Defcon One (1989) (39 page)

Can't tell for sure. Maybe a half to three-quarters of a mile.

Buchanan looked at his chart again, then casually spoke to his new copilot-gunner. Well, I guess now is a good time to let 'em close up.

What? the young pilot responded, shocked by Buchanan's intention.

They would surely die if the Russian gunships got any closer. You gotta be kiddin'. Major.

Buchanan checked his chart again, adjusted the cockpit map light, then dropped the nose of his gunship to descend even lower into the black, snowy night.

Just watch, Buchanan answered the bewildered copilot.

Stand by with the sixty, and hang on to your jockstrap!

There was no reply as Buchanan started a turn to the right.

The maneuver would allow the Soviet gunships to turn inside the S-70, closing the range between the combatants in a matter of seconds.

Here we go, Buchanan said soothingly, then rechecked his chart. The INS indicated only seven-tenths of a mile to the four eight-hundred-foot communications towers. Towers with many supporting guy wires fanning out in every direction.

Come on, you Communist bastards, Buchanan said quietly over the intercom, concentrating deeply on the task at hand.

Come to the bait.

Buchanan looked at the INS, then glanced quickly at the knee chart.

Three-tenths of a mile. Seconds away in the racing gunship.

Be there, Buchanan said softly as he momentarily flicked on the landing lights.

Hot damn! the pilot said over the intercom, while watching the INS.

Perfect!

Buchanan stared to his right, counting. One-thousand-one, he said under his breath as he waited for the S-70 to be precisely abeam the towers.

One-thousand-two, Buchanan continued, looking at the faint image of the steel towers. He could barely see the bases of the structures and their associated buildings in the blinding snow.

One-thousand-three, Buchanan said as he began to slowly tighten his turn around and in front of the massive towers, almost invisible under the dark, snow-laden clouds. The blinking lights on top of the tall towers were obscured in the low coastal overcast.

Major, the copilot shouted into the intercom, fingers flexing on the Me0 trigger, they're closin' in fast!

Good, was the only reply from Buchanan as he concentrated on flying the are around the tower complex. They'll have a real sweet surprise.

Six seconds passed as Buchanan's mouth turned dry. Come on... the pilot said to himself, beginning to have a shadow of a doubt.

A brilliant flash, followed in a nanosecond by another blinding flash, marked the end of two Russian gunships. They had flown into the first two towers and supporting guy wires.

The thundering roar of the dual explosions reached Buchanan's ears as night turned into daylight. Wreckage from the two Hind-Ds was tumbling across the ground, igniting everything in reach, including the support buildings.

Goddamn, the copilot yelled, inadvertently firing a short burst into the towers speeding past one hundred feet away. You knocked two of th A deafening report interrupted the copilot.

Another Soviet gunship, the crew shocked and blinded by the first two explosions, flew into the guy wires of the fourth tower. The third explosion added flaming wreckage, raining down with secondary explosions, to the huge conflagration enveloping the complex. The tall towers were collapsing in a slow-motion ballet.

Buchanan twisted around and saw another chopper pull straight into the vertical, narrowly missing tower three, and enter the overcast at a high rate of speed.

We're out, Buchanan whooped, turning back on course.

He looked down at his shaking hands. Calm down, he said to himself, then eased off the power from the straining engines.

Stay together, baby, he coaxed. We're going to make it to the ship.

A bright flash shocked Buchanan back to the moment. What the hell ...?

Another one, the copilot shouted. Another chopper went in! Think it was the guy who pulled up in the clouds. I mean he went straight in.

No doubt, Buchanan answered. They don't receive much instrument training. The pilot looked back at his copilot.

Probably got vertigo in the overcast, going' straight up, and fell through the bottom out of control.

Jesus, Major. The copilot paused. I've seen a lot, but I've never seen anything to top this. Unreal... the copilot remarked, then added, I don't see any more gunships, sir.

Well, we ain't home yet, Buchanan responded, eyes darting to the instrument panel for the thousandth time.

Damn, Buchanan shouted over the intercom. We're losin' gas at a hell of a rate.

The copilot, stepping over the shocked Dimitri, leaped forward to the cockpit. Bet a line got punctured when we took the hit.

*' Yeah ...Shit! Buchanan swore again, mentally calculating the distance to the recovery ship compared to fuel-loss rate.

The gauges were dropping rapidly.

Dimitri clamored to his feet, then approached the cockpit.

Sir? Dimitri asked tentatively.

Buchanan, having forgotten about his passengers, was startled by the agent.

Yeah, the irritated pilot said in a harsh tone, what can I do for you?

Sir, I need ... I have been ordered to send a priority message to the

White House, or ... to the Central Intelligence Agen

Christ, Buchanan interrupted tersely, which is it?

I guess I better send it to the White House, Dimitri stammered, still shivering.

Buchanan leaned closer to his copilot. You gotta be kiddin' me. This guy was a CIA agent in Moscow?

The copilot cracked a small grin, then busily strapped himself into his seat.

We'll send it Top Secret, scrambled. Buchanan looked over at Dimitri.

Best we can do from the helo.

Yes, sir, Dimitri replied earnestly. That will be great.

The young agent was exhilarated at being alive, but deeply saddened by the death of his friend, Steve Wickham. Dimitri knew he would have died, on more than one occasion, if it had not been for Wickham. The senior agent had sacrificed himself for the Kremlin operative.

What's the message? Buchanan asked Dimitri.

The president and his staff, along with the Joint Chiefs, had reconvened in the Situation Room. The fatigue was felt by everyone, gnawing at their patience.

Ted Corbin had been summoned to the room and looked nervous, hands together, head down. He sensed everyone believed his subordinates had screwed the entire effort in the Kremlin.

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 sonofabitch 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 fighter-bomber 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.