Chains of Command

by Dale Brown

  “Thunder, your bandits are at five o’clock, fifteen miles high, converging rapidly, additional bandits at seven o’clock, twelve miles, recommend … ‘Apex,’ Thunder, Apex, seven o’clock, eleven miles.”

  Fogelman was practically sitting backwards in his seat searching visually for the missiles. He then set the threat scope to IR, which used a heat-seeking sensor atop the vertical stabilizer to scan for heat sources behind them. “I don’t see them, Becky,” he said. “Nothing on the—”

  Just then they got a MISSILE LAUNCH light on their instrument panel and a warning tone—the threat scope had picked up another Russian fighter launching missiles and automatically ejected both chaff and heat-seeking decoy flares. Furness shoved power to zone 5 afterburner, rolled into a 90-degree left bank, pulled on the control stick until the stall-warning horn blared, and released the back pressure on the stick. As soon as she did so, there was a terrific explosion less than one hundred feet from their right wingtip.

  “Chaff and flares!” Furness shouted. Fogelman ejected more chaff and flares, and Furness rolled into a hard right turn. She had to sweep the wings forward to 54 degrees to keep from stalling the Vampire from all the hard turning.

  “Thunder, threats at six o’clock, five miles, suggest you extend left, chicks at ten o’clock, thirty miles … threats now at seven o’clock, four miles high, feet dry in two minutes, continue to burner extend … threat at six o’clock … Atoll, Thunder, Atoll!” At the same time as the “Atoll” call, which was a warning against a suspected enemy heat-seeking-missile launch, the MISSILE LAUNCH light illuminated once again …

  … but this time the flare ejector on the left side of the Vampire jammed, so flares ejected only out of the right dispenser. While Fogelman ejected chaff, Furness started a hard 5-G right break—right into one of the Russian AA-11 missiles. The AA-11’s 33-pound warhead exploded between the right engine nacelle and the right cockpit canopy, nearly ripping the right engine and wing completely off the Vampire.

  It was Rebecca Furness who initiated the ejection sequence, squeezing and pulling the yellow-and-black-striped handle by her right knee. The action fired several pyrotechnic initiators that tightened their shoulder harnesses and set off a guillotine-shaped linear charge all around the cockpit, including the wing gloves, from behind their seats to forward of the instrument panel at the forward tip of the long, slanted windscreen. A split-second later a powerful rocket motor blasted the cockpit capsule free of the stricken aircraft fuselage, with a smaller stabilizer rocket ensuring that the capsule did not pitch over backwards in the jet wash. The force of the primary rocket motor was like being hit in the back by a car going twenty miles an hour—not enough to kill, but guaranteed to make you remember it for the rest of your life.

  The primary rocket motor burned for less than five seconds, but it was powerful enough to propel the capsule more than two hundred feet higher than the stricken aircraft. After motor burnout, accelerometers computed when the capsule had decelerated out of Mach speed, and a small pilot parachute and two flaps underneath the capsule “wings” were deployed to help the capsule stabilize. Almost at the top of its parabolic arc, the three main thirty-foot-diameter parachutes deployed. Twelve seconds after pulling the ejection handle, the Vampire capsule was under three good parachutes.

  “Mark, you all right? Mark … ?”

  “I’m here,” Fogelman replied weakly. “Over here.”

  “I hope you’re just trying to be funny, nav.”

  But there was no more time to talk. Four large air bladders—a large mattress-shaped impact-attenuation bag under the capsule, two large pillow-shaped flotation bags under the rear “wing” of the capsule, a mushroom-shaped anticapsize bag behind the pilot’s canopy, and a large pillow-shaped righting bag that covered the navigator’s canopy—automatically deployed a few seconds later, just before the capsule hit the icy waters of the Black Sea. The gusty north winds kept the parachute inflated for a few seconds after hitting the water, and the capsule was dragged along the sea for a few dozen yards before flipping upside down.

  The cockpit was completely dark, and the sudden pitchover completely confused Furness. She was upside down in her seat, hanging from her shoulder and crotch straps, with ocean sounds all around her—it felt as if she were sinking to the bottom like a rock. The capsule was supposed to be watertight and could even keep water out if completely submerged, but that was only if the glass or structure hadn’t been damaged. What if the thirty-year-old capsule had split apart or the missile had fractured it? What if the pressure of the seawater was finding some tiny weakness in the canopy and was about to break it wide open?

  Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic, she told herself. She unbuckled her oxygen mask, then detached it completely and stuffed it in the storage space beside her seat. There was no water collecting on the canopy over her head, only checklists, papers, pencils, and fear—fear was collecting in that cockpit faster than anything else.

  She heard a moan—was that from herself or from Mark?—and she reached over to him. “Mark, you all right?”

  “I think I broke my face again,” Fogelman said. He was also hanging in his straps, but his arms were hanging down onto the canopy. She reached for his oxygen mask—it was already broken free of his helmet. She found blood coming from his nostrils, but it was nothing serious. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Are we still upside down? I can’t tell right now.”

  “Just relax,” Furness said. “We’ll turn upright in a minute or two.”

  The large pillow-shaped flotation bag on the right side of the capsule was supposed to automatically right the capsule if it was inverted—the sinking parachutes must be holding it under. On the center overhead beam in the cockpit were four yellow handles. The easy way to remember which handle did which was the “cut-cut, float-float” method—starting from the top, the handles cut the capsule free of the aircraft, cut the parachute risers, deployed the parachute, and deployed the flotation bags. Furness pulled the capsule-severance handle, which unguarded the parachute riser-release handle, pulled the second handle, and a few minutes later, aided by the surging action of the icy-cold Black Sea, the capsule rolled to the left and flipped upright.

  Both crewmembers sat in the darkness of the Vampire capsule for several minutes, not speaking and not moving. Both knew how lucky they were to be alive.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The Oval Office, One Hour Later, Eastern Time

  Even after two years in office, this was the first time the President had picked it up. In this day of high-speed satellite communications, it was an anachronism, sure, almost a joke—but the Hot Line, the direct line between the White House and the Kremlin, was still in use. Upgraded, it was going to be used right now. “This is the President of the United States. To whom am I speaking?”

  “This is President Vitaly Velichko,” the Russian president responded. “How are you this evening, sir?” The tone of voice was a bit strained—who wasn’t these days?—but it sounded friendly enough. Velichko’s English was very good—although the Russian president was an avowed Communist, part of the new right-wing politicians that wanted to return Russia to some semblance of its greatness of the Soviet Union, he was also well educated and rather cosmopolitan.

  “I’m fine, Mr. President. I called because—”

  The Hot Line was a satellite communications system, so there was no landline delay in their voices. “I am glad you are fine, Mr. President,” Velichko said, his voice seething. “I hope you are sane and intelligent as well. If you are, you will withdraw your bomber forces from Turkey, return your nuclear bombers and submarine-based missiles to normal alert, and stop interfering in affairs between Commonwealth allies that do not concern you. Otherwise, Mr. President, I may unfortunately see you roast in hell.”

  And the line went dead.

  “Well, so much for that,” the President said wearily. “Talking to that asshole is like talking
to a brick wall. Christ, why couldn’t people have listened when I wanted to prop up Yeltsin? They wouldn’t listen to me, they wouldn’t listen to former President Nixon when he warned us about this two years ago. Then our NATO allies gave Boris diddlysquat in aid. Now, look at what we’ve got. Shit—they can’t say I didn’t tell them so.”

  His advisers, and the First Lady, were gathered around the old Jack Kennedy desk, nodding in sympathy. They had certainly wanted more funds for aiding Yeltsin, but they’d seen how the country balked, claiming America needed to take care of its own first. And then when the Russian Congress started chopping away at Yeltsin’s powers, bit by bit, the President knew it was a lost cause. Yeltsin’s days had been numbered. And it could have been prevented.

  A sharp pain shot through the southerner’s stomach—his newfound ulcer was acting up—and continued straight up to his temples. The entire evening was grinding him down, something that usually happened only when his wife was being difficult. His entire adult life was in politics. Southern politics—down-and-dirty, rough-and-tumble, the worst kind. Southern politicians in an election were about as nice as starving junkyard pit bulls. It was constant work, constant attention to every detail, constant pressure, just to stay in office. He had never been in the military, but twenty years in public service was, he had always thought, like being in the military. It was a way of life, not just a job.

  But being the President of the United States was like politics and military service combined, only amplified a thousand times.

  All day long there had been a constant procession of people telling him he was wrong, and that exacerbated the ulcer even more. First he heard it from the Joint Chiefs of Staff—all of them. They all had plans on what to do, but one thing was for certain: they wanted more. No more bit-by-bit military expeditions—the Joint Chiefs wanted a Desert Storm-type mobilization and deployment. Nothing else would be acceptable. Orchestrated by President George Bush, the 1991 war with Iraq was fought with massive overwhelming strength, and it was over in one hundred days—never mind that they had unlimited fuel, six months to prepare, a third-rate opponent, and it had cost U.S. taxpayers sixty billion dollars. Led by the President, the Islamic Wars of 1993 were fought with units and weapons brought into the theater over a period of several months, and it lasted almost a year—same result, same casualty rate, but it cost only twenty billion. The Yugoslavian question had been stalemated for years until Germany led large numbers of NATO forces into that country, and the peace had lasted for almost a year now. That one cost the U.S. virtually nothing—except its leadership role in Europe, ceded over to a strong, reunified Germany.

  Next came the senior senators and representatives, the Congressional “leadership.” Most advocated caution. But they also liked it when the President and General Freeman from the Pentagon briefed them on the multinational skirmish in the Black Sea that had just taken place, which netted two Russian destroyers, a frigate, a guided-missile cruiser, an aircraft cruiser, and a Russian AWACS radar plane. Although they had lost two American planes—and the Ukrainians and Turks had lost none—the payback for the attack on the Turkish ships and the gratitude of the Turkish government for the RF-111Gs’ action was a tremendous boost to everyone’s spirits, and they were asking the President for more. Perhaps another aircraft carrier in the eastern Mediterranean, perhaps two more. Two hundred thousand troops to be sent to Europe—but not any closer than Belgium or Norway. F-15E Strike Eagle and F-16C Falcon bombers deployed to England, but none to Germany, and perhaps more F-111s deployed to Turkey. They loved the F-111, the Turks said. America was retiring and boneyarding all the F-111 Aardvarks anyway—why not sell them to Turkey?

  Now he was just finishing up with the third group: the political advisers and media consultants from the President’s party. “Economic sanctions of course,” the party chairman was saying. “Sends a strong message, lots of feedback in the news, fairly safe, lots of play.”

  “But if the leadership is so rabid over the apparent success of the air attacks against those Russian ships, why not go for it?” a media type said, tipping his mug of coffee to the First Lady, who gave him a disdainful glare in return. “You hit the media with strong leadership, bold decisions, decisive actions, all designed to look good to the voters during the upcoming election year. This proves what you’ve been saying all along, Mr. President—limited-action military responses can be successful.”

  “We lost two RF-111G aircraft in that attack,” General Freeman interjected. “That probably sounds like a trivial number to you—”

  “Hey, General, don’t go putting words in my mouth,” the media hack said. “I’m sorry for what happened. But to me, the loss was pretty small and the results were pretty dramatic.”

  “The unit we sent over lost two of its twenty-four crewmembers and one-sixth of their aircraft in one night, dammit!” Freeman thundered. “The Russians figured out what was going on almost immediately and shut down their radars, which makes antiradar weapons completely ineffective.”

  “We can replace the aircraft and crewmembers, General,” the party chairman said. “Those men knew—”

  “And women,” Freeman interjected.

  Freeman’s comment froze the party chairman in midsentence—he had completely forgotten women were involved in the conflict. “One of the crewmembers lost was a woman … ?”

  “I briefed you ten minutes ago, sir, that the pilot on one of the planes shot down was First Lieutenant Paula Norton.” He watched the chairman’s eyes grow wide—everyone had heard of Paula Norton. “She was practically a one-person recruiting operation for the Air Force Reserves. Your son probably has a poster of her in his room.”

  “Let’s stick with the subject, which is what to do about any further Russian aggression.” The President sighed, dipping into a bag of Fritos sitting next to a glass of Coke.

  “Excuse me, sir, but the question is not what to do about further Russian aggression,” Freeman said. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he was going to be burning a very big bridge. “We need to discuss, uh, leadership of this crisis. Mr. President, what do you want to do about this?”

  “I think the President’s views are clear on this subject, General,” the First Lady interjected, glaring at Freeman. “The President wants the Russians to stop making war on former Soviet republics and stop threatening our allies.”

  “I know that, ma’am. My thought is, we need to formulate a plan. We need to establish thresholds of action. We need to build consensus and a sense of purpose. What we’ve done so far is symbolic and reactive—we’re responding after something happens instead of anticipating and planning what may happen, and what we’ll do about it if it happens.”

  “Well, how in the hell are we supposed to do that, General?” the President mumbled, the frustration obvious in his voice. “Who would’ve expected the Russians to invade a fellow CIS member—that’s like America invading Canada or England, for God’s sake! And who would’ve known they’d use nuclear weapons?” Little bits of Fritos were flying out of his mouth onto the desk.

  “We have some of the best minds in the world working for you in the Pentagon, in the State Department, and right here in the White House,” Freeman responded. “We can give you our estimate of what we think the Russians will do next. But it’s a very broad list, so our planned response will be sweeping.”

  “Including mobilizing and deploying hundreds of thousands of troops, I suppose,” the First Lady interjected, picking lint off her pants suit.

  “I submit, ma’am, that the Russians’ course of action, especially their use of low-yield nuclear weapons, means we need to prepare for an equal or greater military response and hope that we can solve this with a peaceful response,” Freeman answered. “The Russians set the precedent here, and I haven’t seen any sign of letting up. We have little choice but to prepare for an escalation of hostilities—and work like hell to avoid them.”

  The phone on the President’s desk rang. “Yes … ? Okay, j
ust for a minute.” The President’s physician entered the Oval Office, shook his head in obvious disapproval, and had the President use a hand-held finger-cuff device to measure his blood pressure and pulse.

  “You look like hell, Mr. President.” He clucked. “How about calling it a night early—say, before three A.M. this time? And lay off all this junk food.”

  “Very funny,” the President drawled. The doctor had the President work the device three times to make sure the readings were correct. He was about to take a seat to chat with his patient, but the President said, “Just leave me a full bottle of Tagamets. We’ve got work to do.” The doctor thought about checking up on the First Lady, but she warned him off with a cold stare and he quickly departed. She could see how tired and upset her husband was getting, so she ordered all of the politicos to leave as well.

  “All right, Philip,” the President said to General Freeman, after everyone but the Vice President, Freeman, Scheer, Grimm, and Lifter had departed, “I’m listening. Give me your best guess as to what’s going to happen next.”

  “The Russians will retaliate,” Freeman said firmly. “A massive but centralized attack, someplace that will punish the Ukrainians for their attacks and possibly the Turks and us for our role in helping them. My staff’s guess is Kiev, the capital of the Ukraine. Secondary target would be Kayseri, where the Russians know we’ve got most of the Ukrainians based—except now we’ve dispersed both the American and Ukrainian aircraft to other bases in Turkey in anticipation of an attack, and we’re getting the Patriot systems set up as fast as we can.

  “The most likely alternate targets: Golcuk, the Turkish industrial and naval center; Istanbul, the historical and cultural center of Turkey and strategically vital; or Ankara, the capital itself. My staff feels the Russians will not restrict themselves to military targets but will expand their target list to include command and control, industrial centers, and communications hubs.”