Defcon one, p.3
Defcon One, page 3
“Good job, Captain,” McKenna said. “How about joining me for breakfast?”
Linnemeyer smiled. “Yessir.”
“Well, Comrade Major Vladyka,” Torgovnik said in a controlled and barely audible voice, “that should dispel the myth of American nonconfrontational behav—”
“It is not a myth, Comrade. We have well-researched intelligence from reliable sources,” Vladyka blurted in a voice two octaves higher than normal.
The zampolit was trying to digest the unexpected missile encounter.
“I assure you, Colonel Torgovnik, the Americans will be tested to the limit in the forthcoming days.”
Torgovnik and his copilot exchanged concerned looks but didn’t reply.
The CO and Admiral McKenna were just sitting down in the Flag Bridge, about to enjoy breakfast and discuss the recent Soviet encounter, when an aide discreetly informed the two officers of the impending recovery of the Tomcats.
“Great,” Admiral McKenna said to the lieutenant. “Greg, what say we step outside and watch them land?”
“Yessir. Helluva job this morning,” replied Linnemeyer.
The Tomcats, joined in a flight of four, passed off the starboard side of the ship at 400 knots as they approached the break.
Both men, smiling to themselves, noticed the F-14s were in perfect formation. The morning sun, creeping through the ragged rain clouds, glinted off the canopies.
“Nice,” McKenna remarked.
* * * * * *
“I can’t believe Frog found the boat again,” Cangemi chided the flight leader, Karns.
Everyone respected Karns and liked his sense of humor. Although he was an excellent aviator, his friends still enjoyed kidding him about the time when he was still a lieutenant (junior grade) and he screwed up a terrain reconnaissance mission off the USS Coral Sea, missed the rendezvous point with the “boat,” ran out of fuel, and ditched five miles astern of the carrier.
Thus, “Frogman” became his nickname as a nugget pilot in the fleet. His trip to Fighter Town USA, Top Gun School, had earned him the call sign “Gunfighter.”
“You marines never change,” Karns replied to Cangemi, “years and years of tradition, unhampered by progress.
“Gun One, four for the break,” Karns radioed PRI-FLY, the carrier’s control tower.
“Cleared for the break, Guns,” responded the assistant air boss. “Good show.”
Karns slapped the Tomcat’s control stick hard left, pulling 4.5-Gs, as he eased back on the twin throttles and swept the wings forward for landing.
Each succeeding F-14 snapped into a “fangs-out” knife-edge break at four-second intervals—a beautiful display of precision flying by some of the best-trained pilots in the world.
“Well, Animal, think you can get that beauty aboard in one piece?” Karns laughed over the radio as he started his descent out of 800 feet and turned toward the carrier.
“Oh yeah, if you don’t foul the deck with your wreckage,” responded Cangemi, laughter in his voice.
“Tomcat, ball, three point seven,” Karns radioed the landing signal officer as he rechecked gear down, flaps down, and tailhook down.
The mandatory radio call informed the LSO of the approaching aircraft type, whether the pilot spotted the bright yellow “ball” of light reflected in the Fresnel lens (the primary visual aid to assist the pilot in maintaining the proper glide path/descent rate) and the fuel state of the aircraft. Fuel was always a critical item during inclement weather and night landings. A missed “trap,” resulting in a go-around, could cost a pilot hundreds of pounds of the precious jet fuel and reduce his options dramatically.
The LSO would monitor each approach, offer advice if things went awry, and, if need be, wave off a pilot if his approach got completely out of shape.
“Roger, ball, keep it comin’,” the LSO said to Karns, a fellow squadron pilot and close friend.
“Hang on, Bone,” Karns said to his RIO as the Tomcat whistled over the round-down of the carrier at 140 miles per hour.
“I’ll never get used to this …” replied Bonicelli as the F-14 slammed onto the flight deck and stopped in less than 250 feet. Karns moved the throttles to military power at the moment of touchdown, in case the tailhook skipped the arresting wires. A missed wire would necessitate a go-around, a “bolter” in naval aviation terminology.
A trap aboard an aircraft carrier was so nerve-wracking and violent that many pilots compared the experience to having a fantastic sexual encounter and a car wreck simultaneously.
As the last fighter hit the deck and screeched to a halt, the Ike started a turn toward a northwesterly heading.
“Well, Greg, how about breakfast, before it gets too cold?” Admiral McKenna asked Linnemeyer.
“Sure, I’m famished,” the CO responded, knowing he needed a shave and shower. “Short night.”
As Linnemeyer and McKenna sat down to the fresh pineapple, ham, eggs, and toast, the CIC discreet phone rang.
Linnemeyer watched as the admiral answered the phone, listened a moment, frowned, and said, “I’ll be there in a minute.”
The admiral looked at Linnemeyer. “Damnit, Greg. The Viking has picked up two subs, both with Russian signatures. One is twelve miles off our port bow, and the other one is seven miles astern.”
McKenna stood up, tossed his napkin on the table, then reached for his cover. “Let’s go back to general quarters and find out what the hell is going on out here.”
The admiral’s Irish temper was beginning to flare.
Chapter Two
MOSCOW
Large snowflakes, mixed with freezing rain, floated gently down and enshrouded the street lamps in ice-fog as darkness settled over the city.
The new party general secretary had called a plenary session of the Central Committee to establish his authority and set priorities. At least the colloquy, on the outside, would appear to accomplish those objectives.
Soviet society, from the ruling hierarchy to the impoverished peasants in remote regions, had suffered years of economic, political and social deprivation.
The general secretary, along with the eleven members of the Politicheskoye Buro, desperately wanted to regain the favor of the Central Committee and the eighteen million members of the Communist party. The new ruler and his Politburo needed the support of their depressed society. The hierarchy needed the support of the masses and the general secretary was ready to placate the Russian people in any way possible. He needed time for his scheme to come to fruition.
The new leader, and a few select Politburo members, had arranged a grazing party for 302 leading representatives of the Central Committee. A few elderly members were unable to attend the festivities because of poor health—the only plausible excuse for not attending a plenum called by the general secretary.
The idea of the grazing party, a Russian cultural tradition, was to soothe feelings, loosen talk, and foster an atmosphere of comradeship between the men of the Central Committee. Many relationships had been strained over the past four years and an opportunity to have fun, relax, and enjoy an evening of frivolity would help renew old friendships and heal damaged pride. Tomorrow would be soon enough to discuss serious matters. This was a night of revelry for the communist leaders.
The main dining room and adjoining bar in the Great Building were cavernous and could easily accommodate the Politburo and Central Committee contingent.
An ornate interior, nineteenth century furnishings, and a warm fireplace at each end of the massive dining room, promoted a convivial feeling in contrast to the snow piled high outside and the temperature registering minus eighteen degrees centigrade.
Zakuska was spread on the vast tables. The array consisted of sliced beef vinaigrette, piroshki, button mushrooms in spicy marinade, pelmeni, smoked fish, stuffed cabbage, pickled herring, dark bread, caviar, and Stolichnaya vodka.
The bar was crowded as the Central Committee members congregated to talk about old times and the promise of the Party’s future. The evening was progressing very smoothly.
Three members of the Politburo, greeting old acquaintances at the bar, discreetly caught the eye of the new general secretary. The four men exchanged a brief smile.
They had every reason for celebration. The new leader, ousted from the Politburo in 1988 for being combative and unyielding, had returned to power with a flourish.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The former chief of naval operations, Adm. Edward Robinson Chambers, set the Washington Post on the edge of his seat and reached for his leather briefcase. The navy blue limousine braked evenly and slowed to a smooth stop at the entrance to the JCS headquarters in the imposing Pentagon Building.
Admiral Chambers, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, was of medium height and weight with a trace of a limp. The limp resulted from injuries sustained in a crash landing aboard the carrier Midway after a tough sortie over Vietnam.
Chambers kept his light gray hair trimmed short and wore distinguished tortoiseshell-frame glasses to correct the near vision in his hazel eyes.
“Good morning, Admiral,” Capt. Mike Trenton, the admiral’s aide, greeted Chambers.
“What the devil do you make of all this, Mike?” the admiral asked as the captain took the briefcase in hand, thinking it unusual for the genial admiral not to respond to a greeting.
“Sir, the information we have, as of thirty minutes ago, indicates a full-court press by the Soviets,” Trenton replied. “Sorry to awaken you so early, Admiral, but CINCLANT was absolutely insistent.”
“No problem, Mike. Are the other members on their way?”
“Yes, sir,” Trenton paused, “with the exception of General Hollingsworth. He is on an inspection tour of Camp Pendleton and should be here in approximately three hours.”
“How is General Seecroft?” Chambers asked, referring to the assistant chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Army General “Mick” Seecroft.
“He is mending rapidly, Admiral,” Trenton responded, switching the briefcase to his other hand. “I talked with the general yesterday, and he assured me that his career as an equestrian is over. Something spooked the horse and it tossed the general onto a tree stump.”
Chambers chuckled. “Bet I know where we could pick up a good Appaloosa for a song.”
“No doubt.”
Trenton, a tall, thin, red-haired submariner, had been an aide to the admiral for seven months. This assignment, though unexciting to the former sub skipper, was necessary to his career development. He genuinely liked the friendly chairman and had grown used to his quirks.
“Has the president been notified?” Chambers asked as he passed through the door being held open by Trenton.
“He is aware of some unusual events, but not the particulars, sir. The chief of staff has requested, on behalf of the president, a full briefing as soon as the Joint Chiefs convene.”
“Okay, Mike,” the admiral responded, thinking about the simplicity of life twenty-four hours ago. Chambers and his wife, Mariam, had entertained old friends from the Naval Academy with a champagne brunch.
THE KREMLIN
“Good morning, comrades,” General Secretary Viktor Pavlovich Zhilinkhov addressed the Central Committee members.
“It is a pleasure to be with you again. I trust everyone enjoyed the activities of last evening,” the general secretary continued, a warm smile spreading across his craggy face.
A murmur spread throughout the vast meeting hall. Smiles and soft laughter rose from the contingent of party members as everyone thought about the previous boisterous evening. Formulating a thought, for some red-eyed attendees, was a difficult task at this early hour.
The Central Committee, joined by the Politburo members, had been served a sumptuous breakfast of eggs, beef, pork, dark bread, gravy, and steaming coffee, strong and rich in flavor.
Now it was time to grapple with the multitude of problems facing the Motherland and her leaders. It was time, as Zhilinkhov had stated so vociferously the previous evening, for a return to hard-line Marxist-Leninist orientation. The Gorbachev Doctrine had not strengthened the Soviet economy or restructured Russian society.
The Reagan Doctrine, providing support for anticommunist guerrillas in the far-reaching Soviet empire, had pressured the former general secretary into capitulation on many fronts. The Soviet Union, during the late eighties and early nineties, had been forced to retreat from Afghanistan, Cambodia, Angola, and Nicaragua.
The present American administration, to Soviet consternation, had kept the pressure concentrated on Russian outposts of communism. The ensuing political confrontations in the Politburo had led to the demise of the previous general secretary. Zhilinkhov had been one of the chief conspirators who had planned the transfer of power.
“We have much to accomplish, my fellow countrymen,” Zhilinkhov smiled again. “I have important news for you. News that will change our country for the better. News that will revolutionize our Motherland.”
THE PENTAGON
The Joint Chiefs, with the exception of Marine General Hollingsworth, sat down and opened the hastily prepared briefing folders.
Soft light fell on the conference table from overhead fixtures. The room was totally void of noise or movement as the service chiefs reviewed the situation briefs.
Admiral Chambers spoke first. “Gentlemen, it would appear the new Russian boss is an expediter. Why, with all their internal troubles, would Zhilinkhov choose to antagonize the U.S.?”
The chairman paused, waiting for a possible explanation from the other chiefs. No offers were extended.
“It is inexplicable, at least to me,” he continued, “why they would push us so soon. Zhilinkhov has been in power for less than four weeks. One would think, logically, gentlemen, that he needs all the help he can muster, especially from us.”
The chairman slowly shook his head, “It just doesn’t track, at least not in my mind.”
Silence surrounded the massive oak table and gleaming furnishings.
Gen. Forrest Milton Ridenour III, United States Air Force chief of staff, always a listener, broke the silence.
“I believe the good comrade is trying to muscle us into a position of capitulation through confrontation. The Soviets are totally perplexed, in regard to SDI, and now our Stealth bomber is coming on line. Zhilinkhov needs to make his mark soon. His country is progressively decaying.”
Ridenour allowed his words to have an impact and continued. “Think about this: Why would they bring back an aging Politburo member, considered too aggressive under the previous regime, to reform the Party?”
The chiefs digested this scenario as the Air Force chief of staff sipped his water and continued.
“The man is in ragged health. Zhilinkhov knows he doesn’t have a lot of time. He has to perform. What has he got to lose?
“His reputation and the future of his country, his ideology, is on the line. He must demonstrate to his supporters that he can bring the Americans to the bargaining table, that he can make us, through a thinly veiled threat of war, bow and acquiesce.”
The Air Force general looked around, leaned back in his chair, and continued.
“I believe Zhilinkhov is being manipulated. The Politburo ruling class, the conservative elite, are becoming dinosaurs in a crumbling society. They are becoming desperate. These recent incidents are reminiscent of old-style Soviet tactics.”
Admiral Chambers interrupted in a quiet manner. “Milt, what do you see as the bottom line?”
Ridenour, looking relaxed, responded. “I really—it would be pure conjecture to project an absolute.”
The general paused to form his reply. “I don’t know if they, and I emphasize ‘they,’ are desperate or deranged. How far would Zhilinkhov push? We don’t have any way to gauge.”
Ridenour, seeing Chambers didn’t have a question, continued. “The incidents could continue to escalate to the point where no rationale remains. Desperate people do desperate deeds, as we’ve seen many times.
“Zhilinkhov has proved to be overly aggressive and reactionary in the past. He openly celebrated the death of President Zia in eighty-eight. Zhilinkhov’s display deeply embarrassed the Kremlin.
“That incident and his record of opposing Gorbachev were the fundamental reasons for his removal from the Politburo during the shake-up. Shortly afterward, as I’m sure all of you will recall, Zhilinkhov publicly criticized Gorbachev for allowing Andrei Sakharov to travel to the United States. So, we can anticipate the worst from the general secretary, in my opinion,” General Ridenour concluded.
“Let me pose a question,” the Army chief of staff, Gen. Warren Kinlaw Vandermeer, said as he leaned over the table. “Does anyone believe the former general secretary died in a purely accidental crash?”
Vandermeer handed a picture and biography of Zhilinkhov to General Ridenour.
“No,” replied Adm. Martin Grabow, chief of Naval Operations. “The circumstances are very suspect, what with the short mourning period and the new players in the starting blocks.”
“In addition,” the admiral continued, “there is every indication, according to our operatives, that a ground-launched missile hit the airplane as it lifted off the runway at Sheremetyevo.”
General Ridenour passed Zhilinkhov’s biography to Chambers. “We have a real problem on our hands.”
“I’m afraid you’re right, Milt,” Chambers concluded, studying the somber, puffy face of the Soviet president and general secretary.
USS CARL VINSON
The Third Fleet carrier and its battle group, recently conducting operations in the Bering Sea north of the Aleutian Islands, had received orders to steam at flank speed toward the Sea of Okhotsk.
The 93,000-ton Vinson and her escort ships would join the Seventh Fleet battle group, spearheaded by the carrier USS Constellation, to prowl the waters adjacent to Kamchatka Peninsula. The USS Ranger and her carrier task force, enjoying a port call to Anchorage, Alaska, were being hurriedly dispatched to replace the Vinson in the Bering Sea.
The past thirty-six hours had been marked by significant increases in Soviet air and naval activity near Alaska and the Aleutian Islands, along with an unusual number of Russian submarine deployments from the port of Petropavlovsk-Kamchatski on the Kamchatka Peninsula. The Russian submarine base was the only Soviet seaport with direct, year-round access to the open ocean.
