Defcon One (1989)

by Joe Weber

  Snap out of it, Dimitri. I told you that I'm going to need your assistance. The American glanced at Dimitri, then the rearview mirror, then back to the road ahead.

  Dimitri, listen, Wickham said in a calm, reassuring voice.

  Is your weapon fully loaded?

  Yes, Dimitri replied tentatively, it's loaded all the way.

  The only thing Leonid Vochik, aka Dimitri Moiseyevich Karpov, had ever shot before today was a target with a human silhouette outlined.

  Then change with me and reload mine. You still have rounds in your coat pocket? Wickham asked, watching the road closely.

  No answer.

  Dimitri, the American said slowly, that was a question.

  Do you have more ammo in your pocket?

  Yes, Dimitri replied in a hushed voice. The young man was dazed, his coordination slowed by shock and confusion.

  Then get on with it.

  Wickham slowed the Lada to a reasonable speed, then continued his dialogue in an upbeat manner. Dimitri, hang in there.

  We're in pretty good shape, overall.

  Dimitri nodded, quietly loading the Beretta, as he stared with blank eyes.

  It will be a while before the guards are found, Dimitri, and there isn't any traceable evidence to link us. The KGB won't know what kind of car to look for.

  The American looked over at Dimitri. Come on, cheer up. We'll be out of Russia tomorrow morning. We're almost home, Dimitri.

  The agent returned a faint smile.

  By the way, here are your credentials, Wickham said as he handed the papers to his charge. There was nothing left behind to implicate us.

  Relax, Dimitri. Breathe slowly.

  Twenty kilometers behind the gray green Lada, a KGB officer raced into the guard shack and turned the Russian soldier over.

  The KGB agent checked for a pulse. He could see it was useless.

  The officer walked to the door and waved his companion, who was checking the other slain guard, into the guard shack.

  Then he reached for the phone, noticing the dead guard had a ballpoint pen clutched in his hand. He leaned down and saw scratch marks, lightly colored in black, across the wooden floor.

  AIR FORCE ONE The jumbo jet cruised serenely at 39,000 feet. Two miles off the right wing of the 747, slightly astern, four F-14 Tomcats flew in loose formation.

  Directly behind the presidential jet, and slightly above, two additional F-14s trailed the big Boeing. One of the pilots in the flight of two was Capt. Vince Cangemi, United States Marine Corps.

  His flight leader was the Eisenhower's air group commander (CAG), Peyton Reynolds.

  Captain Reynolds, USN, reasoned that he should lead the flight of six Tomcats assigned to escort the president of the United States.

  Reynolds had selected Cangemi to be his wingman. The Marine aviator had been the only American pilot rescued after the ambush over the USS Virginia. Cangemi was fighting mad and had fire in his eyes when he volunteered to fly the escort mission.

  Reynolds was concerned but knew the Marine pilot was well-disciplined and would respond accordingly. He had great respect for the young fighter pilot.

  Reynolds looked over at Cangemi, then took in the other four fighters.

  Tuck it in, gents.

  Roger, Kingpin, came the reply from the leader of the four VF-84 Tomcats.

  Reynolds scanned the sky, then checked his fuel gauges and glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes to feeding time for the thirsty fighters.

  He and Cangemi could see their tankers on the horizon.

  The two KA-cd Intruders were full of fuel and standing by to gas the F-14s. Two more tankers, from the USS America, would rendezvous with the Tomcats in slightly more than an hour.

  The president, though groggy, opened his eyes and sat up.

  He focused on the presidential seal, then stood up and walked into his private half-bath, the water closet, as he referred to the inclosure.

  The president splashed cool water on his face and reached for a toothbrush. After applying the toothgel, he looked in the mirror, noted the bloodshot eyes, then began to brush his teeth slowly.

  A knock on the door interrupted the ritual as Grant Wilkinson stepped in.

  Umph with-oo-n-mome... the president mumbled, toothpaste dripping from the corner of his mouth.

  Sorry, sir, Wilkinson said, closing the door behind him.

  Take your time. Nothing that important at the moment.

  The president finished, rinsed his mouth, then tossed the disposable toothbrush into a waste can.

  What's up. Grant?

  The shuttle crew is getting ready to go outside EVA, I believe they call it and see if they can free the satellite. It took some time for the astronauts to get into their suits.

  Good. We're makin' progress at least, the president responded as he toweled his hands dry.

  The president poured another splash of whiskey into a fresh tumbler, dropped two cubes of ice into the liquid, and offered Wilkinson a drink.

  Thank you. It has been a long day, Wilkinson replied as the president turned around to the bar.

  Please sit down, sir. I'll fend for myself.

  The president sat on the couch and posed a question to his closest aide.Grant, what do you think about the outcome of the meeting with Zhilinkhov?

  Sir, we accomplished what we wanted. Our satellites were being deployed while we placated Zhilinkhov. He is, by the way, completely unbalanced, in my estimation.

  The president, taking a sip, nodded. I could see that in his smile.

  Frightening. The president shuddered.

  Also, Wilkinson continued, we know he is very upset about our SDI capability.

  Yes, the president reflected out loud, that's what bothers me most.

  Zhilinkhov knows the last pieces are in place. SDI is breathing.

  Almost in place, sir. Wilkinson sipped his Chivas and soda, then sat down in the single chair by the cabin door.

  Right. Soon to be in place. I hope, the president said quietly, twirling the ice in his drink. I believe Zhilinkhov is truly afraid we are going to use SDI as an offensive weapon against the Soviet Union.

  A flicker lighted the darkened room as the president placed a match to his rum-soaked cigar.

  Grant, the president looked up, his eyes twinkling behind the flame, what is Zhilinkhov going to do, in your opinion?

  Sir, with respect, only Zhilinkhov knows the answer to that question, and I'm not sure he feels certain from minute to minute.

  Again, that's what frightens me. Grant, the president replied, extinguishing the match. Really frightens me.

  Sir, my recommendation, Wilkinson paused, searching for the proper word, is that you meet each provocation with retaliation. If Zhilinkhov continues to attack our forces, you need to counterattack with a bigger club.

  I agree, the president responded, clenching his fist.

  That's the only message Zhilinkhov understands.

  NORAD The command post was a beehive of activity after the DEFCON-Two alert was reinstated.

  General Matuchek sat at his control console, intently watching the surge of airborne activity. He had forgotten about the cup of lukewarm coffee at his elbow. His tie was undone and the strain was evident on his face.

  His vice commander, LT. Gen. John Honeycutt, was at his side providing a situation update.

  J.B the AOA aircraft is airborne and the standby Boeing will be up in twenty-five minutes, the jovial Canadian reported in his normal, chipper manner.

  Okay, John. Thanks, Matuchek replied, thinking about the Airborne Optical Adjunct Boeing 767s. The specially modified planes, sporting elongated cupolas, contained SDI missile detectors and worked in conjunction with the strategically deployed satellites.

  The airborne sensors could acquire and track attacking missiles' reentry vehicles, predict their impact points, and hand over data to ground-based radar for terminal intercept and destruction.

  The airborne sensor system had been on-line less than
two years. The AOA provided a wide field of view and high resolution for intercepting attacking missiles. However, the SDI satellite network was absolutely essential for the AOA program to function correctly.

  Matuchek was concerned about the airborne instability in so many regions of the Northern Hemisphere, along with the frailties of the SDI system.The skies were crawling with Soviet and American warplanes.

  ' John, if this alert blows over without a major confrontation, if we survive this insane mess, I'm going to retire early and dig out my fishing gear.

  J.B the surprised Canadian responded, you can't be serious.

  You've been selected to become vice chief of staff the first of April.

  John, I've had it. The kids are grown. Alice is supportive of my desire. I'm developing, or have developed, a bleeding ulcer.

  Matuchek looked up at Honeycutt. Alice and I want to retire on a lake somewhere not sure where and take the pack off. If the idiots and lunatics of the world want to blow it to smithereens, John, I don't want to be the first to know. I want to be fishing with Alice when the switch is pulled.

  J.B you need to take some time off. Two weeks, at minimal, and relax with Alice. You deserve some rest.

  No. My decision has been made, John. It's over. Time to retire.

  The NORAD commander and his deputy were interrupted by the alert and warning alarm. The startled generals looked at the airspace situation display.

  The massive Soviet bomber groups had altered course again, closing on the territorial waters and shores of the United States.

  Most alarming were two new threats. A third Soviet group of bombers had become airborne heading over Taymyr Peninsula, due north, directly over the North Pole. Their flight path, if not altered, would take the Russian nuclear bombers over Thule, Greenland, and northern Canada.

  The fourth group of Soviet warplanes was flying parallel to the Koryak Range, just off-shore in the Bering Sea, headed for Alaska.

  The NORAD leaders looked at each other and made simultaneous decisions.

  Let's get everything up, John, Matuchek stated as he actuated the fighter scramble order for all Air Force Tactical Fighter Wings deployed in the high-threat areas.

  Matuchek pressed another switch, then a third. He waited, then pressed two more alarm switches. Status and tracking displays illuminated instantaneously, changing colors and formats.

  Satisfied, CINCNORAD pressed another button which displayed an overview of all space and satellite activity. Nothing unusual at this point, Matuchek noted, punching his intercom.

  Colonel Griffin, what is the real-time status of the orbiter?

  The assistant operations officer replied without hesitation.

  One of the crew members is preparing to enter the airlock at this time, General.

  Good. Keep me informed on their progress.

  Will do, sir, Griffin responded, scratching event/time notes on his pad.

  One other thing. Bob.

  Yes, General, Griffin replied, placing his pen on his console.

  Are the two deployed satellites working satisfactorily?

  Matuchek would be ecstatic to have the basic SDI system in place and functioning correctly.

  ' Yes, sir. We haven't seen any anomalies in the data procurement.

  Excellent. Matuchek looked relieved. How about the down-link channels for the two satellites they've already deployed?

  We see no problem, sir. Okay status on all SDI downlinks checks with Space Command, Colonel Griffin replied as he rechecked both reporting systems.

  Good work. Bob. Keep me informed.

  Yes, sir.

  Matuchek looked at his Canadian friend. Honeycutt's normally relaxed face wasn't smiling.

  THE AGENTS The two agents were approaching Staraya, near their pickup point at Novgorod. Wickham had decided against taking the train. Too many risks and too much exposure.

  The Lada had just rounded a curve when the two men heard the sounds.

  Wickham cocked his head to one side, motioning Dimitri to be silent.

  The CIA agent pulled the vehicle to the side of the road and stopped under a grove of barren trees.

  His shoulder continued to throb and he felt light-headed from the loss of blood.

  Wickham released the hot-wire switch, killing the engine, and rolled down the window. The staccato sound was still unclear, almost muffled.

  What is it? Dimitri whispered.

  Sh-sh, the American hissed, straining to interpret the alarming sound.

  Wickham opened the door of the Lada and stepped out into the cold air.

  He listened intently, then walked closer to the roadside, hesitated a moment, then jumped back in terror. His mind could not comprehend what his eyes were seeing.

  Low on each side of the road, less than three kilometers away, were two Soviet Mil Mi-28 advanced combat helicopters.

  It was obvious they were conducting a methodical search-and-destroy mission.

  The Russian helicopters remained low and moved slowly, checking every square dekameter of ground.

  The American agent now understood why the engine and rotor blade sounds had been muffled. The trees and rolling terrain had distorted and masked the sounds of the approaching gunships.

  No question about their purpose. The two CIA operatives were being stalked in a deadly game of persistent pressure.

  Fatigue and panic would take their toll eventually.

  The stunned American yelled at Dimitri. Get some tree branches for camouflage. Move! Move!

  Dimitri leaped into action, stumbling through the brush.

  Wickham jumped back into the Lada and started the engine.

  The two Mt-28s, NATO code name HAVOC, were only two kilometers away when Wickham ran the Lada under the base of the trees, smashing the right front fender.

  The sound of the helos was becoming distinct and loud as Wickham and Dimitri yanked down tree branches and limbs to cover the car. The trees were practically void of foliage in the cold February winter.

  Both men, in desperation, threw dirt and branches on the Lada.

  Come on, Dimitri, the American yelled, holding his right shoulder with his left hand.

  The two hunched figures raced down the adjacent embankment and splashed through a narrow stream. Their progress was impeded by thin ice and slush along the bank. The footprints wouldn't be hard to follow.

  Wickham struggled up the other side of the narrow stream and motioned for Dimitri to follow. It was imperative that the two men find a hiding place in the next few seconds.

  Wickham turned and sprinted toward some large mounds of earth piled next to a field. A rubbish dump was only two meters from the knolls.

  Dimitri rushed after the American, scrambling along in a renewed effort.

  We'll have to dig in for now and hope the helos keep moving, Wickham stated as both men dove behind the earthen mounds and crawled into the edge of the rubbish.

  Their spot was precarious, under the circumstances. The only good cover was a ragged tree line two hundred meters away. They couldn't reach that concealment until the helicopters passed.

  Listen, Dimitri, not a word, not a single move. Don't even blink.

  Dimitri lay sprawled in the garbage dump, paralyzed with fear. He could actually feel his heart palpitating. The adrenaline shock to his cardiovascular system was exacting its levy. Dimitri felt faint and nauseated as he lay in the garbage, staring at a rat crawling under a pile of rotting trash.

  Stay down. It'll be okay, Dimitri, the CIA agent soothed the terrified young man.

  Both men watched the approaching Russian gunships, camouflaged in brown and sand colors. The Mi-28s sprouted 57mm rockets and a nose-mounted 30mm gun. The helicopters represented the state of the art in Soviet rotor-wing assault aircraft.

  Don't look up, Dimitri. Don't do anything.

  The American agent watched the nearest Mi-28 pass directly over the camouflaged Lada, then continue on.

  So far, so good. Easy, Wickham comforted Dimit
ri, while he surveyed their surroundings. The only movement was his eyeballs.

  The second gunship was across the road and approaching the wrecked Lada.Wickham stopped breathing as the helicopter passed the vehicle, climbed slightly, and continued down the road.

  The agent could clearly see the pilot and nose gunner.

  Wickham slowly let his breath out and turned toward Dmitri, studying his face. Think you can travel in a few minutes?

  On foot?

  Yes, Dimitri said, regaining a bit of confidence.

  Dimitri, I'm going to go ahead and send the satellite message.

  Wickham pointed the antenna straight up and punched in the various codes. He waited ten seconds and repeated the steps. We will have to change our pickup point a ways, but The American saw Dimitri's face turn ashen, then reflect stark terror.

  What's wrong? Wickham said as he turned his head.

  The attack helicopter on the far side of the road had indeed spotted the Lada.

  The Russian pilot had been looking across the road, at a low angle, and had spotted the stolen Soviet vehicle. The crew had completed a 270-degree turn to the left and now approached the car from across the road. They were coming to a hover ten meters over the pavement.

  Keep down! the American ordered, yanking on Dimitri's soiled coat sleeve.

  The second gunship helicopter was returning also, its nose low as the Mi-28 raced along the roadway.

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Admiral Chambers was in the process of briefing the vice president and secretary of defense. The other chiefs were garnered in the Situation Room, as was Ted Corbin.

  The group had finished the soup and light sandwiches, along with the hastily prepared dessert. Everyone sipped coffee, or hot tea, and listened intently to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  Ms. Blaylocke, we are in a state of readiness unparalleled in the history of our military. Every ship, aircraft, and ground unit is at the ready.

  Chambers looked at the Air Force chief. General Ridenour, and received a nod before he continued.

  The Stealth aircraft are in the air, too. We are going to stay in this condition until the SDI system is fully online.

  Chambers turned to Cliff Howard. Perhaps the secretary of defense will provide us an update on Columbia. Mister Secretary?