Defcon One (1989) (17 page)

Naw, that's the Marine Corps motto, Semper Preparedness.

There was a scramble for the dilapidated microwave as Hank Doherty nuked the dozen old-fashioned glazed doughnuts for one minute.

Semper preparedness? Cressottie laughed. Drew, you ever finish grade school, or did you get that far? Cressottie loved to bait his friend, the Marine Corps aviator and rookie astronaut.

Yeah, sure did, Culdrew grinned at Cressottie. Even went on to junior high school. Pledged the fraternity I felt a thigh.

The banter ceased as Rex Hays and Mission Controller Ken Stankitze entered the room.

You'd think NASA could spring for a new microwave, Doherty mumbled as he pried the door open on the charred and dented oven. He quickly served doughnuts around the cabinet and grabbed his steaming coffee.

Everyone took a seat as Doctor Hays and Stankitze greeted the astronauts. Hays walked to the podium, while the gaunt mission controller had a seat in the front row of the briefing room.

Well, fellas, hell of a time to get you out of bed, but we've had a change of plans. Hays wasn't upbeat, nor did he appear dejected.

The astronauts had cautious looks on their faces. Had the mission been scrubbed again? Was all the training down the drain?

You men are aware of the global tension at the present time, and the increased security here at the cape, Hays said.

We have been informed by the secretary of defense to launch the SDI mission at the earliest possible time. Unannounced, no media, middle of the night.

Hays looked at the faces of the crew. Surprise, shock, then relief registered on the five astronauts.

The president has decided to go for launch early, in view of what happened in the Atlantic. He believes the Russians won't attempt anything with the general secretary under scrutiny in Lajes.

Hays gave the crew a moment to collect their thoughts.

We plan to launch this evening, gentlemen.

Again, surprise registered on the five faces in the audience.

Colonel Crawford, caught off guard, spoke first. Can we do that? We haven't completed the preflight checklist yet. The fueling will take Hays raised a hand, quietly silencing the concerned command pilot.

The final fueling is under way. We are keeping everything low-key.

Business as usual. That sort of thing.

Hays looked at the mission controller. I'm going to turn the briefing over to Ken now. He can supply you with the details and I'll meet with you later this morning.

Hays turned from the battered podium, motioned to Stankitze, and left the room. The mission controller walked around the podium and unfolded his notes.

As Doctor Hays explained, Columbia is being fueled at this time. We anticipate an oh-two-forty-five launch time. The software is being reprogrammed as I speak, and the window will be fifty-five minutes long. What about security? Culdrew asked.

Every effort is being made to ensure this day doesn't seem strange in the normal prelaunch cycle. What that means, in a real sense, is the troops are being informed of the change of plans. However, their orders are explicit. They are to remain in a low-profile posture.

Stankitze saw that Crawford had a question. Yes, Colonel? What about the media? the pilot asked.

They aren't going to be very happy with us, Stankitze replied.

Laughter filled the room.

The media is being informed, during a press conference at noon, that a launch will take place four days from now, as per schedule.

They're going' to love you. Ken. Culdrew couldn't resist a jab at the serious-minded controller.

No doubt, Stankitze chuckled, then continued, the media will believe this evening is a dress rehearsal.

Laughter.

They will have to leave the launch site at the scheduled time, as usual, so nothing will seem out of the ordinary. We hope. Stankitze turned his pad over, then explained the new sequence of events.

Since the satellites are already on board Columbia, the logistics aren't very difficult. You will have breakfast, attend another briefing with Doctor Hays and the launch coordinators at oh-nine-thirty, and meet the press hounds at eleven hundred hours. I don't need to remind you to keep your mouths shut.

Stankitze glanced at his schedule. This afternoon, after lunch, Crawford and Doherty will follow the normal schedule for proficiency flying. The Thirty-eights will be available from thirteen-thirty to fifteen-thirty hours.

The mission controller looked directly at the pilots. Don't bust your asses. The rest of you will report for pay load training at fourteen hundred hours. Dinner will be early. We'll call you around midnight, as late as we can. Breakfast will be in orbit.

Try to sleep as much as possible.

Sleep? Doherty exclaimed. The Russians are getting ready to blow the world to smithereens. I'm getting ready to ride a rocket into space, and the area around the launch pad looks like a Rambo' movie.

Laughter.

Sleep? Doherty continued. The man tells me to sleep! I couldn't go to sleep with a quart of bourbon and a case of tranquilizers!

Stankitze laughed with the crew, thinking Doherty was right.

The briefing was terminated as everyone piled out of the room, spirits high in their togetherness. The close-knit group proceeded to breakfast, Doherty complaining about Cressottie's gut bomb doughnuts destroying his appetite.

GALENA AIRFIELD. ALASKA. Forward Interceptor Base The two United States Air Force F-15 Eagles roared off the short airstrip, afterburners blazing in the night. At the controls of Cobra One was Maj. Enrico Digennaro, a career military pilot and Air Force Academy graduate. Capt.William Wild Bill Parnam, piloting Cobra Two, would join on Digennaro's right wing in a running rendezvous.

The scramble had been initiated by the E-3 Airborne Warning and Control Aircraft. The aircraft's high-altitude radar had tracked the Soviet bombers and escorts for the previous hour.

The recent Red Flag fighter weapons graduates were temporarily assigned to Galena, one of two forward fighter-interceptor bases in Alaska.

The two Fox-15 pilots had the unenviable task of reconnoitering the Russian bomber groups before the other twenty-three F-15s arrived on station.

KC-10 tankers, operating from Eielson Air Force Base, were enroute, along with carrier-based Navy and Marine fighters from the USS Ranger.

Two Marine KC-130 tankers, operating from Adak, Alaska, would help support the carrier aircraft.

This intercept was shaping into a real hardball mission, especially under a DEFCON-Two alert.

The Russians had increasingly been flying strike profiles rather than peripheral reconnaissance missions, but not in these numbers. Seventy or eighty bombers, plus escort fighters and tankers, was an imposing force under any conditions.

Cobra Two aboard, Parnam announced as he thumbed his speedbrake closed. He had bled-off forty knots to match his leader's speed.

Roger, Two, responded Digennaro, let's go high station and check with Pinwheel.

I'm with you, lead. Parnam inched the throttles forward to remain alongside of Digennaro as they initiated a cruise climb to 54,000 feet.

Pinwheel Seven, Cobra One with you out a three-one-oh, flight of two Fox-Fifteens.

Copy, Cobra. Come to heading two-four-zero and squawk ident.

Roger, two-four-zero and ident.

Pause.

Pinwheel has a tally. Cobra.

The E-3 AWACS airborne controller had the two Mcdonnell Douglas fighters on radar and was vectoring the heavily laden aircraft toward the Soviet bomber group.

Pinwheel. How far out are the fifteens behind us? Digennaro needed the

reference point of the supporting fighters in order to form a tactical

battle plan.

Hawk flight is two hundred eighty miles at your seven o'clock.

Standby.

Roger. Digennaro eased back on the throttles, reducing power two percent.

The E-3 was silent a few seconds while they checked with the other P-15s from Elmendorf Air Force Base.

Cobra, Pinwheel.

Go. Digennaro didn't waste words, on the ground or in the air.

Leopard flight is five minutes behind the Hawks. They had one turn back with hydraulic problems.

Roger. Digennaro eased back another one percent of power to reduce fuel consumption and shorten the distance between his two fighters and the joining F-15s.

Pinwheel, what's the Navy's position?

' Coming up from the south ... be a while.' The controller hesitated again. The Ranger is six hundred nautical at one-six-zero from your position.

Roger, Pinwheel. We're going to slow it up until we have a few more troops.

Digennaro didn't want to engage the Soviet bomber group with odds running thirty to one. Not a good tactical decision.

The mission of the Forty-third Tactical Fighter Squadron, up to now, had been to intercept the occasional Russian Bear bomber-surveillance aircraft that strayed too close to the Aleutians or Alaskan coast.

This situation was a whole new ball game.

Chapter
Seven.

MOSCOW Dimitri, alternately dozing and staring at his clock, was startled when the alarm sounded at six o'clock. He remained in his narrow bed, exhausted after a restless sleep, believing he had been the victim of a bad dream. Actually, it had been an ongoing nightmare.America being obliterated in a firestorm by his native Russia.

Sitting upright, Dimitri surveyed the room, realizing it was not a dream at all. His mind raced as he assembled his toilet articles and walked down the narrow hall to the communal bathhouse.

Shaving and bathing quickly, Dimitri dressed in fresh warm clothes, checked his credentials, buttoned his heavy coat, and walked to the security entrance for lower ranking domestic workers.

The guard was a familiar friend who had been posted to his billet three months after Dimitri arrived at the Kremlin.

Dimitri had provided the sentry with sumptuous leftovers on more than one occasion.

Up early, Dimitri, the uniformed guard said in a friendly greeting.

Yes, Comrade Alexei Nikolayevich, Dimitri responded, I have many errands to attend to this morning.

But the shops are not open for some time, my friend.

The guard was inquisitive at this early hour.

Yes, but my Svetlana's door is open at any hour, Dimitri said, forcing a sly smile, Dimitri didn't have time for small talk. He tried to be calm and appear normal, but his heart was pounding.

Dimitri placed his shaking hands inside his coat pockets. He was sure the Kremlin guard had seen them trembling.

You will be busy, my friend, the guard said, waving Dimitri through.

Have fun shopping.

Thank you, Alexei Nikolayevich.

Dimitri walked across Red Square, passing the eight domes of Saint Basil's, and turned down the side street leading to Svetlana's tiny apartment. Along the way, he peered into shop windows, trying to effect a slow, casual stroll down the narrow, rough street. Dimitri passed the small, dingy cafe where he and Svetlana occasionally had a warm beer.They always laughed about having to drink fast before the paper cup soaked through.

Dimitri could almost sense the presence of KGB agents in the vicinity.

No one knew where they would appear next. He forced himself to relax, his breath turning to white mist in the cold February air.

The young Russian-American thought about the conversation he had overheard in the general secretary's quarters.

Would his CIA contact believe the incredible information he possessed?

The general secretary planned to strike America with nuclear and chemical weapons.

Could he even make contact at this unusual time of the day? He had no idea the American agents were desperately trying to locate him.

Dimitri rounded a corner and almost walked into his most frequent CIA connection.

Excuse me. I-I'm sorry, Dimitri blurted, shocked by the unexpected encounter.

No harm. Comrade, the American agent responded in flawless Russian, surprise registering on his face, too.

Steve Wickham, the senior CIA agent in Moscow, stepped off the sidewalk and around Dimitri. He continued down Kuybisheva Street, nonchalant in attitude and casual in his gait. Inside, however, his mind was whirling from the sudden and unexpected meeting.

Christ Almighty, the CIA operative said under his breath.

Now what?

The American agent stopped, apparently gazing at fresh bread being placed in a shop window. Actually, he was staring at Dimitri in the reflection of the glass.

The Kremlin mole was slowly strolling by the shop windows, his arms folded, left over right.

Damn, I've gotta go for it, Wickham said to himself.

He had been instructed to contact the plant as quickly as possible.

He sensed the urgency in the operative, too. His superiors, he thought quietly, had been correct about the immediacy of establishing contact.