Defcon One (1989)

by Joe Weber

  Good, was the only reply from Buchanan as he concentrated on flying the are around the tower complex. They'll have a real sweet surprise.

  Six seconds passed as Buchanan's mouth turned dry. Come on... the pilot said to himself, beginning to have a shadow of a doubt.

  A brilliant flash, followed in a nanosecond by another blinding flash, marked the end of two Russian gunships. They had flown into the first two towers and supporting guy wires.

  The thundering roar of the dual explosions reached Buchanan's ears as night turned into daylight. Wreckage from the two Hind-Ds was tumbling across the ground, igniting everything in reach, including the support buildings.

  Goddamn, the copilot yelled, inadvertently firing a short burst into the towers speeding past one hundred feet away. You knocked two of th A deafening report interrupted the copilot.

  Another Soviet gunship, the crew shocked and blinded by the first two explosions, flew into the guy wires of the fourth tower. The third explosion added flaming wreckage, raining down with secondary explosions, to the huge conflagration enveloping the complex. The tall towers were collapsing in a slow-motion ballet.

  Buchanan twisted around and saw another chopper pull straight into the vertical, narrowly missing tower three, and enter the overcast at a high rate of speed.

  We're out, Buchanan whooped, turning back on course.

  He looked down at his shaking hands. Calm down, he said to himself, then eased off the power from the straining engines.

  Stay together, baby, he coaxed. We're going to make it to the ship.

  A bright flash shocked Buchanan back to the moment. What the hell ...?

  Another one, the copilot shouted. Another chopper went in! Think it was the guy who pulled up in the clouds. I mean he went straight in.

  No doubt, Buchanan answered. They don't receive much instrument training. The pilot looked back at his copilot.

  Probably got vertigo in the overcast, going' straight up, and fell through the bottom out of control.

  Jesus, Major. The copilot paused. I've seen a lot, but I've never seen anything to top this. Unreal... the copilot remarked, then added, I don't see any more gunships, sir.

  Well, we ain't home yet, Buchanan responded, eyes darting to the instrument panel for the thousandth time.

  Damn, Buchanan shouted over the intercom. We're losin' gas at a hell of a rate.

  The copilot, stepping over the shocked Dimitri, leaped forward to the cockpit. Bet a line got punctured when we took the hit.

  *' Yeah ...Shit! Buchanan swore again, mentally calculating the distance to the recovery ship compared to fuel-loss rate.

  The gauges were dropping rapidly.

  Dimitri clamored to his feet, then approached the cockpit.

  Sir? Dimitri asked tentatively.

  Buchanan, having forgotten about his passengers, was startled by the agent.

  Yeah, the irritated pilot said in a harsh tone, what can I do for you?

  Sir, I need ... I have been ordered to send a priority message to the

  White House, or ... to the Central Intelligence Agen

  Christ, Buchanan interrupted tersely, which is it?

  I guess I better send it to the White House, Dimitri stammered, still shivering.

  Buchanan leaned closer to his copilot. You gotta be kiddin' me. This guy was a CIA agent in Moscow?

  The copilot cracked a small grin, then busily strapped himself into his seat.

  We'll send it Top Secret, scrambled. Buchanan looked over at Dimitri.

  Best we can do from the helo.

  Yes, sir, Dimitri replied earnestly. That will be great.

  The young agent was exhilarated at being alive, but deeply saddened by the death of his friend, Steve Wickham. Dimitri knew he would have died, on more than one occasion, if it had not been for Wickham. The senior agent had sacrificed himself for the Kremlin operative.

  What's the message? Buchanan asked Dimitri.

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  The president and his staff, along with the Joint Chiefs, had reconvened in the Situation Room. The fatigue was felt by everyone, gnawing at their patience.

  Ted Corbin had been summoned to the room and looked nervous, hands together, head down. He sensed everyone believed his subordinates had screwed the entire effort in the Kremlin.

  What is the status of the rescue effort, Ted? Wilkinson asked gently, trying to remain steadfast to the CIA director.

  We haven't heard anything as of yet, Corbin answered without looking the chief of staff in the eye. ' My people expect to have an update very soon. The helicopters, according to our estimate, should be on the way back. They should have departed Novgorod by now, if they didn't meet any resistance.

  The president, looking through his update folder, addressed Wilkinson.

  Grant, where do we stand? Sir, Wilkinson said, standing up and turning to the global situation display facing the president. Our Teal Ruby satellites indicate numerous Soviet missiles and launch vehicles in the final stages of launch preparation. Same with the submarines, sir.

  Wilkinson tapped a button, then waited a second until a more graphic overview lighted the screen.

  Soviet conventional forces are making a show of standing down, but the nuclear forces are still poised for a strike in these areas.

  Wilkinson pointed to strategic centers in Russia, under the ice cap in the Arctic Ocean, and to the Atlantic Ocean near the Newfoundland Basin.

  The carrier Baku has joined the Kiev in the North Atlantic.

  They are in a position to strike anywhere in Europe or England.

  Sir, they've got us encircled, Wilkinson pointed to the display, along with our NATO allies. Goddamnit, the president said angrily. The sonofabitch is going to force us to remain in a high defense posture.

  Well, by God, his time is up. We'll push back and see if Zhilinkhov wants to turn up the heat, the president said, standing up. Admiral Chambers, have the carrier groups launch fighter-bomber sorties to stand off Soviet airspace.

  Yes, sir, Chambers replied, turning to Admiral Grabow.

  A soft buzzer sounded, interrupting the oppressive tension spreading through the room.

  Yes, the president responded, irritation written on his face, what is it?

  The four ceiling speakers came to life. Mister President, we have a Top Secret, scrambled message from Scarecrow One.

  The president, bewildered, looked at Grant Wilkinson. Who the hell is Scarecrow One?

  Corbin looked up, surprised. Scarecrow One is our rescue commander.

  He has the capability to send satellite direct anywhere in the world.

  The CIA director appeared very tense, tapping his pen on the face of his watch.

  Patch him through, the president ordered, then sat back down in his seat.

  Yes, sir, the soft voice replied. The feed is open. Mister

  President.

  Everyone waited, anxiety written on each face. Time seemed to have stopped.

  Mister President, Brad Buchanan, commander of Scarecrow One, the pilot said clearly.

  We hear you, the president responded calmly, loud and clear.

  Sir, the surviving agent we have on board has an urgent message to relay to The president interrupted. What do you mean, surviving agent?

  The other agent died from his wounds, sir, Buchanan explained, not knowing Wickham was still alive. We have him on board. Please continue, the president asked, glancing at Wilkinson, then Admiral Chambers.

  ' The surviving agent was the Kremlin operative.' Buchanan paused.

  First formulating his words silently, he then spoke slowly and clearly.

  Mister President, the agent states, categorically, that the Soviet general secretary is going to launch a preemptive nuclear strike a first strike against the United States.

  What? the president almost shouted. He was incredulous, staring up at the speaker as if it were human in form. Let me speak with him.

  I'll put him on, sir, Buchanan replied, not knowi
ng what else he could say to the commander-in-chief of his country.

  It will take a few seconds.

  During the ten-second pause, every person in the room, with the exception of the president, looked at each other, stares meeting blank stares.

  A tentative voice came over the speaker, halting in manner.

  Mister President, my name is Leonid Vochik, and I have been

  Yes, go on, the president responded brusquely, reaching for a rum crook.

  Dimitri inhaled deeply, then spoke. I heard General Secretary Zhilinkhov say he is going to strike America with nuclear missiles. Who did he say that to? the president asked.

  Three of the Politburo members, and a former member, Dimitri said, gaining confidence in himself. The defense minister was there, too, and the chief of the general staff knows about the strike plans. No one else knows anything. Only the seven of them, sir.

  Wait a moment, the president ordered, then turned to Corbin, speaking in a low whisper.

  How reliable is this agent? the president asked. Can we believe him, really trust him?

  Sir, he is considered extremely reliable, Corbin said defensively.

  Dimitri was handpicked and has done an excellent job.

  He isn't a quick study, but he is absolutely loyal to the United States.He wouldn't make up something like this. Dimitri has no reason, no motive, to lie, sir.

  Okay, son, the president continued, when did you hear him make the comment about striking the United States?

  Before he left for Lajes, Dimitri answered, to see you, Mister President.

  ' That sonofabitch! Wilkinson seethed, knowing his hypothesis about Zhilinkhov's plans had been right. He never anticipated his thoughts would be so shockingly confirmed.

  What, precisely, did the general secretary say? the president asked in a tense voice.

  He said that when the Soviet Union withdraws its forces, America would relax, and Russia would strike with nuclear and chemical missiles. He said it would be very soon. Mister President. Dimitri was relieved to get it all out.

  The president still had doubts. His mind was reluctant to comprehend this astonishing disclosure.

  Okay, son, the president continued in a cordial manner.

  Glad we got you out of there. You have performed well.

  Thank you. Mister President, Dimitri responded with pride in his voice.

  The speakers fell silent as the president stood up and walked around the table.

  Go to DEFCON-One, the chief executive said, trembling.

  We'll go with a second attack to the Soviet bombers to get Zhilinkhov's attention.

  MOSCOW

  Zhilinkhov had been placed in bed, his speech distorted by the massive stroke he had suffered only minutes before. The news had spread rapidly through the Kremlin hierarchy but had been contained within the confines of the building. No one outside the Kremlin was to know anything.

  Comrade Doctor, Pulaev, the elder Politburo member, asked, what are his chances for recovery?

  Too early to tell, replied the portly physician. Next twenty-four to thirty-six hours will tell us much. He needs rest, and this medication, for the time being.

  The doctor handed Pulaev a small container of capsules.

  I'll be just down the hallway, in the clinic, if the general secretary needs anything.

  The Kremlin clinic had every imaginable piece of medical and emergency equipment available, courtesy of Western generosity.

  A complete operating theater was staffed around the clock, seven days a week, by three doctors and four nurses.

  The Politburo members and the defense minister gathered around Zhilinkhov. Dichenkovko patted Zhilinkhov's limp hands. Viktor Pavlovich, the doctor says you will be fine.

  Zhilinkhov's pale lips twitched in response. You must rest for now.

  We will be with you.

  Zhilinkhov rolled his eyes upward to focus on his friends.

  His face continued to look menacing, twisted in anger and pain, while he stared at his fellow comrades. Zhilinkhov willed his left hand to move slightly, grasping his oldest friend around the wrist. The general secretary still had a powerful grip.

  Strike ... America, Zhilinkhov gurgled, or I will order...

  Yes, Viktor Pavlovich, Dichenkovko replied, then encouraged the weakened leader to take a capsule.

  Zhilinkhov swallowed the medicine sluggishly, then looked up. Now .

  .. strike now.

  The youngest Politburo member, Nikolai Velekhin, discreetly motioned to his friends to step across the room. The bedroom fireplace, providing a variety of continuous noises, would conceal their conversation from the general secretary.

  Viktor Pavlovich is going to carry out his plan, the newer member whispered. It is too soon to strike the Americans.

  They are well prepared and could strike first. Their spies what do they know? Where are they? We must do something before it is too late. For all of us. Viktor Pavlovich has the power to launch the strike by himself. The military commanders will not question the general secretary.

  Calm yourself. We must have patience, Yevstigneyev said nervously.

  He will sleep for a while, then we can discuss this matter with him.

  We must remain silent, my friends. We cannot act on our own.

  Zhilinkhov lay quietly as he listened to the conversation of his coconspirators. His mind, although medicated, was clear in his purpose, his goal. He would not be denied in his quest.

  The general secretary of the Soviet Communist party would indeed strike a massive blow to the United States.

  Zhilinkhov knew it would be only a matter of hours before the course of world history would be altered forever. He would recover from his stroke and rule the entire planet.

  The general secretary dozed off as Colonel General Vranesevic quietly entered the room. He remained by the door, beckoning the group.

  Dichenkovko led the men to the door. What is it. General?

  The Americans, Vranesevic swallowed, have sunk three of our submarines, off the Florida coast.

  Dichenkovko, along with the other members, turned toward the sleeping Zhilinkhov. We must not disclose this to Viktor Pavlovich.

  Chapter Eighteen.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The president, vice president, chief of staff, close cabinet members, and the military Joint Chiefs of Staff crowded into the White House Situation Room. The walls were covered with various screens, maps, projections, and satellite data.

  Grant Wilkinson had been in private conference with Cliff Howard, secretary of defense, and the Joint Chiefs for the past twenty minutes.

  Wilkinson spoke first. Mister President, Admiral Chambers will speak for the Joint Chiefs.

  Chambers looked uneasy. Sir, I know I was skeptical about the scenario painted by Mister Wilkinson. I'm still apprehensive about this whole affair. Chambers inhaled, breathing deeply.

  However, after analyzing all the data we currently have, along with the present Soviet nuclear status, I would conclude, I would have to say a Soviet first strike is a very real probability.

  The president sat quietly a few seconds, turned to his right, then addressed the Joint Chiefs. Gentlemen, how do you view this revelation?

  General Hollingsworth, the Marine Corps commandant, spoke first. Sir, you met Zhilinkhov. What does he have to lose? Hollingsworth didn't wait for an answer.

  His country is in shambles and rapidly eroding. Their only grasp, as far as power, is their military. Especially their massive nuclear capability.

  The general reached for his water glass, sipped a small amount to moisten his throat, then continued.

  SDI would render them almost impotent. The entire picture is a very real and very frightening situation. Sir, I believe we need ... Well, I'll let Mister Wilkinson explain our position.

  No, you say whatever is on your mind. General, the president said, lighting his rum crook.

  Well, sir, Hollingsworth replied, as I'm sure you're aware, we've had options
in the plans for just such a situation as a worst case ' What kind of situation?' the president asked, puffing lightly on the sweet cigar.

  Possible first-strike scenarios, sir, Hollingsworth said, darting a look at Wilkinson.

  The president remained quiet. The room was totally void of noise, tomblike.

  Grant, the president said, sitting upright in his chair.

  Wilkinson eyed the president, took a deep breath, then spoke directly to him, ignoring the remainder of the staff members.

  Mister President, Wilkinson began, we've been together, politically, and as friends, for what would we say... twenty-three years?

  That's right.

  The president placed his cigar down, clasped his hands, fingers entwined, then looked Wilkinson in the eye. Explain your position.

  Sir, we, Wilkinson spoke very slowly, the Joint Chiefs, Cliff Howard, and I, believe the United States should initiate a preemptive strike, a nuclear first strike against the Soviet Union.' The room remained quiet as the stunned president and vice president stared at Wilkinson, not quite seeing the chief of staff in their shock. Herb Kohlhammer, slowly shaking his head, was speechless.

  For God's sake, the president exploded, looking appalled at the thought. You're serious! All of you!

  Grant Wilkinson stretched both arms on the table, palms down. Sir, we are in a position from which we can't extricate ourselves. Wilkinson looked down for a moment, then returned his scan to the president.

  Gridlocked, sir. Checkmated.

  Jesus, Grant, the president said, exasperation written on his face.

  You can't be serious. Sir, Wilkinson continued, we have finally reached a point of no return. We can't go back to yesterday and put another Band-Aid on the problem. We have finally been placed in a no-win position. Wilkinson looked at Chambers, then back to the president. No recourse.

  Grant, we are the leaders of the United States of America, the president said. Your proposal is absolutely unthinkable.

  Wilkinson spoke slowly and forcefully. Sir, we have no other choice.

  They've provoked us to the brink of war to test our reactions. They've attacked our space shuttle and SDI satellites.

  Their nuclear forces, en masse, are waiting for the order from the Kremlin, and we Wilkinson stopped abruptly, looking down the table at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, then focused his eyes on the president.