Authors: Joe Weber
I recommend that we contact our operative in the Kremlin, in the quarters of the general secretary, and see if he can obtain any relevant intelligence for us. He will most likely be sacrificed.
We've had him in place for two and a half years, but we need substantive information now. Mister President.
I could not agree more. The president paused. How reliable is this agent. Grant?
Very reliable, by all indications, sir. He is highly regarded at Langley.
Very well. Make contact as quickly as possible, and give me an update on the DEFCON-Two status when you have an opportunity.
Will do, sir.
Wilkinson gently shut the door as he hurried down the corridor to the message center of Air Force One.
NORTH AMERICAN AEROSPACE DEFENSE COMMAND (NORAD) Gen. Richard J. B.Matuchek, United States Air Force, CINCNORAD, stared in disbelief as the status light on the situation board blinked on and off, accompanied by a loud buzzer, indicating a DEFCON-Two alert.
The general had just returned to his command post, deep in the 100-million-year-old Cheyenne Mountain, from a global situation briefing. This new development was totally unexpected, in view of the pending conference between the two superpowers in Lajes.
Matuchek was trying to grasp the consequences of this latest twist in the rapidly eroding American-Soviet relationship. Absently, the four-star general checked the authenticator code a third time. No question. This alert was real, not a computer glitch.
Matuchek opened the DEFCON-Two orders. The NORAD chief was startled when his command phone rang. He fumbled with the operational orders book and reached for the receiver.
General Matuchek.
Dick, Milt Ridenour, the Air Force chief of staff continued without waiting for an acknowledgement. We are going to move our active East Coast fighter squadrons across the pond.
Immediately.
Yes, sir, Matuchek answered, momentarily glancing at a new message placed on his console.
The Stealth fighters are going to be based with our NATO friends. The movement is underway, along with the B-1 repositioning, Ridenour concluded.
Yes, I was just briefed on their status for immediate deployment.
Dick, we are going to replace the deployed squadrons in six hours, or less, with reserve and guard units.
Yes, sir, Matuchek responded. Most everyone has anticipated that possibility.
Good show, Dick. Ridenour sounded upbeat. What is your current readiness condition?
Matuchek quickly checked the status board before replying.
Eighty-two point two percent at this time. We can expect,
conservatively, eighty-four plus in four hours or less.
Appreciate that, Dick.
Yes, sir.
We've got a hell of a mess in our lap and I know I can count on you and the rest of the NORAD crew.
Thanks, Milt. We haven't been to DEFCON-Two in ages.
Afraid we have a few cobwebs to dust off in the mountain.
You're not the only one, Dick. SAC has had some minor problems, but we've got the 52s and B1s deployed and on alert. We did lose one 52 out of Carswell. Crashed on takeoff.
Yes, sir, Matuchek replied, saddened. I was informed. Sorry to hear that.
Ridenour continued without acknowledging. The Stealth bombers the ones we have available are in the process of being deployed throughout North America. The last one left Whiteman ten minutes ago. We made sure the Russians are aware of that fact, along with the knowledge that some of our B--2s are carrying burrowing missiles. Their underground bunkers aren't going to be of much use to them if they push the button.
The Soviets know we have shuffled everything in the inventory.' Sounds good. Milt. The Stealth presence is going to confuse the Russian air defense, no question.
Matuchek glanced up when an aide motioned excitedly to him, pointing out satellite confirmation of massive Soviet bomber groups joining over the Barents Sea.
Sir, Matuchek stared at the brightly lighted display, we are receiving SAT-INTEL confirming large Russian bomber join-ups over the Barents Sea.
Better let you do your job and get on with mine, Ridenour said in a pleasant, but clipped voice. Be in touch soon.
Yes sir. The line went dead as Matuchek felt his stomach growl again.
The original DEFCON alert had taken away his appetite and the NORAD boss knew he needed to eat a few bites of something bland.
Matuchek ordered a chicken salad sandwich on white bread and a glass of iced tea. Waiting for his sandwich, the general thought about the NORAD complex. If the Big One ever happened, the underground operations control facility would be as safe as any place receiving a direct strike by a nuclear missile.
Experts believed a twenty-megaton warhead, a massive weapon, dropped on top of Cheyenne Mountain would most likely only pop the eardrums of those personnel inside the tunnels of the solid granite mountain.
The general felt reasonably comfortable with the survival aspects of the air defense, missile warning, and space surveillance control center. It would be very difficult, if not impossible, to destroy the command center.
It was a five-minute drive through the rock-walled entry tunnel to the underground city. Two enormous steel blast doors, weighing twenty-five tons each, provided the final protection from attack.
Matuchek politely acknowledged the delivery of his light meal, sipped his iced tea, and continued to think about the cavernous NORAD complex.
Fifteen freestanding buildings, housing the command post and industrial support equipment, were supported by 1,300 giant steel springs.
The huge shock absorbers, weighing half a ton each, would minimize the effects of tremors resulting from nuclear detonations on the surface of the mountain.
Matuchek, chewing the last bite of his sandwich, was interrupted by the assistant operations officer.
Excuse me. General. We have received an update from the War Room.
The lieutenant colonel placed the Top Secret, Eyes Only, folder to the left side of the general's meal tray, next to his reading glasses.
Thank you. Colonel, Matuchek said, awkwardly swallowing the final morsel of chicken salad.
Yes, sir.
Matuchek reached for his glasses and opened the folder.
He glanced down the page quickly, then started over more slowly to glean all the pertinent information in one reading.
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 IF. 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.