NORAD
General Matuchek sat in the briefing room listening to the operations officer and the intelligence chief. The staff intel officer was speaking.
“General, the French Spot Earth resources satellite has photographed five Soviet Typhoon submarines leaving their secret base at Gremikha, on the Kola Peninsula. All of this activity has taken place in the past fourteen hours.”
“Go on, Colonel,” Matuchek urged.
“These subs, General, are the largest in the world. They’re five hundred fifty-eight feet long and carry twenty SS-N-20 ballistic missiles, which have a range of more than five thousand miles.”
“Where are these subs now?” Matuchek asked, writing notes on his briefing folder.
“We don’t know, sir. Probably headed for the center of the northern Atlantic. Each missile carries six to nine multiple independently targetable nuclear warheads.”
The officer paused, seeing Matuchek leafing through his folder. “General, they are capable of striking North America and Western Europe even when docked at their home port in Gremikha.”
“Please continue, Colonel,” Matuchek requested, looking at the last page of the report.
“At least eleven other subs—mostly Delta- and Yankee-class boats—have left port too. Another Typhoon, in the final stages of construction, is preparing to leave the shipyard at Severomorsk. Sir, missiles have already been loaded on that particular Typhoon and the boat has never been to sea.”
“What do you read from this?” Matuchek placed his pen on the table and folded his arms.
“Sir, the submarine bases at Polyarnyy and Petropavlovsk are empty, along with the secret base at Gremikha. The Soviets protect their fleet, especially the Typhoons, like mother hens. I believe, sir, they’re going to use these weapons on us.”
Matuchek glanced at his watch, keeping in mind his briefing with the Joint Chiefs of Staff in eight minutes.
“Colonel,” Matuchek hesitated, “you may be absolutely correct. However, our immediate threat is the approaching Soviet bombers. They can do a lot of damage with their nuclear cruise missiles.”
“I couldn’t agree more, General. Their long-range airborne missiles do constitute a tremendous threat to our major coast cities, especially if they’re used in conjunction with nuclear weapons launched from submarines.”
“What is your recommendation, Colonel?” Matuchek continued, not waiting for a reply. “The submarine problem is not a NORAD priority, as you well know, until the missiles break the surface of the water.”
“I recognize that, General. My recommendation is to push the Joint Chiefs to focus more ASW coverage in the North Atlantic. The Russians can sit out there, with near impunity, and blast the hell out of Europe and North America. We really need all the naval air coverage we can concentrate in the North Atlantic.”
The small briefing room remained quiet while Matuchek organized his thoughts. “Okay, Colonel, I’ll suggest a stepped-up effort. The Navy isn’t going to appreciate the Air Force recommending any …” Matuchek paused. “You get the picture?”
“Yessir. We need a more concerted naval effort, though, or we’re going to be vulnerable in the midsection.”
“Alright, Jim. I appreciate all the work you and Matt have done. Keep me informed.”
Matuchek reached for the door handle leading to the private, sealed room where he would confer with the Joint Chiefs in three minutes.
As he swung the door open, a loud horn blared, startling him. The raucous sound signified a change in the Defense Condition.
Matuchek changed course, almost jogging, as he stepped onto a narrow threshold overlooking the central operations room. The two briefing officers followed closely behind.
CINCNORAD stared at the status board, then audibly sighed. A large DEFCON-Three display had replaced the Defense Condition-Two light.
“Well, things are looking up,” Matuchek said as he turned to reenter the sealed briefing room.
The two younger officers were visibly relieved, grins creasing their faces.
MOSCOW
Dimitri stood by the row of trees, nervously glancing up and down the street. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then back again while he watched the parking area where the American had disappeared.
His numbed mind tried to sort out what had happened in the past two hours. It seemed like ages since he had slept in his bed, or, more importantly, had a cigarette. He had left them in Wickham’s apartment in their hasty escape.
Dimitri thought about Svetlana momentarily, then snapped back to the present when the dark Lada, bearing government markings, pulled alongside the curb.
“LET’S GO,” the American shouted in Russian, barely stopping the car.
Dimitri bolted into the automobile, catching his coat in the door. Wickham roared into traffic as Dimitri opened the door and freed his coat.
“Where are we going?” Dimitri asked, his eyes darting back and forth, searching for possible threats.
“To Kalinin to catch the train. Two-hour drive, at most. We will turn off the highway at Khimki and follow the road to Kalinin. I’ll explain more when we get out of traffic. They probably won’t miss this car for a couple of hours.”
Dimitri sat quietly, watching the CIA agent drive with his left hand. His right arm remained motionless with the hand through his coat front, providing a sling.
As the Lada reached the outskirts of Moscow, both men breathed easier. Each kilometer spelled safety, more security for the agents.
“Dimitri, our original plan won’t work now.”
“What are we going to do?” the young agent blurted, in a small voice, tension tightening his throat.
“I’ll need your help, so listen closely.”
Dimitri nodded, rising in his seat to look behind the automobile. His heart still pounded. What would they do to Svetlana? He ached to go back to her, then realized he could never return.
“When we get to Kalinin, we’ll submerge the car in the river. Then we’ll separate to enter the train station a few minutes apart.”
Dimitri’s eyes appeared glazed.
“Are you listening, goddamnit?”
“Yessir,” Dimitri replied, focusing on Wickham’s face.
“When we enter the station, Dimitri, you go into the john, the men’s room, and enter a stall. Stay in there until the train arrives. I’ll come and get you when it’s time to board.”
“I understand. Where are we going?”
The agent checked in every direction, awkwardly downshifted for a corner, then continued.
“The train will take us close to Leningrad. We’ll get off outside Novgorod, next to the Volkhov River.”
“Then we go by truck again …?” Dimitri interjected, hoping their escape would be in a familiar, nonthreatening environment.
“No, that’s too risky. Intelligence has informed us the Soviets are on to the ruse. We lost two men eight months ago. The Russian border guards knew precisely where our agents were concealed in the truck. We had to resort to hiding our people inside the trucks a few months after your insertion.”
“How then—?” Dimitri stopped himself, seeing the look on the American’s face.
“When we get off the train near Novgorod, at night, I’ll send a prearranged signal via satellite. That will set the rescue operation in motion.”
The American braked for another turn and continued his brief to Dimitri. “I have a satellite transmitter sewn inside my topcoat. We can send only coded messages. No voice.”
Without hesitating, the agent continued. “When we are in place, at the pickup point, I’ll send a coded message and the helos will be en route almost immediately.”
“Helicopters?” Dimitri was astonished.
“That’s correct. The extraction procedure has been rehearsed many times. I have a UHF radio built into the satellite transmitter. I will be able to talk with the pilots when they are within fifteen or twenty miles of our position.”
The Lada rounded a corner and the American continued his explanation to the frightened young operative. “Dimitri, when we get close to Kal—OH SHIT!”
Both men saw the checkpoint simultaneously. The guard house and closed gate were only four hundred meters away as the American started slowing the Lada.
“Dimitri, quick, grab the scarf from my right coat pocket and wrap it once around my neck.”
Dimitri complied, initially fumbling to unfold the brown knit fabric.
“Make sure it covers the blood around my collar.”
“It’s covered,” Dimitri responded, his voice again choked in near panic.
“Drape the end over my torn shoulder.” Wickham squirmed as a sharp pain shot through his shoulder. “Got it?”
“It’s completely covered,” Dimitri said as he spread the scarf over the agent’s wound.
“Okay, Dimitri, I’ll talk. We’re agriculture inspectors, so act like one.” Wickham motioned to Dimitri. “Get out your credentials.”
The Lada slowed as the American glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. No trace of blood visible, at least from the left side.
Two guards, one with a Kalashnikov rifle and the other brandishing a submachine gun, stood in front of the closed gate.
Both Russian guards raised their hands, motioning for the Lada to stop.
“Get a hold on yourself, Dimitri, or we’re both dead. Act the part you’re supposed to be.” Wickham lowered his voice. “Official.”
The American brought the automobile to a smooth stop as the guards approached the Lada, one on each side.
“Greetings, comrades,” the American said, displaying his credentials.
The guard studied the papers closely, then looked at the American and Dimitri.
“Step out and open the trunk,” the Soviet guard sternly ordered.
“Yes, comrade,” the American replied, opening the door gingerly with his left arm.
Wickham’s mind raced, knowing he didn’t have a key to the trunk. He had hot-wired the ignition to start the car.
The American rounded the end of the automobile, appearing to search for a key.
“What is wrong with your arm, Comrade Inspector?” the Russian holding the Kalashnikov rifle asked, suspicion written on his face.
“Farming accident, comrade.” Wickham appeared nonchalant. “Many years ago in Groznyy.”
The American was in pain and he hoped it didn’t show on his face.
“Comrade Inspector, this is not an Agriculture Bureau automobile. This is registered to the State Medical Department.”
“That is true, comrade. Our vehicle was in for routine service and inspection. The Bureau Directorate procured this automobile for our trip.”
The other guard, listening to the conversation, was examining Dimitri’s credentials through the open passenger window.
“Open the trunk, Comrade Inspector,” the guard again ordered, tapping the metal with the barrel of his weapon.
“I’m afraid they didn’t give me a key to the trunk. The inept blunderheads,” responded the American as he noticed the other guard carrying Dimitri’s credentials into the guard house. If he got on the phone with the false papers, it was all over.
“Comrade Inspector, let me have your key to the ignition,” the guard ordered in a loud voice, raising the barrel of the rifle strapped over his shoulder.
“Yes, of course,” Wickham replied as he approached the open driver’s door. He reached inside, as if to retrieve the key, and noticed the other guard dialing the wall-mounted phone.
SHUTTLE COLUMBIA
The orbiter drifted effortlessly over the azure Pacific Ocean, inverted, top facing the planet, as the crew prepared to extend the remote manipulator arm.
Maj. Ward Culdrew, the mission specialist, looked through the aft crew station windows. The three satellites appeared unharmed after the rocket flight into space.
Doctor Minh Tran, mission payload specialist, stood at the payload handler station. Tran was preparing to operate the remote manipulator system.
Hank Doherty was at the pilot’s position in the center of the aft crew station. His job would entail maneuvering Columbia during the satellite deployment procedure.
Alan Cressottie manned the other mission payload specialist position, ready to assist any crew member, while Colonel Crawford supervised the operation from the forward flight deck.
The shuttle was parked in orbit in the lower Van Allen belt. The crew could not spend long periods at this altitude because of the radiation hazard.
“Stand by to deploy the RMS,” Culdrew ordered.
The cargo-bay floodlights were on, creating eerie shadows toward the rear of the compartment, along with the television cameras and viewing monitors.
“Okay, Minh, do your stuff,” Culdrew said in a quiet, respectful tone.
Doctor Tran turned his switch to the orbiter unloaded position. He then selected shoulder and pitch on the joint switch.
Everyone watched intently as the diminutive Tran maneuvered the remote arm to a position to extract the first satellite. The mission payload specialist then switched to orbiter loaded and approached the first SDI satellite, using a television camera mounted on the end of the remote control arm.
“Looks good, Columbia,” Houston radioed.
Mission Control was monitoring the deployment via television downlink.
“We hope so,” Crawford replied tentatively. He knew what hung in the balance.
A collective sigh announced the end effector mating with the satellite package grapple.
“Got it, Houston,” Crawford radioed.
“Copy. You’re go for deployment.”
Tran suppressed a grin and prepared to lift the antimissile satellite out of the cargo bay.
“Hold your breath, boys,” Culdrew whispered.
Tran gently raised the satellite package, stopped momentarily, flexed his fingers, and regripped the rotational hand controller.
“Nice and easy, Doc,” Culdrew said in a soothing, quiet voice. “You’re doing great.”
Tran manipulated the satellite out of the cargo bay, then stopped the arm, frozen in place.
“Okay, Doc, let me know when you’re ready,” Doherty announced as he prepared to maneuver the shuttle clear of the satellite.
“Stand by,” Tran replied, checking his switches. Everything looked normal to the small physicist.
“Columbia, Houston. Looks mighty fine, guys. You’re ahead of schedule.”
“Roger,” Crawford replied, watching Doherty’s every move. This was a critical maneuver. The first of three in the next thirty-five minutes, Crawford thought as he watched the crew work in total harmony.
Tran, making sure the satellite was stable, announced he was ready for deployment. “Ready for payload release in fifteen seconds.”
“Set,” Doherty answered, checking his reaction control system (RCS) thrusters.
Tran made one last check and released the satellite from the arm. “Released.” The astronaut stared, transfixed.
“Roger,” Doherty replied, deftly maneuvering Columbia away from the satellite.
“Outstanding, Columbia. Two to go,” Houston radioed as the orbiter moved slowly away from the satellite.
LAJES
The last of the dessert plates were being cleared when the president addressed the Soviet leader again.
“We are not naive, Secretary Zhilinkhov. We realize your space-based antisatellite weapons, kinetic-energy shrapnel weapons, and powerful lasers are in place for one reason, to defeat us in space. The sole intent is to reduce, if not eliminate, our ability to communicate and navigate. Our effectiveness to defend ourselves. We have reason, Mister Secretary, to believe your government has used the powerful laser at Sary Shagan to damage two American satellites.”
The president noticed Zhilinkhov’s eye twitch.
“The most recent incident happened during the past two months.”
“What is your point, Mister President?” the interpreter asked in a pleasant manner. Zhilinkhov was strained, but businesslike.
“The point, Secretary Zhilinkhov, is that we are not a threat to you or the Soviet people. We can achieve, working together, a peaceful coexistence through de-escalation of arms. We must exchange our collective technical knowledge. Two powers working together for the enrichment of all people.”
The president again waited for a response. The Russian remained quiet.
A disturbance at the entrance to the hangar startled the delegation.
The Soviet foreign minister, who had left the room to receive a message, barged through the door and strode angrily toward Zhilinkhov, gesturing for the general secretary to join him in conference.
Grant Wilkinson looked over at the president, then removed his glasses and slowly rubbed the bridge of his nose. When he looked up, the president was shaking his head in resignation.
The president, apprehension gnawing at his stomach, watched the agitated foreign minister confer with Zhilinkhov. The general secretary’s face blotched, then turned a deep red, almost purple color.
Wilkinson leaned over to the president. “Here comes the space shuttle broadside. You might as well enjoy a rum crook and relax.”
“Good advice,” the president responded as he withdrew a cigar. His eyes squinted behind the match, making him appear tired.
“Wish I were enjoying this someplace else,” the president said quietly, closely watching the Soviet leaders.
The Kremlin boss, obviously upset, was marching back to his seat opposite the American. He reached his chair and launched into a loud harangue. The bombastic, ranting speech was mostly incoherent to the American delegation. The Russian interpreter stepped away from the general secretary, not sure how to react.
Wilkinson made the first move, then sat back as he observed his boss lean forward.
The president spoke forcefully to Zhilinkhov, projecting his voice from the diaphragm. “Secretary Zhilinkhov! We can’t understand you. Calm down!”
Both men were talking simultaneously, causing further confusion.
Suddenly, without warning, Zhilinkhov stopped shouting. He pointed his finger at the American and started talking slowly, in a low, controlled tone. The interpreter tentatively stepped closer to the general secretary. “You have deceived us. Tricked us again with—”
“I’m not following you, Mister Zhilinkhov. We, as a government, have never—”
“You lied about your space war defense!” Zhilinkhov spat, thoroughly incensed.
Every person in the hangar was frozen in silence, shock registering on their faces. The usual pomp and pageantry, with the pretentious behavior, had started to evaporate when the general secretary stepped off the Ilyushin transport. The diplomatic reservoir was now bone-dry.
“We haven’t lied about anything, Mister Secretary,” the president replied in a normal, controlled voice, exhaling cigar smoke.
Zhilinkhov, still standing in front of the table, pointed his finger at the president again. “You launched your shuttle craft without warning—ahead of schedule! Even your own newspeople did not know of the secret launch.”
Zhilinkhov was livid, trembling slightly in a half crouch, knuckles on the table.
The president bolted from his chair, knocking ashes across the table. “It is OUR prerogative to launch OUR shuttle when WE deem it appropriate. WE don’t need the permission of the Soviet government, or, for that matter, the American news media.”
Zhilinkhov was beginning to perspire in the stagnant air.
“I thought, when I talked with you from Moscow,” the interpreter continued, “that we had an agreement to discuss your space defense satellites on a foundation of mutual trust.”
“Oh, we did, sir, and I’m happy to discuss them n—”
The president was abruptly cut off when the burly Russian leader slammed his fist on the table, spilling three glasses of water.
“Before you launched them,” Zhilinkhov bellowed. “You changed the date! We can not trust the Americans again. Ever!”
The president realized Zhilinkhov’s real concern was the SDI satellites. Everything else was simply window dressing. He decided to let Zhilinkhov talk himself out. The meeting was a fiasco anyway. The outcome would be futile. Back to square one, with immediate escalation of tensions.
“Also,” Zhilinkhov continued, a smile spreading across his craggy face, “two of your spies have been exposed in Moscow.”
The president reacted with a surprised look, questioning the interpreter, then glanced at Wilkinson.
The chief of staff, anticipating some type of surprise, spoke out. “That isn’t anything new. We expelled three of your KGB operatives—spies, Mister Zhilinkhov—less than two months ago.”
The Communist leader smiled again. A shiver ran down the spines of the president and his chief advisor. They both had a premonition.
“One of the spies,” Zhilinkhov paused for theatrical effect, leaving the interpreter in midsentence, “was in charge of my kitchen help.”
That information did shock both Americans. The president and his closest advisor looked at each other, dismay and sadness in their eyes.
“The bastard traitor could have poisoned me,” Zhilinkhov hissed, pounding the table again as his aides began to assemble their papers.
“Too bad he didn’t,” Wilkinson uttered softly to the president.
“What is your response!?” Zhilinkhov snapped back.
“I asked if you have the men in custody? Are they all right?” Wilkinson responded, unperturbed.
Zhilinkhov smiled again, then spoke in harsh tones. “No, we don’t have them—yet,” he spat, “but we will soon. They have killed at least four of our men. They won’t make it to trial. I have ordered execution on the spot. Don’t forget that!”
Zhilinkhov was yelling again. “What do you have to say?”
The president waited, puffing on his rum crook, looking upward at the hangar ceiling.
“Well?” Zhilinkhov leaned toward the president, frightening his own aides and interpreter.
“Mister Zhilinkhov, we have nothing else to say, given the circumstances and your state of mind. I will, however, give you a piece of personal advice.”
Zhilinkhov exploded. “We—I don’t need any advice from American liars!”
The Soviet general secretary stalked out of the hangar with the Russian contingent close behind. The Russian faces, to a man, reflected anguish and surprise.
“What a disaster …” The president paused. “Grant, reestablish DEFCON-Two, then find out what the hell happened in Moscow.”
“Yes, sir,” Wilkinson responded, then added, “Mister President, I suggest you reboard Air Force One for security reasons.”
“Okay, Grant,” the president responded, grinding his cigar to pulp, “on my way.”
The two men, along with a shocked Herb Kohlhammer and two aides, walked through the commotion and boarded the big Boeing. Crew members were scurrying in every direction, caught off guard by the rapid change of events.
Air Force One, shining brightly in the sun, had been refueled and restocked immediately after landing, as always, in the event of an emergency departure.
The president, quiet and contemplative, boarded the 747 and walked to his private quarters. He sat down, removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar.
The president glanced out a window and noticed a disturbance on the ramp adjacent to the Soviet transport. He reached for his phone and called the flight deck.
“Colonel Boyd, sir,” the aircraft commander responded immediately.
“Colonel, how soon will we be ready to roll?”
“’Bout seven minutes, Mister President.”
“Okay,” the president said, looking out his window a second time. “What’s the problem with the Soviet transport?”
“No problem with the aircraft, sir. The pilots were over at the club having a vodka and they couldn’t locate them. They’ll be pounding stakes in Siberia, if they don’t get their heads lopped off.”
The president half-turned as Grant Wilkinson knocked, then entered the cabin.
“I can believe that. Sorry to have to turn the crew around so quickly.”
“That’s our job, sir. No problem,” Colonel Boyd replied.
“Thanks.” The president placed the handset down and sighed. “What’s the situation, Grant?”
“The agents, including our Kremlin mole, have eluded the Russians thus far.” The chief of staff looked forlorn and tired. “How the lash-up came about is unknown at this point, sir.”
“Grant,” the president exclaimed, “we’ve got to get it together.”
Wilkinson folded a message in his hand. “The vice president has authorized a rescue attempt, sir. The one I briefed you about. The operation using three helicopters for a night pickup.”
The president looked up. “Yes, I remember. What are the chances for success?”
Wilkinson shrugged. “I can’t say. Especially after what has transpired in the last two hours.”
“Should we call it off, Grant, under the circumstances?” the president questioned, looking very concerned.
“I don’t believe so, sir. There is something going on we don’t know about, something essential, or the operation wouldn’t have unwound so quickly.”
Wilkinson again looked at the message report, then back to the president. He was hesitant, then spoke calmly to the commander-in-chief. “Sir, the shuttle has a problem. However, the fir—”
“WHAT?” the president responded in disbelief.
“NASA has two satellites out in fine shape. The third one is slightly damaged. Apparently jammed, somehow.”
“I need a drink,” the president replied, rising to walk to the cabinet bar.
Wilkinson continued his brief. “The mission commander believes they can repair and launch the satellite. Just take a little time.”
“Okay. What’s the military posture?” the president asked, yanking a decanter of Tennessee whiskey from the teak holders.
“DEFCON-Two is being reinstated, sir. The order is being sent now. No reported incidents at the present time.”
“Good. I’m going to finish this,” the president held up a tumbler containing three fingers of Jack Daniel’s, “and take a nap.”
“Yes, sir,” Wilkinson replied, reaching for the doorknob. “I’ll wake you if anything negative develops.”
“Thanks, Grant,” the president responded as Wilkinson closed the door.
The president sat down, exhausted, disheartened. As he stared at the presidential seal on the opposite wall, he felt like an enormous failure. His eyelids sagged as he felt Air Force One begin to roll.
THE WHITE HOUSE
The Joint Chiefs, relief showing on their faces, waited while the vice president conferred with Secretary of Defense Cliff Howard.
Up-to-the-minute briefing folders had been placed on the conference table.
The vice president turned in her seat and opened her folder. “Although we have downgraded to Defense Condition-Three, prudence and logic tell me our forces need to remain ready for any contingency. Do you agree, gentlemen?”
Admiral Chambers spoke for the Joint Chiefs.
“Unequivocally, Ms. Blaylocke. We believe it is imperative, and certainly appropriate, that our military remain poised for any threat. We are cautiously optimistic at this juncture, but the continued instability has us worried.”
The vice president looked at the secretary of defense. “Cliff?”
Howard replied in a clipped manner. “The Soviet bomber groups have changed course toward Russian territory. They have elected to hold their positions approximately two hundred miles farther away from us. That’s the upside. On the negative side is the sudden departure of the new Soviet carrier Tbilisi. The ship is loaded with various strike aircraft and presents a tremendous threat to our northern Atlantic fleet.”
Howard looked at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “What bothers me most is the continued submarine threat.”
Chambers responded. “That is of the utmost concern to us too, Mister Howard. Even CINCNORAD, General Matuchek, was anxious in regard to the submarines, and he has enough other variables to contend with at the moment.”
The admiral removed a page from his folder before continuing. “We are going to keep our bombers on station, using aerial refueling, for the next few hours. The fighters will rotate fresh pilots during ground fueling.”
Chambers cleared his throat and resumed his outline. “The Navy is remaining in a high state of readiness and will be conducting around-the-clock sorties from the carriers, concentrating the ASW efforts. The Army has completed most of the troop relocation needed at this time, freeing sixty percent of our heavy airlift capability.
“The Marines are in place at strategic locations, aboard ship, in the air, and at land installations, to effect amphibious landings or secure sensitive areas quickly.”
General Ridenour, Air Force chief of staff, motioned to Chambers.
“Milt,” the admiral responded.
“One point. We have elected to keep our Stealth aircraft on the ground, camouflaged and guarded, unless they absolutely have to be launched. The technology is too advanced to take the chance of having one fall into Soviet hands.” Ridenour sat back, waiting for a response.
The room remained quiet.
“That is our status to the moment, Ms. Blaylocke,” Chambers concluded, readjusting his glasses.
“Thank you, Admiral.” Blaylocke used her thumb to rotate the petite diamond ring on her right hand. “I wish to make a suggestion in regard to countering the Soviet intimidation.”
No one spoke in the quiet room.
“I propose, gentlemen, that any further Soviet attacks be met with swift and decisive consequences, strong military retaliation in whatever form it takes.”
Cliff Howard seconded the order. “I agree, on behalf of the president and the chief of staff.”
“We appreciate your endorsement, Ms. Vice President,” Admiral Chambers said, noticing the nods of the service chiefs. “We will respond accordingly, I assure you.”
“I know you will, Admiral,” Susan Blaylocke said, turning to reach her notes. “I have been informed by Ted Corbin, minutes ago, that our agents in Moscow are not in custody. They have apparently escaped, killing an unknown number of Soviets in the process. Nothing has been verified, but Corbin believes the information is accurate.”
Blaylocke looked around the table, then added a comment. “I’ve had enough shocks today, gentlemen. This information isn’t going to serve the president well in Lajes.”
The Joint Chiefs were solemn.
Blaylocke again looked at Cliff Howard. “I believe you have some information concerning the shuttle.”
The defense secretary frowned. “I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but they are having some difficulty launching the satellites. NASA reported a—”
“Is the mission threatened?” Chambers was stunned.
“Not at the moment,” Howard said wearily. “Apparently, from what I gleaned from Doctor Hays, two satellites have been launched. The third one is jammed somehow. At any rate, an antenna on the satellite was twisted, or bent, and they will have to send one of the crew out to fix the problem.”
“Damn! What next?” General Hollingsworth blurted, frustration showing in his voice. “Sorry, ma’am.”
“No apology necessary, General. I couldn’t have said it better. Anyone else have anything?”
No one responded, their faces showing disappointment. “Then we’ll take a break and reconvene in twenty minutes.”
Blaylocke looked around the table. “Thank you, gentlemen.”
The speaker-phone next to the vice president buzzed softly. “Yes,” Blaylocke answered.
“Ms. Vice President,” the male voice said, “DEFCON-Two has been reinstated.”
COBRA FLIGHT
Major DiGennaro and his wingman, Wild Bill Parnam, had been amazed when the Soviet bomber group suddenly turned ninety degrees to the right.
The pilots, along with Hawk flight and the Leopards, had listened in relieved silence to the AWACS coordinator. The Russians were turning back and DEFCON-Three would be implemented when the order could be verified.
“Cobra and Leopard flight, return to base,” the controller ordered.
“Cobras RTB,” DiGennaro replied.
He looked over at the moonlight reflecting off Parnam’s canopy, then smiled.
“Cobras and Leopards, go tactical four. Have a nice trip.”
“Tact four, switching,” DiGennaro responded as he rapidly added power to the F-15 Eagle. He waited for the other flight to check in, then called. “Cobra is up, flight of two.”
“Roger,” the controller answered immediately. “Initial heading zero-three-zero. We’ll switch you to Gator Control shortly.”
“Cobra One,” DiGennaro replied, scanning his cockpit. Engine parameters, hydraulics, weapons systems, avionics, and navigation instruments all looked normal.
“Two,” DiGennaro radioed, “you might want to turn on your lights before someone runs over us.”
“Sorry, boss,” Parnam replied, flipping on his formation and navigation lights.
The lead pilot flew without lights, save the small, dull formation lights, so he wouldn’t blind his wingman.
“Cobras, contact Gator Control.”
“Switching,” DiGennaro replied, relieved to be so close to home base.
The two pilots, emotionally drained, were slowly winding down from the gut-wrenching tension of the previous hour.
“Gator, Cobra flight. Two Fox-Fifteens and we’re fat on fuel.”
“Roger. When you rollout, follow the wagon to refueling. Be prepared for hot-refueling and crew changes.”
“Understand hot-pumping and pilot changes.”
Twenty-five minutes later the two sleek McDonnell Douglas fighters turned off the Galena runway and fell in behind the “Follow Me” cart.
The F-15s eased to a stop, canopies raised, in front of the fueling pits. The engines would remain running while ground crew members quickly topped off the fuel tanks and checked the armament and missiles.
Both pilots glanced over in the semilight to see their replacements. They couldn’t see the pilots’ faces but knew their stances, two experienced flight leaders, including a former Thunderbird pilot.
DiGennaro was in the process of unstrapping and removing his helmet when his crew chief scrambled up the side of the cockpit.
“Major, the shit has hit the fan again!”
The crew chief was a grizzled veteran of sixteen years in the Air Force. DiGennaro knew he could take the sergeant’s word to the bank.
“Wha … I don’t understand,” DiGennaro replied, trying to remove his sweat-soaked gloves.
“The Russians turned back okay, but now they are holding in an eighty-mile-long pattern, sir. The latest skinny is we might be going back to DEF-Two,” the sergeant said breathlessly. “It’s the goddamnedest mess I ever seen, Major.”
“Thanks, Red,” DiGennaro replied, slapping the sergeant on the shoulder as he climbed over the side of the canopy. Reaching the pavement, DiGennaro turned toward the advancing pilots. Both of the fighter jocks simultaneously saluted their deputy detachment commander. DiGennaro smartly returned their snappy salutes and began unzipping his uncomfortable g-suit.
The major felt the tremendous burden of being the frontal West Coast fighter defense against the Soviet bomber groups.