, waiters, hench-
men, and assassins—all fell under the power of the Chairman.
And Kostiashak, who was singularly cosmopolitan and tres ele-
gant, never shied from the use of power.
It was shortly after he assumed his duties behind the gray
stone walls of Dzerzhinsky Square that Kostiashak became privy
to a basement file which held the ' 'secret of secrets" of Moscow
Centre. A file which had been passed down from Chairman to
Chairman in a macabre legacy that reached back to the time of
Lavrenti Beria—the dreaded chief of Stalin's secret police, the
NKVD. It was from this ancient file that the young Chairman
chose his instrument.
Kostiashak, the former grandmaster, had played multiple-
board chess with a variety of worthy opponents before. He found
it a stimulating exercise for his warp-speed mind. But it was
only that—an exercise. The Intrepid was real. And to win this
very real, very deadly game he had to have the American space-
craft on Russian soil. Had to. Everything depended on that. He
had no doubts the Americans would launch a rescue mission
from their Florida cosmodrome. He intuitively felt it from the
beginning, and Water Lily had confirmed it. He also sensed
Popov's reluctance to employ the antisatellite device. One could
never tell when a man like Popov would rise up in some mor-

214
STORMING INTREPID
alistic outrage. It was a nuisance, but one that had to be antici-
pated. The American shuttle Constellation could not be allowed
to reach the Intrepid, and therefore it would be best to have some
insurance should Popov prove to be unreliable.
The Chairman picked up a pad and scrawled out a message.
He then rang for his KGB colonel.
"You summoned me, Comrade Chairman?" asked the col-
onel.
' 'Da,'' replied Kostiashak as he handed over the folded paper.
"Take this to the Communications Centre and have it encrypted
and sent without delay. Watch over it yourself to ensure it is
handled quickly."
"Certainly, Comrade Chairman," replied the colonel. He
turned and departed.
Kostiashak called after him, "And bring some cigarettes from
my office when you return."
Day 3, 0537 Hours Zulu, 7:37 a.m. Local
MIKOYAN AIRFIELD, OUTSIDE LENINGRAD
The loading ramp of the Antonov-72 Coaler transport closed
up, sealing the docking collar, the Chief Designer, and his KGB
escort into the cargo hold.
The Coaler looked like any generic military transport, except
for its two engines. They rested on top of the wings, thrusting
forward in an extreme overhang. The aircraft appeared some-
what comical—as if it were holding up a gigantic pair of bin-
oculars to see where it was going. And this one knew where it
was going. It roared down the runway and lifted off on a vector
toward the Baikonur Cosmodrome.
Day 3, 0600 Hours Zulu, 8:00 a.m. Local
THE KREMLIN
The Foreign Minister prided himself on being an early riser.
Although he was eighty years old, he looked fifteen years
younger, and was always at his desk no later than 8:00 a.m. His

THE THIRD DAY
215
brushlike black hair showed only a few flecks of gray, and the
skin around his face did not hang down in jowls, but remained
firm and tight. Only the liver spots on the back of his hands
betrayed his true age. A brisk swim every morning in the private
indoor pool at the Kutuzovsky Prospekt 26 building kept him fit
as a fiddle, and he enjoyed casting a scornful eye on his soft
subordinates who straggled in later than he. Often with hang-
overs.
He hung up his coat and Borsolino hat, then sat down at his
desk—which had once belong to Czarina Catherine the Great,
and had been appropriated from the Hermitage Museum in Len-
ingrad. Following his standard morning ritual, the Foreign Min-
ister sipped his tea and began plowing through the overnight
cable traffic before reading his copy of the International Herald
Tribune, which was flown in for him each morning from Paris.
The cable traffic from Washington came first, of course, al-
though he was watching the communiques, from London these
days with great care. The British elections were near, and it
looked as if that Thatcher woman was finally on her way out.
She'd always been a royal—ha, ha—nuisance; but at long last,
Britain's recurring unemployment problems were finally under-
mining her administration. Her opponent was a firebrand liberal
who'd promised to evict the Americans from their airbases if
elected, and it looked as if that was a real possibility. So much
the better, thought the Foreign Minister. Someday all Europe
will be ours, and we will not have fired a single shot. All it took
was patience. And for one who'd survived Stalin, Beria, Malen-
kov, Kaganovich, Khrushchev, Brezhnev, Andropov, Cher-
nenko, Gorbachev, and now General Secretary Vorontsky, the
Foreign Minister knew something about patience.
He picked up the leather folder containing the Washington
cables and read.
Then he reread.
Then he reread, again, and scratched his head. In his fifty
plus years of foreign service he'd never read anything quite like
this. He picked up the phone and buzzed the Soviet Minister of
Defense on a private line.
' 'Da ?'' came the reply.
"Ah, Konstantin," purred the diplomat. "I am pleased you
are in."

216
STORMING INTREPID
"Of course, my dear Foreign Minister. What is on your
mind?" The military chieftain was always direct.
"I have received a rather disturbing cable from Yakolev in
Washington. The message concerns something that does not
make any logical sense whatsoever, but the ambassador insists
the American President is genuinely concerned."
"Yakolev is a good man," observed the Defense Minister.
"What does the cable concern?"
The Foreign Minister cleared his throat. "It appears the
Americans believe that we are communicating with one of their
manned spacecraft, which was launched approximately two days
ago."
There was a pause.
"What?" asked a perplexed voice.
The Foreign Minister explained again.
"I do not understand," said the military chieftain.
"Nor do I," said the diplomat, "but I will send a copy of the
cable over to you at once. Please investigate and get back to me
without delay. I do not think it appropriate to disturb the General
Secretary with this unless it turns out to be something of sub-
stance. He had already left for a long weekend at his dacha in
Usovo."
"As you wish," promised the Defense Minister, "without
delay."
Day 3, 0630 Hours Zulu, 9:30 a.m. Local
SOVIET AEROSPACE DEFENSE
WARNING CENTRE
The duty officer colonel looked rather odd. He was standing
at attention, saluting with his right hand while holding the phone
receiver in his left. "No, Comrade Minister," he said ner-
vously. "I know of no such occurrence. It is inconceivable."
The Defense Minister's thick voice came through the line. "I
quite agree, Colonel, but our ambassador would not trouble us
unless he had reason. You did almost shoot down an American
spy plane, is that not correct?"
"Yes, Comrade. I was not on duty at the time, but I read the

THE THIRD DAY
217
reports. There was nothing about communication with an
American spacecraft."
"Hmmm," murmured the thick voice. "Review the reports
again and talk to the colonel who was on duty at the time. Find
out if he knows anything concerning this matter. Then call me
back with verification within fifteen minutes."
"Of course, Comrade Minister."
When the line went dead the duty officer finally lowered his
salute and collapsed in his chair. Both of his hands were trem-
bling. He'd never spoken with a Politburo member before.
He found it terrifying.
Day 3, 0645 Hours Zulu, 8:45 a.m. Local
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE
"I have no idea what you are talking about," said Popov into
the phone.
"I felt as much, dear Likady," purred the Defense Minister,
"but with this cable from Washington I had to investigate."
"I quite understand, Comrade Minister," replied Popov. "I
can only speculate that the Americans have had some technical
malfunction with their spacecraft, and they are attempting to
blame it on the Rodina for propaganda purposes. I seem to
remember the Americans tried to generate some false accusa-
tions about Soviet agents being responsible for their space shut-
tle disaster several years ago. This could be a similar situation."
The minister pondered this for a few moments.' 'Good point,
Likady," he agreed. "You are most probably correct." Then
he changed the subject. "Someday we must go hunting in the
taiga. As we did in the old days."
"Those were grand times, Comrade Minister," said Popov
with feigned enthusiasm. "I will never forget the Siberian bear
you bagged with a single shot—from that ancient musket of
yours."
The military chieftain chuckled. "I still have the hide on the
wall in my dacha. Very well, old friend. I am sorry to have
bothered you. Should anything unusual occur along this line,
leave word with my office."

218
STORMING INTREPID
"Certainly, Comrade."
After the line went dead, Popov slowly hung up the phone,
then turned to look down the gun barrel which had been aimed
at his temple. "You can put that away now,'' he said in a strained
voice. "I am in too deep to turn back."
Kostiashak pocketed the small Beretta automatic and lit up
another Pall Mall. "Quite correct, General. I hope you will
forgive the firearm, but I truly could not chance your disclosing
anything at this point. You and the Defense Minister have known
each other for many years, is that not so?"
"Since we were cadets at Frunze," replied the stocky gen-
eral.
Kostiashak nodded. "Old ties die hard. Should your resolve
in our enterprise waiver, do not forget your wife and children
are vulnerable."
Popov turned scarlet with rage. "You . . . you . . ."
The Chairman swiftly held up a hand. "Restrain yourself,
General. We are embarked upon a course, and I will not allow
anything to disrupt it. Too often dreams of greatness are stopped
short because the dreamers lack the will. Continue with your
duties and do not impair our efforts. The rewards could be great
if we succeed."
"I want nothing from you," spat Popov through his teeth.
The Chairman shrugged. "As you wish."
The general glared at his tormentor.' 'The Americans know,''
he said finally.
Kostiashak exhaled another lungful of smoke. "I have never
been one to underestimate the Americans. I have lived among
them. Now, continue with the launch preparations."
Day 3, 0655 Hours Zulu, 8:55 a.m. Local
THE KREMLIN
The Foreign Minister's private phone jingled. "Da?" he an-
swered.
"Yes, my dear Minister," replied the military chieftain, "I
have the information you requested."
The old diplomat picked up his tea cup and leaned back in

THE THIRD DAY
219
his leather chair. "Ah, yes, Konstantin. Thank you for respond-
ing so swifdy. What have you learned?"
"I spoke with the duty officer at the Aerospace Warning Cen-
tre," recounted the Defense Minister, "and he confirmed that
we fired upon an American Blackbird spy plane—almost down-
ing it, I might add." The memory of a Cessna landing in Red
Square was not yet erased. "However, they know nothing con-
cerning communication with an American spacecraft."
"Very good," said the Foreign Minister.
"I then spoke with General Popov in Spaceflite Operations.
He, too, knew nothing about communication with a foreign
spacecraft. He did, however, suggest what was motivating the
Americans."
The old diplomat put down his tea. "And that was?"
"He speculated the Americans may be experiencing difficulty
with one of their spacecraft—perhaps another disaster is in the
making like the one of a few years ago—and they intend to claim
we are responsible for any problems that occur, for propaganda
purposes. Therefore they have fabricated this story of our com-
municating with their spacecraft—to 'set us up,' as their saying
goes."
The Foreign Minister rubbed his temples for a moment. "Of
course. That must be the reason. I recall that space disaster of
theirs—the Challenger it was called. An agent in their 'free'
press suggested our state security people were responsible for
its explosion. We quickly defused that rumor with our vigorous
diplomacy. Yes, Popov may well be correct. I will communicate
your findings and General Popov's thesis to Ambassador Yako-
lev. That should put the Americans in their place, and put this
matter to rest. As I said, I did not wish to disturb the General
Secretary until it was a matter of urgency. . . . Also, I am leav-
ing for a holiday at my dacha in Vilkovo. I did not want this to
interrupt it."
Vilkovo was an exclusive resort enclave on the Black Sea for
Politburo members.
"Vilkovo, you say?" The Defense Minister's interest picked
up. "Perhaps I shall see you there, my friend. I am leaving
myself in a few hours. It is time for a respite from this harsh
Moscow winter."
The Foreign Minister smiled. "Quite true, Konstantin. I hope

220
STORMING INTREPID
to see you there. And thank you for investigating this matter so
promptly."
"Not at all," purred the thick voice.
After he hung up, the Foreign Minister dashed off a cable in
longhand, then rang for Kulikov, his aide-de-camp.
"Yes, Comrade Minister?" asked the supplicant aide.
The old man held out the cable text. "Read this, then have it
sent to Yakolev without delay. I am leaving for Vilkovo this
afternoon. You are to remain here over the weekend and notify
me immediately should any further cables arrive from the am-
bassador. You have my private number in Vilkovo?"
"Of course, Comrade Minister," replied Kulikov, trying to
conceal his anger at having his own weekend plans demolished.
"Very well. See to the message." And with that, Kulikov
was dismissed.
The Foreign Minister looked out his window and saw that
snow was falling once again. He drummed his fingers on Cath-
erine the Great's leather-topped desk. Perhaps he would leave
early for Vilkovo.
Day 3, 0645 Hours Zulu, 10:45 p.m. Local
EDWARDS AIR FORCE BASE
"Oh, great! That's just great. I really needed this just now.
Shit!"
Monaghan held the phone away from his ear to allow General
McCormack to vent his fury. The general had just been in-
formed that Capt. Davey Barnes had finally been located—in
traction at Lancaster General Hospital, when he would remain
for at least six weeks. That meant the Kestrel was without a
weapons system officer.
When the roar from the phone began to subside, Monaghan
decided to hazard a question. "So, uh, where do we go from
here . . . sir?"
"You let me worry about that, Monaghan," replied McCor-
mack testily. "You just make sure that bird gets armed and on
the transport in one piece. Think you can handle that?"
"I believe so . . . sir."

THE THIRD DAY
221
"What's the status on the arming?" asked the general.
"The LTV people are here now. I think they've got the Side-
winders installed and have started to work on the Phoenix."
"You think? Jesus, man, don't you know?" yelled McCor-
mack. "Did"'t I make myself clear about what's at stake here?
This isn't some kind of piss-off test spin, Monaghan, do you
understand that?"
"I understand somebody got his teat in a wringer and wants
me to ride a rocket upstairs to pull his ass out of the fire . . .
sir."
Monaghan's biting response caused McCormack to snap, and
in military parlance, the general "went ballistic." Monaghan
heard a gurgling sound through the phone. "All right, Com-
mander, I wasn't going to tell you this, but no sense in pulling
punches now. You were fixing to be drummed out of SPACE-
COM next week. I was already cutting the paperwork. The only
reason you got on the Kestrel project in the first place was that
oversexed recommendation letter Admiral Creighton gave you
out of Patuxent. I don't know how much you paid him to write
that epistle, Monaghan, but it must have been a nice piece of
change. You're a helluva a pilot, I'll give you that. But you're
the sorriest excuse for an officer I have ever seen—in any branch
of the service."
"I never knew there was a problem in that regard . . . sir,"
said Monaghan innocently.
The gurgling sound returned. "Not a problem? Listen, bozo,
officers in the United States Armed Forces do not, I repeat do
not, drive a Hertz rental car into the main pool at Caesars Palace
at three o'clock in the morning! With a Senator's daughter in the
front seat!"
"The accelerator jammed, sir."
"That's not the way I heard it. You took her up on a dare.
The only reason you weren't busted then was the Senator wanted
the whole damn thing hushed up. But forget that. Obviously,
I'm not getting through to you, Monaghan, so let me put this to
you in terms even you can understand. If you play this one by
the book and act like a good little soldier—excuse me, good
little sailor—then when this Intrepid mess is over, whether or
not you go upstairs, you get mustered out of the service nice
and easy. Take your twenty-six years, retire to Pensacola, and

222
STORMING INTREPID
get drunk on the beach. No sweat. You're happy. We're happy.
Okay? But if you fuck this up, then so help me I'll see to it your
retirement benefits are frozen for so long you'll be a dried-up
geriatric prune before you see your first pension dollar. Am I
getting through now, Monaghan?"
"Uh, yessir ... I understand, sir."
"Now, you get the Kestrel armed and on the road to Vanden-
berg. I'll get you another backseater. That is all, Commander."
And with that, the line went dead.
Monaghan looked at the receiver for a few moments, then
dropped it on the hook. That air-crap general gave a new mean-
ing to the word prick, he thought. But who the hell cared—
maybe this had been overdue for a long time. He scratched the
red stubble on his craggy features and leaned back in the swivel
chair. It groaned under the load of his husky body.
Leroy "Mad Dog" Monaghan had been the bane of the United
States Navy for twenty-six years. But despite their ongoing ef-
forts to bust, court-martial, or muster him out, he always man-
aged to beat the odds one last time. Indeed, there were times it
seemed he led a charmed life. Such as:
While executing a routine landing on the carrier America,
Monaghan's A-4 Skyhawk snagged a defective arresting wire,
causing it to snap at the anchor joint. The unleashed cable sailed
across the deck and wrapped around the Skyhawk's landing gear
like a bullwhip, just as Monaghan tried to "bolt" from the ship
and take off again. The deck crew watched in horror as the
lassoed Skyhawk plunged over the edge, only to see Monaghan's
rocket-propelled ejector seat pop up from below like a high
infield fly. His chute deployed, and Mad Dog came floating
gently down on the carrier deck—standing up. After a few stu-
pefied moments, the deck crew burst into spontaneous ap-
plause.
Then there was the time he flew cross-country as a passenger
on a TWA jetliner, en route to a naval aviation convention in
Washington. After knocking down a long series of in-flight
cocktails, he fell asleep with a lighted cigarette in his hand-
unintentionally igniting the madras sport jacket of the gentle-
man in the adjoining chair. Roused from his inebriated sleep by
the screams of his fellow passenger, Monaghan instinctively

THE THIRD DAY
223
tossed his drink on the smoldering jacket to douse the flames-
remembering too late it was the remnants of his 100-proof vodka
stinger. The madras jacket went up like a torch, and pandemo-
nium broke out on the plane until a flight attendant was able to
spray the sport coat with a fire extinguisher. Woman screamed.
Children cried. Men swore. Smoke everywhere. Emergency
landing. Ambulance to the hospital. Police called. When the
clothes of the olive-skinned victim were finally cut away in the
hospital's emergency room, the doctors discovered a tiny .22-
caliber revolver hidden in his jockey shorts. Fingerprints were
taken, and it turned out the victim was a wanted member of
Iran's Islamic Jihad Shiite terrorist group. He'd been part of an
Air France hijacking three months earlier, which had ended with
four innocent deaths at the Beirut airport. Monaghan went from
facing a personal injury lawsuit to instant hero.
And the list went on and on. His entire naval career had been
a balancing act between disaster and glory—fueled by his
unending quest for the perfect party and his unmatched skill as
a pilot. More than once he'd been asked if Mad Dog was his
call sign or true Christian name.
Leaving the hangar office, he walked toward the Kestrel just
as the LTV engineer approached him.
"How're we doin'?" asked Monaghan.
The gangly, middle-aged engineer shoved a small screwdriver
into the sleeve pocket of his coveralls and grumbled, "Side-
winders are loaded and we're going through systems check now.
My crew has started to attach a Phoenix to the right pylon."
Monaghan nodded.
"Say, if you don't mind my asking," asked the engineer,
"this whole deal seems a little screwy. Why were seven engi-
neers yanked out of the factory this morning and flown up here
from Dallas with no explanation? I thought we were months
away from a live fire test."
Monaghan looked up at the technicians working on the Phoe-
nix installation. "Schedules change. But never mind about that.
Just make sure these honeys work when I pull the trigger."
The engineer bristled. "They'll work, Commander. I've slept
with these babies for three years, and I know what they can do.
They've got redundant systems, independent/dependent guid-

224
STORMING INTREPID
ance and lock-on, vectored thrust, and anything else you want
to name. They're state-of-the-art. You just get 'em in the ball-
park and turn 'em loose."
Monaghan nodded. "Okay, okay. Don't get your feathers up.
All I'm trying to say is that it's real important they work the very
first time. You might even say somebody's life depends on it.
Catch my drift?"
The engineer's eyes bulged in their sockets. "Are you saying
this ... is not a test?"
"I didn't say anything, including what I just told you. Got
that? Just make 'em work the first time. Okay?"
The engineer gulped. "I promise you, Commander. They'll
work the first time. I, uh, better check on the Phoenix."
"Right," concurred Monaghan.
The man from LTV climbed up the scaffolding over the Kes-
trel's right wing and huddled with his technicians. Every few
seconds one of the techs would stick his head up and look over
at Monaghan, then go back to the huddle. When they broke up
the men from Texas went back to work with a grim intensity.
So who cares if they know? though Monaghan. It's my ass
going upstairs. Besides, if this turns into an honest-to-God
shootin' match, nobody's gonna keep that under wraps for very
long.
He began walking around the spacecraft, making another vi-
sual inspection for the umpteenth time, and wondering if he
would actually have to ride this thing out of Vandenberg atop a
Titan 34-D rocket.
The Kestrel was a small experimental fighter plane designed
to operate in a space environment. It had been named after the
smallest member of the falcon family—a feisty little bird also
known as the sparrowhawk.
The Kestrel's airframe design resembled that of the shuttle in
many respects, but there were some major differences. It was
much smaller than the shuttle, even a little smaller than an F-15
Eagle fighter; but like the shuttle it had a low-wing configura-
tion, meaning that the fuselage rested on top of the delta wing.
The cockpit had tandem seating—one behind the other—for the
pilot and weapons system officer (WSO). The weapons systems
were too complex for a pilot to cope with while maneuvering
the spacecraft; therefore all the weaponry was controlled by the

THE THIRD DAY
225
backseat WSO. Located behind the two-seat cockpit were com-
partments for the hydrazine and nitrogen tetroxide fuel that was
used by the spacecraft's single main engine and the network of
pitch and yaw thrusters. The main engine could be used for
changing altitude while in orbit, maneuvering, reentry, and, in
some situations, pursuit of enemy spacecraft, while the pitch
and yaw thrusters allowed it to whirl and spin in any direction.
Because it would operate in the vacuum of space, the aero-
dynamic configuration of the spacecraft was designed for reen-
try—not for atmospheric maneuvering like a conventional fighter
plane. In space, sleek aerodynamic designs were unnecessary,
but even so, the designers couldn't help themselves and gave the
spacecraft a rapier look.
Like the shuttle, the Kestrel used elevators on the trailing edge
of the delta wing; but instead of the single vertical tail stabilizer,
it had dual rudders on the upturned " winglets'' at the tip of each
wing. The control surfaces of ailerons, rudders, and elevators
were, of course, useless in space and would only come into play
during the Kestrel's atmospheric reentry, approach, and land-
ing.
The Kestrel's heat shielding was a little different, too. The
shuttle used a network of thirty thousand fragile silica tiles to
protect its aluminum skin from the friction heat of reentry,
whereas the Kestrel used a process developed by Lockheed that
bonded a solid layer of reinforced-carbon-carbon shielding di-
recdy to a thin film of asbestos felt, which in turn was bonded
to the spacecraft's titanium skin. This bonding gave the space-
craft a more "seamless" heat shield than the shuttle, which was
always in danger of shaking loose some of the delicate tiles
during launch or reentry.
For weaponry, the Kestrel was outfitted with special versions
of the Sidewinder and Phoenix air-to-air missiles that were also
designed to operate in a space environment.
The conventional Sidewinder was an infrared, heat-seeking
missile designed for close "knife range" air-to-air combat. Its
liquid-nitrogen-cooled nose cone locked onto the hot tailpipe of
an enemy fighter, and like a bull terrier it wouldn't let go until
its victim was dead. (Subsequent models of the missile were
sensitive enough not to require the hot-tailpipe signature, and
could acquire a head-on target profile.)

226
STORMING INTREPID
The space version of the Sidewinder followed this same basic
concept, but with some alterations. Because it flew in a weight-
less environment, its special solid propellant burned slower than
conventional fuel, giving the missile a range of 150 miles. Also,
because it operated in a vacuum, it had no aerodynamic fins.
Instead, steering was provided by the tail nozzle's vectored
thrust, meaning it could swivel and point the exhaust plume in
any rearward direction—sort of like steering a boat with an out-
board'motor. However, when the Sidewinder was in the terminal
phase of closing on its target, the vectored thrust couldn't pro-
vide sufficient maneuvering for extremely tight turns. Therefore,
a double ring of small solid-fuel thrusters around the nose cone
gave it the ability to execute incredibly precise movements in
the final targeting phase as well as providing spin stabilization.
Its guidance system allowed the missile to have target lock-
on through an infrared telescope sensor in the Kestrel's nose
before it was fired, or it could be released in a given direction
and told to "search and destroy" until it found a target with its
onboard sensor, or ran out of propellant. When the Sidewinder
finally pounced on its prey in the terminal phase, its annular
blast fragmentation warhead would slice the victim spacecraft
into chopped liver.
The Kestrel carried the Sidewinder in a recessed nacelle,
sandwiched between the upper and lower plates of the wing.
When fired, it was ejected from the nacelle by a cartridge of
compressed nitrogen gas before the solid propellant ignited.
During the Vietnam War, the Sidewinder developed a devoted
following among American pilots. When the missile locked on
to a North Vietnamese MiG, it would signal the pilot with a
grrrrrrr in his headphones—like an angry dog straining against
his leash; and when released, it would often scurry into the
MiG's tailpipe.
The Kestrel's Phoenix missile possessed many of the attrib-
utes of the Sidewinder, in that it also had vectored thrust, slow-
burn propellant, nose cone ring thrusters for terminal phase ma-
neuvering and spin stabilization, and an annular fragmentation
warhead. However, the guidance system was different. The Kes-
trel possessed a state-of-the-art long-range, Doppler-pulse radar
that was operated by the backseat WSO. The spacecraft's radar
could guide the Phoenix to the target, or the WSO could switch

THE THIRD DAY
227
the missile to its own organic radar system after launch, which
also had a "seek and destroy" mode. The advantage of the
Phoenix over the Sidewinder was range—with the powerful
Doppler radar it could engage a target up to 500 miles away.
This far outstripped the conventional Phoenix range of 127 miles,
but operating in a space environment, distances can be deceiv-
ing. To engage a head-to-head orbiting target at a mutual closing
velocity of 34,000 mph, or roughly nine miles per second, the
Kestrel would have to acquire, lock on, and fire the Phoenix
within a maximum of forty seconds. Therefore, it was virtually
impossible to engage a head-on target without assistance from
the ground. However, if the Kestrel was traveling in the same
orbital path and direction as the target, it could take the Phoe-
nix—traveling at a relative catch-up closing speed of2,500 miles
an hour—up to twenty minutes to execute a rendezvous and
reach a target that was 500 miles distant.
Because the Phoenix held much more electronics and pro-
pellant, it was about three times thicker in the body than the
Sidewinder and could not fit into the narrow wing nacelles. Nor
could it be mounted on a pylon underneath the wing, because
the Kestrel's belly surface had to remain smooth for the aero-
dynamic rigors of reentry. Therefore the missiles were mounted
on pylons on top of the wings. Prior to lift-off they were covered
with protective aerodynamic shrouds which were jettisoned af-
ter the Kestrel reached orbit. And prior to reentry, the pylons
would be jettisoned so that the control surface of the Kestrel's
wing would not be impaired.
In addition to the weaponry, the Kestrel was crammed with
just about every electronic goody the Lockheed engineers could
think of to cram onboard—from NavComputer to Global Posi-
tioning System to ring laser gyros to Autoland and threat warn-
ing systems.
Finishing his walkaround, Monaghan reflected that the Kestrel
looked a great deal like the old Dyna-Soar project that had been
under development during the early 1960s. Unfortunately, that
prototype had been competing for funding in the shadow of the
Mercury-Gemini-Apollo effort. As a result, it had never built
up a constituency of its own and was scrapped by NASA in
1963. Too bad, though Monaghan. If we'd kept Dyna-Soar going
we wouldn't have had to play catch-up ball with the Kestrel.

228
STORMING INTREPID
There were two motivating factors for developing the Kestrel.
One, the Graser was an extremely effective weapon, but its
gamma-ray beam was several kilometers wide, and that could
be a problem when friendly targets were mixed in with enemy
targets—like satellites traveling shoulder to shoulder in the same
orbital path. The Kestrel was a more "surgical" weapon and
could pick out its target from a group of bogies. The second
reason was that the Soviets already possessed a prototype space-
plane fighter and had successfully orbited and retrieved a scale
model several times. The President wasn't about to let that one
go by. Period. But what the American President didn't know
was that the Russians were unable to translate their success with
the spaceplane model to the full-sized shuttle.
Monaghan went into the hangar chiefs office. "You got the
transport lined up?" he queried.
The chief pushed his baseball-style cap back up on his head
of thinning blond hair. "Yes, sir. A C-5N will be here in about
an hour and a half."
Monaghan nodded and looked at the hangar door. "Can that
C-5 back into here? I wouldn't want to move the Kestrel outside
during a Russkie flyby," he said, referring to Russian recon-
naissance satellites.
"No problem, Commander." He tapped the bulletin board
with his pencil. "We get daily printouts from NORAD on the
Russians' observation window. Besides, we'll have a tarp over
it when we roll it out to the Galaxy."
Monaghan seemed satisfied, and wrote down a phone num-
ber. "Okay, the LTV people won't be finished for another six
hours. I'm going back to my BOQ and get a little sack time
before we roll. If our beloved General McCormack should call,
tell him I'm in the head, then call me at home."
The chief shrugged. "Suit yourself."
Back in his quarters, Monaghan opened a closet that con-
tained various and sundry memorabilia he'd accumulated over
the years—a nice way of saying "junk." For several minutes he
rummaged around in the closet like a bear in s beehive, until he
found what he was looking for under a case of empty Bacardi
bottles. It was a videotape.

THE THIRD DAY
229
He powered up his TV and VCR, then dropped in the tape
and started the rewind.
Kapuscinski, Mulcahey, and Rodriquez, the general had said.
One of them had gone over—defected—and it might be up to
the Mad Dog to put the skids on whoever it was. Rodriquez he'd
never met. Mulcahey had been the copilot on one of his two
shuttle orientation flights. Kapuscinski he knew.
The tape stopped its rewind and Monaghan hit the play but-
ton. There was a whirring, then a title appeared on the screen:
RED FLAG
AIR FORCE vs. NAVY
Red Flag was a training exercise that pitted the best fighter
pilots in the Air Force against one another in mock aerial com-
bat. Sometimes Navy and Marine pilots were invited by the Air
Force to participate in a simulated shoot-/'em-up competition-
just as Monaghan had been invited seven years ago. The vid-
eotape had been taken by Monaghan's gun camera during his
last engagement of the competition.
When Air Force and Navy fighter jocks square off, old inter-
service rivalries heat up to a white-hot pitch, and some zealous
ground crew chiefs would load live ammunition into their pilot's
aircraft if given half the chance. During this Red Flag match at
Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada, Monaghan had been flying an
FA-18 Hornet. Going into the last day of the competition, Mad
Dog was enjoying himself immensely, having Waxed four of four
air-crap pilots in mock dogfights over the Nevada desert. Two
of his victims belonged to the elite Aggressor training squadron
at Nellis—American pilots who played the part of the bad guys
in the air. The Aggressors flew with Russian tactics, wore Rus-
sian flite suits, and thought they were really hot shit. Monaghan
couldn't help but crow about his shoving it to the Aggressors.
That was really sweet. But then things changed.
On the last day of competition, Monaghan wasmatched with
his only remaining contender for the Red Flag trophy—some
air-crapper named Iceberg. What happened then, Monaghan
still had a hard time believing.
The tape played, and Mad Dog went back in time.

230
STORMING INTREPID
* * *
Mad Dog's Hornet and Iceberg's F-15 Eagle executed a lateral
cross at seven thousand feet. Monaghan yanked back on his stick
to try to gain altitude on his opponent, but Iceberg put his Eagle
into the same maneuver. Going past Mach 1 with his afterburn-
ers screaming, Mad Dog craned his neck back to look out the
top of his canopy, only to see Iceberg doing the exact same thing
in the Eagle. They were heading straight up in a dead-heat, back-
to-back interceptor climb. Monaghan saw that neither aircraft
was gaining on the other, so he changed tactics. He threw his
Hornet into a series of scissor switchbacks, causing the Eagle
to sail past him. This gave Mad Dog tail position on the F-15,
but he couldn't lock on to the Eagle's exhaust pipes because it
was headed directly into the sun. He had to wait for Iceberg to
make a move.
At 52,000 feet, Mad Dog saw the Eagle pull out of the climb,
go over in a loop, and plunge straight down in a power dive.
Monaghan followed and groaned under the strain of the eight-g
turn—he couldn't allow the air-crap to get behind him. Mad Dog
anticipated that Iceberg would start pulling up and go into a
climbing turn, but he didn't. The Eagle kept going down-
straight down. Monaghan followed, and began lining up his
Hornet's head-up display targeting circle on the F-15's blazing
dual tailpipes; but before he could hold it steady long enough
for a kill, Iceberg started jinking the Eagle back and forth, then
he put the fighter into a spiral—still headed down. The Eagle's
spirals were too wide for the targeting scanner's sweep, so Mad
Dog cursed and rolled his Hornet in behind Iceberg, following
him down toward a canyon. The spirals became tighter and
tighter—and the rugged Nevada mountains drew closer and
closer. Water vapor enveloped the wings of both aircraft as the
extreme lift created by the tight turns sucked the moisture right
out of the ambient air. Monaghan pulled the Hornet almost to
nine g's, the point at which blood is literally pushed out of the
brain and blackout occurs. But Mad Dog fought back into con-
sciousness and began inching his aiming circle toward the Ea-
gle. Closer . . . closer . . . mountains . . . almost there . . .
altimeter . . . almost got him . . . into the canyon ... put him
in the ring . . . altimeter . . . canyon floor . . . closer . . .I've
got—Ridgeline! Pull up! Pull up! Pull up! Mad Dog yanked the

THE THIRD DAY
231
stick all the way back and went through nine g's, blacking him-
self out for a few moments before yelling, "Jesus! The damn
fool plowed into the mountain!" Shaken to his core, Monaghan
steadied his climb, then leveled off to regain his equilibrium.
God in heaven! he thought. The crazy sunovabitch flew right
under the overhang beneath the ridgeline! I didn't clear that ridge
by a fingernail! I'd better call this in—
Beeeeeeeeeepppp!!!
The warble of Monaghan's threat-warning receiver told him
he'd been locked on. He whirled around to look behind him.
No! It couldn't be!
"Mad Dog, this is Red Flag Base. You are a kill. I say again,
you are a kill. Chalk one Hornet and a trophy up to Iceberg.
Game's over, gentlemen. Return to base."
What the fuck is going on? Monaghan asked himself. That
Eagle could not be Iceberg. He'd just seen him crash. He kept
his Hornet steady while the Eagle pulled up alongside him.
Monaghan's eyes caught the six tiny North Vietnamese flags
painted on the Eagle's fuselage, just below the canopy. Yeah. It
was Iceberg . . . but howl Iceberg returned Monaghan's stare.
No wave. No thumbs-up. No friendly salute. Just a clinical once-
over by the champion. After the cold-blooded appraisal was
completed, Monaghan watched Iceberg lower his sun visor, then
bank and pull away.
Monaghan kept his Hornet level for a few seconds, then shook
his head. "I saw what I saw," he told himself, and pulled the
FA-18 back around toward the ridgeline.
The terrain around Nellis is full of rugged, bone-dry, saw-
toothed mountains, similar to a moonscape. Monaghan flew
over the jagged ridge twice, trying to re-create what had hap-
pened, but it only made him more puzzled than before. He'd
seen Iceberg fly under that ridge overhang. He'd seen it. Mad
Dog shook his head one last time and made a visual fix on the
location, then headed back for the runway.
After landing and securing the Hornet, he commandeered
somebody's Bronco and drove it overland to the small canyon
where the Eagle should have crashed. When the vehicle couldn't
negotiate the rugged terrain any farther, he got out and walked
up the canyon floor. The scene that greeted him was unbeliev-
able.

232
STORMING INTREPID
Monaghan climbed up to the base of the jagged ridge—where
Iceberg should have impacted—and inspected it more closely.
Beneath the top of the ridgeline there was the rocky overhang—
which he'd seen from the air—but underneath the overhang was
a large natural arch that had been formed through eons of erosion
by windblown sand. Monaghan climbed into the arch, which he
estimated had a diameter of about fifty feet. The arch couldn't
be detected from above because the overhang concealed it. You
had to hug the canyon floor to see that it was almost a perfect
hole in the base of the craggy ridge. That son of a bitch Iceberg
had flown his goddam F-15 Eagle through the goddam arch at
500 goddam miles an hour. In the pursuit, Monaghan hadn't
been quite low enough to see that the hole was there. That's why
he'd had to pull the Hornet up to clear the jagged ridge. After the
Eagle popped out the other side of the arch, Iceberg had found
Mad Dog in nice level flight—the perfect target.
Monaghan shook his head and walked through the arch. He
estimated the Eagle had maybe six feet of clearance for each
wingtip, and that rattled him even more. Mad Dog figured his
own Hornet had cleared the top of the ridgeline by three centi-
meters at best.
In a dogfight the concentration of the pursuer on the target is
so intense that the pilot becomes oblivious to anything else. Just
like formation flying. Monaghan remembered when an entire
four-plane formation of the Thunderbirds, the Air Force aero-
batic team, crashed during a practice session. Three of the pilots
were concentrating so hard on their tight formation with the
leader that they followed him right into the ground.
Monaghan surveyed the arch and knew that Iceberg's move
must have been a well-thought-out and planned trap. He'd in-
tentionally lured Monaghan into a lose-lose situation. If the
Hornet wasn't plastered against the ridge while trying to follow
the Eagle, Iceberg would nail Mad Dog after he pulled up the
FA-18 to avoid it. Either way, it spelled T-R-O-P-H-Y for the Ice-
berg. It was a wicked strategy that was as clever as it was crazy.
It had meant almost certain death for the Hornet—as well as a
certain trophy for Iceberg. Not being familiar with the terrain,
Monaghan had escaped with his life by the narrowest of mar-
gins. A stunt like that wasn't just crazy, it was . . . well, any

THE THIRD DAY
233
flyer who would endanger a fellow fighter pilot for a goddam tin
trophy was . . . psychotic.
Monaghan had thought about reporting the incident, but didn't
for three reasons: Nobody would believe Iceberg would be crazy
enough to fly an F-15 through a hole in a mountain; any com-
plaint by Mad Dog would be dismissed as the crybaby sniffles
of a miffed Navy loser; and the gun camera video recording had
run out of tape three seconds before Iceberg's disappearance
under the overhang. So Mad Dog had had to let that one slide,
but he never forgot... or forgave.
Monaghan turned off the tape and went to the refrigerator to
grab a beer—a regular habit, as demonstrated by his generous
paunch. He popped the top and walked outside to watch the
moon over the distant Sierras. It was a crystal-clear desert night,
and the stars were dancing above Edwards Dry Lake.
Slowly and methodically, Monaghan's mind recapped the Red
Flag competition one last time. He was totally convinced there
was no question. Iceberg had deliberately tried to splatter his
Hornet on a mountainside just so he could capture some two-bit
championship. Any sicko who would pull something like that
was capable of anything.
After he drained the last of his beer, Mad Dog's hefty forearm
muscle flexed, causing the can to crumple in his hand. He'd
made up his mind.
Kapuscinski, Mulcahey, and Rodriquez. McCormack had said
they didn't know which one had gone over.
Monaghan's money was on Kapuscinski, and as far as he was
concerned, if the Kestrel went up, that motherfucking snake
Iceberg was dead meat.
Day 3, 0900 Hours Zulu, 2:00 a.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
Whittenberg and Lamborghini straggled into the conference
room, still wearing their green flight suits. They looked drawn,
haggard, and grimy with stubble on their chins. They'd grabbed
a few hours' sleep before heading back from Washington, but it

234
STORMING INTREPID
hadn't been near enough to recharge them fully. The long hours
and stress were taking their toll.
Whittenberg called a conference of the staff members who
were not sleeping, and one by one they waddled in and plopped
down in their chairs. The chief of staff had just awakened, and
he was probably the most refreshed of the group. Everybody
else looked like yesterday's poached eggs.
Whittenberg nodded wearily to Dowd. "Give me a status
check, Bull."
"Roger, sir. Let's start off with intel. Chief Kelly, what have
you got?" The chief master sergeant had been minding the in-
telligence shop while Lamborghini and Strand were away. He
quickly explained how they were investigating the Intrepid's crew
members with the help of an FBI agent.
After Kelly was finished, the Bull said, "Okay, Sir Isaac,
what do you have?"
Fairchild turned to face the CinC. "I spoke with General
McCormack a few minutes ago. Preparations are proceeding at
the Cape and the Constellation should be ready for launch by
zero-four-thirty Eastern time tomorrow morning. The Kestrel is
in the process of being armed, and will be transported to Van-
denberg in about five hours. Also, General McCormack asked
that you call him as soon as possible, sir."
Sir Isaac then rose and went to the lectern, his huge nose and
skinny frame making him look like a buzzard poised on a fence
post. He punched a few buttons, and a Mercator world map
appeared on the screen showing the ground track of the Intrepid.
"Something occurred during your flight back from Washington
that is disturbing," he began, while pointing at the screen. "This
is the ground track of the Intrepid as of four hours ago. At zero-
four-thirty-two Zulu we received a launch detection in SPADOC
of a missile coming out of the Plesetsk Cosmodrome."
"At zero-four-thirty-two?" asked Whittenberg. "That was
fast."
"Yes, sir. As you'll recall, our last KH-12 pass had occurred
only six hours prior and there were no vehicles on any Plesetsk
pads at that time. The Soviets wheeled this one out and launched
it in very short order." Sir Isaac punched another button and a
second wavy line appeared, parallel to the first. "This is the
ground track of the Plesetsk vehicle. It is virtually on a direct

THE THIRD DAY
235
reciprocal orbit to the Intrepid, but with one major difference.
It is traveling in a circular orbit at a higher altitude of two hun-
dred twenty-one miles."
"I don't think I like this," muttered the CinC.
"Neither do I, sir," replied Sir Isaac.
"Has Admiral Bergstrom been informed?"
"NMCC was notified immediately, sir."
"Your assessment?" asked Whittenberg.
Sir Isaac stoked up his pipe. "Take your pick, sir. It could be
an ELINT bird, SIGINT, PHOTINT, IR, you name it. What-
ever it is, it seems to be passive. NSA hasn't picked up so much
as a bleep of telemetry from it."
"What about an ASAT?" queried Lamborghini.
Sir Isaac rapped his teeth with the pipestem. "It's not im-
possible, but there are several arguments against that line of
thinking."
"Such as," prompted the CinC.
Sir Isaac stared at the ceiling for a few moments before speak-
ing. "I would anticipate an ASAT would mirror the Intrepid's
altitude or travel below it, but as I said, this vehicle's altitude is
significantly higher. In conducting ASAT tests, the Russians
have historically kept the warhead in the same orbital altitude as
the target, or else placed the warhead in a lower altitude and put
it through a pop-up maneuver in the terminal targeting phase.
Also, Russian ASATs have always traveled in a co-orbital flight
path. They've never traveled in the opposite direction. So this
violates any historical precedent."
"What about that test they ran just before the ASAT treaty
was signed?" Lamborghini was referring to a dual launch de-
tection that had been picked up out of the Baikonur Cosmo-
drome. One SS-N-9 missile went due south, another went due
north. What happened exactly, NORAD couldn't say for sure,
except that on the very first orbit the two payloads were de-
stroyed somewhere over the South Pole—where the Spacetrack
radars had a blind spot. Their flight paths had been kept at such
a low altitude that their debris quickly fell to earth before
NORAD got a good handle on whether it was an ASAT test or
something else. Right after that shot, the antisatellite weaponry
treaty was signed.

236
STORMING INTREPID
Sir Isaac shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. But if
that was an ASAT, they've only had one test."
"Yeah," said Lamborghini. "One successful test."
Again, Sir Isaac shrugged. "We simply can't say for certain.
But consider this: If the Russians are indeed trying to capture
the Intrepid, why would they shoot it down with an ASAT?''
Lamborghini mulled that one over. "Maybe they can't re-
trieve the Intrepid and want to shoot it down to prevent us from
arming the platform?"
"If that's the case," countered Sir Isaac, "then why haven't
they gone ahead and destroyed it?"
There was a period of silence. No one had an answer.
"So you're still saying it could be anything?" asked Whitten-
berg.
"That's about the size of it, sir," Sir Isaac sighed.
"That may be," said Lamborghini as he ran a hand through
his sweat-stained raven hair, "but this is another uncomfortable
coincidence. It must have something to do with the Intrepid.
What, I don't know, but there has to be a link."
Kelly thought his boss looked bad and offered a suggestion.
"Maybe we should put Spyglass on it?"
Lamborghini was about to respond when Whittenberg said,
"Yeah. Let's do that." Then he scratched his stubby chin. "But
for this, we'd better pull out all the stops. Let's put the Hubble
on it, too."
Dowd smiled wryly. "Leeds will have kittens. That's his per-
sonal wet dream."
"Screw him," said the CinC.
Back in his office, Whittenberg put in a secure call to Mc-
Cormack at the Kennedy Space Center.
In an apologetic voice, McCormack said, "Sorry to dump
this on you, sir, but we have a major problem with the Kestrel."
"What is it?" asked Whittenberg.
"The weapons systems officer . . . you know him, Air Force
Captain Davey Barnes."
"Sure, I know him."
"He was en route to the Kestrel hangar when he got racked
up on his motorcycle," recounted McCormack. "He's in the
hospital for at least six weeks."

THE THIRD DAY
237
Whittenberg winced. "Damn!"
The two generals knew what Barnes's accident meant. Since
the Kestrel was in the prototype stage and had been developed
under such a blanket of secrecy, only a primary test crew had
been selected and trained on its systems. There was no backup
pilot or WSO.
"I guess that scrubs it," lamented the CinC.
"I'm afraid it does, sir, unless you want to give up one of
your staff people."
Whittenberg's eyes narrowed. "You mean Pete?"
"Yes, sir. He was deputy director for the Kestrel project be-
fore he went to your SPACECOM intelligence slot. He's the
only one I know of who is flight-qualified and knows the sys-
tems."
Whittenberg frowned. "Yeah, but he hasn't done any hands-
on work with the Kestrel for over a year."
"I know that, sir," observed McCormack. "But the only
other people who know enough about the systems are civilians
with LTV—and we certainly can't ask any of them. I don't like
it either, General, but I say it's either Pete or we stand down at
Vandenberg."
Whittenberg closed his eyes. "I guess you're right. I'll talk
to him and get back to you."
"Thanks, General. I hope the Constellation can take care of
everything and the Kestrel won't matter."
"Yeah, me, too."
The conversation seemed to be over, but McCormack didn't
get off the line.
"Anything else?" asked Whittenberg.
"Yes, sir," said McCormack, somewhat sheepishly. "I just
wanted you to know, I told Monaghan that however this Intrepid
deal turns out, either way, when it's over he's outta here."
Whittenberg didn't second-guess his commanders. "You're
Commander of Flight Operations, Chet. It's your decision. When
we brought Monaghan on he only sounded good to me because
Admiral Creighton gave him such high marks."
"Yes, sir, I know."
"Seems a shame. I hear he's an incredible pilot."
"Oh, yes, sir," agreed McCormack. "When you can find
him sober."

238
STORMING INTREPID
*- * *
Lamborghini leaned back in the chair, absorbing what his
boss had just told him. He thought Whittenberg looked awfully
bad. The four olive-drab stars on the shoulders of the CinC's
green flight suit seemed to bear down heavily on him. Lam-
borghini felt a sense of loyalty to this man who'd rescued his Air
Force career, and he didn't want to let him down. He said, "I
have no problem giving it a try, sir. It's just that I feel awfully
rusty on the systems."
"That's what I told Chet," recalled Whittenberg. "If you
think it's not feasible, just say so. No sense sending you up if
we don't have a reasonable chance of making it work."
Lamborghini thought back to his briefing at the White House.
About what it would mean if the Russians got hold of the In-
trepid, the PRISM computer, and the Graser. "I know it's a
long shot, sir, but considering what's at stake, I think we'd better
give it a whirl."
The CinC nodded. "Okay. I'll call Chet and tell him you'll
be on your way to Vandenberg after you've got some sleep. I
don't want you leaving here tired. Get at least six hours under
your belt before you take off."
Lamborghini didn't argue. "Ask General McCormack to have
all the tech manuals ready for me at Edwards. I think it best I
do some simulator time before launch, and it would be helpful
to have the manuals on hand. I just wish I wasn't going to be in
the backseat."
"I understand," said the CinC sympathetically. "Also, just
so you'll know, Monaghan and Chet had words with each other.
Don't get caught in a pissin' contest between those two."
Lamborghini chuckled. "I'm not surprised. I only knew Mad
Dog briefly. He was coming into the project just as I was leav-
ing. I liked him, but he didn't strike me as General Mc-
Cormack's type."

THE THIRD DAY
239
Day 3, 0948 Hours Zulu, 4:48 a.m. Local
GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.
When Dr. Percival Leeds was selected by the President and
Vice President to head up the National Aeronautics and Space
Administration, they thought he would do for NASA what Whit-
tenberg had done for SPACECOM—and to a degree they were
right. He'd helped galvanize the country behind a renewed space
effort. But if the truth were known, his galactic ego had worn
out his welcome at the White House and he was on very, very
thin ice. On a highly confidential basis, the Vice President had
already retained the executive search firm of SpencerStuart to
look for a possible replacement.
Leeds was a peculiar character who could best be described
as a slothful dynamo. He was born the son of famed astronomer
Herbert Leeds, one of the pioneers in the field of radio astron-
omy and director of the Lick Observatory. Percy adored his
father, and always assumed he would follow in his old man's
astronomical footsteps. Unfortunately, Percy also adored lying
on the beach alongside a bikini-clad companion. So much so
that he remained on the sand throughout the bulk of his ten-year
student career at a major California university.
In deference to his father's stature (and a desire to get Percy
out of their hair) this major California university (which shall
remain nameless) awarded the younger Leeds a Ph.D. in as-
tronomy, with the understanding he seek employment out of
state.
Percy agreed, but with his slipshod academic record, he soon
found it impossible to obtain work in his arcane field of astron-
omy. Potential employers would take one look at his dissertation
and shudder. "Ahem, Dr. Leeds, didn't anyone ever tell you
there is no e in 'quasar'?"
So there he was. Dead in the water, pushing thirty, with no
marketable job skill. It was scary. But then, a twist of fate.
Through a friend of a friend, he got a job selling X-Tay medical
equipment, and his career took off like a comet. He found that
he had a gift for putting complex technical terms into simple,
clear language. That skill, coupled with the fact that he always
presented himself as Dr. Leeds to physician customers, made

240
STORMING INTREPID
him the company's top salesman. His superiors took notice, and
he rose quickly, eventually becoming chairman of the high-tech
conglomerate that had hired him as a salesman. And that posi-
tion served as a springboard for him to become a major ftind-
raiser for the Presidential campaign of a former auto maker.
After the election, Leeds was tapped for NASA because the
President saw him as the perfect "Mr. Outside" for the space
program—and he was. Indeed, he became a media dariing for
the agency, constandy on the road proselytizing for bigger and
more expensive space ventures. With his blond hair, boyish good
looks, and trademark horn-rimmed glasses, he became a regular
guest for Johnny Carson, Phil Donahue, Oprah Winfrey, and
any other talk show NASA's publicity people could book. And
he was incredibly effective on Capitol Hill. He could coax money
out of parsimonious senators like nobody's business—especially
for a project that became his obsession, the Hubble space tele-
scope. He saw the Hubble as his vindication of sorts, for in
exercising control over the space telescope he demonstrated that
he truly was, at long last, a full member of his father's scientific
community—and it gave him the credibility to return to that
university in California with his head held high.
Unfortunately, though, Leed's success brought on an acute
case of Washingtonitis, a severe affliction that often topples Cab-
inet officers and Congressmen. Leeds became intoxicated with
the media attention and started believing his own press releases.
His ego expanded like a supernova, and the White House came
to regard him as a royal pain in the arse.
But at the moment, Leeds wasn't paying much attention to
the White House. He was riding the crest of his own wave. In
addition to the Hubble telescope—and his newfound credibility
in the scientific community—Leeds had his own NASA jet, his
own publicity staff, his own Georgetown pad, and—as he liked
to boast—his own pack of groupies.
It took three rings before the young lady was awakened. Ir-
ritated, she shook the figure beside her. "Hey, honey . . . your
phone is ringin'."
"Mmmpppffff." He fumbled over his buxom companion for
the receiver, and in the process his knuckles accidentally bopped
her on the nose.

THE THIRD DAY
241
"Ow!"
"Uhhhh . . . terribly sorry, Julie. My apologies."
"The name's Rhonda."
"Uh, yes, I was going to say Rhonda. You will excuse me."
He snagged the receiver with an irritable "Yes?"
"Dr. Leeds?" came the voice through the phone.
"Whom were you expecting?" asked Leeds sarcastically.
"I'm sorry to awaken you, Doctor. This is Rodger Whitten-
berg at SPACECOM headquarters in Colorado."
Leeds exhaled, not bothering to mask his annoyance. "Gen-
eral, do you have any idea what time it is?"
"I make it about four forty-eight a.m. your time, Doctor."
Leeds growled, "What on earth do you want now, General?"
"As I said, Doctor, I'm sorry to bother you, but something
has come up and we require your assistance immediately. We
need the Hubble telescope to pass from NASA's control to
SPACECOM's. There are some, uh, vital observations we have
to make without delay."
Leeds felt his fury building. "Right this minute?"
Whittenberg didn't mask the edge on his voice, either.' 'Right
this minute, Doctor."
Leeds's cork popped. "You listen to me, General! I don't
know what kind of toy-soldier games you're playing out there
in Colorado—maybe the altitude's gotten to you—but if you ex-
pect me to jump out of bed at five in the morning and pop to
attention for SPACECOM, you're insane! I run NASA, and it's
a civilian agency and don't you forget it—ever! You've already
commandeered my COSMAX shuttle, and now you want the
Hubble, too? What the hell for?"
"I'm sorry, Doctor. I can't say. But I need it now."
The NASA Director growled again. "That's what you said
about the Constellation, too, if I recall. Well, General, you're
not getting any more of my toys to play with. I keep the Hubble
under my personal supervision—I happen to be a scientist, you
see—and I don't care to have any of your bloody militaristic
paws on my telescope. Go play with your goddam Star Wars
platform!" And with that, the receiver came crashing down.
"Guess I told that black bastard where to go."
"You sure did, honey.'' She inched toward him.' 'Gee, you're
cute when you're mad. . . . Listen, since you're up . . ."

242
STORMING INTREPID
He emitted a low, hungry laugh.
She giggled, "I mean, since you're awake ..."
He reached for her. "I know what you meant."
Ten minutes later the bedside phone rang again, interrupting
Leeds at a very crucial juncture. Outraged, he ripped the re-
ceiver off the cradle. "All right, General! That's enough! I told
you to take your—"
"Stow it, Leeds. This isn't General Whittenberg."
The NASA Director recognized the voice. "Uh, Mr. Vice
President?"
"That's right, Leeds. Now you listen, and listen to me but
good. You get your butt out of bed and hightail it down to God-
dard, and make goddam sure General Whittenberg gets control
of the Hubble telescope and has any other assistance he may
require. Do you hear me?"
The astronomer stammered, "Uh, well, yes, Mr. Vice Pres-
ident, of course, but I feel I'm entitled to some kind of an ex-
planation. What's this all about?"
"Certainly, Doctor. The explanation is that until you hear dif-
ferent from me or the President, your agency and all of NASA's
resources are working for General Whittenberg. And don't give
me any back talk. If you don't bust ass down to Goddard right
now I'll see to it your next posting will be studying penguin shit
at the South Pole. And we'll have a new NASA Director by the
time the sun comes up. Is that clear?"
"Uh, uh, yes, Mr. Vice President."
"Now get moving and call the General the minute you get to
Goddard—on a secure line. Now do it."
The line went dead, and Leeds rolled out of bed.
"Say . . . where are you goin'?" whined his companion.
While pulling on his pants, Leeds muttered, "Can't talk.
Gotta go."
With a pouting mouth she whimpered, "Don't forget my cab
fare."

THE THIRD DAY
243
Day 3, 1100 Hours Zulu, 3:00 p.m. Local
BAIKONUR COSMODROME
Flashes from the electric arc welder illuminated the entire
hangar like a giant strobe light. Vostov watched through protec-
tive goggles as the welder guided his electric torch down the
side of the docking collar, generating a waterfall of sparks along
the way. Understandably, the technician was a little antsy about
passing hundreds of volts through an aluminum collar wrapped
around a solid-fuel rocket, but the Chief Designer assured him
there was no danger.
When the second seam was completed, the two men pulled
off their goggles. Vostov walked around and carefully inspected
the welds, and how the collar fitted against the exterior of the
Progress engine.
The early models of the Progress cargo drone had used liquid-
fuel engines. There are many positive things to be said for that
type of propulsion system. Liquid-fuel engines are easy to start
and stop by turning the fuel flow on and off, and the energy-to-
weight ratio of liquids is better than that of solid fuel. But
unfortunately, liquids can also be volatile as hell. Two years
prior, a Progress drone had been on final approach to the Mir
space station when it simply blew up for no apparent reason.
Luckily, it was far enough away from the Mir that the space
station was not damaged, and the five cosmonauts on board were
not injured. The explosion was considered a fluke until the same
thing happened again a month later. After that, Vostov imme-
diately went to work on a solid-fuel version.
Most solid-fuel rocket engines are essentially a metal cylinder
casing wrapped around a rubbery fuel. The fuel is ignited at the
bottom of the exit nozzle and simply keeps burning until it's
expended. Designing a solid-fuel engine that can be turned on
and off at will is tricky. Vostov came up with a method that fed
granules of the aluminum powder fuel and the aluminum per-
chlorjte oxidizer—about the size of BBs—into a combustion
chamber. The fuel flow into the chamber could be turned on
and off as required by an innovative pressurized nitrogen system.
It was another Vostov marvel.

244
STORMING INTREPID
"You are an excellent welder," announced the Chief De-
signer.
"Thank you, Comrade," the tradesman replied.
"That will be all," Vostov said in dismissal, and the welder
gathered up his gear. Vostov beckoned to a lieutenant colonel,
who hustled up with several technicians. "Give this a few more
minutes to cool, then begin loading it in the launch shroud.
When it is prepared, come awaken me. I will be in the tempo-
rary quarters building."
The lieutenant colonel saluted. "Of course, Comrade Chief
Designer."
Vostov turned to the cosmonauts, Lubinin and Yemitov, and
gestured to the welded collar on the Progress engine. "You ap-
prove?" he asked, as if it were a dare.
The two men took a walkaround of the finished product. Lu-
binin allowed himself a smile. "Everything appears to be in
order, Comrade. I trust the measurements are precise."
"Precise," responded Vostov, "and well ahead of schedule,
as you might imagine."
Lubinin's head, situated on top of his oxlike neck, nodded
approvingly. "Very well, Comrade. Just get us up there, and
we will bring down that American shuttle for you."
Day 3, 1109 Hours Zulu, 1:09 p.m. Local
MOSCOW
If a Harvard Business School professor ever had the inclina-
tion to investigate the management styles of Politburo members,
it wold make a fascinating study, to be sure; for in exercising
their power, this small cabal of fifteen men used arcane tech-
niques that were something to behold. Many Politburo members
used the fear-and-intimidation management style. A couple led
by example. One tried to be benevolent, while another passed
out cartons of American cigarettes as a reward for excellent
performance by subordinates.
But the distinctive management style utilized and embraced
by the Foreign Minister was that of humiliation. At every op-
portunity he would berate, ridicule, belittle, insult, or impugn

THE THIRD DAY
245
his subordinates, and impress upon them how utterly unfit they
were to serve in the glorious Foreign Ministry. No position pa-
per, no report, no drafted cablegram was ever worth more than
the paper upon which it was written, as far as the Foreign Min-
ister was concerned. And he seized every opportunity to point
out these failings to his underlings. "If you presented the For-
eign Minister with Michelangelo's David," lamented one staffer,
"he would ream you out for wasting a perfectly good piece of
marble."
Now understand, whenever the Foreign Minister dealt with
his own superiors he would turn into supplication itself. But with
subordinates, the octogenarian minister would remind them over
and over and over again that their station in life was just slightly
below the level of whale shit on the bottom of the ocean.
The reason subordinates put up with such humiliation was
because the Foreign Minister held the key to that juiciest of
plums—a posting outside the Soviet Union. Assignments
abroad—particularly in Western Europe or North America-
were the most coveted jewels in all of Soviet society; and if you
had to wallow in the whale shit to grab one of those foreign
jewels, well, that's what you did—as long as you eventually
landed in Rome, Madrid, or Ottawa.
Aleksandr Kulikov, aide-de-camp to the Foreign Minister,
had been wallowing in the whale shit for a very long time in-
deed. The willowy, almost delicate Kulikov possessed features
that were somewhat androgynous, which seemed to accentuate
his forlornness. Early in his career he had been blessed with a
delightful three-year posting in Paris, where he fell in love with
cognac, French food, French architecture, French women (all
of them); took weekend trips to the Loire Valley; and earned
high marks for his performance from the Russian ambassador.
It appeared his star was rising in the ministry, for upon his return
to Moscow he was awarded with what seemed to be a prestigious
position, one that would greatly enhance his career. He was
selected as aide-de-camp to the Foreign Minister himself. Ku-
likov figured he would have the position for a "year or two,
then be rotated back to Paris or some other choice Western
capital.
He was wrong.
Because he was a very efficient aide, the Foreign Minister had

246
STORMING INTREPID
kept Kulikov enslaved in the same position for the last ten years,
subjecting him to a daily regimen of insults, contempt, degra-
dation, abuse, and humiliation. Despite Kulikov's constant en-
treaties for reassignment, the Foreign Minister refused to let him
go, and kept him on such a short leash that the poor wretch was
scarcely allowed to go to the water closet by himself.
After enduring seven hellish years of insults, contempt, deg-
radation, abuse, and humiliation from his superior, Kulikov
snapped. Utterly snapped. Like a dry twig. At the end of work
one day he picked up and ran to the apartment of an old friend
stationed at the French embassy and begged—literally begged—
to become a spy. Kulikov's hatred for the Foreign Minister had
blinded and engulfed him. His once promising career had turned
to ashes. France had blessed him with the only happiness he'd
ever known in his life. Spying gave him the means to strike back
at his aged superior, while serving his beloved surrogate coun-
try.
Kulikov's Gallic friend was sympathetic, and made the nec-
essary arrangements.
The Foreign Minister had already left for his Black Sea dacha
at Vilkovo, and Kulikov was walking through the giant GUM
department store on his Friday-afternoon lunch break. He took
his time, pretending to window-shop here and there, then made
his way outside and walked up to Karl Marx Prospeckt with a
copy of Pravda tucked underneath his arm. He pulled his gray
wool coat close around him and was grateful for the fox-fur hat
on his head. The snow was still falling, and the pedestrians-
like all Moscow pedestrians—were walking briskly, with eyes
to the front. No one took notice of Kulikov when he stopped,
dropped his Pravda in a trash can, and put his foot up on a
sidewalk bench to tie his shoelace. After the bow was redone
he sauntered back down the Prospekt, leaving the newspaper
behind.
A few moments later a stranger walked by, and he, too, was
afflicted with the same malady of the shoelace. After retying the
strings, the stranger retrieved the copy of Pravda from the trash
can and continued his stroll.
Inside the paper was an exposed strip of Minox film.

THE THIRD DAY
247
Day 3, 1110 Hours Zulu, 6:10 a.m. Local
SPACE TELESCOPE OPERATIONS
CONTROL ROOM, GODDARD SPACE
FLIGHT CENTER,
GREENBELT, MARYLAND
Spread over eleven hundred acres of beautiful rolling Mary-
land countryside was a complex of twenty-nine buildings that
was, in essence, the Cheyenne Mountain of America's civilian
and scientific space effort. Named after Robert H. Goddard, the
founding father of rocketry science, the Goddard Space Flight
Center controlled a panoply of satellites orbiting the earth. Sat-
ellites that pursued exotic scientific knowledge—such as mea-
suring solar winds, tracing magnetospheric particles, sampling
a comet's tail, calibrating crustal dynamics, and pointing an
X-ray telescope at a neutron star. While Cape Canaveral and
Houston Mission Control might be the arms, eyes, and ears of
NASA, Goddard and its 8,600 employees—many of them lead-
ing scientists—were the brains.
The flagship of Goddard's scientific efforts was an instrument
hailed as the greatest leap forward in astronomy since Galileo
first turned his telescope on the heavens. This instrument was
the Hubble orbiting space telescope, which enabled astronomers
to see distant galaxies above the veil of earth's polluted atmo-
sphere. It was controlled by a special team at Goddard, twenty-
four hours a day, and it was the personal pet project of Dr.
Percival Leeds, Director of the National Aeronautics and Space
Administration. The very idea of SPACECOM's tampering with
Leeds's sacred ikon had the feel of rape about it. He was pacing
up and down the Hubble control room like a wounded rhino.
"This is an outrage! This telescope, my telescope, is being
perverted by those space goons, those soldier boys. Wait until
Senator McGillacudy hears about this!"
The telescope controller—who was also a graduate student at
Johns Hopkins University—had the phone to one ear and his
finger in the other trying to block out Leeds's bellowing. Sir
Isaac from Cheyenne Mountain was on the other end of the line.
"Now do you understand what we're trying to do?" asked
Sir Isaac.

248
STORMING INTREPID
"Well, yes, I think so," said the controller cautiously. "But
we've never done anything like this before. We can give it a try,
but I'm afraid it will use up the fuel pretty fast."
"I understand," comforted Sir Isaac. "We'll get you some
more fuel later, courtesy of SPACECOM. I'll be transmitting
the orbital path, reference points, and timing data to your ter-
minal in about thirty seconds."
"Okay, sir, I'm ready. After I get the data it will take me a
couple of hours to reprogram the scope alignment."
"Right. And when you get that done, I want you to patch the
video over to us in Cheyenne Mountain."
"No problem," said the controller. "Just tell me which sat-
ellite and the freq."
' 'We'll want it to come through on RealTime,'' said Sir Isaac.
"I'll get you the specs when it's time to transmit."
The controller whistled. "The RealTime satellite? Wow, I
guess you guys must rate. You know, you're gonna have a lynch
mob on your doorstep when our clients find out their time on
the scope has been bumped. Some of them have been waiting
for two years to do their turn."
"I can empathize. Suffice it to say, we're not doing this be-
cause we want to. Okay, we're ready to transmit."
"Go," said the controller.
Day 3, 1200 Hours Zulu, 7:00 a.m. Local
ORLANDO, FLORIDA
The proprietor looked like any middle-aged man who ran his
own small business. His dark hair was thinning, his middle had
developed a bit of a pot, he wore wire-framed glasses, and he
was attired in a khaki uniform with the name Fred embroidered
above the left breast pocket. Promptly at 7:00 a.m. he unlocked
the pumps and cash drawer in preparation for another day of
work at his Gas Saver discount service station. He turned on the
coffee machine and had begun taking an inventory of parts and
accessories when his first customer of the day rolled up in a
station wagon. After filling his tank with super unleaded, the
customer—who wore a Hawaiian shirt and wraparound sun-

THE THIRD DAY
249
glasses—surveyed the area carefully, then approached the pro-
prietor.
"Excuse me," asked the customer. "But could you take a
check?"
' 'We are a discount station,'' replied the proprietor. ' 'We only
take cash."
"But I am from Milwaukee," said the customer politely.
The proprietor's face did not betray so much as a glimmer of
recognition. "A check from Milwaukee is always welcome,"
he replied.
"That is most kind, but on second thought, I will pay cash."
The customer handed over two five-dollar bills and quickly left.
The proprietor extracted the small piece of paper sandwiched
between the bills and tucked the money in the cash drawer.
A few minutes later, Ernie, the proprietor's unreliable, alco-
holic assistant, stumbled in. The proprietor was well aware of
Ernie's weakness—indeed, it was the main reason Ernie had
been selected for employment. Ernie would die before betraying
his boss, because the boss accepted him in spite of his afflic-
tion—and turned a blind eye to his frequent unannounced
absences.
"Ernie," confided the proprietor, "I've had a family emer-
gency come up and I may be gone most of today and possibly
tomorrow. Could you handle things while I'm gone?"
Ernie's mottled face tried to express eagerness. "Sure thing,
Mr. Tompkins. I done it for you before real good, you know
that. You can count on me."
The proprietor patted Ernie on the shoulder and gave him a
paternal smile. "I know I can, my friend. I'll be back as soon
as I can."
"Hope it's nothin' serious," said Ernie.
The proprietor shook his head sadly. "Just an aunt who lives
down in the Keys. Old age, I'm afraid."
"Gosh, I'm sorry."
"That's very kind of you, Ernie. As I said, I shouldn't be
gone more than a day or so."
"Mr. Tompkins" left and drove to his apartment, somewhat
grateful he would not be seeing Ernie for a while. Upon arriving
he locked the door and pulled the drapes, then went to the book-
shelf and withdrew a hardbound copy of Don Quixote by Miguel

250
STORMING INTREPID
de Cervantes. He sat down at the kitchen table with a pad and
pencil and took out the slip of paper the man from Milwaukee
had given him. Typed on the paper was a series of numbers.
The first two digits indicated a page number of Don Quioxte,
and each subsequent number indicated which letter in sequence
should be taken from the page. Unless you knew exactly what
edition of what book the man known as Mr. Tompkins was
working from, the cipher would be unbreakable. It took him
several minutes to finish, and when he did it took some moments
for the impact of the message from Moscow Centre to sink in,
for it read:
STOP SPACE SHUTTLE CONSTELLATION
AT ALL COSTS
So this was it. The end of eight years of spying on the Ken-
nedy Space Center. "Mr. Tompkins" allowed himself a few
minutes of quiet reflection on his life in America, but only a
few, for he had never cared much for sentimentality. Rising from
the kitchen table, he methodically began his preparations to ex-
ecute a contingency plan—a plan he'd literally worked years to
perfect. He did not shrink from the task, for instructions from
Moscow Centre were to be followed to the letter. The mere use
of the Milwaukee code indicated it was vital. What the shuttle's
mission was about did not concern him. He had his orders, and
that was all that mattered.
"Mr. Tompkins" went to his bedroom bureau and pulled out
the top drawer, then emptied the contents on the bed. With a
pocket knife he pried out the false bottom of the drawer and
extracted a U.S. Postal Service uniform. Then from another
false-bottom drawer he retrieved a Heckler-Koch 9mm P7 au-
tomatic pistol, a silencer, and a clip of hollow-point ammuni-
tion. He'd selected the HK P7 because of its small size and the
stopping power of the 9mm slug. Lastly, from the secret com-
partment of a third drawer, he pulled out an object about the
size and shape of a dinner plate, as well as a small cardboard
box with a false bottom, and two photo identification cards-
one identifying him as a Kennedy Space Center employee, and
the other as an inspector with the Occupational Safety and Health
Administration.

THE THIRD DAY
251
He changed into the postal uniform, checked the action of the
pistol, loaded it and chambered a round, then screwed on the
silencer. He put the platelike object, the gun, the false-bottomed
box, and the ID cards into a valise and tossed all of his "Mr.
Tompkins" identification onto the bureau. Before leaving his
apartment he put on a windbreaker to cover the postal uniform
shirt, then grabbed the valise and walked out to his car.
"Why, good morning, Mr. Tompkins," called his elderly
neighbor.
"Ah, good morning, Mrs. Davis," he called back.
"Why are you wearing a jacket on such a nice warm morn-
ing?" asked the nosy old woman.
"You're quite right. It's only a windbreaker, but I'll take it
off when I get to work. Must go. I'm already late."
Driving off, he gave his neighbor a smile as she waved from
the sidewalk. Goodbye forever, Mrs. Davis, he thought.
He made his way through Orlando to the Tanglewood Apart-
ments on the east side of the city, and cruised through the apart-
ment parking lot until he found the Toyota sedan he was
seeking—one with the Kennedy Space Center parking sticker on
the bumper. That meant his subject was in the apartment. But
was he alone?
' 'Mr. Tompkins" parked his car and got out. He took his time
peeling off the windbreaker in order to survey the scene around
him. Once satisfied that most of the residents of the singles
complex had gone to work, he retrieved the cardboard box and
inserted the P7 automatic through the false bottom. He walked
upstairs to apartment 14B, looked around once more, and
knocked lightly on the door. There was no answer, so he tried
again, a bit more forcefully.
"Okay, okay, hang on a minute," came a sleepy voice from
inside the apartment. The door opened, revealing a young man
wearing a bathrobe and a handlebar mustache.
"Mr. Leland?" asked the postman.
"Yeah, that's me," replied the occupant.
"So sony to disturb you, Mr. Leland, but I have an Express
Mail package for you."
"For me?" Leland asked groggily.
"Yes, sir. I need you to sign for it, but I'm afraid I'm all out
of pens. If I may, could I borrow one of yours?"

252
STORMING INTREPID
"Yeah, sure. Just a second." Leland turned and walked to-
ward a pencil holder by his telephone. As he bent over to retrieve
the pencil, Leland heard the door slam. He spun around to see
the postman pointing a pistol at his chest. "Hey, what the hell
is this?" he demanded.
The "postman" kept the gun rock steady. "I must know, Mr.
Leland, are we alone?"
"Huh?" Leland's mouth was wide open.
"Please do not make me repeat myself, Mr. Leland. Now tell
me. Are we alone?"
"What? Uh, well, yeah, we're alone, but I don't—"
A muffled thunt! spat from the barrel of the P7. The 9mm
hollow-point slug caught Leland square in the sternum, lifting
him off his feet and pinning him against the wall. He stayed
there for a moment, looking back at the postman with an empty
gaze. Then his eyes rolled up and he fell over in a clump, leaving
a red stain on the wall.
The postman locked the door and quickly inspected the one-
bedroom apartment. Leland had told the truth. They were in-
deed alone. He felt for his victim's pulse, and there was none.
Then he went into the bedroom, where he searched through the
cluttered dresser top and found what appeared to be a work
schedule. The postman looked at it carefiilly, and ascertained
that Leland—a power systems technician—had just returned
from a night shift of working on the Constellation. He went to
the closet and extracted Leland's hard hat and a pair of the white
coveralls that all technicians wore in the gantry area. The post-
man pulled on the coveralls, put the hard hat under his arm, and
replaced the P7 in the box. He grabbed Leland's keys from the
dresser and locked the door on his way out. After scanning the
parking lot, he quickly made his way to the dead man's Toyota
and drove off toward the Beeline Expressway and Cape Canav-
eral.

THE THIRD DAY
253
Day 3, 1300 Hours Zulu
ALTITUDE: 368 MILES
ORBITAL INCLINATION: 28.5 DEGREES
Orbiting above the Earth's polluted atmospheric veil was one
of the most precise scientific instruments ever assembled by
man. Over a decade of design, engineering, fabrication, grind-
ing, and polishing had gone into its construction, at a cost of
over $1.2 billion. But the payoff for the money, and the four
million plus man-hours that went into it, was nothing less than
cosmic.
The Hubble Space Telescope looked like a 43-foot-long "tall
boy" beer can with blinders attached. With this goofy-looking
instrument, astronomers were able to see celestial objects fifty
times fainter, obtain images ten times sharper, and peer seven
times deeper into the universe than with conventional earth-
bound telescopes.
At one end of the beer can was the heart of the Hubble—its
94-inch reflective mirror. Although smaller than Mount Palo-
mar's 200-inch reflector, it was a great deal more precise. To
illustrate its precision: if the Hubble's 94-inch mirror were en-
larged to a disk three thousand miles in diameter, its largest
imperfection would be four inches high.
The revolutionary mirror was made of an extraordinary ma-
terial called ultra low expansion (ULE) glass, manufactured by
Corning Glass Company. The ULE glass could endure the large
temperature swings of outer space without expanding and con-
tracting like conventional glass.
The Perkin-Elmer Corporation fabricated the ULE glass into
a concave structure with a honeycomb base, then ground and
polished the surface with a computer-controlled robotic arm for
twenty-five weeks. In a heat-and-vacuum process, the mirror
was then coated with a film of aluminum 2.5 millionths of an
inch thick to provide it with a reflective surface.
When the telescope was pointed at a target, the image came
in the open end of the beer can, struck die 94-inch primary
mirror, bounced to the 12.5-inch secondary mirror, then was
reflected into the telescope's instrument array, which dissected
the image for analysis. The on-board electronic instruments,

254
STORMING INTREPID
powered by the solar panel "blinders," transmitted the data to
Goddard. It was then passed to the Space Telescope Science
Institute at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore for subse-
quent analysis and dissemination.
How sensitive was the Hubble? From its low earth orbit it
could detect a candle burning on the moon. It expanded the
observable universe by 350 times, allowing scientists to observe
celestial objects fourteen billion light-years away—almost to the
beginnings of time as man comprehended it.
The incredible instrument was named for famed American
astronomer Edwin Hubble. When Hubble began his career, con-
ventional astronomical theory postulated that the known uni-
verse terminated at the end of our Milky Way galaxy. Hubble
demonstrated that the universe went beyond our own tiny Milky
Way. Indeed, the universe contained billions of galaxies, all
hurtling and expanding through space at cosmic speeds. His
contribution to astronomy was perhaps greater than Galileo's.
But now, the telescope bearing Hubble's name was reposi-
tioning itself for a different purpose. The unknown Russian sat-
ellite launched from the Plesetsk Cosmodrome was traveling in
a polar orbit, while the Hubble was circling the globe in a quasi-
equatorial path. The orbital trajectories of the two spacecraft
would roughly intersect on opposite sides of the globe once very
forty-five minutes. The Soviet satellite was in the lower orbit,
while the telescope was traveling above it. The technician at
Goddard issued instructions for the Hubble to track the Soviet
satellite as it passed underneath the telescope on the sunny side
of the earth. This was like driving your car over an overpass
while keeping your eyes on a car traveling underneath you from
left to right.
On command from the ground controller, the telescope's ma-
neuvering thrusters were engaged and the entire mechanism piv-
oted into position. When the Russian satellite passed from
darkness to sunlight the scope's protective aperture door flipped
open, allowing the primary mirror to capture the tiny image.

THE THIRD DAY
255
Day 3, 1345 Hours Zulu, 8:45 a.m. Local
CAPE CANAVERAL, FLORIDA
"Mr. Tompkins," who had first become the "postman," was
now Leland the power technician driving his Toyota sedan across
the Indian River on NASA Causeway West, approaching the
Kennedy Space Center (KSC).
The reason why the genuine Leland had had to be "taken
out"—KGB jargon for "murdered"—was the security system
at KSC, and in particular, Pads 39A and 39B, which handled
shutde traffic. First, to obtain access to the employee parking
area, an intruder would have to have the proper sticker on his
bumper. If he did, then he would be waved past the security
guard's hut at the main entry gate. Obtaining a forged bumper
sticker from Moscow Centre was not a problem—Mr. Tompkins
had done that often enough. Taking Leland's Toyota had been
more of a convenience than a necessity.
But beyond the parking lot, access to the pad area became a
bit more sticky. Technicians working on Pad 39A had to pass
through an access/locker room building, which was the only
passage through the ten-foot-high, sensor-laden cyclone fence
that ringed the entire pad complex. It was in this building that
technicians could change clothes and shower if they wished, and
that access through the security fence was controlled. An em-
ployee had to pass through a "cattie chute" where a guard
checked the worker's photo ID, matched his name against an
access list, and signed him in or out. Work schedules on the pad
were erratic prior to launches—a technician might work ten
hours, leave for six, then return to the pad for another twelve
hours. That was why Leland had to be taken out. It simply
wouldn't do for Mr. Tompkins to show up posing as Leland
when Leland was already signed in, or have Leland show up
after Mr. Tompkins had entered the complex. That would be a
screaming red flag to the guard.
For two years, Mr. Tompkins had studied photographs of
KSC, followed individual employees home and tracked their
work patterns, and used scuba gear to take pictures from off-
shore. Additionally, he'd pasted a forged bumper sticker on a
Chevy van and parked it in the employee parking lot to study

256
STORMING INTREPID
movements, procedures, and guard changes at the access build-
ing. He'd chosen Leland only after a careful appraisal indicated
the technician was unmarried and apparently had little social
life. The body probably wouldn't be discovered for days.
Mr. Tompkins was waved past the KSC security guard hut at
entry gate 3T, then turned left onto Kennedy Parkway North.
He drove over Banana Creek and past the shuttle recovery run-
way on his left before turning right on Beach Road. Then he
pulled into the employee lot outside the Pad 39A security access
building at Gate 5C and parked the Toyota.
Mr. Tompkins was now approaching the most vulnerable point
in the whole scenario. He possessed a realistic KSC Pad 39A
employee ID with his own photograph laminated on it, but with
Leland's name. The procedure at the security post called for the
guard to look at both the ID photo and the employee to make
sure the two matched. The guard would then check the name on
the access list as in, along with the time. If this particular guard
happened to know Leland by sight, then the game was busted.
But there were so many workers in the pad area that this shouldn't
be a problem—or so he hoped.
Mr. Tompkins waited until there was no employee traffic
through the access building, for he didn't want to stumble into
any workers who might know Leland by name. Seeing the coast
was clear, he walked into the ' 'cattle chute" and up to the guard
booth, where he thrust out his forged ID with authority. The
man in uniform perfunctorily glanced at the card, then at the
face, and made a notation on the clipboard. "Leland. Nine oh
seven. In," he said while scribbling.
"Right," said Mr. Tompkins, now Leland, as he walked past
the locker room and out to the shuttle bus waiting area. For
safety considerations, the parking lots and buildings at KSC
were kept well away from the launch pads, and gantry workers
were ferried back and forth between the access building and Pad
39A on small shuttle buses.
Leland didn't have to wait long for a bus, and he was alone
as he boarded the vehicle. During the quick drive to the pad he
switched ID cards. The second card looked much like the first,
except now Leland had turned into Donald Loomis, site inspec-
tor for the Occupational Safety and Health Administration.
As the bus approached the shuttle pad, Loomis noticed some-

THE THIRD DAY
257
thing off in the distance that looked like a Roman candle shoot-
ing up in the air. He had no idea what it was, but didn't have
time to worry about it.
The Northrop KD2R-5 target drone banked away from the
beach near Titan Complex 40 at KSC and traveled about a quar-
ter mile over the Atlantic Ocean. The Army specialist played
with his remote-control joysticks and the aluminum monoplane
turned again, coming to a course parallel with the beach at about
five hundred feet altitude.
"Okay, Major," coached Warrrant Officer Hogan, "put it in
the circle and wait for the 'engage' light."
Mission Specialist Sandford Watkins peered through the
viewfinder of the Stinger surface-to-air missile and easily lined
up the propeller-driven drone, which was traveling at 80 knots.
When the morning sun glinted off the drone's dark aluminum
skin, the red "engage" light lit up in the viewfinder and Watkins
squeezed the trigger, causing the missile to pop out of the tube
muzzle. After the Stinger "jumped" about forty feet from the
launcher, its solid-fuel propellant ignited and the small missile
took off, leaving a corkscrew tail of smoke in its wake. Watkins
watched the high-powered dart as it vectored off in the wrong
direction. He would've sworn it was going to miss the drone,
but then it made a sharp climbing left turn and quickly gained
on the lumbering target. When the small aircraft disappeared in
a ball of flame, Watkins couldn't help yelling, "Awwwright!
Man, this is more fun than shooting pop-bottle rockets."
Hogan grinned. "Yes, sir. I know the feeling. I think you've
got the hang of it. Now, let's try it with this contraption on."
Watkins shrugged. "Okay. I'm not sure whose idea this was,
but I'll give it a try."
"As I understand it, Major," said Hogan, "some air crapper
came up with this brainstorm."
Watkins laughed. "Figures. I can't tell you how nice it is to
see another Army face around here, Mr. Hogan. I feel a little
lonely at times."
"I understand, Major Watkins. Say, how did a ground pounder
like you ever become an astronaut, anyway?"
"Beats me. Somebody in the Pentagroin must have dropped
my file into the wrong in-basket. Ready? Heave."

258
STORMING INTREPID
The two men lifted up the top half of the extravehicular space-
suit, sans oxygen pack and maneuvering unit, and draped it over
Watkins's torso. The major raised the clear visor so he could
breathe easily, and took another Stinger from the Army warrant
officer. Hogan spun his finger in the air, indicating he wanted
another drone launched, and almost immediately a monoplane
was catapulted off its small ramp.
The first Stinger Watkins fired with the suit on went wild.
Fortunately, all the nearby airspace had been closed to air traffic
and there was no danger of downing an innocent Cessna. On
the second shot, Watkins contorted himself so he could peer
through the eyepiece with the helmet on, and the missile got
close. The third Stinger was dead on.
"One more drone, Major?" asked Hogan.
"Let's do it."
And the last aluminum monoplane was scattered over the
ocean.
"Help me get outta this thing," pleaded Watkins. "It's kinda
hot without the cool suit on."
Hogan assisted him, then began a critique. "For your pur-
poses, I think you can handle the Stinger with no problem, sir.
Your target will be stationary, and that will make things a lot
easier than tracking a moving drone. Plus, as I understand it,
the Intrepid is quite a bit larger than our drone."
Watkins nodded. "To say the least."
"However, I must point out that what we're doing here may
not really apply to an outer-space environment. The guidance
fins on the Stinger will be useless in a vacuum, and this missile
isn't spin stabilized. So all I can recommend is that you essen-
tially bore sight the weapon and let 'er rip. Just stay at least four
hundred meters away to allow enough distance for the warhead
to arm before it impacts. Okay?"
Watkins nodded. "I hear ya. Actually, I seriously doubt if
we'll need these. If we have to disable the Intrepid, I plan to do
a little number on her OMS rocket fuel lines, and for that all I
need is a big set of pliers. But if the Russkies show up, just
shootin' one of these things off should scare the hell out of 'em
and keep 'em at bay."
Hogan took off his soft fatigue hat and wiped his brow. "Ma-
jor, just between us ground pounders, is this thing for real? I

THE THIRD DAY
259
mean, are thp Russians really trying to heist one of our shut-
tles?"
Watkins shrugged again. "All we can do is go on the evi-
dence, and the evidence tells us that a hijack can be the only
explanation. By the way, until this thing is resolved, you and
your crew are quarantined here at KSC. There's a tight security
lid on this."
Hogan nodded. "I understand, sir, and so do my crew. I told
'em if they so much as opened their mouths about being here
I'd turn 'em into sopranos real quick."
The bus halted and Mr. Tompkins turned postman turned
Leland turned Loomis stepped out with his valise, saying
"Thank you" to the driver. He now confronted the gantry and
had to make a quick decision, In order to execute his mission
with the platelike device, he needed access to a vulnerable part
of the launch vehicle for a few moments—unobserved and alone.
That was going to be difficult, because a gantry before launch
was busy as an ant hill, with white figures scurrying around,
reading gauges and making system checks. Loomis gave the
scene a quick once-over—he would have to attempt something
at the base of the orbiter around the engine nozzles, or ride the
elevator up and take his chances on one of the upper levels of
the gantry. Above all, he couldn't hesitate, for that would draw
attention to himself.
The decision was really made for him. There were simply too
many technicians around the rocket nozzles.
So in a forthright manner he strode over to the gantry elevator
and waited behind two other men clad in white coveralls and
hard hats. The cagelike elevator descended and opened, and all
three men got on board. One of the technicians turned the hand
control knob and the cage began to rise. Loomis had studied
the available literature on the shuttle many times, so when the
elevator stopped he knew the level on which they'd halted. The
wire doors opened and his two companions stepped-out. Loomis
followed.
When they were out on the gantry catwalk, one of the tech-
nicians—who had a set of barn-door ears sticking out from
beneath his hard hat—turned around and inspected Loomis

260
STORMING INTREPID
quizzically. "You sure you got off on the right level?" he asked.
His partner turned around, too.
"This is the hydrogen vent access arm, isn't it?" queried
Loomis politely.
"Yeah." It was a cautious response.
Loomis smiled. "Then I'm in the right place." He touched
his ID card. "Don Loomis, Occupational Safety and Health
Administration. We've had some complaints filed and I was sent
here to verify a few measurements. Wonder if you might lend
me a hand for just a minute?" As Loomis well knew, nothing
squelched curiosity better than an imposition on someone's time.
The other technician, who had a pair of goldfish bug eyes,
shrugged. "What do you need?" he queried.
Loomis extracted a wind-up metal tape measure and a clip-
board from his valise. He handed one end of the tape measure
to the goldfish-eyed technician and pointed. ' 'Now just hold the
end of this tape measure against the girder right there." Loomis
pulled the tape across the catwalk and jotted down the measure-
ment. "Very good. Now then, if you would, hold it right up
here," he said, indicating the top of the elevator opening. The
technician sighed and did as he was told while Loomis extended
the tape to the bottom of the opening and jotted down another
number.
"Say, what's this for, anyway?" asked goldfish eyes.
In a tut-tut voice Loomis said, "Safety, my friend, safety.
Your safety in particular. Would you believe I once had to in-
vestigate a catwalk accident—a catwalk very much like this one,
I might add—at a chemical plant. The restraining door on the
elevator was left wide open and a night watchman literally
walked right through the hole and fell a hundred and seventy-
five feet. It was ghastly, I don't mind telling you. Absolutely
ghastly. The insurance company paid a handsome settlement on
that one, and quite rightly so. Now we certainly don't want
anything like that happening here, do we? Certainly not. Your
government has an obligation to ensure you have a safe work-
place."
Goldfish eyes nodded while his flap-eared companion shifted
his weight from one foot to the other and said, "Come on, Tony.
We can't wait around here all day."
Goldfish eyes nodded. "You need me anymore?" he asked.

THE THIRD DAY
261
"No, no," said Loomis. "You've been most helpful. I must
say, this is quite a big bird you have here." He gazed up to the
top of the external tank. "When is she taking off?" he asked
casually.
Tony with the goldfish eyes shrugged. "Early tomorrow
morning was the last I heard. Never really know, though. Things
can always go wrong."
"I'm sure," Loomis smiled. "Well, thank you so much. I
can manage from here."
The two techs nodded and walked down the catwalk of the
gantry arm. They were making a check on the coupling that
linked the hydrogen gas vent pipe to the big orange external
tank.
Loomis started making random measurements of the girders
along the catwalk cage while his mind raced through the timing
arithmetic. Early tomorrow morning, goldfish eyes had said.
Sunrise was about 6:30 a.m., so that would probably mean the
launch would be about 6:30 to 7:30 a.m. Maybe. Maybe earlier.
Loomis knew that the shuttle's external tank took five hours to
fuel. If lift-off was to be at sunrise, then fueling would probably
begin around 1:00 a . m . If he placed the platelike device—which
was a small limpet mine—on the side of the external tank, and
it detonated while the tank was empty, then that would delay the
mission until the tank could be replaced. But Loomis took his
orders to stop space shuttle Constellation at all costs to mean
stop. Not delay. And that meant obliteration of the shuttle. Be-
sides, after eight years of spying in America, Loomis wanted
the capstone of his efforts to be greater than a little hole in an
empty disposable tank. No. He wanted it all. And that meant
detonation during fueling. All he needed was a few thousand
liters of the liquid hydrogen loaded on board, and the small
limpet mine would turn Pad 39A into a pyrotechnic display
unlike anything since the Challenger went down. So he guessed
somewhere between 1:00 a.m. and 7:30 a.m. would be the op-
timum time for detonation—say 4:30 a.m. The tank should have
plenty of fuel by then.
The two technicians walked past him, heading for the eleva-
tor. Goldfish eyes asked, "You finished yet?"
"No, not quite." Loomis smiled while adjusting his wire-
framed glasses. "I have a litde more to do still."

262
STORMING INTREPID
"Can you operate the elevator?" asked flap ears.
"Oh, my, yes. I work on construction catwalks all the time."
They both nodded. "Okay. See you," said goldfish eyes, and
they disappeared into the elevator.
Loomis kept up his measuring routine while working his way
toward the hydrogen gas vent coupling. He was keenly sensitive
to discovery now, but no one paid him any attention. He was
just another set of white coveralls on a catwalk.
Upon reaching the coupling he knelt down and extracted the
limpet mine from his valise. He set the timer for 4:30 a . m ., then
with some effort he peeled off the waxed-paper-like film that
covered its adhesive base. On many parts of the shuttle a mag-
netic attachment device wouldn't work, so adhesive was used.
He laid down and carefully sandwiched the mine—which was
painted a neutral cream color—between the base of the catwalk
superstructure and the external tank. He had to reach out and
around the bottom girder of the catwalk and push the mine
against the orange aluminum surface. Since he was a devout
atheist, he hoped, rather than prayed, that no one would notice
his arm sticking out of the catwalk.
No one did.
Loomis backed off and inspected his handiwork. Unless you
placed your eye against the side of the external tank and looked
straight down, you couldn't notice the mine from the catwalk.
You could probably see it from the ground, but it was in the
shadows of the catwalk and wouldn't be very visible until the
gantry was pulled back a short time before launch. Then it would
be predawn twilight.
Satisfied, Loomis picked up his valise and walked back down
the catwalk. He rang for the elevator as if he were in a hotel.
The empty cage appeared and he rode it down to the ground.
Without hesitation he strode to the shuttle bus, and while keep-
ing his head low he took his place as the last of a dozen techs
climbing aboard. He sat alone in a seat by the driver and gazed
out the window to avoid making eye contact with the other pas-
sengers.
After the short ride the bus doors clapped open at the security
building, and Loomis filed out first. He pulled the clipboard out
of his valise and pretended to study it while slowly sauntering
toward the security "cattle chute." He had to allow the other

THE THIRD DAY
263
employees to go past so he could switch ID cards again and stay
out of earshot when the guard mentioned the name Leland.
The Russian was thinking about how incredibly easy the whole
thing had been when a voice from behind asked, "Do you OSHA
guys do much work out here on the Cape?"
Loomis turned around. It was Tony with the goldfish eyes.
He'd been on the bus. The Russian put down the clipboard and
gave his companion from the catwalk a charming smile. "Oh,
not too often, no. We OSHA inspectors are spread rather thin,
I'm afraid."
"OSHA? What's this about OSHA?" demanded a baritone
voice. Goldfish eyes looked over Loomis's shoulder, and im-
mediately started backpeddling. "Nothing, Mr. Garvey. I just
ran into this OSHA inspector up on the gantry and I was just
askin' him a question, that's all."
"Nobody told me anything about any OSHA inspector," bel-
lowed the baritone voice.
Loomis turned around again, this time to see a slender man
of medium height whose green eyes possessed a singular inten-
sity. The Russian smiled and extended a hand. "Well then, I
guess I should introduce myself. I'm Don Loomis, site inspec-
tor, Occupational Safety and Health Administration."
A firm hand clasped his, and a giant's voice boomed from the
man with the slender build. "I'm Ed Garvey, deputy pad man-
ager here. Nobody told me about your coming out here today."
Loomis feigned surprise. "Indeed? It was my understanding
everything had been arranged by Mr. Burke's office." Edmund
Burke was director of the entire Kennedy Space Center.' 'I would
certainly think someone in your position would have been in-
formed."
Goldfish eyes slunk off. Garvey had a reputation as a badass
manager, and the technician avoided him whenever possible.
He joined the remaining employees on their exodus to the park-
ing lot, leaving the deputy pad manager and the OSHA inspector
to themselves.
Garvey's intense eyes surveyed Loomis's KSC ID with osha
embossed on it. He'd never seen one like that before. "I'm sure
you're just doing your job, Mr. Loomis, but I don't like anything
happening on my pad that I'm not aware of."
TTie last tech filed by the guard.

264
STORMING INTREPID
"I quite understand, Mr. Garvey. Uh, may I call you Ed?
Please call me Don. I have some papers in my case here"—
Loomis touched his valise—"that I must confess I find rather
disturbing." Loomis looked around like a conspirator, then
leaned closer and whispered. "I could get in trouble for telling
you this before I file my report, Ed, but I think it's only fair for
you to know. There have been some serious allegations made
concerning safety on this pad. My, yes, serious allegations. Per-
haps if you could take a look at these papers—right here and
now—we could possibly nip this problem in the bud. I so dislike
getting the U.S. Attorney involved in these matters. I've been
in this business for more years than I care to count, and believe
me, I'll bend over backward to clear something up before turn-
ing it over to those damn lawyers."
Garvey gulped. "Well, yeah, I would appreciate it. Although
I must say this is all news to me."
Loomis shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid you're not the first
one to tell me that, Ed. Oh, the stories I could tell you. It would
curl your hair. But never mind about that. Uh, could we possibly
go in here"—Loomis jerked his head toward the locker room—
"to look over the papers. Besides, I could use the 'facilities'."
Garvey said, "Yeah, me, too," and followed Loomis through
the heavy swinging door.
Inside was a room ringed with tall lockers that contained a
few scattered benches and a shower/lavatory area. No one else
was there.
"This is a terrible time for something like this to happen,"
lamented Garvey. "We have a critical launch underway. Even
so, I just can't believe anybody's raising a ruckus about safety
violations. We run a pretty tight ship here, especially where
safety's concerned."
"Oh, yes, yes, I'm sure you do," soothed Loomis as he pulled
out the Heckler-Koch P7 automatic from his valise.
Garvey blinked. "Hey! What are you doing?" roared the
baritone voice.
"Please be quiet, Mr. Garvey, and do exactly as I say."
Garvey blinked again, then snarled. "You aren't any damn
OSHA inspector."
Loomis nodded. "I applaud your deductive skills. Now, if
you please, step into one of those lockers."

THE THIRD DAY
265
"What?"
"Please do exactly as I say, Mr. Garvey, and you will not be
harmed. Otherwise, I shall be forced to shoot you here and
now."
What disturbed Garvey the most about this man Loomis was
the detached, unemotional way in which he said "shoot you
here and now." The deputy pad manager gulped, then backed
up and opened a locker door. Slowly he scrunched up and in-
serted himself into the cramped rectangular space. "What are
you going to do now?" he asked defiantly. "Lock me in here?"
"No," replied Loomis, and a thunt! thunt! thunt! poured
from the silenced automatic. Loomis slammed the locker door,
pinning the corpse inside.
The P7 went back into the valise and the ID tags on the Rus-
sian's chest were switched. He walked outside and up to the
security window. The guard looked at the forged ID and the
man in white coveralls.	,
"Leland. Nine fifty-two. Out," said the guard while making
a notation on his clipboard.
Leland nodded and smiled, then walked casually toward the
employee parking lot.
Driving back over the NASA Causeway West, "Mr. Tomp-
kins" turned postman turned Leland turned Loomis turned Le-
land took a left turn onto U.S. Highway 1 and headed toward
Miami. He wished he could stay and see the result of his many
years' labor, but by nightfall he would be on board a thirty-foot
cabin cruiser en route to Havana.
Day 3, 1430 Hours Zulu, 7:30 a.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
"So what do you make of it?" asked the CinC.
Fairchild, Dowd, and Whittenberg were huddled around a
television monitor in SPADOC, inspecting the image of the un-
known Russian satellite taken by the Hubble telescope.
Sir Isaac scratched his lightbulb-shaped head and examined
the telescope picture intently, then he sighed an exasperated

266
STORMING INTREPID
sigh. "I'm afraid these pix don't do us much good. It could still
be anything."
"Bull?" queried the CinC.
Dowd shook his head in frustration. He said, "I agree, sir,"
and moved his finger along the torpedo-shaped object. "This
could be an aerodynamic launch shroud that simply hasn't been
jettisoned yet. Underneath it could be a reconnaissance bird,
electronic ferret, you name it. If this picture wasn't so clear I
would've even guessed a Soyuz, but as you can see, it doesn't
have the escape rockets on the nose."
The Bull was referring to the small pointed mushroom on the
nose of all Soyuz spacecraft that held a small cluster of solid-
fuel rockets. It acted like an ejector seat in the event of an emer-
gency on the pad, allowing the Soyuz capsule to propel itself
clear of the booster. On September 27, 1983, Cosmonauts Vlad-
imir Titov and Gennadi Strekalov were atop an SL-4 liquid
booster awaiting lift-off when, at T minus ninety seconds, a fuel
valve apparently failed to close at the base of the rocket and a
fire started. The flames consumed the booster so quickly that
the automatic launch abort circuitry was melted before it could
react to the emergency. The controllers in the launch bunker had
to trigger the escape rockets, and the Soyuz was blasted to an
altitude of 950 meters, where its rapid-deploy parachute opened.
The cosmonauts came down four kilometers from the pad.
Shaken, but alive.
Whittenberg's clouded mind agreed with the assessment of
his other two generals. As frustrating as it was, he recognized
there was virtually nothing further he could do about the Intrepid
until the Constellation got aloft. His body was screaming for
sleep, and Fairchild looked worse than he did. "Sir Isaac," he
ordered, "go get some sack time. Bull, you keep somebody
riveted on this satellite picture during the Hubble's observation
window. I'm going to hit the sack myself for a while. There's
nothing we can do at the moment, anyway. Wake me if you
need me."
"Yes, General," said Dowd, but Whittenberg's mind had al-
ready shut down and the chief of staff's response didn't even
register. The CinC had to rely on his body's autopilot to get him
back to the couch in his office.

THE THIRD DAY
267
Day 3, 1500 Hours Zulu, 10:00 a.m. Local
THE WHITE HOUSE
Ambassador Yevgeny Yakolev was escorted through the ex-
ecutive mansion to the Treaty Room. The French President was
in the Oval Office, and it simply wouldn't do to have the am-
bassador run into the Gallic chief of state.
As Yakolev entered, he found the President and the Secretary
of State waiting to receive him. The Defense Secretary was ab-
sent, indicating the American saber had been put back in its
sheath—for the moment.
"Mr. President," said the portly Yakolev.
The President nodded in reply and said, "Mr. Ambassador,
please sit down." The old professor did so.
"Now then, Mr. Ambassador, do you have a response to my
query of yesterday evening?"
' 'Indeed I do, Mr. President. The Foreign Ministry submitted
your supposition to the Defense Ministry, and I am happy to
report that the matter was investigated thoroughly and found to
have no substance whatsoever. In fact, my colleagues arrived at
the same conclusion I did—that you are most likely experiencing
some malfunction with your spacecraft and wish to, if you will
forgive me, fabricate a rumor that the Soviet Union is somehow
responsible for these problems. As I mentioned, such a rumor
was attempted after your Challenger disaster. It is painful for
me to bear such a distasteful message as this, Mr. President, but
there you have it."
The Secretary of State saw the President's jaw muscles start
flexing.
"Mr. Ambassador," said the chief executive through his teeth.
"I told you last night that there is no malfunction or mistake.
Someone inside the Soviet Union is talking to our space shuttle,
and I want to know what it's about." Toward the end of his
rejoinder, the President's voice started to rise.
Yakolev gave an exasperated sigh, thinking this American
reminded him of an obstinate graduate student. "Mr. President,
please try to understand. In my message to the Foreign Minister
I conveyed your very real concern about this matter. The For-
eign Minister personally called the Defense Minister, who per-

268
STORMING INTREPID
sonally investigated the matter himself. I have known these men
for many years and I have the assurance of the Foreign Minister
that there is absolutely no substance to your allegations, and we
consider the matter closed."
The pugnacious President was about to explode when the Sec-
retary of State lifted a hand to cut him off. "Very well, Mr.
Ambassador," said the diplomat. "The President and I appre-
ciate your timely response to our inquiry. We emphasize that
our position remains unchanged and we can only wait to see
how the situation with our spacecraft develops. Please convey
our regards to the Foreign Minister and Defense Minister, and
thank them for their attention to this matter."
The President gave his Cabinet officer a funny look, but de-
cided to keep his mouth shut.
Yakolev nodded, and rose. "Very well, Mr. Secretary. I shall
leave it at that. I would like to convey my personal wishes that
no harm has come to any of your crewmen aboard your space-
craft. I have always admired the courage of the space explorers—
of all nations. Mr. President, I bid you good morning."
The President only nodded and the ambassador withdrew.
After the door closed he turned to his Secretary of State. "And
just what was that all about?"
The Secretary rose and began pacing the room. Finally he
muttered, "Something's screwy here, Mr. President."
The chief executive gawked. "Well, no screamin' shit, Wins-
ton. Even / knew that. I was fixing to read Yakolev the riot act
when you cut me off. Why?"
The diplomat leaned over the table.' 'Consider this, Mr. Pres-
ident. First of all, as we've already noted, Yakolev is a lousy
liar. Plus he's an independent cuss. We know he's personally
very close to the Foreign Minister and the Defense Minister,
and those two are heavyweights on the Politburo. It's highly
unlikely that those two would try to pull Yakolev's chain and
send a false message through him. If they did, Yakolev probably
wouldn't carry the message himself. He'd push it off on a sub-
ordinate. And even if he did bring in a phony story himself, he'd
have been squirming in that chair."
The President shrugged. "Okay. Keep going. I'm listening."
The Cabinet officer started pacing again. In his well-tailored
pinstripe suit he really did look as if he'd stepped off the cover

THE THIRD DAY
269
of Gentlemen's Quarterly. "Mr. President, the single hardest
thing for any American diplomat to do is to get inside the Rus-
sian mind. I know. I was posted in Moscow for four years.
That's because Americans are brought up in a culture of strict
laws, protected rights, venerated institutions. By comparison,
the Soviet government is such a Byzantine enterprise that I doubt
Machiavelli himself could survive in it today—especially within
the Politburo. It's nothing like an elected senate or parliament
with predetermined terms of office. No. It's more like a confed-
eration of Mafia bosses, all of them constantly jockeying for
position."
The President's hackles went up over the reference to the Ma-
fia. Less than one percent of Italian-Americans were a part of
organized crime, yet it was a stereotype with which all of them—
including himself—had to contend. "So, what are you saying?"
"What I'm saying, sir," continued the Secretary, "is that it's
not unprecedented for conflicting, yet genuine, messages to
come out of the Kremlin. During the Cuban fnissile crisis, Pres-
ident Kennedy received conflicting letters from Khrushchev al-
most simultaneously."
The President scratched his head. "You mean the ministers
of Foreign Relations and Defense in the Politburo don't know
what's going on in their own government? That's a pretty big
pill to swallow, Winston."
The Secretary had to be careful now. There was a very fine
line between reasonable conclusions and pure speculation. "I'm
simply saying it's . . . possible."
The President's nostrils flared. "Jesus Christ, Winston. Any-
thing is possible. I've got the deadliest weapon ever produced
by man floating around in space, and some Foggy Bottom sup-
position isn't going to get it down for me. I think we should've
given it to Yakolev with both barrels to warn the damn Russians
off. Mafia bosses understand muscle, you know."
Now it was the Secretary who got his hackles up. "Mr. Pres-
ident, have you ever been fired?"
The former auto executive gawked again. "Huh?'-'
"I asked you if you'd ever been fired."
A scowl crossed the President's face. He'd once been canned
in the messiest, ugliest, most publicly humiliating corporate ter-
mination in American industrial history. Although he had landed

270
STORMING INTREPID
on his feet with an ailing car company and achieved a spectac-
ular turnaround, and then gone on to capture the Presidency, the
episode was still a sore subject with him. "You know damn
good and well I've been fired before, Winston. Every mother's
son on planet earth knows that. What's it got to do with any-
thing?"
The Secretary was pacing again. "Well, I've been fired, too,"
he said in recollection. "After graduation from Dartmouth I
joined the foreign service. My first embassy posting in Saigon
got cut short. You see, after a long day's work at the embassy
I'd hang out with some of the reporters in town. But back then
I was so damn naive I didn't even know what a 'leaker' was—
until I turned out to be one. The ambassador found out and
didn't care for it much. He personally administered the ax."
The Secretary sniffed, allowing himself a moment of reflection.
"Having self-destructed my foreign service career, it was at that
point I decided to enter law school at Columbia. If Dr. Kissinger
hadn't rehabilitated me several years later, I'd probably be pro-
bating wills in Buffalo right now."
The President shrugged again. "So? I don't understand what
point you're trying to make."
The Cabinet officer leaned over the table again. "The point
is, Mr. President, that out of that whole episode, the one thing
that I vividly remember is those final days before I was sum-
moned into the ambassador's office and given the ax. Think back
to your own experience, Mr. President. Remember? Your com-
pany had just gone through a friendly takeover. It looked like
you would be made chairman of the surviving company. You
thought everything was rosy until you walked into that board of
directors' meeting—then the people you thought were your
friends pulled the rug right out from under you and threw you
out on the street. You didn't see it coming, did you?"
The former auto executive emitted a grudging "Correct."
"Neither did I when the ax fell on me. But think back. After
you were tossed out on your ear, you probably told yourself,
'How could I have been so stupid?' In the days prior to that
fateful board meeting, I'll bet your phone calls weren't returned.
When you walked into staff meetings, people would clam up.
Nobody wanted to go to lunch with you. You were kept out of
the loop on important memoranda. You'd call up a colleague to

THE THIRD DAY
271
arrange a golf game, but he would beg off and say he was busy.
You were persona non grata in your own company and you
didn't even know it. When the board finally axed you, you were
the last one to know. Am I right?"
A nod. "Yeah," he admitted. "But I still don't see where
you're going with this line of thinking. What's the bottom line?"
The Secretary pulled on his sharp chin as he walked to the
end of the table, then turned around. What the hell, he thought.
Go for it. "Mr. President, I believe the 'pre-termination fool's
paradise syndrome,' if you want to call it that, is not a distinctly
American phenomenon. In fact, I believe it to be a universal
phenomenon, to which the Soviet Union is not immune. The
bottom line is that if Sam's people are wrong about the Intrepid
and there is, in fact, no real communication between our space-
craft and the Russians, then we've just made a stupid error and
have some egg on our face. But if Sam's people are indeed
correct, and Yakolev is telling the truth about die Soviet min-
isters knowing nothing about the Intrepid . '. ."
The Secretary's voice trailed off, but the President prodded
him gendy: "Go on."
The Secretary sighed. "Then a leadership change may be
under way in the Kremlin."
The President walked back into the Oval Office to find his
Gallic counterpart reviewing a staff briefing paper. The French-
man's long, lanky frame dwarfed the easy chair.
"I apologize for the interruption, Mr. President," said the
American. "I hope we can continue our discussions undisturbed
for a while."
The Frenchman removed the tortoiseshell glasses from his
huge round face and bit gently on an earpiece while contem-
plating his American host. The two men had gotten on famously,
and their personal rapport had uplifted Franco-American rela-
tions to its highest plateau in many years—perhaps decades. But
the man from the Elysee Palace had discerned a peculiar change
in his host's behavior from the previous day.
"If you will forgive me, Monsieur le President," he said, "I
could not help but notice that since yesterday afternoon you have
been popping in and out of our meetings like a—how you say—
cuckoo in a clock. Late yesterday afternoon. The dinner last

272
STORMING INTREPID
night. This morning. Your behavior puzzles me, my friend. This
protocol is, well, a tort et a travers for a state visit. Is there
something you wish to . . . tell me? I must confess, you do not
look well this morning. You appear the victim of une nuit
blanche."
The American sagged back in his chair. Although Whitten-
berg suffered from' 'peer scarcity,'' it was nothing like the lone-
liness experienced by the President of the United States. There
was truly no person he could talk to on a peer level. Not even
the Vice President. And after a while this dearth of peers took
a toll. He bit his lip and eyeballed his guest. He liked the French-
man, and felt the man could be trusted. What the hell, thought
the American. If I can't let my hair down with this guy, then
who? He's putting his nuts on the line to bring France back into
NATO, and this Intrepid business is too big for one man to
handle alone. I need some solace.
"Mr. President," said the American, "sit back and strap
yourself in, because I'm going to tell you the goddamnedest
story you ever heard."
Day 3, 1500 Hours Zulu, 9:00 a.m. Local
CHICAGO
The amount of paper accumulated in a military man's person-
nel file during the course of his career can be physically heavy.
There are educational background forms, proficiency test forms,
commendation forms, disciplinary forms, medical forms, den-
tal forms, efficiency report forms, and security clearance forms.
Of all the forms produced by the Department of Defense,
however, security clearance forms are, by far, the most un-
wieldy, as Lydia Strand well remembered. It had taken her a
man-day just to fill out the Top Secret clearance form and its
section on historical residences.
Iceberg's residence history, however, was brief. From birth
to age seven he had lived at 1819 MacKenzie Street in southwest
Chicago. His family—which consisted of his mother, Victoria,
his father, Carl, and himself—then moved to 419 Hampton Av-
enue in Wheaton, a Chicago suburb, where Iceberg had lived

THE THIRD DAY
273
until he entered the Air Force Academy and where his mother
had remained until her death.
Strand was en route to the Hampton Avenue address in Whea-
ton after flying into O'Hare on a T-39 Sabreliner earlier that
morning. She felt a lot better after catching six hours of sleep.
In the back of the taxi she pulled out Iceberg's personnel file
and reread the FBI background investigation. The FBI agent
who conducted the background check had talked to the Kapus-
cinskis' neighbors on Hampton Avenue in Wheaton, but hadn't
bothered to follow up on the MacKenzie Street address. Appar-
ently the agent thought the MacKenzie address was too long ago
to bother with.
Strand read the agent's report on his interview with the neigh-
bors from Hampton Avenue. Yes, the Kapuscinskis were nice
people. Very quiet. The father was a plumber—we think. He
died when the boy was quite young. The mother didn't talk
much. Well, hardly at all, really. Only said hello. Rarely saw
the child. He stayed inside and didn't play with the other chil-
dren. The yard was always maintained well. They were good
neighbors.
Big help, thought Strand.
"Did you say four nineteen Hampton Avenue, lady?"
She looked up. "Yes, that's right."
The taxi driver pointed. "Well, that's it."
Strand gazed out the window and saw a Wal-Mart store, sur-
rounded by a big parking lot.
"But there must be some mistake," said Strand in a puzzled
voice. "The address I want is a residence."
The bearded driver, who wore a tam o'shanter cap, shook his
head. "Not anymore, lady. I remember. This thing went in
about two years ago. I drove past the construction a few times.
These Wal-Mart stores spring up faster than mushrooms."
"Dammit!"
The driver was taken aback by the vehemence of her remark,
but he quickly forgave her. This lady was a looker.- "So, you
want out here?" he asked.
Strand sighed. "No."
"So where to?"
"I wish I knew."

274
STORMING INTREPID
They should pay me extra for psychoanalysis, mused the cab-
bie.
"Hold on a second." Strand looked through the file once
more. Iceberg's father had been a plumber and his work address
was listed, but he'd died when little Julian was ten years old.
She had the U-Stow-It warehouse receipts and a search warrant
in her purse, but decided to try the MacKenzie address first, just
to be thorough—unlike the FBI agent of long ago. "Take me
back to Chicago—MacKenzie Street."
"You got it, lady," said the cabbie, and he hit the gas.
Day 3, 1630 Hours Zulu, 11:30 a.m. Local
THE WHITE HOUSE
For the first time in a very long time, the liquor cabinet in the
Oval Office was opened before noon. The American President
poured his guest a Jack Daniel's, while the Frenchman filled his
host's glass with Courvoisier. Then they raised their glasses in
a toast to each other's native drink.
The Frenchman swished his bourbon over the ice. "You are
most correct, my friend. This is an incredible story. As you say,
it is the most goddamnedest thing I have ever heard."
The American took a swig and felt the cognac burn down to
his stomach. "I'm pretty much at my wit's end. There's really
nothing we can do until the Constellation is launched. I still
have a hard time believing this is really happening, but my mil-
itary people insist the Intrepid is talking to the Russians."
The Gallic President turned somber and pulled on his Jack
Daniel's. "Entre nous, is this, this Graser device, I believe you
called it, truly as powerful as you say?"
The American nodded. "Yeah. We've had oppressive security
around the whole project, but even so, everybody knows we've
had a technological breakthrough. Still, we thought the speci-
fications on the Graser and the status of our SDI platform re-
mained secure. We've given eyes-and-ears-only briefings to the
NATO heads of state, and even then we couched a lot of the
technical information in careful terms. You've only been in of-
fice for six months, and we were going to wait and see how this

THE THIRD DAY
275
visit went before deciding whether or not to bring you in on the
loop. I made the decision not to tell your predecessor."
The Frenchman chuckled. "Oui, I quite understand. In the
Elysee bedroom he would always wake up facing east, while I
tend to face west. But even with excessive security measures,
there appears to have been a serious penetration of your proj-
ect."
The President downed the remainder of the Courvoisier. "No
argument there. I don't know how the hell they did it, but the
Russians caught us with our pants down."
"Pardon? Pants down?"
"That means they penetrated our security when they shouldn't
have been able to," explained the American.
The tortoiseshell glasses once again came off and the earpiece
went between the teeth. After some thoughtful moments the
Frenchman said, "We are not without our own information
sources inside the Soviet Union. This matter has ramifications
for all of Western Europe ... for NATO. If you will permit
me, I shall see if my DGSE can shed some light on what mis-
chief the Russians are making."
The American perked up. "Thanks. I would appreciate it.
My CIA hasn't been able to come up with squat on this whole
affair."
The Frenchman drained the last of his drink and smiled. "You
know, this bourbon is truly a wondrous elixir. What do you call
this? Jacques Daniel's?"
Day 3, 1630 Hours Zulu, 10:30 a.m. Local
CHICAGO
MacKenzie Street had probably been a nice neighborhood—
once upon a time. Big oak trees still lined the roadway, but now
almost everywhere Strand looked she saw peeling paint, over-
grown or dead shrubs, and grime. A few houses had broken-
down cars parked in the front yard with parts strewn about. Two
ragamuffin children, whom she guessed were Vietnamese, were
bundled up against the chilly March air. When the cab pulled

276
STORMING INTREPID
up to the curb they scurried away, leaving their broken scooter
behind.
The old Kapuscinski house looked worse than the others. A
fading for rent sign on the front door dangled by a lone thumb-
tack, and there wasn't a single unbroken window in the entire
house.
Strand got out, looking pert and attractive in her off-blue Air
Force trench coat and beret. In the yard across the street, two
leathered-up bikers leaned on their "hogs" and eyed her hun-
grily. They were obese and filthy.
"You want me to wait around, lady?" asked the cabbie ten-
tatively.
Strand swallowed. "Yes, if you please."
"Okay. Just don't be too long."
"Roger," she replied.
"What?"
"I mean, I'll be back as fast as I can."
"Good." He locked the doors of his cab.
Strand didn't see any point in trying the Kapuscinski home,
since it was obviously deserted, so she went to a neighboring
house and marched up the cracked sidewalk. She took a deep
breath, threw her shoulders back, and knocked purposefully on
the door. She waited and knocked again. The door opened
slowly to a narrow slit, and Strand could barely make out a tiny,
brown-skinned woman standing in the shadows on the inside.
"Si?"
Strand tried to smile. "Good day, ma'am. My name is Lydia
Strand and I'm with the Air Force. I'm trying to track down
some information and I wondered if I could ask you a few ques-
tions."
The woman's eyes had a wildness about them. ' 'Immigration ?''
she asked apprehensively with a heavy accent.
Strand felt a dead end coming on. "Oh, you mean Immigra-
tion and Naturalization Service? INS? No, no. I am not Immi-
gration. I'm with the Air Force."
"Por favor?"
"I guess you don't speak English, do you?" asked Strand
lamely.
"No hablo ingles."
"I see, well, I'm afraid I don't speak Spanish, so I won't be

THE THIRD DAY
277
taking up any more of your time. Thank''—the door slammed—
"you."
Strand sighed, then beat a hasty retreat. At least she'd tried.
She walked back around the old Kapuscinski home toward
the second neighbor's house, ignoring the bikers' stares. On
rounding the corner of a large hedge she was greeted by a rather
queer scene. A little white-haired man, wrapped in a worn black
overcoat, was sitting on the concrete stoop with a steaming cup
in his hand. Strand guessed it was coffee. Maybe tea. She
couldn't understand why he was sitting outside on the cold, hard
steps. There were still a few clumps of snow on the ground and
winter wasn't over yet. She shrugged to herself, then approached
him. "Excuse me, sir, I'm sorry to bother you, but—"
He put his finger to his lips, indicating he wanted silence.
Then he pointed to the hedge and whispered, "He in there. . . .
They no leave during winter, you know.''
The accent was heavy. Strand guessed Eastern European.
The elderly man reached into his pocket, pulled out some
sunflower seeds, and held them in his open palm.
Strand didn't understand what he was doing until a brilliant
red cardinal appeared and perched on his thumb. The bird
pecked through the offerings with his beak, then seized one seed
and flew off. The white-haired man then pocketed the leavings
and said, "He's a good friend."
Strand nodded. "I'm sure he is. And so are you, to come out
and feed him in the cold."
He sipped from his cup. It was tea.
"Marta used to feed birds ... she die .. . now I feed."
"Marta . . . was she your wife?"
He nodded and sipped again.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Thank you," he replied softly, then looked at her carefully.
"Who you?"
"Sir, my name is Major Lydia Strand and I'm with the Air
Force. I'm trying to track down some information and I would
appreciate it if you could help me. Can you tell me how long
you've lived here?"
He returned her gaze with vacant eyes. Strand felt another
dead end was in the making, for it appeared the old fella was
somewhere out in the ozone.

278
STORMING INTREPID
"Long time," he said finally.
"I see. The reason I'm here is that I'm trying to find out about
the family that once lived in the house next door." Strand
pointed. "I can't tell you what it's about, but I would appreciate
it greatly if you could answer just a few questions for me."
A shrug of the shoulders. "Okay."
"Thank you. Now, sir, over thirty years ago a family lived in
the house next door. A mother, father, and small boy. The child
was seven years old when they moved away. Their name was
Kapuscinski and they were an immigrant family from Poland—
although the boy was born in Chicago. What I'm trying to find
out is—"
"No," said the old man.
Strand blinked. "You mean you never knew them?" she
asked.
The little man shook his head. "No Polski," he said simply.
Strand was puzzled. "What do you mean by 'No Pole . . .
skee'?"
He sipped. "They not Polski ... no Polish."
Strand cocked her head. "You remember them then?" she
asked hopefully.
He nodded.
"Then how could they not be Polish? Their name was Ka-
puscinski. I've seen their immigration papers. They came from
Krakow, in Poland."
A shrug. "I see no papers. But I know . . . they no Polski."
Now she was irritated. "How do you know?"
He pulled out some sunflower seeds from his pocket and scat-
tered them on the ground. Two cardinals appeared and began to
forage.
"I born Warszawa . . . that Warsaw. Leave when Hitler come.
Fight Germans in Free Polski paratroop with General Sosa-
bowski. Wounded near Arnhem . . . before you born. Marta
and me come to America after war. New York first. No like.
Then come here." He looked up. "Marta pretty like you."
Strand blushed. "I'm sure she was. Please, go on."
' 'I remember. We move this house. It nice then. Not like now.
I want to meet neighbor. See name on mailbox. 'Kapuscinski.'
I remember. I talk to him over fence. I say, 'Dzaen dobry, aesten
Jersey Woyda. Przyechalem tutay z Warszawa.' That mean,

THE THIRD DAY
279
'Hello, I Jersey Woyda. I move here from Warsaw.' That man' '—
he pointed next door—"he speak Polish, but he not Polski. I
remember. . . they leave soon after Marta and me move here.''
Strand felt a tingling sensation. "Are you certain? The man
named Kapuscinski had been in this country seven years. He
probably hadn't spoken Polish much in that time."
"No." He shook his head. "If they Polski they speak Polski
in house . . . Marta and me speak Polski when alone." He
smiled sheepishly. "That why my English never so good."
"No, no," she reassured him. "Your English is fine. And
you made a good point. They probably would continue to speak
Polish when they were alone." Strand rubbed her gloved hands
together. "But if he did speak Polish, how can you say for cer-
tain he wasn't from Poland?"
His eyes were mocking. "You American. Everybody who
speak English sound like American?''
She shook her head. "I see what you mean," she conceded,
then contemplated what he'd said. "So if they spoke the lan-
guage but were not Polish, then where were they from?"
He shrugged again. "Don't know ... too long time . . .
Ungarn . . . Czechsi maybe. Don't know where. Just know they
not Polski."
She patted her cheeks. It was getting colder. "What about the
litde boy?" she asked. "Did you ever see him? As I said, he
was only seven years old when they were here."
He took one last sip, then tossed the remnants in his cup on
the ground. "I remember. Marta give him piece of cake one
day. He quiet. Not say much. Unhappy boy . . . Marta and me
not have children."
Strand pulled out her billfold and held open the picture section
forhimtosee. "That's my litde boy, Noah. He's eight months old."
The white-haired man peeked at the photo and smiled. "He
pretty baby . . . like Mama."
Strand blushed a litde once more, and said, "Thank you."
"You want tea?" he asked.
She was about to beg off when the taxi's horn honked. Maybe
the bikers were getting resdess. "No. No thank you. That's my
cab. I have to be going. It was nice talking with you. I wish I
could've met Marta."
He smiled wistfully. "She would have liked you."

280
STORMING INTREPID
Strand nodded, said, "Thank you for your time," then in-
stinctively leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Now it was
the old Pole who blushed.
She turned and began walking down the sidewalk.
"Air Force lady?" he called after her.
She stopped and looked back. "Yes?"
He had an ethereal look in his eyes now, as if trying to peer
through a distant fog. "When I tell neighbor I from Wars-
zawa . . ."He paused for a moment.
"Yes?" prompted Strand.
"He scared."
Day 3, 1700 Hours Zulu
THE INTREPID
The image slowly crept into focus, the white dot growing
larger and larger until it became vividly clear. He was in a tun-
nel, which turned into a hallway. The walls were white—com-
pletely white—their sterility amplified by the pungent smell of
antiseptic and formaldehyde.
Like a robot, the young Julian walked down the hall, wearing
his blue academy uniform. Beside him the butterball police lieu-
tenant kept pace, looking drawn and weary from having done
this sort of thing too many times before.
"I understand your father passed away when you were only
ten years old. . . . You must have been very close to your
mother." The lieutenant tried to make his voice sound consol-
ing, but it came out flat, without emotion—just like a written
police report.
Julian only nodded.
"Sorry," offered the lieutenant as they approached the swing-
ing door marked:
COOK COUNTY MEDICAL EXAMINER
MORGUE
They entered and the lieutenant handed some paperwork to
the white-uniformed attendant, who was sickeningly obese and

THE THIRD DAY
281
was eating a Twinkie at his desk. The human white elephant
thumbed through the paperwork and looked up at the plain-
clothes lieutenant. "Kapuscinski?" he asked absently.
"That's right," replied the cop.
The white elephant heaved himself up. "This way," he or-
dered. They walked through another set of swinging doors into
a large room. One wall was filled with a bank of small stainless
steel refrigerator doors.
The white elephant opened one of the doors and roughly
yanked out a tray.
The lieutenant spoke softly. "From the crime scene it looked
like she returned home from shopping and stumbled onto some
burglars that were in the house. Apparently the thieves panicked
and ..." The cop didn't finish the sentence. He only nodded
to the attendant.
The white elephant folded back the sheet covering the face.
Clinically, the lieutenant asked, "Do you, Julian Kapuscin-
ski, positively identify this woman as Victoria Kapuscinski, your
mother?"
Her brown hair had turned gray many years ago, and it fell
raggedly on the tray. Her eyes were closed and her skin a flour
white. She did not look peaceful—even in death.
"Is this your mother?" prompted the lieutenant again.
Julian emitted a barely audible "Yes."
The lieutenant nodded to the white elephant, who started to
roll the tray back into the refrigerator. But Julian placed a re-
straining hand on the tray. He couldn't bring himself to let her
go. "How did my mother die?" he asked, almost choking.
The lieutenant pretended not to hear.
"I asked you how my mother died." This time it was a de-
mand.
The middle-aged cop sighed, then quietly said, "Stab
wound."
The white elephant wanted to get back to the other Twinkie
at his desk and tried moving the tray again, but Julian's strong
hand still held it fast. "C'mon, kid," he said roughly. "Your
momma's dead. She ain't gettin' up, I can tell you that."
Inside Julian's mind a dike broke, and a sea of blind, searing
rage engulfed him. "You pig!" he shouted, and lunged over the

282
STORMING INTREPID
tray to seize the white elephant by the throat. The scuffle knocked
Victoria Kapuscinski's corpse off the tray, and the naked body
hit the tile floor with a dull smack.
Julian released his grip on the white elephant's throat and
collapsed against the wall of refrigerator doors, aghast at what
he'd done. His mother's naked torso showed that she had not
died from a stab wound, but from about thirty savage punctures
that horribly maimed her delicate body.
Julian ran from the hellish morgue. Ran far and fast until his
legs could take him no farther and he collapsed on the grounds
of Chicago's Lincoln Park. It was dark, and he was alone with
his panting and sobbing. How long he stayed there he couldn't
remember, for his mind was consumed by the image of his
violated mother.
' 'Julian?'' It was a tender voice, imparting a sense of kindness
and understanding. "Julian?"
The young Kapuscinski looked up to see a benevolent face.
It seemed grandfatherly—almost cherubic. It was attached to a
portly figure wrapped in a woolen overcoat. "Come with me,
Julian," he said gently, but with a trace of insistence.
Numbly, Julian rose from the ground and allowed himself to
be guided to a park bench.
The portly figure took a small bag of candies from his pocket
and put one in his mouth. "You are a fine athlete," he said
finally. "I had difficulty following you, even in my automo-
bile."
Still numb, Julian mumbled, "Who . . . who are you?"
The grandfather figure took another candy. "In America I
have had many names. The one I presently use is Philip Johnson.
Very common, wouldn't you say? But my birth name is Pyotr
... the same name as your mother's cousin who died in Bye-
lorussia many years ago."
Julian, though in shock, showed his surprise.
"I knew your mother," whispered the grandfather, "and I
have watched you grow from a small boy—but you never knew
I was there, did you, Julian?"
Julian shook his head.
"Your mother. Such a remarkable woman. You saw what the

THE THIRD DAY
283
Americans did to your mother?" It was more than a question.
Almost a challenge.
Julian nodded.
The grandfather sighed. "A country that would allow such
hooligans to run loose and commit such an atrocity on your
mother—well, it is evil, is it not?"
Slowly, Julian nodded again.
The old man took another candy. ' 'I know your secret, Julian.
I was sent to look after you. You have done well to be admitted
to the American's Air Force university." He chewed the candy
slowly, savoring it as it dissolved. "The road ahead of you will
be long and difficult, but if your resolve does not weaken you
will be able to avenge your mother's death. You will be able to
strike back at this evil country. Do you want to strike back,
Julian?"
Firmly, Julian nodded.
"Will your resolve waver, Julian?" ,
"My resolve will not waver," he replied without hesitation.
"Good. I expected no less. Your mother's resolve never wa-
vered. Such an extraordinary woman." The old man pocketed
the bag of candies. "Come along. We have much to talk about."
And he reached out and took Julian's arm.
But Julian recoiled from the old man's grasp and hissed with
an undercurrent of rage, "My resolve will not waver, but never,
ever, touch me again!"
But, in fact, there was a time when Julian's resolve did begin
to waver. Although the cherubic grandfather figure named Philip
Johnson kept a close watch on Julian as he progressed through
the Air Force Academy, an imponderable factor entered the pic-
ture during his senior year. A girl named Felicia. Tall, lissome
Felicia with the flowing red hair. Older than he, she stirred
emotions in Julian that had long been dormant. But before a
bond could crystallize between them, Julian graduated and was
shipped off to flight training school—and then to Vietnam.
During his third week in Vietnam Julian received a letter from
Felicia. She was engaged to an older man—the executive vice
president of a defense contractor.
It was the final nail in the coffin, and Julian became a true

284
STORMING INTREPID
psychotic. His burning rage at Felicia's betrayal was unleashed
in his flying. He turned into a crazed Apache in the air, fly-
ing 223 combat sorties and shooting down six North Vietna-
mese MiGs. His fearlessness and cold-blooded manner earned
him the Distinguished Flying Cross—and the call sign of Ice-
berg.
In a bizarre fashion, Vietnam further honed his resolve. For
although he was in the middle of it and participated in the kill-
ing, he felt the use of such massive aerial bombing by a giant
power on a primitive people was evil. An evil propagated by the
ruling American elite—as personified by war profiteers like Fe-
licia's husband. Iceberg turned a blind eye to atrocities commit-
ted by the North Vietnamese and decided that his mother had
been right. Yes, as always, his mother had been right, and he
would not betray her as Felicia had betrayed him.
Julian Kapuscinski—the Iceberg—awakened from the night-
mare and looked out the windshield. At that moment the In-
trepid was passing over the North American continent.
"No, Mother," he whispered to himself. "My resolve will
not waver."
It was both tragic and ironic that Julian never learned the true
identity of his mentor, Philip Johnson. In fact, Johnson was a
clinical psychologist trained at the Subinskiy Institute of Psy-
chiatry in Leningrad. He'd learned much while experimenting
on American prisoners of war held in North Korea. And he used
his horrifying skills to twist Julian's mind into a sickened psy-
chotic mass.
It was Johnson who orchestrated the brutal murder of Victoria
Kapuscinski.
And arranged for Julian to meet Felicia—one of Moscow
Centre's more seductive agents.

THE THIRD DAY
285
Day 3, 1730 Hours Zulu, 3:30 p.m. Local
MIDAIR REFUELING OVER THE NORTH
ATLANTIC, SOUTH OF THE AZORES
The air turbulence made refueling a bitch. Three times the
boom operator was compelled to yank out the aluminum tube
from Ghost Leader's plane, then restart the process of realigning
and reinserting the probe. On the fourth break-off, he'd had
enough. "Say, Skipper, it's really the pits back here," he la-
mented from the boom pod, located in the arse of the KC-10
tanker. "Is there something a little smoother downstairs?"
"Maybe so. Stand by." The pilot of the tanker eavesdropped
a little longeron the civilian air traffic frequencies before making
his decision. The Ghostflight mission of four aircraft was south
of the Azores on an easterly heading. Since it was daylight they
had to remain far enough away from civilian air traffic routes to
avoid visual detection, but they stayed close enough to monitor
the radio chatter of commercial pilots as they discussed weather
conditions.
"Okay, Boomer," said the pilot over the intercom. "We're
gonna take it all the way down to two-three thousand. A KLM
seven-four-seven says it's silk city down there."
"Great," replied the boom operator.
"Ghost Leader, this is Ghost Four. We're taking it down to
two-three thousand to finish up."
"Roger, Ghost Four," replied the Leader. "Ghost Two and
Three, you go ahead and vector to one-eight-zero at four hun-
dred knots. We'll catch up after we're full."
"Roger, Ghost Leader."
"Okay, Ghost Four, let's do it."
"Roger," replied the tanker. The two aircraft started de-
scending from their bumpy refueling altitude of 33,000 feet,
while the C-141 Starlifter and the other coal-black batwing turned
to a heading of due south.
Ghostflight had come a long way, and still had a long way to
go. From their refueling point near the Azores, they would travel
south over the Atlantic to about midpoint of the bulge of the
West African coastline. When they were out of range of civilian
air traffic radars, they would turn due east and fly over the des-

286
STORMING INTREPID
olate terrain of Mauritania, Mali, Niger, Chad, the Sudan, Ethi-
opia, and Somalia. No request had been filed for transit over the
airspace of these countries, because this was an illegal flight.
Radar detection of the batwings was not a real concern, but the
tanker and cargo aircraft could be discovered; therefore, Ghost-
flight had to follow a carefully plotted route through the African
airspace that was "unpainted" by civilian or military radars.
When the four aircraft finally crossed the East African coast-
line over the Arabian Sea, they would follow the southern coast
of the Saudi Arabian peninsula until they reached their desti-
nation along the Gulf of Oman. There they would land on
friendly territory—before the sun came up again.
At 23,000 feet the tanker and its thirsty companion once again
lined up for insertion of the fuel boom. This time, the air was
smooth and both aircraft remained stationary throughout the
fuel flow. Midair refueling was always problematic, particularly
in turbulence. Yet there were times when Ghost Leader's plane
could be more of a stable platform than the tanker. That was
because Ghost Leader's aircraft did not possess those high-
profile parts—like a fuselage or tail section—that could be
whipped this way and that by crosswinds.
When the tanker and the topped-off Ghost Leader started
climbing back up to their cruising altitude, the boom operator's
eyes remained transfixed on the jet-black aircraft. Finally, he
shook his head. He still couldn't believe something that weird-
looking could fly.
Day 3, 1800 Hours Zulu, Noon Local
CHICAGO
The cabbie pulled up to the U-Stow-It warehouse complex
and parked. "You want me to wait this time?"
She looked around. "No. This doesn't seem too threatening.
I appreciated your staying at the other place, though. Those
bikers gave me the shivers."
"Me, too," he agreed.
Strand counted out some bills for the fare, including a gen-
erous tip, then parted company with the taxi.

THE THIRD DAY
287
The U-Stow-It establishment looked like any self-storage
warehouse that you could find across the country. When the
household closets, attic, and garage overflowed, the mini-
warehouses took up the slack—for a fee. This one had several
rows of low corrugated-steel buildings with overhead doors and
was surrounded by a ten-foot-high cyclone fence.
She walked over to the building with manager painted over
the door and entered. The office had a counter, and a doorway
that led into an unkempt living room. Obviously, the manage-
ment lived on the premises.
The proprietor walked through the doorway. He had a beard
and wore his shirt unbuttoned, revealing a generous and hairy
beer belly. He was carrying a Coors in one hand, indicating he'd
gotten an early start on the first of his three daily six-packs.
Although surly-looking, he brightened up when he laid eyes on
the major. "Morning, er, afternoon I guess it is, now. What can
I do for you today, honey?" He was trying to be charming.
Inwardly Strand winced at the primitive come-on and quickly
slipped into her sergeant-major mode, as she had with Tedesco,
the FBI man. In a flintlike voice she said, "My name is Major
Lydia Strand, United States Air Force." She opened her purse
and laid out some documents on the counter. "I have a federal
search warrant to inspect the contents of warehouse number
P-thirteen, leased to Julian Kapuscinski of Colorado Springs."
Upon hearing the words search warrant, the manager took a
step backward, thinking of the hashish he had hidden in the
medicine cabinet. He'd done time in Cook County jail once and
didn't like it. He also didn't like that tone of voice in a woman.
"Search warrant? Where does the Air Force get off handin' out
search warrants? You ain't no cop."
Strand kept her posture erect. "I have special authorization
from the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in
Washington to execute this warrant. If you wish, you may call
the local FBI office. Ask for Agent Wilkerson. He will confirm
what I've told you. He will also deploy additional agents if nec-
essary. Now if you don't mind, I'm in a hurry."
Director of the FBI? Shit. He didn't want any part of this.
"Okay, okay. Don't get excited." He picked up the warrant and
looked at it. "P-thirteen?" he asked.
"Correct."

288
STORMING INTREPID
He went to a lockbox full of keys and extracted one. Then he
put on an overcoat and picked up a crowbar. "Come on," he said.
They walked outside and down row P of the buildings, finally
stopping at number 13. The manager fumbled with the keys and
unfastened one of two padlocks. Picking up the crowbar, he
said, "The customer gets to put his own lock on the door, too.
Security, you know. I don't have no key for this one here, so I
gotta break it—seein' how you got a warrant and all. . . . Stand
back a little."
The major complied, and the manager inserted the crowbar
through the padlock loop. He jerked a few times before it gave
way. Then he lifted the overhead door and exposed the room,
which held a single laige wooden crate—nothing else.
"Can I borrow your crowbar?" she asked.
He looked at her skeptically. "Sure you don't need no help?"
"I'll manage," she said evenly.
Having been a student of physics, Strand knew the principles
of the fulcrum. She put her purse on the floor and began working
on the crate with the crowbar. Using it on just the right pressure
points, she dismantled it quickly—with leverage, not brute
strength.
"You need me for anything else?" he asked.
"I'll let you know if I do. I'd like to hang on to the crowbar
for a litde while if you don't mind."
"Right. Just be sure and bring it back. I gotta pay for it iffin
you don't bring it back," he said in a self-righteous tone.
"Rest assured it will be returned."
He retreated toward the icebox of Coors.
The crate contained a two-drawer filing cabinet and an as-
sortment of cardboard moving boxes. Strand started at one end
and methodically went through them.
An hour later the contents of the wooden crate were neatly
spread over the warehouse floor. Apparently they were all that
remained of Iceberg's mother's estate. The two-drawer filing
cabinet contained the probated will of Victoria Kapuscinski.
Julian was named his mother's executor, and other documents
in the filing cabinet showed Iceberg had liquidated virtually all
the assets of the estate at auction. He'd also filed the appropriate
estate tax returns.

THE THIRD DAY
289
The remaining contents were apparently the unsold items from
the estate sale and family keepsakes, and they didn't amount to
a hill of beans. Some old clothes, a few cheap oil paintings with
ornate frames, some kitchenware, Iceberg's Air Force Academy
yearbooks and memorabilia, an RCA television set, and a stack
of old mystery books.
Strand was starting to get tired, and her stomach was growl-
ing. She hadn't eaten all day, and this was beginning to look
like another dry hole. She had one last box to open, then she
could grab something to eat and head back to Colorado.
The remaining cardboard box was sealed with tape. She split
it open with the pocketknife from her purse. Inside was an or-
nate wooden chest with a padlock. Strand cut away the rest of
the cardboard to reveal the entire chest, which was bigger than
a jewelry box but smaller than a hope chest. She picked up the
crowbar again and easily forced the small padlock open. Then
she lifted the chest and put it on top of the two-drawer file cabinet
so she could sort through it.
On top of the open chest was an inset compartment that held
some costume jewelry. Strand pawed through the necklaces and
bracelets but found nothing out of the ordinary. Same sort of
stuff you could get at J.C. Penney. She figured it had belonged
to Iceberg's mother.
She lifted the compartment out, and underneath she found an
album of pictures showing Julian Kapuscinski growing up—as
an infant, on his tricycle, his first day of school, high school
graduation, and his first year as a "Dooley" at the academy.
Strand remembered Iceberg's mother had been murdered when
he was a sophomore at Colorado Springs. She had never lived
to see her son graduate or get his wings and become an astro-
naut. A damn shame, she thought. Digging deeper, Strand found
Julian's certificate to the high school National Honor Society, as
well as his diploma from Pembrook High School and his accep-
tance letter to the academy. Typical stuff you'd find in a proud
mother's heirloom chest.
Finally, on the bottom, was an item bundled in soft black
velvet. Strand picked it up and took off the velvet wrapping. It
was a small leather notebook. She gently leafed through the old,
fragile pages, and was a little perplexed. Although it was a
bound volume, the text on the pages was not printed. It was

290
STORMING INTREPID
handwritten. The handwriting was definitely masculine, as well
as jerky and unintelligible—and obviously not in English. In
fact, the writing looked like a bunch of hieroglyphics to Strand.
The elder Kapuscinski's diary, perhaps? She shrugged wistfully
to herself and decided to take it back to Cheyenne Mountain.
Grabbing her purse and the crowbar, she pulled down the
overhead door and left.
Day 3, 2100 Hours Zulu, 4:00 p.m. Local
THE WHITE HOUSE
The President of the United States looked out the French
doors and gazed upon the White House Rose Garden. The small
panes of glass that framed his view were extraordinarily thick
for such elegant doors, but that was a necessary precaution.
Each square was constructed of six sheets of glass laminated to
interlayers of polyvinyl butyral. This created a see-through
bulletproof shield that could withstand anything up to and in-
cluding a .460 Weatherby Magnum fired at point-blank range.
The President's mood was one of befuddlement. He wasn't
sure what to believe about this Intrepid business anymore. "Rim-
ing to his guest, he asked, "How much confidence do you have
in this Kremlin source of yours?"
The Frenchman tapped the ashes from one of his host's Don
Diego cigars. "As you can understand, my friend, I cannot tell
you his precise position. We have to protect our intelligence
sources, just as you must. But I can tell you that he is highly
placed within the Soviet Foreign Ministry, and we have found
him to be extremely accurate in the past. Indeed, we have seen
staff position papers even before they have crossed the Foreign
Minister's desk."
The President frowned. "And he verifies everything that Am-
bassador Yakolev says?"
The Frenchman nodded. "Oui. Our source confirms that the
Foreign Minister personally investigated the allegations con-
cerning Soviet communications with your space shuttle and dis-
missed it as American propaganda. My intelligence people tell
me we, ah, even obtained a copy of the cable message the For-

THE THIRD DAY
291
eign Minister sent Ambassador Yakolev. . . . Perhaps I should
not have told you that."
The American's eyebrow went up: "I must confess I am im-
pressed. And rest assured I've already forgotten about the cable.
Although it certainly validates your source. I wish my spooks
could come up with something like that."
"Spooks?"
The host smiled. "American slang for 'spies.' But even with
your Foreign Ministry source, I don't know how to read the
situation. I told you about my Secretary of State's speculation
that a leadership change may be under way in the Kremlin?"
"Oui. And I agree with you. It is most difficult to interpret.
But it is even more difficult to believe the Foreign Minister and
Defense Minister are not exercising genuine control over their
portfolios, as they have for years."
"Yeah. That's what I told Winston. And I sure hope you're
right. I wouldn't want to contemplate the alternative."
The Frenchman took a drag on the Don Diego. "What are
your plans now?"
The American's gaze returned to the Rose Garden, and he
took a long sigh. "There's nothing we can do, really, except get
the Constellation up there as fast as possible." The President
checked his watch. "Lift-off is supposed to be at four-thirty a.m.
About twelve hours from now. If you're so inclined, we can
watch the lift-off and part of the rendezvous from here." He
motioned to the television cabinet.
Now it was the Frenchman who was impressed. "Indeed?"
Like a neighbor showing off a new lawnmower, the American
said, "Yeah. My SPACECOM general has got a telescope in a
high-flying jediner. He calls it Spyglass, and it's up near the
polar ice cap now. That way it can catch the Intrepid for a few
minutes on each orbit."
His guest nodded. "I would very much like to see this."
"Fine." The President looked at his watch again. "I guess
we can make it an early dinner, then turn in early so we can get
up early. Or we can make it a long night."
The Frenchman chuckled. "I have never been an early riser,
my friend."

292
STORMING INTREPID
Day 3, 2200 Hours Zulu, 2:00 p.m. Local
VANDENBERG AIR FORCE BASE
Col. Peter Nordstrum Lamborghini threw his T-38 Talon
fighter into a savage double roll. He was nearing his approach
to the Vandenberg runway, and the double roll was the only
aerobatic maneuver he could execute in the tightly controlled
southern California airspace. En route from Colorado Springs
he'd taken a little time over the wide-open spaces of Utah to do
a couple of loops and Immelmanns. He found it was a good way
to relieve the stress of the last few days, and only wished there
had been time for more fun.
Lamborghini knew the Talon probably as well as any man
alive, because he'd flown it as a member of the Thunderbirds,
the aerobatic demonstration team. One of the disappointments
of his Air Force career was that he'd flown with the Thunder-
birds before they made the transition to his beloved F-16. De-
spite its problems, Peter still thought the Falcon was one hummer
of an aircraft.
The son of a road construction foreman, the SPACECOM
intelligence officer had graduated from the University of Wis-
consin in aeronautical engineering. Although proud of his Ital-
ian and Norwegian heritage, he always felt like a half-breed in
the land of the transplanted Scandinavians, so he joined the Air
Force to see other parts of the world. The first part of the world
he saw after completing flight school was North Vietnam, from
the front seat of an F-4 Phantom. He saw a lot of it while racking
up two tours of duty, 318 combat missions, and a chestful of
medals. He saw lots of flak, thousands of tracer rounds, and
dozens of SAM missiles—real up close and personal. More times
than he cared to count, he saw a mean-looking fighter plane and
a dashing, brave American pilot disappear in a fireball in the
time it takes to blink an eye. He had the opportunity to see an
SA-2 SAM missile explode directly above the cockpit, and
through the blur of a 400 mph ejection, he watched the para-
chute of his bombardier disappear into the triple-canopy jungle.
He experienced the total blackness and utter terror of a night
spent alone in the jungle, as well as the horror of finding his

THE THIRD DAY
293
bombardier swinging from a tree in a parachute harness-
perfectly fine, except that he was headless. He experienced the
exhaustion and fear of running from Laotian widows and or-
phans as they came after him with sticks, rocks, and crossbows,
seeking revenge for the errant American bombs that had snuffed
out their husbands and fathers. Instead of seeing the world, Peter
Lamborghini's face had been rubbed savagely in the slime pit
called "war"—and he didn't care for it much.
By the time his second Vietnam tour ground to a halt, Lam-
borghini had soured on the whole sordid Indochina mess, and
he came very, very close to leaving the Air Force. His wife,
Juliet, had soured on it long before he had; but she knew her
husband. And she loved him. She wanted to see him happy, and
knew the only place he would be happy was in the cockpit. She
patiently explained to Peter that there was a difference between
defending your country and pursuing a foreign policy gone hay-
wire. So at her urging he kept his uniform- And in the years that
followed, she went uncomplaining, rearing their two daughters,
as they hopped from one Permanent Change of Station to an-
other. It was a royal pain in the kazoo for a spouse, but necessary
if her husband was to climb the career ladder in the Tactical Air
Command.
Lamborghini grew and matured. He was a gifted pilot and a
natural leader. And he knew his wife was right. Flying had
become a fundamental part of his life. Putting Vietnam behind
him, he auditioned for, and was accepted into, the Thunder-
birds. The aerobatic flying became a salve that rehabilitated his
wounded spirt. It also made up for a lot of the shortcomings of
Air Force life—such as low pay, frequent moves, family sepa-
rations, and crazy hours.
If you ever reviewed Lamborghini's personnel file, you would
find plenty of commendations, medals, and outstanding effi-
ciency reports. But you would also find that although he com-
pleted 318 combat missions, and had even flown as wingman to
the Air Force's legendary Brig. Gen. Robin "Old Man" Olds,
Lamborghini could not claim the tide of "fighter ace." That is
to say, he'd shot down four North Vietnamese MiGs, but was
one plane shy of the five kills needed to possess the coveted
"ace" designation—officially, that is. The circumstances sur-
rounding the additional two MiGs he nailed, to this day, re-

294
STORMING INTREPID
mained lacked in a Pentagon basement vault under an Omega
classification.
In May 1982, Peter Lamborghini had been assigned as tech-
nical advisor to the Israeli Air Force (IAF) when it took delivery
on eight new F-16 Falcons, fresh out of the Fort Worth General
Dynamics plant. As part of his duties, he flew with the Israeli
pilots as they debugged and ironed out the kinks of their new
aircraft (in the automobile business, this is called "dealer
prep").
Peter chose an inopportune time to arrive in the Middle East—
just two weeks before the Israelis mounted their incursion into
southern Lebanon, when tensions in the region were white hot.
The day before the Israeli Army went into full mobilization, he
was upstairs checking out weapon systems on a newly delivered
Falcon, along with an IAF captain as his wingman. The two
F-16s were flying low and slow, just heading out over the Medi-
terranean, when four Russian-built MiG-21 Fishbed fighters
screamed out of Syria and crossed over the Golan Heights. Peter
didn't speak Hebrew, so he paid little attention when his com-
panion exchanged some excited gibberish over the IAF air warn-
ing frequency. Then with a start, the Israeli streaked northeast
on an intercept vector, while transmitting a terse "Come with
me!" in English. Operating purely on instinct, Peter shoved his
own throttles to the stops and followed. He was smack in the
middle of a dogfight with the MiG-21 s before he realized what
he'd been drawn into.
The Syrian MiG dove on the American from a high angle of
attack, with its single 30mm cannon blazing. Peter saw the tracer
rounds whiz by his cockpit; but instead of jinking away to evade
and then reengage his adversary, he put the Falcon on its tail
and pointed the nose directly at the oncoming Fishbed.
Besides a complement of missiles, the F-16 is armed with a
General Electric M61 A-l Vulcan 20mm cannon that looks like
a latter-day Gatling gun. When activated, the Vulcan's six bar-
rels rotate and fire simultaneously, and they can run through six
thousand rounds of ammunition in a mere sixty seconds. It is
an awesome weapon. However, the 20mm shells are quite heavy,
so the F-16 carries only 515 rounds in its magazine when it goes
aloft. That means the Falcon can spit out its entire load of am-

THE THIRD DAY
295
munition in just five seconds—which is exacdy what Peter did.
He waggled the F-16's hand controller and mashed the red firing
button at the same time. This put the muzzle of the Vulcan in a
spiral pattern that sprayed the air with a wall of 20mm slugs—a
wall through which the MiG-21 had to pass. As the Syrian
Fishbed shot past him, Peter caught a glimpse of its shattered
canopy.
The American didn't waste a millisecond trying to confirm
his kill, but immediately started looking for other MiGs. He
spied one coming across his beam at a distance of about four
miles and began to close the gap. But before he could line up
his targeting circle (called a "pipper") on the Syrian plane, the
Fishbed erupted in flames before him. His Israeli wingman had
gotten there first.
The two remaining MiGs did a 180-degree turn and scooted
back for the Syrian border; and at that point, in a technical
diplomatic sense, Peter should have broken off the engagement
and returned to base. But he didn't. Instinct and training—and
anger—had taken over.
The American scanned the sky. "How many were there?"
he demanded.
"Four," responded the Israeli. "Two left."
Peter illuminated his Falcon's Westinghouse AN/APG-66
digital pulse Doppler radar and scanned the airspace for the
retreating Fishbeds. The radar connected, flashing the range,
position, and speed of the bandits onto his head-up display. He
kicked in the Falcon's Pratt & Whitney F100 turbofan after-
burner to pursue, and his Israeli wingman followed.
Peter closed the gap and spied one of the MiGs as it headed
for cover in a cloud bank of giant thunderheads. The Syrian pilot
was no fool. His own equipment had detected the radar surveil-
lance, and he wanted to at least get out of visual range and into
some protective concealment. Conversely, Peter had to close
within visual range because his Falcon was armed with infrared,
not radar-guided, missiles. The American peered through the
head-up display and started to line up his shot, but it was a
struggle to put the targeting "pipper" on the Fishbed's jinking
Tlimansky engine tailpipe. Then finally, just as his Falcon
crossed into Syrian airspace, Peter heard the familiar grrrrrrrr
of the AIM-9L Sidewinder in his headphones, and he let the

296
STORMING INTREPID
missile fly. A split second before the MiG plunged into the cloud
bank, it disappeared in a puffball of yellow and orange flame.
There was no chute.
Peter yanked his F-16 quickly back toward Israel. He knew
the Syrians possessed the deadly effective SA-6 Gainful surface-
to-air missile, and he wanted to hightail it out of there before
any Syrian battery commanders could lock on to him. He'd seen
all the SAMs he ever wanted to see over North Vietnam, and
they'd scared him shitless.
In his after-action report to the Department of the Air Force,
Lamborghini took pains to explain that he did not understand
the Hebrew language, and honestly didn't know what was afoot
until he saw the Fishbed MiG diving on him. Then it was a
matter of self-defense. Up to a point. Perhaps he should have
reined himself in before crossing the Syrian border; but after
all, he'd been trained as a fighter pilot for the better part of
fifteen years. What did the Air Force expect?
The Air Force accepted the report without comment and bur-
ied it deep. Way deep. The slaughter and mutilation of innocent
women and children in the Sabra and Shatilla Palestinian refu-
gee camps by Israeli-sponsored Phalangists had evoked a great
revulsion in the United States toward the incursion into Leba-
non. The last thing the Air Force needed was an AP story about
how an American pilot had shot down some Syrian planes—one
of them over Syrian airspace—while in the cockpit of an Israeli
fighter. No. That just would not do. And if the Air Force dis-
ciplined Lamborghini for violating Syrian airspace, there was
always the danger he might get miffed and go public about the
incident. That wouldn't do either. So the report went into the
bottom of the Omega vault. Never to see the light of day, ever
again. And in the world's eyes, Peter Lamborghini never made
it to "ace."
The wheels of the Talon squealed as they touched down on
the Vandenberg runway.

THE THIRD DAY
297
Day 3, 2200 Hours Zulu, 5:00 p.m. Local
KENNEDY SPACE CENTER
The space shuttle possessed a mind-numbing array of exotic
systems that all had to work properly if the spacecraft was to
leave the ground, and the responsibility for checking all of those
systems and subsystems—from the fuel cell heat exchanger to
the on-board computers—fell on the shoulders of the pad man-
ager. That is why Jacob Classen (white-haired and antsy even
in the best of times) bought and consumed aspirin and Rolaids
by the six-pack. He was constantly haunted by the image of that
one switch left off when it was supposed to be on, by the loose
wrench dropped inside the external tank, or by the valve that
didn't close when it was supposed to. The strain was enough to
make a religious man turn to drink, or make a drinking man
turn to religion.
Classen was as careful as they came. He never, ever, had
gotten over the Challenger. If another shuttle ever went down,
he swore it wasn't going to be because somebody on his pad
screwed the pooch. That's why he insisted on employing the
best technicians, and rotated them during prelaunch to ensure
they got enough rest. Bleary-eyed technicians were bound to
make mistakes. He also employed a first-class deputy pad man-
ager by the name of Ed Garvey to be his resident son of a bitch.
On the pad, Classen was the "good guy," while Garvey was
the "bad guy," who kicked ass, jumped up and down, and
screamed to make sure all the ducks were in the proper rows
before launch.
And now Garvey had disappeared. Classen had sent his dep-
uty home to get some sleep prior to the final, frenetic prelaunch
hours, when things really started hopping. Garvey had left and
had never come back. Classen had called his home. Not there.
Local hospitals were called. Not there either. KSC Security was
notified. "We'll keep an eye out," they promised. In despera-
tion, Classen called the police and highway patrol. "We have
to wait seventy-two hours until someone can be classified as a
missing person," they said, "but we'll put out a bulletin anyway
and let you know if we hear something. "
Despite Classen's frantic search, the dependable, always re-

298
STORMING INTREPID
liable Garvey couldn't be found. It was as if he'd vanished into
thin air. Classen was bone-tired, and unless his deputy showed
up, the pad manager was afraid he might collapse before the
Constellation lifted off.
Neither Classen, nor KSC Security, nor the police or highway
patrol thought to check the employee parking lot outside Pad
39A. Had they done so, they would've found Garvey's Ford
Bronco, waiting patientiy for its owner's return.
Day 3, 2215 Hours Zulu, 3:15 p.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
Whittenberg, Dowd, and Fairchild were alone in the confer-
ence room. Whittenberg was talking on the phone from the roll-
out commo panel beside his chair at the head of the table. Sir
Isaac was pouring coffee for the group when the CinC hung up.
"Chet is wrapping things up at the Cape," said Whittenberg.
"He'll be flying back to CSOC and will be there in time for the
Constellation's lift-off. I ordered him to get some sleep before
he left."
Dowd nodded. "Good idea. That guy doesn't know when to
quit."
The CinC and Sir Isaac had gotten some sleep and were rea-
sonably coherent. Dowd was starting to fade again and was
keeping alert by pumping a constant stream of coffee and Maa-
lox into his stomach. The three of them were dealing with a
collage of frustration, exasperation, and feelings of impotence.
All they could do now was monitor preparations at the Cape and
at Vandenberg, and keep an eye on the mysterious satellite.
The conference-room door opened and CM/Sgt. Timothy
Kelly walked in, looking incredibly weary. He tossed his cap
on the table and plopped into a chair. Not standing on protocol,
Sir Isaac poured him some coffee.
"So how was Boston?" queried Dowd.
Kelly scowled. "Complete waste of time," he said after a
gulp of coffee. "Major Mulcahey is the quintessential ail-
American. I talked with his parents and brother. He was an altar

THE THIRD DAY
299
boy, an Eagle Scout, March of Dimes supporter—you name it.
I can't believe he could turn; but if it is him, he never left any
tracks we'll ever find. Has Major Strand or Agent Tedesco got-
ten back yet?"
In answer to his question, the door opened and an Air Police
security guard appeared, along with the FBI man. Kelly nodded
to the AP guard, and he withdrew. Then he introduced Tedesco
to the three generals. Whittenberg was amazed at the G-man's
resemblance to Mike Ditka.
"Any luck?" asked Kelly.
Tedesco shook his head. "I can tell you that I don't see any
possible way it could be Rodriquez," he declared. "I talked
with his mother. She said he wanted to join the Marine Corps
after graduating from Cal Tech, but she persuaded him to stay
in school. No. This isn't the guy. My instincts tell me the same
thing, too."
Whittenberg made a sound like a low,growl. "Sounds like
you and Tim had the same results. Guess that leaves us with
Kapuscinski, and I find that equally hard to believe."
"I agree, General," said Kelly ruefully. "The man holds the
DFC and flew over two hundred combat missions in Vietnam.
The major said he despised the Russians. . . ." His voice trailed
off.
Sir Isaac shrugged. "Looks like we may never know who
it is unless the Constellation gets a peek inside the cock-
pit." He puffed on his pipe and thought about the Stinger
missiles being loaded onto the Constellation and wondered
if they'd be used. And if they were used, whether they would
work. . . . Maybe it had been a bad idea to begin with. He
allowed himself a sigh, and reflected that desperate men do
desperate things.
The door opened for the third time, and in walked Lydia
Strand. She, too, plopped into a chair and was offered cof-
fee.
"So, how'd it go with you?" prompted Kelly.
Strand didn't know what to think. Or report. All she had,
really, was the hazy recollection of an old man who might
be sinking into senility—a recollection that was over thirty
years old. The more she thought about it, the less sense it
made.

300
STORMING INTREPID
"I don't know what to make of it." She sighed. "It looks like
a total blank to me. I ran into an old man who said he'd been a
neighbor of the Kapuscinski family for a brief period over thirty
years ago. Nice old guy, but he seemed a little daft. He claimed
that Iceberg's father spoke Polish, but wasn't a native of Poland,
as stated on the immigration records."
Dowd's brow went into a furrow. "Not from Poland? Then
where did he come from?"
Strand reached behind her head and undipped her hair. Damn
the regulations, she thought. She shook her head, causing her
luxuriant brunette locks to tumble down over her shoulders.
None of the generals present voiced an objection. "That's just
it," she said in response to Dowd's query. "I asked him that
very same question and he said he didn't know where the Ka-
puscinskis came from. That it was too long ago. It's been over
three decades, after all."
"Yeah," agreed Kelly. "Maybe Iceberg's father was just
speaking a different dialect of Polish."
"Possibly," mused Strand as she rummaged through her
purse. "I went through some old papers and stuff Iceberg had
stored in a warehouse in Chicago. The only curious thing I
found was this." She passed the leather notebook to Tedesco.
"I had no idea what it was. Everything else in the warehouse
was junk."
Tedesco carefully thumbed through the delicate pages. Then he
shrugged and passed the notebook to the Bull, who thumbed,
shrugged, and passed it to Whittenberg, who thumbed, shrugged,
and passed it to Sir Isaac, who thumbed, shrugged, and passed it
to Kelly, who thumbed but didn't shrug.
"Well, I guess there's nothing more that we can do about it
now," lamented Whittenberg. "I'd hoped we could shed some
light on who our turncoat was, and maybe why he turned. It
might have helped us retrieve the Intrepid somehow. Looks like
we've got nothing but dry holes."
There was a depressed silence until Kelly held up the leather
notebook and said, "Sir, if you don't mind, I'd like to take this
back to my office for a few minutes."
The CinC shrugged once more and said, "Sure."
* * *

THE THIRD DAY
301
Twenty minutes later Kelly returned with the leather notebook
and a thick tome tucked under his arm. During Kelly's absence,
curiosity had started to build as to why he'd left.
"So what've you got, Tim?" asked Sir Isaac.
"Well, sir, I'm not exactly sure." He opened the note-
book.
"This handwriting looks like a bunch of mishmash, I know.
It's a very heavy-handed style and the paper has faded badly.
But what intrigued me was that the handwriting didn't appear to
be in any alphabet or language with which I was familiar."
"How do you mean?" asked Whittenberg.
"Well, sir, whatever these pages are, they certainly weren't
written in the Roman alphabet."
Dowd chuckled. "I wouldn't be too sure about that, Sarge.
You can't tell my handwriting is in English, either."
Kelly nodded. "I understand what you're saying, sir. But if
this is not the Roman alphabet, then that means it wasn't written
in any of the Romance or Germanic languages—like French,
Spanish, German, or Italian. It also eliminates the Western Slavic
languages like Czech, Slovak . . . and Polish." Kelly scratched
his head. "Also, this writing is in neither the Greek nor the
Cyrillic alphabet, which would preclude its coming from Greece,
Bulgaria, Byelorussia, Macedonia, the Ukraine, or Serbia. In
fact, this handwriting looks more like Arabic or Armenian than
anything else, but I know a little about those two languages and
it doesn't appear to be either of them."
"What about Hungarian?" asked Sir Isaac.
Kelly shook his head. "No, sir. Hungarian is Finno-Ugric.
That's in the Roman alphabet, too."
Sir Isaac fired up his pipe. "So as a process of elimination,
you ascertained this handwriting wasn't Eastern or Western Eu-
ropean, Armenian, or Arabic writing?"
"Yes, sir."
Dowd's bull-like face betrayed the trace of a scowl. "So what
is it? Chinese?"
"No, sir," replied Kelly. "I don't believe it is." He opened
his large book to a specific page. "I could be wrong, but I think
this may be written in an alphabet known as Mxedruli." Kelly
spun his book around so everyone could see a chart of letters
representing the foreign alphabet he'd referred to:

302	STORMING INTREPID
MXEDRUU
(Transliteration to Roman Alphabet)
o			Q3	0	3		CJ?	o	s	sz	
a	b	g	d	e	V	z	t	i	k	i	
Q	E	CO		V		l)	0			3	
m	n	0	p	z	r	s	t'	u	p	k	
c?	i)		&	G	d	<7		ts		J	
y	q	s	c	c	J	c	c	X	Z	h	
Dowd was starting to show his irritation.' 'Well, just what the
hell is this, this Mix-a-drool-eee?"
Kelly cleared his throat. "Mxedruli is the alphabet used in
the language spoken by approximately three to four million peo-
ple in a region north of Armenia—specifically, in the Georgian
Republic of the Soviet Union."
There was a period of silence as a host of eyebrows went up.
Sir Isaac lifted Kelly's book so he could see the cover. The title
was The Languages, Peoples and History of the U.S.S.R.
"In short, sir," concluded Kelly, "I think this may be written
in the Georgian language."
It was another queer twist, in an affair laden with queer twists,
and Whittenberg was stunned.
"Well, let's not jump to conclusions," cautioned Sir Isaac,
while pulling on his hawklike nose. "If these pages are, in fact,
written in Georgian, there could be a reasonable explanation for
it. The paper is obviously very old. Maybe it belonged to a
grandparent of Kapuscinski's who emigrated from Soviet Geor-
gia to Poland. A family heirloom, of sorts." Sir Isaac didn't
think he sounded very convincing.
Whittenberg picked up the notebook again. "Are you sure
about this, Tim?" he asked gently.
Kelly sighed. "No, sir. I'm not. I'm only going on a com-
parison of these pages against this reference book here. As you
can see for yourself, the handwriting is nothing more than a
chicken scrawl, and the Mxedruli alphabet is very cursive. As
this book points out, there are some hundred thirty languages

THE FOURTH DAY
303
spoken in the Soviet Union, from Yakut to Kurdish—and about
half of those have been reduced to written form. I'm just making
an educated guess."
Sir Isaac had taken the notebook from the CinC and was
carefully comparing the pages against the reference book.' 'Well,
Tim, you're the resident expert here. If we wanted to obtain a
clarification on your thesis, who should we go to?"
Kelly didn't hesitate with his answer. "There are some fine
people at the Agency who could take a pass at it. But if it was
up to me, I'd run it by the guy who wrote that book," he said,
while pointing at the tome. "Professor George Brennan. He's
with the Averell Harriman Institute for Soviet Studies at Colum-
bia University. There's not a man alive who knows more about
Russian history and language than he does. I worked with him
during the Belenko debriefing."
" Do it," ordered Whittenberg.	,
Day 3, 2300 Hours Zulu, 6:00 p.m. Local
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY, NEW YORK CITY
Professor George Kirtwell Brennan had held the Donald Ken-
dall Chair of Russian Language and History at Columbia Uni-
versity ever since it was endowed by the PepsiCo executive
seventeen years before (Pepsi-Cola was still the only American
soft drink you could buy in Moscow). The seventy-four-year-
old scholar—known for his ever-present bow tie and domelike
bald head—had written fourteen books on the Soviet Union, and
his personal library in his Long Island home rivaled that of many
midsized colleges. Although he was first and foremost a teacher,
he'd been retained on many occasions as a consultant to the CIA,
State Department, Defense Department, and National Security
Agency (or their predecessors). As a newly minted Oxford grad-
uate and "whiz kid" linguist during World War II, Brennan had
landed in a place called Bletchley Park, where he'd helped de-
cipher German dispatches with the Enigma cipher machine. In
short, he'd been one of the Founding Fathers of the Ultrasecret
while still in his early twenties. It was a heady experience for one

304
STORMING INTREPID
so young; but now he was an old man, and he could no longer
keep up the feverish pace he'd maintained for some fifty years.
It was Friday evening and Brennan was leaving his office at
the Harriman Institute on the Columbia campus. The professor
and his wife were departing in the morning for a four-day holi-
day at their vacation home in Maine, where they would get to-
gether with their children and grandchildren. The old professor
was just closing the door of his office when the phone rang. He
guessed it was his wife, calling to make sure he was on his way
home. She'd been looking forward to the Maine trip for months.
He picked up the phone and muttered, "Brennan."
"Professor Brennan?''
"Yes, that's correct. Who is this, please?"
"Professor, this is Chief Master Sergeant Tim Kelly calling
from U.S. Space Command headquarters in Colorado Springs."
There was a pause as Brennan reached back into his memory
bank for the name. It rang a bell, but he couldn't immediately
place it.
"You remember, Professor," prompted Kelly. "I was with
the Defense Intelligence Agency then. We worked together on
the Belenko debriefing."
A light bulb went on. "Oh, yes! Of course! Tim, I'm sorry.
My memory lapsed there for a moment. How are you? My
goodness, it's been years."
Kelly laughed. "Yes, sir, it has. And I'm afraid I haven't been
a very good correspondent.
The professor chuckled, too. "I'm often guilty of that myself.
Well, to what do I owe the honor of this call? You know, I was
always disappointed you didn't enroll in our doctoral program
here. I was very impressed with your work on the Belenko affair.
Not having any second thoughts about joining us, are you?"
Kelly laughed again. "No, sir, I'm afraid I'm a little old for
that nowadays."
"Rubbish!" spat the professor in a good-humored voice.
"You're never dead until you stop learning. But be that as it may,
if you're not interested in enrolling, what can I do for you?"
Kelly cleared his throat. "Professor, I have something of a
bizarre situation here. I can't tell you what it's about, but I can
emphasize that it's very important. . . make that critically im-

THE FOURTH DAY
305
portant. I have come into possession of a handwritten document
that appears to be written in the Georgian Mxedruli alphabet.
At least, I think that's what it is. I would greatly appreciate it if
you would examine this document and give me a rough trans-
lation of its contents. I need to know if it is, in fact, written in
Mxedruli. If it's not in the Georgian language, I'd like to know
what you can make of it, in any case."
"Certainly, Tim," comforted the professor. "Anything for
an old friend. Just drop it in the mail and I'll have a look at it
as soon as I get back from my place in Maine. I was just leaving
to go there on a holiday."
Kelly took a deep breath. "Professor, timing is a bit of a
problem on this. I would appreciate it if you could look at these
documents now."
A pause.
"Now?" asked Brennan.
"Yes, sir."
"Well, Tim, don't misunderstand me. I'd be happy to help you
out. But as I said, I was just walking out the door to go on a holiday.
My wife's been planning this for some time and I've strained her
patience already, I don't mind telling you. But you pop it in the
mail and I promise to look at it the minute I get back."
There was another pause.
"Professor," Kelly said imploringly. "This stuff is hot."
The tone of his old friend's voice got the professor's attention.
"Exacdy what do you mean by 'hot,' Tim?"
"I mean hotter than Belenko, Professor. Maybe a hundred
times hotter. My boss says he'll get the White House to call you
and verify the seriousness of the situation if need be. We need
your help, Professor, and we need it now."
That knocked down the old scholar's objections. "My, well,
if that's the case then I would, of course, be happy to assist you,
Tim. But I really don't know how. I mean, in order to do what
you ask, I would need to inspect this document you speak of,
and I believe you said you are residing in Colorado."
"Hmmm," pondered Kelly. "You wouldn't happen to have
a facsimile machine there, would you?"
The professor never had been one to embrace technology.' 'Is
that one of those contraptions that will send a picture of a doc-

306
STORMING INTREPID
ument through the phone?" There was a trace of irritation in
his voice.
"Yes, sir. That's it."
"Well, I believe there's one in the department chairman's of-
fice, but everyone's left for the weekend and I don't know how
to operate it."
Kelly thought fast. He wasn't about to let Brennan off the
hook. "Well, Professor, tell you what. Just get on the phone by
that facsimile machine and tell me what brand it is. I'll have
one of our technical people explain to you how to operate it."
The old professor sighed. He was very tired and just wanted
to go home. "You're sure this won't keep?"
"I'm sure, Professor. On the level."
A fatigued voice said, "Very well."
Twenty minutes later, replicas of the first fifteen pages of a
notebook found in a Chicago warehouse began rolling out of a
Minolta facsimile machine on the Columbia campus.
Day 3, 2300 Hours Zulu, 3:00 p.m. Local
VANDENBERG AIR FORCE BASE
Monaghan craned his neck to look up at the Kestrel. It was
poised in a sling over the Titan 34-D rocket, and the technicians
in the payload assembly hangar were preparing to attach the tail
end of the spaceplane to the booster. The vehicle had never been
fitted to a booster before, so things were progressing slowly, as
was the case with any prototype. Monaghan decided it was about
time to leave and go over to the launch control bunker, where
he could start reviewing the flight plan.
"So how's it going, Mad Dog?" asked a voice from behind.
Monaghan turned around, and his face immediately bright-
ened. There stood Lamborghini in his green flight suit. "Hey!
Hot Rod! Long time no see! How the hell are you doin'?" He
clapped the colonel on the back and pumped his hand.
Lamborghini smiled. "Not too bad, Mad Dog. And
yourself?"
Monaghan grimaced. "Could be better. There's some pretty

THE FOURTH DAY
307
heavy shit going down around here. I guess you know about
it?" He jerked a thumb up toward the Kestrel.
Lamborghini nodded.
"Yeah. And if that wasn't enough, my backseater is in the
hospital, and that lawnmower McCormick has been crawlin' all
over my ass. I tell ya, that's one two-star who must have been
abused by a sailor when he was a child. He has a stroke every
time he sees my anchor.''
Lamboighini laughed. "Don't take it so hard," he comforted.
Monaghan sighed, "Oh, well, no sense in my pissin' on your
leg. What brings you out here anyway, Hot Rod?" (There had
never been any doubt what Lamborghini's call sign would be.)
"Well, actually, I'm here about your backseater."
"Oh, you got one lined up?" asked Monaghan.
"Yep."
"No shit? Who is it? Anybody I know?"
"Yeah, I think so. You're looking at him."
Monaghan was stunned. "You?"
"Me."
"How come?"
"Process of elimination," Lamborghini explained. "The
Kestrel has always had super-tight security. Only one prototype
crew has been trained. I was the only one familiar with the
weapons systems who was flight-qualified. Either I came on
board or the mission was scrubbed. Simple."
Monaghan shook his head. "Well, just between us girls, I
hope that the Constellation can take care of this Intrepid crap
without our lifting off. I didn't plan on goin' up in this thing for
almost another year. The whole operation feels jerry-rigged to
me. And after my last run-in with McCormack, retirement is
looking mighty good."
Lamborghini laughed again and looked at his watch.' 'Listen,
I'm starved. What do you say we run out and grab a steak, then
we can shag ass over to Edwards for some simulator time. You
can bring me up to speed on the systems over dinner."
"You got a deal, Hot Rod. You're the first friendly face I've
seen in I don't know how long." He looked back up at the
Kestrel and grinned. "Hot damn. Mad Dog and Hot Rod. That
sounds like somethin', don't it? Anybody gets in our way, we'll
kick his ass." •<

308
STORMING INTREPID
Day 3, 2345 Hours Zulu, 6:45 p.m. Local
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
Professor George Kirtwell Brennan slammed down the mag-
nifying glass. "Good God!" he exclaimed. "It can't be!" The
elderly scholar's fatigue vanished as he leapt from his chair and
bounded to one of the bulging file cabinets in his office. He
rummaged through the papers until he found a certain document
in a special envelope. He returned to his desk and placed the
file-cabinet document alongside the facsimile copies which had
been transmitted from Cheyenne Mountain. He picked up the
magnifying glass and carefully examined both documents sev-
eral times.
Finally, he slammed the magnifying glass down once more,
this time almost breaking it. "Good God!" He gulped. "It isl"
He reached for the phone.
Day 3, 2400 Hours Zulu, 5:00 p.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
In the conference room, Whittenberg's commo panel buzzed
and he picked up the receiver. After a few murmurs he turned
to Kelly. "It's for you, Tim. Professor Brennan in New York."
"Oh, good. That was quick." Kelly motioned to the box on
the table. "Why don't you put it on the speakerphone, sir? That
way we can all hear it."
"Good idea," said the CinC, and he punched a button on his
console.
"Tim?" asked a voice from the box.
"Yes, Professor. I'm here. We've got you on a speakerphone.
Besides myself there is Rodger Whittenberg, Commanding
General of the Space Command, our chief of staff, the deputy
chief of staff for operations, and my boss, Major Lydia Strand.''
Kelly thought it better not to mention that an FBI agent was also
in the room, and he exchanged an understanding nod with Te-
desco.
"Gentlemen, and lady," greeted Brennan in a nervous voice.

THE FOURTH DAY
309
"Tim, I must ask you. Where on earth did you get these docu-
ments?"
Kelly flashed a glance at Whittenberg, who shook his head.
"Well, Professor, I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say at the
moment. Besides, it's a situation that would be very difficult to
explain over the phone."
Brennan emitted a "harrumphf," then added, "I'm not sur-
prised. Do you have any idea what you have here?"
"No, Professor, we don't. Only that it appeared to me it was
written in the Mxedruli alphabet."
"I see. Well, my dear fellow, I've got something to tell you.
I've only made a cursory examination, you understand, but I'm
almost certain of my findings. You were quite right. They are
written in the Georgian language. These documents appear to
be an excerpt from the original handwritten text of a series of
articles entitled, Anarkhizm ili Sotsializm, which, as you know,
translates to Anarchism or Socialism. These articles were pub-
lished serially in some Georgian political periodicals after the
turn of the century, and were written by a young Georgian rev-
olutionary named Iosif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili."
Kelly's jaw dropped to the table.
"And who is this Eye-Owe-Siff, whatever you said his name
was?" asked Dowd in a laconic voice.
"Iosif Dzhugashvili is the original birth name of Generalis-
simo Joseph Stalin."
"Stalin?" cried a chorus of voices. Everyone's voice except
Kelly's. He had recognized the name Dzhugashvili.
"But—but—" stammered Dowd. "I don't understand. I
thought Stalin was Russian. Wouldn't he have written in Russian
Cyrillic writing?"
"That's a misconception a lot of people have," said the voice
through the speakerphone. "Stalin was born in the small Geor-
gian town of Gori. He was brought up in the Georgian language
and didn't start to learn Russian until he was about ten years
old. Georgian is a distinctly different language from Russian,
and, in fact, Stalin spoke Russian all of his life with a thick
Georgian accent." Brennan let his words sink in, then contin-
ued, "After ill health forced Stalin from the seminary in 1899,
he became politically active. His early writings were in the
Georgian language—like the documents you sent me. I com-

310
STORMING INTREPID
pared them to a personal letter written by Stalin—in the Geor-
gian language—that I have in my files. I'm not a handwriting
expert, but that rough style is most distinctive. It's my opinion
that your documents, and my sample, came from the same hand.
And the content of the documents you sent me should eliminate
any question. It's definitely from Anarkhizm ili Sotsializm."
"Professor, this is Rodger Whittenberg. I doubt if you re-
member me, but you were a guest lecturer when I was getting
a master's degree at Georgetown. Are you saying that in your
professional opinion, these documents were written by the hand
of Joseph Stalin himself?"
"Precisely."
Whittenberg's head was throbbing. "Professor, I must ask
you. Are papers of this type something that is available on the
open market? You know—historical documents that specialty
dealers handle. I've purchased a few letters from a dealer myself
that were correspondence between Napoleon and Murat at Aus-
terlitz. Could this document be obtained that way?"
The box barked a sarcastic laugh. "Hardly. This isn't some-
thing you pick up at a Sotheby's auction. Stalin's writings are
exceedingly rare. Particularly his earlier writings. You were
lucky to have contacted me. I doubt if there are three or four
people in the country who have a sample of his early Georgian
handwriting. I obtained the few samples I have from an aca-
demic friend of mine in the Soviet Union. As you're probably
aware, Stalin has been an extremely sensitive subject with every
Russian leader since Khrushchev. Essentially, he became a non-
person. It's been difficult to come by anything relating to him
for the last thirty years. The mere possession of these docu-
ments, particularly outside the Soviet Union, is, well, nothing
less than extraordinary. That's why I was so curious how you
obtained them."
All eyes were on the CinC for a response. "Professor Bren-
nan, if I told you how these documents were obtained, you
wouldn't believe it. Just as I'm not sure I believe it. If it's all
right with you, I would like to send the original documents to
you by special messenger so you can examine them and verify
your preliminary findings. Rest assured you'll be compensated
for your time."
"The opportunity to examine the original will be compen-

THE FOURTH DAY
311
sation enough, General. I'm sure our Bakhmeteff Archive here
at the university would appreciate the opportunity to obtain these
documents—if that ever becomes a possibility."
"Very well, Professor. I'll see what I can do. We can't thank
you enough for your assistance."
"Certainly, General. I'll look forward to receiving the orig-
inals. Goodbye, Tim."
"So long, Professor Brennan," said Kelly. "I'll be in touch."
There was almost a minute of silence before anyone could
recover from the shock. Finally, it was Whittenberg who spoke.
"So it's Iceberg," he said softly. "It has to be."
Dowd gripped the litde leather notebook so hard that the veins
on his hawserlike forearm stuck out. He wished his fingers were
encircling Kapuscinski's throat instead. "Goddam," he spat
through his teeth.
"Joseph fucking Stalin.
Day 3, 2400 Hours Zulu
THE INTREPID
Stalin was mad—stark, raving, rabidly mad. Some historians
claim he was simply a flint-hard, consummate politician of su-
preme ruthlessness. But that is wrong. He was mad. Mad in a
most evil, calculating way—like a latter-day Ivan the Terrible,
carrying Satan's blood bucket across the Eurasian continent.
Mass murderers like Tamerlane, Genghis Khan, Adolf Hitler,
Napoleon, and the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini all pale in
comparison to Josepf Stalin. Indeed, so overwhelming were the
"Generalissimo's" crimes that the river of blood which flowed
from his hands would turn the Black Sea red.
What forces turned litde Iosif Dzhugashvili into a madly evil
spirit? No one can say. Quite possibly it was his father—a
drunken cobbler who beat him savagely. But whatever the rea-
son, once Stalin—a name Iosif took which roughly "translates
into "Man of Steel"—seized power in the wake of Lenin's death,
he never relinquished it for the rest of his life. No other dictator
who has ever lived has wielded such sweeping, absolute power—
or spilled so much blood.

312
STORMING INTREPID
And the man who became the high executioner for Stalin's
blood-thirsty purges—a Russian Himmler, if you will—was a
henchman so evil and sinister that the very whisper of his name
would chill the spine of the most hardened Politburo member.
This was Lavrenti Pavlovich Beria, komisar of Stalin's dreaded
secret police, the Narodny Komisariat Vnutrennii Delo (People's
Commissariat for Internal Affairs), or NKVD.
Beria was a hulking, phlegmatic figure—at once malevolent
and benign. With his stoic face, bald head, and pince-nez
glasses, he looked more like a schoolteacher or the family doctor
than a secret police chief. Yet the veil of his unassuming ap-
pearance concealed the blackest of hearts, and a mind that was
consumed by intrigue, deception, and sexual perversity. This
perversity—particularly with young children—was his eventual
undoing. In the power struggle following Stalin's death, his
repulsive behavior had so alienated him from the rest of the
Politburo that even his diabolical scheming couldn't save him.
In a poetic end, Beria was accused of spying, and after a six-
day Star Chamber trial, he was executed on December 23, 1953.
But in 1945, as the Great Patriotic War began winding down,
Beria's position and influence were approaching their zenith,
and he was in a position to exercise his own wicked, visionary
powers. Beria knew that with Germany defeated, the General-
issimo would need another great enemy to challenge—for dic-
tators need great enemies to stay in power. Beria's calculating
mind also knew that Britian, Western Europe, and Japan were
finished as potential adversaries. No. They were passe. The next
great confrontation would be with the United States—a naive
but formidable opponent. To engage the United States in a con-
frontation—which might lead to war—would be a dangerous but
necessary endeavor. After all, little Germany had almost de-
feated the Motherland, and Germany's resources were puny in
comparison to America's vast treasure house. In order to deal
with such a potent enemy, Beria knew, extraordinary measures
would have to be taken, utilizing all of the Soviet Union's skills
of guile, duplicity, propaganda, patience, and spies. Yes, a great
many spies would be needed if this adversary was to be slayed.
It was in this context—searching for an unconventional spear-
that the wicked Beria hatched his long-range, diabolical plan to

THE FOURTH DAY
313
plant his "seedlings" on American soil. "Seedlings" that would
one day rise up and strike the American giant from within.
February 1945.
Moscow.
Heavy snow in Red Square.
The German Army had collapsed and was in retreat toward
Berlin, its spine broken by four Russian winters and the horde
of Marshal Zhukov's Soviet divisions. The mood in Moscow
was of impending victory and relief, for the invaders had been
pushed back to the Oder River and the end was only a matter of
time.
In the basement of the Council of Ministers Building in the
Kremlin, a peasant woman who looked much older than her
twenty-seven years was trying to restore some order to the
paperwork files of the Public Works Ministry. In October 1941,
when the German panzer units had been a mere hundred kilo-
meters from Red Square, the files and records of the Soviet
government had been hastily extracted from the Kremlin, loaded
onto trucks, and moved to storage facilities east of the Urals.
But now that the war was coming to an end, the boxed-up files
had slowly made their return journey to Moscow, where they
were being sorted and returned to their proper place. Even in
war, the Soviet bureaucracy survived.
The peasant woman, Viktoria, and her friend Ludmilla worked
methodically under a single naked light bulb, in temperatures
cold enough to make their breath visible. But they did not com-
plain. For every lump of coal they saved could be used to heat
and light an armaments factory. Armaments that could be used
to kill Germans.
The door opened and their supervisor entered—a woman, for
most Russian men were at the front.
"Viktoria—I must see you," said the supervisor nervously.
Viktoria looked up, then put aside her work and followed the
supervisor up to a better-heated ground-floor office. Inside the
door stood a strapping NKVD guard with a KalasHnikov rifle.
"You are to go with this man," said the supervisor uneasily.
Viktoria nodded and was led outside to a spectacular sight. It
was an automobile. And what an automobile! Viktoria had never
seen anything like it. So shiny. So clean. So large. Somewhat

314
STORMING INTREPID
in shock, she was placed in the backseat of the Packard limou-
sine with the guard and driven the short distance to the building
at 2 Dzerzhinsky Square.
Upon arrival she was ushered upstairs into a spacious office
which featured a large desk and couch. Viktoria noticed that the
temperature in the room was comfortably warm, and the walls
were covered with a quiltlike padding, which she thought odd.
Little did she know that the padding was soundproofing mate-
rial, designed to contain the screams of innocent girls who were
sexually violated in this room.
Behind the desk sat a hulking figure wearing a thin necktie, a
vest, and pince-nez glasses. He was smoking a pipe and had a
glass of mineral water sitting beside a closed file. He leveled his
eyes on the woman and drummed his fingers on the file for some
seconds before ordering, "Viktoria Petrovna Kaminskaya, step
forward."
The peasant woman obeyed and approached the desk.
The komisar inspected her up and down. She was rail thin,
with scraggly brown hair that was tied back with a babushka
scarf. Her dress was little more than a rag, but her brown eyes
were intriguing. A sign of intelligence, perhaps?
"You know who I am?" he asked.
Viktoria nodded. "You are the komisar. I have seen your
picture."
Lavrenti Beria took a drink of his mineral water. "You are
correct, Comrade Kaminskaya . . . quite correct." He took an-
other sip and opened the file in front of him. "Where were you
born, Comrade Kaminskaya?" he asked in a formal voice.
"Gantsevichi," she replied stoically.
"In Byelorussia," stated the komisar.
"In Byelorussia," she affirmed.
"And when were you born?"
"October 28, 1917."
Another sip. "A child of our glorious revolution," he said in
a voice tinged with drama, then returned his gaze to the file.
"Your parents were White Russian sympathizers who declared
their allegiance to the Czar. Regrettably, they were executed
on . . ."He checked the particulars. "On April 22, 1918, for
their misplaced loyalties. Yet you, their daughter, joined the

THE FOURTH DAY
315
Party on June 19, 1943. Tell me, Viktoria Kaminskaya, why did
you join the Party of our glorious revolution?"
The peasant woman shrugged and said, "The Germans," as
if that curt reply explained it all. And for a White Russian like
Viktoria, it did. Byelorussia—White Russia—felt the full brunt
of Hitler's Operation Barbarossa as German panzers stormed
across the Soviet border in June 1941. By the time the Great
Patriotic War had ended, one fourth of the White Russian pop-
ulation had died.
"Yes ... the Germans," repeated the komisar softly as he
turned a page of the file. "Your uncle Oleg, who raised you?
What was his fate at the hands of the invaders?"
"Dead," said Viktoria.
"And your aunt Ekaterina?"
"Dead."
"And your cousin Pyotr?"
"Dead."
*
Another sip. "And you survived." It was a statement, not a
question.
Viktoria nodded.
"How did you survive, Viktoria Kaminskaya?"
The komisar had not invited her to sit, so she remained stand-
ing in front of the desk and recited her story. "The Germans
came," she recalled with a glassy look in her eyes. "My village,
Gantsevichi, was near the Polish border. They came very fast.
My family was trapped before we could move east. Still, we
tried to escape. We were caught by a German patrol. My aunt,
uncle, and cousii) were shot. I was to be next, but the Germans
raped me first," she continued clinically. "Seven of them. While
they raped me a partisan group found us and killed the Germans.
The partisan leader was our village komisar— a brave man. They
took me. We moved east by night and slept by day. Finally we
slipped through the lines and reached Moscow before the Ger-
mans."
The komisar regarded her thoughtfully, then refocused his
eyes on the file for some seconds. "Your story is incomplete,
Comrade Kaminskaya," he said finally. "You failed to mention
that there were originally thirteen partisans in your band, but
only three of your number completed the journey to Moscow.
You neglected to mention that you killed eight Germans your-

316
STORMING INTREPID
self—with a knife. You failed to mention that you reached Mos-
cow near starvation, yet shortly thereafter worked on the
construction of the city's defenses. You failed to mention that
you were awarded the Order of Lenin. You failed to mention"—
his voice rose—"that you are a heroine. I know this, Comrade
Kaminskaya. I know everything about you. The report by the
village komisar who survived the journey with you was quite
complete. Your Party file is quite complete. The state security
file on you is quite complete. There is nothing that I, the komi-
sar, do not know about Viktoria Petrovna Kaminskaya."
Beria slapped the file shut and rose to gaze out the window—
a calculated move to intensify the artificial drama of the
moment. "You joined the Party, Comrade, because the Party
saved you, sheltered you, fed you, decorated you, and found
you work. That is why you joined the Party. Am I correct?"
Viktoria sensed it would not be wise to disagree with this
man, even though he'd touched on her true feelings. "Yes, kom-
isar. You are correct."
Beria lowered his voice. "And there is nothing you would
not do for the Party. Is that correct?"
"Correct," she said reflexively.
"The komisar turned and leaned over the desk. ' 'That is what
I expected to hear, Comrade. Sit down."
Viktoria did as she was told, and Beria continued. "The Gen-
eralissimo has given me a mission. A vital mission that will
require the dedication and sacrifice of comrades with unques-
tioned loyalty. Comrades like yourself."
"The Generalissimo," whispered Viktoria reverently. Beria
might as well have said the mission had been handed down
directly from God. Upon arrival in Moscow, Viktoria had been
weak, sick, and half starved. Yet she immediately joined a horde
of weary Muscovites in digging a tank trap that encircled the
city—a colossal trench designed to stop Guderian's panzers at
the city's gates. One day her work party had looked up, and
there he was. The Generalissimo himself. He raised a clenched
fist, then disappeared into his car as quickly as he'd come. The
inspiration was overwhelming. Viktoria's work party, one of
thousands digging the huge excavation, grabbed their picks and
shovels and attacked the trench like a pack of wolves.

THE FOURTH DAY
317
"You would do anything for the Generalissimo, would you
not, Comrade?" asked the komisar harshly.
"Anything," replied Viktoria without hesitation.
Beria continued staring at her with his cold, foreboding eyes,
until finally saying, "Good." Then his voice took on a chal-
lenging tone. "There is a special mission that must be under-
taken for the sake of the Motherland, Viktoria Petrovna. A vital
mission that is lifelong. Do you understand? Lifelong. The el-
ement of danger will be small, and you will live well, but the
requirement for secrecy is all-important. Yes, secrecy. It is cru-
cial. So secret is this mission that I cannot tell you the nature of
it until you have accepted the task.'' Beria smiled his phelgmatic
smile. "A dilemma, is it not, Viktoria Petrovna? You cannot
learn the secret until you accept the mission. Only the most
devoted of the Party have been selected for this task. The Gen-
eralissimo himself approved of your selection. Tell me, Viktoria
Petrovna—tell me the absolute truth—do you accept this mission
without hesitation? Are you truly worthy of being the General-
issimo's chosen one?"
Any other Russian would have been frightened half to death
over this confrontation, but the war had dulled Viktoria's sense
of fear, and steeled her devotion to the Generalissimo and the
Party. Her village komisar had saved her. She regretted her par-
ents' death, but she had never really known them. All she knew
was that Viktoria Kaminskaya had survived the war, when twenty
million Russians had not, and she had actually laid eyes on the
Generalissimo. And now he summoned her.
"I accept," she said flatly.
Beria nodded. "Good," hesaid, then added another "Good"
for emphasis. "The Generalissimo knew you would not refuse
him.'' Beria did not tell Viktoria that had she refused, she would
not have left Dzerzhinsky Square alive.
Beria rang for tea, and for the next two hours he explained in
patient detail to Viktoria how she would soon be wed to another
loyal Soviet, also handpicked by the Generalissimo.. The couple
would receive intensive language training, and after the war's
end would be packed onto a train for Poland. From Warsaw they
would emigrate to America, along with thousands of displaced
persons pouring into the promised land after the war. They would
enjoy a hidden source of money and raise one child and one

318
STORMING INTREPID
child only, who would be taught from the cradle to be a loyal
Soviet and to obey the instructions of his parents.
"Go to your home and collect your possessions, Viktoria Pe-
trovna, then return here. Your training will commence at once.
Never forget, you are the Generalissimo's chosen one."
Viktoria nodded and left.
The Packard transported her back to the apartment in Moscow
that she shared with eight other women. The hovel was empty
because the other occupants were working. Viktoria had no res-
ervations about leaving the miserable apartment behind. Per-
haps this "mission" she had accepted would lead to something
better. But there was one thing she was not about to leave be-
hind. From beneath her cot she withdrew a small wooden chest
that was padlocked shut. On a string around her neck she kept
a key, which she now used to unlock it. Inside were two baubles
of cheap jewelry—and a leather notebook. Carefully she placed
the notebook in the dirty cloth sack that served as a handbag.
Initially, she thought her summons to Dzerzhinsky Square
might concern the notebook. And although Viktoria no longer
frightened easily, she was relieved to learn the komisar knew
nothing of it.
TWo months previously, Viktoria had reported for work at the
Council of Ministers Building, only to find two Red Army sol-
diers posted at the door. These were not the old, toothless men
or young boys found in Moscow these days, but real soldiers
with rifles. Like the ones at the German front. They stopped
Viktoria at the door until her supervisor appeared. With an ur-
gent manner, the supervisor ushered her downstairs to an area
of the basement where she'd never been allowed before. Her
superior pointed to a door. "Go inside and help Ludmilla. We
must finish and lock this door quickly,"
Viktoria did as she was told, and when she entered the room,
Ludmilla nearly jumped out of her skin.
"Oh, Viktoria," cried Ludmilla. "Thank heaven it is you. I
was so afraid it was one of the guards."
Viktoria confronted a bizarre scene. Her friend was sur-
rounded by file boxes. But these were not the boxes made of
pine or rough cardboard to which they were accustomed. No.
These file boxes were made of finished rosewood. Beautiful,
smooth, polished rosewood. They were finer than anything

THE FOURTH DAY
319
Viktoria had ever seen. One of the fine boxes had fallen from
its stack, and the paper contents had spilled at Ludmilla's
feet.
"Ludmilla," asked Viktoria with a sense of wonder, while
touching one of the boxes, "what are these?"
Ludmilla gulped. "They were delivered only minutes ago."
Viktoria nodded. "Yes ... but what are they?"
Ludmilla gulped again and drew Viktoria close. "These
boxes," she whispered, "are the papers of the Generalissimo
himself."
Viktoria gasped. "The Generalissimo?"
Ludmilla nodded vigorously. "Da, Viktoria. We are to stack
these boxes against that wall.'' She pointed.''I was moving this
one when it slipped." Ludmilla started to whimper. "I am so
afraid. What will they do to me when they learn I dropped the
Generalissimo's papers?"
Viktoria comforted her friend. "Do not fear, Ludmilla. I will
repack this box. You begin stacking the others. We will tell no
one that the box slipped. We can stack it so any scratches will
be hidden."
"Oh, yes, Viktoria, let us do that," said Ludmilla, and she
quickly put her heavyset body to work stacking the file boxes
against the wall.
Viktoria knelt down and began repacking the strewn papers
back into the rosewood box, trembling at the knowledge that
what she held had passed through Stalin's own hands. A small
leather-bound notebook had been badly smudged by the base-
ment room's grimy floor. If anyone opened this box later he
would find the dirty volume. So Viktoria made a quick decision.
She would clean the notebook off and return it to the box later,
when she had the chance. She dropped it into her raggedy cloth
handbag and began helping Ludmilla.
But Viktoria never had the opportunity to return the notebook.
The door to that special room was locked and sealed off, and
Viktoria could not enter. And besides, she'd become attached
to the diminutive leather-bound volume. It was her link to the
Generalissimo. And now he summoned her for this lifelong
mission. She couldn't bear to part with the little book. So she
kept it.
* * *

320
STORMING INTREPID
A year later, when Viktoria Kapuscinski and her husband
waited down the boat ramp at Ellis Island in New York Harbor,
her belly was already swollen with their first and only offspring.
The pilot at the controls of the American space shuttle In-
trepid was a "seedling" planted by Lavrenti Beria.

THE FOURTH DAY

Day 4, 0015 Hours Zulu, 5:15 p.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
"A deep plant," murmured Tedesco softly. "It has to be."
"What did you say?" asked Strand.
The FBI agent's brow had turned into deep furrows beneath
his widow's peak. He took a slow breath and said, "Something
called a deep plant. It was a rumor. Pure supposition that was
bantered about in the Bureau from time to time. I always thought
it was some kind of fairy tale left over from the Hoover era. A
myth, like a unicorn or a mermaid. But in view of this, I guess
it has to be real. Still, God, I can't believe it."
"I don't understand," said Whittenberg. "Explain what you
mean by this term 'deep plant.' "
Tedesco took another breath before continuing. "The Bureau,
I'm sure just like the Air Force or any big agency, gets more
than its share of crackpot phone calls. Like every once in a while
some psycho will call us up and claim J. Edgar Hoover is still
alive and running things from the basement of the Bureau build-
ing. Well, I remember one crazy story that circulated around
the Bureau, oh, ten or fifteen years ago. Some guy had walked
into our TWsa office off the street. Said his parents immigrated
to the United States from Bulgaria after the war, but that they
were really Russian agents. Claimed they tried to indoctrinate
him when he was a kid—wanted to turn him into a lockstep
323

324
STORMING INTREPID
Communist. He said that after his parents died he was contacted
by someone who professed to be with the KGB. But this 'walk-
in' said he renounced his parents, told the KGB contact to go to
hell, and decided to contact the Hilsa FBI office to let them
know he was a good American."
Tedesco sipped some coffee. "Well, as you might imagine,
the walk-in was dismissed as just another wacko. But in view of
this Russian connection with Kapuscinski, it looks like he might
have been for real."
Sir Isaac was rubbing his eyes when all of a sudden he jerked
bolt upright in his chair. "McKenna!" he exclaimed.
Tedesco eyeballed the brigadier and was puzzled. "Who is
McKenna?"
Strand explained. "Jarrod McKenna was on the Intrepid?s
original flight manifest as mission commander. Four days before
lift-off he came down with intestinal flu—at least that was the
diagnosis. Iceberg was the backup pilot and took over." Strand
shook her head ruefully. "Intestinal flu. Pretty damned conve-
nient if you ask me. I'd bet the family farm that Kapuscinski
laced McKenna's shrimp salad with something that made it look
like he had the flu."
Sir Isaac nodded. "I'll have the medical people test Mc-
Kenna. See if there's a trace of whatever Iceberg gave him."
A wave of bitterness swept over those present as they realized
that for years they had been hoodwinked and betrayed by a
traitor in their own midst. The amount of damage that could
have been inflicted by Iceberg—even without the Intrepid— was
nothing less than devastating.
"I can guess what you're probably thinking, General," com-
forted Tedesco. "But something like Kapuscinski is, well, un-
precedented. There really is no defense against a penetration
like this."
Whittenberg sighed. "It's kind of you to say so, Mr. Tedesco.
I only hope Admiral Bergstrom and the President will be as
understanding." He picked up the phone.

THE FOURTH DAY
325
Day 4, 0130 Hours Zulu, 3:30 a.m. Local
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE
Lt. Gen. Likady Popov was in the cavernous Flite Control
Centre, leaning over the mission commander's shoulder. The
stocky general was trying to enlist the blond-haired Malyshev
into his plan, but the young colonel was resisting—and sweat-
ing. Philosophically, Malyshev agreed with his general, but the
omnipresent KGB henchmen floating around the room caused
him to waver.
"Listen to me, Oleg," implored Popov with a whisper. "Hi-
jacking a shuttle is one thing. Deliberately shooting one down
is quite another. Do you want more blood on our hands? There
is no way to predict how the Americans will react. If they do
launch a rescue shuttle from their Florida cosmodrome, you will
be in charge of firing the antisatellite weapon. All you have to
do is hesitate for a few seconds before hitting the activation
button. That will give the American rescue shuttle enough time
to pass out of range. We must stop this madness."
The Slavic-looking Malyshev was about to give a slow, care-
ful nod when the door opened and in walked the KGB Chair-
man, along with a tall, spidery man who wore a Vandyke beard.
"General," announced Chairman Kostiashak, "I believe you
know Comrade Pirdilenko."
Ivan Pirdilenko took off his gloves and fur hat, while a KGB
corporal stepped up to help the scientist with his coat. "Yes,
yes, of course," said Pirdilenko. "Popov and I have known each
other for many years, have we not, General?"
Popov nodded a grudging acknowledgement.
"In view of Comrade Pirdilenko's credentials as an expert
with our antisatellite weapon, I thought it would be, ah, helpful,
to bring him here from Plesetsk. Perhaps you could turn the
antisatellite preparations over to him. That would allow you to
concentrate on launching our own cosmonauts from Baikonur.''
The little Chairman's smile remained fixed.
Pirdilenko didn't give Popov a chance to respond. "Of course,
I'm certain the General would be delighted to turn these matters
over to me. Is that not correct, Popov?" Not waiting for an
answer, Pirdilenko bored right in. "Now then, who is in charge

326
STORMING INTREPID
of monitoring the American shuttle's flite path and activating the
arming sequence?"
Slowly, Popov pointed at Malyshev, the mission commander.
"Ah, very good," said an enthusiastic Pirdilenko. "It is not
often that we are allowed to put one of our weapons to a genuine
test. Is that not correct, General?"
Popov said nothing. He only looked at the little KGB chieftain
with the gaze of a defeated man.
Day 4, 0130 Hours Zulu, 8:30 p.m. Local
THE WHITE HOUSE
After explaining the incredible discovery of the Stalin note-
book in a Chicago warehouse to Admiral Bergstrom, the Sec-
retary of Defense, and the Vice President, Whittenberg was now
relating the story for the fourth time to the President over the
phone.
The chief executive was in the living quarters of the mansion,
and his mood was disbelief. "I know you have to respect the
evidence, but still—Joseph Stalin?"
"Yes, Mr. President," replied Whittenberg, "that's what it
appears to be. I am having the original text of the notebook
flown out to Professor Brennan at Columbia so he can verily his
initial findings, but given the rarity of these kinds of documents,
it would appear his preliminary conclusions are on the mark."
"Jesus. Every time I think this Intrepid business can't get any
crazier, it does. It's damn well gone over the edge. A renegade
shuttle. A Russian ambassador and a couple of Politburo mem-
bers who haven't a clue what's going on. A mysterious satellite.
And now a link to Joseph Stalin? This is insane."
"I quite agree, Mr. President. But we have to face facts, and
the facts indicate Kapuscinski is the traitor. How or why he came
into possession of Stalin's own notes is beyond me, but it estab-
lishes an irrefutable link with the Soviet Union. A link that cuts
through everything else and gives credence to Agent Tedesco's
thesis."
The chief executive shook his head. "Well, if the turncoat is

THE FOURTH DAY
327
Kapuscinski, then what do you suppose has happened to the
other two crew members? Mulcahey and Rodriquez?"
There was a pause on the other end while Whittenberg took
a deep breath. "Dead . . . most probably."
The President shuddered. "Has there been any change in the
Intrepid's behavior?"
"No, sir. Orbit unchanged."
"So, if the Intrepid is, in fact, damaged as you suspect, that
means the Russians still have to go up and get it. Right?"
"Yes, sir," replied Whittenberg.
"Any activity on their launch pads?" asked the President.
"We've been keeping an active surveillance on all Soviet cos-
modromes. Except for the mystery satellite that was launched
twenty-one hours ago from Plesetsk, we've seen no activity. But
I should point out that the Soviets are able to roll out and launch
their boosters in very short order—as they did with that mystery
satellite out of Plesetsk."
"Do you have any idea what that thing is?" The chief exe-
cutive's face betrayed his concern.
"As we discussed previously, sir," recapped Whittenberg,
"there's no way of telling. The configuration of the satellite
indicates it could be virtually any kind of vehicle that simply
hasn't jettisoned its launch shroud yet—anything from a photo
reconnaissance bird to an ASAT."
The word ASAT gave the President pause. "What if it is an
antisatellite weapon?"
An exasperated sigh came through the line. "My crystal ball
is no better than the next person's, Mr. President; but if it is, in
fact, an ASAT, then it could very well destroy the Constellation,
its crew, and the Intrepid right along with it. And as I said, we
would be powerless to stop it."
"Hmmmm. What about that spaceplane?"
"The Kestrel?"
"Yeah. Could that thing handle an ASAT?"
Whittenberg's voice contained the equivalent of a shrug. "An
ASAT going against the Kestrel in a reciprocal—that is to say,
opposite—orbit would be something of a Mexican standoff, sir.
It would just depend on which spacecraft could lock on and fire
the fastest."
"You mean ... a quick-draw contest?"

328
STORMING INTREPID
"In a manner of speaking, yes, sir."
"Well, if that spaceplane can at least defend itself, should we
forget the Constellation and launch the Kestrel instead?''
' 'We could, sir, but it would mean trading capability for time.
The Constellation is completing preparations now. Fueling will
commence' '—Whittenberg checked the giant watch on his wrist
that all aviators wore—"about three hours from now. Prepara-
tions on the Kestrel are under way now, but the earliest we could
make it ready for lift-off would be twenty-seven hours after the
Constellation's first launch window. During that time the Rus-
sians might get something aloft."
"You're not giving me very attractive options, General,"
grumbled the President.
"That's correct, sir. And make no mistake—that mystery sat-
ellite up there could very well be an ASAT. We simply don't
know. If it is, the Constellation could be destroyed and the crew
killed. General McCormack has already informed the Constel-
lation's crew of the potential risks. However, if we wait and
send up the Kestrel, we're giving the Russians another twenty-
seven hours to try to bring down the Intrepid for themselves. I
won't make this easy for you, sir. The Constellation or the Kes-
trel. You've got the facts, and it's your decision. Which one do
we send up?"
The President felt excruciatingly alone. It was a clear choice
now. No more staff papers. No more study. No more counseling
or recommendations. Decision time. His and his alone. He could
be dead right or dead wrong. He felt like waffling, but then he
remembered Dr. Sharp's comment about the rubidium isotope
and the twenty trillion watts of power released in a single Graser
pulse.
"Launch the Constellation," ordered the President.
"Yes, sir."

THE FOURTH DAY
329
Day 4, 0230 Hours Zulu, 5:30 a.m. Local
ROYAL OMANI AIR FORCE BASE,
MUSCAT, OMAN
The sky was a purple twilight, indicating that dawn was al-
most upon them. To be seen in the daylight would be unforgiv-
able; therefore, Ghost Leader was grateful when he finally heard
the squeal of his tires on the runway. As his speed decreased,
he turned the aircraft onto a high-speed taxiway and headed for
a darkened hangar.
Waiting inside the hangar were the Omani air base com-
mander, the senior military attache from the U.S. Embassy (an
Army colonel), and two U.S. Air Force advisers who were on
loan to the Royal Omani Air Force.
The barrel-chested American colonel, complete with desert
fatigues and sidearm, didn't like having the Omani air base com-
mander present—but that was the price you paid for using the
Sultan's real estate. Although he grumbled, the American knew
he had no real cause for a gripe. The Sultan's rich but sparsely
populated little country was within spitting distance of Iran,
across the Gulf of Oman. His Highness had to go eyeball to
eyeball with the Ayatollah on a daily basis, and the fewer Amer-
icans on his soil, the better he liked it. Yet when the chips were
down he'd play ball, just as the Secretary of State said. When
the U.S. Army's Delta Force had embarked on its abortive mis-
sion to rescue hostages in the U.S. embassy in Teheran, the
Sultan had allowed the Americans to use his Masirah Island as
a staging area. He was a gutsy little guy.
As Ghost Leader's plane approached, one of the American
Air Force advisers guided the aircraft into the darkened hangar
with a bright flashlight wand, then gave the signal for the pilot
to kill his engines. The process was then repeated with Ghost
Two, while the C-141 Starlifter and the KC-10 tanker were di-
rected to a different hangar.
The air base commander flipped a switch and the hangar doors
rolled forward on their tracks until they closed, which plunged
the hangar into total darkness. He then turned on the interior
klieg lights to illuminate the black batwings, and the sight that
greeted him almost caused his knees to buckle. He stood there

330
STORMING INTREPID
some moments with his mouth agape, then warily approached
Ghost Leader's plane.
' 'You understand you are to speak to no one about this?'' said
the American colonel sternly. "Absolutely no one."
The air base commander nodded absendy. "Yes, yes, I un-
derstand. I was not told what type of aircraft we would be re-
ceiving." He gulped. "Tell me. What is it?"
Before the colonel could answer, a hatch on the underside of
the batwing flipped open, and a flight-suited figure wearing a
crash helmet nimbly dropped onto the tarmac. "Where's the
bathroom?" he demanded.
Day 4, 0430 Hours Zulu, 11:30 p.m. Local
PAD 39A, KENNEDY SPACE CENTER
On the northeast corner of Pad 39A, a valve was turned and
the liquid contents of a giant spherical vessel began flowing into
an underground fuel line. The fluid draining from the 850,000-
gallon storage tank was liquid hydrogen, chilled to minus 423
degrees Fahrenheit. In liquid form, the hydrogen was incredibly
light—a full gallon weighed only half a pound. And because it
weighed so little, no pumps were required to transmit the fuel
down the vacuum-jacketed transfer line. Instead, a small amount
of the liquid H-two was allowed to "boil off," or vaporize at
the top of the storage vessel, and the resulting pressure was
sufficient to push the fuel down the pipeline toward the launch
pad.
At the pad, the fuel traveled into a tail-mast umbilical at the
bottom of the Constellation, where it gushed backward through
the orbiter's own pipeline system and into the orange external
tank. Like a bubbling caldron, the tank's H-two fuel compart-
ment began filling from the bottom up, and shortly before lift-
off at 4:30 a.m., the vessel would be topped off.
At launch time, the only thing that would stand between the
limpet mine and 383,000 gallons of the volatile liquid hydrogen
was a thin layer of the external tank's aluminum skin.

THE FOURTH DAY
331
Day 4, 0430 Hours Zulu, 8:30 p.m. Local
EDWARDS AIR FORCE BASE
"I got a bandit at two o'clock low, moving laterally from
starboard to port. Range three-eight-seven miles and increasing
slightly."
"Want an attitude adjustment?" queried Monaghan.
"Negative," responded Lamborghini. "At least not yet. He's
coming across our beam. I'll track him with the cone for now."
He twisted the handle on the radar focusing controller, which
caused the small radar dish in the Kestrel's nose cone to align
with the bandit. The adjustable radar dish allowed him to sweep
the airspace without having to pivot the spaceplane.
"You want to move in on this one?" asked Monaghan. The
Kestrel could maneuver closer to a target if they were traveling
in roughly the same direction.	,
"Negative," replied Lamborghini. "The cross angle might
be too severe. It may not do us much good. I think we should
go for this one now with the Phoenix."
"Take the shot," ordered Monaghan.
Lamborghini punched some buttons on the armament panel
and set the missile for dependent guidance, which meant the
Phoenix would follow the Kestrel's own radar beam to the target
unless otherwise instructed. He pressed the red fire button and
there was a flash of bright light, but no sound, and the two pilots
watched as the white dot of flame disappeared into the night
sky.
"He's following the beam," observed Lamborghini. He tried
twisting the radar dish farther to the left to keep the bandit on-
screen, but the controller couldn't go any farther. "Bring us to
port twenty degrees and drop the nose ten. The bandit is getting
to the edge of my scanner."
"Roger," replied Monaghan, and he joggled the Kestrel's
hand controller, causing the spacecraft to pivot.
"Okay, he's closing, but it looks like it's going to be close.
Range is four-five-seven miles. Switching to independent lock-
on." Lamboighini flipped a switch that illuminated the missile's
own Doppler-pulse radar. When he heard a tone in his ear-

332
STORMING INTREPID
phones, indicating the missile had acquired the target, he flipped
the guidance switch from dependent to independent.
The two blips had almost converged when they disappeared
off the edge of his screen, out of range of the Kestrel's radar. "I
lost 'em," grumbled Lamborghini. "Looked like it was close,
though."
"The one that got away is always the sweetest, Hot Rod,"
comforted Mad Dog. "We've been at this for a while. What say
we take a break?"
"You got it. . . maybe the Phoenix was able to close on its
own?"
Monaghan said, "Don't count on it," and pulled a lever to
engage an electric motor. There was a whirring sound as the
canopy of the Kestrel simulator raised itself up.
The two aviators were in the hypersecret Kestrel simulation
facility at Edwards Air Force Base. It was a room crammed with
computer consoles, as well as the simulator module which
looked like some sort of carnival ride on stilts. The stilts were
actually hydraulic jacks that could pitch the simulator cockpit
up, down, and sideways to give the occupants the feeling of
maneuver.
Having once been deputy director of the Kestrel project, Lam-
borghini was intimately familiar with the simulator and the Air
Force Flight Test Center at Edwards, where virtually every
fighter aircraft in the Air Force inventory had undergone devel-
opment testing.
The two pilots climbed out of the simulator and pulled off
their helmets as a tech sergeant walked over from the simulator
control panel. "Close, but no cigar on that last one, sir," he
told Lamborghini. "That problem has a deceptive degree of
difficulty. You should have listened to Commander Monaghan
and closed a little bit before engaging. That way you might have
just tagged the bandit before he dropped off your screen."
Lamborghini scowled. "Closing the gap takes fuel. I figured
we might need it for later."
"You were correct to put the missile on independent guid-
ance, though. Unfortunately, our simulation model says your
Phoenix ran out of propellant before it could connect." Lam-
borghini continued to scowl.

THE FOURTH DAY
333
"Just wait till next year," offered Monaghan. "Come on, Hot
Rod. I'll buy you a drink."
The two men went down the hall to a small vending area.
Lamborghini was gratified to discover the soft-drink machine
carried Dr Pepper. He'd developed a taste for it while stationed
in Texas. After dropping in Mad Dog's coins, they sat down in
a pair of plastic chairs at a plastic table.
In appearance, sitting across from each other, each man
seemed to be the antithesis of the other. The abstemious, raven-
haired Lamborghini was lean, angular; his movements were
precise and analytical. Monaghan, on the other hand, was sort
of, well, round. The extra poundage on his stocky frame indi-
cated he hadn't missed too many mrals, and his Irishman's crop
of red hair was perennially unkempt. As he lit up a Marlboro,
a cloud of smoke enveloped a set of craggy features that dem-
onstrated he'd obviously enjoyed "the good life." Yet despite
the differences, the two pilots liked each other, and Monaghan
could tell that his friend was starting to have reservations.
"Relax, Hot Rod," he comforted. "In the first place we ain't
going up. And if we do, you'll do fine. Trust me."
Lamborghini swished his Dr Pepper over the ice in the paper
cup. "I hope you're right. This will teach me to have more
respect for backseaters. There's a lot more finesse to handling
that hardware than meets the eye. I feel comfortable with my
grasp of the equipment, but using the systems and computing
target solutions is a lot tougher than I figured. It takes a lot of
practice."
"No sweat, Hot Rod. If "We do go up, the Intrepid will be
sittin' pretty. I'll bring us in so close you can shove a Sidewinder
right up Iceberg's ass."
Lamborghini swished his drink again and thought about the
phone call he'd received earlier from his deputy, Lydia Strand.
"Yeah. Iceberg. Brother. I still can't believe it. The guy has the
DFC. Who would've thought?"
Monaghan tossed down his Seven-Up. "I would've thought.
In fact, I had a pretty strong inkling it was him."
Lamborghini was surprised. "You? I didn't know you knew
him."
Mad Dog nodded. "Yeah, I came to know him in an intimate
way, you might say." Monaghan described the Red Flag com-

334
STORMING INTREPID
petition for Lamborghini, and how Iceberg had tried to lead him
into a death trap.
Lamborghini's jaw dropped. "You should've told somebody.
I've flown in Red Flag, too. They're pretty tight about safety at
Nellis."
Monaghan shrugged. "My gun camera ran out of tape just
before it happened. I was on air-crap turf—no offense—and no-
body would have believed a crybaby swabbie."
Lamborghini whistied softly. "Idunno about that. . . .Guess
it wouldn't bother you to get Iceberg in your sights, would it?"
Mad Dog nodded, and his friend was chilled by the look in
the man's eyes. It made Lamborghini wonder how much of
Monaghan's life-of-the-party demeanor was a veneer.
Lamborghini checked his watch. "My deputy talked to the
chief of staff at SPACECOM. He's going to have the Constel-
lation launch and rendezvous patched into the Edwards commo
center from SPADOC. We can watch it if you want."
Monaghan nodded. "I want, Hot Rod." Then he scratched
his mop of red hair. "Say, I always meant to ask you—you any
kin to that sports car outfit over in Italy?"
Lamborghini laughed and shook his head. "No. No, I'm not.
Just happen to have the same name. Funny thing, though. The
guy who founded that sports car company was a man named
Ferruccio Lamborghini. He made his fortune in the tractor busi-
ness, and then started the sports car operation. Maybe it was
sort of like a hobby for him. Anyway, there's hardly a week that
goes by that somebody doesn't ask me if I'm related to the sports
car family. Yet in my whole life, not one single person has ever
asked me if I was related to the tractor manufacturer."
Day 4, 0630 Hours Zulu, 1:30 a.m. Local
KENNEDY SPACE CENTER
Marine Lt. Col. Phillip Heitmann, Air Force Maj. Jack Town-
send, and Army Maj. Sandford Watkins walked through the
insulated crew access arm of the gantry tower toward the entry
hatch of the Constellation. To the graying Heitmann—a onetime
linebacker for Michigan State—walking down that ramp was

THE FOURTH DAY
335
like walking out of a locker room before a big game. The ground
crew's eyes were upon them, and the sense of excitement never
failed to make his pulse start thumping.
At the hatch of the orbiter, they slipped off their felt boot
covers and dropped them into a plastic bag held open by a white-
suited technician. The crew access gantry arm was a "clean"
room, designed to prevent foreign substances from polluting the
orbiter's delicate electronics and environmental control system
when the hatch was open.
Now came the tricky part. Because the orbiter was pointed
nose up, the astronauts had to twist like gymnasts to maneuver
themselves up into the upper deck and into their flight chairs.
After a few grunts and strains they made it, while trying to
ignore the four crates of Stinger missiles lashed down in the
crew deck.
Once in their seats, Heitmann and Townsend pulled out the
first of several three-ring binders which contained the volumi-
nous preflight checklist. Although computers handled the bulk
of the checklist chores, there was still a lot with which the crew
had to contend. To begin his de rigueur preflight checks, Heit-
mann propped the binder into its special holder on the console
panel, being careful not to let it slip. Since the Constellation
was facing nose up, a dropped notebook would fall all the way
to the back wall, possibly catching Watkins right between the
eyes on the way down.
Mission Specialist Sandford Watkins didn't have a whole lot
to do during the preflight checks, so he studied a manual on the
operation of the Stinger missile to make sure he hadn't forgotten
anything about the arming and firing sequence.
Outside in the gantry arm, two technicians closed the hatch
door, then engaged the electronic actuator which caused the
twenty-eight latches on the hatch ring to pop into place. With
his hand-held radio, a technician told the systems engineer in-
side Firing Room 1\vo that the hatch was closed.
"I copy," said the engineer, who, in turn, notified the Cap
Com—the person who handled all communication with the
spacecraft crew.
"Constellation, this is Launch Control," said the Cap Com.
"Your hatch is closed."
Heitmann looked at the green light on his console under sde

336
STORMING INTREPID
hch—one of the 2,040 dials, switches, gauges, and instruments
on the orbiter's control panels. He radioed back, "Roger, Con-
trol, I copy side hatch closed."
Day 4, 0330 Hours Zulu, 1:30 a.m. Local
FALCON AIR FORCE STATION, COLORADO
Maj. Gen. Chester McCormack strode into Mission Control
at the Consolidated Space Operations Center (CSOC) looking
tired and unshaven and wearing his green flight suit. He'd just
parked his Talon at nearby Peterson Air Force Base. Despite
Whittenberg's order to get some rest, he'd slept very little before
leaving Cape Canaveral.
When senators and congressman visited the Mission Control
room at CSOC, or its civilian counterpart at NASA in Houston,
they were always surprised at the smallness of the enclosure.
"It always looks so big on TV," was the usual remark, and that
was true. During the Mercury, Gemini, Apollo, and shuttle pro-
grams, the Mission Control room in Houston was always pho-
tographed by the networks with a wide-angle lens, making it
appear giant size. Perhaps that made things more dramatic. But
in fact, it was a small room. The Kaliningrad Flite Control
Centre was much larger, because it did not rely as much on
computers and required more people to perform many of the
tasks.
McCormack went straight to the mission director. "What's
the status at thirty-nine?" he asked, meaning Pad 39A.
The chubby and balding director—an Army lieutenant colo-
nel—had his checklist ready. "Fueling is about complete. No
problems there. Manipulator arm circuit breaker is having some
glitches again, but since we're not doing anything with a payload
that shouldn't matter. Primary heat exchanger in crew deck envi-
ronmental system has a clogged tube, but backup is working all
right. Hydraulic line on speed brake isn't testing right. Could
be a malfunction on the test circuit, but can't say at this point.
And the Ku-band transponder is kaput. Have no idea why. In
short, nothing abortable."
With a machine as complex as the shuttle, it was rare when

THE FOURTH DAY
337
everything worked without a glitch. In fact, having a flawless
space vehicle prior to launch never happened. But small glitches
were permissible. A big glitch—like a bad valve on the liquid
oxygen feed—was not permissible and could abort a launch.
"What about the flight plan?" asked McCormack.
"Navigation has it all computed and it will be loaded into the
BFS computer fifteen minutes before lift-off," said the director.
"If we get off on schedule, the rendezvous shouldn't be any
problem at all."
McCormack sighed, "Good," then collapsed into the mis-
sion director's chair.
The mission director looked his boss over carefully. Mc-
Cormack's "rakish" appearance was undercut by his ashen face,
and for the first time there appeared to be some gray in that
perfect head of blond hair. "General," said the mission director
charitably, "if you don't mind my saying so, you look like ham-
mered shit."
Day 4, 0900 Hours Zulu, 4:00 a.m. Local
CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY
HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
The Director of Central Intelligence, or DCI, looked out the
picture window of his seventh-floor office into a void of pitch-
black darkness. Had it been daylight, he would have seen a
beautiful Virginia forest, and perhaps a deer striding across a
distant meadow. But now it was dark. Impenetrable. Much like
this whole damned Intrepid affair, he mused.
After attending the White House briefing on the rogue space-
craft, he'd sent out an ALL CHIEFS OF STATION URGENT
cable for something—anything—on this Intrepid business and
had come up with absolutely zero. Nothing. About every hour
the Vice President had called him, fishing for something. The
gangly framed DCI with a toothy grin had nothing to give. Zip.
It was frustrating. He'd been in the intelligence business most
of his professional life, coming up the signals intelligence route
through the Army. He'd run into stone walls before, but never

338
STORMING INTREPID
like this. Frustration—and no sleep. But sleep was a nasty habit
he'd shaken years ago.
The door burst open without the prelude of a knock. It was
the professional-looking deputy director, waving a cable in his
hand. "I'm not sure, but we may have something," he said,
trying to contain his excitement. "How it figures into the In-
trepid business I can't say, but this just came in on a one-time
disk from Canberra." The DCI grabbed die cable, put on his
reading glasses, and scanned the message. Twice.
"Hmmm," he murmured. "A phony shuttle?"
"Yeah," concurred the deputy. "The source is on the scene
at Baikonur, too, and Australian SIS says he's solid gold."
The DCI scratched his head. "Well, at least it's something.
I'll get this to Bergstrom. Send a copy on a one-time disk to
Whittenberg at SPACECOM. Maybe he can make something
out of it."
"Gotcha."
The deputy exited and the DCI picked up his secure phone to
inform the White House about the message. But then he stopped.
Although the DCI felt confident about using the secure Oracle
system, the fact remained that electronic "ferrets" operating in
the Soviet Embassy could monitor 70 percent of all telephone
microwave traffic in Washington, D.C. With something as im-
portant as this Baikonur source, the DCI wasn't willing to take
so much as a minuscule chance of its being compromised. He
put down the phone and grabbed his coat. He'd hand-carry it to
the White House himself.
Day 4, 0900 Hours Zulu
SPYGLASS, ALTITUDE: 62,000 FEET ABOVE
THE ARCTIC ICE CAP
"Rabbit's Nest, this is Spyglass. We're in position, just wait-
ing to take a picture of the Constellation-Intrepid rendezvous.
Let us know pronto if any of the Constellation's specs change
after lift-off. In the meantime, we'll just hang around up here
and keep the coffee warm."

THE FOURTH DAY
339
"Roger, Spyglass. . . . Say, I'm curious. What's your exterior
temperature?"
The chief master sergeant leaned over his console to check
the readout on the outside air temperature. The high altitude-
767 observation platform was accustomed to temperature ex-
tremes. "Looks like a minus seven-three degrees, Rabbit's Nest.
Fahrenheit-type.''
"Whooooweee," replied Rabbit's Nest from inside Chey-
enne Mountain. "That's Cream of Wheat weather, isn't it? Stay
up there, Spyglass. We'll keep you posted on the Constella-
tion.'''
Day 4, 0902 Hours Zulu, 4:02 a.m. Local
PAD 39A
Jacob Classen felt, and looked, as if he'd run back-to-back
marathons. His white coveralls were smudged, there was stub-
ble on his chin, and under the orange hard hat his snow-white
hair was even whiter. That was because his deputy pad manager,
Ed Garvey, had never returned, and Classen didn't know whether
to feel angry or worried. But in any case, he was exhausted and
it was less than thirty minutes until launch—way past time to
clear the pad area. Fueling was almost topped off now, and the
final on-site check of the gantry by the section chiefs was under
way. Classen held up his radio and mashed the transmit button.
"Alpha Chief, report."
"Alpha Chief here," squawked the transceiver. "Decks one,
two, three, and four, all clear."
"Acknowledged. Bravo Chief, report," ordered Classen.
"Bravo Chief reporting. Decks five, six, seven, and eight, all
clear."
"Acknowledged," said Classen. "Charlie Chief, report."
"Decks nine, ten, eleven, and twelve, all clear, Jacob."
"Good," replied Classen. "Everybody bust ass down here
so we can clear out. We're miles behind schedule."
"Roger," said Alpha.
'' Roger,'' said Bravo.
'' Roger,'' said Charlie.

340
STORMING INTREPID
With half a million gallons of volatile liquids close by, the
section chiefs needed no prodding to climb down from the su-
perstructure. They'd just made a final check to ensure that there
were no injured technicians or loose equipment lying about on
the gantry decks, and were now descending to ground level in
the elevator cage. If Classen had had the energy, he would have
impatiently tapped his foot as he waited by the shuttle bus. But
he'd depleted his energy reserves long ago. The vehicle was
filled with technicians who were waiting to call it a day—or,
rather, a night.
After some minutes, the elevator finally disgorged the three
section chiefs. They walked briskly under the gantry lights and
onto the shuttle bus. Classen was the last one on board. "Move
it," he ordered the driver, while looking at his watch. They had
twenty-two minutes until the 0430 launch. That was cutting it
close. Too close.
Mike Rossen, a hydraulics technician on the pad, was a fas-
tidious person. He didn't like to go home dirty and was one of
the few techs on Pad 39A who made use of the shower and
locker room at the security access building. He'd hustled through
his shower so he would have enough time to change and get a
good vantage point to watch the launch. That was half his pay—
watching those giants lift off. Especially at night. Unless you
have personally witnessed a night launch of a space shutde,
there is no earthly way to comprehend the staggering power that
is unleashed. The tiny image you see on television in no way
imparts the violence of the conflagration, the fearsome thunder
of the engine noise, or the brightness of the exhaust plume.
Rossen couldn't wait to experience it again.
Drying off, Rossen walked over to the locker which contained
his clean clothes. He was reaching for the door handle when he
spied some rivulets of a dark, almost black substance at the base
of a locker near his. Puzzled, he looked closer, but still couldn't
figure out what it was. If he didn't know better, he'd have guessed
it was dirty hydraulic fluid, but it couldn't be that. Curious, he
opened the locker door.
And out tumbled the bloodstained corpse of Edward Garvey.
* * *

THE FOURTH DAY
341
The doors of the shuttle bus clapped open, allowing Classen
and his crew to disembark and make their way toward the se-
curity "cattle chute." Although the security building was a safe
distance from the shuttle, they still wanted to get in their cars and
put a little more real estate between themselves and the volatile
behemoth they'd left on the pad. The group was approaching the
security window when a buck-naked man ran out of the locker
room screaming, "Help! Help! Dead man! Dead man!"
Initially, the group was stunned by the scene. But then Clas-
sen recognized the man and led his group forward in a surge,
just as a burly security guard appeared from around the comer.
Classen grabbed the naked man by the shoulders and shook
him. "Mike! Get hold of yourself! What is it?"
He pointed at the door. "In there! Dead man!"
Everyone froze, not knowing what to do, until the rough-
looking security guard drew his .357 magnum and plunged
through the door. There were a few moments of tense silence,
then Classen and his troops heard the security guard yell,
"Somebody get in here!" En masse the group piled into the
locker room, where they found the guard kneeling over Ed
Garvey's body.
For a few moments Classen stood there in total shock. Then
slowly he knelt down beside his friend and carefully touched
Garvey's hair. "Oh, no," he moaned.
The security guard holstered his pistol and scanned the faces
in the room. "Anybody know anything about this?" he de-
manded.
There was a stunned silence until one throat cleared. It was a
technician with goldfish eyes named Tony. "Uh, well," goldfish
eyes offered carefully, "when I was leaving off my last shift I
saw Mr. Garvey here talkin' to the OSHA inspector."
Classen whirled around. "OSHA inspector? What OSHA in-
spector?"
Goldfish eyes gulped. "I dunno, Mr. Classen. Billy and me
was up on the H-two access arm—you know, checking the cou-
pling. Some guy I never saw before rode up with us and started
making some measurements on the catwalk. We asked him what
he was doin' and he said he was from OSHA, making a safety
inspection. He had an ID. I saw it."
Classen felt his stomach knotting up. "No visitors are sup-

342
STORMING INTREPID
posed to be on the pad during prelaunch. Didn't you know that?"
His eyes were starting to well up with tears.
Goldfish eyes blinked and he cleared his throat again. "Well,
uh, yessir. 1 thought about reportin' it, but when Mr. Garvey
started talkin' to him right outside here, I figured, well . . ."
The voice faded.
Classen felt his throat choking up. Tony had seen the "OSHA
inspector" talking to Garvey, and now Garvey's dead. Dammit.
Jesus God in heaven, Ed. Forgive me. When you didn't show I
should've known something like this had happened. Goddam-
mit, I should have known. "Where did you say you saw this
OSHA inspector?" he demanded.
"Uh, the H-two access arm," replied goldfish eyes.
"Were you with this 'inspector' the entire time?"
Tony stammered, "Well, gosh no, Mr. Classen. Billy and me
had some other things to get done before we finished our shift.
And that inspector said he had to take some more measure-
ments. So we left him."
"So he was alone on the H-two arm?" Classen's voice was
little more than a squeak.
"Yessir."
Raw panic seized Classen. He looked at his watch, then leapt
to his feet and grabbed the bus driver. "Come with me!" he
ordered. "The rest of you clear out!"
Day 4, 0915 Hours Zulu, 4:15 am. Local
THE CONSTELLATION
"Constellation, this is Launch Control, commence loading
OPS-One flight plan into BFS computer."
"Roger, Launch Control," replied Heitmann, then without
pausing he asked Townsend through the intercom, "Error log
switch?"
"Error log switch, negative," said Townsend. (A light on the
error log would have indicated a fault in the guidance and con-
trol system.)
"Enter SPEC nine nine PRO," ordered Heitmann.

THE FOURTH DAY
343
"Roger," said Townsend as he punched in the proper strokes
on the computer keyboard. "SPEC nine nine PRO entered."
"I copy launch trajectory on CRT two," said Heitmann.
Townsend looked over to make sure—two sets of eyes were
always better than one. "I confirm launch trajectory on CRT
two," he said.
"Initialize GPC Mode Five—Run," ordered Heitmann.
Townsend hit the correct button. "GPC Mode Five is run-
ning."
"Enter OPS one zero one PRO."
Townsend put in the keystrokes. "OPS one zero one PRO
entered."
"Control, this is Constellation," said Heitmann. "OPS-One
flight plan is entered."
"Roger, Constellation. We copy OPS-One loaded."
The launch was in the computers' hands now.
Day 4, 0919 Hours Zulu, 4:19 a.m. Local
PAD 39A
The shuttle bus screeched to a halt. Classen jumped out and
yelled, "Get out of here!" to the driver. The bus jockey needed
no prodding; he nearly put the vehicle into a wheelie as he sped
away.
Classen looked at his watch and his heart jumped into his
throat. It was 4:19 a.m.—eleven minutes until they lit the can-
dle. Frantically, he scanned the exterior of the orange external
tank near the hyrdrogen vent coupling. The catwalk, which pro-
vided access to the coupling, had been retracted an hour earlier
and only the umbilical pipeline remained.
When the liquid hydrogen boiled off in the external tank and
expanded into a gas, it had to be vented from the vessel—just
like the liquid oxygen. However, gaseous hydrogen is many
times more volatile than gaseous oxygen. Therefore, the vapors
were vented from the external tank through the "closed system"
of the umbilical pipe until the H-two valve was closed. At the
moment of lift-off, the umbilical vent cord would automatically
disconnect from the tank and fall away against the gantry.

344
STORMING INTREPID
Several precious moments elapsed before Classen finally saw
it. There. Just below the coupling. It was hard to see, and from
the ground it appeared no larger than a muted, cream-colored
dot. But it wasn't orange, like the tank. It didn't belong there.
He reached to his belt for his hand-held transceiver to inform
Launch Control that the lift-off might have to be aborted, but he
came up empty-handed. In the confusion of the locker room,
he'd left it by Garvey's body. He wou.d have cursed his own
stupidity, but couldn't take the time.
Like a gazelle, Classen bounded across the concrete tarmac
and into the gantry elevator. He shoved the hand controller to
the up position and the steel cage started skyward. No matter
how hard he pressed the controller, the lift rose at a maddeningly
slow rate. In frustration, he kicked the side of the cage and
yelled, "Move!" But it continued up at its leisurely pace. Clas-
sen alternated between praying and cursing—now that he had
the time.
When level nine was finally reached, he jumped out and
lunged for the instrument panel which controlled the hydrogen
vent access arm. He shoved the lever forward, and the catwalk
arm started rotating toward the external tank.
Day 4, 0924 Hours Zulu, 4:24 a.m. Local
FIRING ROOM TWO, LAUNCH CONTROL
BUNKER, KENNEDY SPACE CENTER
A red light twinkled on the pad systems engineering console
in Firing Room Two. The engineer who monitored the board
blinked his eyes several times in surprise and muttered, "What
the . . . ?" The red light indicated the hydrogen vent access
arm was not retracted into its proper lift-off position. The en-
gineer looked up at one of the four large television screens which
pictured the Constellation on Pad 39A—and gasped. Eschewing
his headset, he jumped up from his console and yelled at the
launch director: "Chief! Look at the center left screen! The H-
two arm is moving!"
Every head in the room bobbed up to look at the screen, and
the launch director's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

THE FOURTH DAY
345
"What the hell?" he said in a soft voice. Then he barked at his
deputy, "I thought Jacob cleared the pad fifteen minutes ago!"
The bald, squat-looking deputy looked like a ghost. "He did,"
came the croaky reply.
' 'Well, somebody's got to be up there!'' barked the tall, skinny
launch director who had two days' growth of beard on his face.
"Get Classen on the radio! Photo, give me a zoom on the H-
two arm! Pad systems, get that arm retracted and back into
place!"
The deputy started talking nervously into his microphone, but
Classen was not on the air. The pad manager's little hand-held
transceiver was still in the locker room. "I can't raise him,"
whined the deputy.
The engineer in charge of photography systems fiddled with
some control knobs, and the television image of the access arm
enlarged until it filled the screen.
The pad systems engineer punched a bunch of buttons, but
the H-two catwalk kept moving toward the external tank. "I
can't retract the arm. Somebody's controlling the manual over-
ride from the gantry."
"There's somebody up there!" yelled the flight surgeon while
pointing at the screen. And sure enough, the image of someone
in white coveralls appeared, running down the catwalk. It halted
at the coupling.
"Give me max zoom!" ordered the skinny launch director.
The image on the screen grew some more, but because of the
magnification and the limited illumination of the klieg lights,
the shadowy figure was terribly grainy. All that could be dis-
cerned was that he wore white coveralls and had an orange hard
hat on his head . . . and only one person on Pad 39A wore an
orange hard hat.
"It's Jacob!" exclaimed the deputy.
"What in God's name is he doing up there?" thundered the
launch director. He poised his trembling hand over the big red
console button marked abort.

346	STORMING INTREPID
Day 4, 0925 Hours Zulu, 4:25 a.m. Local
PAD 39A
When the arm had extended all the way to the tank wall,
Classen flew down the catwalk. Upon reaching the coupling, he
knelt down and inserted his arm between the edge of the catwalk
and the tank. Everything felt cold from the liquid hydrogen as
he fingered the platelike device. It was a bomb, of course. It
had to be a bomb. That was why Ed Garvey had had to die.
He'd found out. Was it rigged to go off if tampered with? Classen
didn't know shit from Shinola about bombs, and the tampering
question hadn't occurred to him until now. But never mind about
that. He still had to try, even though he was afraid. Deathly
afraid.
Getting a proper grip from his kneeling position was impos-
sible, so he lay down flat on the catwalk and reached around the
superstructure to get a handhold on the rim of the limpet mine.
He caught the edge. There. That was it. He pulled. It didn't
budge. He pulled again, harder. Rock solid. Oh, Lord, give me
strength. Now. He took a deep breath and with every last ounce
of grit and muscle he heaved once more, while groaning, "Damn
you, damn you, damn you."
Day 4, 0926 Hours Zulu, 4:26 a.m. Local
FIRING ROOM TWO
"He . . . he's pulling something off the tank," stammered
the deputy.
The launch director was almost dancing now, his lanky frame
hopping from one foot to the other. He didn't know what to do.
He was the one person at KSC who'd been told the score—the
whole score—on the Intrepid. If his launch crew didn't light the
candle now, it would be another twenty-four hours before they'd
have another chance at a rendezvous with the Intrepid. That
would give the Russians another fall day and night to intervene.
He looked at the digital clock. Less than four minutes to igni-
tion. Everything was controlled by computers now, but he could
shut the launch down by punching the abort button. However,

THE FOURTH DAY
347
the launch time window was so small on this mission that once
the abort button was pushed, they couldn't recover in time and
still catch the Intrepid rendezvous on this pass. It was up to him.
Go or no-go.
"He's got it!" yelped the squatty deputy. "Whatever it is,
he's got it!"
Day 4, 0927 Hours Zulu, 4:27 a.m. Local
PAD 39A
Like a giant scab, the plate finally peeled away from the or-
ange skin of the external tank—slowly at first, then as the lever-
age increased, the adhesive yielded so quickly that Classen nearly
dropped the limpet device as it fell into his hand. Carefully, he
brought it around the edge of the superstructure and clutched it
to his chest, then scrambled to his feet and flew back down the
catwalk, where he smashed the control lever into the retract
position.
Day 4, 0928 Hours Zulu, 4:28 a.m. Local
FIRING ROOM TWO
The firing room crew watched the catwalk superstructure start
moving away from the external tank.
"Pad systems!" screamed the launch director, forgetting his
headset. "Tell me when we've got enough clearance from the
H-two catwalk for lift-off!"
The pad systems engineer checked his board. "We've got it
now!" Then added, "Oxygen vent hood is starting to retract!"
The launch director pulled his thumb away from the abort
button. His body was shaking. "Okay," he announced. "Okay,
we're go for launch!" Then he gulped and almost cried. "Get
out of there, Jacob," he implored. "Get the hell out of there."

348
STORMING INTREPID
Day 4, 0928:30 Hours Zulu, 4:28:30 a.m. Local
PAD 39A
The H-two catwalk had moved back several meters when
Classen heard a creaking sound. He looked above him and his
blood went cold. The metallic hood that covered the liquid ox-
ygen vent was retracting, too. That meant he had maybe a min-
ute to ignition. He looked back down the catwalk to the hydrogen
vent coupling, and when he figured the catwalk had enough
clearance, he released the lever. Ignoring the elevator, he
sprinted to the far side of the gantry.
Classen knew there was only one way out now. He fled to the
hanging baskets of the emergency exit system, and like an Olym-
pic driver he dove headfirst into one of the steel mesh baskets,
clutching the bomb in one hand and slapping the release bar
with the other. Immediately the basket began hurtling toward
the arresting crash net.
The emergency exit system was a simple device, designed to
put a lot of distance between the astronauts and a shuttle acci-
dent (say, a fuel spill) in a hurry. It consisted of several wire
mesh baskets, which hung from steel cables on sets of rollers.
The cables sloped at a severe angle from the eighth level of the
gantry structure to a landing zone on the ground alongside a
blast bunker. The harrowing slide down the cable took less than
thirty seconds, and during that time the basket traveled 1,200
horizontal feet and dropped 147 vertical feet. This rate of de-
scent meant the astronaut went from zero to a top speed of
nearly 50 miles per hour during the slide—but that was the easy
part. The hard part was going from 50 mph to a complete stop
in 1.2 seconds when the basket crashed into the arresting net at
the bottom of the cable.
However, Classen didn't have time to ponder the exact physics
of the situation. All that registered in his brain at the moment
was that he was upside down in a steel basket, plummeting down
at a high rate of speed, with a powerful explosive beside his
head. With great difficulty he righted himself, and in the process
he lost his hard hat and started the basket swinging from side to
side. He fumbled with the plate. He'd never thrown a discus
before. What a time to try! Clumsily he grabbed the disk and

THE FOURTH DAY
349
curled his fingers around the edge, then, holding on to the side
of the swinging basket, he summoned up all of his strength and
heaved the plate into the darkness.
For Classen, the basket's crash into the nylon arresting net
was nothing but a blur, but he seemed to remember hearing a
distinct whump! and catching the image of a starburst flash, just
before his bare head bashed against the basket's forewall. For a
few moments he remained on the floor of the still-vibrating
vessel, too stunned to move. Finally, like a weak kitten, the pad
manager climbed up and over the rim of the steel basket, only
to have the wind knocked out of him as he fell to the ground
with a dull thud. With his last ounce of strength he forced him-
self to stand, and like a zombie he limped the final few steps to
the sheltering bunker.
What was left of Jacob Classen pushed through the door and
fell into the concrete cutout, just as the earth began shaking
violently beneath him and a deafening roar rumbled over his
spent body. He covered his ears with his hands, then curled up
into a ball and pressed his knees on top of his hands.
"Stop that noise!" he pleaded. "Stop it!"
Day 4, 0930 Hours Zulu, 4:30 a.m. Local
THE CONSTELLATION
The twang! reverberated through the flight deck as the orbiter
lurched forward on its brackets.
' 'Three greens on main engines!'' shouted Townsend over the
thundering roar.
The solid boosters fired.
"SRBs are green, too!"
The three astronauts felt the vibrations from the 6.5 million
pounds of thrust erupting below them, then watched as the klieg
lights slowly passed by the cockpit windows.
The Constellation had started her ascent.
Heitmann, Townsend, and Watkins had been totally unaware
of the drama unfolding so near them. The H-two catwalk was
on the opposite side of the external tank, and after the Cap Com
had recovered from the shock of the episode, he saw no point

350
STORMING INTREPID
in alarming the flight crew. There wasn't a blessed thing they
could've done about it anyway.
"You are go for roll, Constellation," radioed the Cap Com.
"Roger," replied Heitmann. "Starting roll maneuver now."
Although his hand rested on the hand controller, it was the shut-
de's computers that ordered the engines to "gimbal" and roll
the spacecraft into its standard heads-down position. But instead
of arcing over the Adantic, the Constellation thundered on a
trajectory into the southern night sky.
Day 4, 0932 Hours Zulu, 4:32 a.m. Local
YEEHAW JUNCTION, FLORIDA
Seymour Woltman was the night wire editor for the Miami
bureau of the Associated Press. He was pudgy, dark-haired,
middle-aged, divorced, and his career had pretty much pla-
teaued—or, rather, regressed.
Woltman had been a good reporter for the Herald once. A
helluva reporter. Then a helluva editor. Then a hard-drinking
editor. Then it was just hard drinking. Before his career started
on a downward slide, he'd been an assistant managing editor at
the Herald. Now he was a night wire editor.
But Woltman was determined to bounce back. He'd finally
gotten a handle on his drinking, and through an old friend he'd
lined up an interview for the metro editor's job at the Atlanta
Constitution. After he'd gotten off work from the bureau at 2:00
a.m. that morning he'd gone home and packed, then headed out
north on the Florida Hirnpike toward Atlanta. He figured he'd
visit with his old buddy over the weekend, then face the job
interview on Monday.
But Woltman had neglected to gas up his car before leaving
Miami, so as the fuel gauge neared empty he left the turnpike
to hunt for a gas station in the tiny town of Yeehaw Junction.
Luckily, the small community—which was about sixty miles
south of Cape Canaveral—had an all-night self-service stadon.
He'd just gotten out of his car to plug the gas nozzle into the
tank when he saw—no, he perceived its presence. The darkness
around him seemed to take on a slightly yellowish tint, as if

THE FOURTH DAY
351
someone had turned on a row of distant streetlights. But in Yee-
haw Junction there were no distant streetlights. He looked up,
and the sight he beheld caused him to stagger. It was an orange
torch, traveling across the heavens. He stood there—mesmer-
ized and stupefied by the image—until a thunderclap boom! made
him jump two feet in the air. The Constellation had just cracked
the sound barrier.
He was tired and worn out, but Seymour Woltman's brain
cells came alive—really alive—for the first time in years. He'd
covered a dozen space shots out of Cape Canaveral. He knew
that NASA never launched its rockets south over populated ar-
eas. Never.
Until now.
Woltman didn't have to be a genius to figure out that some-
thing was wrong. Terribly wrong. Horribly wrong. Catastroph-
ically wrong. Maybe a damned rocket was out of control!
The orange torch could still be seen in the distance, but Wolt-
man didn't wait. He jumped into his station wagon and tore out
for Miami and the bureau office. He'd never put a flash message
on the wire before. Now was his chance. This could be his ticket
back to somewhere. Hot damn! For the first time in a long, long
time he was on a story.
Day 4, 0932 Hours Zulu
THE INTREPID
As his spacecraft passed over the western edge of Greenland,
Julian Kapuscinski tried to sleep, but sleep would not come.
He'd been riding a roller coaster of exasperation, nightmares,
boredom, and tension for almost seventy-two hours. All of the
emotional firepower that had been bottled up inside of him for
over forty years was clawing to break out now. He'd envisioned
the Intrepid's touchdown in Russia as an emotional catharsis for
his soul, expunging all of the hurts and slights he'd endured for
so many years. Endured at the hands of people inferior to him-
self. Iceberg, they called him. They all thought the call sign was
so amusing. Kapuscinski didn't, and hijacking the Intrepid was
his opportunity to even the score. For the hurt. For the death of

352
STORMING INTREPID
his mother. For the betrayal of Felicia. But instead of exhilara-
tion in completing the mission of a lifetime—literally, a life-
time—he was trapped inside a crippled vessel like a caged
animal, and all he could do was wait . . . wait . . . and wait
some more. Iceberg's emotional bottle remained corked.
So he floated there in the left seat of the cockpit, simply star-
ing into space. The multitude of stars in the heavens failed to
excite or inspire him. He only gazed morosely ahead.
From his upside-down vantage point above Greenland he
could see the sun starting to creep over the horizon to his right,
while the path in front of him and to the left remained cloaked
in darkness. Without the polluted veil of the atmosphere to im-
pair his vision, it was amazing how far he could see from his
perch above the earth.
It was barely perceptible, but with his exceptional eyesight he
saw it. There. Just above the curve of the black horizon, perhaps
a couple of thousand miles away. It looked like nothing more
than a tiny, tiny firefly in the far distance—but nonetheless, it
was unmistakable.
The realization was like a cold slap that snapped Iceberg out
of his semisleep. He emitted a little cry as he fearfully punched
up the Intrepid's ground track on the NavComputer. It showed
that his spacecraft was above Greenland, on a course that would
take him directly over Florida.
"No!" he shrieked. "No! No! No! They would not do it!"
But "they" did.
In the distant void, Iceberg saw the Constellation rising to
meet him.
Day 4, 0933 Hours Zulu
THE CONSTELLATION
The flash from the explosive bolts filled the windshield for a
split second. The solid boosters had separated from the external
tank and were now beginning their long tumble down to a para-
chute landing in the Caribbean Sea.
"CSOC, we have SRB separation," radioed Heitmann.

THE FOURTH DAY
353
"Throttling main engines up to a hundred percent of rated
power."
"Roger, Constellation. We copy SRB separation. You're
looking good from here."
The solid booster separation had been delayed for forty-five
seconds to ensure that the descending projectiles would clear the
southern coast of Florida and touch down in the Caribbean.
Day 4, 0933 Hours Zulu, 11:33 a.m. Local
KALININGRAD FLUE CONTROL CENTRE
"Launch detection, Comrade General!" barked Mission
Commander Malyshev, holding the headphone to his right ear.
"It is coming out of the Kennedy cosmodrome, bearing one-
eight-seven degrees. I am punching up the ground track from
the Aerospace Defense Warning Centre."
A stubby luminescent line appeared over eastern Florida on
the giant Mercator map projection.
The General Secretary's swarthy face turned a pale white. He
was stunned. "You were correct to take precautions, Vitali,"
he whispered softly. "The Americans are attempting a rescue."
Kostiashak's response was nothing but a nod, while his dark
features remained somber. His KGB agent in Florida had failed
to stop the Constellation. Now it was up to Pirdilenko to shoot
it down. General Secretary Vorontsky, Kostiashak, and Popov
were standing behind Mission Commander Malyshev, and seated
beside him at a computer station was the spidery Pirdilenko,
who was furiously tapping at a keyboard. All of a sudden he
quit tapping and looked at the screen with a blank expression
on his face. With a raspy voice, he said, "It appears we have a
problem."
Day 4, 0937 Hours Zulu
THE CONSTELLATION
They were entering the final minute of main engine burn. The
Constellation's computers had just throttled the three giant in-
fernos back to 85 percent power in preparation for engine shut-

354
STORMING INTREPID
down, when a red annunciator light started blinking and a bzzzzz!
bzzzzz! bzzzzz! filled the cabin.
Townsend scanned the instruments. "Low pressure turbo-
pump failure on number two oxidizer!"
"Feather two!" ordered Heitmann.
One of the pumps feeding liquid oxygen into the orbiter's
center main engine had failed. For what reason, Townsend had
no idea, but he quickly flipped the switches to shut down the
liquid oxygen and hydrogen feed to the combustion chambers
in engine number two. At the same time, Heitmann's muscular
hands shoved the throttles forward on engines one and three,
increasing their power output from 85 percent to 100 percent.
This would help compensate for the loss of power on the center
engine.
There was no danger that the Constellation would fail to reach
orbit. The vehicle was already in the shallow dive maneuver to
point the external tank back to the sea. The loss of the engine
would affect their orbit insertion OMS burn, but that was all.
' 'CSOC, this is Constellation. We had to feather number two.
Some kinda O-two turbopump problem. I've switched from auto
to manual and have increased rated power to a hundred percent
on one and three."
A few moments passed before Heitmann heard: "Roger,
Constellation. We copy the shutdown. Any other problems?
Over."
"Negative. Coming up to tank separation now. Pulling power
back down to sixty-five percent." Heitmann pulled back on the
throttles and watched the readout on the console fall to "65."
"Roger, Constellation," said the CSOC Cap Com. "You are
go for main-engine shutdown."
Heitmann pulled the throttles down to zero and fired the ex-
plosive bolts for tank separation. Then with the hand controller
he maneuvered the spacecraft clear of the empty orange vessel.
"CSOC, this is Constellation. Please advise on initial OMS
bum. Quickly."
"Wait one, Constellation," came the reply, and a few more
seconds ticked by before the Cap Com returned. "Navigation
officer says do a manual OMS bum now with the same specifi-
cations as your programmed bum. Then do a manual insertion
bum at forty-three minutes, fifty-eight seconds elapsed time.

THE FOURTH DAY
355
You'll have to make a third correction burn to reach your ren-
dezvous, but it shouldn't be too much of a problem. We'll run
the numbers on it and advise you shortly. You're in the ball park
as it is. By the way, Eagle One says nice move on the shutdown,
guys. Over."
' 'Roger,'' replied Heitmann. He and Townsend had practiced
emergency engine shutdowns in the simulator until they had
become second nature to them. But now they were preparing to
conduct their initial OMS burn manually, and this required some
concentration.
Townsend watched the readout from the NavComputer while
Heitmann operated the hand controller. "Pitch up three de-
grees," ordered the copilot. "Yaw left six degrees. . . .I'llfire
the OMS on my marie. . . . Three . . . two. . . one . . . maris!"
Townsend hit the red switch and the engines fired silendy.
Because they had not completed the shallow dive maneuver,
the Constellation was actually a litde ahead of where it was
supposed to be.
Day 4, 0937 Hours Zulu, 11:37 a.m. Local
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE
"Problem?" bellowed the General Secretary. "What do you
mean by 'problem'?"
Pirdilenko's aloofness had been replaced by distilled fear.
There had always been a small chance that this could happen.
Quite small. Incredibly small. But there it was. He should have
warned them of this contingency, but. . . "Well, ah, General
Secretary," stammered Pirdilenko, "it appears the launch of
the American rescue shutde was, ah, ill-timed for our antisatel-
lite weapon."
"What do you mean by 'ill-timed'? Speak simple Russian,
you fool!"
Beads of sweat appeared on Pirdilenko's brow as he took a
deep breath. "When a shutde is initially launched," he ex-
plained, "it goes into an elliptical orbit, which is shaped much
like an egg. When the spacecraft reaches the apex of this ellipse,
it fires the maneuvering rockets to push it into a circular orbit.

356
STORMING INTREPID
I intended to fire the antisatellite device as the rescue shuttle
was climbing to the apex of the ellipse—that is, when the In-
trepid would still be a safe distance away from the Constellation.
You will recall our discussions at Plesetsk." Pirdilenko cleared
his throat. "However, I, ah, failed to mention that if the rescue
shuttle lifted off from the Florida cosmodrome during a certain
three-minute 'blind spot' of the antisatellite weapon's orbit, then
our device would be unable to hit the rescue shuttle, during this
ascent phase. The weapon would not be within range until after
the rendezvous with the Intrepid spacecraft was completed. . . .
Much to my surprise, the Americans happened to launch during
this, ah, 'blind spot' period."
The General Secretary—a former hammer thrower—seized
the spidery scientist by the throat and shook him with such vi-
olence that his spectacles were knocked to the floor. "Blind
spot? I will show you a blind spot, Comrade! Get back on that
machine and shoot down that goddam rescue vessel! Do you
understand me? Shoot it down! Or I will strap you to one of
your own goddam rockets! How would you like that?" With a
final shake, the General Secretary slammed Pirdilenko back into
his chair.
With studied casualness, the KGB Chairman reached down
and retrieved the eyeglasses from the floor, then handed them
to Pirdilenko. "You may need these, Comrade."
Day 4, 0950 Hours Zulu, 2:50 a.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
Whittenberg, Michael Dowd, and John Fairchild were all in
the SPADOC Crow's Nest, monitoring the flight of the Con-
stellation. Dowd was on the phone to McCormack at CSOC.
He hung up and turned to Whittenberg.' 'Chet says they're going
to manually fire the orbit insertion burn, then they'll compute a
corrected flight plan for a rendezvous. It may take another orbit
or two, but the rendezvous is not in jeopardy. Could've been a
lot worse."
Sir Isaac nodded. "Maybe our luck is beginning to change."

THE FOURTH DAY	357
"Let's hope," added Whittenberg, and he picked up the green
phone to inform Admiral Bergstrom.
Day 4, 1014 Hours Zulu
THE CONSTELLATION
"Ignition!" ordered Heitmann. Townsend mashed the red
firing button, and for sixty-eight seconds the orbital maneuver-
ing system engines fired, propelling the Constellation out of its
elliptical path and inserting it into a circular orbit—a little bit
ahead of the Intrepid.
Townsend gazed out the window. The Intrepid was out there—
somewhere—and like the Constellation, it was above the south-
ern Indian Ocean, hurtling north at 17,000 miles per hour.
t
Day 4, 1015 Hours Zulu, 3:15 p.m. Local
KOUNRADSKIY RADAR STATION,
DZHEZKAZGAN REGION,
KAZAKHSTAN, CCCP
On the northern shore of the giant Lake Balkhash in southern
Kazakhstan stood a structure not unlike an Egyptian pyramid.
This was the long-range phased-array radar (LPAR) complex at
Kounradiskiy. The pyramidlike structure was, in reality, a giant
transmitter and receiver that blanketed the sky with its electronic
waves. With its powerful signal, the LPAR pyramid easily de-
tected the two American shuttles approaching from the south.
Their radar signatures were identical, and they were approxi-
mately two hundred kilometers apart.
The electronic detection was routed to the Aerospace Defense
Warning Centre in Magnitogorsk, where the tracking data were
processed and stored in computer banks. These data files were
routinely accessed by the computers in the Kaliningrad Flite
Control Centre.

358
STORMING INTREPID
Day 4, 1030 Hours Zulu, 12:30 p.m. Local
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE
Pirdilenko was tapping furiously at his keyboard now. His
concentration was so intense that he ignored the drops of per-
spiration falling from his forehead and onto the backs of his
hands. There was a chance now. A very real chance, and he
was not about to bungle it. The Americans had muffed their
flight plan somehow, and the radar data showed some separation
between the Constellation and the Intrepid. Only a scant two
hundred kilometers, but that was enough for Pirdilenko to take
a shot now. He feared for his life if he didn't.
The antisatellite device was currently over the eastern United
States, while the two shutdes had just crossed the southern bor-
der of Russia. All three spacecraft were approaching the polar
ice cap on a northerly heading, at a mutual closing velocity of
34,000 miles per hour. Pirdilenko's margin for error was abso-
lute zero.
"When are you going to take action, Comrade?" huffed Vo-
rontsky, who was leaning over the scientist.
"Quiet!" barked Pirdilenko. So severe was his rebuke that
even the General Secretary retreated a few steps. The tension in
the room was taut as a violin string.
Pirdilenko allowed himself a quick glance at the Mercator
map projection. The two American shuttles were on identical
ground tracks—both heading north. The Constellation was about
two hundred kilometers ahead of, and a litde below, the In-
trepid. That tallied with the data on his computer screen.
In the time it took him to recheck his computations, the two
American orbiters had already passed over the Soviet Union and
crossed the northern coast of Siberia. The ASAT missile was
over Greenland, also hurtling north toward the Arctic ice cap.
All three spacecraft were now being tracked by the phased-array
radar complex at Pechora.
Everything was ready, and although his spectacles were
smeared with perspiration drops, Pirdilenko could see the com-
puter screen well enough. The digital time readout was moving
rapidly in reverse. Thirty seconds now . . . twenty . . . ten . . .
five, four, three, two, one.

THE FOURTH DAY
359
Pirdilenko's heart thumped as his trembling finger came down
on the button marked activate.
Day 4, 1042 Hours Zulu
THE ASAT
The ASAT warhead was little more than a spaceborne blun-
derbuss, consisting of a large ceramic cone filled with stainless-
steel pellets. The cone was secured to a base made of plastique
explosive, but the golf-ball-sized pellets contained within the
vessel were not explosive themselves—they didn't have to be.
Upon receipt of Pirdilenko's "activate" command, the ASAT
missile deployed its two small Doppler-pulse radar dishes, and
like a couple of electronic bird dogs, they began sniffing the
ether for their quarry. When a signal bounced back, the micro-
chip in the ASAT's brain rapidly computed distance, speed,
time, and intercept vector to the Constellation. Then, at the
precisely correct millisecond, the liquid-fuel engines ignited,
and the missile roared off for its target in the lower orbital plane.
Day 4, 1041 Hours Zulu, 3:41 a.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
Lt. Keith Brunswick was bored. Bored to tears. The former
collegiate football guard liked action, and there was certainly
no action on this shift in SPADOC—where all he had to do was
monitor the Hubble space telescope television transmission every
forty-five minutes or so. The image of the torpedo-shaped
"mystery satellite" on the TV monitor was the same time after
time, and Brunswick didn't even know what he was supposed
to look for. "Just keep an eye on it and holler if it does anything
suspicious" was what he'd been told. Brother, how do you know
if a satellite looks suspicious? What a bunch of crap, he thought.
Impatiently, Brunswick drummed his fingers on the console,
then once again looked at the empty television monitor and the
digital chronometer. It was about time for another pass but the
mystery satellite hadn't appeared on the screen yet. Because

380
STORMING INTREPID
he didn't have anything else to do, Brunswick started eavesdrop-
ping on the major in the monitor slot on his left. The major's
call sign was Rabbit's Nest—and he was the officer who con-
trolled the Spyglass observation aircraft cruising over the Arctic
ice cap. Brunswick knew that Spyglass was supposed to photo-
graph the Intrepid-Constellation rendezvous, but there had been
a glitch on the Constellation's launch, so the rendezvous wouldn't
take place for another couple of orbits. Nevertheless, Rabbit's
Nest was lining Spyglass up to take a practice shot on the Con-
stellation now, just to test out the systems.
A test pattern picture from the high-flying 767 Spyglass was
relayed to SPADOC via the RealTime communications satellite,
and it was being projected on the big center screen. The Con-
stellation hadn't appeared yet, but it was due any second now.
From Brunswick's vantage point, he couldn't see the big center
projection screen in SPADOC very well. It was like sitting in
the front row of a movie theater. But he was curious. So he
started leaning over to look at the major's television screen to
get a better view of the Spyglass picture—and in the process he
began to ignore his own monitor. He watched the major's TV
for some seconds, waiting for something to appear. Then all of
a sudden, bingo! There it was, the Constellation, making a nice
picture on the small monitor. Gee, that was neat, thought Bruns-
wick. The major punched some buttons, and the test pattern on
the large center projection screen was replaced with the image
of the winged orbiter.
Brunswick felt a tap on his shoulder. "Say, Keith?"
He turned to face the lieutenant who sat at the neighboring
monitor station on his right. "Yeah?"
"Did you see that?" asked the lieutenant.
"See what?" replied Brunswick.
"That flash," said the lieutenant, pointing at Brunswick's
monitor.
Brunswick trembled. "What flash?" he asked nervously.
"That satellite you've been watching. I happened to see it just
as it came up on your screen. There was a flash and it disap-
peared."
Brunswick's heart skipped a beat. His monitor screen was
completely blank now. Oh Lord! he thought. I missed it! "You
say there was a flash?"

THE FOURTH DAY
361
"Yeah. A bright flash and then it was gone. I think the engines
must have fired."
Engines! Oh, dear God, no.
Up in the Crow's Nest the CinC's phone buzzed. He picked
it up and said, "Whittenberg."
"General!" cried Brunswick. "Station Nine here! It looks
like that satellite we've been tracking with the Hubble telescope
just fired its engines!"
Whittenberg's entire body gave an involuntary jerk. "When?"
"Just now, sir. There was a flash and it disappeared."
Whittenberg looked at the ground tracks of the two American
shuttles and the Russian mystery satellite that were projected on
the left screen. They were all converging over the polar ice cap.
He grabbed the phone that was a direct line to CSOC.
(
Day 4, 1043 Hours Zulu, 3:43 a.m. Local
CONSOLIDATED SPACE OPERATIONS CENTER
Chester McCormack was standing over the Cap Com when
the console phone from SPADOC buzzed. He picked it up and
said, "CSOC."
"Chet!" yelled Whittenberg. "We just had a visual on that
unknown satellite! It just fired its engines ... I think it's an
ASAT!"
McCormack's spine vibrated. He shoved the Cap Com out of
the way, grabbed the console microphone, and slammed down
the transmit button. "Phil! Jack! Get outta there! An ASAT is
coming at you!"
Day 4, 1043 Hours Zulu
THE CONSTELLATION
Heitmann and Townsend looked at each other. Each man's
face betrayed his own stark terror. "Say again, CSOC!" de-
manded Heitmann.
"I said an ASAT's coming at you! Boost your orbit, lower

362	STORMING INTREPID
your oitoit, I don't give a damn, but get the hell out of there!
Now!"
Heitmann needed no more coaxing. He grabbed the hand
controller and pivoted the Constellation into position for an orbit
boost.
"Hit the OMS!" he ordered, and Townsend mashed the red
firing button.
The engines responded, but it was already too late.
Day 4, 1043 Hours Zulu
THE ASAT
An impulse from the ASAT's microchip brain ran through the
satellite's circuitry, triggering the explosive bolts that held the
protective launch shroud in place. As the aerodynamic cover
peeled off, the missile's ceramic warhead became exposed and
glistened in the sunlight. A moment later another impulse was
transmitted, and the warhead's plastique explosive base was det-
onated—blasting the ceramic container apart, and spitting out
the pellets in a scatter pattern three kilometers wide.
The Constellation and the spaceborne buckshot approached
each other at a mutual closing velocity of nine miles per second,
so it didn't take long for their paths to cross—they met almost
at the very moment Townsend engaged the OMS engines.
The first steel pellet slammed into the Constellation's nose
with the kinetic energy of a three-inch artillery shell, cleaving
the spacecraft's snout in two and venting the flight deck to the
hostile vacuum of space. The destruction of their spaceborne
chariot was so violent and quick that the three astronauts never
truly comprehended what hit them. The initial shock wave mer-
cifully whiplashed them into unconsciousness before their bod-
ies were ripped apart by the pressure imbalance.
The second ASAT projectile passed cleanly through the left
wing, doing litde more than punching a hole through its delicate
skin. But the third steel ball smashed into the midsection of the
shutde's soft underbelly, rupturing the liquid hydrogen and ox-
ygen tanks that supplied the on-board fuel cells. The resulting

THE FOURTH DAY
363
secondary explosion immolated the Constellation, blasting the
fragile spacecraft into a billion shards of aluminum, silica, and
plastic—and scattering its remains across the black sky, like
funereal ashes on the sea.
Day 4, 1043 Hours Zulu, 5:43 a.m. Local
THE WHITE HOUSE
' 'Jesus!''
"Mon Dieu!"
"God in heaven!"
The small group of men standing before the television in the
Oval Office collectively leapt back from the Spyglass picture on
the screen, shocked by the utter devastation they'd just wit-
nessed.
It was the President who recovered first.."Sam," he ordered
in a gravelly voice, "find out what. . . what happened."
The Secretary of Defense picked up the phone on the coffee
table and punched in the connection to the National Military
Command Center in the Pentagon. He spoke rapidly, then waited
for the reply. After a few more hushed words were exchanged
he looked up with a red face. "Admiral Bergstrom says it was
the Russians, sir. That mysterious object of theirs was appar-
ently an antisatellite warhead. The admiral says SPACECOM
caught a photograph of the missile just as it was firing to inter-
cept the Constellation."
"All right! That does it!" The President's face turned purple
with rage. "Tell Bergstrom to push the Strategic Air Command
up to DEFCON Two! I want the Russians to see a goddam
hornets' nest on their radar screens!"
"Yes, sir!"
His fury still building, the President turned to the Secretary
of State. "Winston, go get Yakolev over here! Hog-tie him if
you have to, or take some Marines and break down his goddam
embassy door! But get him over here now! We're going to find
out what the hell is going on!"
"Yes, Mr. President."
"I'll go with you to the embassy, Mr. Secretary," offered the

364
STORMING INTREPID
Vice President, "and help you with the collection of the am-
bassador."
"I appreciate that, Mr. Vice President," said the diplomat
grimly. "Your assistance may be required."
"Sam!"
The Defense Secretary looked up from the phone. "Yes, Mr.
President?"
"Tell Bergstrom to launch that spaceplane and send in the
stealth bombers if he has to, but the Russians are not getting
their goddam hands on the IntrepidV'
"Yes, sir!"
The President felt a large but gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Steady, mon ami," whispered the voice. "Steady."
Day 4, 1044 Hours Zulu, 3:44 a.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
Everyone in the giant room stood as if riveted to the floor. No
one could move. No one could speak. No one had been trained
for something like this. Instant death on a giant screen a few
feet away. It couldn't be real. Someone on one of the front
consoles began sobbing.
In the Crow's Nest the green phone buzzed and the CinC
picked it up with a shaky hand. "Whittenberg," he said in a
whisper.
A few moments passed before Bergstrom said, "We were
watching it here. It was an ASAT, wasn't it?" Even the old salt
sounded subdued.
Whittenberg's throat was dry and he had a hard time forming
the words. "Yes, Admiral. It was. The Hubble had it on camera
just as it fired its engines."
There was another pause, and Whittenberg heard a buzz in
the background. "Hold on a minute," said Bergstrom. There
were some murmurs before the admiral returned.' 'That was the
Secretary of Defense. They saw the whole thing at the White
House. The President says get that spaceplane up there and shoot
the son of a bitch down if you have to.''
"I understand, sir," replied Whittenberg solemnly.

THE FOURTH DAY
365
"I'll call you back in a few minutes," said Bergstrom. "I've
got to talk to General Dooley right now. The President is push-
ing SAC up to DEFCON Two." The line went dead.
As Whittenberg hung up his receiver, the glass door to the
Crow's Nest opened. The major who was in charge of handling
the Spyglass aircraft walked in, holding a sobbing lieutenant
named Keith Brunswick by the arm.
"General," said the major, "I thought I'd better bring the
boy up here. He wanted to tell you something."
The CinC looked at the sobbing young officer and said, "Sir
Isaac, get him a chair." Fairchild quickly provided one and the
lieutenant sat down with his face in his hands.
"What is it, son?" asked Whittenberg.
In a stammering voice, the stocky lieutenant sobbed, "Gen-
eral ... I... I killed them."
"What?" asked Dowd numbly.
In a staccato voice punctuated with more sobs, Brunswick
said, "I was on station nine. I was supposed to watch that Hub-
ble telescope picture of that unknown satellite. I got . . . dis-
tracted by what the major was doing and started looking at his
Spyglass monitor instead. I didn't see the satellite fire its en-
gines. The guy in the next station saw it and asked if I'd seen it.
If I'd been watching it. . . like I should have, they might've had
enough warning. . . . Oh, God, I'm sorry." The sobs contin-
ued.
Whittenberg felt like unloading on someone, but he knew this
wasn't the person or the time. He extended his hand and
squeezed the young officer's arm.' 'There's nothing you could've
done, son. They were probably as good as dead when they lifted
off. It's not your fault. It's mine.'' He looked at the major. "Take
him down to the dispensary. Have the medics give him some-
thing to quiet him down."
"Yes, sir," replied the major, and he guided the lieutenant
out the door.
"Bull?" asked Whittenberg.
"Yes, sir," replied Dowd softly.
"In just a second I'm going to call Chet. He pushed himself
so damn hard getting the Constellation aloft, I'm afraid this may
put him over the edge. I want you to go out to CSOC and . . .
stay close to him. You two are friends, I know. Make him get

366	STORMING INTREPID
some sleep. We'll need him fit for the Kestrel launch. If he gives
you any trouble, call me and I'll send a medic over there."
"Right away, sir." And Dowd left.
"Sir Isaac," continued the CinC, "I want you to stay on top
of things at Vandenberg. Let me know if there's so much as a
whiff of a foul-up with the Kestrel."
Fairchild responded with a gende,' 'Yes, sir,'' and left for his
operations office.
Whittenbeig stared at the CSOC phone for a full thirty sec-
onds, then closed his eyes and slowly picked it up.
Day 4, 1044 Hours Zulu, 2:44 a.m. Local
EDWARDS AIR FORCE BASE
They were both stunned beyond words, and could only gape
at the debris filling the screen.
Finally, Monaghan recovered enough to ask in a croaky voice,
"Who ... did you say was ... on board?"
Lamborghini couldn't reply at once. His mind was groping
for some equilibrium. The same dizziness had struck him when
he witnessed the Challenger disaster. The shuttle was such a
magnificent machine, yet so vulnerable. To see one atomized in
the blink of an eye was more than the mind could absorb.
"Pete . . . you okay?" asked Monaghan gently.
Lamborghini's eyes were still glazed, and all he could manage
was a feeble half-nod.
"We're going up, Pete. You understand that, don't you? We
have to go up and nail the fucker. I need you, man. Don't crap
out on me now."
Lamborghini nodded again. More firmly this time.
Monaghan turned to the tech sergeant in charge of the commo
room, who was also shell-shocked. "If anybody wants us, tell
'em they can find us in the simulator hangar."
Monaghan didn't wait for a response. He took his friend by
the arm and led him out of the building.

THE FOURTH DAY
367
Day 1045 Hours Zulu, 12:45 p.m. Local
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE
Every eye in the Flite Centre was focused on the map projec-
tion showing the ground tracks of the Intrepid, the Constella-
tion, and the ASAT missile converging over the Arctic ice cap.
The ground tracks were unchanged, even though Pirdilenko
knew the ASAT missile had fired its engines and detonated its
warhead. When a space vehicle altered its orbit, it took some
seconds for the Aerospace Defense Warning Centre's computers
to "digest" the new data and adjust the projection screen ac-
cordingly.
General Secretary Vorontsky saw the unchanged orbits and
was snorting and pawing like a fighting bull. "Your antisatellite
weapon has failed, Comrade. What do you have to say for
yourself now? You may not have thought I meant what I said
about—"	'
Pirdilenko stuck up his hand, indicating he wanted silence.
His gaze remained on the map projection, and after a few sec-
onds elapsed, the white lines denoting the Constellation and the
ASAT missile disappeared from the screen.
There were no cheers from the room. Just a collective wince.
Albeit American, three brother space pioneers had just been
vaporized, and almost everyone squirmed a little. The General
Secretary, however, did not squirm. Instead, with wide eyes, he
asked, "Is it done?"
Pirdilenko stood up from his chair. The aloofness had re-
turned. "Of course, General Secretary. There was an unex-
pected gap between the two spacecraft. Narrow, but a definite
gap. I was able to trigger the device at such an angle as to destroy
the rescue vessel without damaging the Intrepid." Pirdilenko's
attack strategy had been quite clever. He'd placed the ASAT in
a higher orbit than the target, so the downward plane of attack
would destroy the Constellation and take the pellets out of the
Intrepid's orbital path. It was a "pop-down" rather than a "pop-
up" maneuver.
"Excellent work, Comrad!" Vorontsky was exultant again.
"I knew all along you could do it."
Pirdilenko cleaned his sweat-stained glasses with the tail of

368
STORMING INTREPID
his white laboratory coat, and in an acerbic voice he replied, "I
am honored to have had your confidence. Now, if you do not
object, I will be going." And he strode from the room.
"Comrade Popov?" asked the diminutive KGB Chairman.
The mournful general had placed a comforting hand on Ma-
lyshev ;s shoulder. He withdrew it and turned. "Yes, Comrade
Chairman?" he replied in a weary voice.
"Is there any danger of the Aerospace Defense Warning Cen-
tre investigating the, ah, 'disappearance' of the two space-
craft?"
Popov sighed.' 'Probably. But it will take them at least a week
to process the data. They track fifteen thousand objects in orbit,
after all. The fact that the American rescue shuttle traveled south
out of the Florida cosmodrome may raise some questions. But
it will take some time to look into the matter, and any investi-
gation would not commence until after the weekend has
passed."
"Very good," said Kostiashak. "When will we launch our
Soyuz spacecraft?"
Popov looked at his watch. "Baikonur will be in position in
approximately fourteen hours. Vostov should have loaded the
docking collar into the launch shroud by now, and our cosmo-
nauts are completing the review of their flite plans."
Kostiashak nodded. "My compliments, General." He then
turned to his companion, and while stroking the lapel of his
English-tailored suit, he said, "You see, General Secretary, as
long as we anticipate events we can deal with any problems that
arise."
Vorontsky thumped Kostiashak on the back. "As usual, you
are correct, Vitali. But I must confess, the tension has left me
exhausted."
"I quite understand, General Secretary," comforted Kosti-
ashak. "It has been an ordeal for you, I laiow. Since it will be
some hours before our spacecraft is launched from Baikonur,
please allow me to escort you back to your apartment in Mos-
cow. You can bathe and get a few hours' sleep in your own bed.
I will monitor the situation and make sure the preparations are
in order."
The bleary-eyed Vorontsky did not argue. "That is an excel-
lent suggestion, Vitali. Let us go." He started to leave the Flite

THE FOURTH DAY
369
Centre, but then his hulking body stopped abruptly. "The
Americans," he said rhetorically. "We have shot down one of
their spacecraft. They may react." He sounded apprehensive
again.
Kostiashak was soothing. "Rest assured, General Secretary.
My people in Washington are watching the American situation
very carefully. We will be notified the moment anything suspi-
cious arises. Besides, we will have their spacecraft in a matter
of hours."
The former hammer thrower shrugged. "Very well, Vitali. I
leave it in your hands. Let us go."
The KGB Chairman stubbed out his cigarette and smiled at
Popov. "I will not be long, General."
Popov did not reply.
Day 4, 1047 Hours Zulu, 4:47 a.m. Local
WURTSMITH AIR FORCE BASE, MICHIGAN
Maj. Rusty Tipton was settled in for the rest of the night on
a bunk in the ready room—as settled in as he could get while
sleeping in his flight suit. At least he didn't have to wear those
infernal steel-toed flight boots when trying to sleep on alert
status. The red-haired aviator had obtained a pair with Velcro
wraparound tops so he could jump out of the bunk and slip on
the boots in under ten seconds. Sometimes five.
B-52 crews, like Tipton's, were not like normal people who
worked during the day and slept at night. Their regular routine
might be twenty-four hours aloft in one of the big black mon-
sters, down for forty-eight, airborne for twenty-four, then down
for seventy-two (which would include time for classes, training,
simulator, briefings, and preflight checks), then on standby status
for forty-eight, which could mean one takeoff and landing after
another in the black monster. The old black monster. The Stra-
tofortresses that Tipton and his fellow pilots flew had been built
before he was born.
Tipton's crew had already been up once since midnight for a
practice alert, and he hoped that was all the action for this go-
around. He was due to go on leave at the end of this alert shift—

370
STORMING INTREPID
to Hawaii, where it was warm for a change. Tipton wanted ev-
erything to remain quiet until he signed out at headquarters. But
with CinCSAC Bemie Dooley, you never knew—that four-star
son of a bitch kept everybody on a very short leash.
The sandman was just letting Tipton drift off to slumberland
when a whaaa! whaaa! whaaa! blared through the loudspeaker.
Reflexively, the former Northwestern basketball forward pivoted
out of the bunk, then shoved his feet into his boots and secured
the Velcro flaps. He grabbed his parka and joined the mob run-
ning pell-mell down the ramp for the transport trucks, which
were lined up in herringbone fashion along the tarmac. When
each vehicle had its full crew complement loaded, the skipper
would knock on the cab and the driver would tear out. Tipton
had great confidence in his ability to survive in the air; however,
surviving the ride to the aircraft was something else again. In a
nuclear war, getting off the ground in one piece was half the
battle. In fact, most of the Pentagon's simulated nuclear war
scenarios called for half the U.S. bomber force to get nailed on
the ground before takeoff. That's why speed, speed, speed was
always the byword in getting the lumbering bombers airborne.
Tipton was convinced the Air Force recruited frustrated drag
racers for runway transport drivers.
The weather was frosty as the truck screeched to a halt in
front of aircraft number41/652 of the 379th Bombardment Wing.
The ground crewmen, wrapped up in their snowsuits, were al-
ready there as Tipton and his flight crew scurried up the hatch
ladders. After the electronic warfare officer was on board, the
ladder was removed and the hatch buttoned up.
Tipton and his copilot gave a thumbs-up sign to the ground
crew chief, indicating they were ready. The two aviators had
developed a knack for starting the B-52's eight engines and put-
ting on their helmets simultaneously. All eight engines fired in
sequence, the wheel chocks were pulled, and Tipton began to
taxi while his copilot lowered the windshield flash protectors.
In a nuclear war environment, the fusion fireball of a hydro-
gen bomb—even at a distance—could easily blind a pilot. There-
fore, during takeoff, flash protectors covered the windshield of
the B-52, and the pilot navigated through dual, electro-optic
periscopes mounted in "chin turrets" underneath the B-52's
nose. The filtered infrared and low-light TV periscope system

THE FOURTH DAY
371
enabled the pilot to see the runway at night, or through fee
flashes of nearby nuclear detonations (at least, that's how it was
supposed to work).
Tipton was rolling into his place as number four in the takeoff
line when the commo officer got the alert status through his VHF
radio. It was SAC policy to let bomber crews know early on
what sort of alert they were carrying out. The commo officer
listened sleepily until he heard a certain code word, causing him
to wake up real fast. "Skipper!" he yelped through the inter-
com.
"Yeah?" Tipton responded. He was next in the takeoff roll.
"Base commo transmits 'Brushfire.' "
Tipton and his copilot looked at each other in disbelief.
"Brushfire? Are you sure?"
"Dead sure, Skipper," replied the commo officer.
Brushfire meant it was the probable Real Thing and the bomb-
ers were to proceed to their "Cocked Pistol" points to wait for
a "go—no go" authentication signal from SAC headquarters in
Omaha. Brushfire was one level below a Wildfire alert, which
meant it already was the Real Thing.
Although the aircraft in front of him hadn't lifted off yet,
Tipton shoved the throttles forward and started his takeoff roll.
Water was injected into the Pratt & Whitney TF33-P-3 turbofon
engines, goosing the thrust of the Stratofortress so it could get
off the ground. Inside the monster's weapons bay were twenty
nuclear-tipped cruise missiles.
Day 4, 1120 Hours Zulu, 6:20 a.m. Local
THE WHITE HOUSE
Ambassador Yevgeny Yakolev had the distinction of being the
only diplomat on record to have been personally manhandled
by a Vice President of the United States and a Cabinet officer.
Wearing only an overcoat, a pair of hastily thrown'-on trousers,
and a shirt, the diplomat was literally shoved through the door
of the Oval Office by the two Americans.
Stunned and groggy, Yakolev confronted a bizarre scene.
Seated behind the desk was the President of the United States,

372
STORMING INTREPID
and standing to his left—as was often the case—was the Secre-
tary of Defense. But then there was something unexpected.
Seated at the right side of the desk was the tall, lanky-framed
President of France. The ambassador didn't like the looks of the
situation as he gave a perfunctory nod to the Gallic chief of state.
"Monsieur le President," he mumbled, then turned to the
American. "What is the meaning of this, Mr. President? Why
have I been abducted by your Vice President and Foreign Min-
ister? This is an outrage!"
"Shut up, Mr. Ambassador," snapped the President, "and
don't talk to me about outrage. I told you earlier that any tam-
pering with our spacecraft would be considered a hostile act. I
tried to warn you off then, but you wouldn't listen—"
"Is that what you have kidnapped me for? Are you still pur-
suing your hijacking fantasies? I told you earlier, Mr. President.
The Foreign Minister and Defense Minister investigated this
matter themselves at my behest. Your story of a spacecraft hi-
jacking is nothing but a fabrication."
The door opened and an Army major stepped inside. "Mr.
Secretary? Here it is, sir," said the officer as he held out a
videotape.
"Thank you, Major. That will be all." The Secretary of De-
fense took the videotape and opened a hidden cabinet in the wall
of the Oval Office, revealing the television and a videotape
player. He turned on the set and dropped in the tape. "Mr.
Ambassador, if you please," he said, while motioning the Rus-
sian to approach the set. "This videotape was just prepared by
the White House press office from imagery supplied by United
States Space Command."
He punched a button and the picture appeared. The Secretary
adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses and began his narration:' 'This
is a picture of a Soviet satellite taken by the Hubble space tele-
scope orbiting three hundred sixty-eight statute miles above the
earth. The satellite you see here was launched from the Plesetsk
Cosmodrome at zero-four-three-six hours Greenwich Mean
Time yesterday in an orbital inclination of eighty-three degrees
at an altitude of two hundred twenty miles."
The picture switched to a brilliant nighttime lift-off. "This is
the space shuttle Constellation lifting off two hours ago from
Kennedy Space Center in Florida. Three American astronauts

THE FOURTH DAY
373
were on board." The image changed again. "This is a picture
of the Constellation just after it reached orbit. This was taken
from one of our high-altitude observation aircraft.'' The picture
changed once more.' 'This is the Russian Plesetsk satellite again.
As you can see, it is firing its engines on an intercept course for
the Constellation. And this is . . ."
The final image of the Constellation erupting in a white ball
spoke for itself, and a jolt passed through the ambassador's body.
It took some seconds for the shock to subside, and when it
did, Yakolev knew something was very, very wrong. His mind
raced. Had the Foreign Minister and Defense Minister misled
him? Inconceivable. It would be political suicide for the two
Politburo members. It could not happen. Yakolev was certain
of that. But what had happened? This was no American propa-
ganda ploy now. The destruction of their shuttle had to be gen-
uine. The ambassador had to sort things out. But he needed
time. Time to find out what was happening. "This is a fabri-
cation," stated Yakolev flatly. "Nothing more than American
technical trickery—"
"I can assure you this is no trickery, Monsieur I'Ambassa-
deur," said the Frenchman in an icy tone. "I have been a wit-
ness to this entire aflair, and I can attest to its genuineness.
Three American space pilots have been killed. Do you under-
stand? Murdered. I came to the United States to explore the
possibility of France rejoining NATO, and this unspeakable act
will undoubtedly thrust my country back into that alliance as a
full partner. You may even see a joint European-American space
defense pact as a result of this treachery. It has set Franco-
Russian relations back thirty years. And when the other leaders
of the Western Alliance learn of this murder they will react as I
have." He turned to his host and nodded. "Mr. President."
The American returned the nod, then refocused on the Rus-
sian. "Now you listen to me, Mr. Ambassador. I have placed
the Strategic Air Command on its highest peacetime alert status,
Defense Condition TWo—better known as DEFCON Two. It
hasn't been that high since the Cuban missile crisis. The bomb-
ers are in the air. In short, you're looking down a gun barrel,
Mr. Ambassador. If you tamper with our space shuttle Intrepid,
you will get a military response in return. Do you understand
that? A military response. Now you have been warned. Get out

374
STORMING INTREPID
of here and convey this information to General Secretary Vo-
rontsky immediately. Along with our demand that we expect
full reparations for the loss of our spacecraft, and compensation
to the families of the astronauts who were murdered."
For Yakolev, this had turned into a nightmare, and words
failed him. He could only stumble out the door and retreat to
the limousine for refuge. In the safety of the backseat, the scene
continued swimming in his mind. A spacecraft destroyed.
France back into NATO. A Euro-American space defense pro-
gram. DEFCON Two. Military response. This was madness!
He had to stop it. A cable must be dispatched at once.
"Thank you," said the American softly.
"It was the simple truth," replied the Frenchman. "But I
must say, in view of the information provided by my intelligence
source, it appears there may be some substance to your Secre-
tary of State's theoiy."
"What do you think, Winston?" asked the President.
The Secretary with the male-model looks shrugged. "I wish
I was wrong, but I'm afraid I may not be. This was a hostile act
of which the Russian leadership apparently was not aware. We
have no choice but to put our forces on alert. However, I feel
we must be extremely careful until we find out what's happening
and who's truly in charge on the other side."
"I would agree," said the Vice President.
"And I," added the Frenchman.
The President turned to his Director of Central Intelligence.
"Bobby, is there any further light you can shed on this thing,
other than the fact the Russians have a fake shuttle?''
The DCI was a frustrated man, and his trademark toothy grin
was absent. "I can only say that the unusual thing is what hasn't
happened. Radio traffic analysis from NSA indicates nothing
abnormal. Military forces are at their standard level of readi-
ness. Higher-level telephonic intercepts indicate nothing out of
the ordinary. As far as I can tell, it's as if no one in Russia knew
about the Intrepid. Business as usual, you might say."
The President didn't like that and started to get himself worked
up again. His drill-sergeant face began twitching. "This is in-
sane. A country that has five million men under arms and twenty-

THE FOURTH DAY
375
five thousand nuclear weapons, and we don't know who's really
in charge? It's crazy." He rubbed his temples in disbelief.
"Try to understand, my friend," comforted the Frenchman.
"We are dealing with Russia."
Day 4, 1120 Hours Zulu, 4:20 a.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
In the SPADOC Crow's Nest, Whittenberg slowly read the
cable Lydia Strand had given him. He was still in a daze from
the horrific destruction of the Constellation, and had just re-
ceived a report on the murder of Ed Garvey at the Cape and the
attempted sabotage of the Constellation. Now this. He reread
the message from the Central Intelligence Agency one more
time, then passed it to Fairchild.
"A fake shutde?" asked Whittenberg absendy.
"Yes, sir," replied Strand.
The CinC's giant black hand pulled on his chin. "This is new
information. Why would the Russians have a replica? We know
their shuttie works. We even have photos of it in retrofire." He
kept pulling on his chin. "Maybe they wanted us to think they
have more shutdes than they really have?"
Sir Isaac puffed on his pipe. "I'm afraid a theory like that
doesn't dovetail with their behavior," he countered. "Whenever
the Russians conducted shuttie landing tests, they always tried
to time their tests so our recon satellites wouldn't be overhead.
We were lucky whenever we caught one out in the open. Why
have a replica when you're trying to hide the real one?"
There was silence while they all tried to make some sense of
it. And nothing seemed to make sense anymore. The shock of
the Constellation had numbed their minds.
"What you say may be true, sir," said Strand, "but I think
you have to come back to the fundamental question. Why have
a replica in the first place?''
A moment or two drifted by until Whittenbeig said,' "lb make
us think something is there when it's not."
"Exactiy. And what was the location of the plastic replica?"
she asked, using the Socratic method.

376
STORMING INTREPID
Sir Isaac scratched his aquiline nose. "At Baikonur," he said
finally.
"Yes, sir," she continued. "So if we followed that logic pat-
tern, that would mean they wanted us to think they had a shuttle
at Baikonur when they really didn't."
Sir Isaac chewed the stem of his pipe. "But as the general
said, we have a Spyglass photo of their shuttle in retrofire, and
we took satellite pix of it on the ground at Baikonur minutes
after it landed. We haven't seen it since."
Whittenberg had turned and was looking blankly at one of the
big SPADOC screens, which still had the ground track of the
Intrepid projected on it. The flight paths of the Constellation
and the AS AT were no longer there. His mind drifted, until
somewhere in his subconscious a door opened, causing him to
quickly spin around. "But what if those pix on the Baikonur
runway were of the replica shuttle?"
Sir Isaac furrowed his brow. "Well, I don't see how that would
be possible. That would mean the shuttle landed somewhere
else, and I don't know where that could be, or. . ."He gasped.
"Or. . ."
"Or it didn't land at all," said Strand excitedly.
"Son of a bitch!" exclaimed the CinC. "Major, I want you
to pull out all of the historical pix we have on the Russian shuttle.
Especially those pix we got back in November after the shuttle's
last flight. Sir Isaac, check the historical orbital patterns on that
reentry. Maybe we missed something."
Day 4, 1130 Hours Zulu
THE INTREPID
"You need not worry," came the subdued voice over the
radio. "The American spacecraft has been destroyed."
"Destroyed?" exclaimed Iceberg.
"That is correct, Intrepid. As I told you before, we were
watching the American situation carefully."
Iceberg took a deep breath. "I am impressed, Flite Centre.
That took some balls."
"Say again, Intrepid. Balls?"

THE FOURTH DAY
377
"Never mind. When are you launching your people?"
"In approximately fourteen hours, Intrepid. Will you be
ready?"
"I was ready when I left Vandenberg, Flite Centre. Keep me
informed. Intrepid, out."
Iceberg killed the mike and leaned back. So the Constellation
got its ass blown out of the sky, he thought. Goddammit, that's
great. Shove it to those holier-than-thou bastards. The Iceberg
allowed himself a smile. He figured he was going to like Russia.
Day 4, 1300 Hours Zulu, 3:00 p.m. Local
THE KREMLIN
Aleksandr Kulikov, aide-de-camp to the Foreign Minister,
read the cablegram intently. This was serious. Deadly serious.
The Americans claimed the Soviet Union had shot down one of
their space shuttles. France would rejoin NATO. A military
alert. Saint Kirill, help me, Kulikov thought. The aide-de-camp
knew he must notify the Foreign Minister immediately, so he
picked up the phone; but before he could start dialing, the door
opened—and Kulikov froze.
"Good afternoon, Comrade Kulikov," said the KGB Chair-
man in a warm voice. "It is a cold day, is it not?"
Kulikov sat there in shock, staring at the little man with the
slicked-back hair and double-breasted suit. It was as if a viper
had just slithered into his office.
Kostiashak looked around for an ashtray, but the abstemious
Kulikov was a nonsmoker, so he flicked the ashes onto the Per-
sian rug. "Correct me if I am wrong, Comrade Kulikov, but
you were in the process of telephoning the Foreign Minister in
Vilkovo— is that not so?"
Kulikov's head slowly nodded.
Kostiashak smiled again. "You are an intelligent man, Com-
rade. I could make it most attractive for you to refrain from
making that telephone call."
Kulikov was stunned. "Not make the call?" he asked.
"Precisely," replied the Chairman.
"But why should I not make the call? We have a serious

378	STORMING INTREPID
situation with the Americans. The Foreign Minister must be
informed immediately.''
Kostiashak flicked another ash and studied his manicured fin-
gernails. "Let us say, I am in a position to know that the situ-
ation is not what it appears to be. And it would be unwise to
inform the Foreign Minister at this time."
Like ninety-nine percent of all Russians, Kulikov loathed die
secret police, and his closeness to the Foreign Minister gave
him some insulation firom their tentacles. "I regret I cannot
comply with your request, Comrade Chairman,'' he said testily.
"I must make the call."
Kostiashak pulled on his Pall Mall and slowly exhaled before
saying, "Veiy well, Comrade Kulikov, but if you insist on com-
municating with your superior, you will force me to arrest you
on charges of espionage."
Kulikov's androgynous face turned white. "Espionage?" he
repeated softiy.
The KGB chieftain nodded. "Yes, my dear Comrade. You
may recall—oh, approximately three years ago—visiting the
apartment of a friend of yours. A French diplomat, I believe.
You really should have gone to the park when you pleaded with
him to make you a spy. A listening device had been installed in
the gendeman's flat long before your visit. It was such an infan-
tile mistake for you to make. And you are a Russian. Did your
parents teach you nothing?"
Kulikov's throat was dry. "You have known? . . . From the
beginning you have known?"
Kostiashak smiled again.' 'But of course, my dear Aleksandr.
You know"—he allowed himself a chuckle—"your French con-
trollers should have given you some instruction in the tradecraft
of espionage. Your attempts at avoiding detection were so clumsy
that my surveillance teams had a most difficult time containing
their laughter." Now Kostiashak laughed himself. "It was truly
most amusing."
Obviously, Kulikov did not find it amusing. "But why? Why
did you wait until now to confront me? Did you not know I was
passing documents to the French?"
Kostiashak stroked his silk tie. "A fair question. I did not
arrest you for two reasons. One, it has been my experience that
the Foreign Ministry deals with matters that are of litde conse-

THE FOURTH DAY
379
quence; therefore, the materials you were passing to the French
were of little consequence. I\vo, I felt you could possibly be
useful to me in the future. And I was correct."
Kulikov's gaze remained wary.' 'What is it you wish me to do?''
"Simply hang up the phone and send a reply cable, over the
Foreign Minister's name, to Yakolev in Washington. Instruct
the ambassador not to contact the Americans, and to wait at the
embassy until further orders are received."
Kulikov wavered. "Issue a cable under the Foreign Minister's
name without his authorization? I. . . I do not believe I could
do that."
The KGB Chairman folded his arms and assumed a studious
pose. "My dear Aleksandr, the choice is yours. You can refuse
to send the cable, and spend the night in Lefortovo Prison await-
ing your trial on espionage charges, or you can do as I ask and
be on an Air France flight for Paris tomorrow night."
Kulikov felt faint. He couldn't believe his,ears. In a voice that
was little more than a whimper, he said, "Paris?"
Kostiashak nodded. "With, perhaps, a little something extra
waiting for you at the branch office of the Credit Suisse Bank
when you arrive."
Kulikov blinked . . . then hung up the phone and picked up
his cablegram pad.
Day 4, 1300 Hours Zulu, 8:00 a.m. Local
MIAMI
Seymour Woltman couldn't believe his own stupidity. He'd
torn out of the gas station in Yeehaw Junction without filling up
with gas, and was on the Florida Turnpike when his station
wagon went chug . . . chug . . . chug and died—the victim of
an empty tank. It took him a couple of hours to get refueled and
back on the road. He was sure someone had beaten him to the
story, but when he returned to the bureau office he checked
the wire, and there was no mention of a torch sailing across the
southern Florida sky. Maybe everybody had been asleep. Maybe
there was cloud cover and witnesses were few. But whatever the
reason, he was going to be ahead of the pack. He dashed off his

380	STORMING INTREPID
story, entered it in the computer, punched in the codes to put it
out on a flash circuit, and hit the transmit button.
FLASH . . . FLASH . . . FLASH
Z2552DQNTG
FL-ROCKET 0179
(MIAMI)—AN UNIDENTIFIED SPACECRAFT WAS
LAUNCHED AT 4:35 A.M. SATURDAY FROM
KENNEDY SPACE CENTER ON A TRAJECTORY
THAT PASSED OVER SOUTHERN FLORIDA.
FLIGHT TRAJECTORIES OVER POPULATED
AREAS ARE SPECIFICALLY PROHIBITED BY THE
NATIONAL AERONAUTICS AND SPACE
ADMINISTRATION, AND MAY INDICATE A
MALFUNCTION IN THE SPACE VEHICLE. A
LAUNCH VEHICLE MALFUNCTION OVER
POPULATED AREAS COULD ENDANGER
HUNDREDS, IF NOT THOUSANDS, OF LIVES.
AP 08:03 EST
In newspapers and broadcast stations across the country a
ding, ding, ding, ding, ding would be sounding on teletype
printers, telling the news editors there was some heavy-duty shit
going down at Cape Canaveral. But Woltman had the jump on
the story, and he wasn't about to relinquish it to anyone. He
pulled out the three-ring binder that held the office and home
telephone numbers of everybody he knew that was worth know-
ing. In some cases he also had the numbers of their girlfriends
or boyfriends. He turned to the page marked "NASA" and
picked up the phone.
Day 4, 1330 Hours Zulu, 6:30 a.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
Whittenberg took the stereoscopic magnifying glasses and
went back and forth between the photos, then looked up. "I see
what you mean," he said to Strand. "When were these taken?"
Strand pointed. "The one on the left was a nighttime shot
taken almost immediately after the second flight of the Soviet

THE FOURTH DAY
381
shuttle over three years ago. It had just landed on the recovery
runway at Baikonur. As you can see, the infrared image is ir-
regular. It shows up bright on the extremely hot leading edges
of the orbiter, and becomes less so as you move in toward the
top of the fuselage."
"Uh-huh," agreed Whittenberg as he peered through the
glasses again.
"The second photo," continued Strand, "was taken after
the most recent Soviet shuttle flight back in November, shortly
after we got a Spyglass picture of it during retrofire. Unlike the
other photo, it shows no irregularity in the orbiter's skin tem-
perature. It's essentially uniform across the entire wing and fu-
selage surface."
Whittenberg went back and forth a few more times, then
shoved the pictures and glasses across the conference room table
to Dowd, his chief of staff. "You're right, Major," the CinC
said absently. "What's your assessment?" ,
"I would say, sir, that the earlier image was taken after a
genuine shuttle landing, because of the bright image generated
by the leading edge of the wing. That's where the hottest tem-
peratures occur during reentry. The uniform temperature on the
second photograph would indicate to me that it's artificially in-
duced— pertiaps electrically, or even chemically. In short, I'd
bet the second image is of the replica." Strand turned and fo-
cused her gray eyes on Fairchild. "Sir, did you come up with
anything on the orbit path?"
Sir Isaac shook his head. "I'm afraid not. It would've passed
right over our GEODSS tracking station at Diego Garcia, but it
was down for maintenance at the time. Looks like all we have
to go on is what you have here."
"There's a definite difference," observed Dowd through the
glasses. "The photo boys maybe shoulda caught this before."
He shoved the pictures to Sir Isaac.
"So if that shuttle with the uniform heat dispersion is the
dummy, and we caught the real shuttle during retrofire, then ..."
the CinC's voice drifted off.
"Then the real thing didn't make it through reentry," said
Dowd with finality. "Damn grisly way to die."
"So what does it mean?" queried Whittenberg.
Sir Isaac looked up from the photos. "Remember—prior to

382
STORMING INTREPID
their shuttle launch last November, the Russians hadn't launched
a shutde in over a year. Maybe the same thing happened then."
"You mean, maybe they've burned up two shuttles on reen-
try?" asked Dowd.
Sir Isaac nodded.
"Jesus," muttered Dowd. "That would mean they had a
problem. A severe problem. A problem that was ..."
"Fundamental," said Strand. "A fundamental engineering
glitch they couldn't solve. And they burned up two shutdes try-
ing to fix it, but couldn't." She held the thought for a few mo-
ments. "That would mean the Russians were ..."
"Behind," said Sir Isaac.
"Way behind," added Dowd.
Sir Isaac fired up his pipe again. A sure sign the wheels were
turning inside his light bulb-shaped head. "So if they haven't
got a viable shutde, and don't have a PRISM battle management
system, or a Graser, that would mean they were really behind
on an SDI program ... so far behind they'd never catch up. So
far behind ..."
"They'd do something desperate," said Whittenberg.
"Something desperate like stealing the Intrepid. So desperate
they'd even try to sabotage the Constellation—and failing that,
they'd go so far as to shoot it down."
Everyone took a moment to absorb their deductions. Then
Whittenberg picked up his green Pentagon phone.
Day 4, 1400 Hours Zulu, 5:00 p.m. Local
BAIKONUR COSMODROME
Chief Designer Grigory Vostov breathed a sigh of relief as
the final fastener finally closed on the launch shroud. The mat-
ing collar with the Progress engine was now firmly ensconced
within the aerodynamic shell and could now be attached to the
SL-14 booster. Getting the mating collar fitted with a launch
shroud had taken more time than he'd expected. Too late he'd
discovered there wasn't one of the proper size in the Baikonur
inventory. He had to have one flown in from the Plesetsk Cos-

THE FOURTH DAY
383
modrome and that took time. But now it was ready and he felt
relieved.
The launch commander—an elfin lieutenant colonel in a heavy
overcoat—walked up and announced, "We are prepared except
for the baseplate attachment, Comrade Vostov, and that will not
take long to complete."
"Very good. Make haste, Colonel. How are the cosmonauts,
Lubinin and Yemitov?"
The launch commander looked at his watch and said, "They
will be awakened in approximately one half hour. They will
undergo their final flight briefing, meal, and preflight dress, then
load onto the Soyuz."
Vostov nodded. "Not a minute to waste now."
Day 4, 1530 Hours Zulu
STRATEGIC DEFENSE PLATFORM
ALTITUDE: 430 MILES;
ORBITAL INCLINATION: 83 Degrees
"Would somebody be kind enough to tell me just what the
hell is going on down there?" demanded Col. David Colquist.
"First the Intrepid doesn't show up, and now the Constellation
has gone off the air. . . . You'd tell us if our spacecraft were
being abducted by UFOs, wouldn't you?" Colquist, commander
of the SDI prototype platform, was in the communications room
of the hexagonal structure, floating upright in front of the trans-
mitter microphone.
The speaker box replied, "I can tell you it doesn't have any-
thing to do with UFOs, sir. But that's all. Eagle One says stay
off the air except for routine reporting."
In a mocking voice, Colquist said, "Well, please be sure and
tell Eagle One not to forget us, and that we're still waiting for
our delivery. There's not much to do up here until We receive
the final package, you know."
"I will do that, sir," squawked the speaker. "CSOC, out."
Colquist slapped the mike switch off, then in frustration the
former gymnast stomped on the "floor" and did a backward

384
STORMING INTREPID
somersault up to the "ceiling" of the commo room. "Damn,"
he cursed. "I don't like being in the dark."
"Yessir," replied the commo officer. "Not much we can do
about it, though. I just hope everything's okay."
"Yeah," said Colquist, while putting himself in a slow cart-
wheel to relieve some of the tension from his body. One thing
the former gymnast didn't like about long-term spaceflight was
that the weighdessness caused his well-developed muscles to
atrophy. "Something tells me things are not right." He sniffed.
"This whole prototype assembly has gone way too smooth. It's
like we've been leading a charmed life up here. We were due
for some bad luck, and now I think we've got it. In spades. If
they'd just tell us what the problem was, I could handle it a lot
better."
"Yessir," comforted the commo officer.
"Well, no sense wasting time here. If anyone should call, I'll
be in Reactor Control."
"Yessir."
Colquist executed a beautiful jackknife and propelled himself
into the passageway.
Day 4, 2000 Hours Zulu, 11:00 p.m. Local
BAIKONUR COSMODROME
Usually, cosmonauts boarded their Soyuz capsule from a gan-
try tower after the SL-4 booster was hoisted into a vertical po-
sition. However, rolling the crew access gantry into place and
then retracting it took time. So to expedite matters, Lubinin and
Yemitov were climbing into the crew compartment of their
spacecraft while the SL-4 booster was still lying sideways on its
flatcar transporter.
The Soyuz-T spacecraft into which the two cosmonauts were
gingerly crawling looked like an hourglass mounted on a stubby
tin can.
The stubby tin can section was the instrument compartment
of the spacecraft. It was about nine feet in diameter and con-
tained the life-support and power-supply systems, the long-range
voice and telemetry radio transmitters, the on-board computers,

THE FOURTH DAY
385
and the liquid-fuel retro rockets. After the Soyuz reached orbit,
a pair of blinder-like solar panels would deploy from the com-
partment into a thirty-foot span and provide the spacecraft with
its electricity.
Sandwiched between the stubby tin can of the instrument
compartment and the top sphere of the hourglass was the descent
module. It was here that Lubinin and Yemitov would sit in con-
formational seats during lift-off and reentry. The module con-
tained little more than the seats, an instrument panel, and a
television camera that allowed ground controllers to keep an eye
on the cosmonauts. After retrofire, the descent module would
detach itself from the rest of the Soyuz and position itself for
reentry. It would then descend to earth like the old Mercury-
Gemini-Apollo capsules, except for one aspect—the descent
module had a deceptive aerodynamic shape that reduced reentry
g-forces for the cosmonauts to a maximum of three to four g's.
(The American capsules, and the early Vostok and Voshkod
capsules, inflicted eight to eleven g's on their passengers during
reentry.) At 25,000 feet the Soyuz descent module deployed a
drogue chute, followed by a main chute. Then a scant meter-
and-a-half above the ground, a cushioning rocket was fired to
absorb much of the landing impact.
The second half of the hourglass was the orbital module, which
was a spherical vessel about eight feet in diameter. It contained
storage compartments, as well as instruments, along its interior
walls. Food, scientific equipment, and excess gear were stowed
here, and it was in this sphere that the cosmonauts worked, ate,
and sometimes took their sleep breaks. The sphere possessed
three hatches—one on top that provided ingress and egress
through a docking collar, one on the bottom that provided access
to the descent module, and one on the side that allowed the
cosmonauts to enter the spacecraft from the outside.
Climbing into the orbital module, and then into the descent
module, was slow work for Lubinin and Yemitov, because they
were already wearing their extravehicular activity (EVA) suits,
which were bulkier than the regular Soyuz cabin suits. Wearing
the EVA suits as they went aloft would save them considerable
changing time when they reached orbit.
All in all, the Soyuz was very much a Russian vessel. It was
simple, functional, utilitarian; it got the job done. Comparing

386
STORMING INTREPID
the Soyuz to an American space shuttle was like comparing a
Chevy Nova to a Mercedes. One vehicle was cheap, the other
expensive and elegant, but both could transport you across town.
Once inside, Lubinin and Yemitov were "buttoned up" as
the hatches and launch shroud were secured. The launch com-
mander monitored the preparations, and when everything ap-
peared to be in order he instructed the locomotive to fire up its
engines and roll the SL^l booster out to the pad.
Like the Soyuz, the Baikonur Cosmodrome reflected another
facet of Russian nature. In most ventures they undertook, Rus-
sians did not exhibit a proclivity for being the best in a qualita-
tive sense; but they certainly had a passion for being the biggest,
as exemplified by their cosmodromes. The Baikonur complex
possessed eighty launch pads and was seven times larger than
the Kennedy Space Center—and KSC was not a small launch
facility. Huge hangars dotted the landscape, along with office
buildings and living quarters, while a latticework of rails con-
nected the pads and hangars.
Lubinin and Yemitov felt the vibration of the locomotive as
the booster was rolled out to its pad.
"So, Sergeivich, we begin our journey," said Lubinin, trying
to sound cheerful.
Yemitov was morose. He initially had been inspired at the
prospect of capturing an American shuttle, but that feeling evap-
orated when Vostov told him about the destruction of the Con-
stellation. He had always admired his fellow American space
travelers, and didn't like the feeling of being an accomplice, of
sorts, to their murder.
Lubinin seemed to read his comrade's thoughts, and his false
cheerfulness disappeared. "I understand how you feel, Sergei-
vich," lamented the elder cosmonaut, "but what could we have
done?"
Yemitov's pale blue eyes stared back at his friend. "Noth-
ing," he replied simply.

THE FOURTH DAY
387
Day 4, 2100 Hours Zulu, 4:00 p.m. Local
MIAMI
Finally, thought Woltman. Finally, we're getting somewhere.
The AP bureau office was abuzz about the launch. The bureau
chief had notified the Washington office and they were tracking
the story from that end, while Woltman and two reporters from
the local bureau were tracking it from the Florida end. Woltman
was now on a conference call with the Kennedy Space Center
press office. He'd been badgering everyone he knew in NASA
all day long and had come up with a big zero. The lid was down
tight on this one. Nobody would say anything. Not in Florida
or Washington. They'd run into such a stone wall that his bureau
chief had even started to question if there had actually been a
launch. Now Woltman was glad he'd put it on the flash circuit,
even though that was supposed to take the bureau chief's ap-
proval. The flash had finally triggered enough pressure to make
the KSC press office squeal. Woltman had the phone in his hand,
waiting for the NASA public relations guy to speak on a con-
ference call.
"UPI, are you there?" asked the disembodied press officer.
"Yeah, I'm here," said the UPI reporter.
"AP?"
"Present and accounted for," replied Woltman in an acid
tone.
"ABC, NBC, CBS, are you there?"
"Yeah."
"Yes."
"Yeah."
"I'm here, too," said the man from the Herald.
The voice on the phone cleared his throat. "This statement is
from the Kennedy Space Center press office and is for discre-
tionary release. No questions will be entertained after the state-
ment is read. ... 'At four-thirty a.m., Eastern Standard Time,
a space vehicle was launched from KSC on a trajectory that took
the spacecraft over southwest Florida. The launch was executed
flawlessly without injury to the civilian population. The nature
and purpose of this mission is related to the Strategic Defense
Initiative and, therefore, must remain classified. While launches

388
STORMING INTREPID
over southern Florida are without precedent, the particular tra-
jectory of this vehicle traveled over sparsely populated areas and
did not present an excessive danger to the civilian population. It
was specifically authorized by National Command Authorities.'
End of statement."
"What kind of vehicle was it?" asked the UPI reporter.
"As I said initially, I'm not going beyond the statement,"
said the press officer firmly.
"Listen, buster!" barked Woltman. "I got a press release in
front of me that was put out by your office a week ago. It says a
shuttle—the Constellation—is slated to launch five days from
now to carry a COSMAX telescope and a communications sat-
ellite into orbit. That wasn't, by any chance, the 'vehicle' you
spoke of, was it?"
A few moments passed before the public relations man re-
sponded tersely: "I'm not going beyond the statement."
Woltman knew when he'd hit a nerve. "Listen, babyface, if I
hire a helicopter and fly past your shuttle pads and don't see a
Constellation sitting there, you're gonna look like an asswipe in
every paper from Boston to Honolulu, so you'd better come
across now. I'm asking you again, was it the Constellation!''
The disembodied voice cleared his throat once again,then fi-
nally emitted a barely audible "Yes."
Woltman jumped out of his chair. "What! You launched a
shuttle over south Florida! Are you guys nuts? Didn't you ever
hear of the Challenger? What if that thing took a wrong turn and
wiped out downtown Miami? Better yet, Palm Beach? Is some-
thing screwed up on this Star Wars business? Is that what it's
about? You got a meltdown on that platform reactor of yours?
What's happening, sweetheart? C'mon, what gives?"
"Yeah, what gives, turkey?" echoed the man from ABC.
"A shuttle. You'd better come up with something better than
a cardboard press release," demanded the Herald reporter.
"This is industrial-strength shit."
"I'm not going beyond the statement," said the press officer
defiantly, and the connection was terminated.
Woltman stared at the receiver in his hand. Gad. A shuttle.
This was bigger than he'd ever dreamed. It had to be. Woltman
had been without sleep for almost thirty-six hours now, but the
vestiges of fatigue evaporated as his mind raced forward. The

THE FOURTH DAY
389
launch meant there was trouble. Trouble on the SDI platform.
The SDI program was controlled by the Pentagon and the White
House, and they were in Washington. He knew it would be
impossible to get into the vortex of the story from where he sat
in Miami. He'd spent two years with the Herald's Washington
bureau, and still had some friends up there. He made a quick
decision. He was going to D.C., with or without his stingy
bureau chief's sponsorship. This was his story, and he was going
to stay on top of it. He strode into the chief's office, trying to
keep the words "Pulitzer, Pulitzer, Pulitzer" from intruding on
his thoughts.

THE FIFTH DAY

Day 5, 0130 Hours Zulu, 4:30 a.m. Local
BAIKONUR COSMODROME
Like dual pyrotechnic projectiles rising into the night, the
SL-4 and SL-14 boosters painted two orange streaks across the
black sky with their blazing tail cones.
Chief Designer Grigory Vostov should have monitored the lift-
off from the launch bunker—but he didn't. Instead, Vostov stood
alone in the freezing night, watching the two tongues of flame
grow smaller in the distance. When they finally disappeared, he
shrugged to himself and trudged off to the sleeping quarters.
He'd done everything he could possibly do.
Day 5, 0132 Hours Zulu
ALTITUDE: 22,300 MILES
ORBITAL INCLINATION: 28 DEGREES
The eyes of the Teal Sapphire launch detection satellite were
its high-resolution lenses, but its heart was the on-board mosaic
of electro-optic sensors called charged coupler devices, or
CCDs. These CCD mosaics were stimulated by radiant energy
passed on to them by the satellite's infrared scanner—which is
to say, temperature changes within Teal Sapphire's field of vision
were rapidly detected.
393

394
STORMING INTREPID
Against the cold nighttime backdrop of the Kazakhstan
steppes, the twin infernos shooting out of the Baikonur Cos-
modrome caused the satellite's CCD mosaics to go crazy.
Day 5, 0132 Hours Zulu, 6:32 p.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
Brig. Gen. John Fairchild was minding the store in the Crow's
Nest again when one of the phones buzzed. He picked it up. On
the other end was a captain who was monitoring the Teal Sap-
phire satellite. The young officer said, "Launch detection, sir.
Headed south out of Baikonur ... no, wait—check that. I've
got some separation in the signatures. Make that a dual launch.
Two separate boosters. I'll get you a configuration analysis and
a bearing in a minute."
Sir Isaac looked at the ground track and position of the In-
trepid on the center projection screen. There was no question in
his mind what was happening. He picked up another phone and
buzzed Whittenberg in his office. "General," he reported, "the
Russians are headed upstairs. In two vehicles."
Day 5, 0135 Hours Zulu
THE INTREPID
Iceberg heard the transmission crackle in his headphones: "A
Soyuz and a cargo vessel have lifted off successfully, Intrepid,
and are en route to their rendezvous with you."
A wave of exhilaration washed over him. There was a chance
to succeed now. A real chance. "Outstanding, Flite Centre,"
he radioed. "I'll be looking for them."
The Intrepid was now communicating with the Kaliningrad
Flite Control Centre via the Kosmos 1700 satellite system, which
allowed him to stay in constant contact. It was less secure than
communicating with earth stations, but that didn't seem to mat-
ter much anymore. Besides, his transmissions were still scram-
bled.

THE FOURTH DAY
395
"How do I communicate with your people who are coming
up in the Soyuz?" asked Iceberg.
"You may transmit and receive on this same S-band fre-
quency, Intrepid; but be aware, our Soyuz crew does not possess
an encryption device that is compatible with yours, so you will
have to transmit in the clear. Keep your communications to es-
sentials."
"Roger, Flite Centre." Another thought occurred to him.
"Are your people going to require my assistance outside the
orbiter? If so, I need to start some oxygen prebreathing for
EVA."
"Negative, Intrepid. You remain inside the spacecraft."
"Roger, Flite Centre."
Iceberg scanned the horizon, looking for some sign of the
Russians, but the tail plumes of the SL-4 and SL-14 boosters
were much smaller than the Constellation's, and Iceberg couldn't
detect them against the inky horizon. »
Day 5, 0138:50 Hours Zulu
THE SOYUZ
Cosmonauts Vasili Lubinin and Sergei Yemitov felt their
spacecraft separate from the last stage of the SL-4 booster. They
were in orbit now, and Lubinin threw the switch to deploy the
spacecraft's solar panels. He went through a systems check to
make sure the on-board electronics were working properly for
the upcoming correction burn that would enable them to close
in on the Intrepid.
Day 5, 0147 Hours Zulu, 3:47 a.m. Local
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE
Mission Commander Oleg Malyshev tried to ignore the troika
that had become a permanent fixture in the Flite Centre. Popov,
the KGB Chairman, and the General Secretary kept hovering
around him like husbands whose wives were in labor.

396
STORMING INTREPID
"I have the correction bum computed, Commander," said
the navigation officer through the intercom.
Thank God, thought the exhausted Malyshev. "Very well,
transmit the data to the Soyuz. We will fire the cargo vessel's
correction burn first, then the Soyuz. Are you ready?"
"Ready on the cargo vessel, Commander," replied the nav-
igation officer. "It will be a short burn. There is only seventy
kilometers' separation from the American spacecraft."
Malyshev wiped his sleeve across his sweaty forehead. "Very
well. Fire at your discretion, Navigation Officer."
Day 5, 0203 Hours Zulu
THE INTREPID
The ground track of the orbiter passed from darkness to day-
light as the spacecraft looped under the bottom of the earth-
high above the white frozen wastes of Antarctica. Inside the
Intrepid, the psychotic Iceberg in human form scanned the space
around him for the arrival of his rescuers. Flite Centre had told
him the correction burns had been fired smoothly, and they
should be coming close any second. He saw the torpedo-shaped
cargo vessel first. The Intrepid was traveling in a heads-down
position, and Iceberg tracked the Russian craft visually as it
traveled underneath die orbiter and disappeared from view. He
grabbed the hand controller and rolled the spacecraft so he could
keep it in sight. Tiny maneuvering thrusters at the base of the
cargo vessel flared, causing it to halt some three hundred yards
from, and a little above, the American orbiter's position and
attitude. Whatever heart Iceberg possessed leapt into his throat
when he saw the Soyuz. There it was! He was going to make it!
The Soyuz pivoted and fired its braking thruster, and it came
to rest not a hundred yards from the Intrepid. Iceberg moved
his hand controller a little more so the orbiter's directional
S-band nose antenna would be pointed directly at the Russian
spacecraft. "Soyuz, this is Intrepid, do you read me? Over."

THE FOURTH DAY
397
Day 5, 0207 Hours Zulu
THE SOYUZ
Lubinin switched radios, disengaged his voice scrambler, and
began speaking in English. "We read you, Intrepid. Our ground
control will jettison the launch shroud of the cargo ship in a
moment. Stay off this channel until we have exited our capsule
and gone into EVA. The radios on our EVA suits are much less
powerful than the transmitters aboard our Soyuz, and we will
be able to talk more freely. Do you understand?"
"Roger, Soyuz. Will comply. Intrepid, out."
Lubinin switched radios and engaged his on-board voice
scrambler—a Soviet-made device that was much less sophisti-
cated than, and incompatible with, the American Oracle scram-
bler—then began speaking in Russian again. "Flite Centre, this
is Soyuz. We are in position. You may jettison the launch shroud
on the cargo ship at your discretion."
"Roger, Soyuz. Stand by."
Yemitov watched the cargo vessel through the porthole in the
descent module. He saw sparks pepper the seam of the shroud
as the explosive bolts fired. He lifted his thumb to Lubinin and
said, "Good."
"Flite Centre," radioed Lubinin, "we have separation of the
shroud. We are prepared to go EVA at your command."
"We read you, Soyuz," came the reply. "You are cleared for
EVA. Good luck."
Lubinin nodded to Yemitov, and the younger man unfastened
his restraining seat straps. He kept his helmet visor closed so he
would stay on pure oxygen and not breathe the nitrogen/oxygen
atmosphere of the cabin.
Before astronauts went EVA they had to prebreathe pure ox-
ygen for two hours to "wash" the nitrogen from their systems.
Otherwise, the lower-pressure spacesuits would cause nitrogen
bubbles to form in their bloodstreams, inflicting them with a
deadly case of the bends.
Yemitov pointed at the hatch, and Lubinin checked the gauge.
"Pressurized," said the pilot.
Yemitov spun the wheel and pulled down the lid. He then
took a deep breath and disconnected his oxygen and intercom

398
STORMING INTREPID
umbilicals that extended from underneath his seat. He pulled
himself through the hatch and into the spherical orbital module,
where he attached his oxygen line to the environmental portion
of the EVA backpack. When the tiny gauge showed oxygen was
flowing into his suit, he began breathing again. Yemitov flipped
himself around and pulled the hatch closed, then struggled into
his environmental gear. He wouldn't put on the maneuvering
component of the backpack undl he was outside the spacecraft.
He pulled the depressurization handle, and the module's atmo-
sphere began venting into space. When the indicator light turned
from red to green, he began turning the hatch wheel on the top
of the sphere and carefully opened it. Then, with a gende hand,
he pushed the maneuvering portion of the backpack outside,
being careful not to bump it or lose its tether line. If he lost the
backpack he wouldn't be able to maneuver in the void of space.
Once outside, Yemitov closed the hatch and began wrestiing
into the maneuvering component. It was difficult to get the thing
on by himself, but it could be done. Lubinin was inside, repres-
surizing the orbital module. After some struggling, the com-
ponent finally snapped into place. Yemitov flipped the
appropriate switches and began testing his thrusters. He floated
slowly away from the Soyuz for a short distance before stopping
himself. He felt comfortable now—back in his own element. He
propelled himself to the porthole of the descent module and gave
Lubinin an "okay" sign. "Everything is fine, Vasilivich," he
radioed.
"Good, Sergeivich,'' replied Lubinin.' 'I will be out shortly.''
"Roger. I will check on the American." Yemitov toggled his
joystick and the backpack thruster released its jet of compressed
nitrogen gas, pushing him toward the Intrepid. What a magnif-
icent spacecraft! thought Yemitov. It looked very much like the
Soviet shuttie, except the Russian model did not have the big,
reusable main engines on the tail—all of the Soviet shuttie's lift-
off engines were on the Energia booster vehicle. The Russian
orbiter only had small retro rockets on its tail section.
Lubinin and Yemitov had not been in the Soviet shuttle train-
ing program, but the cosmonaut figured their status would
change if they could capture this American orbiter.
Yemitov slowed as he approached the windshield of the
winged spacecraft. The cabin lights were on. He didn't quite

THE FOURTH DAY
399
know what to expect, and his curiosity heightened. What would
the American be like? Then he spied the astronaut, sitting in the
left seat.
The pilot inside the orbiter did not raise a hand in salutation.
He only stared at the Russian with a pair of coal-black eyes that
were recessed in a gaunt, almost cadaverous face. Yemitov
started to wave, but didn't. This astronaut had killed two of his
own crewmates, and the thought caused the Russian to shudder.
Instead, the cosmonaut backed off and hovered directly above
the S-band nose antenna.
"Intrepid, can you hear me?" asked Yemitov.
"I hear you fine," replied Iceberg brusquely. "What's the
plan from here?"
This American did not care for small talk, Yemitov con-
cluded, so the Russian quickly outlined how they would attach
the Progress engine and execute retrofire. Upon completing his
explanation, Yemitov asked, "Do you understand everything I
have said, Intrepid?"
"Yes, I understand," came the curt reply. "Is everything
ready at Baikonur?"
"Affirmative, Intrepid. Your reentry window will open in ap-
proximately nine hours."
"Okay. Let's get on with it. I'm tired of being marooned up
here. . . . Looks like your friend is coming out to join you."
Yemitov executed a pirouette and saw Lubinin exiting the
Soyuz. Then he gazed back at Iceberg. "Very well, Intrepid,
we will proceed to attach the collar and engine. Communicate
with us if you must."
"Roger. Intrepid out."
Yemitov propelled himself back to the Soyuz and helped his
comrade with the maneuvering component of his backpack. In
Russian, Lubinin asked, "Did you speak with the American?"
"Da," replied Yemitov quietly.
"And?" prompted Lubinin.
Yemitov's delicate features looked at his friend through the
visor. "I do not care for him," he said finally.
Lubinin's heavy eyes stared back and seemed to convey his
understanding. "Come along. We must not waste time."
The two cosmonauts propelled themselves toward the cargo

400
STORMING INTREPID
ship. In his wake, Lubinin pulled an auxiliary hand thruster and
a webbed canvas tether line.
When they reached the cargo vessel, the cosmonauts found
the launch shroud still hanging on at the base. A small nudge
from Yemitov caused it to break completely free. Lubinin then
pulled on a lever and the collar/engine was released from the
engine, along with the small container that held the clamps.
Lubinin handed Yemitov the small auxiliary thruster—which
was nothing more than an Aqua-lung-sized tank of compressed
nitrogen gas with handgrips attached. He also gave Yemitov one
end of the canvas strap and said, "Hold this." Then, with the
other end in his hand, Lubinin circumnavigated the mating col-
lar. Upon completing his circle, he took the other end back from
Yemitov and threaded it through a buckle, pulling the canvas
belt tight around the girth of the mating collar like a saddle cinch
strap.
"You get the clamps. I will take care of this," ordered Lu-
binin. Yemitov retrieved the container, while his comrade at-
tached the loose strap end to the auxiliary thruster and pulled
taut the four meters of slack. "Here we go!" radioed Lubinin,
and with that, he triggered the aux thruster, which yanked him
and the mating collar toward the Intrepid.
The two cosmonauts were cautious as they moved toward the
shuttle. This was no training exercise. It was the real thing, and
they had to take each movement slowly and carefully, for a tiny
mishap could scuttle the entire mission. As they closed on the
orbiter, Lubinin deftly brought the aux thruster to the opposite
side of the mating collar and started applying little braking squirts
of gas to halt their advance. Finally, he brought the collar to a
complete standstill just a few meters from the Intrepid's tail.
"Excellent work, Vasilivich," complimented Yemitov.
"Thank you, Sergeivich. Now, let us move this contraption
into place—with caution, my friend.'' Lubinin removed the can-
vas strap, then moved to the rear of the collar with Yemitov.
Each with one hand on his joystick and the other on the exit
nozzle of the Progress engine, they gently guided the anterior
male end of the mating collar into the center main engine nozzle
of the orbiter. There was no sound as metal began scraping
against metal, but the cosmonauts could feel the vibrations
through their gloves. When the male end struck home, there

THE FOURTH DAY
401
was a slight whiplash that pushed the two Russians away. "It is
in place!" exclaimed Yemitov.
"And it fits perfectly!" shouted Lubinin as he began circling
the collar to make sure the lip of the anterior end rested flush
against the flange of the shuttle's exit nozzle. It did. "Comrade
Vostov did as he promised," observed Lubinin. "Now, let us
get the clamps in place."
Day 5, 0327 Hours Zulu, 8:27 p.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
Chief of Staff Michael Dowd scratched his large bald head.
"What the hell are they doing?"
The picture from the Spyglass observation aircraft was dis-
played on the center projection screen in SPADOC.
Sir Isaac absently rubbed the single star insignia on his ep-
aulet. "Obviously they're attaching something to the tail of the
Intrepid. What it is and why, I can't say."
Strand's gray eyes peered at the screen carefully. "It looks
like some kind of engine ... but that doesn't make sense. The
shuttle has backup systems to ensure the OMS thrusters work."
"Well, whatever's happening," mused Whittenberg, "theyVe
got to be close to bringing the Intrepid down. Sir Isaac, what's
the status on the Kestrel?"
"The launch vehicle looks in good shape, sir," replied Sir
Isaac, "and the weapons systems are getting their final tech out.
We'll be ready for a rendezvous launch in about nine hours."
The skinny brigadier pulled on his hawklike beak before saying,
"It could be close."
"Yeah." The CinC was grim as he picked up his red phone
to the White House.
Day 5, 0414 Hours Zulu, 6:14 a.m. Local
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE
Popov, General Secretary Vorontsky, and KGB Chairman
Kostiashak leaned over Mission Commander Malyshev's shoul-
der to listen to the speaker box.

402
STORMING INTREPID
"We are back in the Soyuz," radioed Lubinin. "The mating
collar is in place and it fits perfectly. The Chief Designer is to
be commended."
Popov exhaled a sigh of relief.
"The spring clamps have also been installed, and the Amer-
ican pilot has been informed of the retrofire procedures.
All is in readiness. We must only wait for the reentry win-
dow."
"Very well, Soyuz. Well done," replied Malyshev. "Keep in
contact and try to rest. You have approximately seven hours until
retrofire."
"Acknowledged, Flite Centre. Soyuz out."
The General Secretary was rested, refreshed, and ebullient as
he thumped Popov on the back. "Well, Comrade, the American
shuttie will soon be ours. We have done it."
The stocky general looked up at the former hammer thrower
with irritation. "Yes, General Secretary," he replied with a tinge
of sarcasm, "we have done it."
Vorontsky then turned to his diminutive partner in the double-
breasted suit. "This is marvelous, Vitali. It is hard to believe
we will soon possess an American shutde. In one brilliant stroke
we will be on our way to parity with the United States. Their
spacecraft, their weaponry payload—it will all be ours. It was
your plan, my friend. An audacious plan, a fantastic plan, a
brilliant plan. You are truly a grandmaster."
Kostiashak gave a modest shrug.
"With this shuttle and its payload," Vorontsky boasted, "my
position as General Secretary will be unassailable."
"Unassailable," echoed the little Chairman softly.
"And the Americans can do nothing to stop us now."
Kostiashak's smile was disarming. "Absolutely nothing," he
agreed.

THE FOURTH DAY
403
Day 5, 0617 Hours Zulu, 9:17 a.m. Local
MIDAiR REFUELING OVER THE ARABIAN
SEA, OFF THE COAST OF IRAN
The aluminum pipe was retracted from the batwing's fuel
vent.
"You're topped off, Ghost Leader," radioed the boom oper-
ator. "We'll be here when you get back. Go nail that son of a
bitch."
"Roger, Boomer," came the reply, "and thanks. We'll put
your name on one of the Paveways. Ghost Leader out."
The KC-10 tanker banked westward, back toward Oman. The
stealth bombers would be gone for at least twelve hours, so the
tanker crew might as well cool it on the ground for a while.
The two batwings came together in a loose formation and
turned due north toward the coast of Iran. Beyond the Shiite
nation lay the Soviet Republic of Kazakhstan.
Day 5, 0630 Hours Zulu, 1:30 a.m. Local
THE WHITE HOUSE
The National Security Council's EXECCOM had convened
in the Cabinet Room. Their mood was fatigued, tense, and grim,
with an undercurrent of smoldering anger. Admiral Bergstrom
was muttering into a red phone. He finally finished and hung
up.' 'That was General Dooley from SAC in Omaha. The stealth
bombers have just crossed the Iranian coast, Mr. President. Af-
ter they receive their verification go-ahead signal at the Soviet
border, they will proceed to a holding station near the Baikonur
Cosmodrome. If the Intrepid comes down before we launch the
Kestrel, the bombers will be able to hit it after it lands on the
Russians' shuttle recovery runway."
"I'm not sure I understand, Admiral," queried the Secretary
of State. "Are you saying there's a chance the Intrepid could
come down before the space fighter launches?"
"Yes, sir, there is," replied the old salt. "You see, the Bai-
konur Cosmodrome is on almost the exact opposite side of the
earth from Vandenberg Air Force Base. Just a few longitudinal

404
STORMING INTREPID
degrees off the identical meridian. That means our launch win-
dow from Vandenberg is the same as the Intrepid's reentry win-
dow to Baikonur—except for one difference."
"And what would that be?" asked the Treasury Secretary
while stroking his walruslike mustache.
Bergstrom crushed out his foul-smelling cigar and explained.
"The Intrepid has considerable flexibility when it returns from
space. As long as the spacecraft's orbital ground track falls within
a reentry zone that is twelve hundred miles wide, it can still
reach its recovery runway. That means the reentry window is
two orbits wide. Conversely, the Kestrel's lift-off is ballistic in
nature, with trajectory parameters that are extremely narrow in
relation to the Intrepid's reentry. In short, the Intrepid could be
executing its reentry shortly before the Kestrel could lift off on
an intercept flight plan. That's why we have to have the stealth
bombers as backup."
The man from Foggy Bottom grimaced. "And if both the
Kestrel and the stealth bombers fail?"
The admiral's gold braid seemed to weigh heavily upon him
as he took a deep breath. "The USS Tennessee has moved in
close to the Iranian coast. If the President gives the order, it will
launch a Tomahawk cruise missile carrying a one-and-a-half-
kiloton nuclear warhead. That's enough to knock out anything
on the recovery runway, as well as their shuttle hangar complex
and a chunk of the cosmodrome."
"Hmmm," mumbled the Treasury Secretary. "How can we
be sure that cruise missile would be accurate enough to hit the
runway?"
Bergstrom's response was flat. "This is an upgraded version
of the Tomahawk cruise missile. It has a hybrid inertial/terrain-
following navigation system that is highly accurate. If you
wanted me to put a Tomahawk in the Rose Bowl, I could send
it through the uprights. Additionally, the missile can operate
dependently with the NavStar Global Positioning satellites, and
with the accuracy of that system I could hit the crossbar of the
uprights if you wanted."
"Well, if this gizmo is so accurate," countered the Secretary
of State, "why not use a conventional warhead with it?"
"We considered that, Mr. Secretary," said the admiral, "but
there are too many unknowns. The recovery runway is three

THE FOURTH DAY
405
miles long and runs east to west. We don't know from which
end the In^epid will approach it. Nor do we know how long it
will stay on the runway before being removed to their hangar
complex—presumably they would want to get it under cover as
quickly as possible. Also, we don't know on which orbit the
Intrepid will come down, and it will take five hours for the
Tomahawk to travel the distance from the Tennessee. In short,
sir, if we are going to use conventional weapons we must have
the flexibility of putting the ordnance down immediately after
the Intrepid lands, and we need a pair of eyeballs on the scene
in order to hit the target. The cruise missile does not give us
that flexibility, but the stealth bombers do. In order to have any
chance of success with the Tomahawk cruise missile, we have
to use a nuclear warhead."
No one spoke for several seconds.
"Monsieur le President," said the Frenchman carefully, "I
must protest any action involving a nuclear device." The Gallic
chief of state had now become a de facto member of the NSC
EXECCOM, and everyone was attentive to his words. His long,
lanky frame leaned forward as he said, "You have every right
to try to prevent your spacecraft from falling into Soviet hands.
You have my full support in combating this act of piracy. But to
send a nuclear missile into Russia—well, that is something else
again. No Soviet leader could stand by and not respond in kind,
even though the Soviets have blood on their hands from the
destruction of your Constellation. Indeed, we are not even cer-
tain who is in control in the Kremlin at the moment. I endorse
your use of conventional weapons. But a nuclear missile? No,
my friend. I implore you not to take that step. It could push the
civilized world into an abyss."
"I must agree with our guest, Mr. President," said the Sec-
retary of State. "There are too many imponderables on the So-
viet side. If we cross that nuclear threshold—no matter how vital
the Intrepid and its payload—there may be no return."
The President scratched his upper lip. "Sam—what do you
think?"
The Secretary of Defense, his bony features looking troubled,
said, "Sir, if you give the order, the Tennessee will launch. But
my advice is that we stick with conventional weapons. The risk

406
STORMING INTREPID
is just too great otherwise. The whole purpose of the Intrepid's
payload was to prevent a nuclear exchange in the first place."
The chief executive turned to the Vice President and raised
an eyebrow.
The Veep ran a hand through his bristly crew cut and nodded.
"I agree. Hold off on the nukes. Everything else is open season,
though."
The President sighed. He was relieved, in a way. "All right,
Admiral. Tell the Tennessee to return to its regular station. But
keep SAC at DEFCON Two. Since Yakolev has disappeared
into his embassy, we're not going to lower our guard an inch
until we nail the Intrepid one way or another."
"Yes, sir," replied Bergstrom as he picked up the red phone.
While igniting a cigar, the Treasury Secretary looked across
the table at Bergstrom and said, in a conversational tone, "Well,
I suppose this is a bit of a disappointment for you, isn't it,
Admiral?"
Bergstrom looked up and furrowed his brow. "I beg your
pardon, Mr. Secretary?"
The President's money man kept puffing. "Well, I'm sure you
military types must be disappointed you can't unload one of
those nuke missiles of yours. What did you call it? A Toma-
hawk? I bet you've been waiting to shoot off one of those for
years. I mean, that's sort of your thing, isn't it?"
Bergstrom came out of his chair like a bullet, and if an ebony
table had not separated the two men, he would have ripped the
Cabinet officer's face off. The admiral's own countenance turned
beet red as he hissed in a gravelly voice, "You listen to me,
Mr. Secretary. In Korea I got my ass shot out of the sky while
tangling with MiGs in my Corsair, and I got to spend six fun-
filled months in a North Korean prison camp. I've scraped the
burned entrails of kids, and I mean kids, off a carrier deck after
a crash. I've written more letters to widows and orphans than
you've ever thought about—all the while bastards like you stayed
home and made a potful of money—"
"That will be enough, Admiral!" barked the President.
Bergstrom's scrambled-egg chest was still heaving, but he obeyed
his commander in chief and lowered himself, inch by inch, back
into his chair—like a saber sliding slowly back into its sheath.

THE FOURTH DAY
407
The President scowled at his money man. "Milton, you will
apologize to the admiral."
The former investment banker sat there in wide-eyed shock,
twitching his walruslike mustache and puffing smoke like a lo-
comotive.
"Now, Milton."
The Treasury Secretary cleared his throat. "Well, I, ahem, I
didn't mean to give offense, Admiral. I, uh, that is to say, I
apologize."
Bergstrom's face was still red. "Your apology is accepted,
Mr. Secretary. And had I been asked, I would have said I agree
with our guest about the use of nuclear weapons. But I recognize
the military shouldn't make policy. They should be an instru-
ment of policy. It's my job to point out options, no matter how
distasteful they may be to me personally. I don't get my jollies
popping nukes at the Russians."
Now it was the President's turn to clear his throat. "Your point
is well taken, Admiral. Now then, if you please, just shoot the
Intrepid down . . . with conventional weapons."
Day 5, 0638 Hours Zulu, 10:38 p.m. Local
VANDENBERG AIR FORCE BASE
The dream was surreal, and frightening as it was bizarre. The
Constellation was floating in a water-filled placenta, suspended
in a black void. It floated there. Helpless. Vulnerable. Then out
of the void a shooting star smashed into the placenta, causing
the Constellation to erupt in a burst of white light. Lamborghini
came violently awake with a cry, his breathing rapid, his face
in a sweat. He felt another presence in the room.
' 'You okay, Pete? . . . Time for us to suit up." The voice was
gentle.
"Mad Dog ... is that you?"
"Yeah, Hot Rod, 'tis I. Guess I came in at a bad time."
Monaghan flipped on the light in the BOQ room and tossed his
friend a towel. "C'mon. Let's saddle up. I just got word Ivan is
already upstairs. Time's a-wastin'."

408
STORMING INTREPID
Day 5, 0730 Hours Zulu, 9:30 a.m. Local
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE
Nothing could contain Vorontsky's ebullience. The General
Secretary was wandering up and down the aisles of the Flite
Centre, slapping backs and joking with the officers and engi-
neers like an old Boston pol. Although they were still saddened
by the fate of the Constellation, the men within the giant room
welcomed some relief from the constant strain they'd endured
for the last several days. If the General Secretary was happy,
they were happy.
Popov was out of the room, grabbing some sleep, as Kosti-
ashak leaned over Mission Commander Malyshev's shoulder.
"At what time will the American shuttle land at Baikonur?" he
asked softly.
With great fatigue, Malyshev checked his chronometer. "As-
suming the Intrepid comes down on its first reentry window, it
should touch down approximately six hours from now."
Kotiashak nodded, then inhaled a deep lungful of smoke
before approaching the former hammer thrower, who was
swaggering down the aisle. "General Secretary," he said,
"this is a momentous capstone to an incredible adventure, is
it not?"
"Absolutely, Vitali," replied a grinning Vorontsky. "I have
never known such exhilaration. The American shuttle will soon
be ours. The Politburo will be in the palm of my hand, and the
world will see the invincibility of the Soviet Union. Indeed, the
world will be mesmerized at how we outwitted the Americans
with our brilliance and guile. Harrumph. So much for their im-
pregnable space defense. We outsmarted them, did we not, my
friend?"
"Most certainly, General Secretary," agreed Kostiashak,
"and our triumph has caused me to think. Would it not make a
spectacular picture if you were at Baikonur to greet the Ameri-
can when he landed?"
Vorontsky was a bit surprised by the suggestion, but after a
few moments the thought took root and Kostiashak could see
his superior's mind racing. "Of course, Vitali. What a vision!
It would show the Politburo—no, it would show the entire

THE FOURTH DAY
409
world—that I am the indisputable leader of the Russian people.
That it was I who captured the American spacecraft which was
a threat to our country.''
"I agree, General Secretary. I have spoken with the mission
commander. If you were to leave now, you could arrive in Bai-
konur shortly after the Intrepid lands. Think of it. A photograph
of you embracing the American pilot with the spacecraft pic-
tured behind you. It would be stupendous." The General Sec-
retary was entranced by the thought, and Kostiashak gave him
a final prod. "My helicopter is just outside. It can transport you
to your Ilyushin, and in a matter of minutes you can be on your
way to Baikonur."
The former hammer thrower smacked his fist into his palm.
"Excellent idea, Vitali. I shall leave at once."
Kostiashak beckoned to his aide. "I will have Colonel Bori-
sov escort you to your plane."
The General Secretary looked surprised. "You are not com-
ing, Vitali?"
Kostiashak shook his head. "I think it best I remain here,
General Secretary. I feel it would be imprudent for both of us
to leave the Flite Centre at this particular time."
Vorontsky agreed. "Of course. You are always the wise one,
Vitali. Very well, Colonel Borisov, let us be off. I will see you
when I return, my friend, and we shall celebrate this triumph
together." And he clapped his partner on the shoulder.
"Yes, General Secretary." Kostiashak smiled. "We will make
it a glorious celebration."
Vorontsky returned the smile and strode off through the door
held open by the KGB colonel. After the large man lumbered
past him, Colonel Borisov turned and looked back at Kostiashak
with a questioning gaze.
The grandmaster allowed himself a moment's hesitation, then
gave a quick, almost imperceptible nod.
Borisov nodded in reply, and let the door swing slowly shut.

410
STORMING INTREPID
Day 5, 0730 Hours Zulu, 12:30 a.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
Back in his office, Rodger Whittenberg leaned back in his big
leather chair and closed his eyes. He'd just about reached the
end of his rope. What else could happen? A rogue spacecraft.
Joseph Stalin. A Russian deep-plant agent in control of the In-
trepid. An immolated Constellation. It was more than any one
person could absorb. If he could just go back to the simple world
of, say, flying combat, things would be so much easier.
His red SAC phone buzzed. He quickly grabbed it and said,
"Whittenberg."
"Yeah, Rodg," came the reply, "it's Bernie."
Whittenberg was never so glad to take a phone call. "Hello,
Omaha. I can't tell you how good it feels to hear a friendly
voice."
"I read you," said CinCSAC Bernard Dooley. "I've been
talking with Bergstrom about this Intrepid deal—he's got us at
DEFCON Two, so I can't gab for long. Haven't talked to you
since our SR-71 flyby. Just wondered how you were holding
up."
Whittenberg chuckled for the first time in a long time. "I feel
as if I were in the twenty-seventh mile of a twenty-six-mile
race."
Dooley allowed himself a litde laugh, too. "I hear ya . . .
Bergstrom said you had a little 'surprise' going up to hit the
Russkies."
"Yeah," replied Whittenberg, his grimness returning. "They
sure surprised us on the Constellation. I don't know if you saw
it, Bernie. It was horrible—maybe worse than the Challenger.
Dammit, I should have known something was screwy with that
satellite."
The CinCSAC lent a sympathetic ear to his friend. "C'mon,
Rodg. Lighten up. Your guys knew the score. So did my SR-71
crew. That's what we get paid for. Sometimes you get lucky,
sometimes you don't. You did the best that you could with an
impossible situation."
Whittenberg sighed. "Yeah. My best."
"C'mon. " Dooley's voice became harder. "We've got these

THE FOURTH DAY
411
fucking Bolsheviks in a box now, only they don't know it yet.
It's our turn to spring a surprise. If your space fighter doesn't
nail the Intrepid, my stealth boys will."
There was a pause, until Whittenberg said quizzically,
"Stealth?"
The moment Whittenberg popped the one-word question,
Dooley knew he'd just violated security. Apparently his friend
had been kept out of the loop on the decision to use the stealth
bombers. "I guess Bergstrom didn't tell you," he said finally.
"Tell me what?" queried Whittenberg, not masking his cu-
riosity.
Dooley felt chagrined, but figured his friend had a right to
know what was happening. He proceeded to explain how the
stealth bomber prototypes were currently flying through Iranian
airspace—on a bearing of true north toward the Baikonur Cos-
modrome.
t
Barbara Kelso, Whittenberg's secretary of four years, kept
herself busy in the outer office by working on the CinC's backlog
of correspondence. Although a civilian and not privy to all the
details on the Intrepid affair, her perceptive antennae told her
something very big was afoot. So she'd packed a bag from home
and made up her mind to stay at her post until this business was
settled.
Her phone buzzed. "General Whittenberg's office," she said
in her soft Missouri accent.
"Barbara?"
"Yes."
"This is Peter," said Lamborghini in a surprised voice.
"What on earth are you doing there at this time of night?"
"The same reason you're at Vandenberg, Colonel," replied
Kelso. "Or is it Edwards this time?"
"It's Vandenberg. I guess nobody can keep a secret from the
CinC's secretary. Is the general free?"
Kelso looked at her phone board. The red light was on, in-
dicating that Whittenberg was talking to Dooley. "I'm sorry,
Colonel, he's on the phone with General Dooley at SAC right
now. You know how it is when those two get together. Should I
break in?"

412
STORMING INTREPID
"No," Lamborghini said quickly. "No, don't do that. Just
take a message, please."
"Certainly."
Lamborghini took a few moments to phrase what he was go-
ing to say in precise language. "I'm afraid I have to leave now.
Just tell the general that I've left an envelope with the base com-
mander here. ... If for any reason it becomes necessary, tell
him I would appreciate it if he gave the envelope to Juliet per-
sonally."
Kelso shuddered and a lump formed in her throat. "I'll tell
him, Peter."
"Thank you, Barbara."
Day 5, 0805 Hours Zulu, 12:05 a.m. Local
VANDENBERG AIR FORCE BASE
Lamborghini hung up the phone, then walked out of the small
anteroom and into the preflight suit-up area. Monaghan was
already wearing his helmet. Lamborghini nodded to the airman,
who stepped forward and carefully lowered the pressure helmet
over the colonel's head, then sealed it with a quarter turn. Lam-
borghini raised the visor and plugged a tube into his suit from
the portable briefcase-sized air conditioner. Lastly, he pulled on
his flight gloves and screwed the aluminum wrist seals shut. He
and Monaghan were wearing the full "closed" orange space
suits—the kind worn by the flight crews of the SR-71.
The two aviators walked out of the crew area and into a van
that would transport them to the Titan 34-D gantry. They were
escorted by two white-suited technicians, and the journey was
made in silence. One Air Police car with armed guards traveled
in front of the van, another behind. The convoy pulled up to the
gantry, and the party of four disembarked to walk to the eleva-
tor.
The service gantry for the Titan 34-D was like any at Cape
Canaveral, except it possessed an aluminum-leafed canopy that
prevented the launch vehicle from being observed by Russian
spy satellites. When the rotating portion of the gantry rolled
away, the leaves of the canopy folded back like a lady's fan.

THE FOURTH DAY
413
The elevator stopped and the party exited to walk down the
gantry access arm—just as the Constellation's crew had done
less than twenty-four hours before. The ground crew at Vanden-
berg, however, was somber.
Monaghan and Lamborghini doffed their boot slippers and
stepped into the clean area, where they disconnected their air-
conditioning hoses and allowed the ground crew to help them
squiggle into the Kestrel's tandem seats. Mad Dog went first,
followed by his friend. They connected the air-conditioning and
oxygen tubes to their suits and closed the visors, then Monaghan
lowered the canopy. After the closed light lit up on his panel,
Mad Dog said through the voice-activated intercom, "Commo
check."
"I read you five by five," responded Lamborghini evenly.
Monaghan began his instrument check. "You've been awful
quiet, Hot Rod."
From a zippered pocket Lamborghini extracted a small pho-
tograph of Juliet and their two daughters. He wedged it between
a couple of toggle switches on his control panel. "Yeah," he
said finally. "I was just wondering."
"Wondering what?" asked Monaghan.
"Wondering if the Russians have any more ASAT surprises
up there we don't know about.
Day 5, 1007 Hours Zulu, 12:07 p.m. Local
THE STEALTH BOMBERS OVER
NORTHERN IRAN
They looked as if sorcery had taken wing—like two giant
black batwings cruising menacingly through the clouds. If an
aviation historian had been granted a close-up peek at the un-
earthly objects, he'd probably say they resembled the old YB-49
Flying Wing, and indeed, the Flying Wing was part of their
heritage and pedigree. But whereas the Flying Wing was de-
signed with the intent of reducing aerodynamic drag, the stealth
bomber was designed with a much different purpose in mind—
it was conceived, designed, and built to be invisible to radar.
After World War II, the marriage of aviation, radar, missiles,

414
STORMING INTREPID
and electronics caused a new, intriguing axiom to emerge, and
that was: If the enemy could see you, he could kill you. So
compelling was this axiom that it ultimately triggered a quest
for the perfect warplane—an invisible warplane. One that could
not be detected by the omnipresent tentacles of enemy radar.
However, in designing an invisible airplane, there was a fun-
damental "Catch-22."
To understand this Catch-22, assume for a moment that your
household flashlight is a radar beam. Now then, sit in a darkened
room and hold up an ace of spades playing card and shine the
light on it. The light hits the card and is reflected back into your
eyeball. Held face toward you, the card is easy to see.
A radar beam works on much the same principle. When its
electronic signal hits a reflective surface, it bounces back to the
receiver and shows up on an operator's green screen. In elec-
tronic parlance, this reflective surface is called Radar Cross Sec-
tion, or RCS. The ace of spades turned broadside toward the
path of the light beam presents a highly reflective surface, or
high RCS.
Now then, take the ace of spades and turn it sideways, then
shine the flashlight on it.

THE FOURTH DAY
415
It now has a low RCS and is much harder to see, and the same
dynamic applies to radar. To be invisible, simply present an
extremely low RCS to the enemy radar transmitter.
Simple in theory. Difficult in practice. Particularly for a
bomber, because by their very nature bombers tend to be a tad
bulky. Items like the tail section, the fuselage, the jet engine
pods, and the spinning turbine blades, all produce a beautifiilly
high RCS. To design a bomber that was invisible to radar, the
aeronautical engineer had to eliminate, reshape, or cloak these
fundamental parts—and that was a sticky problem.
It took fifteen years, $22 billion, and several crashes before
Northrop produced a reliable production prototype, but it was,
at long last, achieved.
The stealth bomber was shaped like a boomerang with a jag-
ged trailing edge that truly did give it the appearance of a bat-
wing. The body of the winglike structure was smooth, except
for the crew compartment and air intake nacelles which rested
on the top side of the aircraft in pods that tapered into the skin.
The single-wing design and tapered pods reduced the aircraft's
cross section and allowed radar beams to "roll over" the air-
craft. And to further enhance its low RCS, the bomber's skin
was not made of metal, but of intricately patterned anechoic
carbon fiber composites which absorbed—rather than re-
flected—radar energy. Additionally, the entire exterior of the
plane was painted with a substance called retinyl Schiff base
salts, which further enhanced the absorption of radar waves.
To conceal the spinning turbine blades from radar, the air

416
STORMING INTREPID
flow traveled from the topside air intake nacelles into a set of
S-shaped ducts that funneled the air into the four General Elec-
tric F118-GE-100 engines. The GE power plants did not hang
from exterior wing pylons as on a commercial airliner, but were
implanted into the body, further reducing the cross section.
Although it possessed ailerons and elevators along its trailing
edge for banking, climbing, and diving, the stealth bomber had
no vertical tail stabilizer with a rudder for turning. Instead, it
used "drag rudders" on the trailing edge of each wingtip. If the
pilot wanted to turn right, the right drag rudder would deploy
like an air brake and the air resistance would pull the right wing-
tip to the rear, thus putting the aircraft into a right turn. But
flying without a tail stabilizer could create an inherently unstable
aeronautical situation. And to compensate for this, the stealth
bomber was absolutely lousy with computers, possessing a Gen-
eral Electric quadruplex digital flight control system. This sys-
tem could sense the instability of the aircraft, then compensate
on the control surfaces to keep it flying in accordance with the
pilot's direction.
Although stealthy, the flying batwing was not small. Its wing-
span was only slightly less than a B-52's, and it could carry an
ordnance load of up to fifty thousand pounds in its two tandem
weapons bays along the aircraft's center line.
The aircraft was not invisible to radar in the absolute sense of
the word. Rather, its RCS was reduced to the point that it was
no bigger on an enemy radar screen than a ringtail hawk. Unless
the search radar had been tweaked to a high degree of sensitivity
and the radar operator was experienced with stealth radar "sig-
natures," then for all practical purposes, the bomber could not
be detected until it was within twenty to twenty-five miles
of a radar transmitter. For an aircraft travelling at 500 mph, that
would mean about three minutes' warning.
The central hump that covered the cockpit sloped up from the
nose at a low tapering angle, forcing the crew seats to be set
back a good distance from the leading edge of the plane. This
impaired the pilot's field of vision, and to compensate for it, the
stealth bomber was given a large wraparound windshield and
three television cameras mounted just under the nose.
The crew was configured in some respects like that of an FB-
111 or an A-6 Intruder—just two people. The commander of the

THE FOURTH DAY
417
aircraft was the pilot in the left seat, while the person on his
right was the electronic systems officer. The ESO was a navi-
gator, bombardier, and communications/electronic warfare of-
ficer all rolled into one; and he was invariably referred to as
"Whizzo."
"Authentication signal coming through now, Skipper," said
the ESO.
The message, which had originated in the Pentagon, traveled
to SAC headquarters in Omaha via fiber-optic cable, then was
relayed to Ghost Leader's aircraft by a Milstar communications
satellite. The encrypted message came through the Oracle
scrambling system and was automatically stored in the commo
panel's microchip brain. The ESO could call up the encrypted
message on the commo panel's small digital display, but he pre-
ferred to work from the paper tape. He punched a button and
the thermal printer quickly rolled out the hard copy of five-digit
code groups. Working from a notebook on a tummy-level desk
board, he quickly decoded the message from a one-time pad. It
read: thor's hammer. He ripped the message from the pad and
handed it to his pilot. Ghost Leader and the ESO each withdrew
a sealed envelope from his own flight suit, ripped it open, and
extracted a plastic 3-by-5-inch card with printing on it. The
message—and the two plastic cards—all read thor's hammer.
Ghost Leader was a pro. A full colonel who'd been in SAC
for twenty-three years and was the chief test pilot on the stealth
bomber development program. His hair was gunmetal gray and
his face deeply lined. Yet despite all his experience and the years
and years of training, nothing quite prepared him for such a
moment as this. His throat felt dry and he gulped. Hoping his
voice sounded reasonably confident, he said to the ESO, "I
authenticate Thor's Hammer."
"Confirm," echoed the ESO—a major who was somewhat
in awe of the veteran pilot and didn't detect any nervousness in
the older man's voice. "I authenticate Thor's Hammer."
Ghost Leader gulped again and said, "All right, Whizzo, let's
proceed to the holding station. We'll wait there for a go or abort
signal. How far to the Soviet border?"
Whizzo took a glance at his Global Positioning System. The

418
STORMING INTREPID
bombers were still in Iranian airspace. "A hundred twenty-three
nautical miles to the Russian border, Skipper."
"Okay," said Leader evenly. "Is the laser channel open to
Ghost Two?"
"Hold on," said Whizzo, while twisting a hand controller.
A problem often encountered by aviators on combat missions
was die nettlesome requirement that they maintain radio silence.
Ships at sea could sometimes get around this nuisance by using
blinker signal lights, but aircraft could rarely resort to such a
time-consuming technique. So to remedy that shortcoming,
Ghost Leader's bomber possessed a communications laser beam
on its belly. The beam could be aimed at a receiver grid on the
dorsal side of his wingman's aircraft. Secure voice communi-
cations could travel back and forth between the two bombers as
long as the laser beam could stay aligned with the receiver grid—
and that was the tricky part. Keeping the beam on a three-square-
foot grid while the two aircraft lumbered along at 500 mph was
a bitch. Ghost Leader and Ghost Two were about three hundred
feet apart—Leader on top and Ghost Two below in a "stacked"
formation. The two aircraft maintained enough distance to pre-
vent them from forming a discernable radar signature, but were
close enough to allow the ESO to aim the laser beam with his
hand controller.
"Okay, Skipper, we're connected," said Whizzo, "but talk
fast. There's some turbulence out there and we could lose the
connection at any time."
The pilot keyed his mike switch. "Ghost Two, this is Ghost
Leader. I authenticate Thor's Hammer."
"Roger, Lead," came the response, "I confirm Thor's Ham-
mer."
"Okay," said the veteran pilot. "Stay below me within laser-
beam range. We may need to talk again."
"Roger, Lead. Ghost Two, out."
"All right, Whizzo, here we go. If you know any prayers, say
'em now." Ghost Leader turned the wheel on his control stick
gendy to the right and lightly depressed the rudder pedal. The
on-board computers responded, firing off electronic instructions
that deployed the right drag rudder and put the giant black bat-
wing into a slow, banking turn toward the southern border of
the Soviet Union.

THE FOURTH DAY
419
Day 5, 1103 Hours Zulu
THE SOYUZ-INTREPID RENDEZVOUS
Vasili Lubinin carefully pushed the maneuvering unit of his
space backpack through the hatch of the Soyuz orbital module.
Yemitov was already outside, and he grabbed the contraption as
it drifted out of the portal. Before leaving the capsule, Lubinin
switched on the spacecraft's radio repeater, which would relay
the voice transmissions of the cosmonauts to the Kaliningrad
Flite Control Centre. He then retrieved the remote-control trig-
gering transmitter—which looked like a handheld walkie-talkie—
and exited the Soyuz. Once outside, the two cosmonauts helped
each other clip their maneuvering units into place.
Lubinin spoke into his voice-activated microphone. "Flite
Centre, this is Soyuz. Do you read? Over."
"Roger, Soyuz, we read you. Inspect your chronometer. It
should read thirty-three minutes to retrofire ..." There was a
pause. "... now."
"Roger, Flite Centre. I copy thirty-three minutes to retrofire.
The chronometer is operating properly. We are departing now
for the American spacecraft to make final preparations."
"Roger, Soyuz. We will monitor you. Good luck."
"Thank you, Flite Centre." Lubinin turned to Yemitov.
"Come along, Sergei. Let us send the American on his way."
The two spacesuited figures engaged their thrusters, and like
two bumblebees floating from flower to flower, they transversed
the void to the Intrepid, coming to a halt over the orbiter's nose.
Iceberg's black eyes stared back at them through the windshield.
Lubinin transmitted in English. "Intrepid, we are approach-
ing the time for your retro fire. You are to put your spacecraft
into the same reentry attitude as you would normally. The thrust
and timed burn of our replacement engine should provide you
with the same retrofire characteristics as your own reentry en-
gines. We will read off the countdown and fire the engine from
outside with this remote-control triggering device." Lubinin
held up the small transmitter. "We will set the timers on the
explosive bolt clamps so they will automatically release after
you are positioned in your final reentry attitude. As I understand

420
STORMING INTREPID
it, your navigational computer is self-contained and can guide
you to the recovery runway without external assistance."
"Yeah," replied Iceberg. "The NavComputer can do that.
Better move out of the way. I'm going to close the doors and put
it into reentry position now."
"Very well," replied Lubinin. The two Russians backed away
from the shuttle and watched in admiration as the Intrepid's
cargo bay doors closed and the orbiter executed a lazy pirouette
into its retrofire position. The spacecraft was now traveling
"heads down" and backward, with its nose inclined slightly
toward earth. From this position, the thrust from the Progress
engine would brake the Intrepid and propel it toward the ground
at the same time.
After the orbiter had frozen its position, Lubinin and Yemitov
traveled to the tail section, which held the mating collar and
Progress engine. Yemitov wished they had had time to go on
board and explore the Intrepid, but there would be time enough
for that after the American was finally on the ground.
Lubinin checked his chronometer and did some mental arith-
metic. There were now seventeen minutes to ignition. Allow
three minutes for the retro burn. Another five minutes for the
spacecraft to reposition itself for atmospheric reentry. Another
three minutes for a safety margin. That meant a total of twenty-
eight minutes before firing the explosive bolts. "Set your timers
for twenty-eight minutes on my mark, Sergei."
"Roger."
"Three . . . two . . . one . . . mark." The cosmonauts each
set two timers that were equally spaced around the flange of the
rocket nozzle. This would fire all four explosive spring bolts at
roughly the same instant.
Inside the Intrepid, Iceberg was punching the reentry data into
his navigational computer. The ultrasophisticated Navcomputer
was really a nifty device. All the pilot had to do was enter the
latitude and longitude of the target landing zone and engage
the digital autopilot. The autopilot would read the data from the
NavComputer and guide the spacecraft down through reentry,
through die braking S-turns, and into the final approach. The
Intrepid also possessed an Autoland system, but that wouldn't
work without the TACAN microwave landing system on the

THE FOURTH DAY
421
ground. No matter. Iceberg figured he could handle the landing
manually. No sweat. He knew how good he was.
Day 5, 1120 Hours Zulu, 3:20 a.m. Local
VANDENBERG AIR FORCE BASE
"Kestrel, this is Launch Control."
"We read you, Launch Control," replied Monaghan.
"CSOS in Colorado says we'll have a go-no go decision on
your launch in a few minutes. The Intrepid is coming up on its
first reentry window. If it doesn't go through retrofire on this
pass you'll be able to get within range on the next go-around."
"We can hardly wait," radioed Monaghan. "No sense get-
ting all dressed up with nowhere to go."
Day 5, 1131 Hours Zulu, 2:31 p.m. Local
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE
Mission Commander Malyshev watched intently as the digi-
tal chronometer raced backward. Once again his blond hair
was pasted to his forehead in sweaty streaks. "Four minutes
to ignition," he radioed.
"Roger, Flite Centre," squawked Lubinin's voice through the
speaker box. "Everything is in readiness."
Kostiashak turned to Popov, whose rumpled uniform looked
like a potato sack. "Not long now, General. This is a glorious
moment, is it not?"
Popov shot the little man a sideways glance. "That still re-
mains to be seen, Comrade Chairman."
Day 5, 1135 Hours Zulu
THE SOVUZ-INTREPID RENDEZVOUS
"Thirty seconds!" crackled in Lubinin's earphones.
"Thirty seconds, Intrepid," relayed Lubinin. "Are you
ready?"

422
STORMING INTREPID
"Yeah," said Iceberg irritably. "I've been ready for days.
The NavComputer is locked in. You just light the candle."
Lubinin watched his wrist chronometer and read off the final
countdown, while Yemitov poised his thumb over the red firing
button of the remote-control triggering device.
"Seven ... six . . ." Lubinin's voice grew more strained as
he ticked off the final seconds.
"Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . fire!"
Yemitov mashed the red button.
And nothing happened.
Day 5, 1134 Hours Zulu, 4:34 a.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
The Crow's Nest in SPADOC was crowded, with Whitten-
berg, Fairchild, Dowd, and Lydia Strand watching the advanc-
ing ground track of the Soyuz-Intrepid rendezvous. The blinking
light on the projection map indicated the two spacecraft were
above the South Pacific—out of range of SPACECOM's Space-
track radar stations in Hawaii and the Marshall islands. To fill
in the blind spot, a NASA tracking ship had been dispatched to
that corner of the South Seas to ensure the reentry window was
covered.
Chief of Staff Dowd was on the phone to the Spacetrack mon-
itor on the floor below, while Whittenberg was holding the re-
ceiver on a direct line to Admiral Bergstrom. Sir Isaac and Strand
were monitoring a green CRT screen.
"I calculate they're entering the first retrofire window . . .
now," announced Sir Isaac. "They can initiate reentry within
the next two minutes."
Whittenberg relayed Sir Isaac's information to Bergstrom, and
seconds crawled by one at a time, until two minutes elapsed.
Dowd muttered into his receiver to the Spacetrack monitor one
last time, then looked up and announced, "No change in orbit,
General."
"Give it one more minute to be sure," ordered the CinC,
and another sixty seconds dragged by.

THE FOURTH DAY
423
Dowd spoke into the phone again, waited for a response, then
said, "It's definite, General. No retrofire on this pass."
"Good. Call CSOC and tell McCormack it's a definite go on
the Kestrel." The CinC then spoke into his own phone. "There
was no retrofire on this pass, Admiral, and we're sending the
Kestrel up."
Day 5, 1136 Hours Zulu
THE SOYUZ-INTREPID RENDEZVOUS
"Fire it, Sergei! Fire it!" pleaded Lubinin.
"I am trying!" yelled Yemitov, as he repeatedly mashed the
red button.
"What's the problem out there?" barked Iceberg.
Lubinin cursed. "We do not know, Intrepid. We have some
type of malfunction. . . . Sergei, what is wrong?"
Yemitov gave up trying. "I do not know, Vasili," he said in
an angry voice. "It could be something on this unit, or there
could be a problem with the receiver and igniter on the Progress
engine."
Lubinin swore again. "You return to the Soyuz and retrieve
the backup remote device. I will disengage the timers on the
explosive bolts. Then we must try again."
Day 5, 1137 Hours Zulu, 1:37 p.m. Local
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE
"What do you mean, a malfunction'!" demanded Kostiashak.
Popov had had it. "How the hell am I supposed to know?"
he fired back. "The damned thing did not fire! You know as
much about it as I do!"
The Chairman's cool veneer had finally cracked. Without the
Intrepid on Russian soil, his plan was on the rocks. "What can
we do?" he asked ruefully.
Popov sighed. "Not a great deal. I will contact the Chief
Designer at Baikonur and have him patched into the communi-
cations link. Maybe there is something he can do, but I doubt

424
STORMING INTREPID
it. It is all up to the cosmonauts now. Perhaps they can diagnose
the problem, but they must do it quickly. There are only eighty-
seven minutes to the next reentry window."
Kostiashak got a grip on himself. He must, he told himself,
' 'play out the play.'' He summoned Colonel Borisov and rapidly
scratched out a message. "See to it that this message is trans-
mitted to the General Secretary's aircraft."
"At once, Comrade Chairman."
Day 5, 1144 Hours Zulu, 2:44 p.m. Local
THE STEALTH BOMBERS
"Message coming in now, Skipper," said Whizzo. "Gimme
a sec." He rapidly decoded the four-letter epistle and handed it
to the pilot.
"Damn!" Ghost Leader grimaced as he glanced at the mes-
sage. It read: hold.
The two black batwings were flying a rectangular holding
pattern in Soviet airspace near the Initial Point (IP) for their
bomb run. The Baikonur runway was some 250 miles distant.
They had remained undetected by radar, and visual detection
was highly unlikely because a quilt of giant cumulonimbus
clouds blanketed the Kazakhstan steppes. The two bombers were
still flying in a loose "stacked" formation—one on top of the
other—about three hundred feet apart at an altitude of thirty-
three thousand feet. They were ducking in and out of the fluffy
towers, and although flying inside the clouds made for a bumpy
ride, the extra concealment was welcome.
"Is the laser channel open?" asked Ghost Leader.
"Roger, Skipper," replied Whizzo.
The pilot keyed his mike switch. "Ghost Two, this is Lead.
Did you copy the message?"
"Roger, Lead."
' 'Okay, then. It looks like we gotta kill another ninety minutes
up here. We'll stay in the clouds as much as possible until we
get a go-no go from Omaha. Apparently that shuttle hasn't
started to come down yet."
"I copy, Lead," said Ghost Two. "We're with you."

THE FOURTH DAY
425
Day 5, 1210 Hours Zulu
THE S0YUZ-/N7REP/D RENDEZVOUS
The antenna which fed into the triggering device for the Prog-
ress engine was sticking out of a tiny hole at the base of the
engine.
"The base is sealed shut," said Chief Designer Vostov in a
tired voice, "and it is inaccessible from your position. All you
can do is feel the antenna itself to determine if it is firmly at-
tached to its anchor point on the igniter inside the engine."
Lubinin reached out and gently probed the thin wire. "It ap-
pears to be securely fastened, Comrade Chief Designer."
There was a pause on the other end. "Very well,'' said Vostov
finally. "All you can do is use the backup remote-control trig-
ger. Perhaps there was a flaw in the first one. Try to position
yourself as close to the antenna as you dare when you engage
the trigger. Remember, the signal is line-of-sight."
Lubinin sighed. "Yes, Comrade Chief Designer."
Inside the Intrepid, Iceberg had almost blown a fuse. All he
knew was that the jerry-rigged engine hadn't fired, and that was
followed by a lot of radio chatter in Russian—which he couldn't
understand.
Yemitov floated into view and hovered over the nose.
"So what's the holdup?" demanded Iceberg.
"There was some type of malfunction of our triggering de-
vice. We are going to try again"—Yemitov checked his wrist
chronometer—"in forty-three minutes. We will use a backup
transmitter."
Iceberg was not pleased. "What's your name, anyway?" he
asked the Russian.
Yemitov hesitated a moment. He was repelled by Iceberg's
black eyes. They seemed to bore right through him. Carefully
he replied, "Sergei."
"Yeah, well, I have something to tell you, Sergei."
Yemitov felt a chill. "And what is it that you wish to say to
me?"
Iceberg's eyes were flint hard. "Don't fuck it up this time."

426
STORMING INTREPID
Day 5, 1210 Hours Zulu, 2:10 p.m. Local
THE GENERAL SECRETARY'S
ILYUSHIN JETLINER
General Secretary Vorontsky's private Ilyushin was a sump-
tuous vehicle that was divided into three compartments. The
forward section was a lounge area with a small bar. The middle
compartment was a study, possessing a custom-made desk and
chair, while the rear cabin was a bedroom.
One of Vorontsky's greatest pleasures was taking the jetliner
to Western capitals for state visits. He enjoyed the pomp and
circumstance of an airport arrival, while his wife enjoyed shop-
ping sprees at Harrods or Saks Fifth Avenue with her American
Express card.
On other occasions he would take the jetliner into Siberia for
a fishing trip at Lake Baikal—often in the company of someone
other than his wife.
The aircraft's bartender had just handed the General Secretary
his third vodka when the captain came out of the cockpit with a
message. The General Secretary quickly scanned the note and
looked up at the pilot. "This message is from Comrade Kosti-
ashak. He says General Popov thought it best to bring down the
American spacecraft after one more orbit, and that it will land
at Baikonur at approximately six p.m. When are we scheduled
to arrive there?"
"At approximately the same time, depending on the head-
winds," replied the pilot.
The General Secretary smiled and sipped his vodka. "Mar-
velous. Perhaps we will be able to watch it land after all."
Day 5, 1237 Hours Zulu, 4:37 a.m. Local
VANDENBERG AIR FORCE BASE
Like the sands of an hourglass, the remaining time on Peter
Lamborghini's digital chronometer quickly evaporated. When it
hit 00:00:00, he heard, "Ignition!" and felt the vibration of the
Titan 34-D's rumbling engines.
The Titan's propulsion system was similar to the shuttle's in

THE FOURTH DAY
427
that it possessed two solid-fuel boosters mounted as outriggers
to a center liquid-fuel engine. When all three elements worked
together they produced 3.5 million pounds of thrust.
As the vibrations increased, Lamborghini remembered the
lift-off of his orientation flight aboard the shuttle Antares. That
launch was daunting, to be sure, but riding aloft in the Kestrel
gave him a more intimate feeling with the booster—as if the
Titan rocket were strapped right to his ass. He watched the
gantry disappear from view and heard, "Lift-off, Kestrel! We
have lift-off! Everything's looking fine. Transferring you to
CSOC. Good hunting."
'' Roger, Launch Control,'' replied Monaghan,'' and thanks."
Lamborghini felt the cabin pressurize while the mounting
g-forces pushed him back into his seat. The Titan 34-D was
ascending rapidly, punching a hole in the night sky and pushing
up the needle on the machometer. As the speed increased, Lam-
borghini's confidence—which had been shattered by the destruc-
tion of the Constellation—seemed to return, and he found he
liked the idea of springing this surprise on the Russians. It was
time to even up the ledger. He looked out the side window, and
even though it was night, he could begin to make out the cur-
vature of the earth.
"How're you doin', Hot Rod?" queried Monaghan.
"Doin' okay, Mad Dog. Let's nail these bastards."
Monaghan liked the firmness in his partner's voice. "Awright,
that's my guy."
Day 5, 1240 Hours Zulu, 2:40 p.m. Local
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE
The liaison officer, who kept tabs on activity at the Aerospace
Defense Warning Centre, was rocked out of his lethargy by the
beep coming from his computer terminal. He'd been focusing
on the upcoming reentry procedure of the Intrepid, like every-
one else, and the last thing he'd expected was an alarm. He
immediately began tapping on his keyboard, and when the data
appeared on his screen, he yelped, "Launch detection, Com-
mander!"

428
STORMING INTREPID
Popov, Kostiashak, and the mission commander looked up.
"Where?" demanded Malyshev.
The liaison officer kept tapping rapidly. "Coming out of the
Vandenberg cosmodrome . . . wait one moment. . . vector one-
eight-seven degrees. I am putting it on the plot board." He hit
the proper keys and a short ground-track line appeared out of
California, far south of the Soyuz-Intrepid rendezvous position.
The Soyuz and the Intrepid had just crossed the Arctic Circle
and were on a southerly heading toward their next retrofire at-
tempt over the South Pacific.
"What is it?" demanded Kostiashak.
"I have no idea," replied Popov. "But if you thought the
Americans were going to sit on their hands while we destroyed
one of their shuttles and tried to steal another, then you are a
fool."
The Chairman's eyes flashed, but he contained himself. "How
long until the next reentry attempt?"
Popov looked at the time display. "Twenty-three minutes. It
would appear the American rocket will approach our vessels
approximately the same time as we retrofire."
Day 5, 1240 Hours Zulu, 5:40 a.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
Strand watched her green CRT screen, which was receiving
a data readout on the Kestrel launch from CSOC. "Solid boost-
ers have separated on the Titan," she announced. "So far, so
good."
The ground tracks on the giant center projection screen
showed the spacecraft were heading south and approaching the
equator. The Kestrel would cross it first, but the Soyuz and the
Intrepid were rapidly gaining because of their greater velocity.

THE FOURTH DAY
429
Day 5, 1243 Hours Zulu
THE KESTREL
Mad Dog felt a vibration as he checked the control panel.
"Liquid booster has separated," he radioed. "We're clear. Lin-
ing up orbit insertion burn now." The Kestrel was completely
free of its Titan booster and would now rely on its own orbital
maneuvering system (OMS) engines.
"Roger, Kestrel," said the Cap Com from CSOC. "You are
go for insertion burn."
Monaghan checked his attitude direction indicator to confirm
it was in the inertial mode and that the digital autopilot was
engaged. The NavComputer was wired into the autopilot and
would execute the firing of the OMS engine to insert (hem into
orbit. Mad Dog kept his hand off the pitch and yaw controller
and let the computers take over. "Here we go, Hot Rod."
"I'm with you," replied Lamborghini. '
The flight plan called for the Kestrel to be inserted into the
same orbital vector as the Soyuz and Intrepid, but the space
fighter's initial position would be two hundred miles behind and
fifteen miles below its target. The strategy was to initially keep
some distance, in order to guard against any AS AT weapons the
Soyuz might have brought along. From two hundred miles away,
Lamborghini would scan the Intrepid with the long-range radar
and engage it with the Phoenix missiles. Then the space fighter
would close the gap to inspect the damaged shuttle, or finish it
off with the Sidewinders.
Because the Kestrel was traveling in a lower orbital plane, it
could catch up to the Intrepid like a sprinter who had the inside
track around a curve.
No attempt would be made to disable or board the Intrepid.
Monaghan and Lamborghini were to simply blast it out of the
sky.

430
STORMING INTREPID
Day 5, 1253 Hours Zulu
THE SOYUZ-INTREPID RENDEZVOUS
"They what?" cried Iceberg.
"Just as I told you, Intrepid," explained Lubinin patiently.
"We have received word from our Flite Centre that the Ameri-
cans have launched a vehicle from your Vandenberg cosmo-
drome. It is approaching our position on this same axis of
advance. Flite Centre wants to know if you have any idea what
it could be."
Iceberg began sweating as his mind raced. What could it be?
Not an ASAT missile. Those had been destroyed under the treaty.
Besides, they were launched from an airborne F-15 fighter, not
from a launch facility like Vandenberg. Another shuttle? No
way. They couldn't possibly have prepared another shuttle in
just a few days. And it couldn't be a manned vehicle. The shuttle
was the only manned launch vehicle in the U.S. inventory. What
could it be, then? Some ASAT improvisation? Or a photorecon
bird? Yeah. Recon. Now that made more sense.
"Tell your Flite Centre I don't know for sure, but it's my guess
it's some kind of reconnaissance satellite coming up to take
close-up pictures of what's going on."
Lubinin wasn't convinced, but said, "Very well," and in-
formed Kaliningrad.
Iceberg was impatient. "How much time until we try your
retro engine again?"
"Eleven minutes," replied Yemitov.
"Good," said Iceberg. "I'll be out of here before they can
do anything with that Vandenberg vehicle, whatever it might
by."
"Yes," observed Lubinin. "You will be."

THE FOURTH DAY
431
Day 5, 1258 Hours Zulu
THE KESTREL
After the OMS engines shut down, Monaghan jettisoned the
launch shrouds covering the Phoenix missiles on the topside
wing pylons. Then he activated the reaction control thrusters so
he could maneuver the space fighter.
The three spacecraft were now orbiting on a roughly common
ground track in single file, heading south above the South Pa-
cific. The Intrepid was in the lead, followed closely by the So-
yuz. The Kestrel was 217 miles behind.
"Take a look, Hot Rod. See what you can find."
"Roger," said Lamborghini, and he turned on the powerful
AWG-14 Doppler-pulse radar. Using the hand controller, he ro-
tated the slotted planar antenna in the nose cone to search for
the rogue spacecraft. Around and around he went, peppering
the target space with electromagnetic pulsed from the LTV ra-
dar, but his tactical information display (TID) screen remained
blank. "I'm not getting anything, Mad Dog."
Monaghan's earphones crackled. "Kestrel, this is CSOC.
Please advise on your status."
"Nothing yet," replied Monaghan. "We're still scanning with
the radar. Anything you can tell us?"
"Wait one," ordered the Cap Com. "The Intrepid is already
being scanned by the NASA tracking ship. We're waiting for
you to come into range. Yeah. Okay, they've got you! We mark
you two-one-seven miles behind the Intrepid and one-seven miles
below. Also, your ground track is slightiy west of the target.
You copy that?"
"Roger, CSOC," said Monaghan, and he yawed the space
fighter a bit to the right. "Try it now, Hot Rod."
Again, Lamborghini swept the ether with his planar antenna.
"I've got something!"
Mad Dog whooped. "That's gotta be them. CSOC, we got
'em in our sights."
"We copy, Kestrel," replied the Cap Com in Colorado. "Ea-
gle One says take the shot as soon as you can."
"Roger," said Lamborghini as he began powering up the
electronics in the Phoenixes. "It's hard to say for sure at this

432
STORMING INTREPID
range, Mad Dog, but the TID screen says we're picking up two
signatures."
"You probably are," said Monaghan. "A big one and a
smaller one, I bet."
"Yeah. Very little separation between them, though."
"I figure the big one is Iceberg," speculated Monaghan, "and
the small blip is that Russian Soyuz. Better take 'em both out to
be sure."
"Roger," said Lamborghini. "Seems a shame to blast the
Soyuz, too. Those Russian cosmonauts are probably just follow-
ing orders."
"Yeah. That's a shame," agreed Monaghan. "Now nail the
fuckers."
Lamborghini flipped on the Phoenix AWG-14 fire-control sys-
tem, then punched in some keystrokes on the armament panel,
which assigned a target, and a target priority, to each missile.
He set both Phoenixes for dependent guidance, so they would
be guided by the Kestrel's radar for most of their death journey.
Lastly, he popped open the safety cover on the red arming switch
and flipped it to engage. The two blips on his TID screen
started blinking, indicating the missiles were locked onto their
targets in the priority sequence he had assigned. All Lamborgh-
ini had to do now was press the red button on the hand control-
ler. "We've got lock-on, Mad Dog."
"Take 'em!" ordered Monaghan.
There was a white flash as the first Phoenix leapt off the left
pylon. Monaghan instinctively blinked, and the Kestrel wobbled
slightly from the missile's release. But the fire-control computer
quickly readjusted the spaceplane's attitude so it would regain
its stability for the next shot. A few moments elapsed, and with
a second flash, the final Phoenix raced into the night sky.
As Monaghan watched the two white dots streak off in the
distance, he said, "God, Hot Rod, that was weird. I didn't hear
a thing."
Lamborghini watched his screen. "The TID's readout says
five minutes, thirty seconds to impact."

THE FOURTH DAY
433
Day 5, 1300 Hours Zulu
THE SOYUZ-INTREPID RENDEZVOUS
"Five minutes to retrofire," radioed Lubinin. He and Yemi-
tov were a mere sixty feet from the tail of the Intrepid, and as
close to the Progress retro engine as they dared be. They could
only hope their backup trigger transmitter would function prop-
erly. "If the device works this time, Intrepid, the American
spacecraft will be too late to prevent your escape."
"Just make sure it does work this time," replied Iceberg. "I
don't want to have to ride down with you guys in that Soyuz
capsule."
Lubinin didn't tell the American that if they failed, they'd all
be better off just staying in orbit.
As the seconds dragged by inside the Intrepid, Iceberg found
himself perspiring again, and the little droplets of sweat re-
mained suspended around his face. It had to work this time. The
success of his lifetime mission now rested on a silicon chip
inside a hand-held device. Would it work or wouldn't it? He
cursed, but whispered no prayer. If an atheist could be devout,
then Iceberg was devout. His god had become the mission—the
final, complete obedience to his mother.
Day 5, 1305 Hours Zulu
THE KESTREL
Lamborghini was glued to his TID screen now. The range to
target was rapidly shrinking as the Phoenix missiles homed in
on their targets at 2,500 miles per hour. "Sixty seconds to im-
pact," he said in a tight voice. "Switching to independent guid-
ance now." He punched the appropriate button on the armament
panel, and the missiles' on-board planar antennae became ac-
tive. From this point, the Phoenixes would guide themselves in
for the terminal kill phase.
"Forty seconds," announced Lamborghini.

434
STORMING INTREPID
Day 5, 1305 Hours Zulu
THE SOYUZ-INTREPID RENDEZVOUS
"Seven . . . six . . . five ..." Lubinin read off the count-
down one last time. "... Four . . . three . . . two . . . one
. . . fire!"
Yemitov mashed the red button, and the Progress engine
erupted before them, silently belching out a tower of yellow
flame.
"We have ignition!" shouted Lubinin as the Intrepid started
moving away.
For Iceberg, the vibration from the jerry-rigged engine im-
parted an almost sexual feeling of release. At last—at long
last—he was on his way. Yet instinctively, he peered out the
window—as if he might be able to see the American bogie
that had been sent up from Vandenberg.
Day 5, 1306 Hours Zulu
THE KESTREL
Lamborghini had become mesmerized by the TID screen.
"How's it lookin'?" asked Mad Dog.
"Thirty seconds," came the clipped response, then, "hold
on a minute—what is this?"
"What is what?" demanded Monaghan.
Lamborghini blinked a few times to make sure he was seeing
it correctly. "Mad Dog, I'm picking up a third radar signature."
"What? A third signature?"
"Yeah, a third image," replied Lamborghini. "It's moving
away from the other two and becoming more distinct. Its range
is increasing . . . and it's descending."
"What about the other two?" asked Monaghan.
Lamborghini was flustered now. "Still stationary. The first
Phoenix will impact in five seconds."

THE FOURTH DAY
435
Day 5, 1306 Hours Zulu
THE SOYUZ-INTREPID RENDEZVOUS
Yemitov's blue eyes watched the Intrepid grow smaller and
smaller in the distance. "We did it, Vasili! We did it!" cried the
cosmonaut in exultation.
Lubinin was about to echo his compatriot's excitement when,
over Yemitov's shoulder, he noticed a white flash in the distance.
Puzzled, he pointed with his gloved hand. "Sergei ... I saw
something over there."
Yemitov was turning to look behind him when the nearby
Soyuz silently exploded in a burst of light, sending fragments
spinning in all directions.
Day 5, 1306 Hours Zulu
THE KESTREL
"We have impact on one!" shouted Lamborghini. "And
two!"
"What about the third one?" demanded Monaghan.
Lamborghini watched the screen. "It's still there . . . range
still increasing . . . and descending. I don't understand. Where
could it have come from?"
The answer was painfully simple. One of Lamborghini's
targets—which the $128 million Phoenix-VII prototype had de-
stroyed—was the spent launch shroud that had covered the Prog-
ress engine and mating collar while they were transported on the
Russian cargo booster. After being jettisoned, the launch shroud
had drifted a mile from the other two spacecraft—reflecting a lovely
radar signature.
At the same time, the Soyuz was poised directly between the
Kestrel and the Intrepid, where the butterfly solar panels of the
Soviet spacecraft blocked Lamborghini's radar sweeps before
they could strike the American shuttle. When the Intrepid retro-
fired and moved out from behind the "mask" of the Soyuz, the
Kestrel's AWG-14 radar picked it up—too late to assign it as a
target for the Phoenix missiles.

436
STORMING INTREPID
"Range still increasing." Lamborghini was reluctant to
admit what was coming into focus as the bitter truth. "Mad
Dog ... I think that's Iceberg getting away."
Monaghan didn't even take time to think. With his four thou-
sand hours in jet fighter aircraft and his Irish chromosomes,
nothing but distilled instinct governed him now. He spat, "My
ass!" then disengaged the autopilot from the fire-control com-
puter and quickly flipped the Kestrel so it was traveling upside
down and backward. He checked the attitude direction indicator
to make sure his alignment was correct, then without hesitation
he mashed the trigger button to fire the OMS engines.
As the spacecraft vibrated, Lamborghini shouted, "Mad Dog!
What the hell are you doing?"
Monaghan felt himself sink into his seat as the braking action
of the OMS engine took effect. "I'm going after that son of a
bitch!"
Day 5, 1300 Hours Zulu, 5:00 p.m. Local
A MIG-29 FULCRUM OVER
THE KAZAKHSTAN STEPPES
Oh, joy! This was flying!
Lt. Fyodor Tupelov put his MiG-29 into a double snap roll
and howled in absolute delight.
The young aviator had been a top graduate from the Frunze
military academy, as well as the number-one graduate in his flite
school class. His proficiency, his Party activism, and the fact
that his father was a high-level Party apparatchik had enabled
Tbpelov to land a plum assignment—flying the highly sophisti-
cated MiG-29 Fulcrum fighter with the 77th Interceptor Regi-
ment at Tbilisi. It was a rare honor for such a young man, and
he was one of only two lieutenant pilots in the entire regiment.
Such expensive and sophisticated aircraft were usually entrusted
to older, more experienced aviators.
And what an aircraft this Fulcrum was! The athletic, blond
Tbpelov often boasted that with a Fulcrum he'd gladly go to the
newly reoccupied Afghanistan for a chance to tangle with one

THE FOURTH DAY
437
of those vaunted Pakistani F-16s. Yet because he was a young
officer, Tupelov rarely got the opportunity to push his sophisti-
cated MiG-29 to the edge of it performance "envelope." The
Fulcrum was an expensive plane, and despite his flite school
credentials, T\ipelov was young. Therefore, tight controls were
consistently imposed on his flying. Always, from the moment
he took off until he landed, his every movement was monitored
by senior commanders and ground controllers. On any given
training mission, Hipelov was told when to take off, when to
join the formation, when to peel off from the formation, what
training maneuver to execute, when to execute it, when to stop,
and when to rejoin the formation. Everything was done within
strict parameters. He never had a chance to truly let loose and
bore holes in the sky—no opportunity to become one with the
aircraft.
Until now.
Hipelov had just picked up a brand-spanking-new Fulcrum
from the air-maintenance depot at Tselinograd and was en route
to join his regiment at Tbilisi near the Black Sea. His new Ful-
crum had been outfitted with its complement of AA-10 and
Aphid missiles, along with external tanks to carry the aircraft
through the 3,000-kilometer journey. Tupelov was alone with
his aircraft, flying over the Kazakhstan steppes, which were cov-
ered with a patchwork quilt of giant cumulonimbus clouds. The
young pilot was having the time of his life, snaking through the
canyons created by the giant white thunderheads—rolling,
climbing, and playing tag with the airborne pillows to his heart's
content. He'd always dreamed flying could be like this, and now
his dreams were fulfilled.
But Hipelov wasn't one to let his headiness carry him too far.
In zipping over and around the clouds, the last thing he needed
was a midair collision. He checked his map and saw that he was
crossing into another air traffic control division—Sector 23-R.
He set his radio for the proper frequency and keyed his mike.
"Air control division, two-three-Romeo, this is MiG seven-
seven-echo, do you read? Over."
"Roger, seven-seven-echo," came a detached voice over the
radio, "we read you, over."
T\ipelov said, "I am flying on air defense flite plan number
niner-seven-whiskey-foxtrot, from Tselinograd to Tbilisi, on

438
STORMING INTREPID
vector two-three-two at eight thousand meters altitude. I am on
visual flite rules. Is there any traffic in my area? Over."
"Stand by," came the robotic voice. A few seconds elapsed,
then, "Negative, seven-seven-echo. You have no traffic in your
sector except for an Aeroflot jetliner. It is seventy kilometers
east of you at eleven thousand meters altitude en route to New
Delhi on vector one-five-seven."
Seventy kilometers east, and Ttopelov was traveling west. The
path ahead of him was clear as could be. "Roger, air control
two-three-Romeo. Thank you. MiG seven-seven-echo, out."
But the ground controller wasn't finished yet. "We have no-
ticed your course has been somewhat erratic, MiG seven-seven-
echo. Are you having any difficulty with your aircraft?" The
question was asked in a quasi-threatening tone, and this caused
TUpelov to be wary. Ground controllers were always snoopy—
and arrogant. They acted as if they owned the airspace. Tupelov
wanted to give a response that was plausible, yet not offensive.
Something that would not stir up any trouble, but allow him to
keep having a good time. He keyed his mike and tried to sound
authoritative. "There is no problem, air control. I am checking
out the performance on a new aircraft." Which was true. "Re-
quest clearance for discretionary climb and descent between
seven thousand and twelve thousand meters on my present vec-
tor."
"Very well, seven-seven-echo. Proceed at your discretion,
but you are advised not to deviate from your flite plan."
That meant no loops or backtracking, but as long as he kept
heading for Tbilisi, he could play as much as he wanted to—
until he came within range of his regimental radar control cen-
tre. Then he would have to play it by the book. "Thank you, air
control two-three-Romeo. MiG seven-seven-echo will comply
with your instructions. Out.'' The young pilot smiled. Evidently
he'd sounded authoritative enough. Now he could have some
more fun.
Hipelov was cruising along the top of a puffy field of clouds
at eight thousand meters altitude, but ahead of him the clouds
billowed up into two Goliath thunderheads, extending to fifteen
thousand meters in height and creating a giant canyon between
them. Hipelov hooted, then shoved his throttles in and climbed
up the middle of the canyon. At eleven thousand meters he lev-

THE FOURTH DAY
439
eled off and wove back and forth between the canyon walls-
brushing up against one fluffy side, then the other. Ahhhhhh!
Complete delight! He was deep into the canyon gorge now, and
he brought his aircraft midway between the white towers to put
the Fulcrum into a slow, lazy barrel roll. Hipelov was halfway
through his aerobatic maneuver—poised in the heads-down in-
verted position—when two giant black batwings roared out of
the cloud bank, sandwiched his Fulcrum between them, and
then plunged into the far canyon wall—vanishing as quickly
as they had appeared.
Day 5, 1305 Hours Zulu, 5:05 p.m. Local
THE STEALTH BOMBERS
Had Ghost Leader not been held firm by his shoulder har-
ness, he would have leapt out of his seat as he screamed,
"Shit!"—and yelped at his companion, "Did you see that!?"
Whizzo's bug eyes were transfixed on the nose-camera video
screen."Yeah!" he replied in a quaking voice. "And I think I
saw some missiles under the wing!"
Ghost Leader uttered another high-pitched "Shit!" Then he
gulped and asked, "Is the laser channel open?"
Whizzo nervously fiddled with his hand controller before say-
ing, "Open, Skipper."
The pilot keyed his mike. "Ghost Two, this is Lead. Did you
see that?"
"See it?" came the excited reply. "I nearly took his fucking
tail section off!"
Lead's stomach started knotting up. "Oh, great, just what we
need. Did you catch what it was?"
"I dunno," said Ghost Two anxiously. "It was too fast. A
Fulcrum? Maybe a Flanker? Can't say. Whatever it was, it had
a double tail—I can tell you that for sure. It didn't clear my
windshield by more than ten feet. You think they got us spot-
ted?"
"I don't know. Hold on." Leader was sweating as he turned
to the major and asked, "You picking up anything?"
The Whizzo scanned his instruments. "Nothing, Skipper.

440
STORMING INTREPID
Threat board shows only normal search radars working. Noth-
ing in the X-ray or India bands."
"My Whizzo says we're not picking up any SAM search, air-
to-air search, or lock-on," said Leader to Ghost TVvo. "Only
normal navigational search."
"My Whizzo says the same thing," replied Two. "But how
did they know where to look for us?"
"Damned if I know," said Leader through his teeth. "Listen,
we better split up and take evasive action. If Omaha transmits
the go signal, you take the alternate southern approach to the
target and I'll come in from the north. Stay in the clouds as
much as you can. They may be looking for us, but I bet we're
still blind on their radar."
"Roger, Lead. We'll see you back in Muskrat"—slang for
Muscat. "If we get the go, put your load where it counts."
"You got it, Ghost Two. Good luck. Lead out." After cutting
the transmission, Leader said through the intercom, "All right,
Whizzo, I don't know how they found us, but it looks like we've
been spotted. Even so, we're sticking with the game plan. I
think we'll be okay as long as we stay in the clouds. If we get
the go, Ghost T\vo will approach from the south and we'll come
in from the north. Keep an eye on that threat board."
"Roger, Skipper."
Leader pushed his control stick forward and turned the wheel.
The batwing responded and began a lumbering, diving turn to
the northeast.
Day 5, 1306 Hours Zulu, 5:06 p.m. Local
THE FULCRUM
Fyodor Tbpelov tried to hold the Fulcrum steady in level flight,
but he was shaking so violently from fright that it was difficult.
And when his shaking turned into sobs, it became almost im-
possible. God in heaven! What had he seen? Those big, black,
sinister creatures had come out of nowhere and almost swal-
lowed his Fulcrum. They did not look of this world. Tbpelov
clutched the control stick with two hands. He'd never known
such panic. He forced himself to take long, even breaths. Good.

THE FOURTH DAY
441
That helped . . . deeper breaths now. Better. He kept the oxygen
going in and out, and slowly the terror subsided. Hipelov was
regaining control of himself and his aircraft. As the clouds
whipped by his cockpit, he told himself to go back to flite school
basics. Identify the problem, then correct it.
First, what were they? They were unlike anything Hipelov
had ever seen. The concept of a UFO was foreign to him, so it
didn't even enter his mind. He knew that however bizarre, those
flying black batwings were of this earth. And if they were in
Russian airspace, that meant the ground air traffic controllers
had to know about them; for in the Soviet Union, no one ever
left the ground without filing a laborious flite plan. And if that
was the case, the air controller in Sector 23-Romeo had been
grossly negligent, incredibly stupid, or had deliberately lied to
him. When this thought took hold in Hipelov's mind, his fear
was quickly supplanted by anger—a deep, searing, blinding
fury—and he keyed his mike. "Air control division, Sector two-
three-Romeo, this is MiG seven-seven-echo. Do you read?
Over."
There was a pause until a bored voice came on the air. "Roger,
seven-seven-echo, we read you, over."
Hipelov recognized the voice as the one that had given him
his original clearance. "Air control, on our last transmission I
thought you said there was no air traffic in my area!"
There were some moments of silence before the controller
came back: "Affirmative, seven-seven-echo. I have you on my
screen at one-one-zero-seven-eight meters altitude, bearing two-
two-niner degrees. There is no traffic in your area except for the
Aeroflot flite you were advised of earlier."
Hipelov's face turned scarlet. "You listen to me, you stupid
ass! I just avoided a midair collision by no more than three
meters with two unidentified aircraft! Why did you not advise
me of them?"
The controller responded in a puzzled voice, "You say you
almost had a midair collision?"
"Yes, you ass! How many times do I have to repeat myself?
Your negligence could have gotten me killed!"
There was a pause before the controller said, "You are mis-
taken, seven-seven-echo. I see nothing on my screen in your
area but your aircraft.''

442
STORMING INTREPID
"Mistaken! I could have touched those bogies if I had wanted
to! Are you asleep down there? Or just stupid? Or both?"
There was another pause, longer this time, and a different
voice came on the radio. "MiG seven-seven-echo, this is the
commander of Sector two-three-Romeo air traffic division. You
claim you had a near miss?"
The feet that the ground control commander was on the radio
stole some of T\ipelov's thunder, but nevertheless, he pressed
his case. "Yes, Commander, that is correct."
"Describe the aircraft to me," ordered the commander.
"There were two aircraft," said Hipelov precisely. "Delta
shaped. Black in color. No maricings that I could see. Very
large. Bigger than a Backfire bomber. Perhaps as big as a Black-
jack."
A moment of silence. "Big as a Blackjack bomber?"
"Yes, Commander," replied Hipelov.
It was a biting voice that came over the radio now. "You listen
to me, MiG seven-seven-echo. If we can see your tiny aircraft
on our screen, do you not think we would be able to see two
huge Blackjack-sized airplanes?"
Hipelov was careful. "Yes, Commander, I would think so.
Are you saying you are not tracking them?"
"That is exactly what I am saying, seven-seven-echo," re-
plied the commander. "We are tracking no aircraft of any kind
near your location, except for the Aeroflot jediner that is far
from you. How do you explain that?"
Puzzled, Hipelov said, "I cannot explain it, Commander. I
only know what I saw. The two aircraft were very large, and I
almost collided with one."
A grunt came over the air. "Would you be suffering from
hypoxia, seven-seven-echo?"
Hipelov was startled at this suggestion. "Absolutely not,
Commander. My oxygen is working fine."
Another grunt. "Your flite plan shows you are assigned to the
77th Interceptor Regiment at Tbilisi. Is that correct?"
"That is correct, Commander."
The ground control commander's voice was hard now. "You
are hereby ordered to continue on your flite plan. I am preparing
a report about your hallucinations that will be on your com-
manding officer's desk when you arrive. In the future, I suggest

THE FOURTH DAY
443
you stay away from the vodka before piloting one of the Moth-
erland's aircraft."
"But Comrade Commander," protested Thpelov, "I saw—"
"Our radar can see better than your vodka-filled, bloodshot
eyes, MiG seven-seven-echo. In fact, I can see you now on my
screen, but I do not see these two Blackjack-sized aircraft you
claim to have nearly collided with. Now quit hallucinating, get
off this channel, and report to your commanding officer in Tbi-
lisi at once! Preferably sober. Sector two-three-Romeo, out."
Now another kind of fear gripped Tupelov. If such a report
made it to his commanding officer's desk, his military career
would be finished before it even began. Now he wished he'd
kept his mouth shut. . . . But no. He'd seen those two—what-
ever they were—with his own eyes. That meant they were still
out there somewhere. Why in the world couldn't the damn fool
controllers see them? Thpelov was a bright young man, and he
made a quick decision, for he knew it was fiis only chance. In
order to avoid being hauled up on the carpet, branded a drunk-
ard, and busted out of the service, he had to find those mystery
aircraft and report their location. He scanned his instruments,
and rapidly computed time and distance back to where the near
collision had taken place. His external fuel tanks were almost
empty now, but the fighter's organic tanks were full. To do what
he was about do to was a violation of a ground control order. A
court-martial offense. But what did he have to lose? Could jail
be any worse than a humiliating dismissal from the Air Defense
Force? Tupelov figured one fate was just as distasteful as the
other. He gulped, jettisoned his external tanks, and whipped
the Fulcrum around in a 180-degree turn to begin his hunt for
the flying black batwings.
Day 5, 1308 Hours Zulu
THE INTREPID
Iceberg felt the vibrations of the Progress engine cease, caus-
ing him to experience relief like nothing before in his life. What-
ever the Americans had sent up from Vandenberg, it was too
litde, too late, to stop the Intrepid now. In about fifty-five min-

444
STORMING INTREPID
utes he would be touching down on the Baikonur runway, and
he was home free. He engaged the reaction control thrusters and
rotated the spacecraft into the correct attitude for atmospheric
reentry. The explosive holding the Progress engine in place
would fire shortly.
Day 5, 1308 Hours Zulu
THE KESTREL
"Monaghan!" Maj. Gen. Chester McCormack's voice rever-
berated in Mad Dog's earphones. "What kind of crazy stunt are
you trying to pull now?"
"We missed the Intrepid, Eagle One," said Mad Dog in a
flat voice, "and now we're going after it. Give me the coordi-
nates for the Baikonur Cosmodrome."
"You weren't authorized for—"
Monaghan's voice turned mean. "Save it, Eagle! I don't have
time for your bureaucratic bullshit. You want to put me in jail
after we get back home, then that's just Jake by me. But if we're
going to catch that son of a bitch Iceberg, I need those coordi-
nates—now!"
"Now you listen to me, Commander—"
"Beg pardon, sir," cut in Lamborghini, "but Mad Dog is
right. We've already gone through de-orbit burn, and there's no
way to reverse it. If we're going to have a chance at catching the
Intrepid we need the coordinates at once."
There was a pause. "All right, hang on." Another few mo-
ments passed before McCormack returned. "Okay ... the co-
ordinates for the Baikonur Cosmodrr ne are forty-seven degrees
forty-one minutes north, sixty-six degrees eleven minutes east."
Monaghan rapidly punched the numbers into the Nav-
Computer and engaged the digital autopilot. The two astronauts
immediately felt a change in the Kestrel's attitude and a quick
eight-second burn of the OMS engine. Monaghan had executed
a "seat of the pants" retro burn, and now the autopilot was
correcting the spacecraft's course alignment for its descent to
Baikonur.
"So what's your game plan?" asked Eagle One.

THE FOURTH DAY
445
"We'll try and reacquire Intrepid by radar," replied Mon-
aghan, "then see if we can close it up enough to fire the Side-
winders before we start heating up on reentry. If not, then we'll
try to pick him up after we exit the blackout."
Another few moments passed, until McCormack asked in a
resigned voice, "Do you go along with this, Pete?"
Lamborghini sighed. "Call me a late convert, but yes, sir. I
think we have no choice but to try to nail the Intrepid. Whatever
the risks."
Now it was McCormack's turn to sigh. "Since you'll be com-
ing down in Russia, make sure you find some way to destroy
the Kestrel when you land. I would say the odds of our extracting
you out of there are just about zero."
"Aye, aye, sir," replied Monaghan. "Now ifyou don't mind,
we've got some hunting to do. Okay, Hot Rod, fire up your
radar."
Day 5, 1310 Hours Zulu, 6:10 a.m. Local
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
Whittenberg, Fairchild, Dowd, and Lydia Strand stood in
open-mouthed shock as they monitored the transmission be-
tween McCormack and the Kestrel. It was inconceivable that
Lamborghini and that loco Navy pilot were going straight into
Soviet airspace to chase down the Intrepid. It was insane. But
there wasn't a blessed thing any of them could do about it.
If Whittenberg had had thirty seconds' warning that Mon-
aghan was going to try something so stupid, he could have
warned the lunatic off and told him about the stealth bombers.
But it was too late now. And Whittenberg wasn't going to put
out word about the stealth bombers over the radio without good
reason. Maybe the Russians could descramble their transmis-
sions, too. It seemed there was nothing they couldn't do these
days—and now the Kestrel was flying into their midst. The CinC
felt a load of depression sink into him. He figured Lamborghini
was as good as dead.
"Mad Dog," muttered Strand softly.
Whittenberg turned. "What was that, Major?"

446	STORMING INTREPID
Strand shrugged. "I understand Commander Monaghan's call
sign is Mad Dog ... I guess that says it all."
Whittenberg nodded. "I guess it does." He was silent for a
few moments before saying, "I shouldn't have let Pete go."
Day 5, 1311 Hours Zulu, 5:11 p.m. Local
THE FULCRUM
Fyodor TUpelov was back in the vicinity of his encounter with
the flying black batwings. The ground radar station had detected
his course reversal, and the controller was now issuing shrill
orders and vile threats over the radio. But Hipelov had made his
decision, and he turned off his radio receiver to keep the ground
chatter from distracting him.
Now then, what to do? He could chase off in the same direc-
tion he'd last seen the mystery aircraft, but that didn't feel like
the right move. He remembered a holiday trip he and his father
had once taken into Siberia to hunt for caribou. They'd found
some tracks of a small caribou herd in the snow, and the im-
petuous young Hipelov had started off after them. But their Ya-
kut guide had quickly admonished the boy. "You do not want
to be where they have been," he explained. "You want to be
where they are going." The old trapper had taken Hipelov and
his father off on a course that was at a right angle to the path of
the animal tracks, and sure enough, they'd caught the caribou
as they circled around on a feeding circuit.
Tbpelov figured that was as good a strategy as any, and banked
his aircraft sharply to the right. He'd travel due south for a hun-
dred kilometers, then make a search pattern to the southeast
until his fuel ran low and he had to put down somewhere. He
was scared. But there was no turning back now.
He cut in the Fulcrum's afterburners.

THE FOURTH DAY
447
Day 5, 1317 Hours Zulu, 3:17 p.m. Local
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE
"The explosive bolts on the engine clamps have fired,"
squawked the speaker box, "and I maneuvered the orbiter
around so I could see if the docking collar pulled free. It did.
So there should be no problem on reentry."
In a relieved voice, Mission Commander Malyshev said,
"Excellent, Intrepid. Stay in contact until you reach the trans-
mission blackout."
"Roger, Flite Centre," replied Iceberg.
The Mission Commander looked at Popov, who nodded. Ma-
lyshev keyed his mike, and asked, "Intrepid, can you tell us
anything about our Soyuz crew? They went off the air shortly
after your retrofire.''
"I have no idea, Flite Centre," said the flat voice. "Maybe
that American spacecraft out of Vandenberg had something to
do with it."
"Yes . . . perhaps so, Intrepid," said Malyshev bitterly.
Popov covered his eyes with his hands. "Vasili. . . Sergei,"
he whispered mournfully. Somehow he knew they were dead.
More blood on his hands.
Day 5, 1320 Hours Zulu
THE KESTREL
The OMS engine died as the fuel ran out.
"Dammit!" Mad Dog was pissed. Without more fuel, the
Kestrel couldn't close the gap to the Intrepid. "Can you take
him now, Hot Rod?"
Lamborghini scanned his TID screen. "He's right on the edge
of Sidewinder range at one hundred twenty-five miles. I'd hate
to waste another shot. How close can we get to him on the
backside of the blackout?"
"Probably pretty close," replied Monaghan. "I can put the
Kestrel into a litde bit steeper descent gradient than the shutde.
The NavComputer says we can make it to Baikonur as is. So we
may have a chance.''

448
STORMING INTREPID
"Then I vote we hold off and pick him up on the backside. I
think we're just wasting a missile if we try it now."
"Okay, you got it," said Mad Dog.
There was a period of silence, but Lamborghini could hear
his own heart thumping. He still couldn't believe they were go-
ing down into the Soviet Union. The typical emotions of air
combat—which combined the gut-wrenching fear of dying with
the exhilaration ofbeing alive—washed over him. "Say, Leroy?"
he said, in a jabbing use of Monaghan's Christian name.
"Yes, Peter?" replied Monaghan in an equally mocking voice.
"You really are mad as a hatter, aren't you?"
Monaghan chuckled nervously. "You betcha. A regular U.S.
Government certified Section Eight." Then in a more somber
tone he added, "Guess I should've asked you if you were game
for this action before I hit the retro switch."
Lamboighini emitted a high-strung laugh. "Guess it's a bit
late now, but no sense in having second thoughts. I pull on the
blue suit every morning, and I know what that means."
"Yeah, "agreed Monaghan. "But still, if you'd like to get out
now, it's all right with me."
Lamboighini emitted another high-pitched laugh. "Thanks,
but I think I'll tag along, if you don't mind."
Day 5, 1320 Hours Zulu
THE INTREPID
Iceberg was over Antarctica now, making preparations for
atmospheric reentry. Like the machine he was, he ran through
the procedures from memory.
First, he dumped the unused fuel from the orbital maneu-
vering engines, which Rodriquez had crippled. Since the en-
gines had not been used much, there was a considerable
amount to jettison, and it was necessary to get rid of the
excess liquid so the orbiter would be properly balanced for
reentry. Luckily, Rodriquez had not damaged the purge, vent,
and drain circuitry.
He then flipped a series of switches into their proper position:
Antiskid to on. Nose Wheel Steering to off. Air Data to nav.

THE FOURTH DAY
449
ADI Error to med. ADI rate to med. Hydrazine Main Pump to
norm.
Finally, he corrected the orbiter's attitude until its nose was
pitched up 32 degrees. This ensured that the silica tiles on the
underbelly were properly positioned to absorb the horrendous
atmospheric friction during the black hole of reentry.
Day 5, 1323 Hours Zulu, 5:23 p.m. Local
THE FULCRUM
Desperation was starting to cloud Lt. Fyodor Tupelov's
thoughts, which were already punctuated by images of a dismal
prison cell. He'd traveled a hundred kilometers south after a
quick spurt from his afterburners, and was now flying a slow,
sawtooth search pattern on a southeasterly course. There was no
sign of the mystery planes as his Fulcrum flew in and out of the
clouds. He wished he'd held his temper with the radar controller,
but it was too late to worry about that now. Besides, the near
miss had frightened him to his core, and there was no way he
could have capped his anger.
He kept searching. Whenever the Fulcrum flew into a gap
between the clouds, his eyes would dart back and forth, looking
for some sign of the black batwings. But there was none. He
activated his on-board radar and swept the airspace in front of
him, but his screen showed no return. The image of the jail cell
was becoming all too intrusive on his thoughts. . . . Then sud-
denly—there it was! At ten o'clock low! Over two thousand
meters beneath him!
Hipelov's Fulcrum flew into the clouds again for a few mo-
ments, and when the fighter broke into the clear, the mystery
aircraft was gone. He threw the fighter into a diving left turn
and headed for the spot where he thought he'd seen the black
batwing. Was his mind really playing tricks on him? Maybe he
was suffering from hypoxia? No. He rejected both scenarios.
His eyesight was excellent, and his oxygen system was working
perfectly. He'd seen the . . . whatever it was.
Again he illuminated his on-board radar, and again there were
no returns. Dammit. Where had the infernal thing gone? The

450
STORMING INTREPID
young pilot's lip was starting to quiver when the black batwing
popped out of a small thunderhead above him at two o'clock
high, traveling on the same vector. Thpelov howled in relief and
brought his fighter up to about three hundred meters behind and
a hundred meters above the mystery machine.
Inside his oxygen mask, T\ipelov's jaw dropped as he studied
the bizarre vision before him. What on earth was it? The aircraft
was unlike anything he'd ever seen. It had no vertical tail sta-
bilizer, and no engine pods, as far as he could see. He squinted
to look for markings, but he was too far back to discern the
subdued black -on-black USAF lettering on the wings. And
where was the second batwing? No matter. He had this one in
his sights, and that was enough. He turned his radio back on.
"Air control division, Sector two-three-Romeo, this is MiG
seven-seven-echo. Do you read? Over."
The response was not long in coming. "Seven-seven-echo!
This is the commander of Sector two-three-Romeo. You are to
consider yourself under arrest! I order you to put down at the
nearest airfield immediately! Is that clear?"
"I must disregard that order, Comrade Commander," replied
Tepulov.' 'I have located one of the mystery aircraft that I almost
collided with. I am on its tail at this very moment."
"I have had enough of your hallucinations, seven-seven-echo!
I have you on my screen and there are no other aircraft in your
vicinity! Do you understand me?"
Thpelov was incredulous. How could it not be on radar? It
was right there, in front of him. And this was no hallucination.
"I do not understand, Comrade Commander. I have the 'bogie'
in sight not three hundred meters ahead of me. As I said before,
it is approximately the size of a Blackjack bomber."
"Enough of this lunacy!" screamed the radar commander.
"You listen to me, seven-seven-echo—"
"No!" shot back Thpelov. "You listen, Commander! I think
you are the one who is drinking the vodka. I have in my sights,
at this moment, a large unidentified aircraft. I demand you con-
nect me with your superior so I may report this sighting. You
are obviously incompetent and unfit to execute your duties."
"You are a dead man, seven-seven-echo! I will personally see
to it that you are court-martialed and shot! There is no uniden-
tified aircraft!"

THE FOURTH DAY
451
T\ipelov heard desperation in the commander's voice, so he
played his trump card. "Very well, Comrade Commander. You
give me no choice. If you do not patch me through to your
superior, I am going to shoot this nonexistent aircraft down. Do
you understand me? Shoot it down—that is my mission as an
interceptor pilot, after all. Then when an investigation team finds
the debris of this nonexistent aircraft, you will have to explain
why you could not locate such a large airborne object on your
radar. Then we will see which one of us hangs. . . . Now patch
me through to your superior. At once!"
There was a long pause before a chastened voice responded:
"Wait one ... I am patching you through to the Aerospace
Defense Warning Centre."
Day 5, 1330 Hours Zulu
THE INTREPID
Iceberg watched the external temperature gauge start to inch
up. His altitude was 400,000 feet above the earth, traveling at
16,500 mph, and the external tiles were beginning to warm up.
He jettisoned the remaining fuel in the forward reaction control
tanks to further improve the spacecraft's balance, then inflated
his anti-g pressure suit and switched the pitch, yaw, and roll
controls to auto. In five minutes he would be in die grip of the
blackout, and until he took back manual control, the guidance
of the spacecraft rested in the hands of the NavComputer and
digital autopilot.
Day 5, 1330 Hours Zulu
THE KESTREL
Monaghan hit the switch, and the pylons which had held the
Phoenix missiles in place on top of die wings were released.
Lamborghini watched diem drift up and away from the space-
craft, and felt the pressure inside his spacesuit increase.
"The outside is heating up," said Monaghan. "On the way
down I'm gonna make the S-turns a littie tighter than pro-

452
STORMING INTREPID
grammed so we can reel in Iceberg on the flip side of the black-
out. We're not gonna have that much time to find him before we
have to put down somewhere, so let's keep the radar warmed
up."
"I'm with you, Mad Dog."
Day 5, 1328 Hours Zulu, 4:28 p.m. Local
SOVIET AEROSPACE DEFENSE
WARNING CENTRE
In the Crow's Nest of the Warning Centre, Col. Valery Leo-
nov felt harried, frustrated, and tired. His uniform was rumpled
and his wavy gray hair disheveled. He was still way behind on
the stacks of paperwork left over from the fiasco caused by that
contemptible American Blackbird spy plane a few days ago. He
was having to explain to every general in the Soviet Air Defense
Forces why he'd missed shooting the damned thing down. And
if that wasn't enough, the Americans had gone crazy and in-
creased their military posture to an incredibly high degree. On
the large screen depicting the Northern Hemisphere, there were
no fewer than a hundred American bogies—undoubtedly bomb-
ers and tankers—prowling above the Arctic ice cap. For what
reason he couldn't fathom. There had been no notification of
the exercise through normal channels, and the Russian-language
BBC broadcasts—which he secretly monitored at home—had
said nothing about international tensions. He could not under-
stand what prompted such a massive unannounced exercise. In
any event, increased American bomber activity required a
heightened Soviet alert posture, which consumed more of his
time, and that meant he would fall further behind on his paper-
work.
His phone buzzed. He grabbed it and irritably said, "Yes,
what is it?"
"Yes, Comrade Colonel," replied one of the controllers. "I
have the commander of radar Sector two-three-Romeo in Ka-
zakhstan on the line. He says he has an unusual situation in his
area that requires consultation with you."
Leonov sighed. "Very well. Put him through."

THE FOURTH DAY
453
There were some clicks and buzzes before another voice came
on the line. "Comrade Colonel?"
"Yes, yes. What is it you want?"
"Ahem, yes, Comrade Colonel. This is Major Kubasov of
Sector two-three-Romeo in Kazakhstan. I have a, ah, bizarre
situation here that, I am afraid, must have your attention."
Just what I need, thought Leonov. More craziness. "Very
well. Speak up. What is it?"
Major Kubasov of Section 23-R quickly recounted his prob-
lem with the Fulcrum pilot, but, of course, couched it in such
terms to make Hipelov sound like a lunatic. "... and he insists
on talking to you, Colonel," concluded Kubasov.
In a resigned voice, Leonov said, "This entire week has been
madness. Why stop now? Put him through."
' 'Yes, Comrade Colonel.'' A few more squeaks came through
the line. "Go ahead, Colonel."
Leonov keyed his mike. "MiG seven-seveji-echo, this is Col-
onel Leonov, duty officer commander of the Aerospace Defense
Warning Centre. I understand you wish to speak with me."
There was static on the line until a young voice came through.
"Yes, sir. This is Lieutenant Fyodor Hipelov, second battalion,
77th Interceptor Regiment, stationed at Tbilisi. I was flying a
routine transport mission from Tselinograd to Tbilisi when I had
a near midair collision with two unidentified aircraft in the
clouds. I informed radar control division, Sector two-three-
Romeo of the sighting, but was told there were no aircraft in my
area except my Fulcrum, and I was ordered to land at my base.
Sir, I felt the situation was serious, therefore I disobeyed those
orders and commenced an air search for those unidentified air-
craft. I located one and now have him in visual contact."
Hmmm, thought Leonov. This pilot did not sound deranged.
'Wait one, MiG seven-seven-echo," he said, while rotating a
dial to zoom in on Section 23-R of his large projection screen.
"I see you on my screen, MiG seven-seven-echo. Southwest of
the Baikonur Cosmodrome. Is that correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"I see no other aircraft in your vicinity," said Leonov. "But
you say you have this bogie in sight?"
"Yes, Comrade," replied Hipelov.

454
STORMING INTREPID
The colonel scratched his wavy gray hair. He found this in-
triguing. "Describe it to me," he ordered.
' 'Yes, sir. It is unlike anything I have ever seen. It is somewhat
delta-shaped, but elongated. Black in color. Approximately the
size of a Blackjack bomber. It is not propeller-driven, yet I see
no engine pods for jet engines."
"Hmmm. How odd. Any markings on the wings or tail?"
asked Leonov.
There was a delay in Tupelov's response. "No, sir. There are
no markings on the wing or tail. In fact, sir, there is no tail
stabilizer on this aircraft."
Leonov had only been curious about what the young lieuten-
ant was saying, but when the words "no tail stabilizer" were
mentioned, everything suddenly came into focus with horrify-
ing clarity. All at once the American bombers over the Arctic
ice cap made sense. The "invisible" mystery aircraft over Ka-
zakhstan made sense. Even that Blackbird penetration made
sense now. It was unthinkable. The Motherland was under a
surprise attack!
Leonov looked at the screen once more. It showed only the
Fulcrum. His heart leapt into his throat. "Lieutenant! That is
an American stealth bomber!"
Tupelov was bewildered. He'd never heard the term "stealth
bomber" before. That was because only senior officers received
briefings on such advanced American technology. "I am sorry,
Comrade Colonel. I do not know what a . . . 'stealth' bomber
is."
"It is an American warplane designed to avoid radar detec-
tion!" shouted Leonov. "And it apparently works! Shoot it
down! Shoot it down now!"
Day 5, 1332 Hours Zulu, 5:32 p.m. Local
THE FULCRUM
"Shoot it down! Shoot it down now!" screamed through Hi-
pelov's headphones.
"At once, Comrade Colonel!" responded Hipelov. The
young man's hands began trembling. Dear God, he thought. I

THE FOURTH DAY
455
am actually going to shoot down an American bomber. He tried
to control his nervousness and remember his training. Missiles!
Use the missiles! TUpelov eased back on his throtde and let the
distance between him and the black batwing increase. His AA-
10 radar-guided missiles had to travel at least two kilometers
before the warhead would arm. He hung back four kilometers,
losing sight of the target in the clouds ahead. The loss of visual
contact bothered him as he illuminated his monopulse radar in
the fighter's nose, which was directly in line with the bomber's
tail.
Day 5, 1332 Hours Zulu, 5:32 p.m. Local
THE GHOST TWO STEALTH BOMBER
The electronic systems officer heard the warble in his ear-
phones even before the visual warning appeared on the threat
board. "We've been illuminated, Skipper! In the India-band.
No missile lock yet."
"Dammit!" cursed the pilot as sweat spurted from his brow.
"Maybe they don't have us on visual."
"Let's hope," said Whizzo in a tremulous voice.
"Yeah, let's see if we can shake 'em." Then the pilot heaved
the stick forward and turned the wheel as sharply as he dared.
Day 5, 1333 Hours Zulu, 5:33 p.m. Local
THE FULCRUM
Tupelov's mouth was agape. He knew his nose radar was dead
on, but he was not getting a return.
The lieutenant had never been briefed on the stealth bomber
and had no idea of its true capabilities, but he knew the aircraft
was very large. He'd seen it, and had it at virtual point-blank
radar range. Yet it still would not generate a return. That was
impossible, he thought.
Actually, it was possible. If Thpelov had dived straight down
on the flat dorsal side of the aircraft, he would have gotten a

456
STORMING INTREPID
radar return. But aimed directly from the side the radar signals
were deflected or absorbed.
"Well, speak up, man," demanded the colonel over the ra-
dio. "Have you shot it down yet?"
Tbpelov gulped. "I do not understand, Comrade Colonel. I
am directly on the aircraft's tails, but my missiles will not lock
on."
"What is your armament?"
"AA-lOs, sir."
"I told you," huffed Leonov, "the American bomber is de-
signed to avoid radar. Have you other missiles?"
"Yes, Colonel. Aphid heat-seekers."
"Then use them, you fool!"
"Yes, sir." Thpelov was still whipping in and out of cloud
patches. He looked ahead and the mystery aircraft was gone.
His heart sank until he spied it below him, banking to the right.
He wasn't about to lose it again, so he cut in his afterburners to
close within two kilometers. He lined up the lumbering craft
once more and activated his Aphid infrared missiles. But again,
the projectiles refused to lock on, this time defeated by the
bomber's masked exhaust. Some of the air scooped up by the
intakes was routed around the engine and injected into the ex-
haust wake to cool the heat signature.
By now, Ibpelov was a basket case. "My Aphid missiles will
not lock on either, Comrade Colonel."
A groan came back through the radio. "Then use your can-
non, man! Your cannon!"
The young pilot was now mimicking the wide, serpentine
turns of his target to stay on its tail. He hadn't thought about his
single 23mm cannon, and didn't even know if the magazine was
loaded. He turned on the arming switch, and felt a wave of relief
when the green light indicated that some conscientious techni-
cian had filled the magazine with cannon shells before his Ful-
crum left Tselinograd. He pressed his thumb against the red
button on his control stick to clear the gun, and a washboard of
vibrations ran through his seat—inducing a strange calm into
Tbpelov. He looked at the clumsy bomber, trying desperately
to hide. It was pitiful, really. He knew it was no match for his
nimble Fulcrum.
He pulled back on the stick and brought the Fulcrum up until

THE FOURTH DAY
457
it was four kilometers above the batwing. Remembering his
training, he pushed the stick forward in an assault dive, and
placed the target—God, it was big—in the fixed aiming circle of
his head-up display. The Fulcrum continued to close on the
batwing, but l\ipelov waited until it almost filled the entire cir-
cle before pressing the red button.
Day 5, 1334 Hours Zulu, 5:34 p.m. Local
THE GHOST TWO STEALTH BOMBER
The pilot was beginning to hope the radar illumination had
been a random sweep, but then he felt the vibration and heard
the rapid thump-thump-thump of the 23mm cannon shells rip-
ping into his fragile aircraft.
The stealth bomber's greatest strength was also its greatest
weakness, in that all of the aircraft's defensive eggs had been
placed into one basket—its maneuverability and speed had been
traded off for the cloak of radar invisibility. But once that veil
of invisibility was penetrated, all that was left for the bomber
was a funeral dance. As the first slugs tore into the composite
fiber body, the pilot knew it was all over. The cannon shells
ripped through fuel tanks, hydraulic lines, electronic compo-
nents, and on-board computers. The pilot and the Whizzo
watched the control panel go haywire just before they were
pitched forward into it by centrifugal force. The big bird was
spinning out of control.
"Whizzo!" pleaded the Ghost Two pilot over the intercom.
"Send the burst! Then eject! Eject! Eject!"
His companion hit the button which sent a high-speed, pre-
recorded "burst" message to the Milstar communications sat-
ellite, then reached under his chair and yanked on the eject
handle. The section of ceiling above him disappeared with a
BANG!, followed by the KA-POW! of his ejector seat exploding.
With a swift lack in the butt, the rocket-propelled chair shot him
through the opening in a blur.

458
STORMING INTREPID
Day 5, 1334 Hours Zulu, 5:34 p.m. Local
THE FULCRUM
Hipelov watched in fascination as little black puffs erupted
on the dorsal side of the giant batwing. He then pulled his Ful-
crum up in a tight loop so he could make ready for another pass,
if need be—but he quickly saw that it wasn't necessary. The
plodding aircraft seemed to sag to one side before cartwheeling
down in a slow death spiral.
"I hit it!" cried Hipelov. "Comrade Colonel, I hit it! It is
going down!"
There was a howl of exultation over the radio. "Outstanding,
Lieutenant! Outstanding! I have your location plotted and I am
dispatching a search party immediately."
"Roger, Colonel. I see a parachute deploying now . . . and
another."
"Excellent," replied the colonel. "The search party will pick
up the prisoners. Now, Lieutenant—I daresay it will soon be
Captain—did you say you observed two stealth aircraft during
your near miss?"
"That is correct, Colonel."
"Where is the other one?"
Hipelov was taken aback. "I do not know, Colonel. I was
lucky to find this one with a visual search. I have not seen the
other one. They must have taken separate vectors after the near
collision."
Some seconds elapsed before the colonel returned. "Lieuten-
ant, listen carefully. We do not know for sure, but these stealth
aircraft may be carrying nuclear weapons. I have scrambled the
61st Interceptor Regiment at Balkhash to assist you, but it will
take them at least forty-five minutes to reach your location. We
must find that second bomber quickly."
"Yes, Colonel. But I am starting to run low on fuel."
"Damn the fuel!" bellowed Leonov. "Find that other plane!
Find it!"
"Roger, Comrade Colonel."
Tbpelov didn't know what else to do, so he started his saw-
tooth search pattern anew, in the direction his Fulcrum was
pointing—which was northeast.

THE FOURTH DAY
459
Day 5, 1335 Hours Zulu, 5:35 p.m. Local
GHOST LEADER
Ghost Leader was still flying an evasive pattern northwest of
the Baikonur Cosmodrome when the ESO handed him a terse
decoded message. The pilot read the paper, which said, simply,
go. He looked at his companion. "Okay, Whizzo, it's con-
firmed. We're going in. How long until the shuttle puts down
on the taiget runway?"
The electronic systems officer checked his notes and the dig-
ital display on the NavComputer. He then rechecked it with his
own navigation program on his personal Hewlett-Packard 41C
calculator. "Looks like twenty-four minutes until the shuttle
touches down. We've got eleven minutes to the IP from here,
plus seventeen minutes on the bomb run. That's a total of twenty-
eight minutes to target, which means the shuttle will be on the
runway for four minutes before we drop—assuming our data on
the shuttle landing time is accurate. . . . Also, all this chasing
around up here has sucked up a lot of our fuel. I'm not sure if
we can make it back to our refuel rendezvous as is."
"Let's handle one thing at a time," countered Leader. "Just
give me a bearing to the IP."
Whizzo checked his instruments. "Come to one-five-four,
Skipper."
"Roger," replied Leader, and he began his turn. They were
flying in an area where the cloud cover had thickened, and he
felt confident that his aircraft was once again invisible. Ghost
Leader had been on the inside track of the stealth prototype's
development for years. He knew his warplane's capabilities as
well as he knew the capabilities of the Russian radar system. He
still couldn't explain how that fighter had spotted them visually,
yet he was certain they were undetected by radar—because if
the Russians had somehow acquired them on their radar screens,
his bomber would've been blown out of the sky long ago. As
long as they stayed in the clouds, he felt they were safe.
"I like this soup," said Whizzo, referring to the cloud cover.
"It's a shame we have to drop under it for the bomb run. What
do we do if there's a flock of fighters circling the target run-
way?"

460
STORMING INTREPID
Leader shrugged. "If that happens, we'll see if we can get a
visual on the shutde, then go back into the clouds and drop the
load with the Norden Computer. That would be a long shot for
such a pinpoint job, but that's the best we can do. No sense
losing the bomber and our respective asses if we can't make it
through to the target."
Whizzo nodded. Both men had guts, but they were also aware
of their aircraft's painful limitations when it was exposed. Even
a B-1B bomber with its Mach 2 speed, swing-wing maneuver-
ability, and defensive systems wouldn't stand much of a chance
against a pack of fighters out in the open.
"I wonder how Ghost Two is doing?'' muttered the electronic
systems officer, thinking about his buddy Whizzo on the other
bomber.
In a reassuring voice, Leader said, "He's probably coming
up to the alternate IP now."
Day 5, 1340 Hours Zulu, 8:40 p.m. Local
THE WHITE HOUSE CABINET ROOM
"Goddammit!" yelled Bergstrom as he slammed down the
phone.
"Now what?" demanded the President.
The admiral's face had turned purple. "That was General
Dooley at SAC in Omaha. They just received a burst radio trans-
mission from one of the stealth bombers. It looks like one of
them has been shot down."
The chief executive sagged in his chair, and in a voice that
was numb from too many surprises, he asked, "What else can
happen now?"
"Not much, I would say," said the Vice President.
"General Dooley says the burst message indicated the bomb-
ers were spotted visually by a Russian fighter aircraft," added
Bergstrom. "The two stealth bombers split up and tried to evade
detection by staying in some cloud cover. As far as General
Dooley can tell, the other bomber is still in the air."
"They were spotted visually?" queried the Vice President.
"Yes, sir."

THE FOURTH DAY
461
"Hmmm. How did the Russians know where to look?" asked
the Secretary of State.
"Beats the hell outta me . . . sir," grumbled the admiral.
"I've seen what that stealth bomber can do, and I don't think
there's any way in hell it could've been picked up on radar. Our
one consolation is that it assuredly broke into smithereens when
it impacted on the ground."
Day 5, 1337 Hours Zulu
THE INTREPID
Iceberg watched his instruments carefully as the Intrepid
plunged through the inferno of the reentry communications
blackout. His eye was fixed on the Pascal air pressure indicator.
When the readout clicked up to 480 Pascals—roughly equivalent
to ten pounds of pressure per square foot—it meant there was
enough airflow over the ailerons to generate a roll response from
the orbiter.
The indicator kept moving up, and when it passed 960 Pas-
cals, Iceberg knew the orbiter would now respond to the elevator
control surfaces as well.
The Intrepid's altitude was now 230,000 feet above the Indian
Ocean. At that height the atmosphere was almost nonexistent,
and it was the orbiter's 15,000-mph speed that generated enough
air pressure over the wings to transform the vessel from space-
craft to aircraft.
Iceberg turned its attitude direction indicator rate switch to
hi, then disengaged the digital autopilot and manually took over
the steering of the vessel with his hand controller. The autopilot
could have continued to handle the descent, but Iceberg liked to
be in control. He watched the altitude and chronometer readouts
on the NavComputer display screen, which showed that the In-
trepid had already plummeted to 200,000 feet and was sixteen
minutes to touchdown.
Iceberg carefully moved the hand controller to put the Intrepid
into its first of four braking S-turns.

462
STORMING INTREPID
Day 5, 1337 Hours Zulu
THE KESTREL
Monaghan's heart was thumping now. All his instruments told
him everything was fine with the spacecraft, but his windshield
was covered with a glowing orange hue. The external thermom-
eter said the Kestrel's skin temperature was approaching 1,800
degrees Fahrenheit, and he felt his spacesuit's cooling system
working overtime.
"Damn," muttered Mad Dog. "This is a lot different from
the shuttle. The flames weren't so . . . close."
"That's for sure," agreed Lamborghini, who felt himself
growing warm, but didn't know if it was for real or just his
imagination. "Mad Dog, I just thought of something."
"Yeah . . . like what?" asked Monaghan.
Lamborghini could feel sweat on his upper lip. "The infrared
sensor in the nose. I'm not sure how this reentry heat will affect
it. Maybe it could foul things up."
In a voice that was devoid of his usual confidence, Monaghan
said, "Okay."
Changing the subject, Lamborghini said, "Dammit. I wish I
knew what that second radar signature was that we hit with the
Phoenix."
"No sense pissin' and moanin' about it now," mused Mad
Dog. "Maybe you got some kinda false echo, maybe there was
some space junk out there. Maybe the damned system was
busted. Who the hell knows?"
"Yeah," came Lamborghini's rueful reply.
Mad Dog checked his NavComputer. "Okay, Hot Rod. Hang
on. We're going into the S-turns now. I'm going to have to cut
this very nicely if we're gonna surprise Mr. Iceberg."
Monaghan began playing the hand controller like a virtuoso,
slicing the thin air with just the right edge to give the Kestrel a
little faster braking than the Intrepid.
Lamboighini looked down and saw they were just crossing
over the coast of Pakistan.

THE FOURTH DAY
463
Day 5, 1347 Hours Zulu, 5:47 p.m. Local
GHOST LEADER
Whizzo double-checked the Global Positioning readout on the
NavComputer display screen. "We're almost to the IP, Skipper.
Come to one-nine-seven . . . now. We're at IP. Seventeen min-
utes to target."
"Roger," replied Leader, and he turned the wheel to line up
his aircraft for the final bomb run. "Whizzo, I'm going to stay
up in the clouds at one-seven thousand, then thirteen minutes
out from the drop point I'm going to begin a descent to two
thousand feet for your final run."
"No sweat, Skipper," replied Whizzo. "Just get me in the
ballpark and I'll lay in the Paveways nice and pretty." He
checked his NavComputer again. "Sixteen minutes to target
. . . speed four-four-two knots."
Day 5, 1348 Hours Zulu, 3:48 p.m. Local
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE
"The spacecraft is responding well," said Iceberg's voice
through the speaker box. "Approximately twelve minutes to
touchdown. Altitude one-seven-seven thousand feet, speed eight-
one-two-zero miles per hour."
"Excellent, Intrepid," replied Mission Commander Ma-
lyshev. "Be advised, conditions at the landing zone are heavy
cumulonimbus clouds, ceiling at four thousand meters—that is,
approximately twelve thousand feet. Wind from the northeast at
seventeen kilometers per hour."
A moment of silence passed, betraying a crack in Iceberg's
confidence. "I don't like the cloud cover, but there isn't much
I can do about it. Since you don't have the microwave landing
system, I won't have much time to line up the runway visually.
That means I'll have to rely on the NavComputer almost exclu-
sively. Are the coordinates you gave me for the runway pre-
cise?"
"Absolutely precise, Intrepid."

464
STORMING INTREPID
' 'They'd better be. Since the wind coming from the northeast,
I'll make my approach from the west."
"Because of the weather we did not make arrangements for
a chase plane, Intrepid. You could collide with each other in the
clouds. Are you sure you will be able to make it down?" asked
Malyshev.
Another moment passed before the speaker box said, un-
evenly, "I'm sure."
Day 5, 1348 Hours Zulu, 4:48 p.m.
SOVIET AEROSPACE DEFENSE
WARNING CENTRE
On Colonel Leonov's projection screen there was still only
Tupelov's Fulcrum to be seen. The 61st Interceptors from Balk-
hash were thirty minutes away, and the other American stealth
bomber was still out there somewhere. Who knew—maybe there
were more than just die two of them. The thought caused the
colonel to swear. How could they defend against something they
couldn't see? In frustration he keyed his mike. "Anything yet,
"Ripelov?"
"Negative, Comrade Colonel," replied the young pilot
mournfully. "The area is totally socked in with thunderheads,
and I am finding no gaps at all. I climbed to fifteen thousand
meters to search for some holes in the cloud cover, but it is
useless. I do not even know if the American bomber is in this
vicinity . . . and I only have twenty minutes of fuel left."
"Never mind that. Stay up there as long as you can. You are
authorized to eject if you have to."
"Roger, Colonel."
Another phone on Leonov's console buzzed, and he grabbed
it. "Yes?" he snapped.
"Comrade Colonel," said one of the radar controllers, "I
have Caspian Station on the line. They are picking up two, uh,
unusual objects that have just crossed into Soviet airspace from
Afghanistan."
"Marvelous," spat the colonel. "Just what I need at a time
like this. What are the unidentified aircraft?"

THE FOURTH DAY
465
'"I\vo objects, Comrade Colonel. One is leading the other by
approximately three hundred kilometers. Their course is almost
due north, altitude fifty-two thousand meters, and their speed
is—" The controller cleared his throat. ' 'Their speed is approx-
imately Mach thirteen."
Leonov didn't think he'd heard correctly. "What was that
speed and altitude again?"
"Fifty-two thousand meters at Mach thirteen, Comrade Col-
onel."
"Mach thirteen? That is thirteen thousand kilometers per
hour! Has everyone around here gone insane?"
"Look at the board, Colonel," offered the controller. Leonov
spun the console dial and the projection screen zoomed out to
reveal most of the Kazakhstan Republik. To the northwest there
was a government aircraft—beeping its identification tran-
sponder and heading southeast at about 1,000 kilometers per
hour—but the colonel didn't pay any attention to that. Instead
he looked to the south, and sure enough, there were two bogies
moving north at an incredible speed and altitude. They were
traveling twice as high and four times as fast as the American
Blackbird spy plane. They did not have the ballistic character-
istics of an ICBM, but they were unlike any aircraft he'd ever
seen or been briefed about. For Leonov, this was the last straw,
and he was convinced the intent of these bogies—whatever they
were—had to be hostile. He guessed that the American stealth
bombers, and now these bogies, were undoubtedly some kind
of spearhead for the horde of enemy bombers hovering over the
Arctic ice cap. Who knew? The Americans might launch their
ICBMs at any moment. Leonov reached for the phone that was
a direct line to the duty commander of the Soviet Strategic Rocket
Forces. As he raised the receiver, his hand trembled. He felt he
had no choice but to recommend a first strike against the Amer-
icans.

466
STORMING INTREPID
Day 5, 1349 Hours Zulu, 5:49 p.m. Local
BATTLE CENTRE, SOVIET STRATEGIC
ROCKET FORCES, CHELYABINSK, CCCP
The command and control structure of the Soviet Strategic
Rocket Forces was typically Russian, which was another way of
saying it was typically Byzantine. There was one hierarchy that
controlled the rockets themselves, and this structure was pop-
ulated by professional officers in the Soviet military. However,
a separate and distinct hierarchy existed for control of the nu-
clear warheads, and this was staffed by a special department
within the Committee for State Security.
The control station within each missile silo was partitioned
into separate compartments. In one compartment were two of-
ficers responsible for fueling and firing the missile if the launch
order and verification code came through the communications
link with the Chelyabinsk Battle Centre. In the second com-
partment of the silo were two KGB officers who exercised con-
trol over arming the warheads. Technically, the military officers
could launch the rocket with an unarmed warhead, but that didn't
make a whole lot of sense. Unless the two KGB officers worked
in unison with each other to activate the warhead, the missile
would remain a dud.
Similarly, this dual control structure existed at the apex of the
Strategic Rocket Forces command pyramid. In the Battle Cen-
tre, which was much like the American SAC headquarters in
Omaha, there resided a general officer duty commander in the
Rocket Forces, as well as a general officer duty commander of
the KGB. They sat side by side in yet another Crow's Nest,
overlooking yet another gigantic room with a large map projec-
tion screen.
The phone on the Crow's Nest console, which was a direct
line to the Aerospace Defense Warning Centre, buzzed. The
general put down his Pravda and picked up the receiver. "Battle
Centre," he said casually.
"Yes, Comrade General, this is Aerospace Defense Warning
Centre. We have detected two unidentified objects which have
just crossed into Soviet airspace from Afghanistan. ... It ap-
pears they may be space reentry vehicles of some kind. Also,

THE FOURTH DAY
467
one of our interceptors has just shot down an American stealth
bomber in Kazakhstan province, and there are a hundred Amer-
ican bombers over the Arctic, poised to strike. Comrade, it
appears the Rodina may be under attack! A nuclear attack! I am
recommending a first strike against the Americans before it is
too late!"
"A stealth bomber, you say?" asked the general.
"Yes, Comrade. A Triple Red-Omicron alert must be issued
to the War Council of the Central Committee immediately,"
pleaded Leonov.
"Certainly. You have done well to notify us, Comrade. I will
implement die alert at once."
Leonov was somewhat befuddled by the general's conversa-
tional tone. "Yes, Comrade General. I urge you not to delay."
The general's voice became sharp. "You need not tell the
Strategic Rocket Forces how to fulfill their duties, Comrade!"
Chastened, Leonov retreated, "Of course, General, I only
meant—"
"Very well, get off this line. I will see to this matter from
here."
In a somewhat puzzled voice, Leonov said, "As you wish,
Comrade General."
The KGB general hung up the phone and returned to his
Pravda, just before his counterpart in the Strategic Rocket Forces
walked back into the Crow's Nest. "So how are you feeling
now, Vladimir?" asked the portly KGB general with an air of
concern.
The wiry Rocket Forces general groaned. His face was green
and he was holding his stomach. "Worse, I am afraid. And I
simply do not understand what is the matter. I felt fine this
morning, then all of a sudden it is as if I had contracted dysen-
tery. I have not enjoyed spending most of the day in the toilet."
"Perhaps it was something you ate," suggested the KGB gen-
eral in a sympathetic tone.
The Rocket Forces officer groaned again. "Do not speak of
food, Arkady, please. All I have consumed today was our mom-
ln8 tea. It certainly could not have been that. We drank from
the same samovar. You poured the cups yourself, and you are
fine."

468
STORMING INTREPID
"Yes," agreed the KGB man, "absolutely fine. Perhaps you
should go to the dispensary."
The Rocket Forces general emitted a grunt. "And let those
incompetents go to work on me with their leeches? No thank
you. I shall wait until our duty shift is over, then I will go to the
Party clinic in town to see a real doctor."
"Yes, perhaps that is best, Vladimir," concurred the general
in the green serge uniform.
Vladimir sat down gingerly and looked over at his KGB coun-
terpart. Usually the heavyset KGB general was somewhat arro-
gant and aloof. But today he had been all kindness and
understanding. Perhaps he had misjudged this man. "Arkady
... I would just like to say, I appreciate your covering for me
while I have been . . . indisposed."
The KGB general shrugged. "Think nothing of it, Vladi-
mir."
Vladimir was turning a darker hue of green. "Has everything
been quiet today?"
"Extremely so. In fact, I just had a routine communications
check from the Aerospace Defense Warning Centre. Everything
is quiet there as well."
Vladimir nodded, then groaned again and ran back through
the door toward the toilet.
After watching Vladimir run off, the KGB general patted his
breast pocket, which held a vial of pills given to him by the KGB
Chairman himself.
One of the pills had gone into Vladimir's tea earlier that morn-
ing.
Day 5, 1352 Hours Zulu
THE KESTREL
During combat, or other moments of high stress, Mad Dog
Monaghan would relieve some of the tension by repeating the
same curse over and over, putting emphasis on the last word.
As he surveyed the blanket of giant cumulonimbus clouds before
him, the old habit returned.
"Dirty bastard\ Dirty bastardl Dirty bastardV'

THE FOURTH DAY
469
"So what's the deal, Mad Dog?"
"Dirty bastard\ Listen, Hot Rod, we're in a pickle, and I
think this is our only shot. The Baikonur area is totally socked
in by those clouds ahead and below us. They're thirty thousand
feet thick if they're an inch. I think Iceberg is probably some-
where in front of us, but there's no way we're gonna be able to
search for him visually in that soup. And since we have to keep
the Kestrel trimmed up for gliding, we can't move your radar
around much."
Lamborghini's frontal view from the backseat wasn't very
good, so he had to rely on the pilot's assessment. "So what do
we do?"
"I'm killing the airbrake," said Monaghan, and Lamborgh-
ini felt the spacecraft-turned-glider lurch forward a bit. "I'm
going to eliminate the last braking S-turn and take the Kestrel
in a wide semicircle. That will eat up time, but still let us retain
some speed and kinetic energy."
"Speed and kinetic energy for what?" queried Lamborghini.
"To keep us airborne long enough so Iceberg can get on the
ground. As we execute the semicircle we'll still be descending
while coming around one-eighty degrees. I'll try and time it so
that when we finish the maneuver we'll be under the cloud cover
and have enough steam left for one pass over the cosmodrome.
Maybe we can find him on the ground and nail him there. The
Intrepid will be nice and hot from reentry, so you should be
able to get a lock-on with the Sidewinders."
Lamborghini could have faulted a lot of Monaghan's ideas,
but he had to admire the man's rapid-fire diagnosis of their sit-
uation—and they obviously didn't have time for thoughtful de-
bate. "Sounds good to me, Mad Dog. Go for it."
"Roger," replied Monaghan, and he put the Kestrel in a slight
bank to the left. They were traveling at Mach 3.3 and had just
dropped through ninety thousand feet.

470
STORMING INTREPID
Day 5, 1351 Hours Zulu, 5:51 p.m. Local
GHOST LEADER
"Thirteen minutes to drop point," chanted Whizzo. "Alti-
tude one-seven thousand, ground speed four-three-nine knots."
"Roger," said Leader, while pushing the stick forward.
"Starting descent now. Get ready."
"I'm ready, Skip," replied Whizzo, as he checked his fire
control systems for the umpteenth time.
Day 5, 1352 Hours Zulu, 5:52 p.m. Local
CONTROL TOWER, SHUTTLE RECOVERY
RUNWAY, BAIKONUR COSMODROME
By the time he reached the glassed-in observation platform,
Grigory Vostov was huffing, puffing, and swearing at the climb
up the stairs. He wondered why they had not installed an ele-
vator in the damned tower.
"Good afternoon, Comrade Chief Designer," greeted the
tower controller. "I was told you would be arriving."
It took some time before the overweight Vostov could regain
his breath to ask, "Binoculars?"
The controller was helpful. "Of course, Comrade. You are
welcome to use mine," he said, while lifting off the neck strap.
Vostov took them without thanks. "The communications link
to Kaliningrad?" he puffed.
The controller pointed to the phone. "That receiver there."
Vostov nodded, then lifted the Carl Zeiss lenses to his eyes.
Day 5, 1355 Hours Zulu
THE INTREPID
The top fringes of the towering cumulus clouds were still
below the Intrepid as it came out of its fourth and final braking
S-turn. Iceberg was transfixed on the NavComputer now. There
was only one chance to hit the runway, and all he had to rely on

THE FOURTH DAY
471
was the NavComputer, the altitude/vertical velocity indicator,
and the other instruments on his craft.
The Intrepid was now entering the terminal area energy man-
agement phase of its landing approach—five minutes and fifty-
five miles from the runway, traveling at 1,700 mph, and rapidly
descending through 75,000 feet. Iceberg was carefully husband-
ing the kinetic energy of the vessel now, trading speed and al-
titude for lift and distance. The remaining energy had to be
managed precisely so the huge spacecraft would be able to ex-
ecute its critical flare maneuver just prior to touchdown.
Iceberg pitched the hand controller to the right and gently
applied pressure to the right rudder pedal. He was putting the
orbiter into proper alignment with where the runway was sup-
posed to be. His flight suit was becoming sweat-soaked as the
digital altimeter ran backward through 60,000 feet and the In-
trepid plunged into a giant thunderhead.
Day 5, 1355 Hours Zulu, 5:55 p.m. Local
THE FULCRUM
Fyodor Tupelov was about to throw in the towel. His com-
putations showed his remaining fuel would keep him aloft for
twelve or thirteen minutes at the most, and he wasn't about to
punch out at sixteen thousand meters altitude. At this height, he
figured his blood would freeze in an instant. The colonel be
damned. He would give it five more minutes, then he was going
to dive through the clouds and hunt for an airfield.
Day 5, 1355 Hours Zulu, 5:55 p.m. Local
GHOST LEADER
The black batwing broke through the clouds at twelve thou-
sand feet. Leader and Whizzo scanned the screens of the nose
cameras to look for the recovery runway, but the scene was
somewhat hazy from the overcast and they couldn't locate it.
"Hit the zoom," ordered Leader. His companion turned a dial
and the images of all three screens enlarged.

472
STORMING INTREPID
"Still don't see it," muttered Whizzo.
"We'll stay on this heading," grumbled Leader. "What's
your readout?"
Whizzo checked his instruments. "Altitude eleven-two hun-
dred and descending. Speed four-four-two knots. Nine minutes
to drop. The computer says we're in the groove."
Day 5, 1358 Hours Zulu, 5:58 p.m. Local
THE INTREPID
Iceberg cursed. He was still in the clouds, but his altimeter
showed he'd just gone through fourteen thousand feet and was
eight miles from the runway. He would have to enter the last
phase of the runway approach blind, and that meant there would
be very, very litde margin for lateral adjustment if his position
was wrong, because from this point the Intrepid would be drop-
ping almost like a stone and its maneuverability would be se-
verely hamstrung. He pushed the hand controller forward to put
the orbiter into a 22-degree glide slope—a descent gradient seven
times steeper than a commercial airliner. The orbiter would cover
the last seven miles and drop the final thirteen thousand feet to
the runway in just eighty seconds. If the runway wasn't where
it was supposed to be, he was in deep shit. Even with a name
like Iceberg, Kapuscinski had a dry throat now.
The airspeed indicator showed 411 mph as the Intrepid broke
into the clear.
"There it is!" Iceberg shouted to himself. Right in front of
him, but just a shade to port. No problem. Iceberg, the master
pilot, eased the hand controller a litde to the left and applied the
left rudder. He also decreased his air brake a bit to maintain the
22-degree glide slope. Perfect.
Once aligned, Iceberg retrimmed the orbiter and watched
the altitude/vertical velocity indicator on the head-up display as
the runway rushed up to meet him.

THE FOURTH DAY
473
Day 5, 1359 Hours Zulu, 5:59 p.m. Local
THE BAIKONUR CONTROL TOWER
"There he is!" shouted Vostov. He discarded the binoculars
and grabbed the phone. "Popov! I have him in sight! He will
touch down in a matter of seconds!"
The tower controller said nothing as he snapped pictures at
five frames a second with his 35mm Nikon motordrive camera.
Day 5, 1401 Hours Zulu, 6:01 p.m. Local
THE INTREPID
5,000 . . . 4,000 . . . 3,000. ... It almost seemed like the
digital altimeter couldn't run backward fast enough. At two
thousand feet, Iceberg pulled back heavily on the hand control-
ler and increased the air brake to put the Iritrepid into its final
flare maneuver. The nose pitched up from 22 degrees to a 1.5-
degree glide slope, and the last remnants of altitude and kinetic
energy clicked off. Iceberg armed the landing gear. Everything
came down to this moment. Fourteen seconds to touchdown,
speed 268 mph, altitude ninety feet. Iceberg hit the landing
gear dn switch and the tricycle gear exploded out of the nose
and wheel wells.
The tarmac came up to meet the Intrepid, and at 216 knots,
Iceberg felt a rumble as the rear wheels met the 5,000-meter
runway at the Baikonur Cosmodrome. He put the air brake to
100 percent and gently eased the hand controller forward. The
nosewheel squealed as it touched down and Iceberg immedi-
ately popped the braking parachute. The drogue quickly de-
ployed, then the main chute, and the braking action caused
Iceberg to pitch forward a little. But the Intrepid still continued
to roll. It had landed with a full load in its cargo bay, and the
additional mass required more braking power to stop it. When
the speed slowed to 100 mph, Iceberg pushed on the pedals to
apply the wheel brakes. Slower . . . slower . . . slower . . .
until finally, a mere eighty meters from the end of the runway,
the Intrepid came to rest and the braking chute collapsed like a
deflated balloon.

474
STORMING INTREPID
"Yeeeaaah!" shouted Iceberg, in an exultation unlike any-
thing he'd experienced in his life. The landing was like a ca-
tharsis, uncorking his emotions from some inner psychological
dungeon. "I have done it! Mother, I have done it!"
Day 5, 1402 Hours Zulu, 6:02 p.m. Local
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE
"His roll speed is decreasing," came Vostov's voice through
the speaker box. "Still rolling . . . rolling . . . rolling. Dear
Lord! He's running out of runway! . . . Wait ... no. He is
slowing rapidly. Now. Yes. It has stopped. He has done it! Yes,
he has landed!"
A cheer rose up from the entire room. Popov looked up at
the ceiling in supplication before plopping into a chair—ex-
hausted.
The relief in the Flite Centre was palpable as Kostiashak pat-
ted Popov on the shoulder. "You have done well, General. You
are to be congratulated, as is everyone here."
Popov could not have cared less what the little bastard thought.
"You are too kind, Comrade Chairman," he said bitingly.
Day 5, 1402 Hours Zulu, 6:02 p.m. Local
GHOST LEADER
"I think that's it," said Ghost Leader coldly while pointing
at a small white line on the screen.
Whizzo nodded. "I think you're right."
Leader looked closer. "Can't tell if the target is there or not,
but I'm starting the bomb run now. Leveling off at two thou-
sand." And he pulled back on the stick. "Any bad guys?"
Whizzo looked at the threat board. "Negative, Skipper."
"Guess our luck is holding," said Leader in a hopeful voice.
"Four minutes to drop," chirped Whizzo. "Speed four-six-
four knots."

THE FOURTH DAY
475
Day 5, 1401 Hours Zulu, 6:01 p.m. Local
THE KESTREL
Monaghan's digital altimeter read 11,877 feet as the space
fighter popped out of the clouds.
"Son of a bitchl Son of a bitchl Son of a bitchl" yelled Mon-
aghan in frustration. "Hot Rod, I'm afraid we aren't gonna
make it. Our airspeed is down below six hundred knots. . . .
We can't glide much farther. You see the runway anywhere?"
Lamborghini's hawk eyes scanned the horizon. It was still
hazy from the overcast and sunset was approaching, but there
was no rain. "Dog, I think that's it over to port. Way in the
distance."
Monaghan looked over to port but couldn't see anything. Hot
Rod must have some kind of zoom lenses in his eyeballs, he
thought. "I don't see it," Mad Dog said in defeat. "No way we
could make it anyway. We'd better look for a place to set her
down." He focused his eyes on the ground to search for a land-
ing zone, and saw a bizarre object cross his beam at an obtuse
angle—something that looked like a giant black manta ray skim-
ming over the sandy bottom of the ocean. Mad Dog immediately
threw the Kestrel into a slight banking left turn to give Lam-
borghini a better view, and to come to a parallel course with the
strange craft. "Hot Rod! Do you see what I see?"
Lamborghini looked down, and although it was a shock, he
knew immediately what it was. He'd seen it in a hangar at Nellis
Air Force Base during a supersecret briefing with General Whit-
tenberg. It took him a moment to digest it all, but then every-
thing fell into place. What had Whittenberg's secretary said?
"He's on the phone with General Dooley. You know how it is
when those two get together." Dooley meant SAC. And SAC
meant bombers. "Mad Dog! That's a . . ."
"A stealth bomber?"
"Yeah. I saw it once at Nellis. I bet SAC sent it in to nail the
Intrepid if we missed."
"Shit," cursed Monaghan. "Why didn't that son of a bitch
McCormack tell us about it?"
Lamborghini's mind raced. "Because there was no reason for

476
STORMING INTREPID
McCormack to know about it. We weren't supposed to be here.
Remember?"
"Oh, yeah," came the sheepish reply. Monaghan took a mo-
ment to absorb the situation, then said, "Well, you think we
should tail him?" He checked the altimeter, which showed they
were passing through ten thousand feet. He figured the stealth
bomber was six to seven thousand feet below them.
Lamborghini quickly said, "No. If we're being picked up on
ground radar we could draw attention to the bomber. We'd better
break off. Maybe our radar signature will decoy the Russians
away."
Mad Dog had a hard time taking his eyes off the black manta
ray, which was a couple of miles ahead of them now. God, what
a freaky-looking contraption. "Yeah. Okay. You're right. Let's
get outta here and find someplace flat to set down." He was
about to put the Kestrel into a banking turn to the right when
something roared out of the clouds—not four hundred yards in
front of them.
Day 5, 1402 Hours Zulu, 6:02 p.m. Local
THE FULCRUM
Thpelov shot out of the clouds in a powered dive, then began
pulling up to look for an airstrip. Ground radar would have to
help him, no matter what the colonel said. His eyes started
scanning the ground when—Saint Kirill! There it was! Right
below him! Excitedly he keyed his mike. "Colonel! I have found
the second American bomber!"
"Excellent, "Ripelov!" hooted the Colonel. "Shoot it down
at once! It may be carrying nuclear weapons!"
Having learned that his missiles were worthless against it,
Tupelov again put his Fulcrum into an assault dive and began
lining up the black monster in his aiming circle. All he could
think about was another American flag painted on the side of
his MiG-29.
He pushed the throttle forward slightly, and the batwing
started growing in his sights.

THE FOURTH DAY
477
Day 5, 1402 Hours Zulu, 6:02 p.m. Local
THE KESTREL
"What is it?" yelled Lamborghini, while trying to peer over
Monaghan's shoulder.
"Shit! I think it's a Flanker. No. Wait a minute. No. Not a
Flanker. It's a Fulcrum . . . and he's taking a bead on that stealth
bomber! Hot Rod, see if you can take him with the Side-
winders!"
Lamborghini began swearing. He'd already tested the space-
craft's infrared sensor during their descent, and he'd been right
about the Kestrel's heated exterior screwing up the instrument.
The TID display was nothing but garbage. Sweat poured off
Lamborghini's forehead like raindrops. "Dammit! The IR sen-
sor is still fucked up!" There was desperation in his voice
now. "Mad Dog, drop the nose! Point it jight at the Russian's
ass!"
"Roger!" replied Monaghan, and he shoved the hand con-
troller forward.
Lamborghini set the Sidewinders for independent guidance
and retracted the silica plates that covered the wing nacelles.
All he could think to do was bore-sight the missiles and fire
them, hoping their own sensors could lock on to the Fulcrum's
tailpipe. He punched the red button on his hand controller, and
a Sidewinder jumped out of the left wing and ignited, followed
by its partner two seconds later.
The space versions of the Sidewinder were unlike the conven-
tional kind in that they possessed no aerodynamic fins to stabi-
lize them as they traveled through the atmosphere. The effect
was much like shooting an arrow with no feathers on the tail of
the shaft—the projectile wobbled in flight.
However, the space Sidewinders did have the vectored thrust
that helped keep them on track. But as the wobble action of the
missiles became greater and greater, the on-board microproc-
essor had more and more difficulty compensating for the
increased jerky motion of the weapons—until finally the
vectored-thrust tail nozzle of the first Sidewinder couldn't
compensate fast enough and the first missile started to pin-
wheel as it closed on the Fulcrum.

478
STORMING INTREPID
"Shit!" yelled Mad Dog. "One of the Sidewinders went wild!
And I see tracer rounds!"
Day 5, 1402 Hours Zulu, 6:02 p.m. Local
THE FULCRUM
1\ipelov was just pressing the cannon trigger on his control
stick when a swirling pyrotechnic torch flashed by his cockpit.
He instinctively flinched, and before he could fix his eyeballs on
the object, his Fulcrum bucked violently and began tumbling
end over end. He wrestled with the control stick and the rudder
pedals, but all he kept seeing was a rapid-fire sequence of earth-
clouds-earth-clouds-earth-clouds. Tupelov groped for the eject
handles, but the tumbling was so fast now that the centrifugal
force kept him pinned against his shoulder harness. "Mayday!
Mayday! Mayday!" he cried into his radio. "Seven-seven-echo
is going down!" His fingers were finally able to curl around the
handle, and he yanked with every fiber of his strength.
Day 5, 1403 Hours Zulu, 6:03 p.m. Local
THE KESTREL
"We got him!" screamed Monaghan. "We got him! Just
barely, but we nailed him. The second Sidewinder sliced his tail
fins clean off. He's tumbling down."
Lamborghini heaved a sigh of relief. "Any more bandits?"
Not that we could do anything about it, he thought.
Monaghan did a quick sweep. "Nothing that I can see. That
Fulcrum just popped a chute, though." His gaze turned back
to the stealth bomber, which was pulling away. "Go get that
motherfucker Iceberg!" Mad Dog yelled after the batwing.
"Nail him!"

THE FOURTH DAY
479
Day 5, 1404 Hours Zulu, 6:04 p.m. Local
GHOST LEADER
On the belly of the stealth bomber a panel rotated, revealing
a washtub-sized pod with a faceplate of zinc sulfide glass. Inside
the pod resided an AAQ-9 forward-looking infrared (FLIR)
camera, and a yttrium-aluminum-garnet (YAG) laser, which
were aligned together in precise calibration.
Inside the bomber, the crew was blissfully unaware of the air
battle that had taken place in their wake—the Fulcrum's initial
rounds had gone wide.
Whizzo shoved his face against the hood covering the FLIR
video screen and flipped the camera to 2x power magnification.
"I think I've got it," he intoned through the intercom. "Come
to port four degrees." He felt the aircraft move, and adjusted
the controls to keep the camera aimed on the same spot. "Yeah,
that's gotta be it. Jesus, that shuttle is hotter'than a pistol," he
said, while inspecting the brilliant infrared image.
Looking at his center video screen, Leader said, "I've got it,
too," and asked, "What's the range?"
Whizzo put the cross-hair cursor on the bright object and hit
the YAG laser rangefinder. A digital readout flashed on the
screen just above the cross-hairs. "Range two-three kilometers.
Maintain this speed and altitude. Opening weapons bays and
activating fire control now." The major's voice was growing
strained. He always wondered what the Real Thing would be
like.
The doors on the two weapons bays slapped open while the
fire control computer ordered the laser to lock its invisible light
onto the Intrepid. Once the beam was locked on, the stealth
bomber could jink, climb, or bank to a fare-thee-well, but the
belly pod would rotate and keep the laser fixed on the orbiter.
"Range one-five kilometers. Come starboard two degrees,"
ordered Whizzo. "Speed down to three-five-zero."
"Starboard two degrees," echoed Leader. "Speed three-five-
zero. Let me know when you've got control."
Whizzo locked the fire control computer into the digital au-
topilot. "I've got it," he said tersely, with his face still married
to the screen hood.

480
STORMING INTREPID
The fire control computer digested the time, distance, and
speed to the target and rapidly calculated the precise point of
bomb release. The device then transmitted this information to
the autopilot, which flew the aircraft in exact conformance
to the fire control instructions. The crew was no longer in the
loop. They were now passengers on a flying weapons system.
"Six kilometers to drop . . . five . . . four..." The Intrepid
grew bigger on the FLIR screen. "Three kilometers . . . two
. . . one . . . bombs away!"
Fourteen Mk 83 Paveway bombs dropped cleanly from their
racks, causing the aircraft to lurch upward as it became lighter
by seven tons.
Each of the Mk 83 projectiles deployed their tail fins as the
Texas Instruments Paveway guidance system came alive. On the
nose of each Mk 83 was a mushroom-shaped snout, which held
a silicon detector array that was tuned to the 1.064-micron wave-
length of the YAG laser. As the Mk 83s arced through the air,
the detector array sensed the laser light reflecting off the Intrepid
and transmitted the information to the bomb's on-board guid-
ance computer. The tail fins were rapidly adjusted so that the
trajectory of the projectiles would intersect with the laser reflec-
tion on the side of the orbiter.
Like a school of airborne sharks, the Paveway bombs sensed
the laser blood splashed on the Intrepid, and were plummeting
down to savage their victim.
Day 5, 1406 Hours Zulu, 6:06 p.m. Local
THE INTREPID
Iceberg had unhooked his shoulder harness and was quickly
tending to the post-landing checklist. He paused to look up, and
saw how close he'd come to the end of the runway. Earlier mod-
els of the shuttle did not have the braking parachute. Without
one, the Intrepid would've undoubtedly sailed off the end of the
tarmac. He looked out to the side and saw a covey of ground
vehicles rushing up the runway access road with their strobe
lights flashing. Coming to greet their new hero, he figured—
and that started him thinking about what kind of deal the Rus-

THE FOURTH DAY
481
sians were going to set him up with. Hell, he could probably
move into the Kremlin if he wanted to. In fact, he figured he
could have anything he wanted now. Because he—Julian Ka-
puscinski—had just pulled off the grandest hijacking in the
history of piracy.
The first thing he'd do was hold one of those press confer-
ences. Now that would be something. Finally, he could shove
it to those American bastards in spades. For what they'd done
to his mother. And for what Felicia had done to him. All those
years he'd played by their rules just so he could keep his secret.
He'd even up the score now. Think of it. The Iceberg who was
decorated by the President would host a press conference out of
the Kremlin to tell those Americans he'd played them for fools.
Yes, this was going to be sweet.
As Kapuscinski was contemplating his future, the first Pave-
way sailed over the top of the Intrepid—clearjng it by a hair—
and went on to impact on the far side of the runway. The force
of the blast rocked the spacecraft so violently that Iceberg's face
was thrown into the control panel, shattering the glass CRT
screen of the NavComputer and crushing some of the indicator
lights. Iceberg was dazed and barely able to lift his bloodied
countenance from the broken instruments. The last thing that
registered in his brain before he left this life was the sight of
broken shards of bloodstained glass sticking out of the Nav-
Computer display.
In rapid succession the second, third, and fourth Paveways
plowed broadside into the soft aluminum skin of the orbiter's
cargo bay, detonating simultaneously and blasting the innards
of the Intrepid apart like a harpooned whale. The remaining
Paveways joined the conflagration, turning what was left of the
spacecraft into a funeral pyre of flame and dust for Frank Mul-
cahey, Geraldo Rodriquez, and Col. Julian Kapuscinski.

482
STORMING INTREPID
Day 5, 1406 Hours Zulu, 6:06 p.m. Local
THE BAIKONUR CONTROL TOWER
Caught in a wave of sheer ecstasy, Vostov watched the army
of ground vehicles rush toward the Intrepid, while the tower
controller continued to snap pictures with his Nikon camera.
What a coup! thought Vostov. What a victory! He could almost
smell his seat on the Politburo now.
He was savoring the triumph when, out of nowhere, a bizarre,
unearthly black batwing rose up into the air and soared over the
runway, just as the Intrepid erupted before him.
The blast shook the tower, shattering one of the large panes
of glass and throwing Vostov to the floor, along with the con-
troller. "Alert the air defense battery, you fool!" yelled the
Chief Designer. "We are under attack!"
Day 5, 1406 Hours Zulu, 6:06 p.m. Local
GHOST LEADER
"Bull's-eye! Bull's-eye! Bull's-eye!" howled Whizzo. "We
got him, Skipper! We blew it away! Good Christ, there's nothing
left but smoke now!"
"Great shooting, Whizzo! Great shooting! Okay, let's bust
outta here and send the message! Yahoo!" Ghost Leader pulled
back on the stick and the black batwing climbed toward the
protective concealment of the puffy clouds.
Day 5, 1407 Hours Zulu, 6:07 p.m. Local
THE KESTREL
After the Fulcrum was shot down, Monaghan spied a flat
plateau—a mesa—and turned the Kestrel toward it to make a
landing. His speed was less then 400 mph now, and they had
just passed through 2,500 feet.
"Mad Dog, I see some smoke over to port," said Lamborgh-
ini with excitement. "Maybe they got him."

THE FOURTH DAY
483
"Jeez, I hope so. Can't worry about that now. I'm gonna try
to put down on that plateau up ahead."
' 'Beeeeeeeeeeeeppp!!
Lamborghini's threat warning receiver emitted its distinctive
warble. "Mad Dog! We've been locked on!"
"Oh, shit!"
Lamborghini scanned the sky above him but saw no bandits.
Then he looked down, and his blood froze. There it was. A
jinking litde pinpoint of light with a smoky tail. The last time
he'd seen something like that was over Thai Binh, North Viet-
nam. "Mad Dog! SAM coming up from nine o'clock low!"
Monaghan looked down, and felt absolutely helpless. His
aircraft had no power, they couldn't climb, they couldn't ma-
neuver. They were dead in the water. "Hold on, Hot Rod!" he
said in a squeaky voice. What he was about to try was crazy,
but he couldn't think of anything else to do. He watched the
pinpoint grow bigger and bigger, until at the last possible mo-
ment he yanked on a lever beside his leg.
The braking parachute billowed out from under the Kestrel's
tail, cutting its speed just as Mad Dog shoved the space fighter
into a dive.
The SAM couldn't compensate quickly enough and whizzed
by the Kestrel, exploding moments later. But neither Monaghan
nor Lamborghini saw the blast, because now the Kestrel was
headed straight down.
The flat-top plateau was rushing up at them. Monaghan jet-
tisoned the braking chute and the Kestrel started falling even
more rapidly. "Here we go, Hot Rod!" yelled Mad Dog as he
deployed the landing gear. When the plateau filled the space-
craft's entire windshield, he pulled the hand controller all the
way back, putting the Kestrel into an extremely sharp landing
flare.
Lamborghini felt a washboard rumble as the landing gear
touched down on rough terrain. He was violently shaken in the
backseat, but after a few seconds he could feel the spacecraft's
speed slowing. Lord! Evading a SAM and making a dead-stick
landing on a Kazakhstan mesa. What a piece of flying!
Monaghan felt like he was in a bronc's saddle, but it looked
like he'd pulled it off. The Kestrel had slowed to seventy-five
mph and Mad Dog had a grin on his face.

484
STORMING INTREPID
But then the Kestrel sailed into a gently sloping trough in the
center of the plateau. Monaghan gasped as the spacecraft's
wheels momentarily left the ground, then came down hard. The
tricycle gear snapped off like so many pretzels, and the Kestrel
skidded along the bottom of the trough until it was pitched up
into a cartwheel by the upsloping side.
Instinctively, Monaghan wrestled with the hand controller and
refused to give up, cursing, "Come on, you son of a bitch!"
But it was useless. In the windshield the sky was swirling, swirl-
ing—until, in a heartbeat, it was replaced by a rock formation
that seemed to reach out for them. "Oh, Christ, Pete,'' he cried,
"I'm sorry . . ."
And the Kestrel impacted on the Kazakhstan plateau.
Day 5, 1408 Hours Zulu, 4:08 p.m. Local
KALININGRAD FLITE CONTROL CENTRE
"It is utterly destroyed!" wailed the speaker box. "There was
some type of giant plane. It came out of nowhere and dropped
dozens of bombs, then disappeared. Some of the ground vehi-
cles were destroyed and their crewmen killed. It's a disaster! An
absolute disaster!"
Vostov's wailing hit poor Popov like a sledgehammer, and he
collapsed back into his chair, totally crestfallen. "I cannot be-
lieve it," he mumbled. "All of that work ... the danger we
faced . . . our cosmonauts dead ... all for nothing. Nothing."
The little KGB Chairman patted Popov on the back. "You
need not be upset, General," he comforted. "Having the In-
trepid intact no longer matters."
Popov looked up in disbelief. "No longer matters? What the
hell do you mean, it no longer matters? Two of our men have
been killed! The American astronauts have been killed! And
you say it no longer matters?"
The diminutive Chairman extended his gold cigarette case
with a charming smile. "The deaths were a pity, to be sure, but
I assure you, the Intrepid is no longer important. . . . Cigarette,
General?"
Dumbfounded, Popov extracted one of the Pall Malls.

THE FOURTH DAY
485
Day 5, 1415 Hours Zulu, 6:15 p.m. Local
THE GENERAL SECRETARY'S
ILYUSHIN JETLINER
As he approached the Baikonur Cosmodrome, the pilot of the
General Secretary's Ilyushin saw a dark plume rising in the dis-
tance. The sky was at dusk, but there was no mistaking the
nature of that dark tower. It was smoke. Puzzled, the pilot set
his radio to the cosmodrome's air tower frequency and keyed
his microphone.
"Baikonur Tower, Baikonur Tower, this is Alpha Gold One.
Do you read? Over."
"Roger, Alpha Gold One. We read you, over."
"Baikonur, I am approaching your location from the north-
west, speed five-eight-three kilometers per hour, elevation two-
three hundred meters. I see a tower of smoke in your direction.
Please advise us of the origin of this smoke, over."
There was a pause. "Negative, Alpha Gold One. We cannot
advise you. This is restricted airspace and you are not authorized
for that information."
"Not authorized?" The pilot almost laughed. "Listen, you
swine. This is Alpha Gold One. Do you have any idea who I
have on board?"
"That does not concern me, Alpha Gold One. You are not
authorized for any information on your sighting."
Bureaucrats, cursed the pilot. "Very well, Baikonur Tower. I
will let you speak to my passenger personally. That will change
your mind—and quickly."
The pilot turned the aircraft over to the copilot and left the
cockpit. He found the General Secretary reading White TASS
dispatches and presiding over still another vodka.
"Are we there yet?" The General Secretary's speech was a
bit slurred. "Almost. General Secretary, could I ask you to step
into the cockpit for a moment? There is something I think you
should see."
The American shuttle is probably on the ground, thought the
Russian leader. Too bad we missed the landing, but it would be
interesting to see it from the air. "Certainly," he said, putting
down his vodka.

486
STORMING INTREPID
The General Secretary never made it to the cockpit. As
he rose from the divan, the kilogram of plastique explosive—
which Colonel Borisov had secretly placed in the wheel well-
detonated, transforming the shiny airliner into an orange hall
that lit up the dusky sky.
Day 5, 1415 Hours Zulu, 9:15 a.m. Local
THE WHITE HOUSE
Bergstrom's phone buzzed, and he grabbed it. After listening
for a few moments, he leaned back and looked at the ceiling
through the heavy cigar smoke in the room. "They got him,"
he said finally.' 'The second stealth bomber got him. They trans-
mitted 'Touchdown.' That means complete success."
The NSC EXECCOM exhaled in mass relief.
"What about the space fighter? And the crew?" asked the
Vice President.
Bergstrom shook his head mournfully. "Who the hell knows?
Dead probably."
Day 5, 1507 Hours Zulu
ALTITUDE: 129 MILES
ORBITAL INCLINATION: 83 DEGREES
They were passing over Antarctica again, approaching the
Indian Ocean. Lubinin looked at his wrist chronometer once
more—not that it made any difference now. He examined the
debris scattered around them, which was all that remained of
their Soyuz. Initially, he'd been amazed and grateful they were
unharmed by the spaceborne shrapnel—but now he was won-
dering if a quick death might not have been preferable.
Lubinin turned to his friend. Yemitov's face was red and his
breathing rapid. Soon his countenance would turn purple and
the breathing would cease, for his tanks were empty and he
was relying only on the residual oxygen left in the suit. "My in-
dicator ... has been red ... for some minutes, Vasilivich. . . •
How long . . . for you?"

THE FOURTH DAY
487
Lubinin looked at his oxygen gauge. "Perhaps three minutes,
Sergeivich.
Yemitov was struggling to form the words now, for asphyxi-
ation was a painful death. "If. . .1 have to die . . . what better
way ... for a cosmonaut . . . than to die in space . . . with a
friend?"
Lubinin reached out and took his comrade's gloved hand.
"Vasilivich ..." Yemitov was purple now, and could barely
whisper through his grimace. ". . . I am glad I ... am going
first... I was always afraid of. . . dying alone."
Yemitov's tight grip on Lubinin's hand suddenly weakened,
but the surviving cosmonaut did not let go. From a zippered
pocket in the sleeve of his suit, Lubinin extracted a tiny gold
ikon on a chain. It was a gift from his grandmother which he
always secretly carried with him when he flew. "Fear not, my
friend," he said softly to his dead companion. "We will be
together again soon."
Day 5, 1600 Hours Zulu, 5:00 p.m. Local
VILKOVO, ON THE BLACK SEA, CCCP
The Defense Minister drank heartily from the crystal goblet.
The day had been delightfully warm, and while lying by the
pool, he and the Foreign Minister had consumed two bottles of
potent wine.
"Ahhhh," sighed the Foreign Minister as he drained his own
goblet. "There is nothing quite like fine Moldavian wine. Is that
not so, Konstantin?"
"You are absolutely correct, my dear Comrade," replied the
Defense Minister. "It has been a most enjoyable afternoon, and
I implore you to stay and be my guest for dinner."
"I would be delighted, Konstantin," purred the old diplomat
gratefully.
"I have ordered pheasant for our meal, and I have'obtained
some American films for us to watch on my videotape device
after dinner."
"Excellent, Konstantin. You are a gracious host." The For-
eign Minister took another sip, then chuckled. "Can you imag-

488
STORMING INTREPID
ine how cold it must be in Moscow? We were wise to come
south for the weekend."
"Most wise," agreed the military chieftain.
At that moment, the host and his guest heard a heavy-handed
knock on the door, but they thought nothing of it, for it was
soon followed by the echo of a servant's footsteps going to an-
swer the summons. But then some disturbing noises were heard.
Sounds of raised voices and heavy boots tramping on the marble
foyer. The two ministers turned to see a KGB general and eight
KGB troops, armed with Kalashnikov AK-47 submachine guns,
exit the house. The troops quickly formed a phalanx at one end
of the pool.
The two Politburo members, trying to look defiant in their
swimming trunks, rose up. "What is the meaning of this?"
roared the Defense Minister. "Who the hell are you?"
"I am of the Committee for State Security, Defense Minis-
ter," said the general evenly. "You and the Foreign Minister
are hereby placed under arrest."
"Arrest?" barked the aging diplomat. "On what preposter-
ous grounds do you think you are going to arrest us?"
The general was quick to reply. "You are charged with crimes
against the state. Specifically, warmongering and placing the
Motherland in jeopardy of a nuclear attack, as well as failing to
defend the Rodina from an attack by American bombers."
"This is madness!" bellowed the old soldier, and he
screamed, "Igor!" to summon his Cossack bodyguard.
From behind a hedge, an apelike man appeared, wearing the
uniform of a sergeant in the Soviet Army and brandishing a
sidearm. No one could fault the bodyguard's loyalty or bravery
as he charged forward with his pistol blazing. Nor could anyone
fault his marksmanship, for he was able to drop two of the KGB
troops with his well-placed shots. But the frontal assault dem-
onstrated that Igor was more than a little stupid, for the six
remaining AK-47s opened up and split him apart like a ripe
watermelon. He was blasted back into the pool, and his blood
quickly turned the crystalline water to red.
The two ministers stood in shock, and offered no resistance
as they were handcuffed and led away to the waiting armored
van.

THE FOURTH DAY
489
Day 5, 2237 Hours Zulu, 12:37 a.m. Local
THE KREMLIN
As the snowflakes drifted down onto the onion domes of the
Kremlin, they caught the reflections of the incandescent lights
that illuminated the grounds. It made the late-night scene look
like something out of The Nutcracker.
But the eleven disgruntled men gathered around the large con-
ference table ignored the beautiful scene. They were all irritated
at having their Sunday evening disturbed with a summons to an
emergency Politburo meeting—a meeting convened well after
midnight for reasons that still remained unknown.
As they sat there, grumbling amongst themselves, the adjoin-
ing door to the General Secretary's office opened and in strode
KGB Chairman Vitali Kostiashak, carrying three bulky files un-
der his arm. He took his seat at the head of the table—the chair
usually reserved for the General Secretary. A flurry of eyebrows
went up over this breach of protocol.
"Comrades," began Kostiashak with a mournful voice, "I
apologize for summoning you here so abruptly. But while I was
resting at my dacha this weekend, certain events were brought
to my attention that demonstrated—with the most conclusive
evidence—that the very security of our Motherland was placed
in jeopardy these past few days. Yes! The very security of our
nation was endangered by the most monstrous scheme ever con-
ceived in our history. Absolutely monstrous!"
The eleven men were taken aback by the forcefulness and
vehemence of the little man's speech. They looked at each other
in bewilderment.
"And what is this monstrous plot you speak of, Comrade
Chairman?" inquired the burly Agriculture Minister.
Kostiashak tapped down a Pall Mall, then slowly went through
the motions of lighting it up, allowing the drama to build. "Early
this morning I was contacted by a patriot. A Soviet patriot who—
despite the danger to himself—possessed the courage to come
forward and expose this treacherous crime against our Mother-
land. Against our Party. . . . The substance of this incredible
crime is that General Secretary Vorontsky, the leader of our
Party, the leader of the Rodina, executed a plan on his own

490
STORMING INTREPID
authority"—Kostiashak looked up and down the table—"to hi-
jack an American space shuttle and bring it down to the Bai-
konur Cosmodrome!"
The group uttered a stunned gasp, then mumbled among
themselves until the portly Mining Minister said, "Steal an
American space shuttle? I do not understand. Why? How?"
Kostiashak leaned forward, "Concerning the why, the moti-
vation is obvious. As we all know, Vorontsky's position as Gen-
eral Secretary has been precarious ever since the loss of our own
two space shuttles—the Buran and the Suslov. I have spoken
with each of you individually concerning this matter. In any
case, he embarked on this desperate act of piracy—apparently
thinking that capturing an American spacecraft would solidify
his position as General Secretary. Without the knowledge or
consent of the Politburo or the Central Committee, he took it
upon himself to exercise his authority over the Space Ministry
to put this treacherous plot into action. . . . That explains the
why, Comrade. To answer your question of how, I give you the
patriot who courageously came forward to expose this despica-
ble crime." Kostiashak nodded to Colonel Borisov, and the door
was opened to allow the stocky-looking patriot to enter.
"Lieutenant General Likady Popov," said the KGB Chair-
man stonily, "I have brought you before my fellow members of
the Politburo so that you could bear witness that General Sec-
retary Vorontsky, acting illegally and without authorization,
somehow inserted his own agent aboard the American space
shuttle Intrepid and forced you to use your position as Director
of Spaceflite Operations to receive the spacecraft at the Baikonur
Cosmodrome."
Kostiashak fondled an ivory button on his double-breasted
suit and continued. "You are here to bear witness that General
Secretary Vorontsky conspired, and acted in concert with, Ivan
Pirdilenko of the Plesetsk Cosmodrome to shoot down a second
American shuttle which was launched by the Americans to pre-
vent the loss of their stolen spacecraft. This was done in viola-
tion of our antisatellite treaty with the United States.
"And you are here to bear witness that the American shuttle
Intrepid did, in fact, land at the Baikonur Cosmodrome." Kos-
tiashak reached into a file and pulled out a stack of photographs

THE FOURTH DAY
491
which depicted the Intrepid's landing. He shoved them down the
table, and each Politburo member grabbed one.
"Finally, General Popov, you are here to bear witness that
for the last month General Secretary Vorontsky and his dastardly
accomplices have kept a gun to your head, and forced you to
cooperate with them. And it was only at great personal peril to
yourself that you were able to contact me at my dacha this morn-
ing and expose this crime. Will you bear witness, General Pop-
ov, that all I have said here is absolute truth?''
Popov was no fool. If he replied, "No, Comrade Chairman,
that is incorrect," the general would face a tortuous interroga-
tion, followed by a one-way trip to the cellars of Lefortovo
Prison. But on the other hand, if he said, "Yes, Comrade Chair-
man, that is true," a kinder fate might await him.
Popov said, "Yes, Comrade Chairman, that is true." Kosti-
ashak released a puff of smoke that clouded his dark features.
With a humble voice, he said, "You are to be commended,
General. The Rodina is in your debt."
The burly Agriculture Minister picked up the photograph of
the Intrepid touching down at the Baikonur runway and mut-
tered, "This is unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. We have
hijacked an American space shuttle? It is too much to accept,
and I profoundly resent that this was done without our knowl-
edge. But still ... as I think about it, I fail to see the harm in
stealing an American spacecraft. In fact, this idea appeals to
me."
Kostiashak was on the man like a wolf. ' 'You stupid oaf! What
do you think this is? Some kind of schoolboy prank?" He mo-
tioned to Borisov. "Bring in the Colonel."
The door opened again, and a middle-aged, overweight col-
onel with wavy gray hair entered—his knees quaking. He wore
the uniform of the Soviet Air Defense Forces.
"Colonel Leonov," said Kostiashak gently, "you were the
duty officer at the Aerospace Defense Warning Centre in Mag-
nitogorsk earlier today, is that correct?''
The colonel cleared his throat and said, "Yes, Comrade
Chairman."
"Would you be so kind as to describe the events of this after-
noon?"
Leonov gulped. Never had he been so scared. "Very well,

492
STORMING INTREPID
Comrade," he began cautiously. "When I came on duty today
at Magnitogorsk, I found the American Strategic Air Command
at an unusually high level of readiness. More than a hundred
bombers and tankers were over the Arctic ice cap, holding their
positions—almost within range of a cruise missile launch."
Leonov gulped again. "I have never seen such a high level of
readiness," he continued, "and it surprised me because we
received no notification of this military exercise through the
normal channels. As you know, we have an agreement with the
Americans for mutual notification of major military exercises.
Because of this lack of notification, our interceptor forces in the
northern defense districts were placed on a high level of
alert. . . . Then this afternoon, one of our interceptor planes
spotted two American stealth bombers in Soviet airspace near
the Baikonur Cosmodrome."
"Stealth bombers?" asked the aging Party ideologue.
"Yes, Comrade Minister," replied the colonel. "They are
American warplanes designed to avoid radar detection, and I
am sorry to say they are most effective. Had our pilot not stum-
bled upon them and made a visual sighting, we would never
have known they were there."
"That is most disturbing," said the portly Mining Minister
in a low voice.
"Continue, Colonel," instructed Kostiashak.
"Yes, Comrade. After our pilot madeavisual sighting he was
able to shoot down one of the bombers—"
"Marvelous!" shouted the Agriculture Minister while raising
a big fist in the air. "A triumph of our Soviet defenses."
"Yes, Comrade," agreed Leonov. "But the pilot lost sight
of the second bomber because of cloud cover. . . .At this same
time our phased-array radar station on the Caspian Sea picked
up two unusual objects entering Soviet airspace from Afghani-
stan. They were traveling at an incredibly high altitude and
speed. It was only later that I learned the objects were an Amer-
ican space shuttle and a smaller space vehicle of some kind, but
at the time I did not knew this. In any case, because of these
reentry vehicle and the stealth aircraft, I became convinced that
the unannounced American bomber exercise over the Arctic ice
cap was no exercise at all. I felt it could only mean that the
Soviet Union was under a surprise attack. I then notified the

THE FOURTH DAY
493
Strategic Rocket Forces Battle Centre and recommended a Tri-
ple Red-Omicron alert."
"Triple Red-Omicron?" barked the willowy, bespectacled
Science Minister. "That is a recommendation for a first strike
against the Americans."
"That is correct, Comrade Minister," agreed Leonov, "but
with the presence of the stealth bombers and the unusual space
vehicles, I felt I had no other choice but to recommend such an
action."
The Science Minister was enraged. "I am a member of the
National War Council. Why was I not informed?"
"An excellent question, Comrade," said Kostiashak. "I am
a member of the War Council myself, and I was not informed
either. Why do you think that is so, Colonel?"
Leonov was almost stammering now. "I have no idea, Com-
rade. I can only tell you that the Strategic Rocket Forces duty
commander was notified in accordance with prescribed proce-
dures, and the duty commander—a general—said he would im-
plement the Triple Red-Omicron alert."
"Well, if that is the case, I should have been informed via my
special communications device," said the Science Minister bit-
terly. "As you should have, Comrade Chairman."
"Most certainly," concurred Kostiashak. "That will be all,
Colonel. You have performed your duties well. You may go."
Leonov almost sprinted from the room.
"So there you have it," said Kostiashak with venom. "The
American shuttle was hijacked. American bombers were poised
to strike with their cruise missiles, and an American invisible
bomber had penetrated Soviet airspace." The KGB Chairman
turned on the Agriculture Minister. "Now do you think stealing
an American shuttle is a schoolboy prank?"
The burly minister hunkered down in his chair. "Well, noth-
ing happened, after all."
"Nothing happened?" barked Kostiashak. He pulled out an-
other stack of photographs and shoved them down the table. The
Politburo members picked them up and saw the blackened cra-
ters on the Baikonur runway, with part of the Intrepid's tail
section and landing gear sticking out of the ground. "The
second American invisible bomber blasted the spacecraft to
pieces. And the Americans were obviously prepared to do more

494
STORMING INTREPID
than that to prevent their precious shuttle from falling into our
hands. Does a hijacking still appeal to you now, Comrade Min-
ister?"
The Agriculture Minister hunkered down in his chair even
further and remained silent, his eyes glowering from under his
heavy eyebrows.
"But still," commented the Mining Minister. "These mea-
sures seem extreme for the loss of one shutde. One would expect
protests. Even threats. We did that when the traitor Belenko
defected with his MiG-25 to Japan. But to send warplanes into
Soviet territory? And their nuclear bombers so close? All for
one shutde? That puzzles me as much as it disturbs me."
"Exactly," agreed Kostiashak. "But my intelligence sources
informed me that the payload aboard this particular shutde con-
tained some components for their space defense platform. Crit-
ical components relating to their technological breakthrough.
The cargo included some highly sophisticated computer parts
and an isotope that would arm their gamma-ray laser."
"Ah," said the willowy Science Minister. "That explains it.
No wonder they went to extraordinary lengths to destroy it."
The scientist pondered the ceiling, then took off his glasses.
"Had the situation been reversed, we might have been forced
to do something desperate ourselves."
"Absolutely," agreed Kostiashak. "And the Americans are
a very excitable and unpredictable people. Worse than the Af-
ghans. That is why the General Secretary's crime was so hei-
nous. He almost plunged us into a nuclear exchange with the
Americans in an attempt to solidify his own position. It was
folly, my Comrades. Criminal folly!"
The Agriculture Minister wasn't giving up so easily. He leaned
forward and put his muscular forearms on the table. "You ex-
pect us to believe that General Secretary Vorontsky, acting com-
pletely alone on his own authority, conspired to steal an
American shutde without our knowing it? I find that impossible
to believe. If that had truly happened, the Americans would have
been screaming for blood. Where are the protests? The threats?
The howls of defiance about this hijacking?"
"You are quite right, my dear Comrade," said the little Chair-
man. "The General Secretary did not act alone. He had accom-

THE FOURTH DAY
495
plices. And, as you say, the Americans did, indeed, scream."
Kostiashak adjusted his silk tie before turning to Borisov. "Bring
in the prisoners."
Once more the door opened, and this time two manacled
figures were thrust inside. The portly Defense Minister was not
wearing his usual resplendent uniform with its acre of ribbons
and medals, and the Foreign Minister was sans his Italian tai-
lored suit and Borsolino hat. Instead, they were wearing the
rough gray woolen garments worn by guests registered at
Lefortovo Prison.
"What is the meaning of this?" shrieked the Defense Min-
ister.
"I demand to be released from these chains at once!" bel-
lowed the Foreign Minister.
Kostiashak was unmoved as he slapped open the file. "De-
fense Minister Konstantin Zholobov, you stand accused of
crimes against the state. You stand accused of deliberately cut-
ting off the Triple Red-Omicron notification warning from the
Strategic Rocket Forces to prevent the War Council from learn-
ing of your treachery. You stand accused of failing to defend the
Rodina's borders against American bombers who dropped their
bombs on Soviet soil. You stand accused of thrusting your coun-
try perilously close to a nuclear exchange. How do you answer
these charges?"
The Defense Minister strained so hard against his chains it
looked as if they might break. "What is happening here? What
alert? What bombing attack? This is madness! It is a conspir-
acy!"
"And I would wager you know nothing of a shutde hijack-
ing?" challenged Kostiashak in a mocking tone.
"What?" screamed the Defense Minister in an incredulous
voice.
Kostiashak nodded to Popov. "General?"
Oh, what the hell, thought Popov. In for a penny, in for a
pound. Sorry, old friend, he thought, it is either you or I. The
stocky general gave a reluctant shrug, and said, "It was the
Defense Minister who held the gun on me much of the time. I
was truly frightened."
"Incredible," wheezed the Science Minister.
"Take him away," ordered Kostiashak.

496
STORMING INTREPID
"Likady! What are you saying?" screamed the Defense Min-
ister as he lunged against his chains, but one of the KGB guards
whacked his solar plexus with a truncheon and the old soldier
went down like a sack of potatoes. He was dragged from the
room.
"And as for you, Foreign Minister," seethed Kostiashak. "I
would like you to explain these cables, which were obtained
from the ministry's message centre." Borisov distributed cop-
ies. "The first cable is from Ambassador Yakolev. He relays the
Americans' allegation that the Soviet Union is in communica-
tion with their space shuttle. Your cable in reply states that you
and the Defense Minister investigated the matter, and that there
was no communication—a bald-faced lie if I ever heard one.
The next cable from Ambassador Yakolev expressed the Amer-
icans' outrage over the destruction of their shuttle—the Con-
stellation—which they sent to intercept the Intrepid. He warns
that the Americans are threatening a military response. And
what do you do? You send this reply"—Kostiashak shook the
pages in his hand—"instructing our honored ambassador to do
nothing and to remain silent. Silent!"
"The first two cables are genuine," said the old diplomat.
"The Defense Minister and I did investigate, and we found
nothing suspicious. I know nothing of the other two cables."
"So you admit to misleading our ambassador. And as for
knowing nothing of the other two cables, Foreign Minister, these
documents came from your own ministry's message centre. The
instructions to Yakolev went out under your name. And you
claim to have no knowledge of them?"
"That is correct," said the old diplomat defiandy. "My aide
handles all of the cable traffic in and out of my office. You have
only to ask him, and he can tell you the other two cables are
fabrications."
Kostiashak barked a laugh. "You mean your aide, Aleksandr
Kulikov—the lackey who always kept your tea cup filled during
our Politburo meetings?"
"Yes!" responded the Foreign Minister angrily. "Bring him
here and he will tell you this is all some kind of fantasy!"
"I would hardly use him as a character reference, Comrade
Minister. Your aide-de-camp is a French spy."
The entire room gasped again as Kostiashak pulled out yet

THE FOURTH DAY
497
another file and shoved it down the table. "It is all there. Tran-
scripts of clandestine meetings with French 'diplomats,' wire
taps, photographs of message drops. Yes, it is all there. Your
aide-de-camp was working hand-in-glove with the French."
The Foreign Minister was not to be put off. "I demand Ku-
likov be brought here for questioning!"
"Unfortunately," said the KGB Chairman softly, "Kulikov
is not available. Prior to my learning of this plot only this morn-
ing, Kulikov escaped on an Air France flite to Paris. My pass-
port control officers said his special diplomatic exit visa was
personally signed by you."
The old diplomat visibly sagged. He knew his survivor's luck
had finally run out.
"Take him away," ordered Kostiashak.
Not wanting a truncheon in his old gut, the Foreign Minister
went without complaint, looking incredibly feeble.
"There you have it, my Comrades. The Rodina has been the
victim of a power-mad dog in our midst. General Secretary
Vorontsky has brought us to the edge of a nuclear war through
an evil conspiracy. Had it not been for the courageous actions
of General Popov, I shudder to think of what might have hap-
pened."
The Science Minister shook his head and turned to Popov.
"You are to be praised, General. I must confess this is all dif-
ficult to accept. We must bring General Secretary Vorontsky
before us at once for interrogation."
Kostiashak looked down, and in a subdued voice he said, "I
am afraid that is not possible."
The Science Minister's eyebrows went up. "Not possible?"
"That is correct, Comrade," replied Kostiashak mournfully.
"I have been informed that the General Secretary's airplane
crashed while on approach to the airfield at the Baikonur Cos-
modrome. All on board were lost. Apparently he was en route
to take personal charge of the scene at Baikonur. Alas, he will
never be able to face Soviet justice."
There was a shocked pause, until the portly Mining Minister
said in a daze, "Well, I am at a loss as to what we should do."
In a somber tone, Kostiashak said, "I, too, share your feel-
ings of profound betrayal, Comrade. This has been a shameful
chapter in our history. But the situation with the Americans is

498
STORMING INTREPID
still tenuous. I recommend that we send a message to the Amer-
ican President at once. We inform him that the Soviet Union is
under new leadership, and that we totally refute the hostile ac-
tions taken by the late General Secretary Vorontsky. We ask
them to recall their bombers, and call for a summit meeting to
demonstrate our sincerity. Speed is of the essence.''
The Mining Minister nodded. "I would agree," he said, "but
we must now choose a new General Secretary."
"True," agreed Kostiashak, "and I must confess that in view
of the severity of this crisis, and my position as guardian of the
Party, I see no alternative nomination for the post of General
Secretary than"—he paused for effect—"myself."
Fifteen minutes later, Vitali Kostiashak walked out of the Pol-
itburo conference room as the new General Secretary of the
Communist Party Central Committee of the Soviet Union.
After the KGB Chairman had placed his name in nomination,
the remaining Politburo members took one look at the empty
chairs of the Defense and Foreign Ministers, and another look
at Vitali Kostiashak sitting at the head of the table—the place
reserved for the General Secretary.
They got the message.
The gauntlet had been thrown down.
If the Politburo members wanted to try to dislodge Kostiashak
from the General Secretary's chair, it would mean going toe to
toe with the man who controlled the gargantuan KGB appa-
ratus. And the loser of such a confrontation would, indeed,
lose everything. The idea of putting their country dachas,
Western tailored suits, Zil limousines, lavishly appointed
apartments, special medical clinics, and girlfriends (or boy-
friends) in jeopardy had little appeal, so the remaining cabal
of men inside the conference room decided that this young
Kostiashak fellow would do just fine as General Secretary.
The vote was unanimous.
After a quick champagne toast, Kostiashak dispatched Colo-
nel Borisov to the Kremlin's communication centre with a mes-
sage for the American President, then he brought Likady Popov
into the adjoining baronial office of the General Secretary for a

THE FOURTH DAY
499
private word. "You should have been an actor, General," Kos-
tiashak said with genuine admiration.
' 'I saw little choice,'' replied Popov in a straightforward man-
ner.
Kostiashak nodded. "You have labored hard, General, and
we still have much to discuss. But you must be weary. My driver
will return you to your wife. Tell her the new General Secretary
is in her debt for enduring your absence for so long."
Popov nodded, but did not leave. "I cannot help but wonder.
What about Pirdilenko? You mentioned him. And Vostov? Both
men have friends—and influence. They could talk. Make trou-
ble."
Wistfully, the new General Secretary sighed and looked out
the window. "I am afraid I did not tell you the tragic news,
General. Comrade Pirdilenko's helicopter went down while en
route back to Plesetsk . . . and Comrade Vostov, alas, he was
killed during the attack by the American bomber at Baikonur.''
Popov was stunned. "Killed during the attack? But we talked
to him after . . ."
"The Comrade Chief Designer was killed in the attack,"
repeated Kostiashak. Then he returned his gaze to Popov. "I
know you find this distasteful, General, but in the intelligence
world we refer to this as 'tying up loose ends.' "
Popov was still stunned, but nodded his understanding. Warily
he eyeballed the little man. "And what about me? Am I one of
your 'loose ends,' as you put it?"
The new General Secretary was gentie in his response as he
touched the general's stocky shoulder. "No, my Comrade, you
are not a 'loose end.' You see, Vostov and Pirdilenko were
ambitious men, and as you mentioned, they could have made
trouble. You, on the other hand, are not overly ambitious.
Therefore you are not a threat to my plans."
Popov appeared relieved. But his conscience could not blot
out the lives that had been lost. "It appears you have achieved
what you wanted to achieve—General Secretary. I must now
take my leave and inform the families of cosmonauts Lubinin
and Yemitov of their deaths."
Kostiashak took Popov's arm and guided him toward the door.
"General, throughout this adventure I have admired your con-
cern for your men. We will talk more later, but before we part,

500
STORMING INTREPID
I must leave you with two thoughts. First, do not take all that
has occured during the last few days at face value—things are
not always what they seem. And second, never, ever, embrace
the notion that I have done what I have done in the pursuit of
selfish ambition. You will find that I—like you—am a pa-
triot. . . . Good night, General." And Kostiashak closed the
door on a befuddled Popov.
Finally alone, the new General Secretary walked to the large
bay window and sat down on the bench-style windowsill. He
took out the last Pall Mall from his gold cigarette case and fired
it up with the Dunhill lighter, then gazed out on Cathedral Square
and saw that the snow had stopped falling. The incandescent
lights had been extinguished for the night, and the clouds had
parted to reveal an inky sky full of shimmering stars.
Kostiashak leaned back to contemplate the scene and allow
the tension to ebb from his body. His mind wandered back over
the tumultuous events of the last five days, and as he began to
relax, his thoughts reached farther back in time—once again
returning to his studies at Princeton. As a student, Kostiashak
had not only studied the American President Franklin Roose-
velt, but had also scrutinized the life and writings of a Florentine
nobleman and diplomat named Niccolo Machiavelli.
Kostiashak had always felt history had treated Machiavelli
unfairly, because—for some unfathomable reason—the
sixteenth-century diplomat's name had become synonymous
with deceit and treachery. But in fact, Machiavelli was an ex-
tremely capable public servant with high ideals whose actions
were governed by a bare-knuckled pragmatism. In reviewing
the previous week's events, the new General Secretary recalled
one particular passage from Machiavelli's masterpiece, The
Prince, which he had read while studying at the Firestone Li-
brary and had put to use this very day: "A prince being thus
obliged to know well how to act as a beast must imitate the fox
and the lion, for the lion cannot protect himself from traps, and
the fox cannot defend himself from wolves. One must therefore
be a fox to recognize traps, and a lion to frighten wolves."

THE FOURTH DAY
501
Day 5, 2353 Hours Zulu, 6:53 p.m. Local
THE PENTAGON
T/Sgt. Jack Donley, United States Army Signal Corps, was
leaning back in his chair, sipping a cup of coffee and thumbing
through his copy of Sports Illustrated. The sandy-haired former
semipro second baseman was just getting settled into his shift,
looking forward to reading an article on his hometown Chicago
Cubs, when the teletype suddenly clattered to life. The surprise
brrraaap! . . . brrraaap! . . . brrraaap! of the high-speed
printer almost caused him to spill his coffee. He looked at the
clock and was even more surprised. What the hell was the mat-
ter? There were still thirty-seven minutes until the hourly circuit
test. But the printer continued with its litany of brrraaap!. . .
brrraaap!. . . brrraaap!
Donley got up and went over to the printer, which was spitting
out a stream of Cyrillic letters. Then it dawned on him. Jesus!
This wasn't a test. This message was for real! He rang for the
interpreter.
Donley was a shift operator for the Washington-Moscow
"Hotline" teletype. Established in the wake of the Cuban mis-
sile crisis, the Hotline (officially known as the Direct Commu-
nications Link) was established to allow rapid, direct
communications between the American President and the top
Soviet leadership. Initially, the device utilized a landline cable
system, but was later upgraded to a satellite link that hooked
into the Russian Molniya and American Intelsat communication
birds. Although Hollywood reinforced the false perception that
the Hotline was a telephone, it was, in fact, a teletype system
which was tested on an hourly basis. The Russians would trans-
mit in Russian, and the Americans in English.
The Hodine was first used extensively in June 1967 during the
Arab-Israeli Six-Day War, when President Lyndon Johnson and
Premier Aleksei Kosygin fired messages back and forth. It al-
lowed the two leaders to probe for each other's trigger points
during the fast-moving crisis without the nettlesome delay of
diplomatic communications or the danger of garbled messages.
The interpreter walked into the communications center. He
was a bookish, bespectacled Navy lieutenant who was a doctoral

502
STORMING INTREPID
candidate in Georgetown University's modern language depart-
ment. "What have you got?" he asked casually.
"Beats the shit outta me, sir," replied Donley. "Why don't
you get to work on the translation? I'll notify the general staff
duty officer and the commo center chief."
"You got it," said the interpreter, and he quickly set to work
on the translation.
After the officers were notified, the interpreter finished the
English translation, which Donley rapidly typed into a computer
terminal. He then hit a transmit button to send the English
version of the Russian epistle across the Potomac to a printer in
the White House Situation Room. It read:
MOLNIYA II
CIRCUIT4/2353 GMT
MESSAGE 1/1
TO: PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
OF AMERICA
FROM: CENTRAL COMMITTEE OF
THE COMMUNIST PARTY
OF THE SOVIET UNION
MR. PRESIDENT:
DURING THE LAST HOUR IT HAS COME TO
THE ATTENTION OF THE CENTRAL COMMITTEE
THAT GENERAL SECRETARY VORONTSKY, ACT-
ING CRIMINALLY, AND WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION
FROM THIS COMMITTEE, ENGAGED IN AN ACT OF
AIR PIRACY AGAINST THE UNITED STATES.
SPECIFICALLY, WE HAVE LEARNED THAT GEN-
ERAL SECRETARY VORONTSKY ARRANGED FOR
THE HIJACKING OF AN AMERICAN SPACE SHUT-
TLE AND THE DESTRUCTION OF ANOTHER.
WHILE THE CENTRAL COMMITTEE HAS EX-
PRESSED ITS VOCIFEROUS OBJECTIONS TO YOUR
SO-CALLED STRATEGIC DEFENSE PLATFORM,
WHICH IS IN VIOLATION OF EXISTING ANTIBALLIS-
TIC MISSILE TREATIES, THE CENTRAL COMMITTEE
IN NO WAY CONDONES THE PIRATE ACTIONS OF
GENERAL SECRETARY VORONTSKY. THIS MES-
SAGE IS TO EXPRESS OUR REPUDIATION OF THIS
ILLEGAL, UNAUTHORIZED ACT.
IN VIEW OF THIS UNPRECEDENTED SITUATION,

THE FOURTH DAY
503
AND OUR DESIRE TO REDUCE THE CURRENT TEN-
SION, WE HAVE TAKEN THE FOLLOWING ACTIONS:
ALL SOVIET MILITARY AIRCRAFT ARE GROUNDED
UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. THIS HAS BEEN DONE
TO DEMONSTRATE OUR PEACEFUL INTENTIONS.
THE BODY AND EFFECTS OF THE AMERICAN
KILLED DURING THE ATTACK WILL BE RETURNED
WITH ALL DELIBERATE SPEED.
AMERICAN SURVIVORS OF THE ATTACK WILL
RECEIVE APPROPRIATE MEDICAL CARE, AND WILL
ALSO BE RETURNED WITH DISPATCH.
AN AMERICAN INSPECTION TEAM WILL BE AL-
LOWED TO SALVAGE THE REMAINS OF YOUR
EQUIPMENT WHICH WAS DESTROYED BY THE
SOVIET AIR DEFENSE FORCES DURING YOUR
BOMBING STRIKE ON THE BAIKONUR COSMO-
DROME.
THE SOVIET UNION AGREES TO PAY REPARA-
TIONS TO THE UNITED STATES FOR THE LOSS OF
YOUR SPACECRAFT, AND TO THE FAMILY OF THE
DECEASED AIRMAN.
GENERAL SECRETARY VORONTSKY WAS
KILLED IN A PLANE CRASH BEFORE HE COULD BE
BROUGHT TO JUSTICE. THE SOVIET FOREIGN MIN-
ISTER AND DEFENSE MINISTER HAVE BEEN RE-
LIEVED OF THEIR DUTIES FOR THEIR DUPLICITY
AS CO-CONSPIRATORS IN THIS CRIMINAL ENTER-
PRISE.
THIS MESSAGE HAS BEEN SIMULTANEOUSLY
TRANSMITTED TO AMBASSADOR YAKOLEV, WHO
HAD NO KNOWLEDGE OF THIS ILLEGAL PLOT.
THE CENTRAL COMMITTEE HAS SELECTED VI-
TALI KOSTIASHAK, CHAIRMAN OF THE COMMIT-
TEE FOR STATE SECURITY, AS THE NEW GENERAL
SECRETARY OF THE COMMUNIST PARTY. WE CALL
FOR A SUMMIT MEETING BETWEEN YOU AND
HIM IN ORDER TO FURTHER REDUCE TENSIONS
BETWEEN OUR TWO COUNTRIES.
TO REPEAT, THE CENTRAL COMMITTEE WAS TO-
TALLY UNAWARE OF THIS CRIMINAL ACT BY GEN-
ERAL SECRETARY VORONTSKY. WE HAVE ACTED
SWIFTLY AND OPENLY TO CORRECT THIS TRAG-
EDY. WE OFFER OUR APOLOGIES TO THE UNITED

504
STORMING INTREPID
STATES AND OUR CONDOLENCES TO THE FAMILY
OF THE SLAIN CREWMAN.
CENTRAL COMMITTEE OF THE COMMUNIST PARTY
OF THE SOVIET UNION
-END MESSAGE-
Afiter typing in the translation, the sandy-haired Donley turned
to the general staff duty officer—a Marine brigadier. In a voice
that was three octaves higher than his normal tone, he asked,
"Just what on earth is going down, sir?"

THE SIXTH DAY

Day 6, 1700 Hours Zulu, Noon Local
THE WHITE HOUSE
The President looked at his reflection in the mirror and
straightened his tie. "Are you sure this is the way we should
handle it, Harry?" he asked laconically.
Harry Funkweiler, the garishly dressed White House press
secretary (and former vice president of marketing at the chief
executive's old car company), said, "Oh, absolutely, Mr. Pres-
ident. First of all, nobody would believe the truth about this
whole disaster, and in the second place we just don't have all
the facts yet. We'd look like horse butts if we let it all hang out
and then the Russkies did a change-up on us. Just go out
and say we had some serious problems with a shuttle mission
to the SDI platform, and we had to launch a rescue shuttle over
southern Florida. Unfortunately, complications arose with that
launch as well, and life has been lost. Say it's all national
security, and only take three questions . . . make that two
questions."
The President didn't know what to think. But he always relied
on Funkweiler's judgment. He was the best media flack in the
business and could play the press like a pipe organ. He'd been
instrumental in engineering the President's election landslides.
Yet the President was always uneasy when throwing a "slider"
to the press. He always figured it could backfire. He turned to
507

508
STORMING INTREPID
his Secretary of State, who was the only other adviser in the
room. "What do you think, Winston?"
Having studied under Henry Kissinger, the diplomat had fewer
qualms about using a little sleight of hand in dealing with the
press. "I agree with Harry, Mr. President, but for different
reasons. I think we have to withhold the whole story until the
Russian leadership has had a chance to solidify. Then we can
reassess the situation."
The President sighed. "Hmmm. Well, okay. Let's get on with
it. How long till I go on the air, Harry?"
Funkweiler looked at his Spiro Agnew wristwatch—a collec-
tor's item—and said. "Seven minutes, Mr. President."
The three men filed out of the Oval Office and headed for the
East Room of the White House.
Seymour Woltman sat among the press corps, unshaven and
giving off a foul odor. He was unable to recall when he had last
shaved and showered. Although the East Room was crammed
with reporters and photographers for the Presidential press con-
ference, Woltman's stench enabled him to enjoy an empty seat
on his left and right.
Woltman was exhausted, but pleased. His trip to Washington
had been a success. He believed his constant hammering of
everyone he knew at NASA, the Pentagon, and the White House
had built enough momentum to compel this press conference.
They'd been told the President would make a brief statement
concerning the shuttle launch, then take a few questions.
Woltman noticed everybody was standing up. He got to his
feet and saw the President marching down the red carpeted hall-
way toward the podium.
As the President strode down the long hallway, he passed a
series of portraits that were hung along the wall. The images of
Washington, Jefferson, and Lincoln seemed to scowl down at
him as he walked past with the prepared press release in his
hand. The prepared release was less than the whole truth. Which
meant it was a lie.
He mounted the podium and faced the lights and television
cameras. Through these electronic windows he would be talking
to a hundred million Americans—"the Boss," as he called them.

THE SIXTH DAY
509
He looked down at his statement, and was silent for some
moments as his thoughts returned to the images of Washington,
Jefferson, and Lincoln. Lincoln's scowl had been particularly
haunting, causing the President to pause. He figured his pre-
decessors deserved better than an "inoperative" press release.
"The Boss" deserved better, too. So with great ceremony the
President ripped the prepared statement in two and walked
around in front of the podium.
The boom operator was caught off guard by this unexpected
move, and jumped to reposition the reedlike microphone above
the chief executive's head. The assembled gaggle of reporters
was intrigued by the deliberate paper shredding, and collectively
leaned forward.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said the President tiredly, "I have
an incredible story to tell you."
For the next forty-five minutes an open-mouthed press corps,
as well as an entire nation, remained silent in rapt attention as
their national leader explained in precise detail how an
American-born Russian agent had hijacked the Intrepid, how
the Soviets had destroyed the Constellation, how SAC had gone
to DEFCON TWo, how a pair of stealth bombers had been sent
into Russia and how one of them had blown the Intrepid apart,
how there had been a palace coup within the Kremlin, and how
he'd ordered SAC's bombers recalled.
At the end of his monologue he returned to the podium, took
a sip of water, and said, "Are there any . . . questions?"
A full ten seconds of shocked silence elapsed—then the East
Room exploded in pandemonium.

THREE WEEKS
LATER

CHECKPOINT CHARLIE, AMERICAN SECTOR,
WEST BERLIN
The Army colonel—who could have doubled for Arnold
Schwarzenegger—hung up the phone and walked out of the guard
booth. "Okay, sir," he told Whittenberg, "we can go across
now. Just remember to stay on our side of the line."
"Right," responded the SPACECOM CinC.
The colonel nodded to the gate guard, and the barrier was
raised.
Whittenberg turned to Maj. Lydia Strand and CM/Sgt. Tim
Kelly. "Let's go collect our man," he said, and the three of
them strode past the barrier into no-man's-land—a patch of earth
in the heart of Berlin where the geography and ideology of East
and West met in an uneasy truce. Behind Whittenberg, Strand,
and Kelly came the colonel and an Army medical team.
Across the way, Whittenberg saw the barrier go up, allowing
a lone Soviet officer to approach. The CinC thought this odd,
for he knew that Russians liked to move in packs—particularly
in touchy situations like this. But be that as it may, the rather
short, stocky-looking Russian came forward by himself, ex-
tended his hand, and asked in a heavy accent, "General Whit-
tenberg?"
The big black man took the Russian's hand and shook it.
"That is correct, sir. And you are?"
513

514
STORMING INTREPID
"I am Marshal Likady Popov, Minister of Defense of the
Soviet Union. I have been sent as a personal emissary of General
Secretary Kostiashak to ensure that you are satisfied with the
repatriation of your people."
"Popov?" asked Whittenberg quizzically. "The same Li-
kady Popov who is Director of Soviet Spaceflite Operations?"
The stocky Russian shrugged and looked at his feet, trying
to conceal his pleasure at learning he was important enough for
the Americans to maintain a dossier on him. "My former po-
sition, General. I have recently taken on new responsibilities."
Whittenberg nodded. "Apparendy so. . . . May we proceed
with our transfer?"
"By all means," replied Popov, who motioned to a guard by
the East Berlin barrier. A man who was wearing gray coveralls
and had his arm in a sling walked forward. "First, I am pre-
senting you with one of the crewmen from your bomber that
was shot down. You will find that all of your men have been
treated well and have not been interrogated."
"I am glad to hear that," replied the CinC.
As the pilot of the Ghost Two crossed the white line, the Army
colonel took him under his wing.
"Next," said Popov, "your two injured aviators. One from
the bomber, and one from your small spaceplane. I must admit
you caught us by surprise with your space fighter. We had no
idea you were working on such a device."
Whittenberg nodded. "I daresay, Marshal Popov, our sur-
prise has been far greater than yours."
Popov did not reply at once, but instead motioned again to
the guard. Two stretchers were brought forward, each carried
by a pair of Russian Army medics. "You will be pleased to know
they have received the finest medical care."
Whittenberg peered at the stretchers as they approached.
"Would you have them brought over here first?" he asked.
"As you wish," replied Popov, who turned and uttered a
command. Then he said to Whittenberg, "The injured will be
followed by the fatality from your spaceplane."
Again, Whittenberg nodded, and stepped back as the first
stretcher crossed the line and was passed to U.S. Army medics.
He didn't recognize the face. "What's your name, son?" he
asked.

THREE WEEKS LATER
515
"McKiniey, sir," the patient said weakly. "Captain Jack Mc-
Kinley. I was the Whizzo on Ghost Two."
Whittenberg patted his shoulder.' 'You did good. We received
the burst message you sent."
The Whizzo smiled. "That's good to know, sir."
"You take it easy. We'll visit more later." The CinC stepped
back and the medics carried the stretcher toward an ambulance
parked behind the American barrier.
The second stretcher was transferred and brought forward,
and Peter Lamborghini's bandaged face looked up at the big
black man, the brunette major, and the sergeant with the bullet-
shaped head. A weak smile came across his face. "Sir . . .
Lydia . . . Tim . . . sure good to see you."
Whittenberg took his hand. "Good to see you, too, Pete.
Juliet and your girls are waiting for you at Rhein-Main in Frank-
furt. We're flying you out to the Army hospital there."
Lamborghini had a faraway look in his eyes. "That's good,"
he said meekly.
Strand couldn't hold back. "That was a crazy thing Com-
mander Monaghan did."
Lamborghini looked at her, and then at Whittenberg. "Tell
me . . . that was a stealth bomber we saw, wasn't it?"
Whittenberg was surprised. "I guess the Russians kept you
separated from the other guys after you were captured, but, yes,
it was a stealth bomber. Did you see it?"
Lamborghini's response was slow and pained. "We lost the
Intrepid in the clouds on the way down. Thick soup. We tried
to pick it up on the ground, but couldn't find it. Saw the stealth
bomber just as a MiG was lining up for a shot. We nailed the
MiG. . . . Tell me, did the bomber make it through?"
"It got through and blasted the Intrepid into spare parts,"
replied Whittenberg. "And I guess we have you two guys to
thank for that."
Lamborghini turned his head slightly so he could watch the
covered body bag being transferred into American hands. "Af-
ter we nailed the MiG, we would've both been killed "by a SAM,
but Mad Dog saved me. ... He didn't survive the impact."
Whittenberg, Strand, and Kelly all looked at each other. None
of them quite understood exactly how Monaghan had saved the
Kestrel from the SAM. "You rest easy, Pete," ordered the CinC.

516
STORMING INTREPID
"You guys did a great job. After you get better you can tell the
President and me all about it. In the meantime we'd better get
you to Rhein-Main. Lydia and Tim will go with you."
The stretcher headed toward the ambulance, with Strand and
Kelly acting as escorts.
Finally, Whittenberg and Popov were alone.
"I trust you found the transfer satisfactory?" inquired the
Russian.
"Yes, Marshal Popov. It looks like Colonel Lamborghini is
lucky to be alive."
Popov agreed. "Most fortunate. I was told he suffered a con-
cussion, several broken ribs, an injured hip, a broken cheek-
bone, and internal bleeding. Some surgery was required to
reduce pressure on one of his lungs." Then the perceptive Rus-
sian observed, "It would appear the two of you are close."
Whittenberg checked to make sure Lamborghini was safely
inside American territory before saying, "That's true. He's my
intelligence staff officer."
Popov showed his surprise, while Whittenberg took some
satisfaction in knowing the Russians would be galled to learn
the SPACECOM intelligence chief had slipped through their
fingers. Popov couldn't ignore the zinger. "I must say, Gen-
eral," he remarked, "you live up to your dossier."
Whittenberg raised an eyebrow. "Why, thank you. I think."
Popov extended his hand. "This should conclude our busi-
ness, General. It has been an honor to meet you. I hope you
will convey to your President that the transfer was conducted
satisfactorily."
Whittenberg took the stocky man's hand. "I shall, Marshal
Popov. And the President asked that his regards be passed along
to the new General Secretary."
"It will be done." Popov gave a curt bow, turned and walked
away.
"Marshal Popov?" called Whittenberg.
The Russian stopped and turned. "Da?"
"It was Kapuscinski, wasn't it?"
Popov was caught off guard and hesitated, but then softly
said, "Da. "
Whittenberg nodded, then gave the Russian a salute. Popov
brought himself to attention and returned the gesture.

THE FOLLOWING
DECEMBER

CHATEAU FLEUR D'EAU,
GENEVA, SWITZERLAND
The Vice President, who was now the President-elect, ab-
sently stoked the logs in the fireplace with an ornate bronze
poker, sending up a small plume of swirling sparks that were
reflected in his energetic eyes. However, his mind was far from
the glowing embers—he was still trying to absorb what the Gen-
eral Secretary had just told him.
The President, the Vice President, and the General Secretary
were in the oak-paneled den of the Chateau Fleur d'Eau in the
wooded outskirts of Geneva. It was here, in this very room, that
the first Reagan-Gorbachev summit had been held. But this
meeting had a much different dynamic. Billed as the "Transition
Summit," it included both the incoming and outgoing Ameri-
can chiefs of state, as well as the new General Secretary. And
because the General Secretary spoke fluent English, the meet-
ings could be held without those nettlesome interpreters. Al-
though interpreters were considered trustworthy, national leaders
always felt the presence of another set of eyes and ears in the
room, and were inhibited from speaking with unvarnished can-
dor. But English was not a problem for Vitali Kostiashak, and
he spoke to the two Americans with absolute candor.
The Vice President, still somewhat numbed by the General
Secretary's remarks, put the poker aside and turned. ' 'You mean
519

520
STORMING INTREPID
to tell us, General Secretary, that the hijacking of our space
shuttle Intrepid was nothing more than an engineered plot to
topple your predecessor?"
Kostiashak exhaled a lungful of smoke. "That is correct, Mr.
Vice President."
The Vice President shook his head, causing the firelight to
glint off his steel-gray crew cut. "That's incredible. Unbeliev-
able. I've always figured you Russians as a conspiratorial lot,
but this Intrepid business. Well, it's hard to accept. Good God,
didn't you know we were at DEFCON Two? We even considered
launching a nuclear cruise missile to destroy the Intrepid."
"You must have been clean out of your mind," said the Pres-
ident bitterly. "To bring our two countries so close to a nuclear
exchange is unthinkable. Yet you did so just to satisfy your own
personal ambitions. That is contemptible, General Secretary.
Contemptible and insane. You must be off your rocker."
Kostiashak exhaled again. "Gentlemen—if you will permit
me to finish. I want you to know that I have shared this infor-
mation with no one—absolutely no one—inside or outside the
Soviet Union, except yourselves and my Defense Minister. And
I trust I can rely on your discretion, for you will see that confi-
dentiality will be in your best interest."
Kostiashak leaned forward and helped himself to a Swiss
chocolate from a tray on the coffee table. "I ask that you judge
my conduct not as an act of simple ambition, but as a calculated
move in a broader context."
The President's drill-sergeant face gave him a sour look,
"What broader context?"
"Your country and mine, Mr. President, have been prisoners
on an inexorable treadmill from which we have been unable to
escape. Like a dog chasing its tail, the faster we chase, the more
frustrating it becomes."
"I take it you mean the arms race?" said the Vice President.
"Correct," replied the Ukrainian.
"If you want to know who is responsible for the arms race,
General Secretary," said the President with irony in his voice,
"you have only to look in the mirror."
Kostiashak shrugged. "Mr. President, you and I can waste a
great deal of time pointing fingers at each other. While it is true
that the Soviet Union has spent vast sums on the military, you

THE FOLLOWING DECEMBER 521
should be mindful that we have been invaded twice in this cen-
tury by aggressors—and we lost twenty million souls in the Great
Patriotic War. Had that happened in America, your perspective
might be different."
The President harrumphed. "Be that as it may, what are you
getting at?"
Kostiashak unwrapped the chocolate. "Mr. President, I am a
devoted Communist. Although I was educated in your country,
I totally reject your weak and decadent system of commercial
exploitation. However, I am also a pragmatist, and my education
demonstrated to me that your country has certain strengths and
attributes that the Soviet Union cannot match."
"No shit," observed the President.
The Ukrainian ignored the comment. "When you achieved
your technological breakthrough in space defenses, I knew that
the Soviet Union could not compete in that arena. My years at
Princeton taught me this. The race to the moon taught me this.
Trying to compete with the United States head to head in ad-
vanced technology was folly. No matter how many or our re-
sources we applied to the effort, I knew we would always be a
few steps behind. The playing field, as your expression goes,
was not level." Kostiashak looked into the fire. "Unfortunately,
the Soviet leadership which had been entrenched for some time-
particularly the military—did not have the benefit of my Prince-
ton experience, and my understanding of American culture.
They reacted to your technological breakthrough in typical Rus-
sian fashion, born out of two invasions oh our soil in this cen-
tury—as I have pointed out. The Politburo and the military
reacted with enormous additional space research expenditures,
as well as enormous expenditures for space vehicles. General
Secretary Gorbachev was unable to quell these conservative
forces, which rallied around an unholy alliance of GOSPLAN
Minister Vorontsky, Defense Minister Zholobov, and the For-
eign Minister. Even if he had lived and remained in power,
Gorbachev would have found himself a prisoner of that troika
of conservative forces. But Gorbachev was killed, Vorontsky
seized power, and the military spending binge continued un-
abated. The Politburo fell into the firm grip of the milita-
rists.
"In any case," he continued, "these increased space defense

522
STORMING INTREPID
costs, on top of our expenditures to reinvade Afghanistan, were
particularly onerous. Our defense budget as a percent of gross
national product climbed to twenty-seven percent. I believe yours
remains at six percent."
"Six and a half," corrected the President.
"Six and a half,'' echoed the Ukrainian softly as he continued
to gaze into the fire. "My country was caught in an impossible
situation. We could not match you technologically, and we could
not afford the combination of space defense research, the war
in Afghanistan, and the maintenance of our laige conventional
forces. The fabric of our society was starting to crumble. Moth-
ers could not feed their children." The Ukrainian turned to face
the American. "Yet in spite of all this, you did the most stupid
thing."
The President sat up straight. "And what was that?"
"You refused to negotiate any limits on space weapons."
The President almost laughed. "General Secretary, if you
think I'm going to buy some type of bleeding-heart story—from
you, of all people—intended to get me to negotiate away our
space defense shield, you've got it all wrong. The United States
will never negotiate from a position of weakness. My country
has had a consistent policy that it will develop and deploy our
Strategic Defense System. It has been developed, and we are
deploying. So much for your Princeton education. You have
totally misread us."
Kostiashak took a very long drag on his Pall Mall and exhaled
ever so slowly. He then looked at the American for some mo-
ments before saying, in his viper's voice, "It is you, Mr. Pres-
ident, who have misread your adversary."
The Ukrainian's tone was unsettling, causing the President's
drill-sergeant face to start twitching. "How so?" he asked cau-
tiously.
"You are wise to negotiate from a strong position, Mr. Pres-
ident. We Soviets admire strength. For us, it is a virtue, and to
deal with someone who is strong evokes our respect. Unfortu-
nately, your technological breakthrough has done more than
evoke feelings of respect. It has brought out feelings of genuine
terror—of deep vulnerability. I can tell you categorically that
unless you and I reach an accord that will limit your space de-

THE FOLLOWING DECEMBER 523
fense deployment, you will thrust the Soviet Union into an act
of desperation."
The President scowled. "The Soviet Union has nothing to
fear from a defensive weapon system," he said flady.
"That is entirely wrong," said the Ukrainian in an analytical
voice. "It is our perception that a protective space shield over
your ballistic missiles creates an imbalance. It destroys the bal-
ance of power—what you refer to as MAD, or Mutual Assured
Destruction. If you launched your missiles in a first strike, we
would be unable to retaliate effectively. And Russia will not
allow itself to become vulnerable again—ever. If you continue
to prosecute your deployment of a space defense platform, I
would be unable to halt our defense spending, yet I still could
not match you technologically. You would leave me with no
choice but to embark upon an . . . unprecedented act." The
Ukrainian fell silent.
"And what is this 'unprecedented act' you refer to?" queried
the Vice President.
The General Secretary reached into his Gucci leather attache
case and withdrew a file. From the manila folder he extracted a
color photograph and placed it on the coffee table. It was a
picture of Red Square, with the Kremlin's onion domes in the
background. In the foreground was a KGB major standing next
to a simple 55-gallon oil drum, which was painted a bright red,
white, and blue.
The two Americans looked at the picture. "So?" asked the
President.
Kostiashak pulled out a second photograph. The same KGB
major was now in civilian clothes, standing in front of a Ford
van with the panel door open. Inside the van was the same red-
white-and-blue 55-gallon drum. But the onion domes of the
Kremlin were no longer present. Instead, the background of the
photograph clearly showed the White House.
The President's neck hairs rose up. "What are you trying to
prove?" he asked sharply.
The Ukrainian adjusted his silk tie. "It is amazing how small
nuclear weapons can be made these days. Even thermonuclear
deuterium-tritium weapons in the fifty-kiloton range. They can
be reduced to the size of an ordinary oil drum." The General
Secretary sighed. "You Americans pride yourselves on having

524
STORMING INTREPID
such 'open' borders and unrestricted travel within your territo-
ries. So be it. That is your choice. But I can tell you that your
borders are pitifully porous. South American drug merchants
smuggle in illicit cargo by the ton, do they not? And you are
powerless to stop them. The oil drum you see pictured here was
unloaded from a commercial vessel in the Mexican harbor of
Veracruz, then flown by private plane to a desert landing strip
in your state of Utah. It was then transported by this van to the
tourist parking area near your residence, Mr. President. . . . No
one lifted a finger to stop my agent. In fact, a courteous highway
patrolman in your state of Nebraska assisted him when his ve-
hicle suffered a tire puncture."
The two Americans were speechless.
The diminutive Ukrainian's charm evaporated now, and his
eyes turned hard. "If you continue with your SDI deployment,
Mr. President, you give me no alternative but to find other means
to deliver nuclear weapons. That would mean prepositioning
weapons on your soil to circumvent your spacebome defensive
shield. It would be a simple matter to park a genuine nuclear
weapon by the White House, by the Pentagon, near major mil-
itary bases, or in New York's Central Park."
"You wouldn't dare," said the President cautiously.
Kostiashak studiously toyed with the gold band of his Piaget
watch. "Who is to say I have not done so already?"
The President shot out of his chair. "You couldn't have!"
The Ukrainian softened his tone, and the charm returned.
"Of course not, Mr. President. I am only trying to demonstrate
what could happen if you continue to push me into an impossible
corner. I understand you are quite knowledgeable concerning
automobiles, but have you learned nothing from history? Gun-
powder defeated the bow and arrow. The machine gun defeated
the cavalry. The tank defeated the machine gun. Air power de-
feated the tank. What made you think your Star Wars system
could not be countered as well?"
The two Americans eyed each other. "So what's the bottom
line?" asked the Vice President.
"Ah, a businessman," said Kostiashak as he crushed out his
cigarette. "How fortunate. The 'bottom line,' as you say, is that
if you are willing to halt the deployment of your Star Wars plat-

THE FOLLOWING DECEMBER 525
form, I am in a position to make you a very attractive offer. Very
attractive, indeed."
Both men cocked their heads forward. "Go ahead," said the
President. "We're listening."
The Ukrainian spoke quickly. "I propose a moratorium on
the space testing and deployment of any and all space weapons
by both nations, but terrestrial research may continue to your
heart's content. We will agree to cut strategic arms by fifty per-
cent. Further, I am willing to reduce Warsaw pact conventional
forces to a one-to-one ratio with NATO forces in soldiers, ar-
mored vehicles, aircraft, and artillery pieces. Any Soviet forces
in excess of this one-to-one ratio will either be demobilized or
withdrawn to positions east of the Ural Mountains. Soviet forces
in Afghanistan will be withdrawn immediately under UN su-
pervision, and Soviet support for liberation forces in Central
America, Cuba, and Africa will be greatly reduced. Addition-
ally, attractive joint-venture terms will be offered to American
firms for development of natural resources in Siberia, and they
will be permitted to repatriate their profits. Finally, all of these
treaty elements will be offered with stringent, on-site verifica-
tion terms."
The Vice President looked at him with disbelief. Warsaw Pact
forces vastly outnumbered those of NATO. "A one-to-one ratio
with NATO and a fifty percent strategic arms cut? You just told
us that Gorbachev couldn't get a handle on your conservatives.
Why should we believe you can make your military buy a deal
like that?"
Kostiashak contemplated the fire once more before saying,
"The conservative unholy alliance I spoke of is no longer op-
erative, and I currently have some exceptional influence with
the military. But unless we rapidly reach an accord, that in-
fluence will evaporate and new conservative forces will
emerge."
The President looked at his Veep—the man who would soon
be his successor—and said, "You know my feelings on SDI, but
you're the President-elect. This is going to have to be your call.
He could be deposed tomorrow," said the President, while
pointing to the Ukrainian. "Then we'd be back to square one.
And I don't like the feeling that we're being blackmailed."
Kostiashak unwrapped another chocolate. "I can assure you

526
STORMING INTREPID
both that if we walk out of this room without striking a bargain,
I will either be overthrown or forced to embark on a preposi-
tioning strategy." He pointed at the photographs on the coffee
table, then popped the chocolate in his mouth and rose from his
chair. He approached the President-elect, who was standing by
the fire. "I delayed this summit meeting until your election was
past, Mr. Vice President, because I wanted to deal with some-
one who would be in office for a considerable time. You have
my proposal, and I have outlined in crystal-clear terms the al-
ternatives. I must halt my country's insane arms expenditures
and redirect our resources to the civilian sector, but I am
powerless to do so without an agreement limiting deployment
of your space weapons. Believe me when I say I find the al-
ternatives just as distasteful as you, if we do not reach an ac-
cord."
The Vice President picked up the poker and started stoking
the fire again. Like the President, he was a businessman. But
he was more of a historian than the former auto executive. While
a student at West Point, the Vice President had carefully studied
Operation Barbarossa—Hitler's ill-fated invasion of the Soviet
Union—and he knew that when the Russians had their backs to
the wall they'd fight harder than a band of Comanches. When
the Wehrmacht panzers were rolling toward the Kremlin, the
Russians had been willing to trade ten of their own lives to kill
one German. A Russian respected strength, to be sure, but
when cornered, a desperate Russian was a dangerous thing.
Maybe too dangerous. Castrating the Soviets' nuclear arsenal
with a space defense shield might push them past a deadly trig-
ger point.
The President-elect gave the coals one last jab before placing
the poker aside. He turned to the dark-skinned Ukrainian and
asked, "No restriction on earthbound research?"
"No restriction on terrestrial research or testing," replied
Kostiashak. "Only on deployment."
"A one-to-one ratio in Europe on conventional arms, a pull-
out from Afghanistan, and a fifty percent cut in strategic
arms?"
"A one-to-one ratio, a pullout, and a fifty percent cut," ech-
oed the General Secretary.
"Stringent on-site verification?"

THE FOLLOWING DECEMBER 527
"Stringent on-site verification."
The American thought for a moment, then added, "Draco-
nian verification?"
Kostiashak nodded, and said, "Draconian verification."
The President-elect brushed the soot from his fingers, then
stuck out his hand and said, "Deal."

Epilogue
Comdr. Leroy Monaghan, United States Navy, was awarded
the Congressional Medal of Honor posthumously. He was bur-
ied at Arlington National Cemetery with full military honors,
along with Maj. Frank Mulcahey and Geraldo "Jerry" Rodri-
quez.
Posthumously, Col. Julian Kapuscinski was stripped of all
military rank and decorations.
Of the twenty-three "seedling" couples that were planted on
American soil by the Komisar Lavrenti Beria, three did not bear
children. Of the remaining twenty couples: two of the offspring
died young; twelve were simply assimilated into American so-
ciety; three wound up in mental institutions, being unable to
resolve the conflict between their environment and their parents'
instructions; and three "took root." Of the three seedling off-
spring that took, one was Iceberg; one is currently a sergeant in
a cable platoon at the U.S. Army Signal School at Fort Gordon,
Georgia; and the last is an import/export official in the Depart-
ment of Commerce in Washington. The two remaining seedling
offspring show no particular promise, nor do they have access
to highly classified material. Far and away, Iceberg was the star.
The new President was sworn in, and because of his conser-
vative credentials, was able to get the new arms treaty through
Congress. The NATO alliance—which once again included
528

EPILOGUE
529
France as a full military member—embraced the treaty like a
long-lost grandchild, and it was with a sense of awe that Euro-
peans watched Soviet troops withdraw from their long-held po-
sitions along the border and head east toward the Urals or
demobilization. Mostly demobilization. Hundreds upon hun-
dreds of ICBMs in the Soviet Union and the United States were
yanked out of their silos and sent to the shredder. There were
so many inspection teams crawling over the Russian landscape
that one American sergeant quipped, "If a soldier in the Red
Army farts, we can tell you what flavor borscht he had for din-
ner."
Gen. Rodger Whittenberg, having anticipated a somewhat in-
glorious retirement, was surprised when he was tapped by the
new President to replace Admiral Bergstrom as the new Chief
of the General Staff of the United States Armed Forces. From
time to time he exchanged personal letters with the Russian
Defense Minister.
Memorial services were held in Red Square for cosmonauts
Vasili Lubinin and Sergei Yemitov. Their families were granted
special dispensation to continue living at Star City. Yemitov's
widow bore her dead husband a daughter, whom she named
Nadja.
Lt. Fyodorlbpelov was awarded the Hero of the Soviet Union
medal and promoted to captain.
The flight crews of the stealth bombers were awarded the
Silver Star, en masse.
Slowly at first, then with a bit more frequency, refrigerators
and television sets became easier to obtain in Moscow, and food
availability seemed to increase a bit. Instead of spending her
average two hours a day in shopping lines, the typical Moscow
housewife had cut it down to an hour and twenty minutes.
Senior managers with McKinsey & Co. and other American
consulting firms started flying to Moscow with greater fre-
quency.

530
STORMING INTREPID
Lydia Strand stayed at SPACECOM, even though the com-
mand's space mission had been curtailed to a great extent. She
was on the promotion list for lieutenant colonel.
Peter Lamborghini healed. Slowly, but he healed. He was
offered the Congressional Medal of Honor, but turned it down.
Having survived the wild ride, Lamborghini didn't feel he was
Monaghan's equal. He was then offered the Distinguished Fly-
ing Cross, and at Whittenberg's urging, he accepted it.
By special order of the Chief of the General Staff, Lamborgh-
ini was appointed Commander of the 388th Tactical Fighter
Wing (F-16s) at Hill Air Force Base in Utah. And by special
appointment of the President, Juliet Lamborghini was named as
Assistant United States Attorney in Salt Lake City.
But perhaps the greatest and most tragic irony of the entire
Intrepid affair was the fact that there was never anything wrong
with the two Russian shutdes that were incinerated during their
reentry. The Buran and the Mikhail Suslov were perfecdy sound
spacecraft.
Prior to the respective final lift-offs of the Buran and the Sus-
lov, a KGB agent—dressed in the white coveralls of a techni-
cian—gained access to the gantry tower and threw a beaker of
sulfuric acid onto the fragile silica tiles of the orbiters' under-
bellies. Although only a few tiles were affected by the corrosive
acid, their loss allowed the air friction to gain a foothold and
tear a seam of tiles from the bellies in a "zipper effect." This
exposed the orbiters' soft aluminum skin to some 1,800 degrees
Fahrenheit, which quickly turned the delicate metal into liquid,
causing the spacecraft to break apart.
Four innocent cosmonauts died and two magnificent space-
craft were vaporized because of the acid. But Vitali Kostiashak
was a ruthless man, and if his audacious plan to topple the
"unholy alliance" of the Politburo and steer Russia onto a new
course was to succeed, then the Buran, the Suslov, and their
crews were expendable. Indeed, he considered their demise as
a necessary strategic move to push General Secretary Vorontsky
into an act of desperation—to lure him into bringing the Intrepid
down onto Russian soil. And once the American spacecraft had

EPILOGUE
531
touched down at the Baikonur Cosmodrome, the final trap could
be sprung.
It was an intricate chess game, of sorts, and the diminutive
grandmaster often wondered if Roosevelt and Machiavelli would
have approved.

About the Author
Payne Harrison is a former newspaper reporter and busi-
ness consultant. He holds B. A. and M.A. degrees from Texas
A&M University and an M.B.A. from Southern Methodist
University. Although not a pilot, he has been a life-long
military and aviation buff. He and his wife live in Dallas,
Texas.