Authors: Joe Weber
The pilots, along with Hawk flight and the Leopards, had listened in relieved silence to the AWACS coordinator. The Russians were turning back and DEFCON-Three would be implemented when the order could be verified.
Cobra and Leopard flight, return to base, the controller ordered.
Cobras RTB, Digennaro replied.
He looked over at the moonlight reflecting off Parnam's canopy, then smiled.
Cobras and Leopards, go tactical four. Have a nice trip.
Tact four, switching, Digennaro responded as he rapidly added power to the F-15 Eagle. He waited for the other flight to check in, then called.Cobra is up, flight of two.
Roger, the controller answered immediately. Initial heading zero-three-zero. We'll switch you to Gator Control shortly.
Cobra One, Digennaro replied, scanning his cockpit.
Engine parameters, hydraulics, weapons systems, avionics, and navigation instruments all looked normal.
Two, Digennaro radioed, you might want to turn on your lights before someone runs over us.
Sorry, boss, Parnam replied, dipping on his formation and navigation lights.
The lead pilot flew without lights, save the small, dull formation lights, so he wouldn't blind his wingman.
Cobras, contact Gator Control.
Switching, Digennaro replied, relieved to be so close to home base.
The two pilots, emotionally drained, were slowly winding down from the gut-wrenching tension of the previous hour.
Gator, Cobra flight. Two Fox-Fifteens and we're fat on fuel.
Roger. When you rollout, follow the wagon to refueling.
Be prepared for hot-refueling and crew changes.
Understand hot-pumping and pilot changes.
Twenty-five minutes later the two sleek Mcdonnell Douglas fighters turned off the Galena runway and fell in behind the Follow Me cart.
The F-15s eased to a stop, canopies raised, in front of the fueling pits. The engines would remain running while ground crew members quickly topped off the fuel tanks and checked the armament and missiles.
Both pilots glanced over in the semi-light to see their replacements.
They couldn't see the pilots' faces but knew their stances, two experienced flight leaders, including a former Thunderbird pilot.
Digennaro was in the process of unstrapping and removing his helmet when his crew chief scrambled up the side of the cockpit.
Major, the shit has hit the fan again!
The crew chief was a grizzled veteran of sixteen years in the Air Force.
Digennaro knew he could take the sergeant's word to the bank.
Wha ... I don't understand, Digennaro replied, trying to remove his sweat-soaked gloves.
The Russians turned back okay, but now they are holding in an eighty-mile-long pattern, sir. The latest skinny is we might be going back to DEF-Two, the sergeant said breathlessly.
It's the goddamnedest mess I ever seen. Major.
Thanks, Red, Digennaro replied, slapping the sergeant on the shoulder as he climbed over the side of the canopy.
Reaching the pavement, Digennaro turned toward the advancing pilots.
Both of the fighter jocks simultaneously saluted their deputy detachment commander. Digennaro smartly returned their snappy salutes and began unzipping his uncomfortable g-suit.
The major felt the tremendous burden of being the frontal West Coast fighter defense against the Soviet bomber groups.
Chapter
Eleven.
The American CIA agent knew he didn't have a second to waste.
One of the Soviet guards, standing in the open door of the guard shack, not seven meters away, was clearly ringing a number on the wall phone.
The guard who had asked for the ignition key was behind him, near the back of the automobile.
Wickham didn't hesitate as he straightened his body and half-turned toward the Russian guard.
Oh, how dumb of me, comrade. The keys are here in my coat pocket, Wickham said as he squeezed the trigger of the Beretta twice.
Two small holes appeared near the bottom of the CIA agent's left coat pocket, accompanied by two explosive reports.
The shocked Soviet guard, eyes bulging, staggered sideways clutching his groin, then fell headfirst into the side of the vehicle.
His body convulsed twice, then quivered for over a minute.
During that period of time, the American had pumped two rounds into the other guard. Wickham had fired three times, striking the door casing with one round.
His aim wasn't the same with his left hand.
Dimitri stared, transfixed, as the American ran to the guard shack, retrieved the critical credentials, then opened the road gate.
The Russian soldier in the guard shack, mortally wounded, crawled to the edge of the open door as the Lada sped away.
He rolled onto his side, grasped his ballpoint pen, and scratched the tag number and description of the bureau car on the wooden floor. He then collapsed in a pool of his own blood.
Snap out of it, Dimitri. I told you that I'm going to need your assistance. The American glanced at Dimitri, then the rearview mirror, then back to the road ahead.
Dimitri, listen, Wickham said in a calm, reassuring voice.
Is your weapon fully loaded?
Yes, Dimitri replied tentatively, it's loaded all the way.
The only thing Leonid Vochik, aka Dimitri Moiseyevich Karpov, had ever shot before today was a target with a human silhouette outlined.
Then change with me and reload mine. You still have rounds in your coat pocket? Wickham asked, watching the road closely.
No answer.
Dimitri, the American said slowly, that was a question.
Do you have more ammo in your pocket?
Yes, Dimitri replied in a hushed voice. The young man was dazed, his coordination slowed by shock and confusion.
Then get on with it.
Wickham slowed the Lada to a reasonable speed, then continued his dialogue in an upbeat manner. Dimitri, hang in there.
We're in pretty good shape, overall.
Dimitri nodded, quietly loading the Beretta, as he stared with blank eyes.
It will be a while before the guards are found, Dimitri, and there isn't any traceable evidence to link us. The KGB won't know what kind of car to look for.
The American looked over at Dimitri. Come on, cheer up. We'll be out of Russia tomorrow morning. We're almost home, Dimitri.
The agent returned a faint smile.
By the way, here are your credentials, Wickham said as he handed the papers to his charge. There was nothing left behind to implicate us.
Relax, Dimitri. Breathe slowly.
Twenty kilometers behind the gray green Lada, a KGB officer raced into the guard shack and turned the Russian soldier over.
The KGB agent checked for a pulse. He could see it was useless.
The officer walked to the door and waved his companion, who was checking the other slain guard, into the guard shack.
Then he reached for the phone, noticing the dead guard had a ballpoint pen clutched in his hand. He leaned down and saw scratch marks, lightly colored in black, across the wooden floor.
AIR FORCE ONE The jumbo jet cruised serenely at 39,000 feet. Two miles off the right wing of the 747, slightly astern, four F-14 Tomcats flew in loose formation.
Directly behind the presidential jet, and slightly above, two additional F-14s trailed the big Boeing. One of the pilots in the flight of two was Capt. Vince Cangemi, United States Marine Corps.
His flight leader was the Eisenhower's air group commander (CAG), Peyton Reynolds.
Captain Reynolds, USN, reasoned that he should lead the flight of six Tomcats assigned to escort the president of the United States.
Reynolds had selected Cangemi to be his wingman. The Marine aviator had been the only American pilot rescued after the ambush over the USS Virginia. Cangemi was fighting mad and had fire in his eyes when he volunteered to fly the escort mission.
Reynolds was concerned but knew the Marine pilot was well-disciplined and would respond accordingly. He had great respect for the young fighter pilot.
Reynolds looked over at Cangemi, then took in the other four fighters.
Tuck it in, gents.
Roger, Kingpin, came the reply from the leader of the four VF-84 Tomcats.
Reynolds scanned the sky, then checked his fuel gauges and glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes to feeding time for the thirsty fighters.
He and Cangemi could see their tankers on the horizon.
The two KA-cd Intruders were full of fuel and standing by to gas the F-14s. Two more tankers, from the USS America, would rendezvous with the Tomcats in slightly more than an hour.
The president, though groggy, opened his eyes and sat up.
He focused on the presidential seal, then stood up and walked into his private half-bath, the water closet, as he referred to the inclosure.
The president splashed cool water on his face and reached for a toothbrush. After applying the toothgel, he looked in the mirror, noted the bloodshot eyes, then began to brush his teeth slowly.
A knock on the door interrupted the ritual as Grant Wilkinson stepped in.
Umph with-oo-n-mome... the president mumbled, toothpaste dripping from the corner of his mouth.
Sorry, sir, Wilkinson said, closing the door behind him.
Take your time. Nothing that important at the moment.
The president finished, rinsed his mouth, then tossed the disposable toothbrush into a waste can.
What's up. Grant?
The shuttle crew is getting ready to go outside EVA, I believe they call it and see if they can free the satellite. It took some time for the astronauts to get into their suits.
Good. We're makin' progress at least, the president responded as he toweled his hands dry.
The president poured another splash of whiskey into a fresh tumbler, dropped two cubes of ice into the liquid, and offered Wilkinson a drink.
Thank you. It has been a long day, Wilkinson replied as the president turned around to the bar.
Please sit down, sir. I'll fend for myself.
The president sat on the couch and posed a question to his closest aide.Grant, what do you think about the outcome of the meeting with Zhilinkhov?
Sir, we accomplished what we wanted. Our satellites were being deployed while we placated Zhilinkhov. He is, by the way, completely unbalanced, in my estimation.
The president, taking a sip, nodded. I could see that in his smile.
Frightening. The president shuddered.
Also, Wilkinson continued, we know he is very upset about our SDI capability.
Yes, the president reflected out loud, that's what bothers me most.
Zhilinkhov knows the last pieces are in place. SDI is breathing.
Almost in place, sir. Wilkinson sipped his Chivas and soda, then sat down in the single chair by the cabin door.
Right. Soon to be in place. I hope, the president said quietly, twirling the ice in his drink. I believe Zhilinkhov is truly afraid we are going to use SDI as an offensive weapon against the Soviet Union.
A flicker lighted the darkened room as the president placed a match to his rum-soaked cigar.
Grant, the president looked up, his eyes twinkling behind the flame, what is Zhilinkhov going to do, in your opinion?
Sir, with respect, only Zhilinkhov knows the answer to that question, and I'm not sure he feels certain from minute to minute.
Again, that's what frightens me. Grant, the president replied, extinguishing the match. Really frightens me.
Sir, my recommendation, Wilkinson paused, searching for the proper word, is that you meet each provocation with retaliation. If Zhilinkhov continues to attack our forces, you need to counterattack with a bigger club.
I agree, the president responded, clenching his fist.
That's the only message Zhilinkhov understands.
NORAD The command post was a beehive of activity after the DEFCON-Two alert was reinstated.
General Matuchek sat at his control console, intently watching the surge of airborne activity. He had forgotten about the cup of lukewarm coffee at his elbow. His tie was undone and the strain was evident on his face.
His vice commander, LT. Gen. John Honeycutt, was at his side providing a situation update.
J.B the AOA aircraft is airborne and the standby Boeing will be up in twenty-five minutes, the jovial Canadian reported in his normal, chipper manner.
Okay, John. Thanks, Matuchek replied, thinking about the Airborne Optical Adjunct Boeing 767s. The specially modified planes, sporting elongated cupolas, contained SDI missile detectors and worked in conjunction with the strategically deployed satellites.
The airborne sensors could acquire and track attacking missiles' reentry vehicles, predict their impact points, and hand over data to ground-based radar for terminal intercept and destruction.