AIR FORCE ONE
The huge presidential jet, sunlight sparkling from the highly polished silver, white, and blue surface, made a straight-in approach to Lajes do Pico, Azores. The Portuguese island shimmered in the early morning sun.
The aircraft commander, Colonel Boyd, had kept the speed fast throughout the descent, lowering the landing gear and flaps at the last possible moment, a very unusual procedure. However, a request from the president of the United States had precedence over routine, if the request didn’t breach the limits of safe operation.
The four F-14s escorting Air Force One broke off three miles from touchdown and climbed rapidly to join their tankers en route to the Eisenhower. The roar of the F-14s’ afterburners was deafening to the observers on the ground.
During the landing roll-out, Grant Wilkinson, with a quick knock, entered the president’s private study. The president, adjusting his tie in a full-length mirror, looked out the corner of his eye.
“What is it, Grant?” The president’s voice had a slight hesitancy in it.
“Sir, NORAD is now tracking three large Soviet bomber groups, each escorted by fifty or sixty fighters.” Wilkinson paused, seeing the president yank on his tie.
“Where are they located?”
“One group is—”
“What’s the status?” The president continued, wrestling with his tie.
“One group—approximately seventy to eighty bombers—is fifty miles north of Nordkapp, Finland. Appears to be comprised of a mixture of Bears and Backfires.”
“The other groups?” The president growled, finished with the burdensome tie adjustment.
“The other groups are split and appear to be converging north of Komandorskie Island.” The chief of staff sounded tired.
“Where?” The president wasn’t sure of the location.
“Komandorskie Island, sir. Approximately five hundred miles northwest of Adak, Alaska,” Wilkinson replied as he looked at his notes.
“What the hell is Zhilinkhov trying to do?” The president was exasperated, irritation showing in his voice.
“I wish I could answer that, sir.”
“I know. Sorry, Grant.” The president sat down heavily. “Go on.”
“Again, this provocation is well-orchestrated, sir.” Wilkinson trailed off, not wanting to expound, unless prompted by his boss.
“How so, Grant?”
“The other bombers—the Backfires and Blackjacks—are operating from forward bases, supported by twenty or more tankers. The planning for mass join-ups had to be in-depth and extensive. Sir, the Soviets have dispersed seven regiment-size bomber units from Alekseyevka to auxiliary airfields at Primorski Krai, Kamchatka Peninsula, and Sakhalin Island.”
Quiet surrounded the two men as the president slowly rolled a pen around in his hand.
“What’s been our response?” the president asked in a low voice.
“The Bering Sea join-up is considered the most serious problem at the present time. They aren’t far from our bases in the Aleutian Islands and Alaska.” Wilkinson sat down on the couch, exhausted.
“The bombers are staging from their Arctic airbase at Mys Schmidta, and joining a group from Petropavlovsk-Kamchatski. They are armed with AS-4 Kitchen antiship missiles and cruise missiles. NORAD reports the Alaskan Air Command on full alert, sir. We have Air Force and Navy fighter groups joining the Russian formations.”
“Excellent.” The president visibly stiffened. “How long until our boys intercept the bombers?”
“About one hour, sir.” Wilkinson consulted the scrawled notes in his hands. “The Forty-third Tactical Fighter Squadron, based at Elmendorf, has twenty-three F-15s airborne.”
“Will that be sufficient?” the president asked, noticing Air Force One was rolling to an imperceptible stop in front of the welcoming committee.
“The Forty-third is being reinforced by two West Coast squadrons, along with the interceptors from the Ranger’s carrier group.” Wilkinson looked down at his notes and continued. “They have two E-3 AWACS planes coordinating the intercept, sir.”
“Okay, Grant. Keep—”
A gentle knock interrupted the two men as an aide announced the arrival of the welcoming delegation.
“Mister President, we are prepared for you to deplane, sir.”
“Very well,” the president responded, “Mister Wilkinson and I will be along shortly.”
“Yes, sir,” the Navy officer replied, waiting patiently in the hallway.
The lights blinked momentarily, an indication that Air Force One had shifted to the auxiliary power unit. The massive turbofan engines spooled down, fan blades quietly slowing in the cool morning breeze.
“When I talk to Zhilinkhov, don’t hesitate to inform me of status changes as you receive them,” the president ordered.
“Yes, sir,” Wilkinson said as he rose from the thick leather couch and brushed off his trousers.
“In fact, Grant, the more you interrupt me for quiet updates, the more worried I suspect Zhilinkhov will become.” The president looked up, eyebrows arched, dead serious in manner.
“You’re probably right,” Wilkinson responded as the president reached for the cabin door handle.
“Let’s meet our greeting party. I want to have all the hand shaking and ceremonial posturing over with when Zhilinkhov steps on the ground.” The president didn’t care for officious functions. He referred to the rituals as “dog-and-pony shows.”
“I intend to blow the air out of his arrival and nail him to the post on the spot.” The president paused for another breath as they started down the hallway. “Grant, see if you can secure a place close by—a hangar will do, or something similar—so we can kick this off without all the ostentatious bullshit.”
“I’ll get right on it, sir,” Wilkinson chuckled at the president’s unexpected imprecation.
The two men reached the forward air-stair door simultaneously with Colonel Boyd, who spoke first.
“Mister President, we managed fourteen minutes ahead of the Russian ETA. Best we could do, sir.”
The aircraft commander of Air Force One prided himself on being punctual and a perfectionist, along with retaining a sense of humor under demanding conditions.
“Couldn’t be better, Don.” The president shook his pilot’s hand. “Enjoyed the flight.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The lean colonel snapped a salute as the president and his chief of staff, joined by the secretary of state, departed the 747 and descended the air-stairs.
The president, analyzing the precarious stability of global politics, mindlessly went through the reception line, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with dignitaries, bureaucrats, and other officials of various rank.
The president requested that everyone accompany him to the position where the general secretary would deplane.
The contingent, looking confused, followed the American leader to the Soviet reception area, leaving the reviewing podium nearly deserted.
Walking slowly with Wilkinson and Herb Kohlhammer, the president kept an eye turned upward and listened for the sound of the approaching Soviet transport.
THE WHITE HOUSE
Tedford W. Corbin, director of the Central Intelligence Agency, sat next to Marine General Hollingsworth, as the secretary of defense outlined the DEFCON-Two status report in the White House Situation Room.
The vice president of the United States and former Navy lawyer, Susan Luthe Blaylocke, chaired the tense early morning meeting. Firing questions and fielding onslaughts was her forte.
Blaylocke had replaced the sitting vice president, who had resigned under intense political pressure. A series of controversial social and political gaffes had underscored the lack of confidence party leadership had had in his abilities to assume the presidency. When a congressional hearing committee had been convened to investigate questionable financial dealings, the president requested, and received, his resignation.
Blaylocke had been welcomed in the White House in an unusual display of bipartisan acceptance.
She had earned the reputation of being a very business-oriented professional. As a Navy officer, Blaylocke had continually been assigned to greater responsibilities and higher visibility as her law career progressed.
The vice president had been assigned to the Pentagon when she met her husband, Congressman Stephen Blaylocke. The couple had no children but worked tirelessly to assist underprivileged and handicapped children.
Lieutenant Commander Blaylocke left active duty after her marriage and ran successfully for a congressional seat. Name recognition and further visibility followed, marking the intelligent brunette as a rising star in the political arena.
The vice president was always pleasant, if possible, but very demanding of those individuals in positions of responsibility. Susan Blaylocke, without a doubt, was an organized and courageous leader. She had earned the respect of her colleagues at every level of government service, along with the respect of the American people and Western allies.
The vice president had been in Saint Thomas, Virgin Islands, enjoying a working vacation with her husband, when the DEFCON-Three alert was initiated.
Rushing back to Washington, Blaylocke and the president had discussed the global situation via secure air-link. They had decided to launch space shuttle Columbia earlier than originally planned. The mutual decision was a tactical gamble.
The Soviet general secretary, visible to the world in Lajes, would not be in a position to offer much resistance. The DEFCON-Two status was delicate and unpredictable, in view of the scheduled orbiter launch linking the basic stage of SDI.
The vice president had arrived at Andrews Air Force Base three hours after the departure of the president and his staff. Now, with five hours of sleep, Blaylocke was absorbing the most recent events, provided by Cliff Howard, secretary of defense, and requesting solutions from the White House leaders. She did not suffer individuals afflicted with nonlinear thinking, as a number of White House staff had learned.
“Gentlemen, that brings us to date on the global situation, militarily speaking.” Susan Blaylocke looked around the table before continuing. “Thanks, Cliff.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am.”
“Ted, where are we in regard to contacting the Kremlin agent?” Blaylocke asked.
The truculent little CIA director, without hesitating, responded clearly.
“We have two of our best men attempting to make contact at this time, around the clock.”
“Why is it so difficult, Ted?” Blaylocke realized the small, irascible man didn’t like being questioned. Especially by a woman.
“The surveillance in and around the Kremlin is very thorough. They—the KGB and GRU—make it almost impossible to contact an operative outside the established pattern.” Director Corbin was being as polite as he had ever been in government service.
“Do you believe, Ted, that your men will succeed in the next twenty-four hours?” The vice president wanted a commitment, a positive answer from the CIA boss.
“Yes,” Corbin inhaled, then exhaled loudly. “The operative we are trying to contact has a girlfriend, a lover, who has a small apartment by the Taganka Theater. She is a leading dancer and rates an efficiency apartment.”
Corbin sensed the stillness in the room, noticed the sunlight creeping through the windows, then proceeded.
“When Dimitri—”
“Who is Dimitri?” Blaylocke interrupted.
“The agent, the ‘plant’ in the Kremlin,” Corbin responded.
“Please continue.” The vice president listened intently, her coffee forgotten.
“When Dimitri journeys to the woman’s apartment, our men observe him from different locations. His visits vary because of his irregular work schedule.”
“How do the agents actually make contact?” Blaylocke asked, attempting to expedite the early meeting.
“If our operative, Dimitri, has anything of significance to report, he folds his arms across his chest,” Corbin demonstrated for the staff members, “with the left wrist on top of his right wrist.
“If he has nothing to report, the opposite arm fold is used, a very subtle gesture.”
“That seems fairly inconspicuous,” Blaylocke responded, then waited for the diminutive CIA director to continue.
“That part is. If our plant and one of the agents need to communicate, the agent waits at the Central Moscow train station for the operative—our Kremlin resident.”
Corbin paused for a sip of orange juice, then continued the narrative. “If Dimitri takes his train ticket money out of his right pocket, he is going to Gorkiy. If it’s the left pocket, the destination is Kharkov.”
“Doesn’t that create suspicion with the KGB goons, if they are watching?” General Vandermeer, the Army chief of staff, queried the civilian administrator.
“Not really, General. They have grown accustomed to Dimitri’s frequent train trips, along with his two sojourns home each year. We have been fortunate his mother can’t see and is only semilucid.” Corbin found himself wandering away from the subject.
“So the contact is made on board the train?” Blaylocke had all the information she needed, except the when.
“Yes. The agent buys a ticket to the destination indicated by the plant. When the agent visits the toilet facilities, Dimitri joins him for a brief update.”
The Marine commandant had an observation. “The train noise, the clanking of the wheels, would make it virtually impossible to record a conversation or eavesdrop at a urinal.”
“Precisely, General.” Corbin leaned back and waited for the vice president to speak.
“So, Ted, we can anticipate information from the Kremlin operative within twenty-four hours?” Blaylocke wanted substantive information as quickly as possible.
“That is correct.” The CIA director could not bring himself to address the woman as Ms. Vice President, let alone ma’am.
Blaylocke wanted to make a judgement on the value of the forthcoming information, if any. “But we don’t know if the information gleaned from the operative will be of any value in the present situation.”
“That is correct.” Corbin fidgeted, uneasiness showing in his demeanor.
“Any questions, gentlemen?” Susan Blaylocke waited to see if the secretary of defense, or any of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, had questions for the director of Central Intelligence. None did.
“Thank you, Ted. You have been very helpful.” The vice president smiled slightly, removed her glasses, and closed her briefing notes.
“You’re welcome, and … ah, I will inform you of any findings immediately on receipt,” Corbin stammered, being respectful without using a title, or the dreaded ma’am.
Blaylocke faced the other staff members. “Well, gentlemen, we expect to hear news from Lajes in the next hour,” Blaylocke looked at her wristwatch and noted that it was two minutes past seven, “so I recommend we adjourn for breakfast and reconvene here at eight o’clock.”
CAPE CANAVERAL
The five astronauts assigned to the SDI satellite placement mission had been awakened early. Breakfast would be later, they were told.
“Plan to attend a briefing in thirty minutes.” End of statement. Door shut.
“Well, I appreciate the guy’s candor,” Air Force Col. Lowell Crawford, mission commander, joked as he waited his turn at the well-used coffee pot in the NASA briefing room.
“Yeah, Skipper, the guy should get a PR job where his personality could really shine,” chimed in Navy Lt. Cmdr. Henry “Hank” Doherty, the mission pilot.
Alan Cressottie, mission payload specialist, struggling into his powder blue flight suit, was the last of the flight crew to enter the small room. He was a popular and jovial member of the astronaut corps.
Cressottie waved to everyone, then threw a sealed cardboard container of doughnuts into the air. “Gotta be prepared!”
“Is that the Cub Scout or Boy Scout motto?” Doctor Minh Tran, mission payload specialist, asked with a grin spreading across his face.
Doherty, the picture-perfect astronaut, plucked the box of doughnuts from midair as Marine Maj. Ward Culdrew, mission specialist, replied. “Naw, that’s the Marine Corps motto, ‘Semper Preparedness.’”
There was a scramble for the dilapidated microwave as Hank Doherty “nuked” the dozen old-fashioned glazed doughnuts for one minute.
“Semper preparedness?” Cressottie laughed. “Drew, you ever finish grade school, or did you get that far?” Cressottie loved to bait his friend, the Marine Corps aviator and rookie astronaut.
“Yeah, sure did,” Culdrew grinned at Cressottie. “Even went on to junior high school. Pledged the fraternity ‘I felta thigh.’ “
The banter ceased as Rex Hays and Mission Controller Ken Stankitze entered the room.
“You’d think NASA could spring for a new microwave,” Doherty mumbled as he pried the door open on the charred and dented oven. He quickly served doughnuts around the cabinet and grabbed his steaming coffee.
Everyone took a seat as Doctor Hays and Stankitze greeted the astronauts. Hays walked to the podium, while the gaunt mission controller had a seat in the front row of the briefing room.
“Well, fellas, hell of a time to get you out of bed, but we’ve had a change of plans.” Hays wasn’t upbeat, nor did he appear dejected.
The astronauts had cautious looks on their faces. Had the mission been scrubbed again? Was all the training down the drain?
“You men are aware of the global tension at the present time, and the increased security here at the cape,” Hays said. “We have been informed by the secretary of defense to launch the SDI mission at the earliest possible time. Unannounced, no media, middle of the night.”
Hays looked at the faces of the crew. Surprise, shock, then relief registered on the five astronauts.
“The president has decided to go for launch early, in view of what happened in the Atlantic. He believes the Russians won’t attempt anything with the general secretary under scrutiny in Lajes.”
Hays gave the crew a moment to collect their thoughts. “We plan to launch this evening, gentlemen.”
Again, surprise registered on the five faces in the audience.
Colonel Crawford, caught off guard, spoke first. “Can we do that? We haven’t completed the preflight checklist yet. The fueling will take—”
Hays raised a hand, quietly silencing the concerned command pilot.
“The final fueling is under way. We are keeping everything low-key. Business as usual. That sort of thing.”
Hays looked at the mission controller. “I’m going to turn the briefing over to Ken now. He can supply you with the details and I’ll meet with you later this morning.”
Hays turned from the battered podium, motioned to Stankitze, and left the room. The mission controller walked around the podium and unfolded his notes.
“As Doctor Hays explained, Columbia is being fueled at this time. We anticipate an oh-two-forty-five launch time. The software is being reprogrammed as I speak, and the window will be fifty-five minutes long.”
“What about security?” Culdrew asked.
“Every effort is being made to ensure this day doesn’t seem strange in the normal prelaunch cycle. What that means, in a real sense, is the troops are being informed of the change of plans. However, their orders are explicit. They are to remain in a low-profile posture.”
Stankitze saw that Crawford had a question. “Yes, Colonel?”
“What about the media?” the pilot asked.
“They aren’t going to be very happy with us,” Stankitze replied.
Laughter filled the room.
“The media is being informed, during a press conference at noon, that a launch will take place four days from now, as per schedule.”
“They’re goin’ to love you, Ken.” Culdrew couldn’t resist a jab at the serious-minded controller.
“No doubt,” Stankitze chuckled, then continued, “the media will believe this evening is a dress rehearsal.”
Laughter.
“They will have to leave the launch site at the scheduled time, as usual, so nothing will seem out of the ordinary. We hope.”
Stankitze turned his pad over, then explained the new sequence of events.
“Since the satellites are already on board Columbia, the logistics aren’t very difficult. You will have breakfast, attend another briefing with Doctor Hays and the launch coordinators at oh-nine-thirty, and meet the press hounds at eleven hundred hours. I don’t need to remind you to keep your mouths shut.”
Stankitze glanced at his schedule. “This afternoon, after lunch, Crawford and Doherty will follow the normal schedule for proficiency flying. The Thirty-eights will be available from thirteen-thirty to fifteen-thirty hours.”
The mission controller looked directly at the pilots. “Don’t bust your asses. The rest of you will report for payload training at fourteen hundred hours. Dinner will be early. We’ll call you around midnight, as late as we can. Breakfast will be in orbit. Try to sleep as much as possible.”
“Sleep?” Doherty exclaimed. “The Russians are getting ready to blow the world to smithereens. I’m getting ready to ride a rocket into space, and the area around the launch pad looks like a ‘Rambo’ movie.”
Laughter.
“Sleep?” Doherty continued. “The man tells me to sleep! I couldn’t go to sleep with a quart of bourbon and a case of tranquilizers!”
Stankitze laughed with the crew, thinking Doherty was right.
The briefing was terminated as everyone piled out of the room, spirits high in their togetherness. The close-knit group proceeded to breakfast, Doherty complaining about Cressottie’s “gut bomb” doughnuts destroying his appetite.
GALENA AIRFIELD, ALASKA, Forward Interceptor Base
The two United States Air Force F-15 Eagles roared off the short airstrip, afterburners blazing in the night. At the controls of Cobra One was Maj. Enrico DiGennaro, a career military pilot and Air Force Academy graduate. Capt. William “Wild Bill” Parnam, piloting Cobra Two, would join on DiGennaro’s right wing in a running rendezvous.
The scramble had been initiated by the E-3 Airborne Warning and Control Aircraft. The aircraft’s high-altitude radar had tracked the Soviet bombers and escorts for the previous hour.
The recent Red Flag fighter weapons graduates were temporarily assigned to Galena, one of two forward fighter-interceptor bases in Alaska.
The two Fox-15 pilots had the unenviable task of reconnoitering the Russian bomber groups before the other twenty-three F-15s arrived on station.
KC-10 tankers, operating from Eielson Air Force Base, were en route, along with carrier-based Navy and Marine fighters from the USS Ranger. Two Marine KC-130 tankers, operating from Adak, Alaska, would help support the carrier aircraft. This intercept was shaping into a real hardball mission, especially under a DEFCON-Two alert.
The Russians had increasingly been flying strike profiles rather than peripheral reconnaissance missions, but not in these numbers. Seventy or eighty bombers, plus escort fighters and tankers, was an imposing force under any conditions.
“Cobra Two aboard,” Parnam announced as he thumbed his speedbrake closed. He had bled-off forty knots to match his leader’s speed.
“Roger, Two,” responded DiGennaro, “let’s go high station and check with Pinwheel.”
“I’m with you, lead.” Parnam inched the throttles forward to remain alongside of DiGennaro as they initiated a cruise climb to 54,000 feet.
“Pinwheel Seven, Cobra One with you outa three-one-oh, flight of two Fox-Fifteens.”
“Copy, Cobra. Come to heading two-four-zero and squawk ident.”
“Roger, two-four-zero and ident.”
Pause.
“Pinwheel has a tally, Cobra.”
The E-3 AWACS airborne controller had the two McDonnell Douglas fighters on radar and was vectoring the heavily laden aircraft toward the Soviet bomber group.
“Pinwheel. How far out are the fifteens behind us?” DiGennaro needed the reference point of the supporting fighters in order to form a tactical battle plan.
“Hawk flight is two hundred eighty miles at your seven o’clock. Stand by.”
“Roger.” DiGennaro eased back on the throttles, reducing power two percent.
The E-3 was silent a few seconds while they checked with the other F-15s from Elmendorf Air Force Base.
“Cobra, Pinwheel.”
“Go.” DiGennaro didn’t waste words, on the ground or in the air.
“Leopard flight is five minutes behind the Hawks. They had one turn back with hydraulic problems.”
“Roger.” DiGennaro eased back another one percent of power to reduce fuel consumption and shorten the distance between his two fighters and the joining F-15s.
“Pinwheel, what’s the Navy’s position?”
“Coming up from the south … be a while.” The controller hesitated again. “The Ranger is six hundred nautical at one-six-zero from your position.”
“Roger, Pinwheel. We’re going to slow it up until we have a few more troops.”
DiGennaro didn’t want to engage the Soviet bomber group with odds running thirty to one. Not a good tactical decision.
The mission of the Forty-third Tactical Fighter Squadron, up to now, had been to intercept the occasional Russian Bear bomber-surveillance aircraft that strayed too close to the Aleutians or Alaskan coast. This situation was a whole new ball game.