Defcon One, page 27
Wickham looked up, judged the distance to be sixty yards, at most, then frantically keyed his transmitter. “Yeah! On our way. We need cover fire!”
The CIA agent grabbed Dimitri by the collar. “Come on! GO! GO! RUN,” Wickham shouted, racing for the settling Night Hawk. “Run, Dimitri!”
Fifty yards, Wickham judged as the two men stumbled through the low shrub trees. Their numbed appendages refused to respond in a coordinated fashion.
“Forty yards! Just forty yards,” Wickham shouted to Dimitri. His arm and shoulder shot excruciating pain through his body every time his right foot hit the ground. Wickham forced his mind to block the pain as he stumbled through the shrubs, limping, in a crouch to reduce the target area.
Buchanan saw a stream of fire trailing along another helicopter on the far side of the river. He took his eyes away to orient himself, then glanced back to see tracer rounds continue to pour from the stricken gunship as it slowly rolled over and flew into the muddy river.
“RUN! RUN,” Lincoln screamed as Wickham fell over the back of Dimitri.
“Move it! GO,” Wickham cried breathlessly as parts from the crashed helicopter rained down amid the chaos.
“Twenty yards,” Wickham shouted to Dimitri, then forcefully shoved the young CIA operative.
An automatic weapon opened up from the far side of the river, kicking up pieces of shrub tree immediately behind Scarecrow One.
Blackie Oaks returned fire with his M60 machine gun, silencing the heavy weapon, then sprayed the entire riverbank with tracer rounds.
“Major,” Oaks shouted over the intercom. “Three is in the river! Some got out!”
Buchanan yelled over the intercom. “Keep ’em covered, Gunny!”
Oaks answered with a hail of machine-gun fire directed back and forth over the downed Night Hawk.
Wickham and Dimitri reached the side of the Sikorsky as Lincoln jumped out to assist in boarding. The rotor wash was like a hurricane, whipping everything into a blur of dust and weeds.
Dimitri fell, picked himself up, then reached for the door as Lincoln thrust him bodily into the cabin. Wickham shoved on Dimitri, too, as the young agent rolled sideways into the fuselage.
Wickham reached up, grabbed the door, lifted his leg, then stopped in mid-stride as if someone had hit him in the back with a sledgehammer. He fell into the side of the fuselage, then rolled on his side, moaning.
Lincoln grabbed the agent and yelled for Gunny Oaks. Buchanan was shouting into the cabin as Oaks leaped out to help Lincoln get the CIA operative into the helicopter.
“What about Three?” Higgins shouted to Buchanan as the pilot added power and pulled up on the collective. “We can’t leave them here.”
“Goddamnit! I know that,” Buchanan shot back, raising the Night Hawk into the air, then pivoting around to face the river as Oaks scrambled aboard after Lincoln. Wickham was lying face down on the floor, bleeding profusely from the back wound.
“Pete, cover me while I try to get Jim’s crew out,” Buchanan ordered as he eased the Şikorsky toward the far riverbank.
“Roger,” Barnes replied. “We’ve got a Hind down. The other is running.”
“Stay in there,” Buchanan said, turning the Night Hawk so Lincoln would have a better view of the downed crew. “Pete, spray the shoreline left of the gunship wreckage, the one you bagged.”
“Will do,” Barnes radioed as he swept low over the river in a forty-five degree bank, then pulled up steeply in preparation for a strafing run.
Buchanan could clearly see the crashed S-70 as he crossed the riverbank. “We’ve got survivors in the water. They’re on the side of the Hawk.”
“I see them,” Barnes replied, then fired a stream of cannon fire down the length of the riverbank, concentrating the barrage where Buchanan had asked.
“Lower the chair,” Buchanan commanded, inching closer to the twisted wreckage. “Keep up the fire, Gunny!”
“You got it, Major!” Oaks replied, raking the shoreline with his M60. “Cap’n Barnes is givin’ ’em some kinda hell.”
Buchanan didn’t reply as he maneuvered the nimble Sikorsky over the downed sister ship. He could see three people hanging from the side of the overturned helicopter, clinging to a twisted rotor blade.
“We’re going to be heavy, Major,” Lincoln said over the intercom.
“Who gives a shit,” Buchanan barked. “We aren’t leaving anyone.” The pilot waited a second, then added. “Just keep firing, Linc, and I’ll handle the decisions.”
THE WHITE HOUSE
Grant Wilkinson walked into the Oval Office, followed by Susan Blaylocke. The president was sitting in his recliner next to the crackling fire. Snow mixed with sleet fell steadily outside the warm office.
The Joint Chiefs of Staff, except Air Force General Ridenour, airborne in the “Looking Glass” command post, sat across from the commander-in-chief.
“Have a seat,” the president motioned to the vacant divan facing the military commanders.
“Thank you,” Wilkinson replied as he waited for Blaylocke to sit down, then joined her.
The president looked at each individual in the room, studying them at times, before speaking. “Anyone have any questions, or, for that matter, suggestions, in regard to my actions thus far?”
“Sir,” Blaylocke paused, composing her words, “there are some members of Congress who are less than pleased with the lack of information fr—”
“The bottom line,” the president interrupted. “Please, Susan.”
The vice president, controlled, replied. “They have been demanding an audience with you.”
“You know my feelings about that. You handle them, at least for the time being. I don’t have the patience to endure any congressional pontificating at this time.”
The president shook his head in disgust. “They all want more face-time on the evening news, so let them bellyache for the time being. I’ve got enough problems.”
“Yes, sir,” Blaylocke answered, formulating a response for the congressmen.
“Any word on the Soviet submarines, Cliff?”
Howard turned toward the chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Grabow. “Admiral?”
“The Saratoga’s ASW aircraft should have been over their targets five minutes ago.”
The president sat back.
“Your thoughts, Grant?” the president asked. “I need some objective opinions.”
“Mister President,” Wilkinson said quietly, “I would like to make a couple of observations before I suggest a possible course of action.”
“By all means.” The president reached for another cigar. “We have a lot at stake, and I want everyone in this room to speak his mind honestly and openly. I want us to be perfectly candid with our thoughts, and, more to the point, our suggestions. Go ahead, Grant,” the president said, unwrapping his rum crook.
Wilkinson leaned forward slightly, as he always did, when he addressed a serious matter.
“Time is short. The point is, in my estimation, that it is finally time to stop placing any faith in the Soviet system. We have been made to look like fools again and again, sir, and I strongly believe we need to stand our ground. Even push a little, if we have to. I support your decision to sink the Soviet submarines.”
The president remained quiet. He looked over to Susan Blaylocke. “You must have some feeling about our response.”
“Sir, I have never advocated using force to seek solutions with the Soviets.” Blaylocke smiled at Wilkinson in a friendly manner, then continued her conversation with the president.
“However, I agree one hundred percent with Grant. We are dealing with a stubborn, belligerent, and probably deranged Soviet leader. Zhilinkhov is threatening our future, our survival, and I endorse standing our ground on this issue. I don’t see any other reasonable choice.”
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs raised his hand slightly, indicating he wished to respond.
“Go ahead, Admiral,” the president said, relighting his cigar.
“From a military standpoint,” Chambers looked at the other Joint Chiefs, “we are on the razor’s edge now. Sinking their submarines is a major step toward declared war.
“As Mister Wilkinson suggested earlier, sir,” Chambers continued, “we could continue to press the Soviets with our carrier groups. However, I personally believe that would lead to open hostilities on a global basis.”
The president thought for a while, then asked the chairman a question. “If that becomes the case, Admiral, do you believe we could contain the skirmishes to conventional weapons?”
Chambers looked uncomfortable. “The members of the Joint Chiefs are in agreement that a regional conflict could be contained. Nuclear weapons, most likely, would not be used, although there is no guarantee.”
“But since this situation is global in nature,” the president responded, “I assume you believe it would escalate into a full nuclear confrontation.”
“No doubt about it, sir.” Chambers paused, glancing at Wilkinson, then back to the president. “Especially with Zhilinkhov at the helm.”
Wilkinson leaned forward again, addressing the president. “Perhaps we should wait and see what Zhilinkhov’s reaction will be after losing his submarines.”
“I agree,” the president responded, “but I am going to press harder if he doesn’t back off within the time frame I set. I am convinced Zhilinkhov will be quelled by the Politburo when they realize we are deadly serious. Serious enough to start sinking submarines.”
The president frowned. “If not, I will order conventional strikes aimed at their airborne bomber forces, in addition to striking any Soviet submarines we feel are a threat to national security.”
An aide stepped into the office, unobtrusively carrying a message.
“Yes, Colonel,” the president said, surprised.
“Sir, General Ridenour is on the scrambler.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” the president responded, picking up a receiver to one of three phones at his side. “General, how is everything?”
The Joint Chiefs, along with Blaylocke and Wilkinson, spoke quietly among themselves while the president listened to the Air Force general in the airborne command post. The group fell silent when the president placed the receiver back in its cradle.
“Well,” the president turned to Wilkinson, “good and bad news. The submarines—all three—apparently have been sunk. No confirmation on one of them, but General Ridenour believes it went down.”
“The bad news?” Admiral Chambers asked, knowing the answer.
“We lost two aircraft. One crew did manage to get out safely. They’re picking them up now.”
No one said a word in response, thinking about the scenario painted by Grant Wilkinson. Was this the prelude to a massive nuclear strike on the United States?
“Also,” the president said slowly, “the two Navy fighters we cleared to engage the MiGs near Iceland—the MiGs that attacked the Air Force pilots—they shot down three, without any losses.”
Wilkinson sighed, then addressed the president in a firm manner. “Sir, I recommend that you continue to send Zhilinkhov a strong message. It’s time to follow up the submarine attack with a strike to the Soviet bomber group approaching Alaska.”
The president remained quiet, chin cupped in his left hand, studying the surprised looks on the faces surrounding him. No one said a word to the chief of staff.
“I agree, Grant,” the president replied, turning to Chambers. “Admiral, order the attack.”
SCARECROW FLIGHT
“The Gunny’s hit,” Lincoln shouted as Oaks slumped to the floor, holding his stomach, then fell forward in a heap. Blood had splattered over Lincoln, warm drops in the frigid night air.
“Take his place,” Buchanan yelled. “Keep firing; keep the pressure on!”
PING!
A round hit the cockpit, slightly behind the copilot’s head, causing him to jump.
“Jesus!” Higgins exclaimed, sliding down and forward in his seat. “That was too damn close.”
“John,” Buchanan ordered, “help Lincoln get ’em aboard before we all go in.”
Higgins nodded, unfastened his seat restraints, then crawled back into the cabin of the S-70.
“Line,” Higgins shouted, “you work the winch and I’ll take the sixty!”
“Yessir,” Lincoln yelled in return, then moved across the cabin to the rescue winch.
Buchanan could see the three-pronged seat banging into the side of the downed Sikorsky. He couldn’t believe anyone could have survived the crash impact. The gunship was a twisted wreck, split open like a watermelon dropped from fifty feet.
“Come on, guys,” Buchanan said under his breath as he stabilized the Night Hawk over the crew in the freezing water. “Move it!”
Lincoln could see Charbonnet helping someone onto the chair. Time seemed to pass in slow motion as the Night Hawk’s rotor blades whipped the surface of the muddy river into a frothy gale.
“Uh …” Higgins coughed.
Lincoln looked at Higgins a split second after the copilot took a round through the neck. The paramedic watched, horrified, as Higgins dropped to his knees, clutched his bleeding throat, then fell through the open side door. Higgins’s body bounced off the tail rotor of the downed gunship, then disappeared under the surface of the churning water.
Lincoln pressed the retrieval switch on the hoist, then contacted Buchanan. “Major, Captain Higgins is dead!”
“WHAT,” Buchanan shouted, concentrating on the rising rescue chair.
“The captain’s dead, sir,” Lincoln yelled, looking at Dimitri. “I’m gonna put the CIA guy on the sixty.”
“Do it,” Buchanan barked, then glanced back down at the chaotic struggle going on below the Sikorsky.
Lincoln motioned to the machine gun and ordered Dimitri to take the position. “Start firing! Aim for the far bank. Just keep it moving.”
Dimitri responded slowly, inching toward the M60, as Lincoln grasped one of the gunners from Scarecrow Three and pulled him to safety.
More rounds impacted the hovering helicopter as the shocked paramedic quickly lowered the rescue seat into the maelstrom below.
THE KREMLIN
Zhilinkhov smiled maliciously, then reached for the decanter of vodka. “The final steps are in … motion,” the general secretary slurred.
The Politburo members and the defense minister were not smiling, afraid of the consequences of this unprecedented action against the Americans.
They regretted endorsing Zhilinkhov as successor to the previous general secretary. The men knew the futility of trying to stop the momentum created by Zhilinkhov. They were implicated too deeply to salvage their credibility or their political positions. They had to rely on Zhilinkhov at this point.
“The Americans will relax, as I … predicted,” Zhilinkhov stammered. “I will crush them … destroy them … very soon, my friends.”
The general secretary laughed, tossed down another vodka, and exhaled sharply. “To our future, comrades. We will control … finally control the world,” Zhilinkhov loudly proclaimed, motioning to Pulaev for another vodka.
“To the Motherland!” Zhilinkhov proclaimed, reaching for the tumbler offered by his friend. The general secretary poured a generous amount of the clear liquid into his glass, then held it up. “To our victory, our future, comrades.”
Zhilinkhov laughed heartily, then sank back in his chair.
NEAR NOVGOROD
Buchanan watched the rescue chair descend to the water again, then added a small amount of power as Charbonnet helped his copilot onto the platform.
PZZING!
Buchanan involuntarily flinched as the small-arms round ricocheted off the side of the cockpit. He already had two holes in the windshield and one near his right foot.
“Come on, goddamnit, move it out,” Buchanan swore, feeling the perspiration running down his neck into the collar of his flight suit.
Dimitri fired at the riverbank in wild bursts. He was too cold to hold the machine gun steady, too tired to care. Finally, after the ammunition ran out, Dimitri stopped pulling the trigger and looked at Lincoln.
The paramedic, busy operating the hoist, kicked a loose M16 across the floor, hitting Dimitri in the shins. “Use it,” Lincoln yelled at the agent.
Lincoln pulled the slightly injured copilot into the cabin and immediately tossed the rescue seat out the door. “One to go, Major!” Lincoln reported, glancing down at “Blackie” Oaks.
“Hang in there, kid,” the former gunnery sergeant said in a raspy voice, choking from the blood in his throat.
“Pete,” Buchanan shouted over the radio, “I need more fire on the riverbank, north of the gunship!”
Buchanan heard static, then the reply from Scarecrow Two as the S-70 turned on its side in preparation for another strafing attack.
“Rolling in now, Buck,” Barnes reported, sweeping low over the elite spetsnaz troops. Two rockets landed in a concentration of Soviet soldiers as Barnes pulled up sharply, completing a modified hammerhead turn. Racing back down, Barnes switched to guns, leveled out, and sprayed the entire group of Russian troops, slowly walking his pedals back and forth.
Buchanan turned the hovering Sikorsky ninety degrees to the right, which pointed the tail toward the Soviet troops. The cockpit was already damaged from small-arms rounds and he was the only pilot controlling the gunship.
“Come on, Jim,” Buchanan said to himself as he watched Charbonnet embrace the rescue seat, then push off the side of the downed Night Hawk. There was no sign of the fourth crewman.
Buchanan, breathing a sigh of relief, added more power in preparation for the transition to forward flight.
Buchanan scanned his instruments, then looked down at Charbonnet. The pilot was slowly revolving on the rescue seat, framed by the turbulent rotor wash and foaming water.
PZZINNNG!
Another round caromed off the side of the cockpit, creating a crack in the windscreen directly in front of Buchanan. The scene was unbelievable.
“We’re goin’ to move out,” Buchanan shouted to Lincoln. “I’ll slow down so you can get him in when we clear the fire zone.”
