Defcon One (1989)

by Joe Weber

  Defcon One (1989)

  Weber, Joe

  Published: 2010

  Defcon One

  Joe Weber

  *

  PROLOGUE:

  Fouad Baqir al-Sadr watched the Aeroflot Ilyushin-62 accelerate down the runway, then climb gracefully into the gray, overcast sky above Moscow's Sheremetyevo Airport .

  The stocky Libyan militiaman glanced quickly around the apartment roof, then raised the weapon to his shoulders. An expert in the use of portable air defense missiles, he braced his feet, steadied himself, and aimed the Russian-built SA-14 missile launcher. He carefully set the element sight on the Soviet transport and immediately heard the high-pitched screech that indicated the weapon was tracking.

  What a beautiful flying machine, the Libyan lieutenant said to himself, then took a breath and held it while he waited patiently, watching the transport's landing gear disappear into the fuselage.

  Three seconds later, the militiaman gently squeezed the trigger.

  The launcher kicked slightly as the projectile arced away, nosed-over for a split second, then curved skyward toward its unsuspecting prey.

  Baqir al-Sadr lowered the launcher, then watched, fascinated, as the lethal missile pursued the climbing jet. The thin wisp of the weapon's exhaust trail blended perfectly into the leaden overcast.

  Almost instantly the quiet morning was shattered by a deafening explosion. The lieutenant stared, transfixed, as the huge Aeroflot transport ship and engine, then a wing, tumbled out of the sky, trailing flaming debris.

  The Ilyushin-62 crashed on the perimeter of the airport in 2 a horrendous fireball, showering nearby traffic in blazing jet fuel.

  Lieutenant Baqir al-Sadr turned away from the inferno, smiled, then dropped the missile launcher down a ventilation shaft.

  The general secretary had made his last trip. The era of glasnost was over.

  Chapter One.

  USS DWIGHT D EISENHOWER,North Atlantic January

  The Nimitz-class carrier plunged through foaming troughs, sending showers of cold spray over the bow, as dawn began to light the gray sky.

  The constant rolling motion of the mammoth ship sent torrents of icy seawater pouring through open flight deck elevator doors.

  A river of water flowed the length of the hangar deck, mixing with oil and hydraulic fluid, before returning to the open sea from the aft elevator platforms.

  The aircraft handling crews were having difficulty keeping their footing as they attempted to secure aircraft sent below at the completion of flight operations.

  Lt. Cmdr. Frank Stevens leaned closer to the radar plot in the CIC, the Combat Information Center . The Hawkeye early warning aircraft, nicknamed Hummer, had just informed him of unidentified bogies approaching the battle group.

  Frowning, Stevens watched the radar blips approaching from the northeast on a direct course to the battle group. He strained harder to focus on the images displayed by the luminescent scope. The tension was stretching his nerves. Unidentified, in this region, meant Russian.

  CIC, the brains of the Ike during any hostile action, was a myriad of radar scopes, cathode ray tubes, and see-through luminescent plotting boards. The room was lit by soft red light.

  A group of enlisted men stood behind a transparent plastic screen, writing backwards with yellow greasepencils, providing constant updates on the status of aircraft and escort ships. The glowing letters and numerals, seeming to appear by magic, changed continually as various commands checked in with fuel and ordnance reports.

  Stevens stared at the glowing scope. The radar repeater cast a sallow, green reflection on his taut face as he pressed his microphone transmission button.

  Stingray, this is Tango Fox, Stevens radioed the Grumman E-2C Hawkeye.

  Roger, Tango Fox. Stand by, replied the officer in command of the Hawkeye's airborne tactical data system team.

  The Miniwacs Hawkeye, always the first fixed-wing aircraft airborne and the last one to land, had been circling the Eisenhower at 24,000 feet for two and a half hours. The big twin-turboprop, with its enormous rotodome, was absolutely critical to the carrier and accompanying battle group.

  The Hawkeye's radar provided the capability to detect approaching aircraft and cruise missiles, in addition to surface craft, at ranges up to 260 miles, thus making it difficult for aggressors to penetrate the defenses of the fleet.

  Stevens paused, a trickle of perspiration running down the inside of his right arm. Navigation, CIC. What is our position?

  Stevens requested through the intercom system.

  Sir, our present position is seventy nautical miles due north of Faeroe Island , two hundred ten miles below the Arctic Circle , replied the navigation watch officer, roused from his paperback by the unexpected request.

  Stevens was debating his options when the Hawkeye commander responded.

  Tango Fox, Tango Fox, this is Stingray, the voice exploded from the overhead speakers. We have confirmation on the bogies. Appears to be two Russian Backfire bombers, bearing zero-two-zero, two hundred forty at angels four-three.

  They're descending with a fighter escort of three, possibly four, j aircraft. Acknowledge.

  Roger, Stingray, replied Stevens. We're launching Ready CAP One at this time, call sign Gunfighter' on button' seven.

  Okay, Tango Fox, better have 'em move it out. These guys are closing at the speed of heat!

  The standby combat air patrol (CAP) pilots, Lt. Cmdr. Doug Frogman Karns, Gunfighter One, and Lt. (jg) Steve Hershberger, along with their radar intercept officers (RIOS), reacted swiftly to the urgent blaring of the launch signal in their ready room.

  The aircrew ready rooms, directly below the flight deck, were adjacent to the F-14D Tomcat fighter planes poised for launch on the two forward catapults.

  Lt. Rick Bonicelli, theRIO for Karns, and Lt. Cmdr. Gordon Gator Kavanaugh scrambled into the rear cockpits of their respective jets and began the demanding task of spinning-up the navigation and armament panels.

  As the RIOS worked on the complex weapons systems, Karns and Hershberger were strapping in and starting their twin General Electric turbofans.The new generation engines, collectively producing over fifty-eight thousand pounds of thrust, could power the Grumman multi-role fighters past Mach 2 plus over 1,600 miles per hour.

  Each Tomcat was equipped with six advanced air-to-air missiles, along with a 20-nun Me1 Vulcan cannon for nosing-down targets at close range.

  Launch the CAP! Launch the CAP! the hollow voice reverberated over the flight deck.

  Jesus, Bone, why didn't we go to medical school like normal people?

  Karns laughed over the intercom (ICS) to Bonicelli.

  Canopy coming down.

  Yeah, Froggy, this is another fine mess you've gotten us into, responded Bonicelli with a nervous laugh. I've got a bulletin for you.Frog. Our radar isn't comin' up.

  Figures. Only works when we don't need it, replied Karns in his usual, relaxed manner. If it goes tits up. Bone, we'll pass the lead to Hersh and go visual.

  Rug.

  The sophisticated AWG-9 weapons control system in the Tomcat, augmented by the supersensitive radar, could detect and count engine turbine fan blades in approaching aircraft at a range of over a hundred miles.

  You up. Two? Karns called over the radio to Hershberger, flying Gunfighter Two.

  Oh yeah. Frog, we're go. Hershberger glanced at the forbidding sky and angry sea. Beautiful day for flying.

  The fighter pilots and their RIOS, racing to get airborne, had no idea who or what the adversary might be. Their mission was to scramble off the carrier as quickly as possible, then confront the unknown gomers.The anxiety level was high and the aircrews tried to dispel their apprehension with light banter.

 
The Ike was straining and groaning in the turbulent ocean to maintain a twenty-seven-knot speed into the wind. The fighters had to take off and land into the wind, as they would from a shore-base runway, and the carrier steamed as fast as possible to assist the aircraft in getting airborne.

  The enormous collisions between ship and thirty-foot ocean swells sent cold spray raining down on the F-14 canopies, obscuring the pilots' vision in the semidawn and low cloud cover.

  The flying conditions were abominable.

  The yellow-shirted catapult officer signaled for the deck-edge operator to take tension on the F-14 piloted by Karns.

  At the same time a green light from PRI-FLY, the control tower of the carrier, indicated clearance to launch the two fighters.

  You ready. Bone? Karns asked as he advanced the twin throttles to military power, then into afterburner. The aircraft was straining and vibrating under the tremendous thrust of the big GE turbofans.

  Actually, I was really looking forward to breakfast, Bonicelli responded with a chuckle.

  I s'pose you want me to call room service, laughed Karns as he snapped off a salute to the cat officer, signifying that his Tomcat was developing full power and ready for launch. The catapult blast deflectors, now raised behind the F-14s, were glowing cherry red from the tremendous heat of the powerful engines.

  Naw, I want The statement abruptly ended as the cat officer leaned forward and touched the flight deck, sending a signal to the deck-edge operator, who pressed the launch button.

  The Tomcat, engulfed in swirling clouds of superheated steam, exploded down the catapult track in a thundering roar.

  Helmets pressed back into head restraints. Breathing was impossible, even with masks supplying 100 percent oxygen.

  Eyeballs flattened, causing momentary tunnel vision and a graying-out effect. The excruciating G-forces rendered the crew semiconscious during the violent launch.

  The catapult stroke hurled the 70,000-pound fighter plane from zero to 170 miles per hour in two and a half seconds.

  The sensation was impossible to imagine without experiencing it firsthand.

  Good shot, Karns said, snapping the landing gear handle up. His breathing and pulse rates were returning to normal.

  Are we still alive? Bonicelli asked, happy to have lived through another launch in abysmal weather conditions.

  The Tomcat continued to accelerate in afterburner as Bonicelli looked back over his left shoulder. He glimpsed Dash Two accelerating down the catapult.

  I've got a visual on Hersh off the cat, closing, reported Bonicelli, as Karns cleaned up the Tomcat and swept back the variable-geometry wings.

  Okay, Gunfighters, let's go button seven and talk with the saucer, Karns said into his radio as his wingman smoothly slid into a loose parade formation.

  Two, replied Hershberger in the abbreviated style the fighter jocks had developed during the Korean conflict.

  Stingray, Gunfighter One up, flight of two, six missiles each, state seventeen point two, Karns said as he advanced the throttles to continue the climb now that his wingman was aboard.

  ' Roger, Gunfighter. Initial heading zero-two-two at one hundred ninety-five. Bogies descending out of angels three-eight and indicating four hundred sixty knots.

  Okay, Stingray, we're outa' twenty-one and a half. Stand by one.

  You got anything on the radar? Karas queried Bonicelli, hoping the gremlins had vanished from the intricate black boxes required to see the enemy at long range.

  Sorry, boss. The tube is down for the count, Bonicelli replied, thinking about all the imbroglios the flight crews had gone through with avionic technicians.

  Hersh, you and Gator have a lock? Karas urgently asked.

  That's affirm. Frog. Want us to take the lead? replied Hershberger, realizing the flight would rendezvous with the Soviet aircraft in eight minutes.

  Yeah, Hersh, take the lead and let's go combat spread, Karns directed, as he passed control of the intercept to the Tomcat with the functioning radar system.

  Stingray, we've switched the lead to Dash Two. Our radar is bogus, Karns stated with a trace of irritation in his normally relaxed voice.

  Understand, Gunfighter. The Hawkeye coordinator had a tense, controlled voice.

  Targets at zero-two-four, one hundred ninety, descending out of angels three-four. We confirm two Backfires and a flight of four fighters.

  From the repeater television screen in CIC, Lieutenant Commander Stevens had watched the CAP Tomcats roar off the pitching deck, shrouded in clouds of catapult steam.

  Stevens, lifting his phone handset, swiveled in his chair and punched the code to connect him with the commanding officer.

  The CO, Capt. Greg Linnemeyer, was exhausted. He had fallen into a deep sleep after a strenuous night supervising air operations.

  Captain, a groggy voice responded.

  Captain, this is Frank Stevens, the watch officer in CIC.

  We have a situation developing that I believe you need to be aware of.

  Alright, Frank, replied Linnemeyer in a raspy voice,' what's the

  problem? , Well, sir, we launched the CAP. They are intercepting two

  Russian Backfire bombers and four escort fighters. We haven't had any conf---

  Goddamn, Linnemeyer interrupted tersely, go to general quarters, launch Ready Two CAP, and notify the battle group commander.

  I'll be in CIC in five minutes.

  Linnemeyer juggled the phone, almost dropping it, as he transferred the receiver to his left ear, the ear not so damaged by years of jet engine noise. How far out are the Russian aircraft?

  Sir, the bogies are... Stevens leaned over to see the latest plot,

  one hundred eighty at zero-two-two, descending from three-three-zer

  Move it, Frank! Linnemeyer brusquely concluded the conversation, slamming the phone receiver down and reaching for his work khakis.

  I've got a tally, Karns radioed to Hershberger and Kavanaugh.

  Stingray was also monitoring the frequency.

  The F-14s had broken out of the overcast, rain-filled clouds into a bright blue sky blazing with early morning sunlight. Karns could see the Russian aircraft seven miles ahead.

  Looks as if Ivan is angling slightly away from the carrier, Carns said as the Tomcats rapidly closed the distance between the Soviet and American aircraft.

  I've got the lead, Karns radioed Hershberger as he resumed command of the flight.

  Rodney, replied Gunfighter Two, deliberately foregoing t he traditional Roger.

  Two, you fall in behind the shooters and we'll take the leavies, Karns instructed his wingman.

  Good plan. Frog, responded Hershberger, apprehension straining his voice. I'm glad we've got 'em surrounded.

  Gunfighter Two gently moved to a position behind and to the left of the Soviet fighters. Hershberger never took his eyes off the Migs as his thumb caressed the control stick firing button Just like in the movies, Kavanaugh said over the ICS to the pilot of Gunfighter Two.

  These Russkies are stubborn, Karns reported to the Eisenhower's Combat Information Center .

  Stevens paused, frowning. Gunfighter, Tango Pox, say again. The CIC officer, noticing his palms were wet, waited for a reply from the CAP pilots.

  Ahh, we joined on the inside and they keep turning into us. It's barely discernable, a degree or two at a time, Karnsp replied as he quickly looked over at the Soviet aircraft. This isn't their normal style. With four shooters tagging along, this could turn into a real furball.

  The F-14 flown by Karns and Bonicelli inched closer to the huge, menacing bombers as Karns felt a warm, damp sensation spreading across his forehead under the padded helmet liner.

  Bone, I think these guys are serious, the pilot said to his radar intercept officer.

  No shit!

  Okay, Gunfighters, check switches safe, Karns radios his wingman.

  Can't afford a screw up and trigger an international flap.

  Yeah, Bonicelli replied over the int
ercom, let alone get our asses smoked.

  Two's safe, responded Hershberger as he slowly drifted back and forth behind the four Mig-29 fighters, NATO code named Fulcrum.

  The Russians had begun deployment of the Mach 2 Mikoyan Gurevich-29 advanced fighters in 1985 and by 1990 the Fulcrum along with the newest Mig-31 Foxhound, were formidable opponents for the American pilots and their fighter-interceptors.

  The new generation Russian fighters, and their highly trained pilots, were a serious concern at Top Gun and Red Flag' fighter weapons schools.

  TUPOLEV Tu-26 BACKFIRE BOMBER Col. Istvan I. Torgovnik nervously watched the American fighter plane off his left wing as he deftly used his flight controls to swing the Backfire bomber slowly toward the American Fleet.

  Ah, Comrade Colonel, you appear tentative. We must remember our orders from Air Marshal Khatchadovrian. The small man with the large, scraggly mustache leaned closer to the pilot as he spoke.

  Do not worry. The inept Americans will not interfere, boasted Maj.Fulvio Fedorovich Vladyka, the political officer assigned to this sensitive mission.

  An assumption, Fulvio Fedorovich, replied the command pilot. We have never tested the Americans in this manner. We cannot guess their response.

  Torgovnik watched the major out of the corner of his eye, testing his own convictions. The political officer did not respond.

  This action. Comrade Major, is not within our defined operating

  doctrine. In addition, continued Torgovnik, thinking a bout the

  implications of his actions as reported by this insubordinate and

  thoroughly disgusting zampolit, I have the responsibility for our six

  aircraft and these superior aircrews to link

  You will remember.

  Comrade Colonel, it is I who have responsibility for the success of this mission. You will obey the orders to probe the American defensive reactions.

  Torgovnik inwardly flinched, despising Vladyka for talking down to him in front of his crew. The offensive little political officer went on in his deriding manner.

  Besides, Comrade Colonel, this operation, if successfully conducted, could see you achieve general officer status. Perhaps your own car and a dacha near your operational sector.