Counterforce

by Richard P. Henrick

“Enjoy the rest of the trip, Comrade Yakalov.

  There’s enough fuel to keep you airborne for another four hours. I’m afraid though that the landing may be a little bit wet.”

  A malicious gleam poured from Romanov’s eyes as Yakalov struggled to free himself.

  “You men are mad!” Any further comments from Yakalov were silenced by a painful crack on the forehead. Cold, black unconsciousness followed.

  He came to groggily a half-hour later. Beyond the pulsating pain in his skull, the young Ukrainian was instantly aware of a frigid draft.

  His thoughts still hazy, he rolled over and attempted to orient himself.

  As the outline of the communications compartment came into focus, his jaw dropped as he saw the plane’s forward emergency exit wide open.

  Satisfied that he had found the source of the draft, he allowed the steady drone of the IL-38’s engines to further clear his tangled mind.

  The shock of total realization hit him several minutes later. Was it but a horrible nightmare, or had Romanov and Pilyar indeed killed the captain and then issued orders to begin World War III?

  His hair was matted with dried blood. Slowly, painfully, he tried to sit up. A wave of dizziness was suddenly compounded by nausea, and for a second he thought he might black out again. Fortunately, his lightheadedness passed and, with an effort, he was able to stand.

  His first duty was to close the emergency hatch.

  Carefully, he proceeded to the open doorway, using the equipment-packed wall of the fuselage to keep him balanced. He peeked outside and took in the vast, surging Pacific below. Thankfully, they were far below cruising altitude, eliminating the need for a pressurized cabin. He hit a button that sent the door slamming shut with a loud hiss.

  The quiet was immediate, and it was soon noticeably warmer. Quickly now, Yakalov determined his next priority. Though he would have liked to do something about’re contacting that submarine, his continued survival took precedence. Gently massaging his swollen forehead, he made his way to the flight deck.

  Gregor Silkin’s corpse was a bloody reminder that he had not merely awakened from a bad dream.

  Seated on the left side of the cockpit, the pilot looked as if he had received his death blow while in mid-sentence.

  Trying to ignore his startled, vacant stare, Yakalov positioned himself in the copilot’s chair. He broke into a cold sweat and fought back panic as he surveyed the complex mass of instruments and remembered that he had yet to take his first official flying lesson!

  Thankful for those precious patrols when his curiosity and persistence had drawn him to the flight deck, he was able to identify the altimeter, the horizontal-situation indicator, the airspeed counter and the fuel-quantity meter. He was extra cautious not to disturb the pearl-handled throttle to his left or the flap-control petals, which were recessed into the floor board.

  So far, the automatic pilot had done an admirable job of flying the lumbering aircraft. The weather remained clear and the fuel gauge showed at least another hour’s worth of available flight time. Yakalov looked out into the vibrant, cloudless blue sky and visualized the moment when the four Ivchenko engines would guzzle their last drop of petrol. Unforgivingly, the IL-38 would plummet into the waiting sea below.

  Vainly, the junior lieutenant searched the cabin for any type of manual that could explain the flight systems in greater detail. He grinned sardonically upon uncovering the only printed matter in sight-four dog-eared Swedish porn magazines.

  Desperately, he attempted to clear his cluttered mind. There had to be some way out of this predicament.

  The answer presented itself when a throaty blast of static emanated from the headphones clipped to the left side of his headrest. Of course — he’d use the radio! At least he had had some experience in operating that system.

  Fitting on the rubber-padded headset, he easily located the communications panel, set within arm’s reach, to his right. Though his knowledge of transmitting frequencies was limited, he did know the band reserved for emergencies. Fighting to keep his hand from shaking, he dialed in the proper wavelength on the digital selector and hit the transmit button. The static immediately stopped its scratchy roar as he spoke into the chin-mounted microphone.

  “Mayday! Mayday! This is May leader zero-two niner requesting emergency assistance. I repeat, this is May leader zero-two-niner requesting emergency assistance.”

  He listened intently to the receiving speakers, but heard only a lonely pulse of static. Faced with no alternatives, Yakalov sat forward and again hit the transmit button.

  “Skipper, we’re picking up some kind of transmission on the international distress band. You’d better take a listen. I think it’s Russian.”

  Lieutenant Bill Todd, pilot of the Grumman E2C Hawkeye early-warning aircraft, utilized the plane’s intercom to reply to his Tactical Coordinator, Mac Arnold.

  “Roger, Mac. How about playing this call over the system so that we all can have a listen?”

  Quick to accommodate his commanding officer, Arnold diverted the transmission so that the entire crew could hear it. It proved to be the copilot who identified the distant signal.

  “It’s Russian all right. The bogey refers to itself as “May leader zero-two-niner,” and they are indeed requesting emergency assistance.”

  “Where’s that signal coming from?” Lieutenant Todd asked.

  Arnold responded instantly.

  “Our AL-F-59 shows them at the limit of our northern periphery, some 500 miles distant.”

  “Who’s working that district for the good guys, Mac?” the pilot queried.

  Arnold checked the radar screen.

  “Tomcat two-zero-zero pulled that duty this afternoon, sir.”

  Todd’s voice boomed with authority.

  “We’d better pull two-zero-zero off his cap station and have him take a look. Mac, beam this distress call down to the Kennedy. I think the Admiral would like to take a listen.”

  Bill Todd turned off the intercom. The tanned, curly-haired aviator turned to his right and caught the eye of his copilot.

  “Well, Lieutenant, do you know enough of that Ruskie lingo to try a response?”

  The young flyer smiled.

  “I’ve been itching to put to use those two grueling years of Soviet language studies at the Academy, sir.”

  Todd nodded.

  “Then let’s give ‘em a jingle. Even without knowing Russian, I’d say that the voice belonging to that plea is damn scared.”

  The copilot selected the proper frequency and spoke fluidly into his chin-mounted transmitter.

  Thirty seconds later a startled yet clearly relieved response flowed into his headphones. Confidently, he flashed Lieutenant Todd a hearty thumbs-up.

  From the tactical data compartment, Mac Arnold listened to the unintelligible transmission and grinned. The Hawkeye was one hell of an aircraft, and he was proud to serve on it. As lady luck would have it, the Russian distress call was picked up at the very limit of their range. Since they were due to swing back to the John F. Kennedy, the carrier they were based on, they had received the transmission just in the nick of time. Fondly, he patted the gray-steeled side of the massive digital panel in front of him. Glancing at the green cathode-ray screens that lined its length, he was again impressed by the sensitivity of the 24foot diameter radome attached to the top of their fuselage.

  Not only could it detect a sea-skimming cruise missile over 115 miles distant, track more than 250 targets simultaneously, and control more than 30 air interceptions, it could also detect radio signals at a distance of over 500 miles. Some controllers even said that the APS-125 could monitor all of the commercial air traffic coming in and out of New York City’s three metropolitan airports at the same exact time! Mac always got a kick out of that awesome fact.

  To see if he could pick up their bogey’s radar signature, he was just giving the plane’s over-the-horizon system a try when a familiar, trim officer ducked through the forward hatch. Th
e copilot met his nod, then took a seat beside him.

  “I’m afraid that we’re going to have you earn your keep today, Mac. I need you to tie in with the Kennedy’s tactical data system. They’ll be sending us some info shortly of the highest priority.”

  Mac entered this request into his computer. While they waited for the monitor screen to flash the requested data, Arnold asked, “Is that distress call for real. Lieutenant?”

  The copilot hedged his answer.

  “It sounds like it, Mac. We’ve got a Tomcat eyeballing them right now.”

  “What kind of plane is it?” Arnold pressed.

  “She’s an Ilyushin IL-38—one of the Soviets’ big maritime patrol planes. Their primary duty is much like that of our TACAMO C-130, to relay messages to submerged submarines.”

  “May I ask what the problem is?” Arnold asked discreetly.

  The copilot paused before responding.

  “All that I can tell you is that they’ve apparently got a neophyte up there at the controls. The pilot’s dead and there’s less than an hour’s fuel left. We’re bringing the USS Eagle in presently to see about picking up any survivors.

  “But if there’s an amateur flying that plane, what good is a destroyer going to do? Do you really think that a novice could ditch that thing in one piece?”

  The copilot shrugged.

  “If I’ve got anything to say about it, he certainly will. The Kennedy is pulling the specs on the IL-38 right now. They’re going to send up a diagram of the cockpit controls, and then I get to play angel and talk that scared Ivan down.”

  “Holy Mother Mary!” Arnold shouted.

  “This is better than the movies. All that we have to do now is make certain that we write ourselves a happy ending.”

  As he spoke they saw a flash on the monitor. Both aviators watched as the screen began filling with an intricate sketch of the IL-38’s cockpit.

  “That’s the miracle of modern computers,” Mac sighed as the copilot cooly studied the diagram.

  After patching his headphones into the radio circuit, the lieutenant hit transmit and spoke loudly in perfect Russian.

  “Comrade Yakalov, this is Hawkeye One. I’ve got the data that I needed. Now, let’s see about getting you down. First, we’re going to have you head south, so that you’ll be within range of the ship we’re sending out to pick you up. This won’t entail a throttle change, but we are going to have to take you off autopilot. The toggle switch that will accomplish that task is located immediately before you. You’ll find it to the left of the round black ball of your altitude indicator.

  After switching the toggle downward, your next task will be to keep your eyes on the compass that is set beneath the altitude ball. To change your heading to due south, we’ll be activating the steering mechanism. When you put your hands on the wheel, do it gently, taking care not to jerk it forward or back.”

  Watching the lieutenant convey these directives, Mac Arnold had a new appreciation of not only the E2-C’s equipment, but also of her crew. If there was anyone who could bring that plane down safely, it would be the men and officers of the United States Navy.

  Of course, Arnold couldn’t see anything wrong about asking for a little assistance from a higher source. Reaching beneath his T-shirt, he fingered the crucifix that had been handed down in his family generation after generation. To the copilot’s unintelligible discourse, he added a silent prayer of his own.

  The Spruance-class destroyer USS Eagle was in the midst of an anti-sub-warfare exercise when it got the call informing them of the approaching IL-38. When notified of their new duty. Captain Robert Powell snapped into action. The gangly Midwesterner hurried from the sonar control compartment set deep in the ship’s hull. Quickly, he climbed two banks of steep metal ladders and entered the combat information center. It was from this vantage point that the rendezvous would be coordinated.

  The CIC was a dimly lit space, dominated by a massive plotting table.

  Surrounding it were glowing radar screens, chattering teletypes, several radios and dozens of other pieces of sophisticated gear.

  Powell moved to a large, edge-lit vertical sheet of clear plastic.

  Here he joined his executive officer, who stood before the plotting board with grease pencil in hand.

  “What have we got so far, Mr. Morley?”

  The XO used a ruler to draw a line from a spot indicating the Eagle’s current position to a location in the Pacific due north of them.

  “Radar’s got a good track on the bogey now, sir. Its range is approximately two-eight nautical miles and continuing to close.”

  “What’s its altitude?”

  “Five thousand and dropping. Skipper.”

  Powell responded thoughtfully.

  “I didn’t realize it was coming down that fast. Fuel must be getting critical. Let’s scramble our Seasprite and get out there on the double. No telling how that IL-38 is going to handle as it hits the drink.”

  Two floors beneath the CIC, the destroyer’s helicopter crew were in the midst of an early dinner when a tone sounded. The pilot went to a nearby intercom.

  Air Tactical Officer Gerald Grodsky anxiously shoved another spoonful of mashed potatoes and gravy into his mouth as he watched the lieutenant pick up the handset.

  “You’d better get moving on that chicken,” Grodsky said to the diver sitting beside him.

  “I got a feeling that this chow period’s about to get an abrupt ending.”

  “What are you talking about, Grodsky?” the diver asked between sips of hot coffee.

  “We did our bit for God and country this morning, during that two-and-a-half-hour ASW sweep.”

  Grodsky had been watching the pilot’s expression as he spoke on the phone, and serenely began wrapping up the two chicken breasts that still lay on his plate.

  “You’ll soon see, my friend.”

  Seconds later, the Hushed figure of the pilot arrived at their table, waving them on excitedly.

  “Let’s move it, gentlemen! We’ve got ourselves a red alert.”

  The diver flashed Grodsky a brief how did you know look. Pushing their trays aside, they scurried from the mess and headed quickly toward the ship’s stern.

  Upon first glance, the USS Eagle looked sparsely armed. One of America’s newest warships, the sleek, modular destroyer’s only visible weapons were a pair of 5-inch Mk 45 lightweight cannon mounted fore and aft, and a single ASROC box launcher located forward of the bridge.

  Most of the ship’s offensive capabilities were hidden. They included six torpedo tubes capable of firing both Mk 32 torpedoes and Harpoon missiles, a NATO Sea Sparrow launcher and two Phalanx CIWS gatling guns. Other features included a powerful SQS-53 bow sonar array, a pair of LM 2500 gas turbines, which gave them excellent speed with low noise emission, and, lastly, the ability to carry two helicopters.

  The ability to carry its own airborne vehicles was most important. Not only was it necessary for effective anti-sub-warfare operations, it also allowed the Eagle to launch its present mission.

  The helicopter hangar was located to the rear of the after-funnel uptakes. The Eagle’s chopper crew arrived just in time to help the support team slide open the large metal door and tow the Kaman SH-2 outside. The pilot then ducked into the cockpit and activated the Seasprite’s two General Electric T58-8F turbo shafts With a staccato roar, the 44-foot-diameter intermeshing rotor blades spun into action.

  The body of the dark-green vehicle vibrated and the chopper gently lifted.

  Gerald Grodsky made his way to the copilot’s seat while the diver put on his wet suit. As Grodsky buckled in, he turned to his left and asked, “Where the hell are we off to. Lieutenant? I haven’t seen you move this quickly since last month’s surprise leave came down.”

  The pilot answered while scanning the instruments.

  “Hit the chin radar switch and you should be able to see for yourself.”

  Grodsky reached out and activated the Marconi LN-66HP
unit. His monitor came instantly alive and he had no trouble picking out a rapidly approaching, low-flying bogey.

  “Whatever it is, it better pull up quick. That aircraft can’t be more than two hundred feet above the ocean.”

  “Do we have a visual yet?” the pilot asked.

  Grodsky picked up a pair of binoculars and hastily scanned the northern horizon. His intense survey abruptly halted forty-five seconds later.

  Focusing on one particular patch of sky to his right, he cried out incredulously, “I can see it! It’s a big, old four-engine turboprop job, with a bright red star on her tail.

  Lieutenant, that poor Russian is headed for a certain appointment with Davy Jones’ locker.”

  “That’s the idea,” the pilot replied.

  “Get back and give Simpson a hand with the rescue gear. Our job is to pull any survivors from the drink.”

  Grodsky could now see the lumbering, silver skinned aircraft without the binoculars. It continued toward them, a mere one hundred feet from the water’s smooth surface. Shaking his head in wonder, he returned to the rear compartment to point out their quarry to the diver.

  The Seasprite was still a good thousand yards from the plane when the IL-38’s engines feathered to a halt. In response, the aircraft slowly settled downward, skimming, then making contact with the waiting water. Its angle of descent allowed the vehicle to absorb the primary landing shock with its rear fuselage.

  Only then did the nose pull down, and the wings hit the Pacific, dragging the IL-38 to a frothing halt. Grodsky had seen several ditchings, but never one so perfectly executed. Inwardly praising the Russian pilot’s skill, he slid back the side hatch and began preparing the rescue harness.

  Beneath the roar of the Kaman’s rotors, he peered down at the choppy sea. They were hovering now, only fifty feet from the downed aircraft, which amazingly enough was still afloat. The wet-suited diver took a position beside Grodsky and both men scanned the plane for any signs of life. Fingers of smoke could be seen rising from the still engines, when suddenly the tail section began sinking.

  The diver hit Grodsky on the arm and signaled that he wanted to enter the water. Grodsky signaled him to wait. Until any survivors showed themselves, it would be both useless and dangerous to risk one of their own men.