the Sum Of All Fears (1991)

by Tom - Jack Ryan 05 Clancy

  "Nothing much, skipper."

  "Okay, we're on station. Let's orbit and searchlight around." Jackson turned his aircraft into a shallow right turn, with Sanchez in close formation.

  The Hawkeye spotted them first. They were almost directly under Jackson and his two Tomcats, and out of the detection cone of their radars for the moment.

  "Stetson, this is Falcon-Two, we have four bogies on the deck, bearing two-eight-one, one hundred miles out." The reference was for TR's position.

  "IFF?"

  "Negative, their speed is four hundred, altitude seven hundred, course one-three-five."

  "Amplify," the AWO said.

  "They're in a loose finger-four, Stetson," the Hawkeye controller said. "Estimate we have tactical fighters here."

  "I got something," Shredder reported to Jackson a moment later. "On the deck, looks like two--no, four aircraft, heading southeast."

  "Whose?"

  "Not ours."

  In TR's combat information center, no one as yet had a clue what was going on, but the group intelligence staff was doing its best to find out. What they had learned to this point was that most satellite news channels seemed to be down, though all military satellite links were up and running. A further electronic sweep of the satellite spectrum showed that a lot of video circuits were unaccountably inactive, as were the satellite phone links. So addicted were the communications people to the high-tech channels, that it required the services of a third-class radioman to suggest sweeping shortwave bands. The first they found was BBC. The news flash was recorded and raced into CIC. The voice spoke with the quiet assurance that the British Broadcasting Corporation was known for:

  "Reuters reports a nuclear detonation in the Central United States. The Denver, Coloraydo"--the Brits have trouble pronouncing some American state names--"television station, KOLD, broadcast via satellite a picture of a mushroom cloud over Denver, along with a voice report of a massive explosion. Station KOLD is now off the air, and attempts to reach Denver by telephone have not yet been successful. There has as yet been no official comment whatever on this incident."

  "Holy Christ," someone said for all of them. Captain Richards looked around the room at his staff.

  "Well, now we know why we're at DEFCON-TWO. Let's get some more fighters up. F-18s forward of us, -14s aft. I want four A-6s loaded with B-61s and briefed on SIOP targets. One squadron of-18s loaded with antiship missiles, and start planning an Alpha Strike on the Kuznetzov battle group."

  "Captain," a talker called. "Falcon reports four inbound tactical aircraft."

  Richards had only to turn around to see the main tactical display, a radarscope fully three feet across. The four new contacts showed up as inverted V-shapes with course vectors. Closest point of approach was less than twenty miles, easily within range of air-to-surface missiles.

  "Have Spade ID those bandits right now!"

  "... close and identify," was the order from the Hawkeye control aircraft.

  "Roger," Jackson acknowledged. "Bud, go loose."

  "Roger." Commander Sanchez eased his stick to the left to open the distance between his fighter and Jackson's. Called the "Loose Deuce," the formation enabled the aircraft to be mutually supporting and also impossible to attack simultaneously. As he split off, both aircraft tipped down and dove at full dry power. In a few seconds they were through Mach-One.

  "Boresighted," Shredder told his driver. "I'm activating the TV system."

  The Tomcat was built with a simple identification device. It was a television camera with a ten-power telescopic lens that worked equally well in daylight and darkness. Lieutenant Walters was able to slave the TV into the radar system, and in a few seconds he had four dots that grew rapidly as the Tomcats overtook them. "Twin rudder configuration."

  "Falcon, this is Spade. Inform Stick we have visual but no ID, and we are closing."

  Major Pyotr Arabov was no tenser than usual. An instructor pilot, he was teaching three Libyans the intricacies of night overwater navigation. They had turned over the Italian island of Pantelleria thirty minutes earlier, and were now inbound for Tripoli and home. Formation flying at night was difficult for the three Libyans, though each had over three hundred hours in type, and overwater flying was the most dangerous of all. Fortunately they had picked a good night for it. The star-filled sky gave them a good horizon reference. Better to learn the easy way first, Arabov thought, and at this altitude. A true tactical profile, at one hundred meters and higher speed on a cloudy night could be exceedingly dangerous. He was not any more impressed with the airmanship of these Libyans than the U.S. Navy had been on several occasions, but they did seem willing to learn, and that was something. Besides, their oil-rich country, having learned its own lessons from the Iraqis, had decided that if it were to have an air force at all, it had better have a properly trained one. That meant the Soviet Union could sell a lot more of its MiG-29s, despite the fact that sales in the Israel area were now severely curtailed. It also meant that Major Arabov was being paid partly in hard currency.

  The instructor pilot looked left and right to see that the formation was--well, not exactly tight, but close enough. The aircraft were behaving sluggishly with two fuel tanks under each wing. Each fuel tank had stabilizing fins, and looked rather like bombs, actually.

  "They're carrying something, skipper. MiG-29s, for sure."

  "Right." Jackson checked the display himself, then keyed his radio. "Stick, this is Spade, over."

  "Go ahead." The digital radio circuit allowed Jackson to recognize Captain Richards' voice.

  "Stick, we have ID on the bogies. Four MiG-two-niners. They appear to have underwing cargo. Course, speed, and altitude unchanged." There was a brief pause.

  "Splash the bandits."

  Jackson's head snapped up. "Say again, Stick."

  "Spade, this is Stick: Splash the bandits. Acknowledge."

  He called them "bandits, " Jackson thought. And he knows more than I do.

  "Roger, engaging now. Out." Jackson keyed his radio again. "Bud, follow me in."

  "Shit!" Shredder observed. "Recommend we target two Phoenix, left pair and right pair."

  "Do it," Jackson replied, setting the weapons switch on the top of his stick to the AIM-54 setting. Lieutenant Walters programmed the missiles to keep their radars quiet until they were merely a mile out.

  "Ready. Range is sixteen-thousand. Birds are in acquisition."

  Jackson's heads-up display showed the correct symbology. A beeping tone in his headset told him that the first missile was ready to fire. He squeezed the trigger once, waited a second, then squeezed again.

  "Shit!" Michael "Lobo" Alexander observed, half a mile away.

  "You know better than that!" Sanchez snarled back at him.

  "Sky is clear. I don't see anything else around us."

  Jackson closed his eyes to save as much of his vision as possible from the yellow-white exhaust flames of the missiles. They rapidly pulled away, accelerating to over three thousand miles per hour, almost a mile per second. Jackson watched them home in as he positioned his aircraft for another shot if the Phoenixes failed to function properly.

  Arabov made another instrument check. There was nothing unusual. His threat receivers showed only air-search radars, though one reading had disappeared a few minutes earlier. Other than that, this was an exceedingly routine training mission, proceeding straight and level on a direct course toward a fixed point. His threat receivers had not detected the LPI radar which had been tracking him and his flight of four over the past five minutes. It was able, however, to detect the powerful homing radar in a Phoenix missile.

  A bright red warning light flashed on, and a screeching sound abused his hearing. Arabov looked down to check his instruments. They seemed to be functioning, but this wasn't--his next move was to turn his head. He just had time to see a half-moon of yellow light and a ghostly, starlit smoke trail, then a flash.

  The Phoenix targeted on the right-hand pair exploded just
a few feet from them. The one-hundred-thirty-five-pound warhead filled their air with high-speed fragments which shredded both MiGs. The same happened to the left-hand pair. The air was filled with an incandescent cloud of exploding jet fuel and airplane parts. Three pilots were killed directly by the explosion. Arabov was rocketed out of the disintegrating fighter by his ejection seat, whose parachute opened a scant two hundred feet over the water. Already unconscious from the unexpected shock of ejection, the Russian Major was saved by systems that anticipated his injuries. An inflatable collar held his head above water, a UHF radio began screaming for the nearest rescue helicopter, and a powerful blue-white strobe light started flashing in the darkness. Around him were a few thin patches of burning fuel and nothing else.

  Jackson watched the entire process. He'd probably set an all-time one-shot record. Four aircraft on one missile salvo. But there had been no skill involved. As with his Iraqi victim, they hadn't known he was there. Any new nugget right out of the RAG could have done this. It was murder, not war--what war? he asked, was there a war?--and he didn't even know why.

  "Splash four MiGs," he said over the radio. "Stick, this is Spade, splash four. Returning to CAP station, we need some gas."

  "Roger, Spade, tankers are overhead now. We copy you splashed four."

  "Uh, Spade, what the fuck is going on?" Lieutenant Walters asked.

  "I wish I knew, Shredder." Did I just fire the first shot in a war? What war?

  Despite his earlier screaming, the Guards tank regiment was about as sharp a Russian unit as Keitel had ever seen. Their T-80 main battle tanks looked slightly toylike with their reactive armor panels festooned on turret and hull, but they were also low-slung dangerous-looking vehicles whose enormously long 125mm guns left no doubt as to their identity and purpose. The supposed inspection team was moving about in groups of three. Keitel had the most dangerous mission, as he was with the regimental commander. Keitel--"Colonel Ivanenko" --checked his watch as he walked behind the real Colonel.

  Just two hundred meters away, Gunther Bock and two other ex-Stasi officers approached a tank crew. They were boarding their vehicle as the officers approached.

  "Stop!" one ordered.

  "Yes, Colonel," the junior sergeant who commanded the tank replied.

  "Step down. We are going to inspect your vehicle."

  The commander, gunner, and driver assembled in front of their vehicle while the other crews boarded theirs. Bock waited for the neighboring tanks to button up, then shot all three Russians with his silenced automatic. The three bodies were tossed under the tank. Bock took the gunner's seat and looked around for the controls he'd been briefed on. Not twelve hundred meters away, parked at right angles to his tank, were over fifty American M1A1 tanks whose crews were also boarding their vehicles.

  "Power coming on," the driver reported over the intercom. The diesel engine roared to life along with all the others.

  Bock flipped the loading switch to Armor-Piercing Fin-Stabilized Discarding-Sabot round and punched the load button. Automatically, the breech to the tank's main gun dropped open, and first the shell, then the propellant charge were rammed home, and the breech shut by itself. That, Bock thought, was easy enough. Next he depressed the gunsight and selected an American tank. It was easy to spot. The American tank park was lit up like any parking lot so that trespassers might easily be spotted. The laser gave him a range display, and Bock elevated the gun to the proper stadimeter line. The wind he estimated as zero. It was a calm night. Bock checked his watch and waited for the sweep hand to reach the twelve. Then he squeezed the triggers. Bock's T-80 rocked backwards, along with three others. Two-thirds of a second later, the shell struck the turret of the American tank. The results were impressive. He'd struck the ammo compartment in the rear of the turret. The forty rounds of ammunition ignited at once. Blowout panels vented most of it straight up, but the protective fire-doors inside the vehicle had already been blown out by the shell, and the crew incinerated in their seats as their two-million-dollar tank turned into a mottled green-and-brown volcano, along with two others.

  One hundred meters to the north, the regimental commander froze in midsentence, turning toward the noise in disbelief.

  "What's going on?" he managed to shout before Keitel shot him in the back of the head.

  Bock had already fired his second round into the engine box of another tank, and was loading a third. Seven M1A1s were burning before the first American gunner got a round loaded. The huge turret swung around while tank commanders screamed orders at their drivers and gunners. Bock saw the operating turret and swung toward it. His round missed wide to the left, but struck another Abrams behind the first. The American shot also missed high because the gunner was excited. His second round was instantly loaded, and the American exploded a T-80 two down from Bock's. Gunther decided to leave this American alone.

  "We're under attack--commence firing commence firing!" the "Soviet" tank commanders screamed into their own command circuits.

  Keitel ran to the command vehicle. "I am Colonel Ivanenko. Your commander is dead--get moving! Take those crazy bastards out while we still have a regiment left!"

  The operations officer hesitated, having not the slightest idea what was happening, only able to hear the gunfire. But the orders came from a colonel. He lifted his radio, dialed up the battalion command circuit, and relayed the instruction.

  There was the expected moment's hesitation. At least ten American tanks were now burning, but four were shooting back. Then the entire Soviet line opened fire, and three of the active American tanks were blown apart. Those shielded by the front row began firing off smoke and maneuvering, mainly backwards, as the Soviet tanks started to roll. Keitel watched in admiration as the Soviet T-80s moved out. Seven of them remained still, of which four were burning. Two more blew up before they crossed the line where once a wall had stood.

  It was worth it, Keitel thought, just for this moment. Whatever Gunther had in mind, it was worth it to see the Russians and Americans killing each other.

  Admiral Joshua Painter arrived at CINCLANT headquarters just in time to catch the dispatch from Theodore Roosevelt.

  "Who's in command there?"

  "Sir, the battle group commander flew into Naples. Senior officer in the group is Captain Richards," Fleet Intelligence replied. "He said he had four MiGs inbound and armed, and since we're at DEFCON-TWO, he splashed them as a potential threat to the group."

  "Whose MiGs?"

  "Could be from the Kuznetzov group, sir."

  "Wait a minute--you said DEFCON-TWO?"

  "TR's east of Malta now, sir, SIOP applies," Fleet Operations pointed out.

  "Does anybody know what's going on?"

  "I sure as hell don't," the Fleet Intelligence Officer replied honestly.

  "Get me Richards on a voice line." Painter stopped. "What's the fleet status?"

  "Everything alongside has orders to prepare to get under way, sir. That's automatic."

  "But why are we at DEFCON-THREE here?"

  "Sir, they haven't told us that."

  "Fabulous." Painter pulled the sweater over his head and yelled for coffee.

  "Roosevelt on line two, sir," the intercom called. Painter punched the button and put the phone on speaker.

  "This is CINCLANT."

  "Richards here, sir."

  "What's going on?"

  "Sir, we're fifteen minutes into a DEFCON-TWO alert here. We had a flight of MiG-29s inbound and I ordered them splashed."

  "Why?"

  "They appeared to be armed, sir, and we copied a radio transmission about the explosion."

  Painter went instantly cold. "What explosion?"

  "Sir, BBC reports a nuclear detonation in Denver. The local TV station that originated the report, they say, is now off the air. With that kind of information, I took the shot. I'm senior officer present. It's my battle group here. Sir, unless you have some more questions, I have things to do here."

  Painter knew he ha
d to get out of the man's way. "Use your head, Ernie. Use your goddamned head."

  "Aye aye, sir. Out." The line went dead.

  "Nuclear explosion?" Fleet Intelligence asked.

  Painter had a hot line to the National Military Command Center. He activated it. "This is CINCLANT."

  "Captain Rosselli, sir."

  "Have we had a nuclear explosion?"

  "That's affirmative, sir. In the Denver area, NORAD estimates yield in the low hundreds and high casualties. That's all we know. We haven't got the word out to everyone yet."

  "Well, here's something else for you to know: Theodore Roosevelt just intercepted and splashed four MiG-29s inbound. Keep me posted. Unless otherwise directed, I'm putting everything to sea."

  Bob Fowler was into his third cup of coffee already. He was cursing himself for having drunk those four strong German beers like he was Archie Bunker or something, and one of his fears was that the people here would notice the alcohol on his breath. Intellect told him that his thought processes might be somewhat affected by the alcohol intake, but he'd had the drinks over a period of hours, and natural processes plus the coffee either already had or soon would purge it from his system entirely.

  For the first time, he was grateful for the death of his wife, Marian. He'd been there at the bedside, had watched his beloved wife die. He knew what grief and tragedy were, and however dreadful the deaths of all those people in Denver might be, he told himself, he had to step back from it, had to set it aside, had to concentrate on preventing the death of anyone else.

  So far, Fowler told himself, things had gone well. He had moved quickly to cut off the spread of the news. A nationwide panic was something that he didn't need. His military services were at a higher level of alert that would either prevent or deter an additional attack for some indefinite period of time.

  "Okay," he said on the conference line to NORAD and SAC. "Let's summarize what has happened to this point."

  NORAD answered: "Sir, we've had a single nuclear detonation in the hundred-kiloton range. There has as yet been no report from the scene. Our forces are moving to a high state of alert. Satellite communications are down--"