Defcon One, page 31
“I told you,” Zhilinkhov said, slurring his words, “that everything would be … fine.”
“Yes, you did, Viktor Pavlovich,” Dichenkovko said without emotion. “Now, you must rest, my good friend.”
The general secretary attempted to smile again, but the result showed only on the right side of his face.
“No, comrades,” Zhilinkhov said in a strained voice, weakly motioning for the minister of defense to step closer. “Now we launch the strike … on the United States.”
Porfir’yev, unsure of how he should respond, looked to Dichenkovko for guidance. No one said a word.
Zhilinkhov’s cold eyes hardened. “Give the order, General Porfir’yev. This minute!”
Dichenkovko hesitated, then inhaled deeply. “Viktor Pavlovich, we must suspend our plan for—”
“Enough!” Zhilinkhov spat through clenched teeth. “You have your orders, General. Carry out my command, or you will be relieved this moment.”
Porfir’yev, pale and wide-eyed, again looked to Dichenkovko for help. Pulaev and Yevstigneyev turned aside, speechless. Dichenkovko remained quiet, avoiding the defense minister’s unspoken plea.
“General Secretary,” Porfir’yev said slowly, “as the ranking member of the Soviet armed forces, it is my duty to counsel you not to launch a strike at this ti—”
“The strike will be launched … now,” Zhilinkhov hissed, mustering his waning strength, “with or without you, General. Give the order, or I will have Colonel General Vranesevic place you in custody.”
Porfir’yev blanched, then stepped back in shock, his face contorted in rage. He paused, then found his voice. “The order will be carried out.”
Dichenkovko stood up and turned away from Zhilinkhov, slowly shaking his head in resignation. “Viktor Pavlovich, you—”
“Give the order!” Zhilinkhov threatened, lamely pointing his finger at Porfir’yev.
The defense minister walked across the room to the private communications console and picked up the handset. Porfir’yev tapped in the number to Marshal Nicholas Bogdonoff, then waited for the chief of the general staff to answer.
Porfir’yev stared out the window at the gently falling snow, then heard Bogdonoff’s aide.
“Porfir’yev. Give me General Bogdonoff.”
The defense minister glanced at Zhilinkhov, then back out the window. Eight seconds passed before Bogdonoff was on the line.
“General Bogdonoff, Porfir’yev. Launch the strike, Operation Galaxy. General Secretary’s orders. Launch the strike.”
NORAD
“Has this been authenticated?” General Matuchek asked, unbelieving.
Canadian Lt. Gen. Jonathan Honeycutt, NORAD vice commander, slowly nodded his head. “I’m afraid so, J.B.”
“Prepare for imminent strike?” Matuchek asked Honeycutt. “I don’t understand, John. Are the Soviets preparing to strike us, or are we going to launch a preemptive strike on Russia?”
“We,” Honeycutt paused, looking left and right, “are going to launch a first-strike, all-out effort.”
Matuchek turned pale, gripped the side of his command console, then slowly sank into his chair.
“What the hell is going on here?” the NORAD commander absently asked his vice commander. “Have they gone insane at the White House?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, J.B.,” Honeycutt responded, glancing at the Top Secret Nuclear message in his hand. He read it again. “All we can do is comply. It is authenticated. White House, Presidential.” Honeycutt placed the message folder on the console in front of Matuchek. “We’re about to hit the marbles, I’m afraid,” Honeycutt said in a halting voice.
Matuchek placed his head in his hands. “Read it to me again, John.”
Honeycutt picked up the red folder, put his glasses back on, then read the Top Secret message to his boss.
021745ZFEB
TOP SECRET NUCLEAR
FROM : WHITE HOUSE. COMMANDER IN CHIEF AK42766/57CC
TO : CINCSAC
SUBJ : NUCLEAR PREEMPTIVE STRIKE—SOVIET UNION
REF : JCS OPTIONAL STRIKE CRITERION
INFO : CINCNORAD
CINCTAC
1. NUCLEAR PREEMPTIVE STRIKE TO SOVIET UNION SCHEDULED 021820ZFEB. EXECUTE PRIORITY ONE TRACKING AND TARGET ACQUISITION. MANDATORY CONFIRMATION ALL COMMANDS.
2. IMPLEMENTATION SUITABILITY VERIFIABLE AT 021815ZFEB. VALID AUTHENTICATION AT 021819ZFEB.
3. THIS IS NOT AN EXERCISE.
Matuchek rubbed the back of his neck, then slowly stood up from his console. “Have the field commanders submit their status reports every five minutes, John.”
“Yes, sir,” Honeycutt responded quietly, reaching across to his phone.
“Oh, God,” Matuchek said, suffering from acute anguish, “Alice has no idea.”
The NORAD commander was oblivious to the frantic activity taking place around him. Frightened faces looked up at the two generals, then to the twenty-four-hour clock over the status boards.
USS TENNESSEE
The Trident II fleet ballistic missile submarine, ninety-seven nautical miles due east of Karaginskiy Island, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, cruised silently at a depth of four hundred feet.
The submarine was operating as the right flank of the carrier task force headed by the USS Constellation. The aircraft carrier, on full alert, had been flying sorties around the clock.
“Ken,” Capt. Mark McConnell said to his executive officer, Cmdr. Ken Houston, “have the officers and Chief Booker report to the wardroom.”
“Yes, sir,” Houston replied, simultaneously flipping the overhead PA switch. “This is the executive officer. Captain McConnell requests all officers and the chief of the boat to report to the wardroom, on the double.”
The captain and his XO sat in stunned silence as the officers and Booker hurried into the wardroom.
“Ken,” McConnell said quietly, “have the stewards go to the general mess, then secure the hatch when the last man is out.”
“Aye aye, skipper,” Houston replied, stepping into the galley.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” McConnell instructed in a subdued, almost inaudible voice.
Houston stepped back into the wardroom, dogging the hatch behind him. “All secure, sir.”
McConnell nodded his head in acknowledgement, then spoke to the assembled men. “Gentlemen,” McConnell started slowly, “I have a message—an order, if you will—from the president of the United States. Our commander-in-chief.”
The captain looked around the table at the blank expressions. The officers knew something strange was about to take place. McConnell was more serious than anyone had ever seen him.
“I’m going to read it to you.” McConnell looked down at the message, then back to his officers. “Then I will take questions, one at a time, beginning with Lieutenant Commander Lewandowski, proceeding clockwise around the table.”
When McConnell finished reading the shocking message there was a look of bewilderment on every face gathered around the table.
“We took an oath in order to join this service,” McConnell said. “We have been ordered, by our commander-in-chief, the president of our country, to strike the Soviet Union with every available missile on board. I don’t know why, or what provocation brought this about….”
McConnell waited a few seconds before continuing. “Does anyone in this room have a problem—any problem with our orders? The orders I have to carry out?”
No one uttered a sound. The officers were speechless, each trying to grasp the magnitude of the message.
“Actually,” McConnell placed the message on the table, “you know as much about it now as I do. The strike is scheduled within the hour.”
The engineering officer, Lt. Cmdr. Samuel Woolf, indicated he had a question.
“Sam?” McConnell responded.
“Skipper, what about the men? Are you going to inform them?” Woolf looked anxious, not sure what to expect after the stunning news.
“Yes, absolutely,” McConnell responded. “After you return to your duty stations, I’ll make the announcement. If we have any dissenters, or individuals who have philosophical differences, they will be placed in confinement until further notice.”
McConnell looked at the shocked officers. “If there are no further questions, you are dismissed.”
The group rose to their feet, confusion written on every face. The shocking order, along with the consequences, were difficult to understand in such a short time frame.
McConnell turned to his XO as the officers and Chief Booker filed out of the wardroom. “Well, Ken,” McConnell said with sadness in his eyes, “the unthinkable is going to happen in forty-three minutes. Our world, as we knew it when we left port, is going to be changed forever.”
Houston didn’t respond. He couldn’t trust his voice, or his emotions.
Chapter Twenty
COBRA FLIGHT
The two F-15 pilots had eaten a snack and rested while their fighters were refueled. Their relief pilots had returned to Flight Operations for assignment to other aircraft. Air Force Maj. Enrico DiGennaro was not about to give up his fighter if the balloon went up.
Likewise, his wingman, Capt. William “Wild Bill” Parnam, wasn’t about to leave his flight leader. American fighter pilots had an unwritten contract. Breaching flight integrity was a cardinal sin, punishable by banishment from the brotherhood.
After a quick flight line brief, the fighter jocks were airborne again.
Climbing through thirty-eight thousand feet, Cobra One checked in with the Airborne Warning and Control System aircraft.
“Pinwheel,” DiGennaro radioed, “Cobra Flight is back with you.”
“Roger, Cobra,” the AWACS controller responded. “Switch to tactical suppress, ah, tango, romeo, alpha, seven.”
DiGennaro and Parnam were surprised. The AWACS secret tactical radio code, changed on a daily basis, was used only in the event of war.
“Roger, Pinwheel,” DiGennaro answered. “Copy tango, romeo, alpha, seven.”
“Affirmative,” the controller replied sharply.
DiGennaro and Parnam checked their authenticator codes, then switched to the discreet frequency.
“Pinwheel, Cobras up your freq,” DiGennaro radioed to the orbiting control aircraft.
“Cobras, listen up!” the new controller said in an emphatic, no-nonsense command voice. “Prepare to engage hostile aircraft. Prepare to attack Soviet aircraft. CINCTAC authorization. Acknowledge!”
DiGennaro was momentarily taken aback. His mind raced, trying to formulate a logical explanation for the startling order. Attack the Russians?
“Acknowledge, Cobras!” The AWACS controller was adamant.
“One, copy,” DiGennaro absently responded, distracted by the sudden turn of events.
“Dash Two with a copy,” Parnam said in a questioning voice.
The AWACS controller waited three seconds, then radioed further instructions to the F-15 pilots. “Cobras, come left zero-seven-zero, climb to angels four-seven. This is for real, boys. Play time is over.”
“Roger,” DiGennaro acknowledged for both pilots. He quickly glanced at Parnam’s F-15, then mentally prepared himself for aerial combat with the Russians.
“Report weapons hot,” the controller ordered. “You have bogies twelve o’clock for sixty nautical. You are cleared to engage the Soviet aircraft. Switch to Strike—my code eight.”
“Lead is hotel, switching Strike,” DiGennaro responded, checking his armament panel and radio switches.
“Two’s hot,” Parnam reported in a clipped manner, adrenaline surging through his body.
The AWACS combat controller keyed his microphone in answer. “Good hunting, Cobras.”
“You bet,” DiGennaro replied. “Where are the other flights?” DiGennaro could hear a lot of chatter on the radio.
The AWACS controller hesitated before responding. “Eleven Fifteens are closing from your ten o’clock, seventy out, and, we’ve got eight Tomcats and six Hornets about to intercept the tail end of the Soviet group, the same formation you are engaging.”
“We’ll be damned lucky if we don’t shoot each other down,” DiGennaro replied sarcastically, knowing the attack would be like a nighttime figure eight destruction derby.
DiGennaro again looked over at Parnam’s Eagle. “Cobra Two, let’s spread out. We’re going for the bombers first.”
“Roger, lead.”
The two F-15s slashed through the cold night sky, poised to assault the Soviet bomber group in less than three minutes. Both pilots remained silent, rehearsing the tactics they would use in the melee.
Suddenly two bright lights flashed off to the right, followed by a number of fiery red explosions.
“Fight’s on!” radioed one of the Navy Tomcat pilots.
The aircraft radios erupted like the fast-paced chatter of a dozen horse race announcers talking at the same time.
Total confusion reigned as the Arctic night turned a reddish yellow, reminding Parnam of a Fourth of July fireworks display. Only something was different. The rockets were not going upward, they were traveling horizontally.
DiGennaro and Parnam saw the lead group of Blackjack bombers at almost the same instant. Both pilots fired two AIM-7M Sparrow missiles and then pulled straight up, continuing over on their backs to prepare for another missile attack. Coming down the backside of the loop, DiGennaro and Parnam could see the aerial destruction mushrooming.
“Cobra One is going for the ‘Jack’ pulling up!” DiGennaro yelled to his wingman, hoping Parnam could hear him over the congested radios.
The two McDonnell Douglas F-15s bottomed out of the loop and almost collided with a MiG-29. DiGennaro yanked the fighter’s nose up, tracked the Blackjack for three seconds, then fired two AIM-9M Sidewinder missiles.
“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” DiGennaro said to himself, sucking oxygen in the high-G turn, “this is like kicking a gunnysack full of wildcats.”
DiGennaro rolled wings level, switched to guns, and placed the pipper on the Backfire bomber. A split second before he squeezed the firing button the Russian aircraft disintegrated in an arc of falling fire. The Navy F-18 that had bagged the Russian pulled straight into the vertical and disappeared.
The dully lighted sky was a chaotic jumble of aircraft traveling in every imaginable direction, some at supersonic speeds.
DiGennaro tried to block out the radio garble. He had already heard two calls of “Mayday,” and three “Eject.” DiGennaro eased the nose up, then rolled the Eagle to give himself a better view of the Soviet bombers. They were spread wide, some turning back toward their bases. The Soviet bomber group had been decimated.
DiGennaro found his next target, another Backfire, and wrapped the F–15 into a face-sagging 7½–G turn. Two MiG–29s and a Tomcat flashed in front of DiGennaro, causing him to yank the throttles to idle and deploy the speed brake for an instant to avoid a collision.
Streaks of red lightning crisscrossed the night sky in every direction as DiGennaro slammed the throttles forward again and retracted the speed brake. The powerful Pratt and Whitney F100 turbofans, blazing in afterburner, thrust the air-superiority fighter beyond five hundred miles an hour as DiGennaro set up a shot. He gently eased the pipper slightly ahead of the Backfire’s nose, then squeezed the trigger and rudder-walked the F-15’s cannon down the Russian’s fuselage.
A stream of molten lead erupted from the M61 cannon mounted in the starboard wing-root. DiGennaro held the trigger down for two seconds, spewing over one hundred rounds a second into the fast-approaching bomber.
“Come on,” DiGennaro said, triggering another two-second burst.
The Russian Backfire seemed to come apart in slow motion. First the left wing folded upward, then the nose dropped downward, followed by a roll to the left.
DiGennaro was watching the bomber’s descent when he felt the Eagle shudder. He checked his instruments and warning lights. Nothing appeared wrong.
Glancing over his left shoulder, DiGennaro saw the cause of the vibration—a MiG was spraying cannon fire into the aft fuselage of his F-15.
“Mother of …” DiGennaro groaned under the snap 8-G corkscrewing maneuver. He violently unloaded the F-15, going for speed and separation, then snatched the stick back and slammed it hard to the left.
“Pull … pull, burners lit, more G,” DiGennaro said to himself, straining to breathe. His chest felt crushed from the high-G loads. He looked back to the left, then slapped the stick hard to the right, snap-rolling the agile fighter into a tight turn to the right. “Where … is … that … sonofabitch?”
DiGennaro saw the MiG at the precise instant the Eagle’s canopy exploded.
The stunned pilot, his plane buffeting in the cold hurricaneforce wind, pulled the throttles to idle, trying to slow the F-15 in preparation for an ejection. The instrument panel was a dark blur of flickering warning lights.
DiGennaro looked to his right as the Fulcrum shot by, burners lit, going supersonic. He tried desperately to bring the Eagle’s nose around for a cannon shot at the MiG. But something was wrong, terribly wrong.
The F-15 wouldn’t respond. DiGennaro tried harder to grasp the control stick as the fighter slowly rolled to the left. His right hand felt completely numb and he couldn’t grip the stick. DiGennaro looked down, then recoiled in shock.
His right hand was almost severed, hanging limp from his wrist. DiGennaro moaned, then grasped the stick with his left hand. Feeling light-headed, he released the stick and raised his hand to his oxygen mask. It was secure, but he couldn’t breathe. He ran his hand down the connecting hose and discovered the problem. The hose had been ripped apart. He also felt the moistness of his chest wound.
DiGennaro, in desperation, shoved the nose over in a futile attempt to reach a lower altitude where he wouldn’t need the life-sustaining oxygen. He watched the altimeter rapidly unwind through thirty-two thousand feet, then drifted into unconsciousness.
The gallant fighter pilot never knew when his F-15 slammed into the dark, cold water.
Capt. Bill Parnam was already sinking to the bottom of the Bering Sea. He had rammed head-on into a Navy F-18 while trying to evade the MiG that had downed his flight leader.
