Defcon One, page 11
CINCNORAD was surprised to see the Navy reacting so swiftly to the DEFCON-Two alert. The vast majority of carrier battle groups were already at sea. The USS Abraham Lincoln, commissioned in 1989, was underway with her battle group from Subic Bay Naval Station in the Philippines. The USS Independence was preparing to depart Alameda Naval Air Station near Oakland, California.
The USS Midway, based in Yokosuka, Japan, would be underway in two hours. The carrier USS George Washington, newly commissioned in 1991, was undergoing sea trials in the Atlantic and would supplant the USS Eisenhower and the USS John F. Kennedy.
Matuchek noted that most Air Force and Navy flying squadrons were in place, or would be in four to six hours. Large Army units were being deployed in predetermined areas utilizing heavy airlift capability provided by the Air Force, along with civilian contractors.
The Marines, both air and ground forces, supported by their own KC-130F heavy airlift squadrons, were in place and ready to react. Their normal inimitable efficiency, reflected the general, as he closed the folder.
“General,” the assistant operations officer politely interrupted. “The fighters are airborne. They should intercept the Russian bombers north of Frobisher Bay. Soviet fighters are now joining with the bomber groups. It doesn’t look very good.”
“Thanks, Colonel,” Matuchek said as he handed the folder back to the tall officer. “Keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir.”
The lieutenant colonel placed the briefing folder under his left arm and returned to his post.
Matuchek noticed the lighted status board indicated a readiness percentage of eighty-two point seven. Doing the best we can, he thought, as the satellite tracking update flashed on the wide screen.
The tension in the NORAD facility was like a tightly stretched rubberband. Every soul in the room recognized that today might be his or her last day alive. They all realized they might never see their families again, or, worse, they might survive to find the world outside the mountain no longer in existence.
February—MOSCOW
Dimitri Moiseyevich Karpov, the former Leonid Timofeyevich Vochik, was nervously pacing back and forth in his small, barren room, as he ground out one cigarette and lighted another. The last day of January had been agonizingly long for him and he fervently looked forward to the new day. He had to make contact with his American “connection” as quickly as possible.
He reached behind his footlocker and retrieved the clear canning jar of Stolichnaya vodka, one of the perquisites Dimitri enjoyed as head of the general secretary’s kitchen staff.
The large glass container had been full two hours ago when Dimitri was released from kitchen duty. It now contained less than two-thirds of the clear liquid as Dimitri raised it to his lips for another long pull.
He sat down in his only chair, wishing he could be with Svetlana in her warm bed.
He took another swig of the room-temperature vodka, lighted a fresh cigarette, and ached for the Russian woman he loved. She must never know who I really am, Dimitri thought as he planned a way to contact his Central Intelligence Agency control. There wasn’t time to wait for the scheduled ritual. There was so much pressure, and he longed to purge himself of the devastating knowledge gained in the hallway outside the general secretary’s quarters.
Dimitri reached across his end table and turned the windup alarm clock toward the light. The dim, forty-watt bulb in his table lamp made him squint. One o’clock in the morning. He calculated the effects of the vodka and reasoned that three to four hours of sleep would be sufficient.
Kremlin domestic help was not allowed to leave the compound when the evening shift ended at eleven o’clock. Working-class staff could leave the immediate area only when their rotation placed them on duty from five o’clock in the morning to two o’clock in the afternoon.
Movement in or out of the Kremlin, in regard to the working ranks, was not permitted between the hours of nine o’clock at night and five o’clock in the morning. Those individuals fortunate to be assigned to the early shift could leave at two o’clock. However, they had to be present for duty at five the following morning.
Dimitri, who had received special permission to leave the Kremlin grounds at seven o’clock in the morning, would have only six or seven hours to contact his CIA connection.
His assigned agent was aware that Dimitri would not be eligible to leave the Kremlin compound until his work schedule rotated the following week. Would the American even be in the vicinity?
His unusual behavior, Dimitri realized, would place him in a precarious situation, especially if the KGB noticed his change of pattern. He silently cursed the bad fortune of being on the evening work shift.
Swallowing another two ounces of the crystal clear liquid, Dimitri reconciled himself to the fact that he simply didn’t have a choice. He had an obligation to his country—America.
The knowledge he carried caused his mind to reel. Nuclear war. Biological and chemical warfare. He couldn’t comprehend the reality. The Soviet leaders had a detailed, step-by-step plan to destroy the United States. He had distinctly heard the party general secretary say he planned to strike the United States without warning.
Now he realized what Zhilinkhov had meant about Saudi Arabia. Russia would control the world’s oil supplies after the United States was toppled. No country, or combined countries, could stand up to the Soviet war machine. Nuclear war ….
The vision of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of nuclear missiles and bombs landing on his friends in America, his home, wouldn’t leave his consciousness, regardless of the amount of alcohol.
The vision seemed like a never-ending nightmare. Life had been so pleasurable before the tragic death of the previous general secretary. What had gone wrong? What had changed the world so drastically, so quickly, to one of imminent nuclear destruction? Was the new general secretary crazy?
Dimitri flinched as a searing pain shot up his right arm. The forgotten cigarette had burned the insides of his index and middle fingers.
Forgetting the pain, Dimitri lighted another cigarette, swilled a splash of vodka, and remembered, agonizingly, how he had come to be in this position.
An agent from the Central Intelligence Agency had fostered a relationship, a friendship, with the young son of Russian emigrants.
Dimitri, a recently certified Mitsubishi automobile mechanic in Hasbrouck Heights, New Jersey, had specifically been requested to work on the blue Mitsubishi towed in for transmission repairs.
Dimitri glanced at the clock again, his vision becoming slightly blurred in the alcoholic stupor. One twenty-five.
His nerves were slowly relaxing with the aid of 100-proof vodka.
Thinking back on his adventure, Dimitri realized he had been very naive. Oh, what he would give to be Leonid Vochik again. A simple, happy mechanic residing in New Jersey.
His customer, and later, his friend “Phil” had ridden with him when the necessary transmission repairs had been completed on the Mitsubishi.
Phil had suggested they stop for a beer, noting it was past closing time at the dealership. Dimitri eagerly accepted the invitation since Phil offered to drop him at his apartment. The agent had known Dimitri didn’t own a car and rode the bus to work.
After a couple of beers, Phil said he had two tickets to the Yankees game the following evening, and asked if Dimitri would care to join him.
The young Russian emigrant, who had not cultivated many new friends, was ecstatic that his American friend would ask him to a big league baseball game.
Afterwards, over beers again, Phil told Dimitri he was a salesman (true, Dimitri reflected with irony) and traveled in the northeast sector of the United States.
Phil genuinely liked the young Russian. That bond had solidified their friendship and Phil suggested a fishing trip the next weekend to his father’s private lake and cabin. Again, Dimitri was full of gratitude and anticipation.
The weather, fishing, and friendly banter had been great that Sunday afternoon. Phil had inquired about Dimitri’s background, his immigrant parents, and what he felt in regard to the United States.
Dimitri had described the horrors his parents, classified as dissenters, had suffered at the hands of the Russian KGB officers. He had told, in detail, about the suffering his father had endured in Christopol prison and the relentless interrogations at KGB headquarters in the basement of the Lubyanka.
He had explained why he hated the Russian political system and widespread corruption. He confessed to Phil, after several beers, that he was embarrassed by his Russian heritage. Dimitri expressed love for America and thankfulness for the opportunities in his new land.
Phil had listened intently and suggested that Dimitri meet a friend of his who could offer him an unusual opportunity. Dimitri had been taken aback and remained very excited for three days prior to the meeting with Phil’s friend.
The friend, who was in charge of CIA clandestine “mole” operations, was straightforward with Dimitri. The former Marine lieutenant colonel introduced himself, explained his authority and position, revealed the true identity of Phil, and carefully outlined the opportunity he had for one Leonid Timofeyevich Vochik. The young emigrant would be known henceforth as Dimitri Moiseyevich Karpov, if he accepted the dangerous assignment.
The chief of CIA clandestine operations explained that Dimitri would go to work for the agency as an undercover operative in the heart of the Kremlin. He had been shown photos of the Russian worker he would change places with. Dimitri had been shocked by the apparent twin brother staring back.
The similarities had been incredible, a “clone” to the casual observer. The only differences had been blood type, twenty-three months in age, one-quarter inch in height, and the faint scar on Vochik’s lower right jaw.
The Central Intelligence Agency, Dimitri had been informed, had searched for seventeen months to find a Russian-speaking clone, one who could be trusted, for this crucial assignment. The agency was willing to pay quite handsomely for his services.
The CIA chief reiterated the importance of the operation, explained the Federal Bureau of Investigation background check conducted without Dimitri’s knowledge, the salary, benefits, and rewards at the completion of the mission. He also detailed the guarantee of anonymity and relocation to the western United States after his extraction from Moscow in five years.
The chief agent, along with Phil, who would remain a friend and be in charge of the operation, told Dimitri they needed an answer in twenty-four hours. Period.
They also indicated that Dimitri would need minor cosmetic surgery to eliminate the scar and to flatten his nose slightly.
In addition, Phil explained, three months of intensive and exhaustive training, six and a half days a week, would be required.
Leonid Vochik would become Dimitri Karpov through mimicry and emulation of tapes and recordings of Karpov obtained by highly sophisticated intelligence gathering equipment.
Dimitri looked at his alarm again. One fifty-six. He crushed the empty pack of cigarettes, reached into his top dresser drawer, felt toward the back, and retrieved another pack. Dimitri flicked open the Proshinsky cigarette lighter, staring at the inscription as the flaming tobacco sent smoke curling around him. He recalled the evening Svetlana had given him the lighter, precisely one month after they had become lovers.
Inhaling the acrid smoke, Dimitri thought back to his decision to join the CIA operation. The money, lifetime security (providing he lived through his commitment), and the desire to be respected in the United States. If only he could take Svetlana, the only woman he had ever loved, home with him to his country, America.
The reality of the danger involved, the high-risk factor had not focused for Dimitri until he was in the counterfeit Soviet tractor-trailer leaving Sweden for the Russian border via Finland.
The truck, in fact, had been stolen from the Russian state trucking line, Sovtrans. The Glavnoye Razvedyvatelnoye Upravleniye (GRU), Soviet military intelligence, had used the vehicle for spying on NATO training exercises and maneuvers off the island of Musko, Sweden’s most important naval base.
Dimitri had been extensively briefed about his insertion into Russia and the Kremlin headquarters. Taking advantage of the Transport International Routier (TIR) agreement that guarantees sealed trucks customs-free transit en route to final destinations in Eastern bloc countries, the CIA could safely blend Dimitri into Russia near Leningrad.
Dimitri had posed as a codriver learning a new route. The “driver,” a CIA operative, had been the leader of the mission and familiar with the route.
The Soviet tractor-trailer had a new serial number, side numbers, and license—all numbers that corresponded to a truck then in operation by the Russians. It would be in their computer.
From Leningrad, Dimitri and his driver had traveled to Vologda, four hundred kilometers northeast of Moscow, to await the train carrying the real Dimitri Karpov.
Dimitri Karpov, trusted Kremlin domestic, traveled by train twice a year to see his aging mother. His father died when he was a child and his mother had never remarried. She was in poor health and nearly blind.
Tatianna Karpov wasn’t expected to live long, and, if she did, she would most likely not recognize the difference in her clone son. The replacement son had practiced speaking precisely like the real Dimitri Karpov and had memorized his life history, along with the family tree.
The trips were predictable and always occurred in early fall and the later part of spring. Karpov traveled from Moscow to the village of Yemetsk, on the shore of the Northern Dvina River, via the city of Vologda. He always stayed in Yemetsk two to three days and returned to Moscow on the evening train.
Dimitri lighted another cigarette and looked at the clock again. Two seventeen. He inhaled the rich smoke and thought about how easily the switch had been made.
The agent/driver had waited for a call from an operative in Moscow when Karpov departed for Yemetsk, then boarded the train during the stop in Vologda.
After the CIA operative left on the train with the unsuspecting Karpov, the former Leonid Vochik had only to wait for a message detailing the train he had to board for Moscow. He never left his hotel room and ate sparingly from his knapsack.
He had not been told how the former Dimitri Karpov had been dispatched, but assumed the “driver” had killed him on board the train. The former head of the Kremlin kitchen staff was most probably at the bottom of Lake Kubeno, northwest of Vologda.
Dimitri recalled the heavy lead weights the CIA agent had concealed in his bulky clothes. The agent had placed the weights inside his large coat, in heavily sewn pockets, prior to leaving the hotel for the train station.
Dimitri could still envision the agent wrapping the body in rags, and, heavily weighted, tossing it off the long railroad bridge over murky Lake Kubeno. There wasn’t any guardrail to contend with. The darkness of late night, and the sound of the train, would conceal the deed. The body had disappeared to the bottom of the lake, where it had decomposed fairly rapidly.
The CIA operative had given Dimitri a package when he joined him in Vologda. After the train was safely en route to Moscow, Leonid Vochik, now Dimitri Moiseyevich Karpov, had completed the transformation by changing into the clothes of his deceased predecessor and reviewing his credentials. He had also noted a lack of blood stains or signs of violence. The clothes were only rumpled. Dimitri had noted, however, that the shoes were a size too large. The CIA had not thought of everything.
Dimitri had been terrified when he first approached the Kremlin. Remembering previous visits to Red Square and recognizing the local landmarks, Dimitri felt more confident.
He presented the authentic credentials of Karpov and entered the Kremlin compound. He was, after all, a clone of his predecessor.
Dimitri knew precisely where to go from months of studying the Kremlin floor plan. There had been some rough spots, but he had adjusted rapidly to his new environment. Dimitri initially felt that his colleagues sensed something different, but they couldn’t fathom the subtle change. Routine soon erased fleeting doubts about the head of Kremlin kitchen staff. Everyone assumed Dimitri’s slight personality change was the result of worry about the declining health of his mother.
Swallowing the last ounce of vodka, Dimitri ground out his cigarette, set his alarm for six o’clock, and fell asleep almost immediately. He was exhausted from the strain on his nerves. He could not comprehend what was happening to him, or, for that matter, what would happen in the next twenty-four hours. His world had gone mad, spinning out of control in a kaleidoscope of confusion and fear.
Chapter Six
AIR FORCE ONE
The huge presidential jet, sunlight sparkling from the highly polished silver, white, and blue surface, made a straight-in approach to Lajes do Pico, Azores. The Portuguese island shimmered in the early morning sun.
The aircraft commander, Colonel Boyd, had kept the speed fast throughout the descent, lowering the landing gear and flaps at the last possible moment, a very unusual procedure. However, a request from the president of the United States had precedence over routine, if the request didn’t breach the limits of safe operation.
The four F-14s escorting Air Force One broke off three miles from touchdown and climbed rapidly to join their tankers en route to the Eisenhower. The roar of the F-14s’ afterburners was deafening to the observers on the ground.
During the landing roll-out, Grant Wilkinson, with a quick knock, entered the president’s private study. The president, adjusting his tie in a full-length mirror, looked out the corner of his eye.
“What is it, Grant?” The president’s voice had a slight hesitancy in it.
“Sir, NORAD is now tracking three large Soviet bomber groups, each escorted by fifty or sixty fighters.” Wilkinson paused, seeing the president yank on his tie.
“Where are they located?”
“One group is—”
“What’s the status?” The president continued, wrestling with his tie.
