Shadow Watch pp-3 Read online

  Shadow Watch

  ( Power Plays - 3 )

  Tom Clancy

  Martin Greenberg

  Jerome Preisler

  The year is 2001, and American businessman Roger Gordian has extended his reach into space. His company has become the principal contractor in the design and manufacture of Orion, a multinational space station.

  But the launch of a shuttle carrying parts for the station is sabotaged. Mysterious guerrilla attacks occur at the manufacturing facilities in Brazil and Kazakhstan. And Gordian's deepest fears are confirmed…

  The Orion project has been targeted by an international terrorist whose criminal enterprises thrive on violence and political instability. Harlan DeVane's goal is to cripple Gordian's intelligence and security team, while stowing a high-powered electromagnetic pulse generator aboard Orion — a state-of-the-art weapon with the capacity to throw every major American city into chaos…

  Tom Clancy, Martin Greenberg, Jerome Preisler

  Shadow Watch

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank Jerome Preisler for his creative ideas and his invaluable contributions to the preparation of the manuscript. I would also like to acknowledge the assistance of Marc Cerasini, Larry Segriff, Denise Little, John Helfers, Robert Youdelman, Esq., Tom Mallon, Esq.; the wonderful people at Penguin Putnam, including Phyllis Grann, David Shanks, and Tom Colgan; and Doug Littlejohns, Kevin Perry, the rest of the Shadow Watch team, and the other fine folks at Red Storm Entertainment. As always, I would like to thank Robert Gottlieb of the William Morris Agency, my agent and friend. But most important, it is for you, my readers, to determine how successful our collective endeavor has been.

  — Tom Clancy

  ONE

  KENNEDY SPACE CENTER CAPE CANAVERAL, FLORIDA APRIL 15, 2001

  Later, when it became both her job and obsession to determine what happened at the pad, she would remember how everything had gone just right until it all went terribly wrong, turning excitement and anticipation into horror, and forever changing the course of her life. Astronaut, media celebrity, role model, mother — the world’s easy reference tags for her would remain the same. But she knew herself well. There was the Annie Caulfield who had existed before the disaster, and the Annie Caulfield who eventually arose from its ashes. They were two very different women.

  The morning had promised ideal conditions for the launch: calm winds, moderate temperatures, a clear blue spread of sky running off toward the eastern rim of Merritt Island, where the sun was shining brightly over Pad 39A at the ocean’s edge. Annie would never forget that gorgeous sky, never forget looking out a window in the Launch Control Center and thinking it was like something from a Florida postcard or tourist brochure, the sort of roof NASA mission planners frequently wished for and rarely got.

  Indeed, the preparations for Orion’s launch had gone without a hitch from the beginning. There had been no false starts, none of the frustrating last-minute technical snags that often caused countdowns to slip, and sometimes even forced missions to be scrubbed entirely.

  Everything, everything, had seemed just right.

  At T minus two hours, thirty minutes, Annie had joined members of the Mission Management Team and other NASA officials in accompanying the flight crew — her crew, as she’d called it, as she referred to all of the teams under her supervision — to the transport vehicle that would ferry them to the pad. While this was typically staged as a photo op by NASA’s Public Affairs people, she was still a little surprised by the number of newsies waiting outside headquarters, their microphones covered with those furry wind baffles that looked like oversized caterpillars. There had even been a host from one of the network morning shows, Gary Somebody-or-other, who’d dragged her before the cameras for a comment.

  In hindsight, Annie supposed she should have been prepared for the attention. NASA was intent on working the media, and she was aware that her strongly requested presence at the Center on the launch date, and to some extent even her appointment as Chief of Astronauts — a position very much at the upper level of the agency’s organizational hierarchy — were calculated to draw a larger-than-normal press contingent. But she accepted her value as a PR tool, and sincerely believed the mission warranted its hype.

  Long delayed due to funding problems, and of major importance to the International Space Station, the facility’s first laboratory module was at last being sent into orbit, where it would be connected to the building-block segments already in place just two weeks before another research module was to launch from a Russian cosmodrome in Kazakhstan. Far beyond their political merits as concrete examples of East-West cooperation, the two missions were at the very heart of ISS’s future scientific endeavors, opening up a new era in space exploration, and Annie was sure this was why she’d been so focused on their nuts and bolts and uncharacteristically oblivious to the surrounding hoopla. Together, they represented the largest step ever toward realizing a dream that had held her in its grip since childhood, and cost her dearly as an adult. With success for the ISS program within reach, Annie was hoping the pride she felt over her contribution might finally eradicate the guilt and pain that had been its lasting by-product.

  But such thoughts had their proper time and place, and Annie’s personal trials had been the furthest thing from her mind as she stood there outside the restricted-access buildings of Launch Complex 39, watching Colonel Jim Rowland lead Orion’s crew into the buslike silver transport with the circular blue-and-white NASA insignia on its side. Those five men and women had been scheduled to make history, and while her job required that she remain physically earthbound, Annie had felt as if a part of her would be going with them nonetheless.

  They were her training group, her extended family.

  Her responsibility.

  She would always remember how Jim paused before entering the vehicle, his eyes scanning the crowd, seeking out her face amid the many others turned in his direction. The mission commander, and a fellow graduate of the astronaut class of ’94, Jim was a strapping, vigorous man who seemed to pulsate with confidence and enthusiasm… and, at that particular moment, an impatience that only another astronaut who’d seen the Earth from 250 miles up could fully understand.

  “Turnips, first and always,” he said, knowing she’d be unable to hear him in the commotion, moving his lips slowly so she could read them without trouble. Grinning at her, then, he cocked a thumb at one of the breast patches on his carrot-orange launch/reentry suit.

  Annie chuckled. Her mind flashed back to Houston, and the old training school motto they’d cooked up together, and the missions on which they’d flown as teammates. Ah, mercy, she thought. Once you’d been in space, it never stopped calling to you. Never.

  “Terra nos respuet, ” she mouthed in Latin.

  The earth spits us up and out.

  Jim’s grin widened, his eyes showing wry good humor. Then he tipped her a rakish little salute, turned, and entered the transport, the rest of the crew following him aboard in orderly procession.

  Soon afterward, her functions as window dressing concluded, Annie broke free of the gathered reporters, ate a light breakfast in the commissary, and then headed for the mission’s designated firing room, one of four expansive areas in the Center capable of directing a shuttle flight from prelaunch testing to takeoff, at which point operations would be shifted over to Mission Control in the Johnson Space Center, Houston. Filled with aisles of semicircular computer consoles, its enormous windows looking out toward the pad, the room was an impressive sight even while unoccupied. On launch days, when it bustled with ground controllers, technicians, assorted NASA bigwigs, and a smattering of guest VIPs from
outside the program, it was something else again. For Annie, the atmosphere never ceased to be electrifying.

  As she took her place in the Operations Management Room section of the firing room — which situated both the invitees and high-ranking personnel whose roles were nonessential to the countdown — Annie noticed the man seated to her right flick her an interested glance, instantly categorized it as the sort of I’ve-seen-your-picture-on-a-cereal-box look to which fame had made her accustomed, and then just as suddenly realized she was studying him in an almost identical manner. Not many businessmen were also household names, but only somebody who’d been sleepwalking for the past decade could have failed to recognize the founder and CEO of UpLink International, one of the world’s leading tech firms and, most notably insofar as Annie was concerned, prime contractor of the ISS.

  He extended his hand. “Sorry for staring, but it’s a great thrill to meet you, Ms. Caulfield,” he said. “I’m—”

  “Roger Gordian.” She smiled. “Our program’s foremost civilian standard bearer. And just ’Annie’ would be fine.”

  “First names all around then.” He nodded toward the woman on his opposite side, a striking auburn brunette in a crisp business suit. “Let me introduce you to my Vice President of Special Projects, Megan Breen. One way or another, she’s generally behind whatever good things our company manages to accomplish.”

  Megan reached over to shake Annie’s hand.

  “I hope you’ll attest to hearing Roger say that when it’s time for me to renegotiate my salary,” she said.

  Gordian gave Annie a wink. “Poor Megan’s still got a lot to learn about the unshakeable loyalties between former warbird pilots.”

  All at once, Annie’s smile became overlaid by something other than humor.

  “You were downed over Vietnam, weren’t you?” she said.

  Gordian nodded. “By a Soviet SA-3 while on a lowalt sortie over Khe Sanh.” He paused. “I’d been flying with the 355th out of Laos for about a year, and spent the next five on the ground at Hoa Lo Prison.”

  “The Hanoi Hilton. My God, that’s right. I’ve read how its inmates were treated. About its star chambers…”

  She let her voice trail off. These had been rooms eighteen and nineteen of what American POWs called the Heartbreak Area, known as the Meathook and Knobby Rooms, the former for reasons that were self-explanatory, the latter because of the clumps of plaster that covered the walls to dampen the screams of the tortured. Say what you wished about the French, who had left Hoa Lo as a legacy of their colonization of the region — just as the notorious penal colony on Devil’s Island was a historic testament to their rule of Guiana in South America — they had to be respected for having built escape-proof prisons that could impose behavioral modifications on the most hardened incorrigibles, the brutal inhumanity of those facilities notwithstanding. And quick studies that they were, the North Vietnamese had made full practical use of their inheritance.

  “I’ve likewise heard about your exploits,” Gordian said. “Six days evading enemy soldiers in the Bosnian countryside after an E&E from an F-16 at twenty-seven thousand feet.” He shook his head. “Thank heaven you were rescued.”

  “Heaven, my survival manual, my radio beacon, and an iron stomach I’ve been razzed about my whole life, but that’s uniquely suited to the consumption of grubs and insects,” she said. “These days, with the GAPSFREE recon and guidance systems you designed available on almost every fighter plane, it’s less likely a pilot’s going to be blindsided the way I was.”

  Gordian looked a bit uncomfortable.

  “You give me too much credit, and yourself too little,” he said, and then gestured around the room. “Though I’d bet we agree that this is really remarkable.”

  Annie nodded. Unless her judgment had gone totally awry, she’d just gotten a flash of genuine modesty from Gordian — a rare trait for someone of his stature, as working around powerful men had taught her, often through lessons of a highly unpleasant nature.

  “This your first launch?” she asked.

  “Other than as a tourist, yes,” he said. “When our kids were, well, kids, my wife Ashley and I got a car pass and took them to see an Endeavor takeoff from the public viewing site. That was spectacular enough, but to be inside an actual firing room…”

  “Makes your fingertips tingle and your heart go pitterpat,” Annie said.

  He smiled. “Guess I can assume you haven’t gotten blase about it yet.”

  “And I never will,” Annie said, smiling back at him.

  A moment later Gordian rose as NASA Administrator Charles Dorset arrived, clasped his hand, and bore him off to meet a group of officials in one of the adjacent rooms.

  “So what’s next?” Megan asked Annie, leaning across Gordian’s vacated chair. “With so much going on at once it’s hard to absorb everything.”

  “Don’t sweat it. Sending human beings into space is a complicated process,” Annie said. “Even the astronauts can’t remember all their tasks without cue cards, and that’s after years of training and a full dress rehearsal.”

  “Are you serious? About the cards, I mean.”

  “They stick ’em right on the instrument panel,” Annie said. “One small step for man, a giant step for Velcro.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “To give you a sense of where we stand, there’s about an hour left till takeoff, and everything seems to be looking good. The closeout team’s already secured the side hatch, and in a little while they’ll be leaving the pad for the fallback area. Prelaunch checks started hours ago and are automatically sequenced by the computers, but there are a lot of switches aboard that spacecraft, and right about now the crew’s going to be making sure they’re in the correct positions.”

  “The number of personnel jammed into this room comes as a revelation,” Megan said. “I’ve watched launches on television and expected we’d have plenty of company… but there have to be, what, two hundred people at the consoles?”

  “Good guess,” Annie said. “Actually, the total’s a little higher, maybe around two hundred fifty. That’s half as many as there were back in the days of Apollo, and a third less than were needed just a few years ago. The new CLCS — that’s Checkout and Launch Control System — hardware and software we’ve been adding have consolidated most launch operations.”

  Gordian was working his way back from the aisle. “Sorry to have left in the middle of our conversation, but Chuck wanted me to meet some of his deputies.”

  Chuck to you, Mr. Dorset to me, Annie thought. In the future, she would remember trying to conceal her amusement out of concern Gordian might take offense. I suppose it really is first names all around for some of us.

  Megan had turned to Gordian. “I wasted no time picking Annie’s brain while you were gone. It’s been quite an education.”

  “I hope one more eager pupil won’t be too much trouble then,” he said, taking his seat.

  Annie smiled. “Not at all. As long as we keep our voices down, you can both ask any questions you’d like.”

  Which was precisely what they did for the next fifty minutes or so. Then, at T minus nine minutes, a hold was put on the countdown and a waiting hush fell over the firing room. For the most part, the ground controllers sat at their stations in silent readiness. Across the room, however, the Mission Management Team — a group of key NASA officials and project engineers — began having quiet, serious discussions, a few reaching for telephones on their consoles.

  Annie noticed her new acquaintances looking intently over at them.

  “The hold’s altogether routine,” she explained in a low voice. “Gives the astronauts and ground personnel a chance to play catch-up with their task list and see if any last-minute corrections are necessary. It’s also when the managers make their final assessments. Some of them will want to teleconference with engineers in Houston before committing to the launch. Once they arrive at their individual determinations, they’ll take a poll, see whether there’s a consensus that
it’s okay to proceed.” She motioned toward the lightweight headphones on her console, then at two additional sets in front of Gordian and Megan. “When the event timer starts again, you’ll want to put them on and eavesdrop on the dialogue between the cockpit and ground operators.”

  “The polling you mentioned,” Megan said. “Does it take very long?”

  “Depends on the weather, technical snags that might have cropped up along the way, a bunch of factors. If one of the managers gets uneasy over something in his daily horoscope, he could theoretically force a postponement,” Annie said. “Though I’ve never heard of that happening, there have been some oddball occurrences. Five, six years ago, for example, a Discovery launch was tabled for over a month, thanks to a pair of northern flickers.”

  Gordian looked at her. “Woodpeckers?”

  “You know your birds.” Annie grinned. “Unfortunately, these two were pecking at the external fuel tank’s insulation covering instead of tree trunks. After it was repaired, an ornithologist was called in to scare off the little pests. I think he wound up hanging owl decoys around the pad area.”

  “Incredible.” Gordian shook his head. “I don’t remember hearing anything about it.”

  “Tales of the Cape. I can tell more of them than you’d ever want to hear.” Annie chuckled. “But have no fear. Based on what I see, it’ll be an easy ‘go’ today,” she said.

  And she was correct. Shortly after making her prediction, Annie saw the management team take their launch positions and reached for her phones. On the big wall screen across the room, a closed-circuit video feed showed what was usually referred to as “the stack”—this consisting of the Shuttle’s two solid rocket boosters, its massive 150-foot external fuel tank, and the Orbiter — in its vertical launch attitude. But Annie knew the spacecraft from the inside out, knew it as only someone who had flown aboard it could, and saw other vivid, detailed images in her mind’s eye: Jim and his pilot, Lee Everett, harnessed into their seats on the flight deck, the sun streaming into the nose of the vehicle and reflecting off the lowered faceplates of their helmets. Payload Specialist Gail Scott and Mission Specialist Sharon Ling directly behind them, the remaining three crew members below in the mid-deck. All of them in sitting positions on their backs to reduce the effects of g-forces on launch and ascent. Though she had never experienced space sickness, Annie knew they would have time-release scopolamine patches behind their right ears to alleviate potentially debilitating symptoms caused by acceleration and a microgravity environment.