Mission Critical

by Jamie Fredric

  "Tomcats are coming in from the west, sir," the Air Boss reported.

  Leaning toward Radarman Summers, Donovan remarked, "Keep an eye on them, 'Scopes'." He patted Summers on the shoulder, his way of showing confidence in the young petty officer. Summers was good, able to juggle an entire task force.

  Donovan went over near the Air Boss, leaning toward the window, scanning the water. "Has the Sea King lifted off?" The rescue chopper was always the first aircraft to leave the deck before flight ops ever began and hovered close by till the last plane was launched or returned.

  "Yes, sir," Dodson answered, pointing in the direction of the angle deck before he walked back to the Roost.

  A Grumman F-14 Tomcat, its landing lights in view, rode the wind rushing beneath its outstretched wings, the fighter resembling a majestic bald eagle floating on the air currents above the Rockies. Inside the cockpit, with one hand on the throttle and the other on the flight stick, the pilot gingerly maneuvered his aircraft, lining it up with the ship.

  The pilot, Lieutenant William Fitzsimmons, checked in with the LSO (Landing Safety Officer) then checked his gauges and called in his name, speed and fuel weight. The tension on the arresting wires were immediately adjusted, set to match the weight and speed of the Tomcat.

  The arresting wires were forty feet apart, but 'Wired Willy' had a special knack for always catching the number four wire, the last wire. The farthest from the fantail, number four was the pilot's final shot at a safe capture. Missing it meant he'd have to bolter, in other words, hit the afterburners and hope there was still enough deck in front of him. Bets were on throughout the ship. CAG Morehouse had been unsuccessful in curtailing the bets or Willy's number four wire capture.

  With full power on, Fitzsimmons' 61,000 pound, missile-laden aircraft slammed onto the deck, his tailhook catching number four wire. But as nerve-wracking as Willy's landings were, he'd never once been given a 'wave off' or missed number four wire.

  The arresting wire slithered backward along the deck, recoiling like a massive anaconda, until again stretched tightly, port and starboard sides. The four arresting wires waited for their next capture, and every forty-five seconds, they could expect another.

  *

  Edwards Air Force Base, California

  January 25

  1900 Hours

  A black, delta-winged aircraft, its two turbo-ramjet engines spewing orange flames, accelerated down Runway 19. Disappearing into a torrent of pelting rain, the giant 'bird' rose from the earth, pulling effortlessly away from gravity, its afterburners turning white hot. Reaching 25,000 feet, the aircraft immediately linked up with a tanker for in-flight refueling. Since the outer shell was made of titanium, it expanded under extremely high temperatures during flight. The fuel tanks were designed so they would leak until the aircraft was airborne, and then they would continue to expand until completely sealed. Because of this, the fuel was nearly expended by the time the aircraft was airborne.

  With refueling completed, the fastest manned, highest flying reconnaissance plane, the SR-71 Blackbird reached farther into the heavens. Within minutes, it was cruising at 2,000 mph, at an altitude of nearly 72,000 feet. This multi-million dollar aircraft, equipped only with a sophisticated camera, radar and infrared systems, feared no one or nothing. Missiles or guns for self-defense were a mute issue. The 'Bird' was designed specifically to fly extremely high and with blinding speed. Even anti-aircraft missiles were useless against it, as witnessed by pilots during the Vietnam conflict. They reported seeing Soviet-made SAM2 missiles being fired at the Blackbird, but being unable to reach the altitude, they ultimately "fell from wends they came."

  Sitting in the forward pilot's seat was Air Force Colonel Greg Dumont, with Captain David McMillans, Reconnaissance Systems Officer occupying the rear seat. Looking more like astronauts than pilots, both men were dressed in pressure suits and connected to life support systems. Their present mission, CIA authorized, would take them on a high-speed flyover of the China and North Korea borders. With their speed and altitude, it was possible for them to photograph 100,000 square miles in just one sixty-minute flyover. But today, they'd only need eight minutes to get the pictures requested.

  Colonel Dumont put a last minute trim on the flaps and touched up the throttles to make the cruising speed and altitude. He adjusted the oxygen mask. "Dave, we have the latest weather out of Travis?"

  "Yes, sir. It looks smooth all the way to Elmendorf."

  "Great. Keep an eye out for the weather link off Seattle." Dumont checked his geographic display for positioning and corrected for a freak forty knot jet stream. He checked both panel displays located just forward of his knees and settled back to log his observations after putting the Bird on 'George', the auto pilot. "We're on 'George', Dave...hands off."

  "Roger, skipper."

  They flew silently for several minutes, which wasn't unusual. There was plenty to do when the Blackbird was up. But they'd flown many missions together in the SR-71, and after a while, one seemed to know what the other was thinking. McMillans smiled when he heard Dumont's voice in his headset.

  "It'll get better over the water, Dave. We've just got the radar checkpoint in Adak, and then--"

  McMillans continued making his notes and calculations as he finished the sentence, "...we're outta here!"

  *

  Pentagon

  Sunday, January 26

  1040 Hours

  Secretary of Defense Thomas Allington pointed to the aide, motioning for him to open the double doors then said, "Come in, Commander, Agent Phillips," he motioned, then with a condescending glance, said to his aide, "I'll be awhile." The aide immediately left. The solid wooden doors were securely closed, and a Marine guard, with a Smith & Wesson .45 strapped to his side, moved to take his position directly in front of them.

  Allington assumed the role of Secretary of Defense with the election of President Samuel McNeely and Vice President Harold Shurmann in 1972. A twenty-year Navy veteran, Allington was assigned to the Judge Advocate General's Office the last six years of his military service, after which he began his own law practice. He began loosening his tie and stared at the uniformed men. "Gentlemen, you might as well get comfortable. Today has 'long day' written all over it."

  Seated at the long, rectangular, mahogany table were four military officers making up the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The military brass shifted in their seats, brief smiles acknowledging the SecDef's remark. That's as comfortable as they would get. The austere military traditions of all the Armed Forces just didn't provide for a "time for loosening one's tie."

  Four-star Army General Allan Sherwood, Chairman of the JCS, was the embodiment of a military officer who had learned early the lessons of the power of manipulation and the term "sucking up." For nearly thirty years, every move he made was meant to feed his ego and setting his goal and career path to becoming the youngest Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. He turned the normally placid meetings into the proverbial circus. The inside joke was that before anyone entered the room, they first threw in a thermometer just to check the temperature.

  General Victor Norwood, USAF, Chief of Staff, had come to the Joint Chiefs directly from his assignment as head of the Strategic Air Command (SAC). Norwood was one of the first to fly the new B52A's delivered to the Air Force in 1954, and in 1959, he was part of NASA's X15 project, carrying the X15A beneath the B52's underbelly. He possessed the insight and judicious reasoning that would safeguard the aircraft from being replaced by newer bombers.

  Admiral Carl Maxwell, USN, Chief of Naval Operations (CNO) and JCS Vice Chairman, had the most time-in service of all the Joint Chiefs. He, like Gene Morelli, had come up through the ranks. He had been a troubled sailor during the early part of his career, having gone through two marriages in less than six years, and known for his confrontations with the Shore Patrol on numerous occasions. Maxwell learned that drinking wasn't the way to win friends and influence people. So when he cleaned up his act and reached deep down insid
e himself to set a new course for his life, it guided him down a path to become CNO. Knowing both sides of the fence had made him a sailor's sailor. Even during the sad times of dishing out punishment to sailors, he was lenient and was jokingly, but fondly referred to as "Brother Maxwell" because of his sermons to the wayward sailors he had chastised.

  General Orvis Black, USMC, Commandant of the Marine Corps, was a man of impeccable integrity and deep-reaching faith. With his clear blue eyes and close-cropped silver butch haircut, he was a Marine poster just waiting to be printed. During Vietnam, Black was Commanding General of the 5th Marine Division for I Corps in DaNang. Along with a Silver Star and Purple Heart that he earned during Korea, Black received the Distinguished Service Medal for cleaning up the northern cities of Hue and Phu Loc during the Tet Offensive. His loyalty to his men propelled him through the ranks, twice being deep selected in rank. In six months, General Black is scheduled to retire from the Marine Corps.

  The Secretary nodded in the direction of Grant Stevens and Sam Phillips. "As you all know, Agent Phillips is representing the CIA, and Commander Stevens is here from NIS at the recommendation of Admiral Morelli."

  "Big goddamn deal," General Sherwood muttered without turning around, rapping the tip of his pen on the table.

  For the moment, almost everyone ignored the sarcastic remark made by the chairman, that is, everyone but Grant. Sherwood hadn't changed. He drilled his stare into the back of the chairman's head, a head that seemed balanced somewhat precariously on what Grant once described to Morelli as a "grizzled turkey neck."

  The SecDef gestured toward the two-page agenda resting on the manila folders set before each of them. "You've had an opportunity to review the documents in front of you. Let's discuss the situation. General Norwood, do you have anything to report?"

  Norwood pushed his chair back then walked somewhat tentatively to the map projected onto the screen. It was obvious the arthritis in his left hip was acting up, his limp more prominent. He looked up at the map. "Our first flyover by satellite shows the Chicom massing, right about here in Ji'an and here, Dandong." He circled the two areas with a black-tipped wooden pointer. "About three hours after the satellite's pass, we had the Blackbird shoot the photos you have in your folders."

  The 'Bird' did good work again, Grant thought, as he shuffled through the series of glossy, black and white photos.

  "Analysis confirms those two sites," Norwood said as he tapped the screen, "and Nampo, right here on the northeast coast of North Korea. Each has missile launchers in position." He hesitated momentarily, looking up at the details of the map before he turned around, tapping the pointer against his palm. "All the missiles have been confirmed as launch-ready, with more stockpiled at each site."

  "Are you planning more flyovers?" asked the secretary as he lit another Marlboro, then went into a coughing fit, holding his handkerchief in front of his mouth, trying to muffle the disturbing sound.

  Norwood replaced the pointer in the tray then returned to his chair. Looking at his watch, he answered, "The satellite should be making another pass as we speak."

  Grant sat quietly in the background, absorbing every word, instinctively calculating and planning, compiling a mental list of questions and options that would decide life or death, perhaps his own. Every now and then he'd glance at the display that pinpointed every ship in the task force sailing off the northeast coast of Japan.

  "We got a report from the long-range recon SEAL team, Tango Alpha, out of Japan," piped up the CNO.

  Grant's attention immediately turned to the Admiral, even more so when hearing that the SEALs were involved, although, he would have been more surprised if they weren't. They were usually the first ones in. They were the Navy's 'silent option', a phrase coined by Stubby Brooks. SEAL Team 2 adopted it as their motto. Without thinking, Grant touched the 'Budweiser' above the rows of ribbons on his service dress blues jacket. Until that moment, he didn't realize how much he missed it, missed the Teams. Being stationed in D.C. and involved in intel activities kept him sharp, sensitized. But it just wasn't the same as being part of an operational team.

  Admiral Maxwell ran a hand over the top of his balding head, then leaned on the edge of the table as he said, "The SEALs did a show and tell when they got back and reported seeing stacks of mortar rounds at the site in North Korea. Hell, they even got close enough to read the printing on the casings!" he said, his boastful tone unmistakable. "But this is where it gets baffling. According to the SEALs, the Chinese symbol on those mortars indicates they're only exercise rounds. I called WARCOM (Special Warfare Command for SEAL teams) in San Diego just to confirm that point after reading the Team's dance cards." He looked at each attentive face staring back at him before adding, "None of them are loaded with live ammo." He looked to his left, staring directly at Grant as he spoke those words, waiting for a reaction. Then he spotted something in Grant's eyes, the expression on his face revealing he already had an idea. "Your thoughts, Commander, can you add something at this point?"

  Grant nodded, then stood by his chair, laying the folder and photos on the seat. "Sir, what if this isn't a plan to attack, or even to invade Korea at all? It has all the earmarks of the Patton diversion used in England, Admiral, when they planted dummy materials and troop movement."

  Gene was right about this kid, thought the CNO, as he leaned back, intrigued, waiting to hear more.

  The secretary pulverized his cigarette in the ashtray, dropping it next to several extinguished butts, a thin haze of smoke hovering above the table. "Go on, Commander."

  Grant rubbed the back of his neck as he formulated his thoughts. All eyes were on him while he slowly walked over toward the viewing screen in the corner of the room. Minute particles of dust seemed suspended within the projector's light beam. He broke the beam as he passed in front of it, a portion of the map visible on the back of his dark uniform jacket.

  He glanced up at the map before turning to look at the Joint Chiefs and SecDef. "The report on this by the CIA points out the traffic they've intercepted between Russia and China has mentioned the USS Bronson. Suppose this is just some type of subterfuge, designed specifically to...?"

  Chairman Sherwood wasn't about to wait for an explanation. With nostrils flaring, and a beet red face, he tore into Grant. "What the hell are you talking about? Subterfuge? You think this is some kind of goddamn game, Stevens?" The redness in his face slowly crept upward like the infamous Red Tide, plainly showing through his thinning gray hair.

  Without even blinking, Grant answered the chairman calmly. "No, sir. I can assure you I'm well aware this isn't a game. I've spent my career separating the authentic from the fraudulent...sir."

  Admiral Maxwell didn't even attempt to hide his amusement, impressed that Grant wasn't rattled by the outburst and had even managed to politely 'slap back.' The other Joint Chiefs had grown accustomed to seeing this from the chairman. Maxwell wished he could give Commander Stevens a 'thumb's up' sign, and with a tight smile, drilled his stare right through the angered Sherwood.

  No love had been lost between these two, Sherwood and Maxwell. They had served together on the JCS for nearly three and a half years of their four-year appointment, always going head-to-head about every point of interest that approached the JCS offices. He turned back to Grant. "Proceed, Commander."

  "Yes, sir. As I was saying, suppose this was designed specifically to draw in the Bronson?" Grant's shadow projected against the screen as he reached up and traced his finger along the outline of the map. "Here we have the coast of Russia, North Korea and the Chinese border..." He repeatedly jabbed his index finger against the screen, pointing to an area east of Japan, then he intentionally stared at the red-faced Chairman. "And here we have the USS Bronson." Making eye contact with each of the Joint Chiefs and the SecDef, he continued: "It isn't just the Bronson, sirs; it's the microchip for the SNAGS we have to be concerned about. One chip in the hands of the Russians, then one chip is duplicated, and then the Chinese have it. T
he Free World could be brought to its knees. I submit to you that the Korean scenario is a ruse, and the Bronson is their true target."

  General Black got up and walked to the double doors, eyeing the Marine sergeant's impeccable uniform, but not really examining it. He turned and stared at Grant. "We all know about the SNAGS, Commander, and what would happen if it fell into the wrong hands."

  Grant cleared his throat. One quick look at CNO Maxwell's expression reinforced the fact that he got carried away trying to get an unnecessary point across.

  Black stood behind his chair, resting his hands on the leather back, as he said, "What we want to know is if you have anything at all to substantiate what you're implying?"

  "No, sir, I don't," answered Grant, "but the coincidence is too great. Our intel, along with the CIA's, reported that the Russians have known there was more to the Bronson than what's already been leaked. We know how badly they want what's on board, and it's becoming apparent they're willing to do anything to get it."

  Agent Phillips nodded, then stood slowly, everyone shifting their eyes to him. "The commander seems to reflect my feelings, gentlemen, and according to the bits of information from our radio intercept stations at Adak and Kamisaya, it appears that Korea is the Commander's 'Patton.'"

  "So, why get the Chinese involved?" asked Allington as he rubbed his reddened eyes. "Why aren't the Russians just running the show themselves and trying to take it all?"

  Grant walked over to the end of the table, grinding his fist into his palm. "My guess is they knew we'd go all out to protect Korea by sending our best. What better way to fire us up then to get China involved, too? And with the technology that's at stake, I'm sure the Chicoms were anxious to be willing participants."