Defcon One, page 29
“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 son-of-a-bitch 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 fighterbomber 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 knowing 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.
“We have a trusted and loyal Kremlin operative, in direct contact with Zhilinkhov, corroborate our worst-case situation.” Wilkinson thought for a second. “The agent could have had no idea we had reached the same conclusion.”
Wilkinson leaned forward, then spoke quietly. “The Soviets, sir, are going to blow us off the face of the earth. Zhilinkhov doesn’t need the endorsement of anyone to order the strike. You know that.”
Wilkinson leaned back, then stared at the president. The chief of staff had to hold his hands together to keep them from shaking.
Wilkinson spoke again. “Sir, the Soviets … Zhilinkhov … is doing exactly what our Kremlin agent—”
“Dimitri,” General Hollingsworth quietly provided.
“What Dimitri said. Precisely. This isn’t coincidence, sir. Our operative broke the absolute rule of contact to get this information to us. He went through hell to escape after the KGB disaster, then saw his mentor killed. Yet, he remained rational and got the message to us.”
The chief of staff waited a few seconds. “Mister President,” Wilkinson drew in a breath, “I believe him. We’ve been exposed to Zhilinkhov. I don’t have a doubt in my mind.” Wilkinson paused, composing his thoughts. “Sir, the picture is absolutely clear.”
“Wait a minute,” the president said. “Zhilinkhov isn’t going to live forever.”
“True,” Wilkinson replied. “There are seven people, at the top, involved in this. We don’t have any way of knowing what the other six would do with Zhilinkhov out of the picture. We aren’t in a position to wait and see, sir. Zhilinkhov has only to give the order and it will be carried out.”
Wilkinson looked at Admiral Chambers, then back to the commander-in-chief. “Mister President, you have the same prerogative.”
No one spoke a word.
“Sir, we don’t have much time,” Wilkinson said gently. “Zhilinkhov is a very mercurial person. We have no idea what he’ll do next, or when. We only know he is going to pull the trigger.”
Wilkinson waited a moment, then continued, “I understand how you feel. Until I analyzed this situation, bombing the Soviets first would have been the last thing on my mind.” Wilkinson looked at Blaylocke. “Unthinkable. Reprehensible.”
“Americans, Grant,” the president said, “we’re Americans, for the love of God.”
“Sir, we can sit here extolling the virtues of the American way of life and watch two hundred million Americans be annihilated,” Wilkinson paused, “or we can render the Soviet Communist party helpless, with minimal damage to the United States.”
The president didn’t reply.
“Sure, we’ll take some damage,” Wilkinson said, becoming more forceful, “but it won’t be a Pyrrhic victory.”
Wilkinson waited a few seconds, anticipating questions. No one said a word as startled minds tried to comprehend the magnitude of the suggestion before them. Bomb the Soviet Union.
“Our other option,” Wilkinson continued, “is to do nothing, remain in DEFCON-One, and wait for the eventual onslaught. We’ll lose tens of millions of lives, at the least, and the America we enjoy will be gone forever.”
The president had a blank look on his face as he leaned back in his seat.
“Mister President,” Wilkinson said in a pleading manner, “you do have an obligation to the American people. An obligation, sir, to protect them.”
The president looked at Blaylocke. “I want to hear from Susan, Cliff, and Herb.”
“I’m in shock,” the vice president began, looking around the table. “But I can see the logic in what Grant is telling us, regardless of how horrible it is.”
Blaylocke looked at the president before speaking again. “If I’m honest, gentlemen, I must say I’ve thought about this concept more than once, even today, privately. It was just a shock to hear someone voice the possibility, the unthinkable, as the president said.”
