Defcon One, page 26
While the White House staff and Russian officials waited for the Kremlin call to be completed, Wilkinson leaned over to the president. “Sir, do you want the carrier air groups to launch some leverage?”
“Let’s see what develops from this effort first,” the former carrier pilot quietly answered. “If your hypothesis is correct, Zhilinkhov may use this situation to break the logjam he developed.”
Wilkinson nodded his head in agreement.
The president suddenly snapped his fingers, then turned to Herb Kohlhammer. “Get the linguist, the Russian interpreter, in here.”
“Yes, sir,” Kohlhammer responded, pressing a code into his console. “She is in the waiting room.”
Shcharansky winced when a burst of Russian shot through the phone receiver. The deputy foreign minister attempted to speak several times, openly flinching at the rebukes, then loudly exclaimed that he was at the White House. At the White House with the president. A very upset American president.
Shcharansky explained the extreme situation in Russian to the Soviet general secretary, then fell silent.
The interpreter, skipping the profanity, repeated both sides of the conversation.
The deputy foreign minister was taking a severe tongue-lashing, knowing his career was over. He, too, thought the general secretary of the Communist party, psychologically, was not a well person.
“Comrade General Secretary,” Shcharansky said as forcefully as he dared, “I am making an attempt to convey the situation as it sta—”
The telephone line went dead as a chagrined and humiliated Boris Shcharansky, former Soviet deputy foreign minister and rising political star, hung up the phone. He spoke slowly, haltingly.
“The general secretary will comply … with the wishes of the United States.”
No one responded as the two Soviets, now standing, placed their coats over their arms.
The president stood up, followed by the rest of the White House staff, then spoke to the Soviet delegates.
“Thank you for your efforts, gentlemen. You may have made a significant contribution.” The president, unsmiling, stepped forward to shake hands with the Russians. “Thank you, again.”
Both Russians nodded in acknowledgement, then quietly walked out the door.
“Well,” the president exhaled, then sat down, “we’ll see what the next few hours bring.”
Wilkinson and Cliff Howard, hearing the vice president gasp, turned to see what was happening. An Army lieutenant colonel, serving as a White House aide, was conferring with Blaylocke. His face was a grim mask of pain.
The president, noticing the exchange, spoke to his vice president. “What is it, Susan?”
Blaylocke thanked the officer, then turned toward the president as the aide left the room.
“Gentlemen, you better have a seat. I have some bad news to report.”
No one said a word, including the president, as everyone sat down.
“We have lost the shuttle,” Blaylocke said, squeezing one hand with the other. “Columbia crashed into the water off southern California. They are launching search and rescue efforts at this time, but the SAR people, and NASA, don’t have much hope of finding any survivors.”
The president sat back and closed his eyes. Fifteen seconds elapsed before he opened them again, turning to the secretary of defense. “Cliff, I want the Navy to sink the three Soviet submarines off the coast of Florida.”
Kohlhammer and Howard, both shocked, tried to respond at the same time. The secretary of state deferred to Howard.
“Mister President, the general secretary is backing off. I am not sure we want to send the wrong message at this crucial time.”
“Yes,” the president said, staring into Howard’s eyes, “and Zhilinkhov knows our shuttle crashed because he ordered it attacked, along with the Tennessee, the Virginia, and our fighter planes. Order the attack.”
DIMITRI AND WICKHAM
The snow had begun to fall more heavily as the two CIA agents struggled along the edge of the riverbank. Slipping, stumbling, and occasionally falling, the operatives slowly distanced themselves from the group of spetsnaz commandos in the inflatable raft.
Overhead, the Russian gunship helicopters continued to orbit in ever-widening circles. Their spotlights looked like dancing luminous spheres, darting at times, against the dark overcast.
Wickham, feeling sluggish, slipped and fell sideways on his limp right arm. Stifling a loud groan, the American felt Dimitri trip over his legs, then watched him fall headfirst down the muddy embankment.
The opposite side of the river was teeming with Soviet special forces troops, each carrying a powerful flashlight or spotlight.
Dimitri lay completely exposed to the light beams arcing randomly back and forth across the partially frozen river.
“Oh, God,” Wickham pleaded in frustration and weariness, “please help us.”
The CIA agent first crawled, then slid down the muddy slope of the riverbank, inadvertently kneeing Dimitri in the side. Fortunately, Dimitri was only frightened by the unexpected fall, not hurt.
As the two men struggled back up the slippery incline, Wickham was startled to hear his miniature radio receiver transmit a message.
“Sandman, do you read Scarecrow?” There was an urgency in the voice. “Do you copy, Sandman?”
“Hurry, Dimitri, they’re here!” Wickham encouraged the young agent to move up the embankment faster, so they could conceal themselves and communicate with the rescue helicopters.
“Scarecrow calling Sandman,” Higgins called, annoyance in his voice. “Come in, Sandman.”
Buchanan looked at his copilot, then spoke without using the intercom. “If they aren’t there … Shit! We may get gama-rooshed for nothing.”
“Yeah,” Higgins keyed the intercom, “they may already be dead, and we’re going—”
“We’re goin’ into a trap,” Buchanan finished the grim statement for his friend.
“Scarecrow One to Sandman!” Higgins said into the radio. “Copy, Sandman?”
Wickham pulled on Dimitri’s coat sleeve as hard as he could with his left arm. The young operative finally struggled over the lip of the riverbank and rolled under a clump of low shrub trees.
Both agents could clearly hear the excited barking of dogs in the inflatable boat. The Russians were almost across the river, slowed only by thin ice along the bank. Time was rapidly running out for the two CIA operatives. The Russians were closing fast, aided by the highly trained attack dogs.
Wickham tugged at the combination radio/homing beacon, folded out the antenna, flipped the automatic direction finder to the on position, then transmitted over the radio.
“Scarecrow, Scarecrow, this is Sandman, over!” Wickham’s voice quivered from the freezing cold and adrenaline rush through his body.
“Sandman!” the surprised voice responded immediately. “Stand by one.”
“We can’t stand by!” Wickham angrily transmitted back. “We’re surrounded by Russians!”
“Okay, Sandman,” Higgins radioed, “we’ve got a sweet beacon. Hang on. We’re seven out and rapidly closing on your position.”
Wickham could hear the sound of the engines and beat of the rotors over the radio. He turned the volume down as far as it would go. The American agent knew the real worry was the Soviet gunships.
The senior agent turned to Dimitri and spoke reassuringly. “Seven m-miles out. Three minutes at the outside. Sweet Jesus, w-we’re going to make it! We’re going to make it, Dimitri.”
Wickham, using his left arm in a backwards motion, slapped the young agent across the shoulders in a gesture of friendship and elation.
Dimitri, half smiling, tears streaming down his cheeks, turned to Wickham. “W-we’re going home, we’re going home,” he choked.
“Snap out of it, Dimitri!” Wickham ordered, then continued. “Take off your coat and get ready to run. Your s-sole mission is to concentrate on getting into the chopper, okay?”
“Y-yes,” Dimitri replied, shaking violently, “that’s all I want to do.”
Wickham looked down the river at the inflatable raft. They had reached shore and the two dogs were leaping from the boat to the muddy edge of the river.
Wickham pressed the radio transmit key again.
“Scarecrow, Sandman. Urgent!”
“Copy, Sandman,” Higgins instantly replied. “Go!”
“Be advised,” Wickham paused, counting, “there are approximately forty, maybe fifty, ground troops around us, plus two helicopters.”
Wickham waited, without hearing anything, not even an acknowledgement, for ten, then fifteen seconds.
“Say type of helicopters,” Higgins said.
“Gunships. Havocs, I believe,” Wickham responded. “I think they’re low on fuel.” Wickham looked up at the Russian Mi-28 crossing the river. “They’ve been out here for quite a while.”
“Good,” Higgins replied. “Hang in there, Sandman. We’re almost there!”
“We’re tryin’ to,” Wickham said, watching the six advancing spetsnaz troops and their dogs.
Chapter Sixteen
SCARECROW FLIGHT
Buchanan and Higgins rapidly scanned the ADF, then back to the INS. The ADF needle pointed straight ahead, not wavering. The inertial nav showed 3.4 nautical miles to the rendezvous point.
Buchanan glanced at Higgins with a look of resignation, then pushed his intercom switch. “This is for real, guys. Don’t screw the pooch.”
“You got it, skipper,” Oaks replied, looking at Lincoln, the paramedic-turned-door gunner.
Buchanan leaned toward Higgins. “Ask Sandman his exact position, and see if he can describe the disposition of the ground pounders,” Buchanan said, as he started slowing the agile Night Hawk.
“Sandman, Scarecrow,” Higgins radioed, watching the mileage wind down in the INS.
While Higgins awaited the information from Wickham, Buchanan talked to the other pilots and crews over a separate radio.
“Scarecrow Flight, listen up!” Buchanan ordered the other two command pilots. “I’m slowing to ninety knots at this time, going to approach from one mile upriver. We’ve got two gunships and approximately fifty grunts on top of our troops.”
“Two,” Barnes replied in clipped fashion.
“Three!” Charbonnet responded, highly charged from the airborne engagement.
“Two, you jump the gunships,” Buchanan ordered, “and Three, you strafe the troops.”
“Two,” Barnes replied, rechecking his cannon.
“Three will take the troops,” Charbonnet responded, adding power to close on his leader.
“Two, you break off now and hit the gunships broadside,” Buchanan instructed his old friend.
“Copy, Buck,” Barnes said. “Here we go.”
“Three, you stick with me and keep their heads down while I go in,” Buchanan ordered Scarecrow Three.
“Right on your tail,” Charbonnet replied.
Higgins pressed the intercom switch. “Most of the troops are on the east side of the river between the road and the riverbank.”
“Beautiful,” Buchanan replied. “Are the gunships in the air or on the ground?”
“Our man says they’re airborne, apparently circling the area at a leisurely pace,” Higgins answered, then remembered the important part of the message. “The spook confirmed there are two of them, but they’re on the opposite side of the river from the planned pickup point.”
“How the hell did that happen?” Buchanan didn’t wait for an answer, knowing it was category three information at this stage of the rescue. “We’ll just have to grab ’em the best way we can. I may not be able to land, so we better prepare to haul ’em in from a hover or use the ladder.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Higgins answered. “Ah … one other detail, Buck. They’ve got troops and dogs closing on them on their side of the river.”
“Jesus!” Buchanan replied. “This is turning into a major cluster-fu—”
The pilot’s statement was cut off as Scarecrow Two, traveling at a high rate of speed, flashed into view spewing cannon shells at the Russian helicopters.
Buchanan and Higgins were stunned, not expecting Barnes to engage the Russian gunships as quickly as he had. The sky seemed to glow brightly under the overcast as various weapons opened up amid the confusion.
“We’re coming up to the river now, so let’s pick it up,” Buchanan radioed Charbonnet.
“Three is accelerating. Got you in sight,” Charbonnet replied as he lowered the nose of his Sikorsky to gain more speed. “I’ve got the river.”
Scarecrow Two rocketed between the two Soviet helicopters in a hail of ground fire.
“Okay, Jim, check your switches,” Buchanan ordered. “I’m goin’ to need a lot of suppression.”
“We’re hot,” Charbonnet responded, rechecking his arming switches. “I see the major concentration of troops.”
Buchanan keyed his intercom. “Gunny, you engage the troops on the far side of the river while Steve handles the guys closing on our agents.”
“Will do, Major,” Oaks replied, giving Lincoln a reassuring thumbs up gesture.
“I’ve got a tally!” Buchanan said over the radio. “Pete, try to work ’em on the east side!”
“Best … we … can … Buck,” Barnes groaned, obviously under stress from the violent maneuvers he was performing. “Bastards. Pretty quick!”
Higgins was yelling over the discreet frequency to Wickham. “You’ll have to guide us over your position, copy?” The copilot couldn’t hear amidst the clattering of the machine guns. “Speak up! We can’t hear you! You’ll have to guide us in!”
PING!!
THUD!
Two rounds hit the aft left side of the main cabin. One penetrated the fuselage, missing Lincoln by three inches, while the other ricocheted upward into the rotor blades.
“We’re takin’ rounds, Major!” Oaks said over the intercom. “Big stuff.”
“Better slow it down!” Higgins told Buchanan, pointing to a spot across the river from the planned rendezvous point. “There they are … I think.”
“Yeah, I have ’em,” Buchanan responded. “Shit! The grunts are almost on top of ’em.”
“Buck,” Higgins glanced at the commander of Scarecrow One. “This don’t look so good.”
USS SARATOGA
“Launch the Vikings. Launch the Vikings,” blared the flightdeck loudspeakers as the catapult crews hustled out from under the two S-3B ASW aircraft.
The twin engine jet on cat number one roared down the pitching deck, lifted off, and started a turn to the right as the landing gear retracted. Seconds later, engulfed in a cloud of catapult steam, the second Viking streaked into the air and turned to rendezvous with the leader.
Two additional Lockheed S-3Bs taxied into position on the forward catapults. The four VS-30 “Sea Tigers” would join up five minutes after the last sub-killer was airborne.
Each Viking carried four depth bombs internally plus two bombs on the wing pylons.
“Hummer, Fishhook Seven-Oh-Seven, flight of four,” Lt. Cmdr. Spencer Rainer radioed the Hawkeye.
“Fishhook, we’ve got the coordinates and the clearance. CINCLANT authorization.”
“We’re ready, Hummer.”
Rainer listened to the controller while his copilot copied the coordinates for two of the three Soviet submarines, then read them back.
“That’s affirm, Fishhook,” the Hawkeye controller said. “Seven-Oh-Seven and Seven-Oh-Four will take target one. Seven-Oh-One and Oh-Six take target two. We are vectoring two P-3s at the third target.”
Rainer keyed his radio. “Four, let’s come starboard one-zero-five.”
“Roger.”
“One and Six,” Rainer continued, “we’ll see you at the boat.”
“Ah … roger,” the second section leader radioed, leading his wingman to the second submarine. “Good fishing.”
Rainer clicked his mike twice in acknowledgement, then keyed the ICS. “I don’t know what the hell is going on, but we’re stepping into deep shit.”
THE AGENTS
Dimitri lay spread-eagled in the shrubs as Wickham frantically gave instructions over the small radio.
“You’re about a hundred fifty yards away! Straight ahead, along the shore,” Wickham yelled into the radio. He looked around at the advancing spetsnaz troops. They had spread out and were firing at the approaching Night Hawk.
“Dimitri,” Wickham shouted, “fire in the vicinity of the troops! The ones off the boat!”
Wickham pulled out his Beretta and aimed in the general direction of the advancing Soviet troops. Even if the agents didn’t hit the Russians, the rounds whining overhead would keep the troops at bay, or at least slowed.
“You’re only a hundred yards away,” Wickham shouted into the radio. “Straight ahead!”
P-ZZZING!!
The high-powered round ricocheted off a tree two yards from the agents, causing both men to drop prone on the frozen ground.
“Dimitri,” Wickham barked, “start crawling toward the chopper. GO! GO!”
Dimitri dropped his weapon and started crawling on his hands and knees.
Wickham turned toward the Russians, then froze in panic when he saw one of the killer dogs snarling twenty feet away. The animal had hesitated for a split second.
“Oh, shit,” the agent said quietly as he gripped the Beretta with both hands, aimed at the middle of the dark, growling canine, and squeezed the trigger.
The Doberman staggered backwards, emitting a mournful howl, then fell over a stump and died.
Wickham fired the remaining rounds at the advancing Russians, then dropped the Beretta and started crawling after Dimitri.
“Keep movin’! GO,” Wickham yelled to the struggling figure in front of him.
Wickham caught the flare of an explosion, then felt the concussion, as a helicopter thundered into the ground next to the roadway. He fervently hoped it wasn’t an American chopper.
“Sandman! Sandman!” Higgins urgently radioed, trying to expedite the rescue effort. “We’ve got to set down here. It’s the only clear spot. Can you make it?”
