Red Hammer 1994 (7 page)

Antonovich settled into a smooth cadence, his initial trauma ended. “As you are well aware, on the twelfth of April, one of the satellites detected unusual activity from a point in space over the Pacific Ocean. These emissions occurred over a period of three-and-one-half minutes. Two distinct wavelengths of visible light were identified, along with readings in the infrared spectrum. At first we were puzzled, but upon analysis and comparison, we concluded the light source was a chemical laser.”

Antonovich pointed to the chart projected on the screen. “Here you will observe the light intensity as a function of time. Note the short bursts.” A small pointer moved across the chart, pausing convincingly at each of four peaks to emphasize his point. The council members sat motionless; only an occasional cough broke the silence. Wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, Dr. Antonovich continued.

“The second phenomenon was more difficult. You can observe two instances here and here. At first we thought these two broad peaks were caused by a malfunction in the detectors—a severe noise spike. But after filtering out the background signals, we concluded they were large, chemical explosions. After much discussion, we concluded that a space-based laser had fired at and destroyed two targets.”

“Dr. Antonovich,” interrupted the defense minister hurriedly, “are you sure the source of the light emissions was a chemical laser? I have been briefed on our own laser research programs, and the data shows that a chemical laser small enough to be carried by a shuttle does not have nearly the power to destroy any worthwhile target. They are mere toys.”

“We have gone over the data many times, Defense Minister,” Dr. Antonovich emphasized, “and the conclusion is always the same. It was definitely a chemical laser, a very powerful one.”

The director of the SVR nodded his head in agreement. The others exchanged troubled glances. Laptev scowled.

The second chart that was set square on the glass, labeled “Experiment Geometry,” depicted the relative positions of the laser source and the targets. Antonovich hesitated while the Defense Council members scrutinized the chart. He concluded they would never figure it out on their own.

“Once we determined the source of the emissions, we attempted to construct the geometry of the experiment. It appears the spacecraft was in an orbit of approximately forty degrees inclination at an altitude between one hundred and sixty and three hundred kilometers. We were unable to determine the exact source of the destroyed targets, but if missiles, they came from Vandenberg, California. The puzzling thing is their apparent IR signature. I made inquiries at the intelligence analysis section at GRU headquarters and—”

“Thank you very much, Dr. Antonovich,” the defense minister interrupted once more. He turned to the Russian president. “Do you have any questions, President?”

Laptev slowly shook his head, an unsettling, distant look painted on his face. Dr. Antonovich, taken aback, quickly gathered his materials and stood awkwardly, waiting for instructions, like an offending school boy. An officer walked up, put his strong hand on the back of his arm, and coldly said, “Follow me.”

Laptev happily doodled on his pad of paper, obviously pleased with his creation. But then the slight smile at the corners of his mouth vanished as quickly as it had come. The others waited patiently, like they were used to the annoying pace. The president spoke only when he was ready.

“It is time we discuss the doctor’s very enlightening presentation.” Turning to the line of military officers seated against the wall, he said, “You are dismissed, except General Surikov.” The military audience rose and hastily departed.

“General Surikov,” the defense minister said, gesturing with his pudgy hand, “join us at the table.” The fat man flinched, having completely trampled protocol. He belatedly turned to Laptev, who graciously overlooked his grievous error—this time, and sanctioned the invitation with the slightest of nods. The defense minister expeditiously revived the stalled meeting.

“I hope we can get to the heart of the matter as quickly as possible. General Surikov?”

Surikov saw his fate written in the stone faces confronting him. All he could hope to do was make the best of a bad situation.

“Yes,” he began plaintively, “the GRU acknowledges the Americans conducted a sophisticated test of ballistic-missile defense technologies.” He now leaned forward for emphasis. “But, I wish to emphasize the word technologies, not an operational system. We have anticipated this type of experiment for some time.
Discovery
carried only a small laser used in a pointing-and-tracking exercise—the targets were canned.”

The defense minister glared threateningly. “A very smooth explanation, but how do you explain the two explosions shown by the doctor? The two chemical explosions?” He placed particular emphasis on the last two words.

Surikov had expected the question, but from someone else. He smelled a setup. The defense minister was not a technology person. He must have gotten a whiff of the data beforehand.

“The Americans detonated missiles at specific altitudes as part of the sensor test to evaluate kill-assessment algorithms in their battle-manager software. The doctor and his team got carried away in their analysis.”

“Is that what you think?” snapped the defense minister. His cheeks of jelly shook with feigned anger. As usual, he was magnificent. Even Laptev looked pleased, grunting a word of encouragement. He folded his hands, resting them on the table. It was a signal for silence. Laptev would deliver the coup de grâce himself.

“General Surikov, would you be so kind as to describe the state of our surveillance systems at this time?”

“As the Defense Council is aware, our space-surveillance system is in the process of a major modernization program. Occasionally, we have had temporary gaps in our coverage. Key American space launches have been missed, but we eventually tag them in orbit.”

“Thank you, General,” the defense minister said mockingly. “Skip the history lesson, and confine your answer to the issue at hand.”

Surikov gulped. “During April, the radar site near Petropavlovsk was in the final stages of a major refurbishment. The maintenance had been timed to correspond to an expected lull in American space activities.”

“Well, enough of this,” admonished the defense minister. “We’ve heard the GRU’s party line.” Laptev nodded approvingly. “Thank you, General Surikov. You may leave.”

Surikov was stunned. He swung to his boss, silently pleading for hoped support. Kisilev stared straight ahead.

“General Surikov, that is all,” the defense minister repeated much lower, now with mock compassion.

“Yes, Defense Minister,” Surikov replied softly as he headed toward the door.

The Russian president sat stewing. He suddenly looked up. Anger crept across his face. He acted like a man who had just been told his wife was cheating on him with his best friend. He straightened in his chair, his face tightening. “Why wasn’t I informed about this,” he roared, turning toward the defense minister. “Two days ago, I met with that imbecilic American Genser. I would have beaten the bastard over the head with this outrageous act. He sat there for over two hours and never mentioned anything about this. We have an understanding. No secret tests of any kind. This is the height of treachery!”

The Russian president seethed. His face twisted and turned beet red. The others sat motionless, alarmed at the prospect of Laptev collapsing on the spot. Finally he regained control, his breathing becoming more relaxed. Lowering his voice, he sounded ominous, threatening. “The Americans will pay for this.” Laptev eased dramatically out of his chair and onto his feet and then walked slowly from the table. Deep in thought, he traversed the room, turned, then retraced his steps, shuffling, lost in deep thought. He stopped and carefully scrutinized the other Defense Council members.

“This is totally unacceptable,” he said with a wave of his hand. “The Americans must never field this system. Never. They could disarm us for good. Our Strategic Rocket Forces would be rendered impotent. The Americans have their stealth aircraft and cruise missiles. We have neither.”

Fatigued from his short trip, the Russian president plopped down and leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles turned white. His voice rose dramatically. The anger was boiling to the surface again. It always came in unpredictable waves.

“The Americans have been lying for decades. While preaching peace with sugarcoated rhetoric, they have pursued their Holy Grail of strategic superiority. It’s always been just below the surface. For years we have bled concession after concession, reducing our armed forces to the point of ridiculousness, while the Americans throw us monetary scraps from the table.” The Defense Council reacted with silence.

Laptev headed for the exit. “This time they have gone too far,” he said over his shoulder.

CHAPTER 7

The portly Russian defense minister shuffled into his office, followed closely by the trim and much smaller Marshal Kiselev. The two had been verbally thrashed by Laptev at the president’s office. The topic had been military options to counter the American laser success.

The defense minister’s new quarters were on the top floor of the historic Kremlin Arsenal, recently remodeled to house the entire ministry and general staff. From his vantage point, he gazed across the expansive grounds to the storybook towers and cupolas of the ancient Kremlin and beyond to the stolid Moscow River. The view was remarkably soothing. The sturdy, timeworn structures had stood tall and stately throughout the difficult centuries, a rugged symbol of Russian stability and continuity, a granite island amidst turbulent seas.

“This is madness,” he groused. “No one in his right mind would discuss such nonsense. It’s asinine to theorize about such highly speculative war plans when other, more pressing business commands our attention.” He suddenly weighed anchor and huffed and puffed as he walked circles around his desk, working off nervous energy.

“I totally agree, Defense Minister, but the president is adamant,” answered Marshal Kiselev, shutting the heavy oak door. The defense minister pulled up and locked his bloodshot eyes on the marshal. “Hopefully this is just a charade, more grandstanding.”

The defense minister plopped his immense frame onto his large, black leather couch situated in the center of the office. He was exhausted after his indoor jog. Never mind that he was one hundred pounds overweight.

The general staff had worked day and night preparing detailed position papers outlining possible options to counter the American technical coup. The options ran the gamut from shifts in missile deployments to a complete restructuring of the entire ballistic missile force, including the development of fast burn boosters, coatings to deflect or absorb laser energy, and depressed trajectory flight profiles—a two-decade-long process that the Russian state could ill afford.

To his shock and utter amazement, Laptev had broached the topic of direct military action. Direct? What did the exarmy paratrooper mean by direct? Laptev was livid that the general staff had ignored this. When pressed, the defense minister had struggled, summarizing well-worn defense plans, most dating from the Warsaw Pact days.

The defense minister knew that the Russians had always excelled at staff work. To them, military operations were a science with each campaign or operation planned in excruciating detail. They correctly perceived that the outcome of any battle or theater operation could be predicted with surprising accuracy and was based on clear-cut principles and mathematical relationships. But their extensive library was obsolete. One could no longer simply grab a plan off the shelf and dust it off for the master’s review.

Laptev had pressed. Did any of the existing war plans contain provisions for a pre-emptive attack, he asked? Certainly, the defense minister had answered. Russian military strategy fundamentally recognized the advantage gained by striking the initial blow. They referred to it as the battle of the first salvo. Then Laptev had gotten specific. What about a nuclear first strike? The defense minister had almost fainted on the spot, fumbling for the ice water in front of him. He had dismissed the question as rhetorical and unanswerable. Laptev politely disagreed.

The defense minister had stumbled around a contrived response. At issue, he had said, was the Russians’ solemn pledge never to be the first to use nuclear weapons in any conflict. But, Russian interpretation of what constituted first use was radically different than in the West. If mortally threatened, and if unambiguous indicators signaled enemy hostility, a first strike was considered justified as an act of self-defense. So, yes, the option existed, he had confessed. It had been a canned answer to a serious question; one that upon reflection brought remorse, but also brought a smile to Laptev’s pudgy face.

Then Laptev dropped the hammer. Has the general staff explored the option of a so-called bolt-out-of-the-blue strike? The defense minister had winced. He chafed to label the proposition as irresponsible and dangerous. But the momentum was surging against him, like a wind-whipped tide. In theory, it could be done, he had answered, but the outcome would be highly problematic. Besides, even nuclear strikes called for follow-on forces to secure key objectives. Conventional and nuclear strategy was inexorably intertwined. Yes, he had said firmly for once, only after full mobilization would such an option be viable, and then it wouldn’t fit the tight definition of a true surprise attack. For a brief and satisfying moment, he felt the pre-sident’s attack had been repulsed.