The rec room looked more like a real command post now. Men going in and out constantly. Several small tables and chairs had been moved in. A computer terminal hummed at one table, a communications console with four small display screens lapped over the sides of another.
Kinsman was wolfing down a hasty sandwich. It was well past 2100 hours now. The medivac shuttle had taken most of the civilians off the station. Word of what had happened was screaming up the chain of command to Washington.
"Sir, we have Colonel Leonov on screen four," said one of the technicians, a woman who had volunteered to stay aboard the station with the Luniks.
Washing down a mouthful of unidentifiable soybean 465 product with a gulp of synthetic coffee, Kinsman made his way to the comm console.
Leonov looked triumphant on the tiny screen. "All three of our orbital stations are completely in our hands!" he reported. "There was amazingly little shooting. Surprise and a good deal of agreement with our aims carried almost everyone. I was very eloquent." He arched his brows, daring Kinsman to dispute him.
"Good work, Peter," was all that Kinsman could think to say. "We had a few bad moments here, but everything's under control now. Beta and Gamma are secure, and our people are checking out the ABM control systems on all three stations."
"They are bypassing the controls in the Earth-based stations?"
"Right. I presume your people are doing the same."
"It is already done. Our network of satellites can now be controlled only from the space stations. The Earthside con- trol links have been removed from the circuits."
"Good work," said Kinsman.
"You have sent the prisoners back to the States?" Leonov asked.
"Most of them. There wasn't room in the one medivac ship for all of them, so we still have a few here. And there are more coming from Beta and Gamma. We'll hold them here until they send another ship up from Earthside."
"If I were you. Comrade, I would hold on to the remaining prisoners. They might be valuable as hostages. That is what we are doing here."
Kinsman nodded. "You might be right."
"Now then," Leonov broke into a smile, "what about announcing our actions to the former owners of these space stations, eh?"
"The evacuees must be yelling their guts out into the radio aboard the medivac ship right now," Kinsman said. "Washington should be sorting out the story very shortly."
"Yes, but do you realize they are on full alert down there? They could send off their missiles before we are ready to stop them. We must make some sort of announcement jointly so they won't bombard each other."
"I know, Pete, but I'm afraid if we make the announce- 466 ment before we can really control the ABM satellites, they'll either shoot at us or send troops up. I'd rather wait until the reinforcements get here from Selene and we have enough people to man the ABM control centers properly."
Leonov slowly blinked his eyes. "I understand. But it is much faster to launch a missile or troopship from Earthside than to get extra technicians down here from Selene. Even with our ships accelerating at maximum energy ..."
He stopped. Someone off-screen had caught his atten- tion. Leonov snapped a few words in Russian, and an excited voice babbled breathlessly at him. Leonov's face went white.
"Chet, it's too late! One of our ... a Russian submarine has been torpedoed and sunk off the coast of California. The war has started!"
Tuesday 14 December 1999:
2148hrsUT
"THEY'VE LAUNCHED THE missiles?" Kinsman's voice was a shocked, high-pitched little boy's squeal of fear. His guts were frozen, a block of lunar ice. But his mind was racing.
Got to tell them right away that we've taken over. Got to! Got to scan the missile farms—Idaho, Montana, Texas, Siberia, China. Jesus Christ! The oceans. The subs. We'll need every sensor on every satellite. Got to be in touch with Perry and the others, make sure we can fire the lasers, get the radars tracking, all the sensors—get 'em ready to shoot at anything that moves. Fast!
