Defcon one, p.28
Defcon One, page 28
“Yessir,” the paramedic replied, pushing the hoist cable away from the door as the S-70 began to accelerate and climb into the darkness.
Buchanan looked down at the same instant Charbonnet, fifteen feet below, slumped forward into the cable, rolled off the seat, and plummeted seventy feet into the riverbank. The pilot was dead before he impacted the thick mud.
“Pete,” Buchanan radioed, “we lost Jim. Cover us. I’m off two-six-zero.”
“Gotcha in sight,” Barnes radioed. “We’ve got company. Gunships—four or five—closin’ like bats outa hell!”
“Stick tight, Pete,” Buchanan ordered, then concentrated on flying as low and fast as humanly possible.
“Rog,” Barnes replied, twisting the throttle to the limits. He watched the engine gauges closely, noting the powerful turboshaft engines were beginning to overtemp.
“They’re closin’ on us, Cap’n,” the crew chief of Scarecrow Two yelled, knowing his pilot was nursing every ounce of horsepower from the screaming, straining engines.
“Buck, they’ve got a runnin’ start on us,” Barnes radioed. “I’m gonna have to slow them down.”
Silence followed the radio transmission.
“You copy, Buck?” Barnes asked.
“Yeah,” Buchanan answered, knowing his friend, along with the crew of Scarecrow Two, would be annihilated if they engaged the division of approaching Soviet gunships. “I copy,” Buchanan answered, feeling his stomach twist into knots.
“You owe me a beer!” Barnes radioed back, then pulled up hard into a high yo-yo.
Buchanan didn’t answer, thinking instead about the letter he would have to write to Cindy Barnes.
Scarecrow Two rolled out of the steeply banked maneuver, facing head on to the three Mi-24 Hind-Ds, trailed by two Mi-28 Havoc advanced gunships.
Barnes fired the remaining air-to-air missiles, then switched to his Gatling gun.
“Open up,” Barnes shouted to his gunners as a Hind-D exploded directly in front of the Sikorsky, lighting the night for a mile in every direction.
“Holy shit,” Barnes yelled, pulling hard on the collective. The S-70 shot skyward, silhouetted in the flaming explosion, then rolled almost inverted. Barnes lined up a shot at another Hind-D as the Russian gunship raced past him.
“Steady on …” Barnes said to himself as he prepared to squeeze the firing button.
That was the last thought “Pistol” Pete Barnes would ever have. The Russian gunner in the lead Havoc had placed his second SA-14 missile into the inlet particle deflector of the S-70’s right engine.
The ensuing explosion decapitated both pilots, sending the Sikorsky Night Hawk out of control. The spinning helicopter plunged straight down, plowing into the ground in a thunderous fireball.
Steve Lincoln watched in total disbelief as Scarecrow Two exploded on impact. “Captain Barnes went in, sir,” Lincoln shouted into the intercom.
“I know,” Buchanan replied, straining to see through the snow shower they had encountered.
Dimitri, shivering uncontrollably, crawled next to Wickham, who was breathing in shallow, quick gasps. The senior CIA agent was lying in a pool of his own blood.
“We’re on our way out,” Dimitri said to Wickham. “You’ll be okay as soon as we—”
“Dimitri,” Wickham interrupted, “tell the pilot … to get your … message out. Top priority …”
“Okay,” Dimitri responded quietly, covering the agent with a thin medical blanket.
“What’d he say?” Lincoln asked, glancing back and forth between the cabin and the pursuing gunships.
“The pilot … can he send a m-message? An important message to the—to Washington?” Dimitri asked, shivering violently in the cold cabin.
“Yeah,” Lincoln replied, glancing back to the Soviet helicopters. “But now ain’t a good time. Wait ’til we shake these guys, then I’ll ask.”
“Okay,” Dimitri responded, then looked at Wickham. The young agent was stunned by what he saw. Wickham looked dead. His eyes, still open, had rolled back almost out of sight.
“No!” Dimitri cried, wringing his hands, totally devastated. “Oh, no …”
The agent, tears rolling down his cheeks, slowly pulled the blood-soaked blanket up over Wickham, covering his head.
Dimitri, in the dark cabin and shivering with shock, couldn’t see that his friend, Steve Wickham, had only passed out but was still breathing.
“You might as well cover the gunny, too,” the rescued copilot said as he struggled to enter the cockpit. “He died a couple of minutes ago.”
Suddenly, two bright streaks raced past the Night Hawk, lighting the interior.
“Christ,” Buchanan shouted, popping off containers of metallic chaff. “Here come the missiles.”
“Use some help?” the copilot of Scarecrow Three asked, climbing into the vacant seat.
“Damn right!” Buchanan answered, noticing the trickle of blood on the pilot’s arm. “You okay?”
“Think so,” the former Marine first lieutenant replied. “Nothing too serious.”
Two, three, then four more streaks of light went flashing by the racing Night Hawk. A fifth missile tracked into a burst of decoy chaff, exploding fifty yards behind the Sikorsky.
“Line,” Buchanan shouted, “can you get a shot, any shot, at those bastards?”
“I think so, sir,” Lincoln replied, leaning out his side door as far as he dared without a restraint.
CRACK!!
The S-70 slewed sideways, then righted itself as Buchanan frantically scanned the engine gauges.
“We’ve been hit,” Lincoln groaned as he fell backwards, stumbling over the body of Blackie Oaks.
Dimitri could see that Lincoln was bleeding profusely from chest and head injuries. The paramedic had taken a good deal of the impact explosion from the Russian missile.
“Get back there and see what we have,” Buchanan ordered the copilot, then glanced at the blinking radar altimeter. “Goddamn!” Buchanan quietly admonished himself. “Pay attention, you stupid shit.”
THE KREMLIN
Two kitchen-staff servers gingerly placed large platters of zakuska on Zhilinkhov’s dining table, then hastily exited the room. The brutal interrogations by the KGB had left deep psychological scars on the servants.
“Come, comrades,” Zhilinkhov said to his ill-at-ease friends. “Let us enjoy these fine delicacies.”
The general secretary motioned for the men to take a seat, then half-fell into his large chair at the head of the massive wood table.
“Viktor Pavlovich,” Dichenkovko, his oldest friend, said softly, “we need to talk with you about this plan.”
Tension hung in the air, pressing from every corner like walls converging on the individuals present in the dining room.
“What do you—wish to talk about?” Zhilinkhov stopped smiling, squinting menacingly. “You do not like—you do not have the stomach for—this plan? For world dominance?”
Deadly silence filled the room, making it very uncomfortable for Dichenkovko and the other members. They knew their friend and leader had changed drastically in a short period of time. The five men were frightened, frightened for themselves and the future of the Soviet Union.
“Well,” Zhilinkhov said loudly, banging both fists on the table. He growled again, “Say what you mean.”
Aleksandr Pulaev cleared his throat. “We think now is not the opportune time to attack the Americans. Their allies will counterattack us, too. We have aroused a sleeping giant, along with his friends. We must allow time for a return to normal.”
“Left to you, my friend,” Zhilinkhov smiled crookedly, “there would never be an opportune time!”
“Viktor Pavlovich,” Dichenkovko intervened, “let us discuss this matter when we are refreshed and have a better assessment of the—”
“We will discuss the matter now,” Zhilinkhov said heatedly, then downed his vodka. “You surprise me, my trusted friend. All of you. Look where … what I have accomplished. I am on the brink of … of global conquest. …”
Zhilinkhov suddenly stopped, rising from his chair, tumbler in hand, to fix another drink.
“Now you tell me you have no stomach, no desire to fulfill our destiny, our commitment to the Party,” Zhilinkhov said as he turned around from the portable serving bar and waited for an answer.
“No, Viktor Pavlovich,” Yevstigneyev, the Politburo member responsible for party discipline, explained, “we believe, like you, in the Party, our goals for the Motherland, our sense of respon—”
Without warning, an aide urgently rapped on the door and stepped into the room.
Zhilinkhov, surprised, knocked his drink into the sunken ice container, then turned around in a rage.
“Damnit, Colonel, what is it?” Zhilinkhov yelled, causing the senior officer to flinch.
“General Secretary,” the colonel pursed his lips, “the spies have escaped.”
Zhilinkhov turned crimson, then hurled his tumbler at the wall, shattering glass across the room.
“OUT,” Zhilinkhov bellowed, enraged. “Get out! Get me Air Marshal Khatchadovrian—NOW!”
The colonel, eyes wide in terror, backed toward the open door, barking orders to a subordinate.
The “Inner Circle” members were stunned and frightened by the behavior of their general secretary. He was clearly out of control.
Zhilinkhov turned toward his fellow conspirators, talking softly at first. “General Vranesevic is … he is dead,” Zhilinkhov yelled, then clutched his chest and staggered to the couch.
“Call the doctor!” Yegoery Yevstigneyev shouted to the colonel as he was closing the door. The senior Politburo member then went to the aid of his stricken friend, the general secretary of the Soviet Communist party.
Chapter Seventeen
SCARECROW ONE
Buchanan, half-turned in his seat, yelled to his new copilot. “What’s the damage?”
“The right gear. The missile took out the right gear and damaged the fuselage,” the young pilot answered, trying to help the wounded paramedic.
Buchanan turned around and looked down and back from the cockpit. What he saw made him realize the helicopter might roll over on landing. The entire wheel and structural mounts were missing. Fuel streamed along the underside of the S-70’s fuselage, vaporizing as it departed the tail assembly.
The copilot donned a headset, then switched to “hot mike,” freeing his hands. “Major, we’re in for a rough landing.”
“Yeah,” Buchanan said grimly, inspecting the damage, “if we have anything left to land.”
The coast was only minutes away for Scarecrow One and her crew. Buchanan glanced quickly at his engine instruments, still overtemped, then looked at the small chart strapped to his thigh. The map was highly detailed, narrow, and folded accordion style to facilitate monitoring.
Buchanan’s flight path was clearly defined, including known obstacles circled in dark rings. The chart extended only five nautical miles on either side of the planned egress route.
“How close are those—” Buchanan was cut off as another missile flashed by the right side of the helicopter. The pilot punched the chaff button again, then watched the missile arch into the ground with a brilliant flash and explosion.
“Ho, Sweet Jesus,” Buchanan swore out loud. “How close are those bastards?”
The copilot leaned out the side door as far as he dared, holding onto the overhead. The windchill was rapidly numbing his appendages, and he couldn’t see clearly in the haze of snow whipping by his frozen ears. “Can’t tell for sure. Maybe a half to three-quarters of a mile.”
Buchanan looked at his chart again, then casually spoke to his new copilot-gunner. “Well, I guess now is a good time to let ’em close up.”
“What?” the young pilot responded, shocked by Buchanan’s intention. They would surely die if the Russian gunships got any closer. “You gotta be kiddin’, Major.”
Buchanan checked his chart again, adjusted the cockpit map light, then dropped the nose of his gunship to descend even lower into the black, snowy night.
“Just watch,” Buchanan answered the bewildered copilot. “Stand by with the sixty, and hang on to your jockstrap!”
There was no reply as Buchanan started a turn to the right. The maneuver would allow the Soviet gunships to turn inside the S-70, closing the range between the combatants in a matter of seconds.
“Here we go,” Buchanan said soothingly, then rechecked his chart. The INS indicated only seven-tenths of a mile to the four eight-hundred-foot communications towers. Towers with many supporting guy wires fanning out in every direction.
“Come on, you Communist bastards,” Buchanan said quietly over the intercom, concentrating deeply on the task at hand. “Come to the bait.”
Buchanan looked at the INS, then glanced quickly at the knee chart. Three-tenths of a mile. Seconds away in the racing gunship.
“Be there,” Buchanan said softly as he momentarily flicked on the landing lights.
“Hot damn!” the pilot said over the intercom, while watching the INS. “Perfect!”
Buchanan stared to his right, counting. “One-thousand-one,” he said under his breath as he waited for the S-70 to be precisely abeam the towers.
“One-thousand-two,” Buchanan continued, looking at the faint image of the steel towers. He could barely see the bases of the structures and their associated buildings in the blinding snow.
“One-thousand-three,” Buchanan said as he began to slowly tighten his turn around and in front of the massive towers, almost invisible under the dark, snow-laden clouds. The blinking lights on top of the tall towers were obscured in the low coastal overcast.
“Major,” the copilot shouted into the intercom, fingers flexing on the M60 trigger, “they’re closin’ in fast!”
“Good,” was the only reply from Buchanan as he concentrated on flying the arc around the tower complex. “They’ll have a real sweet surprise.”
Six seconds passed as Buchanan’s mouth turned dry. “Come on …” the pilot said to himself, beginning to have a shadow of a doubt.
A brilliant flash, followed in a nanosecond by another blinding flash, marked the end of two Russian gunships. They had flown into the first two towers and supporting guy wires.
The thundering roar of the dual explosions reached Buchanan’s ears as night turned into daylight. Wreckage from the two Hind-Ds was tumbling across the ground, igniting everything in reach, including the support buildings.
“Goddamn,” the copilot yelled, inadvertently firing a short burst into the towers speeding past one hundred feet away. “You knocked two of th—”
A deafening report interrupted the copilot.
Another Soviet gunship, the crew shocked and blinded by the first two explosions, flew into the guy wires of the fourth tower. The third explosion added flaming wreckage, raining down with secondary explosions, to the huge conflagration enveloping the complex. The tall towers were collapsing in a slow-motion ballet.
Buchanan twisted around and saw another chopper pull straight into the vertical, narrowly missing tower three, and enter the overcast at a high rate of speed.
“We’re out,” Buchanan whooped, turning back on course. He looked down at his shaking hands. “Calm down,” he said to himself, then eased off the power from the straining engines. “Stay together, baby,” he coaxed. “We’re going to make it to the ship.”
A bright flash shocked Buchanan back to the moment. “What the hell …?”
“Another one,” the copilot shouted. “Another chopper went in! Think it was the guy who pulled up in the clouds. I mean he went straight in.”
“No doubt,” Buchanan answered. “They don’t receive much instrument training.” The pilot looked back at his copilot. “Probably got vertigo in the overcast, goin’ straight up, and fell through the bottom out of control.”
“Jesus, Major.” The copilot paused. “I’ve seen a lot, but I’ve never seen anything to top this. Unreal …” the copilot remarked, then added, “I don’t see any more gunships, sir.”
“Well, we ain’t home yet,” Buchanan responded, eyes darting to the instrument panel for the thousandth time.
“Damn,” Buchanan shouted over the intercom. “We’re losin’ gas at a hell of a rate.”
The copilot, stepping over the shocked Dimitri, leaped forward to the cockpit. “Bet a line got punctured when we took the hit.”
“Yeah… Shit!” Buchanan swore again, mentally calculating the distance to the recovery ship compared to fuel-loss rate. The gauges were dropping rapidly.
Dimitri clamored to his feet, then approached the cockpit. “Sir?” Dimitri asked tentatively.
Buchanan, having forgotten about his passengers, was startled by the agent.
“Yeah,” the irritated pilot said in a harsh tone, “what can I do for you?”
“Sir, I need … I have been ordered to send a priority message to the White House, or …to the Central Intelligence Agen—”
“Christ,” Buchanan interrupted tersely, “which is it?”
“I guess I better send it to the White House,” Dimitri stammered, still shivering.
Buchanan leaned closer to his copilot. “You gotta be kiddin’ me. This guy was a CIA agent in Moscow?”
The copilot cracked a small grin, then busily strapped himself into his seat.
“We’ll send it Top Secret, scrambled.” Buchanan looked over at Dimitri. “Best we can do from the helo.”
“Yes, sir,” Dimitri replied earnestly. “That will be great.”
The young agent was exhilarated at being alive, but deeply saddened by the death of his friend, Steve Wickham. Dimitri knew he would have died, on more than one occasion, if it had not been for Wickham. The senior agent had sacrificed himself for the Kremlin operative.
“What’s the message?” Buchanan asked Dimitri.
THE WHITE HOUSE
The president and his staff, along with the Joint Chiefs, had reconvened in the Situation Room. The fatigue was felt by everyone, gnawing at their patience.
Ted Corbin had been summoned to the room and looked nervous, hands together, head down. He sensed everyone believed his subordinates had screwed the entire effort in the Kremlin.
