COBRA FLIGHT
The two F-15 pilots had eaten a snack and rested while their fighters were refueled. Their relief pilots had returned to Flight Operations for assignment to other aircraft. Air Force Maj. Enrico DiGennaro was not about to give up his fighter if the balloon went up.
Likewise, his wingman, Capt. William “Wild Bill” Parnam, wasn’t about to leave his flight leader. American fighter pilots had an unwritten contract. Breaching flight integrity was a cardinal sin, punishable by banishment from the brotherhood.
After a quick flight line brief, the fighter jocks were airborne again.
Climbing through thirty-eight thousand feet, Cobra One checked in with the Airborne Warning and Control System aircraft.
“Pinwheel,” DiGennaro radioed, “Cobra Flight is back with you.”
“Roger, Cobra,” the AWACS controller responded. “Switch to tactical suppress, ah, tango, romeo, alpha, seven.”
DiGennaro and Parnam were surprised. The AWACS secret tactical radio code, changed on a daily basis, was used only in the event of war.
“Roger, Pinwheel,” DiGennaro answered. “Copy tango, romeo, alpha, seven.”
“Affirmative,” the controller replied sharply.
DiGennaro and Parnam checked their authenticator codes, then switched to the discreet frequency.
“Pinwheel, Cobras up your freq,” DiGennaro radioed to the orbiting control aircraft.
“Cobras, listen up!” the new controller said in an emphatic, no-nonsense command voice. “Prepare to engage hostile aircraft. Prepare to attack Soviet aircraft. CINCTAC authorization. Acknowledge!”
DiGennaro was momentarily taken aback. His mind raced, trying to formulate a logical explanation for the startling order. Attack the Russians?
“Acknowledge, Cobras!” The AWACS controller was adamant.
“One, copy,” DiGennaro absently responded, distracted by the sudden turn of events.
“Dash Two with a copy,” Parnam said in a questioning voice.
The AWACS controller waited three seconds, then radioed further instructions to the F-15 pilots. “Cobras, come left zero-seven-zero, climb to angels four-seven. This is for real, boys. Play time is over.”
“Roger,” DiGennaro acknowledged for both pilots. He quickly glanced at Parnam’s F-15, then mentally prepared himself for aerial combat with the Russians.
“Report weapons hot,” the controller ordered. “You have bogies twelve o’clock for sixty nautical. You are cleared to engage the Soviet aircraft. Switch to Strike—my code eight.”
“Lead is hotel, switching Strike,” DiGennaro responded, checking his armament panel and radio switches.
“Two’s hot,” Parnam reported in a clipped manner, adrenaline surging through his body.
The AWACS combat controller keyed his microphone in answer. “Good hunting, Cobras.”
“You bet,” DiGennaro replied. “Where are the other flights?” DiGennaro could hear a lot of chatter on the radio.
The AWACS controller hesitated before responding. “Eleven Fifteens are closing from your ten o’clock, seventy out, and, we’ve got eight Tomcats and six Hornets about to intercept the tail end of the Soviet group, the same formation you are engaging.”
“We’ll be damned lucky if we don’t shoot each other down,” DiGennaro replied sarcastically, knowing the attack would be like a nighttime figure eight destruction derby.
DiGennaro again looked over at Parnam’s Eagle. “Cobra Two, let’s spread out. We’re going for the bombers first.”
“Roger, lead.”
The two F-15s slashed through the cold night sky, poised to assault the Soviet bomber group in less than three minutes. Both pilots remained silent, rehearsing the tactics they would use in the melee.
Suddenly two bright lights flashed off to the right, followed by a number of fiery red explosions.
“Fight’s on!” radioed one of the Navy Tomcat pilots.
The aircraft radios erupted like the fast-paced chatter of a dozen horse race announcers talking at the same time.
Total confusion reigned as the Arctic night turned a reddish yellow, reminding Parnam of a Fourth of July fireworks display. Only something was different. The rockets were not going upward, they were traveling horizontally.
DiGennaro and Parnam saw the lead group of Blackjack bombers at almost the same instant. Both pilots fired two AIM-7M Sparrow missiles and then pulled straight up, continuing over on their backs to prepare for another missile attack. Coming down the backside of the loop, DiGennaro and Parnam could see the aerial destruction mushrooming.
“Cobra One is going for the ‘Jack’ pulling up!” DiGennaro yelled to his wingman, hoping Parnam could hear him over the congested radios.
The two McDonnell Douglas F-15s bottomed out of the loop and almost collided with a MiG-29. DiGennaro yanked the fighter’s nose up, tracked the Blackjack for three seconds, then fired two AIM-9M Sidewinder missiles.
“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” DiGennaro said to himself, sucking oxygen in the high-G turn, “this is like kicking a gunnysack full of wildcats.”
DiGennaro rolled wings level, switched to guns, and placed the pipper on the Backfire bomber. A split second before he squeezed the firing button the Russian aircraft disintegrated in an arc of falling fire. The Navy F-18 that had bagged the Russian pulled straight into the vertical and disappeared.
The dully lighted sky was a chaotic jumble of aircraft traveling in every imaginable direction, some at supersonic speeds.
DiGennaro tried to block out the radio garble. He had already heard two calls of “Mayday,” and three “Eject.” DiGennaro eased the nose up, then rolled the Eagle to give himself a better view of the Soviet bombers. They were spread wide, some turning back toward their bases. The Soviet bomber group had been decimated.
DiGennaro found his next target, another Backfire, and wrapped the F–15 into a face-sagging 7½–G turn. Two MiG–29s and a Tomcat flashed in front of DiGennaro, causing him to yank the throttles to idle and deploy the speed brake for an instant to avoid a collision.
Streaks of red lightning crisscrossed the night sky in every direction as DiGennaro slammed the throttles forward again and retracted the speed brake. The powerful Pratt and Whitney F100 turbofans, blazing in afterburner, thrust the air-superiority fighter beyond five hundred miles an hour as DiGennaro set up a shot. He gently eased the pipper slightly ahead of the Backfire’s nose, then squeezed the trigger and rudder-walked the F-15’s cannon down the Russian’s fuselage.
A stream of molten lead erupted from the M61 cannon mounted in the starboard wing-root. DiGennaro held the trigger down for two seconds, spewing over one hundred rounds a second into the fast-approaching bomber.
“Come on,” DiGennaro said, triggering another two-second burst.
The Russian Backfire seemed to come apart in slow motion. First the left wing folded upward, then the nose dropped downward, followed by a roll to the left.
DiGennaro was watching the bomber’s descent when he felt the Eagle shudder. He checked his instruments and warning lights. Nothing appeared wrong.
Glancing over his left shoulder, DiGennaro saw the cause of the vibration—a MiG was spraying cannon fire into the aft fuselage of his F-15.
“Mother of …” DiGennaro groaned under the snap 8-G corkscrewing maneuver. He violently unloaded the F-15, going for speed and separation, then snatched the stick back and slammed it hard to the left.
“Pull … pull, burners lit, more G,” DiGennaro said to himself, straining to breathe. His chest felt crushed from the high-G loads. He looked back to the left, then slapped the stick hard to the right, snap-rolling the agile fighter into a tight turn to the right. “Where … is … that … sonofabitch?”
DiGennaro saw the MiG at the precise instant the Eagle’s canopy exploded.
The stunned pilot, his plane buffeting in the cold hurricaneforce wind, pulled the throttles to idle, trying to slow the F-15 in preparation for an ejection. The instrument panel was a dark blur of flickering warning lights.
DiGennaro looked to his right as the Fulcrum shot by, burners lit, going supersonic. He tried desperately to bring the Eagle’s nose around for a cannon shot at the MiG. But something was wrong, terribly wrong.
The F-15 wouldn’t respond. DiGennaro tried harder to grasp the control stick as the fighter slowly rolled to the left. His right hand felt completely numb and he couldn’t grip the stick. DiGennaro looked down, then recoiled in shock.
His right hand was almost severed, hanging limp from his wrist. DiGennaro moaned, then grasped the stick with his left hand. Feeling light-headed, he released the stick and raised his hand to his oxygen mask. It was secure, but he couldn’t breathe. He ran his hand down the connecting hose and discovered the problem. The hose had been ripped apart. He also felt the moistness of his chest wound.
DiGennaro, in desperation, shoved the nose over in a futile attempt to reach a lower altitude where he wouldn’t need the life-sustaining oxygen. He watched the altimeter rapidly unwind through thirty-two thousand feet, then drifted into unconsciousness.
The gallant fighter pilot never knew when his F-15 slammed into the dark, cold water.
Capt. Bill Parnam was already sinking to the bottom of the Bering Sea. He had rammed head-on into a Navy F-18 while trying to evade the MiG that had downed his flight leader.
USS DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER
Rear Adm. Donald S. G. McKenna, task force commander, accompanied by Capt. Greg Linnemeyer, walked into the ship’s closed circuit television station.
“Greg,” McKenna said under his breath, “this is it. I never thought we would take the plunge.”
“I have been thinking the same thing, sir,” Linnemeyer answered with a sadness in his voice.
Station technicians snapped to attention as McKenna and Linnemeyer, removing their covers, stepped over the hatch combing and into the broadcasting compartment.
“As you were,” McKenna said in a friendly tone. “Are we ready to go on the air?”
“Yes, sir,” the chief petty officer in charge of the studio replied. “Just need to alert the decks, Admiral.”
McKenna nodded and stepped behind the podium adorned with the ship’s seal. His features looked grim through the eye of the television camera.
The public address system came to life. “The task force commander is prepared to speak to the crew. Stand by.”
“This is Admiral McKenna. There have been many rumors filtering through the ship the past few minutes. I am here to clarify the situation as we know it at this time.”
McKenna waited for the noise to subside before he spoke again. “We are preparing, as I speak, to launch conventional and nuclear strikes against the Soviet Union. These strikes will take place in less than forty-one minutes.”
A hushed foreboding embraced the entire ship as all activity came to an abrupt halt.
“We are faced,” McKenna paused, “with a tremendous responsibility. Each of us.” McKenna cleared his throat, swallowing hard. “A responsibility to our country, to our families, and to the United States Navy.”
McKenna waited a moment before continuing. “But most importantly, men, is our responsibility to each other.”
McKenna looked at Linnemeyer, then back to the camera. “I know each and every one of you will do your job well. Good luck, and may God be with us.”
The Admiral stepped to the side, motioning for Linnemeyer to join him. “Now, your commanding officer, Captain Linnemeyer, will fill you in on the details.”
Greg Linnemeyer stepped to the podium as the sound of jet engines being started reverberated through the huge supercarrier.
THE WHITE HOUSE
The president walked into the War Room and spoke to his chief of staff. “One thing, Grant.”
“Yes, sir,” Wilkinson replied, staring at the lighted situation display.
“What if we told the Soviets that the Kremlin operative is safe and we know about Zhilinkhov’s plan?” The president continued without waiting for Wilkinson to answer. “That we are prepared to retaliate?”
Wilkinson turned toward the president. “They’ll back off, tell the world our accusation is insane, wait until we eventually relax, then destroy us.”
After seeing the pained look on the president’s face, Wilkinson spoke more softly. “Sir, it’s only a matter of time. The difference is measured in minutes, Mister President, between annihilation and survival. We’re better off if Zhilinkhov does believe our Kremlin operative is dead.”
“I know you’re right, Grant,” the president said in frustration. “I’m having a very difficult time absorbing this situation. You must understand.”
“Sir,” Wilkinson said in a different, serious vein, “I share your grief. I’m blocking my feelings the best I can in order to make the correct decisions.”
The president didn’t respond as the rest of the staff, except Susan Blaylocke, joined the two men. The vice president, acting on instructions from her boss, was en route to join Air Force Chief of Staff, General Ridenour, in the 747 “Looking Glass” command post.
The big Boeing was on final approach to Andrews Air Force Base as the president sat down in the War Room. Blaylocke, aboard Marine Two, would land next to the 747 when it rolled to a stop on the runway. She would be airborne in the flying command post in less than five minutes.
“Okay, Admiral,” the president said in a weary voice, “the strike goes in fourteen minutes. Tell me, again, what our priorities will be.”
“Yes, sir,” Chambers replied, appearing pale and strained. The JCS chairman stepped forward to the lighted display map. “We’re going to preempt the biggest weapons first.” Chambers pointed to various Russian missile sites deployed west of the Ural Mountains.
“We’re going after the SS-20s here,” Chambers said, tapping each site with his pointer, “at Pervomaysk, Yedrova, Yurya, Verkhnyaya, and the Caspian Sea area.”
A phone, chiming softly, interrupted the brief. Wilkinson picked up the receiver, listened for a moment, then replied quietly. The chief of staff placed the receiver down and swiveled around to face the president. “The vice president is airborne, sir.”
“Very well,” the president said, staring blankly at the lighted display map of the Soviet Union. “Please continue, Admiral.”
Chambers pushed a button on his hand-held control unit, then raised his pointer again.
“We’ve got over fifty percent of their submarines, including the big boomers, under our thumb right now,” Chambers said, pointing to isolated areas in the Bering Sea, Pacific, Atlantic, and Arctic Oceans.
“We will dispatch them,” Chambers looked at the twenty-four-hour clock, “in eleven minutes, sir.”
The phone chimed again. Wilkinson raised the receiver, nodded to Chambers, then spoke to the president.
“All commands report ready and standing by, sir.” Wilkinson darted a look at Cliff Howard before speaking to the president again. “Mister President, the fighters have engaged the Soviet bombers over the Bering Sea.”
“Okay,” the president replied, wiping perspiration from his hair line. He couldn’t take his eyes off the clock as it slowly ticked off the final minutes to Armageddon.
Wilkinson listened to further information, then gently replaced the receiver in its cradle. “Four missile sites—two at Grand Forks, one at Malmstrom, and one at Whiteman—have malfunctions. They’ll be unable to launch, sir.”
The grieving president, holding his head in his hands, didn’t respond.
“Won’t make any difference,” Marine General Hollingsworth said, standing to stretch taut muscles. “We’ve got triple overkill built into every target.”
USS DWIGHTD. EISENHOWER
Captain Greg Linnemeyer stepped into PRI-FLY in time to watch the first of eight A-6F Intruders hurtle down the forward two catapults. The Grumman all-weather attack aircraft were laden with conventional bombs, bound for Soviet Air Defense radar installations.
Admiral McKenna entered the ship’s control tower as the F-14s prepared to launch.
“Attention on deck,” the senior petty officer said in a loud voice.
“As you were,” McKenna replied, then turned to Linnemeyer. “We’re already in the soup, I’m afraid. I just received word that Air Force and Navy fighters shot down at least twenty Russian bombers, fighters, and tankers over the Bering Sea.”
Linnemeyer looked shocked. “How did we get into this position so quickly?”
“I wish I could give you an answer, Greg. It’s too soon for an accurate account of what preceded this tragedy.”
Linnemeyer turned slightly to catch an F-14 rushing down the number one catapult. The Tomcat left the end of the deck, sank precariously low to the water, then began to climb. The heavy fighter, afterburners howling, had kicked spray off the water.
“I know you’re right, sir,” the CO said sadly. “What bothers me at the moment isn’t global. It’s knowing half these kids won’t be returning to this deck … ever.”
ELLSWORTH AIR FORCE BASE, South Dakota
The Minuteman II nuclear missile silo felt like a cold burial vault to Capt. Kevin Brostrom. He glanced over at his friend and fellow launch officer, 1st Lt. Teresa Kay Langenello.
“It’s authenticated and cleared,” Brostrom said in a shaky voice. “Stand by to insert keys.”
Langenello looked pale, almost chalky white. She paused a moment, reached into her breast pocket, extracted two pills, then swallowed both without benefit of liquid. The prescription tranquilizers would help her face the realities of the next few minutes. She was not the only launch officer who had the prescription.
The two officers, members of the 44th Strategic Missile Wing, had practiced this situation hundreds of times. They had grown accustomed to believing a real launch order would never happen. Their minds couldn’t cope with the destruction they were about to unleash.
“Insert keys,” Brostrom said in a weak voice. “Stand by to launch on command.”
Langenello responded to the order, crossed herself, then began praying quietly.
WHITE HOUSE WAR ROOM
“Three minutes, Mister President,” Wilkinson reported in a halting, dry voice.
The president didn’t respond, staring morosely at the top of the table. He hadn’t said a word, or looked up, for over two minutes. The commander-in-chief of the United States appeared to be in a trance.
General Hollingsworth slowly turned his head, meeting the looks of General Vandermeer and Admiral Grabow, then glanced at Admiral Chambers, his immediate boss. “Steady,” was the only word out of the Marine’s mouth.
All eyes turned to the clock. Two minutes, forty seconds before the biggest tragedy in the history of mankind would begin.
The president choked, then suppressed a sob. “God, forgive me. I have no other choice. The choice … was made for me.…”
Wilkinson quickly moved to the side of the president. “Sir, you must rem—”
“Do you understand, God?” the president interrupted. “Oh, God, help us…. Oh, Lord, I’m sorry….”
Wilkinson took the president by the arm, not saying a word. He knew his friend and boss, the leader of a free America, was losing his grasp. He was breaking down under the strain of guilt.
“Launch the strike,” the president said weakly, collapsing in his chair. His mind, reeling in a haze, refused to comprehend the finality of his unprecedented command.
The shock and trauma of the situation engulfed the room as the president slumped, resting his face on the polished table.
Cliff Howard made the first move to comfort him. The rest of the staff stared at each other with fixed looks, slowly realizing the end—the final act—was irreversible.
The president, barely able to walk, was led out of the War Room to a heavily fortified underground bomb shelter. His staff, with the exception of the Joint Chiefs, accompanied him to the reinforced quarters.
As the entourage reached the bunker area, an aide, out of breath, rushed down the corridor.
“Yes, Colonel,” Wilkinson said, holding the shaking president by the arm.
“Sir,” the senior White House aide said breathlessly, “Moscow is on the hot line!”
“What?” Howard replied, shock registering on his face. “Couldn’t be this soon.”
The aide ignored Howard as he addressed the commander-in-chief. He could see the president was pale, but he was clearly in charge of the White House.
“Sir, the Soviet general secretary is dead! The message said the acting general secretary implores us to downgrade our alert status. They are de-escalating their military posture at this time. They want to speak with the president—with you, sir—immediately!”
The news stunned the president and his staff. The gravity of their blunder was only beginning to register in their minds. No one spoke as they stared, transfixed, at the breathless aide.
“Zhilinkhov passed away about ten minutes ago, and the acting secretary wants—”
“Oh, Christ in Heaven!” Wilkinson exploded. “The chiefs don’t know!”
Wilkinson raced down the hallway, almost falling as he rounded the corner leading to the War Room. The short distance seemed like miles to the panicked man.
WAR ROOM
General Hollingsworth, Marine Corps commandant, looked at the wall-mounted twenty-four-hour clock, then picked up the red phone. “Delta One Strike. I repeat, Delta One Strike. Presidential authority. Launch all missiles. Launch all missiles. Condition One Sierra. I repeat, Condition One Sierra. Code Able.”
Hollingsworth caught the eye of Admiral Chambers, who nodded yes.
“Authentication,” Hollingsworth continued, “Baker, Tango, Victor, one, niner—”
“STOP, GODDAMNIT,” Wilkinson shouted, gesturing wildly with his arms. “Cancel the order. Cancel the strike!”
Hollingsworth hesitated a fraction of a second, uncomprehending.
“NOW,” Wilkinson yelled. “Cancel the goddamn strike!”
“Cancel, cancel,” Hollingsworth shouted into the phone as the other chiefs stared in shocked relief.
“Cancel the strike. All commands reply immediately. Repeat. Cancel the strike, per presidential order.”