WASHINGTON, D.C.
“Mister President, the situation is extremely serious. We are unanimous in our recommendation.” Admiral Chambers looked at the floor, then up to the chief of staff, who nodded in agreement.
Chambers continued, aware of the increasing tension in the Oval Office. “It is imperative that you declare a Defense Condition-three alert. Immediately, sir.”
The president of the United States started to speak, then fell silent. He turned and stared out his window overlooking the manicured lawn, his mind refusing to accept the recent invasion of his tranquil surroundings.
The tall, athletic leader, educated in the Ivy League, was a cautious man. The president, by nature, didn’t overreact to pressure situations. His close friends and advisers knew, however, that he could be tough and relentless if forced into a difficult position.
“Mister President, these gentlemen are correct, sir. They are the experts. The situation is explosive. We haven’t been this close to war in decades,” the chief of staff, Grant Wilkinson, paused, glancing at the service chiefs and the secretary of defense.
“I propose, Mister President, that you initiate DEFCON-Three and return the call to Zhilinkhov without delay.”
The president, his back to his advisors, remained quiet a full minute before turning his swivel chair around and addressing the group.
“This is a radical step you are proposing. I’m not certain the incidents that have occurred thus far warrant such measures.” The president looked Chambers squarely in the face and continued. “Admiral, would you have me jeopardize our latest advances in arms control, our relations with the Kremlin, over these isolated incidents?”
“Mister President, our pleasant relationship with the Kremlin died in the aircraft wreckage at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport, along with the former general secretary.”
Chambers knew he had to press the issue. “Furthermore, sir, these incidents are not isolated or random. They are, quite clearly, premeditated.”
The president looked at Wilkinson. The tall, prematurely white-haired chief of staff was his closest aide and longtime friend. “Where do we stand, Grant?”
“Sir, the Soviets are pressing us to the wall. We have satellite confirmation of massive tank movements in Europe. The NATO partners are screaming for our response.”
Wilkinson opened his briefing folder, running his eyes down the page, and continued. “Squadrons of Russian bombers and fighters have been deployed to staging fields. Many sorties have already been flown over allied territory and our battle groups.
“Sir, Zhilinkhov is a different breed of animal. He is the quintessence of Soviet ideological fanaticism, and, he has a nucleus of adherents supporting him. The past Russian leaders pale in comparison.”
Wilkinson paused, while the president opened his briefing folder and skimmed the first and second pages. He looked at Chambers, a question in his mind.
“This reliable information, Admiral?”
“Yessir,” Chambers replied, opening his folder. “Our underwater detectors have verified six Russian subs off the East Coast, plus three more off the coast of Florida. The subs you have already been briefed on.”
The president pushed his bifocals to a comfortable position before speaking.
“What’s the straight scoop on this Tennessee fracas?” Not waiting for an answer, the president continued.
“Zhilinkhov was livid, almost incoherent. That’s why, gentlemen, I don’t want to overreact to all of this. I’d like to let everyone calm down before we proceed to discuss these matters with Zhilinkhov or anyone else.”
The president looked at Chambers, then glanced at Wilkinson, who remained quiet while the admiral replied.
“First, Mister President, the Tennessee was fired upon, depthcharged, by the Russians. That is a fact. Captain McConnell, the Tennessee’s skipper, tried to evade the Soviet ASW ship and her helicopters, but the water was too shallow to go deep.” Chambers stopped as the president indicated a question.
“Were they in international waters at the time of this incident, by accepted maritime definition?” The president waited for a response.
“Yessir. Barely. It could be argued extensively, but they were in international waters. No question.”
“Okay. Continue, Admiral.”
“McConnell tried to send a signal to the Constellation and got depth-charged again, so he followed the only rational decision available to him. Sir, I endorse his actions. McConnell acted to protect his crew and the submarine placed under his command. He deserves a medal and a pat on the back, Mister President.”
The president, looking somber, placed his elbows on the table, hands forming a peak, and thought a moment.
“What’s the Tennessee’s condition, Admiral?”
“Minor damage. One of the helo drivers salvoed his depth charges on the Tennessee before the Tomcat splashed him. Just some bent fittings and a few puckered asses—a few very frightened submariners, sir.”
Chambers waited for the president to speak, aware of the silence surrounding them.
“Zhilinkhov insists we are trying to start a war. Running over one of their subs and attacking a ship. Hell, sinking the goddamn ship!” The president paused, calming before continuing.
“We all know the score, but on the surface …” The president looked at Chambers. “On the surface, it would appear as if he is correct.”
Wilkinson signaled for a coffee service to be sent in, then spoke to the president.
“Sir, if we don’t stand up, don’t go into an alert status, they are going to continue to push until we make a mistake.
“They’re the ones who have broken the rules we’ve been playing by for the past thirty years. I recommend you initiate DEFCON-Three, then talk with Zhilinkhov. We’ve got to play hardball with this guy. We don’t know what his real game is.”
Wilkinson paused, studying the president, then continued. “Sir, Zhilinkhov is one tough bastard.”
The chief of staff looked directly into the president’s eyes, sensing he had been successful in making his point. The room remained silent as a steward brought in the silver coffee service and quietly departed.
“Okay, Admiral,” the president said, looking toward Chambers. “Go to DEFCON-Three and brief me in three hours.”
“Yes, sir, Mister President,” Chambers replied as he and the other service chiefs, quiet to this point, rose from their chairs and filed out of the office, leaving their coffee untouched.
The five men huddled in the anteroom adjoining the Oval Office, then quickly dispersed to oversee their assigned duties. The stakes were rising in the nuclear cat-and-mouse game.
MOSCOW
The general secretary placed the “secure” phone receiver down, turning slowly to face his four Politburo coconspirators and the minister of defense.
Zhilinkhov’s grin spread across his face. “The American has no idea, comrades.”
The men exchanged pleased looks as the general secretary poured vodka in fresh glasses and pressed the service staff button.
Dimitri Moiseyevich Karpov, standing quietly in the hallway outside the general secretary’s quarters, had been listening to the conversation. The kitchen staff director hesitated an appropriate amount of time before responding to the service buzzer.
Zhilinkhov loosened his tie, then unbuttoned his collar.
“They have implemented an alert-three status, their first step in preparation for war. We will continue to push them further, to defense condition two. If we can successfully continue to probe the American defense posture, including their alert-two status, we will enjoy the psychological advantage when we withdraw.”
Zhilinkhov fell silent as Dimitri entered the room to fill his request.
“Dimitri Moiseyevich, we will be served in my quarters this evening. Have something special prepared for dessert. For now, send in the piroshki.”
“Yes, Comrade General Secretary. I will prepare your meal personally. The piroshki will be no longer than five minutes.”
Dimitri exited quietly and the vivacious conversation continued.
“I am concerned,” Dichenkovko said, “about the loss of our antisubmarine ship. We cannot make any further mistakes.”
Dichenkovko looked into Porfir’yev’s eyes, then back to the general secretary. The defense minister cast his gaze toward the floor.
“We cannot afford to underestimate the Americans,” Dichenkovko continued. “We have the future of the Motherland at stake.”
Zhilinkhov scowled. “General Bogdonoff has ordered Fleet Admiral Vosoghiyan to submit a full report within twenty-four hours. I will not tolerate any more mistakes … by anyone.”
The general secretary smiled unexpectedly, then continued in an upbeat manner. “Now, we will see what the American reaction will be when we sink their ship Virginia.”
The group glanced at each other in concern.
“Actually, my friends,” Zhilinkhov said, ignoring the questioning looks, “the loss of the Akhromeyev gives us the opportunity to press the Americans even closer. If we can confirm a fourteen- to sixteen-minute delay in the American decision and reaction time to our missiles, in their alert-two status, we have positive proof, comrades, that our first-strike initiative will work.”
Zhilinkhov waited for a response. The Politburo members and the defense minister remained silent, contemplating the picture being drawn for them.
Zhilinkhov continued, sipping his vodka. “If the Americans allow our forces to get any closer, especially in their alert-two status, we won’t even need sixteen minutes before the United States reacts to our strike.”
The general secretary wiped his mouth, then discarded the cloth napkin. “Our biological and chemical attacks will follow hours after the nuclear strike. We have targeted all major American military installations, including large overseas bases.”
Zhilinkhov turned slightly to face the defense minister. “Trofim Goryainovich, explain the projected results of our preemptive strike.”
Porfir’yev’s eyes narrowed as he slid forward in his chair to speak. “Comrade Doctor Svyatoslav Cheskiy, chief of the Soviet Academy of Sciences, estimates, conservatively, that we can expect to achieve a minimum of sixty-five to seventy-five percent neutralization of the Americans.”
The defense minister paused, squinting even harder. “That is, comrades, if their Star Wars system is malfunctioning, or incomplete.”
“It is imperative,” Zhilinkhov said slowly and forcefully, “that we execute our first-strike plan soon if we are to dominate the Americans. We must take each step carefully, and follow our design precisely.”
Snow fell lightly outside the massive double-paned windows as the six men digested the visionary goal. The fireplace emitted a comforting warmth as logs crackled and the embers glowed red and orange.
“Trofim Filippovich,” Dichenkovko addressed the defense minister, “what did Doctor Cheskiy project our casualties to be? In the final analysis?”
Porfir’yev paused while Dimitri entered the room and placed the six individual servings of piroshki on the low table next to the fireplace.
The young man turned toward Zhilinkhov, standing almost at attention. “Comrade General Secretary, you wish me to place more logs on the fire?” Dimitri waited, the ever-attentive domestic.
“That will not be necessary,” Zhilinkhov said gruffly. “I will see to the fire this evening.”
The senior kitchen servant exited as Porfir’yev prepared to answer the question of casualties.
“Doctor Cheskiy has been consulting with Doctor Beryagin Lysinko, chief of the Kyrchatov Atomic Energy Institute. They estimate, at worst, we would receive a twenty-five to thirty percent destruction level. Mainly the cities and military installations. They believe the effects of radiation fallout will dissipate after eight to twelve months.”
“What about the consequences of nuclear winter?” Zhilinkhov asked, chewing a fresh bite of piroshki.
Porfir’yev set his glass on the table and wiped his hands. “The doctors are convinced the effects of nuclear winter will disappear in forty-five to sixty days. They are confident the upper winds will dissipate the effects of nuclear winter faster than most scientists predict.”
“What is your estimate in regard to Soviet casualties?” Dichenkovko asked.
“My staff expects, at the outside, a thirty-five percent personal casualty loss,” Porfir’yev replied uncomfortably. “Approximately ninety million people.”
Zhilinkhov paused, leaning over for a cigar and striking a match to it. Inhaling deeply, the Soviet leader spoke in a strong, persuasive manner.
“Comrades, listen to me clearly. The Soviet Union will never have a better opportunity than the present. The American technological advances have offset our numerical advantage. Our empire, along with our satellite countries, will disintegrate unless we strike the United States very soon. No peredyshka, no breathing space. Our options are rapidly being depleted.”
Zhilinkhov’s cold eyes sought contact with each member of the inner circle. “If we don’t strike the Americans now, our Motherland will slowly strangle. Russia will die a lingering, agonizing death.”
Zhilinkhov knew the Politburo members, even his detractors, professed fidelity to the revolutionary tradition of world dominance. However, the Kremlin leaders tended to be conservative. They were uncomfortable with uncertainty and unpredictability. The current division in the Politburo had resulted from ambivalence in party planning.
The previous Soviet leader could not resolve the question of how to constrain the American Strategic Defense Initiative. SDI was then, as it had been for several years, the most contentious issue in Soviet-American relations.
“Comrades,” the general secretary said, “a first strike would enable us to dominate America, Europe, the entire world, overnight. Literally overnight, without incurring unacceptable casualties or massive destruction.
“Besides, our military assets will be dispersed at sea and in the air, except for the ground forces. We will retain sixty to seventy percent of our prestrike military capability. More than enough to handle any combination of adversaries. NATO forces will not present a problem once the Americans are neutralized. And, Saudi oil will flow when we turn the valve.”
Zhilinkhov carefully ashed his thick Cuban cigar, tapping gently on the crystal receptacle.
“We can expect retaliation from the American submarines for a period of …” The general secretary sipped his drink, then noisily cleared his throat. “Well, Marshal Bogdonoff and his staff are fully convinced the air defense and navy forces can deal with the residual effects of random retaliatory strikes.”
The senior Politburo member, Aleksandr F. Pulaev, quiet to this point, interjected a question.
“Viktor Pavlovich, how accurate can we expect the American retaliatory strikes to be?”
Zhilinkhov inhaled deeply, looking up at the ceiling, then slowly released the blue smoke.
“Our new commander of the Strategic Rocket Forces, General Bortnovska, is certain the Americans will only achieve ten to twenty percent accuracy with their missiles, after our massive strike.”
“Because of the satellite destruction?” the senior Politburo member asked, clearly not convinced.
“Absolutely,” Zhilinkhov answered, puffing slowly on his cigar. “When we launch our first strike, our ground- and space-based lasers should be able to destroy the American communications and navigation satellites. We don’t have to hit all the navigation satellites to make their targeting systems unreliable.”
Zhilinkhov swirled the vodka in his glass. “Just enough to make their guidance systems unstable.”
The elder friend had another question worrying him, a very important political question. “Viktor Pavlovich, does anyone—does Doctor Cheskiy, General Bortnovska, anyone—besides the six of us, and Marshal Bogdonoff, know anything about this initiative?”
“No, of course not,” Zhilinkhov said in an impatient manner. “This information is the result of theoretical studies compiled by our most brilliant strategists and tacticians. The first-strike scenario is played every day in our Ministry of Defense. The military commanders believe these actions I have ordered are in response to escalating aggression by the Americans.”
The room remained silent.
“Initiative?” Zhilinkhov said with a question in his eyes as he refilled his glass. “This is not an initiative. This is an all-out, massive nuclear strike on the United States.”
The fire snapped, reminding the general secretary that he needed to resupply the grate. He unobtrusively stepped in front of his five friends and gingerly placed two logs on the glowing embers, showering sparks over his freshly shined shoes. Returning to his chair, Zhilinkhov proposed a toast.
“Comrades, we are joined on the eve of the most important event in the history of our Motherland. Our countrymen will hail us for generations. We will provide our people an opportunity for productive and peaceful lives. A nuclear war can be won if we strike first. We will survive to rule the entire globe. World supremacy at last, Comrades. We will be revered for all of history as the fathers of a modern Russia. A Russia without boundaries!”
Zhilinkhov raised his glass in a salute to his five friends. “To the Motherland, my friends.”
The general secretary beamed broadly. The Politburo quartet, accompanied by the defense minister, responded in kind, glancing cautiously at each other.
“To a supreme Russia, comrades.”
The resounding clink of crystal, as well as the entire conversation, had been clearly audible to the quiet figure standing in the hallway.
CAPE CANAVERAL
Rex Hays, alternately jotting notes and doodling, listened intently to the president’s chief of staff. He had been surprised when Wilkinson called to brief him personally on the Russian situation.
Hays reflected on the contrast between Dave Miller and Wilkinson. There was an intellectual chasm between the indefatigable Grant Wilkinson and the slovenly Miller.
Hays waited for an opening to ask his first question. “Mister Wilkinson—”
“Grant, please.” The chief of staff did not care for ceremony or pomposity.
“Grant it is. What do you think about moving the launch time up a day or two, along with an unpublished schedule?” Hays was thinking about an obvious Russian attempt to prevent the SDI satellites from reaching orbit.
“We don’t believe it makes any difference at this point,” Wilkinson cleared his throat and continued. “They know we’re in DEFCON-Three and loaded for bear. The intelligence people believe Zhilinkhov is testing our defensive perimeters. Their scrambled message traffic has increased forty percent in the past forty-eight hours.”
“What’s the climate between the president and the general secretary, if it isn’t classified?” Hays asked, wondering if he was overstepping his bounds.
“It is classified, but that doesn’t make much difference. The walls are porous around here. The Post receives information faster than I do,” Wilkinson chuckled before continuing his brief. “The president proposed a meeting, face to face, one on one, at the convenience of the general secretary. That was late last night. Zhilinkhov agreed this morning and suggested a meeting in twenty-four hours in the Azores, at Lajes.”
“I assume the president accepted.” Hays was very curious about the possibility of a meeting between the two super-power leaders. The Soviet leader was still a mystery to most people.
“Oh yes, and he was unusually conciliatory. He liked the location. Great security and isolated, too. Air Force One is being prepared now and we expect to leave in …” Wilkinson looked at his wall clock, noting the time, “an hour and a half. Seventeen hundred eastern.”
“How long do you anticipate being there?” Hays asked, thinking the president might be out of the country when they launched Columbia.
“Three, possibly four days. Perhaps longer if we make any progress. The president has some ideas to present. I’m obviously not at liberty to discuss those topics, but you’ll be kept apprised.”
Hays doodled continuously, not wanting to interrupt Wilkinson. He was fascinated by the intrigue.
“Better let you off the phone. This place is a madhouse and I’ve got a plane to catch. Good luck with your launch, Rex.” Wilkinson concluded the conversation as he packed files in his leather attaché case.
“Thanks, Grant, and best of luck in the Azores.”
“We’ll need it. So long.”
Hays placed the receiver down, reaching for his coat, as he pictured the meeting in Lajes. He headed directly for the cafeteria, having missed his late lunch waiting for the preplanned call from the White House.
Talking with the president’s chief of staff was unusual, Hays thought, but the present circumstances were unusual, too.
USS VIRGINIA
The nuclear-powered heavy cruiser, steaming at full speed, pitched and rolled violently in the towering swells. Waves of ice-cold seawater smashed into the base of the bridge as the missile cruiser staggered from trough to trough.
A North Atlantic winter storm was developing and the Virginia was dogged tight for heavy seas. Another 240 nautical miles—nine hours—and she would rendezvous with the Eisenhower battle group. The mission was to augment her sister ship, the Mississippi, until the DEFCON alert was cancelled. The Mississippi would then return to Norfolk for repairs to her damaged rudders.
Cmdr. Fred Simpson, skipper of the Virginia, automatically swayed back and forth in front of his mirror, compensating for the rolling motion of the ship.
“Damn!” That was the second nick and he still had the other side of his face to shave.
More swearing ensued as Simpson lurched into a towel holder, then banged his elbow on the sink. He had decided to shave and shower before the seas became rougher, as they were predicted to be near the battle group.
Simpson glanced at the brass clock mounted over his stateroom desk. It was 0300 hours, a hell of a time to be shaving, Simpson thought, as he bounced off the bulkhead, nearly losing his balance. The Virginia would rendezvous with the Ike at noon and Simpson would be too busy in the early morning hours to refresh himself. Besides, he couldn’t sleep, reflecting on the DEFCON-Three alert.
Simpson toweled his face and reached for his comb when the speaker sounded.
“Captain to the bridge! Captain to the bridge!”
Simpson reached for his phone, punching the bridge code.
“Bridge, sir.” The Virginia’s officer of the deck answered personally.
“This is the captain, Stan.”
“Sir, sonar has picked up a submarine, Russian signature, two points off the starboard bow, range nine thousand yards and closing.”
“I’ll be there in a minute. Meantime, turn twenty degrees to port and we’ll see if Ivan follows.” Simpson stopped a moment, thinking.
“Stan, we’re at DEFCON-Three, so sound general quarters and give me the status of our ASW gear,” Simpson ordered as he placed the receiver back in the cradle. He reached for his shirt as the general quarters alarm sounded.
The loud warning signal reverberated throughout the ship, shocking sleeping crew members awake.
“All hands man your battle stations! All hands man your battle stations! General quarters! General quarters!”
Sailors piled out of racks, clamoring for uniforms and shoes, bewilderment written on the faces of the young men as they raced for their assigned duty stations.
Simpson stepped into the bridge, noting with satisfaction that his officer of the deck, Lt. Cmdr. Stan Jenkins, was on the new course and slowing. The seas were too rough to remain at full speed while the men were at battle stations.
“Captain, the ASROCS and launchers are up and ready. Torpedoes and tubes ready and standing by.” Jenkins waited for a response from Simpson.
“Very well, Stan. What about the LAMPS helo?”
“Being readied in the hangar. The duty crew is boarding now. The pilot isn’t very enthusiastic about this weather, though.” Jenkins knew the skipper didn’t care for naval aviators in general.
“Well, get him enthused,” Simpson replied sharply. “That’s why they get flight pay.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Jenkins responded and turned to the radioman. “Tell Seahawk Thirty-eight to launch and commence search pattern.”
“Yessir,” replied the petty officer, a question in his eyes.
The pilot, Lt. Hector Chaveze, had the LAMPS III helicopter’s main rotors up to speed. He was still lashed to the deck and knew when he signaled for release, crazy in this weather, he would have to rise straight up as quickly as possible or risk colliding with the ship as it rolled in the turbulent seas.
Chaveze knew the risky operation was borderline in his NATOPS flight manual, but Simpson made the rules out here. Better to crash the helo than disobey the omnipotent captain.
“Sonar?” Jenkins formed the word into a question.
“Closing on us, sir,” the first class petty officer reported, studying his scope. “Appears to be on a thirty-degree intercept course … no, they’re closing the angle of intercept, sir.”
“Flash to CINCLANT, Eisenhower, and Kennedy,” Simpson ordered, turning to Commander Jenkins. “Tell Ike we need ASW coverage, on the double! Is the helo up yet?”
“Lifting off at this time, Captain,” Jenkins replied, reaching for the message phone.
Chaveze twisted all the power he could muster from the twin turbine engines, signaled for release from the pitching deck, and grasped the collective firmly.
Rolling waves of frigid water smashed into the side of the helicopter hangar, spraying the LAMPS helo and sodden deck crew.
At the precise instant the hook was released, Chaveze yanked the collective up sharply, popping the helicopter into the turbulent air.
The lieutenant was on instruments immediately. The darkness was absolute, the stars and moon blanked by cloud cover at 3,000 feet. He leveled at 800 feet above the cold, churning ocean. His copilot, Ens. Randy Gill, noted with great satisfaction that both altimeters, radar and pressure, were precisely in agreement.
The LAMPS crew activated the on-board magnetic anomaly detection (MAD) sensors and lowered their sonobuoy into the raging Atlantic. The Soviet hunter-killer submarine immediately registered on their equipment and Chaveze changed course slightly, closing slowly on the Russian.
“Nest Egg, Seahawk Thirty-eight has the submarine,” Chaveze radioed the Virginia. “Signature confirms a Russian hunter-killer. We’re making another sweep.”
“Roger, Seahawk,” the captain looked at the sonar operator, then spoke to the LAMPS pilot again. “Let ’em know you’re overhead. We have a Viking on the way.”
The Virginia’s skipper, mentally computing the time it would take for the ASW aircraft to reach his position, was extremely edgy. The captain, who had been on board the USS Vincennes (CG 49) in the Persian Gulf during July 1988, had every reason to be nervous. The message detailing the Tennessee encounter was fresh in his mind.
USS DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER
The Flash Message from the Virginia had been received only seconds before the carrier battle group made a course change toward the cruiser. The remaining Russian sub trailing the Ike and her escorts made the course change and followed.
The orbiting Hawkeye was directing the CAP Tomcats, “Buzzard” One and Two, to rendezvous with Viking 706 near the Virginia’s location.
A Soviet trawler, sprouting electronic gear and antennas, was shadowing the Eisenhower battle group and eavesdropping on their radio conversations. The Russian submarine skipper stalking the Virginia was fully aware of the impending arrival of the American antisubmarine aircraft and escort fighters. The Soviet sub commander had his orders, orders issued from the Kremlin.
Admiral McKenna stepped into CIC as Texaco 514, a KA-6D tanker, screeched down number two catapult, shaking the Ike from bow to stern.
“What’s up, Greg?” McKenna asked Linnemeyer, as he rubbed his eyes.
The captain had arrived in CIC only a minute before the task force commander.
“Not completely sure, sir. The Virginia sent a message indicating they were at general quarters and requesting ASW coverage. A Russian sub is apparently stalking them. Their LAMPS has confirmed the sub and—”
Linnemeyer was interrupted by the admiral. “They’ve got a helo up in this weather?”
“Yes, sir. Think the skipper is being overly cautious ’cause of the alert.”
“Greg,” McKenna paused, thinking, “can they recover the LAMPS aboard the Virginia in this kind of weather?”
“Possible, Admiral, if the pilot is red-hot and the recovery crew is sharp.” The CO was on a limb. “Fifty-fifty, I’d say.”
Linnemeyer could see the concern registering on McKenna’s face. The task force commander turned to the CIC duty officer, Lieutenant Dyestrom, and asked to be patched to the LAMPS helicopter.
“Yessir,” Dyestrom replied. “His call sign is Seahawk Thirty-eight, Admiral.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” McKenna responded as he placed the receiver to his ear.
“Seahawk Thirty-eight, Seahawk Thirty-eight, this is Tango Fox One. Do you copy?”
Chaveze heard the message clearly. He was shocked. Tango Fox One was the task force commander, the admiral himself.
“Tango Fox, Seahawk. Five by five, sir.”
“Seahawk, this is Admiral McKenna. Understand you have ferreted an unwelcome guest.”
“Affirmative, sir. We are over him now.”
“Good job, son.” McKenna looked at Linnemeyer. “How’s the weather?”
“I’ve seen better, Admiral,” Chaveze replied as he leveled the bouncing helicopter.
“Okay, listen closely.” McKenna paused as he looked at Linnemeyer. “If you have any doubt about landing on your ship safely, any doubt, I want you to head for the carrier and recover here.”
“Yes, sir!” Chaveze grinned at his copilot. “As soon as the Viking relieves us, we’ll be en route to the carrier.”
McKenna smiled. He could hear cheering in the background. Smart young pilot, he thought to himself.
“Okay, son, we’ll have breakfast on for your crew.”
McKenna gave the handset back to Dyestrom and turned to Linnemeyer.
“Greg, I don’t like the smell of this kettle.” McKenna sipped his steaming coffee. “Launch another Viking, along with a tanker, and get two more fourteens airborne, with two on the cats and two standing by, manned.”
“Yessir,” Linnemeyer answered, taking the handset from the outstretched arm of Dyestrom.
SEAHAWK THIRTY-EIGHT
Ensign Gill looked over at Chaveze and smiled, slowly shaking his head. “You must be livin’ right. Snatched from the jaws of Simpson with a breakfast invitation from the admiral, no less.”
They both chuckled, along with the crew. This was going to be a piece of cake now.
“Seahawk Thirty-eight, this is Nest Egg,” Simpson called, miffed by the radio exchange between the helicopter and the carrier. It wasn’t good to have your judgement questioned by an admiral, especially the Eisenhower’s task force commander.
“Roger, Nest Egg,” Chaveze was trying to suppress a grin.
“You are cleared to recover aboard the carrier.” Simpson grimaced. “Copy?”
“Copy, Nest Egg,” Chaveze replied, thinking how embarrassed Simpson must feel.
“Seahawk, Killer Seven-oh-six has a lock on your friend. Take it to the boat.” The Viking pilot checked in with Chaveze, not able to resist a jab at the non-aviator who ordered a helo out in this weather. “Man, you shouldn’t be out flapping around in weather like this. Insane, brother, especially in a Spam can.”
“Roger, Seven-oh-six,” Chaveze answered in an even tone. He didn’t want to fuel Simpson’s rage any further.
“Mother is zero-one-zero for two hundred ten,” the Viking pilot radioed. “Got enough gas, Seahawk?”
“That’s affirm, Killer,” Chaveze replied. “Appreciate the help. Seahawk is off-station.”
Chaveze headed for the Eisenhower while the crew raised the sonobuoy and stowed their gear.
THE TOMCATS
“Buzzard flight, Stingray.” The Hawkeye’s airborne controller sounded tired and bored.
“Go,” Jim O’Neill, Lieutenant, USN, replied as he strained his eyes in an effort to see below the cloud base.
The radio crackled, startling O’Neill. “Killer Seven-oh-six is at your ten o’clock, twelve miles.”
“No contact. Seven-oh-six, turn to three-six-zero and flash your lights,” O’Neill ordered as he studied the soft glow of his radar screen. He had the Viking on the scope but not visually.
“I have ’em, Buzzard,” Vince Cangemi, flying Buzzard Two, radioed his leader. The Marine captain was flying wing position on this sortie.
“Rog, I’ve got a tally at eleven o’clock, low,” O’Neill acknowledged, sneaking a peek at his engine gauges. He had been increasingly worried about his starboard engine. The RPM gauge had been surging at sporadic intervals. If the situation hadn’t been so critical, O’Neill would have flown the F-14 directly to the carrier.
“Buzzard flight, Stingray.” Urgent this time.
“Go,” O’Neill answered, watching the right engine surge.
“We’ve got four pop-ups at your eight o’clock, two hundred twenty out, smokin’ like gangbusters.”
O’Neill looked at his fuel gauges, disregarding the questionable rough-running engine, before making a decision.
“Roger, Buzzard. The bogies are closing at … Jesus, nine hundred knots! Either Fulcrums or Foxhounds.”
“Where’d they come from?” O’Neill asked petulantly, his mind racing for answers. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“Came out of a commercial airline corridor,” radioed the surprised controller. “Boom, just exploded on my screen. Man, they have got some speed on.”
“Rog, looks like a setup.” O’Neill pictured a large Russian transport, disguised as an Aeroflot commercial flight, full of fuel and trailing hoses, lumbering along at night over the open ocean. They could easily stash four fighters in tight formation under the wings. The smaller aircraft wouldn’t show on radar.
“Stingray, Buzzard,” O’Neill radioed, watching the right engine surge again. “Any Russian airliners on the corridor near the point they popped up?”
“Ah, stand by,” the now lively voice answered.
O’Neill checked his instruments, glanced at Cangemi, and watched his clock sweep through twenty seconds. “Come on Stingray … we haven’t got much time,” O’Neill said to himself.
“Buzzard, Stingray.”
“Go,” O’Neill said sharply.
“That’s affirm.” The controller released the transmit button a split second, then pressed it again. “Aeroflot flight Seventeen-oh-eight.”
“Where’s it going?” O’Neill tensed, knowing the answer in advance. “Destination?”
“Cuba.”
“Keep us informed,” the flight leader replied, swearing to himself. “Have Mother send more chicks, mucho hasto!”
“Roger, Buzzard. Two of the ‘Jolly Rogers’ are on the way, call sign ‘Scooter.’ We’ll switch them to your freq in a couple minutes.”
“Okay,” O’Neill paused. “Texaco, you copy Buzzard?”
“Roger, Buzzard.” The tanker pilot sounded relaxed. “We are anchored over the Virginia at two-six-oh. Need some gas and a windshield wipe this evening?”
“That’s affirm, we’re on our way.”
O’Neill looked over at Cangemi’s dull gray Tomcat.
“Let’s go upstairs, Two.”
“Rajah.”
USS VIRGINIA
Simpson had turned back on course directly to the Eisenhower, relieved to have the Viking overhead. His relief was short-lived when he became aware of the approaching Russian fighters, now an airborne threat.
“Mister Jenkins, status report on our Sea Sparrows,” Simpson commanded as he nervously paced the bridge.
“Loaded, all systems up, launchers at the ready. Radar tracking indicates up status, Captain.”
“Very well,” Simpson replied, tapping his Naval Academy ring on the rim of his clipboard.
The bridge was hushed as everyone swayed back and forth, contemplating the next few minutes. The Virginia was at battle stations, tension coursing through the ship as she topped each wave and plunged into the next abyss, sending tremors reverberating through the hull.
Simpson and the bridge crew listened to the pilots rendezvousing overhead.
“Stingray, Scooter flight has a tally on the Buzzards,” radioed Lt. Davey “Pork” Heimler. “Going tactical.”
“Copy, Scooter,” answered the fully awake controller.
“Button four.”
“Rog. Goin’ four, switch,” the “Jolly Roger” fighter pilot ordered his wingman.
“Scooter up.”
“Two,” responded Lt. (jg) Jeb Graves.
“Buzzards, Scooter flight is aboard. Your seven, easin’ in, two hundred fifty indicated.”
“Good show,” O’Neill answered, concentrating on his egress from the KA-6D. “Better top off.”
“Scooter, Texaco,” the tanker pilot radioed. “You’re cleared to plug.”
“Rog. One is plugging.”
Heimler eased closer to the trailing basket connected to the fuel hose. He slowed his closure rate to a barely perceptible mating with the bouncing basket.
Night refueling, always difficult because of a lack of depth perception, was not something pilots looked forward to facing.
Heimler glanced at the tanker, then keyed his microphone.
“How much gas you have left?”
“’Bout four thousand pounds,” the tanker jock answered nonchalantly. “Another Tex is on the way.”
“Okay,” Heimler said. “I’ll take two grand and my partner can drain the rest.”
“Fair enough.”
Simpson looked at the sonar repeater. The Soviet sub was holding the same relative position. He lifted his binoculars and scanned the horizon, wishing for dawn to arrive.
The Virginia’s captain couldn’t distinguish anything in the black, raging storm, but it made him feel more comfortable than sitting idle, waiting.
The radio speaker continued to blare, harsh in the confines of the bridge, as the fighter pilots finished their airborne refueling.
Simpson’s disdain for aviators had diminished in the past fifteen minutes.
“Buzzard flight, Stingray.” This was a new voice, apparently the number one quarterback on the Hawkeye team.
“Go,” O’Neill radioed, closely monitoring his right engine gauges.
“The bogies are at your ten o’clock, one hundred out.”
The four Tomcats, with replenished fuel tanks, had been orbiting in a racetrack course over the Virginia.
“Rog, Stingray.” O’Neill was breathing faster, tension straining his voice. The fluctuating engine problem had to be forgotten at this point.
“This is now Buzzard flight,” O’Neill radioed. “Both sections go combat spread, Three and Four to the right.”
“Two!”
“Three!”
“Four!”
O’Neill could feel rivulets of sweat trickle down his temples as he checked his armament panel. He breathed deeply and forced himself to relax. “Come port twenty degrees. Let’s go switches hot.”
“Two!”
“Three!”
“Four!”
“You okay, Jeff?” O’Neill clicked his intercom button. He hadn’t heard a word from his radar intercept officer in five minutes.
“Yeah, doin’ fine,” replied a hushed voice. “I’ve got a sweet lock.”
The RIO, Lt. (jg) Jeffery Barnes was new to the squadron and O’Neill could understand his problem. This was a rude introduction to operational flying.
“Okay, stay alert,” O’Neill said in an encouraging tone.
“This deal is too well-orchestrated to suit me.”
Barnes shifted his gaze outside the canopy. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Simpson set his third cup of coffee down on a tray, too nervous to taste the black liquid. He repeatedly swallowed involuntarily.
“Captain, sonar.”
“Captain,” Simpson responded immediately, swiveling in his bridge chair.
“Sir, the sub is surfacing,” the operator said quietly. “Or coming to periscope depth.”
Simpson looked through his binoculars at the black, turbulent ocean. “You sure?”
“Yessir, they’re blowing tanks.” The petty officer waited a moment, then responded to what he was hearing.
“A lot of activity … and noise.”
Simpson turned to Jenkins, simultaneously asking a question and giving an order. “Where’s the XO? Tell the Viking to get on top of the sub, or we’re going to be shark bait!”
“The exec is in CIC, sir.” Jenkins felt like he was on a treadmill. “They notified Killer Seven-oh-six.”
“JESUS!”
“WHAT THE HELL!”
Everyone ducked or flinched as a brilliant flash turned night into bright day for a millisecond. There was a streak of light, too fast to follow, accompanied by a resounding crack and low rumble.
“MAY DAY! MAY DAY! Killer Seven-oh-six, we’ve been hit! We’re goin’ in! EJECT! EJECT!” The pilot was still transmitting on the radio, forgetting to switch to ICS.
Simpson was in shock as he followed the action over the speaker. Outside, less than a mile from the Virginia, a flaming ball of debris was tumbling toward the ocean. Jenkins had to remind Simpson that they needed to take action.
“Captain Simpson, the sub shot down the Viking! What do you want to—?”
“Commence firing on the sub!” Simpson ordered, throwing off the mental block.
“SAMS! SAMS!” Cangemi radioed, ducking as another flash of light streaked past his canopy. “The Viking is down!”
“Buzzard flight, hold your fire! Hold your fire!”
O’Neill was waiting for confirmation on the bogies. The Virginia would have to deal with the sub. He had his hands full setting up for the aerial engagement.
“Buzzard, this is Stingray,” the Hawkeye controller radioed. “Understand the Viking is—”
Suddenly the darkness glowed miles in front of the American fighter planes. A high-pitched warble sounded in the ears of the four pilots and their RIOs. The Russian fighter pilots had launched their air-to-air missiles in unison.
“Buzzard flight, launch missiles!” O’Neill ordered, fumbling with his armament panel. “Three and Four, break right! One and Two goin’ for knots … comin’ left!”
“Three and Four, FOX ONE!” Heimler radioed as the AIM-7M Sparrow missiles streaked out in front of the Tomcats. “Going right!”
Heimler snapped into a gut-wrenching 7-G turn, then glanced at the flash below him. “What the hell … is that … on the surface?”
“Don’t know!” O’Neill was straining to breathe under the 8-G load he forced on the laboring Tomcat. “One and Two going high,” O’Neill groaned as he pulled back hard on the control stick, sending the big fighter into a supersonic pure vertical climb. The two Tomcats were indicating Mach 1.2 as they rocketed skyward into the sullen clouds. O’Neill’s engine problem had been forgotten.
“God, what happened?” Cangemi asked, inching closer to Buzzard One.
O’Neill never had a chance to answer. His fighter exploded in a horrendous fireball, lighting the sky in an eerie yellow-white burst of light.
More explosions lit the night, causing chaos over the aircraft radios.
“Stingray! Stingray! We’re going dow—”
“MAY DAY! MAY DAY!” shouted a high-pitched voice.
“WE’RE PUNCHIN’!”
Three seconds later Cangemi felt the impact of a Russian air-to-air missile. He was blinded by the explosion as his Tomcat tumbled toward the icy water, spinning wildly and spewing flaming jet fuel.
The left wing had been blown off and the fuselage was riddled with holes, leaving the young Marine pilot with only one option. Cangemi thumbed the ICS and yelled at his RIO.
“EJECT! EJECT!”
Cangemi could feel his head being bashed violently against the canopy as his body slammed from side to side. Then he noted the altimeter, rapidly spiraling downward, as he reached up over his helmet with both hands and pulled his ejection seat handle.
The protective face curtain had just covered his helmet visor when the blast from the rear seat ejection turned the cockpit into a howling hurricane. One-half second later Cangemi hurtled into space to join his radar intercept officer.
Buzzard One, gravely injured during the ballistic ejection, was already in his parachute, trailing his RIO down to the cold, rolling ocean. O’Neill viewed the devastation in shock and pain as he descended below the cloud base. He could see the Virginia in the distance, flames and smoke pouring from the aft section of the cruiser. It appeared to O’Neill as if the entire fantail was ablaze.
The sky was still lit by explosions and parachute flares as O’Neill slowly drifted toward the Virginia, suspended by his parachute risers over the flames and falling debris. A sudden flash to his left, followed seconds later by an explosive noise, marked the grave of his Tomcat fighter.
O’Neill ripped off his oxygen mask, tossing it away in the darkness, and started preparing for his entry into the frigid waters. The pilot knew he would succumb to hypothermia in minutes if he couldn’t board his one-man life raft or be plucked from the freezing waters by a rescue helicopter.
Another aircraft hit the water and exploded with a deafening roar, causing O’Neill to involuntarily jerk around in his torso harness. It was impossible to tell if it was a Russian or American aircraft. Debris was raining down all around him. The Navy fighter pilot, battling unconsciousness, fervently hoped all four Russians were in the drink.
Cangemi’s parachute opened with shocking force from the high-speed ejection. As the slightly injured Marine aviator descended below the clouds, struggling with his survival gear, another aircraft smashed into the water with a deafening concussion.
Looking in the direction of the Virginia, Cangemi thought he saw another parachute descend below the cloud deck. He didn’t have time to study the other figure. The sight of whitecaps indicated only seconds to prepare for the shock of entry into freezing waters.
SEAHAWK THIRTY-EIGHT
Hector Chaveze was only twenty miles from the Virginia when he heard the melee erupt. The lieutenant wheeled his helicopter around in a 180-degree turn and raced for his ship as fast as the LAMPS would go. He didn’t hesitate a second, realizing aircrew members and ship’s company from the Virginia might be in the cold, turbulent ocean. Chaveze and his crew would be their only hope in these conditions.
The LAMPS pilot thought about the fact he was committed to land on the Virginia after all. Not enough fuel for multiple rescue attempts and a flight to the carrier.
Chaveze briefed his crew and called the Hawkeye.
“Stingray, Stingray, Seahawk Thirty-eight proceeding back to the Virginia. Standing by for rescue coordination.”
“Roger, Seahawk,” the surprised Hawkeye controller answered. “We’ve gota basket of shit here … ah … multiple aircraft in the water.”
“Stingray, we have the Virginia visual!” Chaveze could feel his heart pounding.
“Roger,” responded the controller, pausing to talk to his assistant. “We have two Tomcats, a Texaco, and … the Viking down. Search all quadrants around the Virginia.”
“Wilco, Stingray.”
Chaveze looked at his copilot. “What the hell happened out here?”
Gill shrugged, indicating it was useless to speculate at this point.
The pilot pressed his radio button again. “Stingray, Seahawk. Any more Russian aircraft loitering in the area?”
“Negative, Seahawk. Stand by.”
The controller studied two radar scopes, then called the pilot. “Looks like three of them went down. We are tracking one headed for the coast, slow, probably damaged or conserving fuel. No observed threats at this time. No radar returns in the area, except two Tomcats still on station.”
“Roger, Stingray,” the LAMPS pilot replied, descending toward the burning Virginia. “Thanks.”
Gill tugged on Chaveze and pointed in front of the helicopter. A pencil flare or flashlight bobbed up and down a quarter mile away in the inky blackness.
“Got it,” Chaveze said as he nosed the LAMPS helo over and ordered the hoist ready.
USS VIRGINIA
After the first torpedo explosion rocked the Virginia, Simpson fired two ASROC missiles at the Soviet submarine.
“Skipper,” the sonarman shouted, “I have another torpedo tracking, bearing zero-seven-zero!”
“Right full rudder, all ahead flank!” Simpson looked for Jenkins as he tried to assess the damage to his ship.
“Mister Jenkins, get a damage control report and have the XO … have Commander Risone report to the bridge on the double!”
“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.