Defcon one, p.10
Defcon One, page 10
“Aye aye, Captain.”
The Virginia was wracked by another violent explosion, shattering windows on the bridge. The ship was slowing rapidly and starting to list to starboard.
“Captain,” the sonarman yelled across the bridge. “We got the sub breaking up, sir!”
“You positive?” Simpson shouted as he stumbled toward the operator.
“Yessir,” the frightened sailor responded in a taut voice. “No question.”
The sonarman turned the volume up for the captain. The sound of the Soviets’ pressure hull, being crushed like eggshells, was eerily clear. Simpson relaxed a moment, realizing the immediate threat was gone. Now to save his stricken ship.
Jenkins spoke from behind. “Captain, damage control says they can contain the fire. One propulsion system is out of commission and seven compartments are flooded. They can’t correct the list, but the ship has watertight integrity.”
“Okay,” Simpson answered, appearing haggard. “What about casualties?”
“Fourteen confirmed dead, sir, including Commander Risone. No estimate of injured yet. Everyone is too busy at the moment.” Jenkins felt fatigue taking over from the adrenaline.
“Very well, Mister Jenkins,” Simpson sighed, eyes cast downward. The captain paused a moment, then looked back into Jenkins’s face. “Bud was a good man. All of them were good men.”
“Yes, sir,” Jenkins responded, placing a hand on the captain’s shoulder. “The best.”
The radioman quietly interrupted the two grieving officers. “Captain, Seahawk Thirty-eight is back. They’re picking up someone now.”
“What?” Simpson looked toward the starboard side of his damaged ship. “Okay. Stand by to bring them aboard.”
The Virginia’s skipper was glad to have the helicopter back. It would be impossible to put a small boat over the side in heavy seas. The helo was the only hope for the survivors in the frigid, churning ocean.
“What a goddamned nightmare,” Simpson said quietly to himself as the lights of the LAMPS helicopter came into sight. An F-14 roared low over the ship, creating a rolling thunder, as the Virginia’s captain tried to piece together what had happened in the last seven and a half minutes.
Chapter Five
AIR FORCE ONE
The new Boeing executive-configured 747 was cruising at 41,000 feet, experiencing light turbulence, when Grant Wilkinson, carrying a Flash Message, rushed into the president’s private dining room.
“Mister President,” Wilkinson paused a second and continued, “Sir, the Russians attacked one of our ships. The Virginia is—”
“SON-OF-A-BITCH!” The president dropped his utensils in his plate, the early breakfast forgotten, as the color drained from his face.
“When?”
“Approximately twenty minutes ago. The Virginia is badly damaged but afloat.”
Wilkinson looked at the message in his hand, then subconsciously crushed the paper. “Sub got them and shot down an antisub plane from the Eisenhower.”
“What about the sub?” the president asked, clearly agitated. He quickly wiped his mouth, then threw the linen napkin on the table.
“The Virginia sunk it, sir. Another ASW plane confirmed the sinking.”
“How many casualties, Grant?” The president was intense.
“Too early to tell, sir. Fourteen aboard the Virginia estimated killed. They have aircrews in the water and rescue operations are continuing.”
“What are our total losses?” the president asked, standing up from his table.
“Two fighters, a tanker plane, and the antisub aircraft are confirmed at this time.”
“How the hell did we lose that many aircraft?”
“Sir, the Russians had fighters up, came out of nowhere. They shot down two of our Tomcats and the tanker aircraft before our pilots had a—”
“Did we get any of their fighters?”
“Yessir, three.” Wilkinson had never seen his friend this violently mad. “One limped to the coast, may have bailed out over land.”
“How the hell did they get fighters out there without being detected?”
“No one knows for sure, sir.” Wilkinson paused, choosing his words carefully. “Our airborne radar plane reported the Russians popped out from a commercial airline track, possibly being camouflaged by a transport plane. There was an Aeroflot aircraft in the area at the time of the attack.”
“What do you think, Grant?”
“Obviously deliberate.” Wilkinson sighed. “An insane move on the eve of your meeting with Zhilinkhov. Just beyond comprehension.”
“Agree.” The president paused, mulling over various responses to the attack. “I agree wholeheartedly, Grant.”
The president was regaining his composure. “How do you think I should approach Zhilinkhov and his staff?”
Wilkinson did not hesitate. “Sir, you’re going to have to take the gloves off with this guy.”
Wilkinson watched as the president, formulating a decision, lightly tapped his fingers on the edge of the table.
“You’re absolutely correct, as usual.” The president looked straight into the eyes of his chief of staff. “Order DEFCON-Two and notify Lajes that I demand to see Zhilinkhov immediately on arrival.”
“Yessir,” Wilkinson replied as he opened the cabin door.
The president, assimilating the unprovoked attack by the Soviets, attempted to analyze what Zhilinkhov was trying to accomplish with these blatant assaults on the Americans.
The commander-in-chief realized there were too many possibilities to contend with at this juncture. He nibbled absently on a piece of cold dry wheat toast.
The president knew the Soviets well. They would become serious and willing to talk only when threatened by systems that effectively neutralized their own forces. He thought about the new Stealth bombers and fighters.
These new weapons, along with early deployment of the basic Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI) satellites, had apparently unnerved the Soviet leaders.
The Russians had continued to exercise power by brute force, while their political system had become moribund and perfunctory. Soviet technology, while excellent in many areas, lagged far behind the United States. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, encompassing an area of 8,649,490 square miles and 266 million inhabitants, would not be a superpower without their arsenal of intercontinental ballistic missiles and space-related capabilities.
The Russians had every reason to be concerned, considering the technological advances in American military defense systems over the past four years. The Soviets were now facing the rapid deployment of these weapons.
The president had thoroughly studied the Soviet theories and aims that constituted their political, social, and economic aspirations. The Kremlin leadership simply did not subscribe to the thesis that a nuclear war cannot be won.
All Russian command and control systems had been increasingly hardened. They had constructed extensive relocation facilities and virtually impregnable underground bunkers for their political hierarchy.
The Soviets had continued to deploy widely dispersed mobile nuclear weapons, along with an ever growing submarine force, to augment the massive Russian army.
The enormous cost of such an undertaking sent a very clear message to the United States government. The Soviet leaders were prepared to engage in, and expected to survive, a nuclear conflict with the Americans and their allies.
A polite knock at the president’s cabin door interrupted his thoughts as Wilkinson reentered to brief his boss.
“Mister President, DEFCON-Two has been initiated and Lajes Command is relaying your demand, er, request to Zhilinkhov. We should be on the ground a couple of minutes before his arrival.”
“Excellent, Grant.” The president reached for the phone connecting him with the flight deck of the mammoth jet.
“We need to be there even earlier,” the president said to Wilkinson as he waited for the aircraft commander to respond.
“Colonel Boyd, sir.”
“Colonel, I’d like to arrive in Lajes ahead of our schedule. Think we can do that?”
“Yes, sir. No problem. We’ll put another man on the coal shovel.”
The president chuckled, thinking about the dry sense of humor Col. Donald Boyd, the commander of Air Force One, continually displayed.
“By the way, Colonel, you may inform the crew that we are now in DEFCON-Two status.”
“I know, Mister President. We have been informed that we’ll have a fighter escort from the carrier Eisenhower in approximately fifty minutes. They’re airborne and tanking at this time, sir.”
“Okay, Don. I want to beat the Soviet contingent to the ramp, if possible, by at least fifteen minutes.”
“Yessir, we’ve got ’er up to Mach-knocker now.”
“Very good,” replied the president as he replaced the handset and turned to his chief of staff.
“Grant, I’ve been thinking about the Soviet preparedness for nuclear conflict.”
“Yes, sir.” Wilkinson waited for the president to collect his thoughts.
“We all know their belief in surviving a nuclear confrontation, a full-blown war.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We also realize the differences between American and Soviet Union thinking. Both philosophies are deeply rooted and abiding.”
Silence.
The president continued. “There is no moral equivalence between our nations. The really salient aspect of the Soviet attitude toward nuclear confrontation is widespread preparation for the ensuing consequences. Correct?”
“Absolutely, sir,” Wilkinson responded as he rolled up his shirt sleeves.
“Then let me ask you something, Grant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If the Russians believe they can survive a nuclear holocaust with the United States, and they believe our new strategic defensive systems will negate their ballistic missiles, would it follow that Soviet leadership would use their first-strike capability to crush us before we render their weapons useless?”
“The logic does track, Mister President.” Wilkinson knew when to be quiet and analytical.
“Then why in hell, assuming the Russians plan to launch an all-out offensive, would they bring us to this state of readiness for a preemptive strike?”
Not waiting for an answer, the president continued, lighting a rum-soaked cigar. “It’s suicidal, Grant. One miscue, one commander gets the wrong word, and BOOM. It’s all over. The civilized world will be blown back to the age of the Australopithecus man. If the goddamn planet survives.”
Silence followed as the president puffed on his cigar and blew a smoke ring.
“I’m not so sure man can be labeled civilized, Mister President,” Wilkinson said in a low even tone.
“Point taken,” the president replied, blowing a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke toward the ceiling.
Wilkinson leaned forward. “Mister President, I wish to offer an opinion and suggestion.”
“I’m open to anything, Grant,” the president responded without a pause, inhaling deeply on his cigar.
“Sir, if Zhilinkhov is becoming senile, or unreliable, a likely assumption at his age, then we can’t know where we are.”
“True. Continue.”
“If Zhilinkhov’s thinking isn’t rational, then we might as well be dealing with a lowerclass primate. A very deadly one, I might add.”
The president leaned back in his chair, gazed at the blue and gold ceiling of the jumbo jet, and looked Wilkinson in the eyes before speaking. “What do you suggest, Grant?”
“Sir, DEFCON-Two is tantamount to a declaration of war, or as close as one can get to war before pushing the final button.”
“Agree. Go on.”
“I recommend that we contact our operative in the Kremlin, in the quarters of the general secretary, and see if he can obtain any relevant intelligence for us. He will most likely be sacrificed. We’ve had him in place for two and a half years, but we need substantive information now, Mister President.”
“I could not agree more.” The president paused. “How reliable is this agent, Grant?”
“Very reliable, by all indications, sir. He is highly regarded at Langley.”
“Very well. Make contact as quickly as possible, and give me an update on the DEFCON-Two status when you have an opportunity.”
“Will do, sir.”
Wilkinson gently shut the door as he hurried down the corridor to the message center of Air Force One.
NORTH AMERICAN AEROSPACE DEFENSE COMMAND (NORAD)
Gen. Richard “J. B.” Matuchek, United States Air Force, CINCNORAD, stared in disbelief as the status light on the situation board blinked on and off, accompanied by a loud buzzer, indicating a DEFCON-Two alert.
The general had just returned to his command post, deep in the 100-million-year-old Cheyenne Mountain, from a global situation briefing. This new development was totally unexpected, in view of the pending conference between the two superpowers in Lajes.
Matuchek was trying to grasp the consequences of this latest twist in the rapidly eroding American-Soviet relationship. Absently, the four-star general checked the authenticator code a third time. No question. This alert was real, not a computer glitch.
Matuchek opened the DEFCON-Two orders. The NORAD chief was startled when his command phone rang. He fumbled with the operational orders book and reached for the receiver.
“General Matuchek.”
“Dick, Milt Ridenour,” the Air Force chief of staff continued without waiting for an acknowledgement. “We are going to move our active East Coast fighter squadrons across the pond. Immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” Matuchek answered, momentarily glancing at a new message placed on his console.
“The Stealth fighters are going to be based with our NATO friends. The movement is underway, along with the B-1 repositioning,” Ridenour concluded.
“Yes, I was just briefed on their status for immediate deployment.”
“Dick, we are going to replace the deployed squadrons in six hours, or less, with reserve and guard units.”
“Yes, sir,” Matuchek responded. “Most everyone has anticipated that possibility.”
“Good show, Dick.” Ridenour sounded upbeat. “What is your current readiness condition?”
Matuchek quickly checked the status board before replying. “Eighty-two point two percent at this time. We can expect, conservatively, eighty-four plus in four hours or less.”
“Appreciate that, Dick.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ve got a hell of a mess in our lap and I know I can count on you and the rest of the NORAD crew.”
“Thanks, Milt. We haven’t been to DEFCON-Two in ages. Afraid we have a few cobwebs to dust off in the mountain.”
“You’re not the only one, Dick. SAC has had some minor problems, but we’ve got the 52s and B-ls deployed and on alert. We did lose one 52 out of Carswell. Crashed on takeoff.”
“Yes, sir,” Matuchek replied, saddened. “I was informed. Sorry to hear that.”
Ridenour continued without acknowledging. “The Stealth bombers—the ones we have available—are in the process of being deployed throughout North America. The last one left Whiteman ten minutes ago. We made sure the Russians are aware of that fact, along with the knowledge that some of our B-2s are carrying burrowing missiles. Their underground bunkers aren’t going to be of much use to them if they push the button. The Soviets know we have shuffled everything in the inventory.”
“Sounds good, Milt. The Stealth presence is going to confuse the Russian air defense, no question.”
Matuchek glanced up when an aide motioned excitedly to him, pointing out satellite confirmation of massive Soviet bomber groups joining over the Barents Sea.
“Sir,” Matuchek stared at the brightly lighted display, “we are receiving SAT-INTEL confirming large Russian bomber join-ups over the Barents Sea.”
“Better let you do your job and get on with mine,” Ridenour said in a pleasant, but clipped voice. “Be in touch soon.”
“Yessir.” The line went dead as Matuchek felt his stomach growl again.
The original DEFCON alert had taken away his appetite and the NORAD boss knew he needed to eat a few bites of something bland.
Matuchek ordered a chicken salad sandwich on white bread and a glass of iced tea. Waiting for his sandwich, the general thought about the NORAD complex. If the “Big One” ever happened, the underground operations control facility would be as safe as any place receiving a direct strike by a nuclear missile.
Experts believed a twenty-megaton warhead, a massive weapon, dropped on top of Cheyenne Mountain would most likely only pop the eardrums of those personnel inside the tunnels of the solid granite mountain.
The general felt reasonably comfortable with the survival aspects of the air defense, missile warning, and space surveillance control center. It would be very difficult, if not impossible, to destroy the command center.
It was a five-minute drive through the rock-walled entry tunnel to the underground city. Two enormous steel blast doors, weighing twenty-five tons each, provided the final protection from attack.
Matuchek politely acknowledged the delivery of his light meal, sipped his iced tea, and continued to think about the cavernous NORAD complex.
Fifteen freestanding buildings, housing the command post and industrial support equipment, were supported by 1,300 giant steel springs.
The huge shock absorbers, weighing half a ton each, would minimize the effects of tremors resulting from nuclear detonations on the surface of the mountain.
Matuchek, chewing the last bite of his sandwich, was interrupted by the assistant operations officer.
“Excuse me, General. We have received an update from the War Room.”
The lieutenant colonel placed the Top Secret, Eyes Only, folder to the left side of the general’s meal tray, next to his reading glasses.
“Thank you, Colonel,” Matuchek said, awkwardly swallowing the final morsel of chicken salad.
“Yes, sir.”
Matuchek reached for his glasses and opened the folder. He glanced down the page quickly, then started over more slowly to glean all the pertinent information in one reading.
