Defcon one, p.16
Defcon One, page 16
The vice president spoke first. “What, precisely, is the problem in Moscow, Ted?”
The director seemed flustered, hesitating before he answered. “The information I have at the present time is preliminary and doesn’t accurately reflect appro—”
“Ted,” Blaylocke impatiently interrupted, “just state the problem, clearly and concisely.”
Corbin’s face flushed, turning almost crimson.
“Something has gone wrong in Moscow. We only know, at this juncture, that our senior field operative and the Kremlin plant have been involved in an altercation with the KGB. Our mole was apparently on to something. He violated the normal procedure for contacting the senior agent, and, we believe, that initiated the screwup.”
Every face in the room was staring at Corbin, unnerving the intelligence director.
“Altercation?” The vice president looked puzzled. “Could you be more specific, Ted?”
The director averted his eyes. “We don’t know the details as of yet. We do know there was some sort of scuffle. Our senior agent in Moscow, Steve Wickham, has disappeared, along with Dimitri. Our belief is that both men have been pla—”
“What do you mean by disappeared? Does the KGB have them in custody?” Blaylocke, irritated, watched the director closely, measuring him.
“We don’t believe the KGB has them,” Corbin responded, wetting his lips. “At least not at the moment.”
“Go on,” Cliff Howard prodded.
“As I started to say previously, our other senior field agent—he works closely with Wickham covering the Kremlin—reported the incident and the disappearance.”
Corbin glanced at his notes as he fumbled with his attaché case, then continued. “Apparently, from preliminary reports, Wickham and Dimitri escaped on foot from the incident with the KGB. We don’t know where they are at this time. They’re probably en—”
“Wait a minute,” Blaylocke said, her hand slightly raised. “How did the incident come about? It was our understanding, at least my understanding, that everything was under control. What happened?”
Corbin took a deep breath. “I—we don’t know. Our other agent sent a brief message saying that Soviet television and newspapers, Izvestia and Moskovski Komsomolyets, are reporting fatalities, including KGB officers.”
The CIA director, eyes cast downward at his briefing sheet, continued. “The other Moscow agent suspects the KGB knew about Wickham and may have been waiting for an opportunity to seize him. They, the KGB, had never been able to link Wickham to Dimitri before the unplanned rendezvous. They made a cardinal error in deviating from standard operating procedures, perhaps because of the nature of the information.”
Silence followed that disclosure, then murmurs filled the quiet room.
Cliff Howard broke the silence. “I don’t intend to be the harbinger of doom, but this is the last thing we need with the president in Lajes.”
“Ted,” the vice president spoke quietly, “if I understand this correctly, our agents are on the run, being pursued by the whole of Moscow.”
Corbin nodded silently.
“Do we have a contingency plan to get them out of Russia without creating an international embarrassment?”
“Yes,” Corbin responded, “providing, of course, that our senior agent, Wickham, still has his satellite transmitter.”
Blaylocke looked straight into the director’s eyes, then spoke slowly. “Again, you’ll have to be more specific, Ted. Many of us are not completely aware of the CIA’s capabilities.”
Blaylocke paused, then spoke in the same deliberate manner. “Also, as a reminder, any operation, in the magnitude you refer to, will need my personal approval.”
“I am fully aware of that fact, Ms. Blaylocke.”
“Please continue,” the vice president replied.
“The original plan was to have the agents return to Leningrad, disguised as Soviet agricultural inspectors, then cross the border with—”
“Ted,” the vice president sighed, “I would think the original plan is no longer applicable. Their descriptions will be posted at every crossing. What are your plans for retrieving the agents under these conditions?”
The condescending remark almost caused the CIA director to become apoplectic. Corbin’s face blanched, then reddened again.
“Ms. Blaylocke, if the operatives are alive, if they have the transmitter, then we intend to rescue them with high-speed helicopters,” Corbin said, darting a look at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “When we know their location.”
“That’s pretty risky,” Admiral Chambers responded in a reserved manner.
“Yes, Admiral, it is. But we have sufficient reason to believe it is imperative that we extract the agents.”
“Okay, Ted, back to the helicopter rescue plan. Explain the operation to us,” Blaylocke ordered, taking notes on a legal pad.
“We have three Sikorsky S-70 Night Hawk helicopters—they’re combat rescue helos—camouflaged in Russian livery, in the hold of a cargo ship in the Baltic Sea near Stockholm. When we know the location of our agents, the helos will take off at night from the Porkkala Peninsula, refuel in Lovisa, Finland, then proceed to the pickup point. We hope, as the original helicopter rescue plan outlines, that our agents can make it by train to Novgorod, which is about a hundred thirty miles south of Leningrad. We have a prearranged site, outside of Novgorod, to land the rescue helicopter. It will be on the ground only for a few seconds, just long enough for our agents to leap aboard.”
“Then what?” Howard asked, running a hand through his unruly hair.
“Then two helicopters will fly diversionary routes while the helo containing our agents will fly at treetop level straight over the Gulf of Riga and recover on the cargo container ship.”
“From there?” Chambers asked.
“After refueling, the helicopter will fly our agents to Stockholm, where we will place them aboard an Air Force transport plane bound for Washington.”
“What about the other two helicopters?” Chambers asked, uncomfortable with the entire rescue plan.
“They will race for the Gulf of Finland, one hundred miles west of Leningrad, then proceed back to Lovisa for refueling. After they depar—”
“What is the bottom line chance for a successful helicopter rescue, as you’ve outlined?” Blaylocke asked, adjusting her glasses.
“Ms. Blaylocke, that’s like predicting what a roulette wheel will do. Half is black, half is red.”
The vice president glared at the contentious CIA boss, then spoke slowly, her voice rising ever so slightly. “When I ask you a question, Ted, I will appreciate a straightforward, forthright answer.”
Silence filled the room.
“The chances are fifty-fifty,” Corbin shot back, thoroughly miffed by the tall, slender woman.
“Thank you,” Blaylocke responded, unruffled. “I will take your information under advisement.”
The vice president shifted slightly in her chair and addressed Admiral Chambers and the other chiefs of staff.
“Admiral, what is the current military status?”
Chambers looked at the Army chief of staff, General Vandermeer.
“Warren, where do you stand with the airlift?”
“All buttoned and ready to go on immediate notice,” replied the four-star general.
“Excellent,” Chambers responded as he turned back to Blaylocke. “All services are at projected manning levels for Defense Condition-Two.”
Blaylocke turned to the secretary of defense. “Cliff, what’s the status of the shuttle?”
Howard replied in a voice that echoed weariness.
“Final stages, ma’am. The countdown has started. No reports of security problems. Actually, no significant problems at all, so far.”
“Okay,” Blaylocke looked around the conference table, “let’s take a break, gentlemen.”
The vice president faced the CIA director. “Ted, I expect an immediate response when you receive any further information.”
The intelligence agency boss didn’t respond, only nodding yes to the imposing woman.
SHUTTLE COLUMBIA
The 4.4-million-pound space shuttle, poised for flight, was bathed in soft moonlight.
The handover/ingress personnel had already spent several hours in Columbia checking every detail in preparation for the early morning launch.
The tempo was picking up as the flight crew settled into their launch positions.
On the flight deck, Colonel Crawford, Hank Doherty, Alan Cressottie, and Doctor Tran were strapped into their seats. The astronauts were on their backs in a sitting position. Ward Culdrew was seated in the middeck cabin, apprehensive at not having any controls of his own.
The liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen had already been pumped into the orbiter. Mission Control now acknowledged the final countdown.
“Columbia, this is Launch Control. Radio check, over.”
“Roger,” Crawford answered, switching to Mission Control and repeating the radio check.
The crew continued with the preflight checks, including abort advisory, side hatch closure, and cabin leak check.
“Control, Columbia shows cabin pressure nominal,” Crawford reported.
“Roger, nominal.”
Crawford continued with the preflight preparations, carefully monitoring the checklist.
“Control, IMU alignment complete.” Crawford looked at the Inertial Measurement Unit and continued. “We show two-eight degrees, three-six minutes, three-zero point three-two seconds north, by eight-zero degrees, three-six minutes one-four point eight-eight seconds west. Over.”
“Concur, Columbia.”
“Houston, commander’s voice check.”
“Copy,” replied the distant voice.
“Pilot voice check,” Doherty reported.
“Roger, Hank.”
Five minutes passed as the flight plan was loaded into the computers. The flight deck CRTs would now indicate any guidance navigation or control system faults, along with the launch trajectory.
Mission Control performed a mandatory check at T-minus fifteen minutes,
“Columbia, we are conducting the abort check, over.”
Crawford glanced at the blinking annunciator lights, then looked at Doherty. The pilot acknowledged the abort signal as Crawford keyed his microphone.
“Looks good, Houston.”
Crawford then copied the latest landing weather data for a return to launch site abort, or abort down range.
At the same time, three Marine Cobra gunship helicopters lifted off the shuttle runway. The trio made two sweeps down the beach and then settled into a racetrack pattern around the orbiter.
“Houston, Columbia. Event timer started.”
“Roger.”
“Columbia, initiate APU pre-start.”
“Roger, Houston,” Crawford replied. “Powering up APUs.”
“Columbia, you are on internal power.”
“Copy internal,” Crawford read back, checking the movement of the flight control surfaces and exercising the hydraulic systems.
At T-minus three minutes the orbiter’s main engines swiveled to their launch positions.
“Columbia, main engine gimbal complete.”
“Copy, Houston.”
“Columbia, H-two tank pressurization okay. You are go for launch at this time.”
“Go for launch,” Crawford responded, adrenaline pumping more rapidly in his veins.
At T-minus twenty-five seconds the shuttle countdown switched over to onboard computers.
“Fifteen seconds and counting,” Houston reported in a calm, relaxed voice.
There was no reply from the shuttle crew.
“Five, four—we have main engine start—two, one, zero. SRB ignition, lift off! We have lift off!”
At T-plus 2.64 seconds the shuttle’s solid rocket boosters ignited.
“The tower has been cleared. All engines look good,” Houston informed the orbiter crew.
“Roger, Houston. Lookin’ good here.”
“Instituting roll maneuver,” Houston reported to Crawford.
“Roger, rolling,” Crawford responded, closely watching his attitude direction indicator (ADI).
The mammoth shuttle, belching clouds of billowing white smoke, thundering like a thousand jets, began a slow 120-degree roll to a “heads down” crew position. The ground shook for miles in every direction.
The circling helicopter gunships spread out and descended to two hundred feet.
“Roll completed, Columbia. You’re looking good.”
Approximately forty-five seconds into the flight, at the speed of sound (Mach One), the main engines throttled down from 100 percent to 65 percent.
“Houston, main engines at sixty-five percent.”
“Copy, Columbia.”
Twenty-eight seconds elapsed before the shuttle reached maximum dynamic pressure.
“Houston, Max Q,” Crawford radioed in a tense voice.
“Throttle up to one hundred percent.”
Everyone in Mission Control crossed their fingers, remembering this point in the Challenger disaster.
Crawford, breathing easier, looked over at Hank Doherty.
The orbiter pilot replied with a thumbs up gesture. “So far, so good, boss.”
“Houston, we have SRB burnout.”
“Roger, Columbia,” the relieved voice responded.
“Stand by for separation
The solid rocket boosters exploded off the shuttle, falling smoothly in a graceful arc.
“Houston, we have separation,” Crawford reported.
“We can see that. Looks good, Columbia.”
“Columbia, you are negative return. Copy?”
“Roger, negative return,” Crawford replied, realizing the cape could not be used for an emergency return.
Crawford, aware of the tension in his voice, checked with each crewman over the intercom system.
“Drew, you okay down there?”
“My ass is so puckered, you couldn’t drive a knittin’ needle up it!”
“Next mission, Drew,” Crawford said with chuckle, “we’ll place a stick down there so you can help drive.”
“Thanks, boss,” the Marine pilot replied. “You figure the news people are awake yet?”
Laughter filled the flight deck while Crawford checked his instrument panel. They could reach orbit even if two main engines failed. “Houston, we are single engine press to MECO.”
“Roger, Columbia. Press to MECO.”
The main engines began to throttle down to keep acceleration below 3-G.
“Columbia, main engine throttle down.”
“Copy, Houston,” Crawford responded, intently watching the instrument panel.
Another minute passed before Mission Control talked with Crawford. “Columbia, go for main engine cut-off.”
“Roger, main engine cut-off on schedule,” Crawford replied in a more relaxed voice.
“Columbia, go for external tank separation.”
The huge orange tank fell away, tumbling to its destruction in the ocean far below.
“We have separation; looks clean,” Crawford radioed.
The shuttle rapidly approached orbital insertion.
“Columbia, you are go for OMS-one burn.”
“Roger, cleared for orbital maneuvering system burn number one.”
The APUs were shut down and the external tank umbilical doors were closed.
“Columbia, coming up on OMS-two.”
“Roger, Houston.”
Less than a minute passed before Crawford spoke to Mission Control.
“OMS-two cut-off. We have achieved orbit, Houston.”
“Congratulations, Columbia. Time to go to work.”
MOSCOW
Dimitri stared, frozen in horror, at the Volga’s blood-splattered windshield.
“WIPE OFF MY WINDOW!” The American agent was shouting above the roar of the engine. His right arm was hanging limp, blood coursing down his sleeve.
Dimitri used his forearm to clear a section of the windshield, losing his balance as the car skidded through a corner and bounced off a curb.
“Return their fire. NOW, GODDAMNIT!” The CIA agent’s face was ashen white.
Dimitri, shaking from shock, glanced out the rear window. The glass was completely gone, save a few shards sticking out of the lower molding.
“Shoot at the grill!” Wickham ordered, knowing Dimitri would probably yank on the trigger, causing the round to go high, and, hopefully, hit the driver.
Dimitri fumbled for his Beretta. As he turned in his seat, knees drawn up, the Volga bounced through an intersection, throwing Dimitri against the passenger door.
BOOM!!
Dimitri accidently pulled the trigger, sending a round into the seat next to the CIA agent.
“GODDAMN! SHOOT THEM, NOT ME, FOR CHRISSAKE!”
Dimitri, shaking violently, placed the Beretta over the front seat, staring at the black KGB car seventy meters in trail.
“Grab it with both hands, like you were taught! Rest the weapon on top of the seat and aim for the grill.” Wickham was yelling over the screaming engine.
BOOM! … BOOM! BOOM!
The windshield of the KGB car shattered in an explosion of glass particles and metal fragments.
Dimitri stared, fascinated, as the pursuing automobile swerved to the right and crashed into the back of a parked truck. The entire upper body of the Volga was torn off as it nose-dived under the huge truck, decapitating the two Russians.
“Outstanding,” Wickham yelled. “Hold on for just three minutes, okay?”
“Okay,” Dimitri responded, looking closely at the American for the first time since he had been shot.
Dimitri could see the agent had a streak of blood across the right side of his head, slightly above his ear, where a round had grazed his skull. Blood was running down the side of his head, saturating his coat collar.
What frightened Dimitri most was the gaping wound in the agent’s right shoulder. Most of the flesh, along with his coat sleeve, had been torn away on the outside.
“Dimitri, take off your belt … Make a tourniquet under my armpit and over my shoulder.” The agent groaned. “As close to my neck as possible.”
Wickham slowed to a speed consistent with traffic and made two turns, one left and one right, then blended into the flow of vehicles on Spasskaya Boulevard.
