Defcon One (1989)

by Joe Weber

  ; Yes, Fulvio Fedorovich, I realize the significance of this risk, replied Torgovnik, thinking about the onerous situation that would develop if he was deemed responsible for botching the operation.

  Besides, Torgovnik smiled, when I am a general officer, I will crush this impudent bastard.

  Captain Linnemeyer rushed into CIC, slightly disheveled, and requested a cup of coffee.

  What's the current status? the captain asked the distraught CIC officer.

  The CAP has rendezvoused with the Soviet aircraft. They are approaching the one hundred-ten-mile mark, sir, responded Stevens.

  The Ready Two CAP is airborne, closing on ... should be joining Cap One in two minutes, he added nervously. Also, sir, we have a tanker airborne and a spare Viking on the number one cat. Two more Fourteens are ready.

  Stevens paused to look at his status boards. The escort ships are closing in, sir. No sub activity detected at this time.

  Sounds good, Linnemeyer replied, sipping the scalding coffee, while he observed that all hands were at their respective battle stations.

  The CO, a qualified naval aviator, had come up the hard way. A former enlisted man, Linnemeyer left the Navy after his initial hitch and returned to college. After graduating sumnu cum laude from Northwestern University, the short, wiry, twenty five-year-old placed his hard-earned business degree on the shelf and returned to the Navy.

  Rear Adm. Donald S. G. Mckenna, the task force commander embarked aboard the Ike, had been awakened by the general quarters alarm and was now in Flag Plot. A steady stream of information was being digested by the carrier's skipper and Mckenna.

  Ivan is setting a new precedent, Admiral Mckenna said to Captain Linnemeyer as a steward knocked quietly on the door, then entered the spacious staff cabin reserved for the battle group commander.

  Greg, they are obviously trying to provoke us, test our defenses and reactions. I'll get off a Flash Message to the commander -in-chief of the Atlantic Fleet and the NATO commander.

  We don't have a lot of time.

  The admiral paused, waiting for a response.

  You agree, Greg?

  Yes, sir, replied the skipper of the Dee, but we'd better show some resolve if they break fifty miles.

  I concur. How do you think CINCLANT will respond? the admiral asked.

  Order us to fire a warning shot. Shoot a missile in front of the lead bomber at fifty nautical miles, and, if they don't break off by thirty, to blow their asses out of the sky, Linnemeyer responded in a dry, matter-of-fact statement, void of any emotion.

  I hope so. We simply can not, should not, knuckle under to those arrogant bastards. Alert CIC, the admiral directed as he reached for the phone to send an instant Flash Message to his superiors.

  The Russian Tu-26 Backfire bombers continued to turn into the carrier slowly, a degree at a time. The tension was beginning to have an impact in the cockpits of Gunfighter One and Two.

  If the Soviet bombers, or their escort fighters, made any overt move, the Fox-Fourteen jockeys had no recourse. They had to wait for confirmation to destroy the invading aircraft, and, as the pilots knew, the order to kill could arrive too late.

  This was not a routine, unescorted, flyover by a lone Bear bomber.

  This was an entirely new approach. A potential disaster in need of revised rules.

  Gunfighter One was experiencing difficulty maintaining position on the Russian bombers. The flight of eight aircraft, bouncing around in turbulent air, had descended through a dense cloud cover. The weather conditions made formation flying difficult.

  Let's spread out a little, Karns radioed.

  Two, replied Hershberger, as he drifted back another twenty yards behind the Migs.

  They're closing on our landing platform, Karns said to his RIO, and I don't like it.

  I read you, responded Bonicelli. That water looks colder every time I think about this gaggle.

  The backseater looked closely at the Russian bomber. Let's move in a little closer and I'll 'moon' the bastards.

  Right, Karns replied with a laugh. Why don't you snap a few photos for our State Department people. This should be a real icebreaker on the cocktail circuit.

  Karns gently banked his Tomcat into the Soviet aircraft as Bonicelli shot a dozen pictures of the menacing warplanes approaching the American battle group.

  Mckenna turned to the Ike's skipper. Greg, who is the pilot in Gunfighter One?

  Lieutenant Commander Doug Karns, sir. One of our best pilots and very experienced. He is the XO of One-forty-two and a fighter weapons grad, replied Linnemeyer.

  Very good, Admiral Mckenna responded. A Top Gun alumnus from the Ghost riders.

  We may have to place him in an awkward position, Greg, the admiral continued as he glanced down at the activity on the busy flight deck.

  ' Comrade Colonel, now is the time to execute our penetration of the American fleet, Major Vladyka urged from the cramped seat behind the command pilot.

  Yes, I agree, Fulvio Fedorovich, Colonel Torgovnik replied tentatively. We are inside one hundred kilometers from the carrier battle group. We must commit if this operation is to be successful.

  Torgovnik tried to sound and appear very much the party man and professional soldier to the political officer seated next to his ear, but the command pilot was confused about the sudden change in Soviet military doctrine. Kremlin policy, under glasnost and perestroika, asserted that military posture would be defensive in character.

  Force levels had been maintained at a reasonable sufficiency.

  Why, Torgovnik thought, after the shocking change in party leadership, were they probing the Americans? Was it simply pokazuka, confronting U.S. forces for show?

  The Soviet bomber pilot looked at his solemn copilot, then keyed his microphone. Prepare to alter course.

  As Karns concentrated on maintaining position on the Soviet bombers.

  Animals One and Two, the Ready Two CAP, joined on Hershberger's F14D:

  Gunfighter lead. Animal Flight is aboard and the Texaco is airborne, two-three-zero for one-ten, angels two-six. We have a full bag. Looks like you have 'em cornered, Capt.

  Vince Cangemi, United States Marine Corps, checked in with Karns .

  Cangemi, an exchange pilot, was spending a tour in a Navy fighter squadron, ostensibly to show the squids how to fly.

  He was flying lead in a second flight of Tomcats. The Marine fighter pilot, who normally flew the potent F/A-18 Hornet, enjoyed flying the big Grumman Tomcat. The F-14 had been a new challenge for him.

  Rog, Animal. Glad the cavalry could make it, Karns chuckled, recognizing the call sign of Cangemi. Thought you 'jar-heads' were s'posed to be the first to fight.

  The marine started to respond, then changed his mind as he focused on the Soviet aircraft.

  Back off about three hundred yards and confirm guns off, switches safe, Karns instructed the Animals.

  That's affirm, off and safe, Cangemi answered.

  Two, Lt. Tom Chaffee, USN, responded.

  At that precise moment, the Russian bombers abruptly turned into the American fighters, forcing Karns to spiral inward or risk collision.

  Reacting with remarkable dexterity, Karns simultaneously rolled his fighter away from the bombers and radioed CIC.

  Tango Fox, Tango Fox, Gunfighter One! These crazy sonsabitches are makin' a run at the battle group, Karns shouted into his mask microphone. I need permission to fire! Repeat, I need permission to splash 'em.

  Roger, Gunfighter. Stand by, the distant voice responded .through Karns's padded earphones.

  Karns waited uncomfortably for a response to his urgent request, visualizing the odd group of individuals in the decisionmaking process.

  Guess the operator put us on ignore, Bonicelli said over the intercom, breathing more rapidly than normal.

  Gunfighter, Tango Fox, the staccato voice blurted. You have permission to fire a warning shot at fifty TIME. I repeat, you have permission to fire a Sidewinder in front of the bombers
.

  If the Russians break thirty miles, shoot 'em down. Do you copy?

  Linnemeyer asked.

  Roger, Tango Fox. Copy warning shot and plug 'em if they break thirty, three-zero from mother, Karns replied with a strange mixture of relief and adrenaline-pumping emotion.

  That's affirm, Gunfighter, the captain replied. Let me know when you fire.

  Wilco, Tango Fox, Karns responded. Okay, Hersh, you ease back on Animal's wing. You guys be in position to take these clowns out if they stuff one up our ass.

  Karns waited tensely for Hershberger and Animal Flight to reposition themselves. The Tomcats slowly drifted behind the Russian formation.

  Animals in place, Cangemi stated. Okay, guys, looks like this is the main event. Let's go master arm on and ease back a tad.

  Cangemi slowly dropped back into a good firing position-low and looking at the tailpipes of the Russian fighter planes.

  Feeling a tightness in his throat, Cangemi took a quick look at his instrument panel, then concentrated on the Mig flight leader.

  Gun One is movin' up under uncle Ivan's left wing. I want the friggin' son of a bitch to see me. These idiots can't be very bright, Karns radioed CIC and his fellow pilots as he inched the throttles forward, moving under and forward of the left wing of the behemoth.

  Karns noted the bright red star painted on the huge jet intake as he jockeyed his Tomcat into view of the Russian pilot.

  The fighter pilot had never been so close to any Russian bomber, let alone a Backfire. It was colossal in size. The bomber weighed 270,000 pounds and stretched 130 feet. Its size alone was intimidating, without considering the tremendous firepower it possessed.

  Okay, comradski, look over here, Karns said, speaking softly over the radio. Come on, you son-of-a-bitch, I don't want to fire any hot lead.

  Yeah, Cangemi agreed. If we get wrapped around the axle this close in, it'll be a knife fight in a telephone booth.

  Torgovnik glanced briefly at the American fighter plane, wincing at the proximity of the crazy American. The bomber commander judged the Navy fighter plane to be no more than twenty meters from his craft. Keeping his head straight forward, Torgovnik formulated his thoughts as he kept the Tomcat in his periphery.

  Comrade Major, Torgovnik said quietly, his mind sounding a warning about the danger of this clearly provocative confrontation.

  These Americans ... we are pushing too hard.

  Remember what they did to the Libyans.

  Nonsense, replied Vladyka, in his familiar conciliatory manner.

  You overestimate the Americans. They will not risk a confrontation unless we openly provoke them, continued the ingratiating political officer, firmly entrenched in his belief of American conformity to nonaggressive acts.

  I am not so sure. Major, Torgovnik replied in a hesitant manner.

  We have not attempted to fly a multi-aircraft group over an American carrier before.

  Vladyka smiled his most condescending smile. Do not worry. Colonel.

  Aw-right, goddamn it! Karns said with marked vehemence as his Distance Measuring Equipment (TIME) indicated fifty nautical miles from the Eisenhower.

  I'm movin' out to the side. Everything is cookin' and looks good.

  Here we go, Karns stated as he gently pressed the right rudder and squeezed the firing button.

  The F-14 shuddered as the AIM-9M Sidewinder heat-seeking missile flashed from under the right wing, accelerating with startling speed.

  The missile tracked squarely in front of the lead bomber's cockpit, crossing left to right at a twenty-degree angle, spewing red-orange flame and trailing a shroud of billowing white smoke.

  Fox Two! Karns yelled as he reduced power and rapidly dropped astern, glancing back to see what action the Russian fighters would take, if any.

  The Mig-29s immediately moved closer to the bombers.

  The Mig flight leader was bouncing all over the sky in and out of burner a million synapses taking place as his charges settled down from the shock.

  That was a tad close, old chap, Cangemi said with a trace of anxiety in his voice.

  The lead Russian bomber began a shallow turn to the right as the Backfires flew through the plume of white smoke generated by the air-to-air missile.

  Perhaps so, Karns replied, nerves keyed in anticipation of a retaliatory action. It appears as if Ivan got the message, the dense bastards.

  Just another fun day at the office, Hershberger chimed in as he closed on his flight leader.

  The six Soviet warplanes slowly turned in the direction of the Barents Sea, as the four Tomcats escorted the intruders away from the battle group. The Russians would return to their base at Olenegorsk, near Murmansk, on Kola Peninsula.

  Captain Linnemeyer heard the radio transmissions from Gunfighter One and began to breathe quietly. He raised his microphone, paused a moment, then spoke to the pilots.

  Nice work, the CO said to the pilots and RIOS, a smile spreading across his unshaven face. Stay with them until the two-hundred mark and RTB.

  Rog, two hundred and return to base, Karns acknowledged as the F-14s slowly drifted into combat spread one mile astern of the withdrawing Russian aircraft.

  Linnemeyer turned toward Admiral Mckenna, who had joined him in CIC only moments before, and gave a thumbs up signal.

  Good job. Captain, Mckenna said. How about joining me for breakfast?

  Linnemeyer smiled. Yes sir.

  Well, Comrade Major Vladyka, Torgovnik said in a controlled and barely

  audible voice, that should dispel the myth of American

  nonconfrontational behav

  It is not a myth. Comrade. We have well-researched intelligence from reliable sources, Vladyka blurted in a voice two octaves higher than normal.

  The zampolit was trying to digest the unexpected missile encounter.

  I assure you. Colonel Torgovnik, the Americans will be tested to the limit in the forthcoming days.

  Torgovnik and his copilot exchanged concerned looks but didn't reply.

  The CO and Admiral Mckenna were just sitting down in the Flag Bridge, about to enjoy breakfast and discuss the recent Soviet encounter, when an aide discreetly informed the two officers of the impending recovery of the Tomcats.

  Great, Admiral Mckenna said to the lieutenant. Greg, what say we step outside and watch them land?

  Yes sir. Helluva job this morning, replied Linnemeyer.

  The Tomcats, joined in a flight of four, passed off the starboard side of the ship at 400 knots as they approached the break.

  Both men, smiling to themselves, noticed the F-14s were in perfect formation. The morning sun, creeping through the ragged rain clouds, glinted off the canopies.

  Nice, Mckenna remarked.

  ****** I can't believe Frog found the boat again, Cangemi chided the flight leader, Karns.

  Everyone respected Karns and liked his sense of humor.

  Although he was an excellent aviator, his friends still enjoyed kidding him about the time when he was still a lieutenant (junior grade) and he screwed up a terrain reconnaissance mission off the USS Coral Sea, missed the rendezvous point with the boat, ran out of fuel, and ditched five miles astern of the carrier.

  Thus, Frogman became his nickname as a nugget pilot in the fleet.

  His trip to Fighter Town USA, Top Gun School, had earned him the call sign Gunfighter.

  You marines never change, Karns replied to Cangemi, years and years of tradition, unhampered by progress.

  Gun One, four for the break, Karns radioed PRI-FLY, the carrier's control tower.

  Cleared for the break, Guns, responded the assistant air boss. Good show.

  Karns slapped the Tomcat's control stick hard left, pulling 4.5-Gs, as he eased back on the twin throttles and swept the wings forward for landing.

  Each succeeding F-14 snapped into a fangs-out knife-edge break at four-second intervals a beautiful display of precision flying by some of the best-trained pilots in the world.

  Well, An
imal, think you can get that beauty aboard in one piece?

  Karns laughed over the radio as he started his descent out of 800 feet and turned toward the carrier.

  Oh yeah, if you don't foul the deck with your wreckage, responded Cangemi, laughter in his voice.

  Tomcat, ball, three point seven, Karns radioed the landing signal officer as he rechecked gear down, flaps down, and tailhook down.

  The mandatory radio call informed the LSO of the approaching aircraft type, whether the pilot spotted the bright yellow ball of light reflected in the Fresnel lens (the primary visual aid to assist the pilot in maintaining the proper glide path/descent rate) and the fuel state of the aircraft. Fuel was always a critical item during inclement weather and night landings. A missed trap, resulting in a go-around, could cost a pilot hundreds of pounds of the precious jet fuel and reduce his options dramatically.

  The LSO would monitor each approach, offer advice if things went awry, and, if need be, wave off a pilot if his approach got completely out of shape.

  Roger, ball, keep it comin', the LSO said to Karns, a fellow squadron pilot and close friend.

  Hang on. Bone, Karns said to his RIO as the Tomcat whistled over the round-down of the carrier at 140 miles per hour.

  I'll never get used to this... replied Bonicelli as the F-14 slammed onto the flight deck and stopped in less than 250 feet. Karns moved the throttles to military power at the moment of touchdown, in case the tailhook skipped the arresting wires. A missed wire would necessitate a go-around, a bolter in naval aviation terminology.

  A trap aboard an aircraft carrier was so nerve-wracking and violent that many pilots compared the experience to having a fantastic sexual encounter and a car wreck simultaneously.

  As the last fighter hit the deck and screeched to a halt, the Dee started a turn toward a northwesterly heading.

  Well, Greg, how about breakfast, before it gets too cold? Admiral Mckenna asked Linnemeyer.

  Sure, I'm famished, the CO responded, knowing he needed a shave and shower. Short night.

  As Linnemeyer and Mckenna sat down to the fresh pineapple, ham, eggs, and toast, the CIC discreet phone rang.

  Linnemeyer watched as the admiral answered the phone, listened a moment, frowned, and said, I'll be there in a minute.