The White House Situation Room is tied into the entire defense network and has the same capabilities as the National Military Command Center at the Pentagon. The plan in converting a portion of the second floor to a 'soft' command post was to allow the President to take immediate control if there was no time for the short flight across the Potomac. An identical facility existed at Camp David and at Raven Rock in the Catoctin Mountains, a spur of the Appalachians in Pennsylvania. Raven Rock and Cheyenne Mountain were defined as 'hard' sites when constructed and were meant to withstand a direct hit from an nuclear weapon. In these days of pilots flying smart bombs through the ventilation shafts and front doors of Iraqi Scud missile bunkers, their survival is highly questionable. One study of SAC's Command Post at Offut AFB, Nebraska, stated that to survive, a new command post would have to be build five thousand feet under the present. Instead, SAC moved its command post to a modified Boeing 707 codenamed Looking Glass. The President was aware of these factors, and e with the rising tensions and increased readiness, he felt it unnecessary (or useless) to leave the White House.
"Anything new?" asked the President, not waiting until either he or his staff had taken their seats to start the meeting.
"Reports of increased Russian readiness are continuing to pour in, sir," offered DCI. "We're also getting reports of heavy maneuvering by the Russian Navy in the North Atlantic that doesn't seem to match normal procedures."
"Several soldiers have been stationed outside the American Embassy in Moscow," added the Secretary of State, "They politely asked the staff not to travel outside the compound."
"We've escalated to DEFCON 3, sir. With five minutes notice we can have half our bombers in the air," reported the Air Force Chief of Staff. "The Navy's leg of the Triad, the nuclear submarine fleet will be fully deployed within the hour, and, as always, our ICBM's can launch on command."
"Is Columbia going to make its window?" asked the President.
"Mr. President, General Hanson had to put us on hold," said the National Security Advisor, "He had a call from Edwards, but he said that the mission specialist arrived, and Columbia is ready."
"Good. What about the Russian shuttle?"
"Our recon sat's show Buron to be in it's launch configuration," stated DCI. "They're probably just waiting on their window."
"Mr. President," interrupted an electronic voice.
"Yes, General."
"Ah, I'm going to conference in Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Cartwright; he's our shuttle commander supervising the landing preparations at Edwards. Hold on... Cartwright?"
"I'm here, sir."
"Ah, Mr. President?"
"Go ahead Colonel," acknowledged the President.
"Sir, if you'll bear with me for a moment I'm going to pitch an idea to you. Columbia is going to beat the Russians, and they know that. If the Buron launches it means they figure they can get the bogie anyway. The only way they can do that is to carry a weapon in orbit and threaten the shuttle. Is everybody with me on that?"
"It's logical," stated the National Security Advisor.
"We know the Russians are involved in beam research and working on a space-based laser system. A shuttle mount for the weapon is obvious," concurred the Director of Central Intelligence.
"I think we're with you so far. Go on Colonel."
"My point, sir, is that if the Russians launch, they mean to fire on Columbia. As such, it would be wise for us to have a contingency plan."
"Can we outfit Atlantis with a similar system?" asked the President.
"Such a plan exists, sir, but we have less than two hours to launch at Vandenberg," said the Air Force Chief of Staff.
"Also, sir," interjected Hanson, "I've already outfitted Atlantis with rescue gear in case Columbia is immobilized. We would have to sacrifice Columbia's survivors to exact revenge."
"For once we agree," stated the President. "Colonel, I believe we'll launch Columbia anyway and hope the thought of war will deter the Russians from using their weapon."
"There is another option. The Systems Command boy's have a toy out here that they feel might help. It's a modified and updated X-15 that can be armed with a guided missile."
"That's ridiculous!" called Dr. Adams. "The X-15 is a ultra-high altitude airplane-- sub-orbital at best."
"As I said, sir, she's been modified."
"No one authorized any modifications," said the Air Force Chief of Staff. "Besides, there were only three X- 15's built: one's in the Smithsonian, one's at Wright- Patterson, and the third is dismantled in a hangar at..."
"At what, General?" inquired the President, but the General had fallen totally silent.
"Sir, it's a long story and we don't have much time. They can have her ready for launch an hour after Columbia, that will give me plenty of time to intercept the shuttle and cover the snag."
"When's your launch window?" asked the President, sheepishly.
"Well, sir. There are many possible launch windows for any given target, but with a rocket, missile, or shuttle, you have to wait for the window to pass over the pad. Since the X-15 is carried under the wing of a B-52, it doesn't have an exact launch time. The B-52 simply carries it close to a window, and the pilot flies through it and into orbit." The President looked at Dr. Barrister, who signaled the accuracy of the colonel's statements.
"Colonel, surely you don't propose to fly this craft yourself?" said Dr. Adams.
"I've flown an F-14, and I've flown a space shuttle, I figure the X-15 falls somewhere between them."
"Yes, but the X-15 was built in 1959: it's over thirty years old!" stated Dr. Adams, emphatically.
"So is the B-52," answered the National Security Advisor, "and it's the mainstay of our nuclear bomber force."
The President nodded his head in agreement. "What do you need, Colonel?"
"Sir, I need a B-52 from Castle AFB, and your permission. After that, we can handle the rest from here."
"I recommend against it," said the Air Force Chief of Staff emphatically. "It's a suicide mission."
"Colonel?" inquired the President.
"I can live with that."
"The B-52 is on the way," said the President with the point of a finger toward the General and a phone. "Get your plane ready but I'm placing two conditions on this flight: First, you don't launch unless the Russians launch. Second, you do not engage unless Columbia and her crew are in life- threatening danger."
"Understood, Sir!" announced Cartwright.

On Pad 39A, Columbia sat and counted the seconds until the unleashed fury of her engines threw her into orbit. Beneath the action of the flight deck (or what would be beneath if the spacecraft were not positioned on its tail) sat a very nervous Captain Mia. The other mission specialists, Dillion and Spencer tried to reassure her by explaining that only one in every twenty-five missions resulted in the crew being vaporized in a blinding fireball, but for some reason their words didn't help. Most likely it was the discrepancy between them as to whether this was mission forty-nine or fifty. She lay in the chair, on the verge of hyperventilation, forced their comments from her mind, and tried to look at the mission as an opportunity to gain a little firsthand knowledge on space shots.
She listened to the radio transmissions between control and the pilot, and the voices of the officers going through their preflight check lists. Most of the chatter was totally alien to an outsider, as Mia did not know the acronyms and codes assigned to the various systems. She decided it was simply a case of being out of her element and that these men would be equally lost at NORAD.
Mia hoped that once the shuttle was in orbit that she would not be equally as out of touch. She felt lost and useless from the moment she passed through the crew door and watched it being closed behind her. Major Richard Hawkins was the flight's second in command and would operate the robot arm as well as act as a replacement pilot in case of emergency. Captain Henry Dillion and Lieutenant Frank Spencer would don EVA suits and secure the bogie in the cargo bay for landing after Hawkins snagged it. He had explained that it was her job to determine if the bogie was a weapon, and whether it was too dangerous to carry. She wasn't sure how she was going to do that as most of her experience was hypothetical-- she had never even seen an nuclear device.
The messages between mission control and Columbia decreased in the last moments before lift-off, and the silence increased Mia's apprehension. Her nerves settled when she heard Mr. Miller offer a short prayer from the flight deck, until she realized what he had said: "Hail Mary, full of grace. Blessed is she that makes the 'O' rings hold."
The voice of Mission Control counted the last seconds. "Ten- Nine- Eight- Seven- Six- We have main engine start."
The shuttle's main engines spat a million pounds of thrust into 39A's spillway in the form of fire and steam, and pushed against the restraints that bound it to the Earth. "Three at one hundred," commented Miller, confirming his engines were at full power.
"Four- Three- Two- One-" The Solid Rocket Boosters ignited on command and eight one-hundredths of a second later the explosive bolts that secured them to the pad exploded, releasing the ship. "And lift-off," announced mission control, "Columbia has cleared the tower."
Captain Mia's mind fought back her fear with an incredible surge of adrenalin. The violent shaking of the shuttle as it strained for survival against the upward pressure on the engines and SRB's, and the constant drag of the Earth's atmosphere forced her to abandon her concerns. An exhilaration flowed through her and she began to enjoy the first moments of her first space flight.
"Roll program," announced Miller in a mechanical voice.
"Roger roll, Columbia," responded mission control.
"Throttle down to ninty-four," called the Flight Dynamics Officer in response to the computer's preprogrammed thrust reduction. Several seconds passed as the shuttle bucked through its point of greatest aerodynamic drag known as 'Max-Q' and the computers dropped the engine's output to keep from tearing the craft apart. "Three at sixty five."
As the craft followed an imaginary path through the sky, dozens of technicians checked millions of bits of data steaming through the downlink. "Three engines running normally. Three good fuel cells. Three good APU's." The checklists went on as the computers ran the show, the technicians watched the computers, and other computers checked the technicians in a never-ending cycle of redundancy.
The air thinned, the drag diminished, and Columbia's computer throttled the engines to full power once again. Mission control announced the occurrence, Miller confirmed it, and all was silent in the few seconds in which every astronaut had held his breath since the Challenger disaster. A dull thud resounded through the structure of the shuttle, and mission control announced SRB separation. Miller, without a hint of emotion, acknowledged the act. Columbia settled into its flight path and Mia began to relax.
The hard part was over, she thought. Now it was a simple matter of snagging the bogie and bringing it down. Unfortunately, no one had warned her about the Russians.

The President remained seated at the conference table, the image of cool. Had a White House tour accidentally entered the Situation Room at that moment, the tourists would have assumed the President was sitting in on a meeting about foreign trade, the economy, or the state of American schools by his calm appearance. If it had not been for the tension that radiated from his staff, the whole scene might have been a daily conference.
This is not to say that the President was not in tune with the situation. In fact his stomach was so knotted he had been unable to eat more than a few bites of lunch. What the President knew, however, was that his decisions had to be based on the information he received from his advisors. He could not order them to be calm, but he could lead by example.
Those pacing the room came to an abrupt halt when the blue phone on the communications panel rang. "Sir, its CINC-NORAD," informed the sergeant manning the desk.
"Put it on the speaker," ordered the President.
"Sir, this is General Monroe. Be advised we have confirmed Columbia's launch and are tracking. Her flight path is being displayed on your board as a blue track."
The President looked toward the opposite wall and watched a short blue arc extending from the Florida peninsula along with the continuing white arc of the bogie. "Thank you, General. Advise me when the Russians launch." CINC-NORAD signed off, and the President issued the order for another message to be sent via the hotline to the Kremlin.
"Advise the Russians not to interfere with our mission, and that any aggression against the space shuttle Columbia
e dealt with in the most severe fashion." The messenger obtained the President's signature, then stepped quickly from the room.
For nineteen minutes, few words were spoken. None of the advisors attempted to sway the President from his chosen course. The scientists didn't offer new hypotheses on the situation. The Russians were on the mound, and all anyone could do was wait for the pitch, and hope the Russians would walk them rather than throw them a curve. The President was expecting a knuckleball.
Again the blue phone rang and the com sergeant channeled the call to the speaker system. "Monroe, sir," announced CINC-NORAD. "Our satellites have given us a launch warning from Tyuratam. It is confirmed by BMEWS. We believe it to be the Russian shuttle. We are tracking and displaying the flight path as a red arc."
"Thank you, General," stated the President as he watched the arc extending toward the Pacific. "I believe the Russians are calling our bluff, gentlemen."
"Are we bluffing, sir?" asked Dr. Chandler.
The President answered the doctor with his statement to the Air Force Chief of Staff: "General, take us to DEFCON 2 and clear Colonel Cartwright to launch when ready."

"Gentleman, this is Colonel Patrick, he's our B-52 pilot," yelled Morrison over the bustle of activity in the hangar.
"Well, I don't believe it!" hollered Patrick in a thick Texas drawl. "Ya'll really are gonna launch an X-15."
"That's right," answered Cartwright introducing himself and showing the pilot to a map table. "We have a ground crew standing by to install the launch rails on your weapons pylon as soon as the X-15's ready to roll out. The Captains say it's a typical flight for you; all you have to do is carry the ship to the drop point."
"Oh Hell, son, I know that. They sent me to do this cause I'm so damn old I was dropping these things when you were still flying paper airplanes."
"The Colonel co-piloted several of the later X-15 drops," explained Lawrence, "We were lucky he was at Castle; we were lucky to get him at all."
"Yessir, they've gone to DEFCON 2: we haven't been at DEFCON 2 since Cuba," called the Colonel as he inspected the X-15. "This shoot's gotta have somethin' to do with all that."
"It does, but we don't have time to explain."
"Shore ya do," stated Patrick on his way back to the table, "Because that thing ain't gonna fly."
"It will fly," insisted Lawrence, "We've run hundreds of hours of simulation on it, and they all check out."
"I can look at her and tell you she's been completely refitted. And you ain't tested it... Have ya?"
"No sir. But we are confident our calculations are correct."
"Boy, it takes more than confidence to make an airplane fly. Hell, there ain't a man in the You-nited States Air Force crazy enough to fly that thing."
"I'll be flying the X-15," announced Cartwright.
"Well, don't that figure... Just goes to show ya can get a Marine to volunteer for anything. Okay, ya'll get that thing ready and I'll drop it. I figure I'd as soon drop that as an H-bomb."
Colonel Patrick called his flight plan in to the tower from one of the phones in the hangar as Cartwright donned a thirty-year-old silver suit that had been stored in the hangar along with several other tons of support equipment for the X-15 program. General Hollaway had been very efficient in his quest to construct a space plane and had left nothing to chance. Everything was meticulously documented and the crates were even stored for easy access.
Within a few minutes, Cartwright was strapped into the X-15 and the craft was rolled into the sunlight for the first time in two decades. A tug towed the plane through the security gate and under the right wing of the B-52. The scissor-like elevation struts on the loading cart lifted the ship to the weapons pylon where the ground crew began to connect the restraining bolts. Morrison stood on a short ladder and leaned into the cockpit to give Cartwright his last minute instructions.
"I've already fed Columbia's orbital data into the new Orbital Ascent Navigation Computer. It will display a series of boxes that follow the flight path. All you have to do is fly through the boxes until you reach the target orbit. We've already loaded and armed the missile. You only have one shot, but you don't have to score a direct hit."
"The missile is guided by your commands which are carried along a five mile fiber-optic cable. We never got around to putting in the laser range finder, so you'll have to eyeball the distance. There's two problems. The missile's warhead is an Enhanced Radiation Device, or neutron bomb. The idea is to let the sudden surge of power from the warhead's detonation burn out the enemy's electrical system."
"Right, EMP: Electromagnetic Pulse," said Cartwright."
"Yes sir. Here's the first problem. EMP will blow out any operating system including your own. Since you have to keep the missile's guidance system operating to manually detonate the warhead, the explosion could adversely effect your system."
"Great, now you tell me."
"We think five miles is enough, so run the cable as far out as you can. Now, here's the second problem. You have to convince Columbia to execute a total electrical shutdown before you fire the weapon or you'll destroy their systems as well. I've got your radio set to Columbia's ground radio frequency. We weren't able to get a message to them before they launched, and if we contact them now the Russians will monitor the transmission. Hanson said he'd send word a few minutes before your rendevous so Buron won't have time to react."
Patrick restarted the B-52's eight engines as the airman signaled he was affixing the last of the restraining bolts. Lawrence climbed the small ladder and joined Morrison. "One last thing, sir," he offered, "If you have to ditch, try for the Western Pacific near Midway Island. The Seventh Fleet is waiting with deep sea recovery equipment for Cosmos 1953. Good luck." The two officers jumped from the ladder and moved a safe distance from the B- 52.
The ground crew signaled thumbs-up, the tug pulled the cart from beneath the aircraft, and the B-52 taxied from the edge of the dry lake. As the mothership contacted the tower for clearance, the ground crew's sergeant turned to one of the sweat soaked airmen. "Airman Quince I've never seen one man install bolts and pins so fast in my life."
"Thank you, Sergeant," stated the airman wiping his brow.
"I never would have imagined that you could have gotten all eight in that fast." This time Airman Quince did not respond. He stood silently and watched the speck that was once the majestic B-52, lift from the ground in the distance.
"There were only four bolts in the box," offered the airman.
"There were two boxes."
"One box."
The members of the ground crew once again broke into a sweat and the Sergeant ran to the parked tug. On the back of the tug, he found a second box containing the last four restraining bolts.

Cartwright was so busy with the X-15 that he didn't even think to ask about the launch of Atlantis. Many at Mission control admitted they were amazed that the second shuttle left Vandenberg's 'Slick Six' complex without a hitch, even though they had to use their backup systems to handle the simultaneous launch. All seemed to be going flawlessly until the B-52 was about ten minutes out of Edwards.
At first the crew of the B-52 felt only a slight vibration through their seats. "Lieutenant Willis, what's the story on that storm in Arizona?" asked Colonel Patrick through the aircraft intercom.
"Cold front, sir," stated the navigator from the deck below. "Some thunderstorms, but not severe."
"Should we be getting turbulence this far out?"
"Not likely. Just clear air turbulence. We'll be making the drop from forty-thousand. We ought to be way over it by then."
Cartwright ignored the turbulence and continued with his preflight check lists. He found it quite convenient that the X-15K's checklist was displayed on a computer screen followed by the message 'Press Enter To Continue,' just as it was in the space shuttle. What he did not realize was that General Hollaway had allowed an engineer to perfect the system on the X-15 before recommending it for the shuttle.
In the next few moments, the turbulence continued to increase, until it reached the point of being annoying. "Colonel Patrick! Are we going to be able to get over this washboard you're flying on?"
"I'm sorry, Cartwright... Those bumps wake you up?" asked the pilot facetiously. "We'll most likely be over it in a moment."
Again Cartwright returned to his check lists. He submerged himself in the lists as a way of familiarizing himself with the cockpit and keeping his mind off the fact that he was sitting in an aircraft the hadn't seen the light of day in half his lifetime. Slowly, the vibration changed to a rattle.
"Colonel-- This isn't turbulence!" said Cartwright.
"Now don't worry your sweet little jar head, Cartwright. We've got everything under control," responded Patrick over the intercom. He next turned to his copilot and asked: "What the Sam Hill is that rat'ling?"
A repeated chiming sounded inside the B-52's cockpit. "We've got a leaking fuel line in the right wing," called the flight engineer, silencing the alarm.
"Isolate it," ordered Patrick.
"EGT going red line on six," stated the co-pilot.
"Let's shut it down..." yelled Patrick above the increasing volume of the shaking aircraft.
"Edwards on the horn, boss. They say there's a problem with the launch rail. We're to abort and return," shouted the communications officer.
Before Patrick could respond, engine five's warning buzzer sounded. "Colonel Patrick!" shouted Cartwright, "You've got fire on five!"
"We're on it Colonel, but we've got to turn back."
"No! Hold her level: I'll drop from here. Starting engine ignition procedure."
"Don't be a damn fool, Cartwright. We can be back at Edwards in fifteen minutes!"
"I've already got my pumps to speed, give me thirty seconds!"
"Damn Marine," whispered Patrick, struggling against the buffeting to keep the plane straight and level.
"Rupture: right inboard tank!" shouted the flight engineer as his panel flashed a major structural failure above the X-15. As the fuel spilled uncontrollably from the tank, the weight imbalance cause the left wing to drop. Patrick threw the yoke hard right, and the copilot adjusted the throttles.
Cartwright's voice pierced the noise of the violently shaking aircraft. "Ready to drop, in five sec--" The intercom went dead.
"Cartwright!"
"He's gone!" yelled the copilot. "The whole pylon is gone!"
"Sonofabitch! Find him," ordered Patrick.
"There! Two o'clock, low. He's going into the clouds and looks out of control!"
"Hold on boys! We're following him down!" Colonel Patrick forced the yoke forward and the altimeter began to unwind at furious speed. They watched the X-15 plunge into the storm clouds at ten thousand feet. When they broke through, the driving rain cut visibility to zero. That's when the right wing broke off.