NORAD
General Matuchek watched the continuously changing status graphics at his control module and contemplated the approaching Soviet bomber fleets. He thought about the American concept of layered defenses and fervently wished the Space Defense Initiative system were fully operational.
The NORAD commander knew the SDI system had faults. Scientists and engineers, during the previous three months, had argued various theorems, trying to correct the deficiencies in pointing and tracking.
SDI had been designed to recognize instantly the plume of smoke and fire from a hostile missile launch. The object of the sophisticated deterrent was to destroy the weapons as they rose from their silos or broke the surface of the water.
If the enemy knew, or believed, their missiles would explode over their own territory, they would presumably not risk that option.
The exasperated SDI experts had been working feverishly to eliminate the problems of wavefront control. Atmospheric distortion wreaked havoc with the pointing and tracking ability of the SDI satellites already in orbit. Various experiments had recently improved the system’s capability.
Astronauts and scientists, working in orbit from Starlab, had been achieving great success firing lasers at test missiles launched from ground-based sites.
However, the final solution escaped the scientists as they continued to rework the optics in the equation. Everyone felt a breakthrough was imminent. A 100 percent reliable system of nuclear missile defense was only months, if not weeks, away.
The real concern, in both the scientific and military communities, was the vulnerability of our SDI satellites to Soviet laser attacks. The Soviets had previously damaged the Indigo Lacrosse spy satellite, which used radar to view through clouds or bad weather. The satellite, crucial for guiding the B-2 Stealth bombers over Russia during a nuclear war, would have to be replaced.
“Excuse me, General.” The assistant operations officer handed Matuchek a folder.
“Another Top Secret, huh?” CINCNORAD replied, reaching for the packet.
“Yes, sir. Your eyes only.”
“Appreciate it, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the lieutenant colonel.
Matuchek watched the lanky officer as he returned to his central command post, then read the contents of the secret message.
Z010532ZFEB |
|
| TOP SECRET | |
| FROM: | AIR FORCE SPACE COMMAND |
| TO : | CONSOLIDATED SPACE OPERATIONS CENTER |
| SUBJ : | STRATEGIC DEFENSE INITIATIVE |
| REF : | CHAIRMAN JCS MSG Z010405ZFEB |
| INFO : | CINCNORAD SATELLITE TEST CENTER |
1. FINAL SDI DEPLOYMENT RESCHEDULED FOR 010645ZFEB. WINDOW 0645Z THROUGH 0740Z. COORDINATE TRACKING WITH HOUSTON AND NORAD. ESTABLISH ON-LINE TAP AT 010600ZFEB. CALL COLUMBIA FIFTY-SEVEN.
2. RESUME NORMOPS AT COMPLETION OF SEVENTH ORBIT. AWAIT REPLY.
Matuchek looked at the twenty-four-hour clock on the wall and compared the time to his wristwatch. Less than one hour before launch.
“Christ,” he muttered quietly as he punched the code for Lt. Gen. Jonathan R. Honeycutt, his Canadian vice commander.
“General Honeycutt,” replied the three-star officer in his usual crisp manner.
“John, J.B. When you have a minute, I need to speak with you privately.”
“Yes, sir,” Honeycutt replied. “Right away.”
MOSCOW
Dimitri and the tall CIA agent rounded the first street corner and ducked into a narrow walkway. The American had not said a word since they had left the chaotic confrontation with the KGB agents.
Dimitri, his pulse racing, broke into a half run as the CIA operative quickened the pace.
“Move it out, Dimitri,” the agent ordered as he placed his hands on a small wooden fence and catapulted himself over the rickety structure.
Dimitri didn’t answer. His breathing was already ragged, his mouth tasted like cotton, and his right hand throbbed with pain.
Wickham continued to instruct Dimitri as the two men hurried down walkways and back streets.
“Hang on, Dimitri. Two more minutes and we’ll be in my apartment.”
“Okay. I’m not—”
“Don’t talk,” barked the agent. “Just listen!”
Dimitri didn’t respond as he tried to quicken his pace behind the fast-moving American.
“When we get to the apartment,” the CIA agent paused while he reconnoitered Cherkasskiy street, “we will change into disguises to facilitate our escape.”
The American slowed to a normal walk as they approached his apartment.
“No need to draw unwanted attention or suspicion. Just be casual,” the agent cautioned as they neared the Novaya apartment complex, “and speak in Russian at all times.”
“Da,” Dimitri replied as he glanced from side to side, then down to his aching hand.
The CIA operative looked up at his apartment window, then continued talking to Dimitri.
“We will become Soviet bureaucrats. Agriculture inspectors traveling to Leningrad to examine the truck farming administrative center. The credentials are flawless.”
Dimitri knew, at this point, to listen, not respond to the American.
“I will brief you on the train,” Wickham continued as they started up the steps to the apartment building. “The area around Leningrad is full of state-run farms producing potatoes, vegetables, dairy products, and they also raise hogs and livestock.”
“Okay.” Dimitri ventured a tentative reply.
The CIA agent, noticing the long hallway was empty, continued summarizing the escape plan.
“The KGB will be circulating our descriptions throughout the city in a matter of minutes. You’ll be missed at the Kremlin by midafternoon.”
“Yes. Before, probably,” replied the frightened young auto mechanic, wishing he could be with Svetlana in New Jersey. His mind raced as the events of the morning caught up with him. No turning back.
“We have some time, not a lot, but enough to prepare adequately for our trip.”
Dimitri nodded, thinking about Svetlana.
The agent, reaching for his keys, continued. “We have to catch the ten-thirty train to Leningrad. The KGB will be everywhere, but our disguises and credentials will obviate any suspicion. Understand?”
“Y-Yes,” Dimitri stammered, not accepting the necessity for the sudden departure from Moscow. He ached for Svetlana and the passion-filled nights they had shared. Would he ever see her again? Could he ever explain?
The CIA agent unlocked the door and the two men stepped inside. The American immediately went to the window and peered into the street. A black Volga containing three KGB agents drove slowly down the street, stopping in the intersection.
“The KGB is already out in force,” the CIA operative reported, slowly turning his head to view the opposite direction.
“Dimitri, I hope you can appreciate how serious this is.” The agent released the window curtain and turned to face Dimitri.
“Sorry, the wheels just fell off and we’ve got—”
Wickham stopped in midsentence, horrified. His eyes widened and he swallowed twice before speaking, pointing his finger, arm outstretched, at Dimitri’s right hand.
“Dimitri, your hand is bleeding!”
Both men stared at the bright red blood steadily dripping on the floor. The two agents realized they had left a clearly marked trail to the apartment. Their sanctuary was now a deathtrap.
COBRA FLIGHT
Major DiGennaro concentrated on flying perfect formation while he glanced at his fuel gauges. Two minutes passed before he saw the refueling light wink out on the huge KC–10, checked his fuel load, and prepared to unplug from the tanker.
“Cobra One,” announced the fueling boom operator, “you’re cleared down and to the left.”
“Roger, One is down and left,” DiGennaro replied, easing back on his throttles.
The sleek F-15 disengaged from the tanker cleanly, dropped astern twenty feet, and slowly moved below and to the left of the mammoth flying gas station.
Now it was Parnam’s turn to take on fuel before the other thirsty F-15s arrived on station. DiGennaro knew their flight leader would be anxious to have his troops topped off before confronting the Russians.
DiGennaro watched as Parnam made an abortive attempt to mate with the KC–10, then smoothly plugged into the tanker on his second try.
“How ya doin’, Bill?” DiGennaro asked in a conversational tone, noticing the pilot induced oscillations were dampening.
“Mighty fine, boss,” Parnam responded, intently concentrating on his formation flying, “and the price isn’t bad either.”
DiGennaro chuckled to himself, knowing his wingman was damn good. He checked his fuel gauges once more, glanced at his armament panel, and called the AWACS.
“Pinwheel, Cobra with you.”
“Cobra, Pinwheel.”
“I’m topped and Two will be off the tanker in a minute. Where are the other fifteens?”
“They’re thirty out, Cobra, descending on the tankers.” The voice was calm, reassuring.
“Roger, Pinwheel. Point us toward the bogies,” DiGennaro replied, checking Parnam’s F-15.
“Two eighty-five, blocking three-three-zero to four-one-oh, one hundred forty out.”
“One with a copy,” responded the flight leader, waiting for his wingman to finish refueling.
“Two shows full,” Parnam announced in a quiet, steady voice.
“Nightrider confirms,” the boom operator verified the load, “cleared down and to the right.”
“Down and right,” Parnam repeated, easing the F-15 back to the right of the tanker. He looked over to his flight leader on the left.
“Good hunting, Cobras,” radioed the pilot of the lumbering KC–10.
“Thanks, Nightrider. Appreciate the drink,” replied DiGennaro as he watched his wingman slide into position on his right wing.
“Our pleasure, guys,” responded the KC–10 pilot. The tanker was already turning to remain in the racetrack refueling pattern.
“Cobras, go combat spread,” ordered DiGennaro. “Check your panel; we’re goin’ upstairs.”
“Roger, lead. Clean and green,” replied Parnam, inching his throttles forward while he scanned his radar.
The Russian bomber group and fighter escorts were approaching the American fighter pilots at a combined closure rate of over 1,000 miles per hour.
MOSCOW
The CIA agent shoved Dimitri toward the tiny bathroom, shouting orders, as he hurried to effect their escape. No time now for a full transformation or disguise. Their options were dwindling rapidly.
“Wash your hand off and wrap it with gauze,” Wickham said, yanking open drawers. “Keep your gloves on.”
The American agent quickly combed white powder through his hair, creating an instant aging effect. Wickham, donning different trousers, white shirt, conservative dark tie, and long black topcoat, began to look like a Soviet bureaucrat, an agriculture inspector. He topped off the ensemble with a black, Russian-made, medium-brimmed hat.
Racing back to the window, the agent tossed Dimitri a pair of pants, long coat, and similar black hat.
“Get into those quick! Remember how to use this?” Wickham asked, tossing Dimitri a 9-mm Beretta.
“Yes,” Dimitri responded, dancing on one leg while he tried to get the pants over his shoes. The pistol bounced off his left knee as Dimitri simultaneously lost his balance and fell against the bed.
“Don’t, unless you absolutely have to,” the agent said, holding the window curtain open half an inch. “We’ve gotta move fast!”
The American thrust a package of credentials into Dimitri’s inside coat pocket, peered out the window, and quickly stepped back.
“Aw, shit! They’re on us, Dimitri. Let’s go.”
The two men raced down the hallway, clamored through a window, went part way down a fire escape, and leaped over a fence into an adjoining courtyard.
Dimitri stumbled and fell forward on his knees, knocking his hat off. Wickham picked him up, slamming Dimitri’s hat down over his ears.
Together the men raced toward the Moscow suburb of Barviha, where the CIA operatives had a Volga. The car was registered in the name of a United States embassy official, but reserved for this type of contingency, a quick escape from Moscow proper.
“Hurry, Dimitri! We can’t outrun their dogs.” Wickham’s breathing was becoming labored.
Dimitri’s response was a gasp, a croak, “Ahh—’kay.”
The two men emerged from a narrow passage between two buildings, 150 meters from the waiting Volga, and started walking across the street.
Suddenly, the American pushed Dimitri into a row of shrub trees, again knocking his hat askew. Wickham pointed down Kazabova street, visibly straining to slow his breathing, his lips parched dry.
Dimitri could see the black KGB car 200 meters past the Volga, their escape vehicle. Two GRU officers, one holding the leash of a Doberman pinscher, were talking with the driver.
The American quietly motioned to Dimitri. “Follow me and stay alert.”
Dimitri responded by grabbing the back of the agent’s coat as they forced their way through the shrubs and hedges until they were in a small yard.
“We’ll cut between the buildings, then try to approach from the dacha directly in front of the car.”
The two men crept across three small private yards in the posh suburb and stealthily approached the side of the dacha in front of the parked Volga.
Wickham motioned Dimitri to kneel down. They moved quietly to the side of the front porch, removing their hats. Dimitri could feel the Beretta gouging him between his back and belt.
“Listen,” Wickham whispered. “The keys are in a special container under the left rear fender.”
Dimitri listened intently, nodding his head in understanding. His hand still hurt, hot and stinging, but the pain was almost forgotten in his near-panic.
“I’m going to head for the car, get the keys, and unlock the driver’s door. Then—and only then—you walk casually out and get in the other side. Understand, Dimitri? Clearly?”
“Yes,” Dimitri said, fear written on his face. “I understand.”
Wickham nervously looked around the corner of the porch. The GRU officers and their Doberman were slowly crossing the street, approaching the row of dachas in front of the Volga.
The KGB men were still in their car with the passenger door open.
“Dimitri, it’s very simple. We have no other choice. If we stay here, I guarantee you we will be dead, or imprisoned and tortured, very shortly.”
“Yes, sir,” Dimitri replied, regaining his confidence.
“Then do as I say. Put your weapon in your outside coat pocket. If we need them, we’ll damn sure use ’em.”
Dimitri nodded, gently placing the Beretta in his right coat pocket.
“Here we go,” Wickham said as he walked from the side of the porch, shocking Dimitri with his boldness.
The American stepped between a tall hedge and the outside door of the dacha, pretending to be leaving the residence. He opened, then slammed the outside door, casually strolling down the short steps, carefully fitting his hat to his head.
“Good morning, comrades,” the American agent said in perfect Russian.
Dimitri was petrified as he watched the agent talk to the KGB officers.
“Morning,” came the brusque reply. The black Doberman growled menacingly, straining on his leash.
Wickham reached for the keys as the GRU officers started back across the street.
Dimitri watched as the American unlocked the driver’s door. The young Kremlin operative stood upright and started toward the car. Every step was filled with agonizing terror. Every fiber in his being cried out in alarm.
Without warning, the door to the dacha opened, startling Dimitri. A pretty Russian woman appeared, thinking someone had knocked on her door.
“What do you want?” she cried out, alarmed at the presence of GRU officers across the street.
The two officers stopped, turned around, a quizzical look on their faces.
Before Dimitri could respond to the frightened woman, the American turned and spoke to her in Russian.
“We apologize,” Wickham said loudly, “we knocked at the wrong dacha. Yevgeny Govorko, we have the wrong address.”
Dimitri hesitated, then started for the car.
“Keep moving, Dimitri,” Wickham said under his breath.
“Halt!” the GRU senior officer commanded. “Stop where you are!”
“Run, Dimitri!” the American ordered. “Get in the car.”
As Dimitri rounded the corner of the car, a black object hit him from the side. He felt searing pain in his right ear, then heard a loud shot close to him.
Wickham had shot the Doberman when he glanced off Dimitri, catching the vicious beast as he leaped off the pavement for another assault.
“GET IN,” the American shouted as he leaped into the driver’s seat and inserted the key.
Dimitri plunged headlong into the car as Wickham floor-boarded the Volga and careened into traffic.
The black KGB car made a U-turn and was recklessly pursuing the two CIA men, swerving wildly to miss oncoming vehicles.
The two agents had to lose the Russians quickly if they had any chance for survival.
Wickham yelled at Dimitri to keep his head down, then glanced in the rearview mirror at the pursuing automobile. At that precise instant the rear window was shattered by three rounds from a KGB submachine gun.