Defcon one, p.23
Defcon One, page 23
Blaylocke was surprised. “How do you mean, sir?”
“Susan,” the president hesitated, forming his thoughts, “the general secretary vacillates from one extreme to the other, then rants and raves, followed by comic smiles and low guttural accusations. He is clearly schizophrenic, in my estimation.”
“What do you believe is his primary motive for pushing us to the brink of war?” Blaylocke asked, feeling a resurgence in her stamina.
“We’re stymied, Susan.” The president looked over to Wilkinson. “Grant, why don’t you explain your theory about Zhilinkhov.”
Wilkinson placed his pen on his desk pad.
“At first, it appeared as if Zhilinkhov wanted to pressure us into compromising the SDI program. Then, after the confrontation in Lajes, we were perplexed. Nothing computed. Nothing in the realm of logic, that is.
“When we were informed of the attack on the shuttle, along with the loss of another SDI satellite, the warning lights started glowing.”
The president spoke. “Grant believes we should plan for the worst—even a preemptive strike.”
Loud murmurs filled the room.
The president gestured to Wilkinson. “Will you run through your event sequence for us?”
“Yes, sir,” Wilkinson responded, opening his glasses. “The previous general secretary, a man of basic equanimity, died in a mysterious plane crash. Zhilinkhov, from the bowels of obscurity, was in power within hours. The Soviet economy is in complete shambles. The Russians have been deeply embarrassed, twice, by being caught violating the INF Treaty. The United States is about to jump at least a half decade ahead in spacebased missile defense technology.”
Wilkinson waited while everyone grasped his reasoning before continuing.
“Pressure. Real Soviet hard-line pressure from the ruling class. Pressure brought on by the West. The United States, more to the point.”
Wilkinson looked at Chambers. “Evidence indicates there has been a strong shift, or fragmentation, within the Politburo. The political direction of the Soviet Union has made a complete reversal during the past four weeks.”
Everyone, including Admiral Chambers, listened intently.
“My supposition,” Wilkinson continued, “is that Zhilinkhov, the majority—or all—of the Politburo, and hand-picked senior military officers, are behind this effort.”
The chief of staff looked at the president, who expressed his approval. “Go ahead, Grant.”
“The ruling hierarchy has no time left to dispatch officials to plead their case on Capitol Hill. No time for a renewed disinformation campaign. No time for exploiting pacifist sentiment among the religious sector. No time left, gentlemen.”
Wilkinson could see a few heads, including Susan Blaylocke’s, nod in approval. He looked directly at Admiral Chambers before speaking.
“The Soviet system is falling apart, and further behind, even though they have an ambitious and sophisticated space colonization and exploration program. This past holiday season was terribly bleak for the Soviets, purported to have been the worst in over seventy years. TASS and Izvestia reported stores and shelves were virtually empty, provoking an unprecedented public outcry. The Soviet press ignored senior party officials and bitterly criticized perestroika’s failure. They published hundreds of reader complaints.”
Wilkinson looked around the table. “The continuing decline of the Communist party, in my thinking, is why we have seen the drastic changes in the Kremlin. The Party has both feet in the coffin, and they are afraid—paranoid, if you will—that we are going to close the lid.”
Wilkinson paused, then added the bottom line. “We have a resurrected hard-line fanatic, under tremendous pressure to save the Communist system, holding the match closer and closer to the fuse.
“Zhilinkhov wants to see if we’ll flinch and use our extinguishers to put out the flame. If he gets it next to the fuse, as he has now, and we don’t do anything, he is home free. Sure, Russia will take some hits, but they’ll survive, and we’ll be blasted into oblivion. Zhilinkhov will become the Soviet hero of the century, and the Communist party will finally rule the globe.”
Wilkinson cleared his throat. “Zhilinkhov will blow out the match, laugh, watch us put away the extinguishers, then strike the fuse before we can react,” he concluded, sitting back, ready to field the questions.
Blaylocke spoke first. “Grant, I’m not the greatest military strategist, but if you are correct, it means we can’t downgrade from our current posture and readiness.”
“Precisely,” Wilkinson replied. “Zhilinkhov holds the match. If he backs away, he knows we’ll have to back away, eventually. Zhilinkhov knows we can’t tell the American people, and our military personnel, that we’ll have to remain in DEFCON-Two indefinitely.”
Admiral Grabow, chief of Naval Operations, quiet to this point, interrupted. “I’m not sure that is categorically true, Mister Wilkinson.”
“Zhilinkhov realizes, clearly,” Wilkinson paused, directing his words to Grabow, “that we can’t convince our citizens that he is going to blow us to kingdom come. Zhilinkhov knows that we, this administration, would be the ones to appear insane.”
Wilkinson waited a moment, giving Grabow an opportunity to speak. The admiral remained quiet, though not convinced.
The chief of staff addressed the group. “I may be off the mark. Then again, there may be more to this than any of us can imagine. I’m only planning for the worst, as I see the picture.”
The president interrupted, a look of frustration on his face. “Are those goddamn Russians here yet?”
“Yes, sir,” Herb Kohlhammer responded, rising from his chair. “They’re outside. I’ll get them.”
“I’m open for recommendations,” the president said, not pleased with his predicament. “I agree with Susan. We’re going to have to respond in a firm manner. We will retaliate militarily to any future Soviet transgressions.”
Chapter Fourteen
THE EMISSARIES
The gunships continued on their search path, alternately turning forty-five degrees left and right of their base course.
The two Soviet Mi-28s were almost a kilometer away before the American spoke. “Come on. Easy, don’t startle the sheep. We’ve got to get near the pickup point and dig in.”
Dimitri responded with a grunt, wiping his coat off as he got to his feet.
“Hang on and stay close,” Wickham ordered as they started across the field.
The cold was becoming sharper as the last shades of light disappeared. Light snow continued to fall in the black void of night, chilling the two agents to the marrow.
Wickham and Dimitri, after stumbling in the dark for an hour and a half, finally reached the edge of the partially frozen river. They were as close to Novgorod as they dared venture. Exhausted, the men collapsed on the bank, cold, frightened, and hungry. The American suffered excruciating pain whenever he bumped his right shoulder, but the penetrating cold had partially numbed all sensations.
Wickham collected his thoughts and spoke to Dimitri in whispered tones. “As soon as you get your breath, we’ve got to move about a half kilometer upriver and conceal ourselves.”
Dimitri, listening intently to Wickham, heard the approaching trucks first. “Shh-- I hear some—”
“Shut up,” the American snarled, yanking Dimitri flat on the ground next to him.
Both agents, lying on their stomachs, crawled up the embankment to peer down the road through the underbrush. They could see a multitude of lights, twinkling in the dark, reflecting off the falling snowflakes.
“Keep your face down and smear it with dirt,” the CIA agent ordered, spreading the moist, cold semi-mud over his forehead, cheeks, ears, and neck.
“We’ve got problems …” Wickham said, scooting back down the muddy embankment.
“What d—?” Dimitri’s eyes bulged.
“We’re close, almost home, but we’ve got problems,” the American whispered.
Dimitri nodded in the dark, swallowing continuously. He sensed the CIA agent’s agitation.
“Dimitri, that has to be the GRU. They’ve got some very elite troops, the kind they turn loose to locate Kremlin spies. You read me?”
“Y-yes. What are—?”
“I’m sure they’ve got dogs with them. You hear them howling?” Wickham was listening with his hand cupped to his left ear. “That’s the same way we came. They’re right on our trail. Shit!”
Dimitri remained silent, aware of the sounds of the Russian GRU troops growing closer.
Wickham leaned closer to Dimitri. “We’re going to cross the road, make a large circle, then cross back to this same position.”
Dimitri looked at Wickham as if he were seeing a ghost.
“The dogs will track across the road and become confused by the circle. We’ll retrace our steps, then cross the river, make the other side upstream, and head for the rendezvous point.”
Wickham listened a moment, then again spoke to Dimitri. “We’re going to freeze our asses, but it’ll throw the dogs off our trail for awhile.”
The American paused, observing no reaction from Dimitri.
“Better than a goddamn firing squad. Let’s move out!”
The two men scrambled up the bank, darted across the paved road, ran forty meters into the sparse trees, and completed a large circle. Both agents, stopping momentarily at the edge of the pavement, ran back to their original position, then slid into the ice-cold water as quietly as possible. The numbing cold literally took their breath from them. The respiratory shock was almost overwhelming to the exhausted agents.
“O-kay, Dimitri … just dog paddle. S-stay with me…”
USS DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER
Lt. Comdr. Doug “Frogman” Karns snapped a salute and braced his helmet. “Here we go.”
“Shhhiiittt …” Rick Bonicelli replied, barely able to talk during the catapult stroke.
Karns felt the powerful G-forces pressing him harder and harder into the seat back as the F-14 raced off the end of the giant carrier.
Karns popped the gear lever up, trimmed the nose down, and watched the airspeed indicator. Accelerating through 220 knots, Gunfighter One selected flaps and slats up, then waited for the wings to sweep back.
“Okay, baby,” Karns said to himself passing three hundred knots indicated airspeed, “here we go.”
The Tomcat smoothly rotated skyward, climbing vertically in afterburner as Karns looked back over his shoulder. Gun Two was just beginning to raise the nose of his fighter.
Back on the gauges as the accelerating F-14 penetrated dense clouds.
“You with me, Two?” Karns asked his usual flying mate, Steve Hershberger.
“Yeah, but I lost you in the clouds,” Hershberger radioed. “I’ll ease off a bit and catch you when we’re on top.”
“Okay, Hersh,” Karns replied as his Tomcat shot through the top of the cloud layer. “You’ll be out in a couple seconds. Switch to button seven.”
Karns turned on his scrambler, then tuned to the E–2C Hawkeye’s frequency. “Stingray, Gun One up, flight of two, standard ordnance, squawking. What have you got?”
“Turn right, heading two-three-zero, and climb to angels three-one,” the Hawkeye controller ordered. “Two Air Force F-15s tangled with a division of MiG-29s due east of the Iceland MADIZ (Military Air Defense Identification Zone). Four MiGs jumped ’em, just outside of the zone, and the Fifteens dropped one of the MiGs. The Eagles had to disengage because of low fuel, so we’re vectoring you for an intercept.”
“Roger,” Karns radioed, as he slowly lowered the nose, pulled the throttles out of afterburner, and turned to the southwest heading. He looked over his right shoulder in time to see Hershberger slide smoothly into a nice, loose parade position.
“Two’s aboard,” the lieutenant (junior grade) radioed. “Looks like we’re going to have some more fun with these assholes.”
“Afraid so,” Karns responded. “Let’s arm ’em up. Switches hot, and goin’ combat spread.”
“We’re hot and moving out,” Hershberger replied in a calm voice, flipping his Master Arm switch to ON. “My man ‘Gator’ says it’s time for a little yankin’ and bankin’ today.”
“Yeah,” Karns replied, “but cover your ass. These guys are a lot better than the Libyans.”
The “Miniwacs” controller spoke. “Guns, your bogies—looks like three of ’em—are one hundred and twenty at angels two-niner, crossing left to right.”
“Copy,” Karns replied, then switched to ICS. “You got ’em, Bone?”
“That’s affirm; we’ve got a sweet lock.”
The Eisenhower’s Combat Information Center broke in.
“Gunfighter flight, you have permission to engage. Repeat, you have permission to engage. White House authority.”
“Roger, Tango Fox, Gunfighters engaging.”
Karns shoved the throttles full forward again. “Goin’ burner, Hersh.”
“We’re with you,” Hershberger responded, advancing his throttles to the stops.
The Tomcats accelerated through Mach One, as the two opposing flights rapidly closed on each other.
“Forty miles,” Gordon “Gator” Kavanaugh, breathing hard, said to Hershberger over the ICS.
“Guns, Stingray. Bogies are jinking back at … turning into you.”
“We’ve got ’em,” Karns radioed. “Stand by, Hersh.”
“Roger.”
Both pilots watched the MiGs close rapidly. The Russians had already cost the Ike two Tomcats. Karns and Hershberger had a score to settle with the Fulcrum drivers.
Karns keyed his ICS. “Centering the T … come on. Centering the Dot.”
“Lock him up, Frog,” Bonicelli said in a strained voice. “Lock him up.”
“I’m trying …. No tone,” Karns said, then added. “I’ve got it. Got a tone.”
“Tally—ten miles,” Karns radioed to Gun Two. “Stand by … FIRE!”
Both pilots squeezed off AIM-7M Sparrow missiles and prepared to counter the Russians’ evasive maneuvers.
“Fox One,” Karns yelled as he watched the two missiles track straight for the Soviet fighters. He could see the MiGs snap into a high-G turn at seven miles. “Bogies breakin’ right!”
Karns had barely finished the sentence when the lead Fulcrum disintegrated in a mushroom of orange and black explosions.
The second Sparrow missed and flew out of sight.
“Let’s go high,” Karns ordered, seeing the MiGs turn hard to his left. “Switchin’ to guns.”
“Two!”
Karns rolled almost inverted, pulling the nose down to the horizon, then further below to track the second MiG.
“Check six, comradski,” the Top Gun graduate said under his breath. He was almost in the perfect firing solution … almost.
“Aw … shit!” Karns swore, watching the wily Russian simultaneously “dirty-up” and pull into his Tomcat.
“Idle and boards!” Karns warned. “He’s trying to get me to overshoot. This son-of-a-bitch is good.”
Gun One yanked his throttles to idle, extended his speed brakes, dropped the flaps, allowed the F-14 to decelerate, then slapped the gear lever down. The big Tomcat dug into a 7–G, gut-twisting turn as Karns cross-controlled to pull inside the MiG-29.
“We’re droppin’ anchor, Ivan,” Karns groaned under the punishment he was imposing on the straining F-14. He could hear Bonicelli grunting in the back seat.
Karns pulled even harder, feeling the stall buffet, as he closed inside the Russian. He had a perfect gun shot.
“Say goodnight, comrade,” Karns said as he squeezed the firing button on the 20-mm M61 Vulcan cannon. The aircraft vibrated as three short bursts erupted from the forward fuselage of the F-14.
Karns and Bonicelli watched, fascinated, as the Fulcrum trailed oily smoke, then fire, as the entire tail was engulfed in flames. The MiG then slow-rolled to the left as the nose fell through the horizon.
“Good hit!” Karns radioed. “Good kill!”
The MiG pilot ejected as the aircraft continued to an inverted, nose low position.
“Ivan stepped outside,” Karns said over the radio. “Splash two!”
“Watch it, Frog!” Hershberger yelled over the radio. “The other asshole is bouncing you—low at your eight o’clock.”
“Tally!” Karns shouted as he snapped his head as far to the left as possible. His left hand shoved the throttles into full afterburner, retracted the speed brakes, then slapped the gear lever up. A split second later the flaps were retracted as Karns turned into his adversary with a 7–G effort.
“Goddamnit,” Karns groaned as the Russian pilot, going at Warp speed, pulled hard into the vertical. “Going for separation.”
“I’ve got him … rolling in,” Hershberger radioed in an excited voice. “Meat on the table … bear meat.”
Karns hauled the screaming Tomcat around in a painful high-G turn as Hershberger fired his Vulcan cannon. Karns could see debris being blasted off the Fulcrum, but the MiG continued to fly.
“Don’t get too close!” Karns warned Gun Two. “You’re almost up his ass!”
Hershberger didn’t answer as he continued to hose down the MiG driver with his smoking Vulcan. The Russian pilot kicked in a boot full of right rudder, then cross-controlled the Fulcrum, which resulted in the fighter departing controlled flight.
The MiG-29 tumbled right in front of Hershberger as he snatched the stick into his gut, sending the Tomcat out of the tracking and firing envelope.
“Ho … shit!” Hershberger said in amazement. “These bastards are crazy!”
“I’m in,” Karns replied, snap-rolling the F-14 to catch the MiG in his sights. “He’s got it recovered. One of his burners is out.”
Doug Karns then talked to Bonicelli over the ICS. “Okay, just a few more seconds and we can break for lunch.”
Karns stared through the HUD (Head Up Display) and placed the gun sight on the nose of the Fulcrum, then squeezed the trigger two short times. He couldn’t believe the impact the cannon had on the MiG. The canopy disintegrated in a shower of sparkling fragments as the pilot slumped forward.
