Defcon One (1989)

by Joe Weber

  What's the climate between the president and the general secretary, if it isn't classified? Hays asked, wondering if he was overstepping his bounds.

  It is classified, but that doesn't make much difference.

  The walls are porous around here. The Post receives information faster than I do, Wilkinson chuckled before continuing his brief. The president proposed a meeting, face to face, one on one, at the convenience of the general secretary. That was late last night.

  Zhilinkhov agreed this morning and suggested a meeting in twenty-four hours in the Azores, at Lajes.

  I assume the president accepted. Hays was very curious about the possibility of a meeting between the two superpower leaders. The Soviet leader was still a mystery to most people.

  Oh yes, and he was unusually conciliatory. He liked the location.

  Great security and isolated, too. Air Force One is being prepared now and we expect to leave in... Wilkinson looked at his wall clock, noting the time, an hour and a half.

  Seventeen hundred eastern.

  How long do you anticipate being there? Hays asked, thinking the president might be out of the country when they launched Columbia.

  Three, possibly four days. Perhaps longer if we make any progress.

  The president has some ideas to present. I'm obviously not at liberty to discuss those topics, but you'll be kept apprised.

  Hays doodled continuously, not wanting to interrupt Wilkinson. He was fascinated by the intrigue.

  Better let you off the phone. This place is a madhouse and I've got a plane to catch. Good luck with your launch, Rex. Wilkinson concluded the conversation as he packed files in his leather attache case.

  Thanks, Grant, and best of luck in the Azores.

  We'll need it. So long.

  Hays placed the receiver down, reaching for his coat, as he pictured the meeting in Lajes. He headed directly for the cafeteria, having missed his late lunch waiting for the preplanned call from the White House.

  Talking with the president's chief of staff was unusual. Hays thought, but the present circumstances were unusual, too.

  USS VIRGINIA

  The nuclear-powered heavy cruiser, steaming at full speed, pitched and rolled violently in the towering swells. Waves of ice-cold seawater smashed into the base of the bridge as the missile cruiser staggered from trough to trough.

  A North Atlantic winter storm was developing and the Virginia was dogged tight for heavy seas. Another 240 nautical miles nine hours and she would rendezvous with the Eisenhower battle group. The mission was to augment her sister ship, the Mississippi, until the DEFCON alert was cancelled. The Mississippi would then return to Norfolk for repairs to her damaged rudders.

  Cmdr. Fred Simpson, skipper of the Virginia, automatically swayed back and forth in front of his mirror, compensating for the rolling motion of the ship.

  Damn! That was the second nick and he still had the other side of his face to shave.

  More swearing ensued as Simpson lurched into a towel holder, then banged his elbow on the sink. He had decided to shave and shower before the seas became rougher, as they were predicted to be near the battle group.

  Simpson glanced at the brass clock mounted over his stateroom desk. It was 0300 hours, a hell of a time to be shaving, Simpson thought, as he bounced off the bulkhead, nearly losing his balance. The Virginia would rendezvous with the Ike at noon and Simpson would be too busy in the early morning hours to refresh himself. Besides, he couldn't sleep, reflecting on the DEFCON-Three alert.

  Simpson toweled his face and reached for his comb when the speaker sounded.

  Captain to the bridge! Captain to the bridge!

  Simpson reached for his phone, punching the bridge code.

  Bridge, sir. The Virginia's officer of the deck answered personally.

  This is the captain, Stan.

  Sir, sonar has picked up a submarine, Russian signature, two points off the starboard bow, range nine thousand yards and closing.

  I'll be there in a minute. Meantime, turn twenty degrees to port and we'll see if Ivan follows. Simpson stopped a moment, thinking.

  Stan, we're at DEFCON-Three, so sound general quarters and give me the status of our ASW gear, Simpson ordered as he placed the receiver back in the cradle. He reached for his shirt as the general quarters alarm sounded.

  The loud warning signal reverberated throughout the ship, shocking sleeping crew members awake.

  All hands man your battle stations! All hands man your battle stations!

  General quarters! General quarters!

  Sailors piled out of racks, clamoring for uniforms and shoes, bewilderment written on the faces of the young men as they raced for their assigned duty stations.

  Simpson stepped into the bridge, noting with satisfaction that his officer of the deck, Lt. Cmdr. Stan Jenkins, was on the new course and slowing. The seas were too rough to remain at full speed while the men were at battle stations.

  Captain, the ASROCS and launchers are up and ready.

  Torpedoes and tubes ready and standing by. Jenkins waited for a response from Simpson.

  Very well, Stan. What about the LAMPS helo?

  Being readied in the hangar. The duty crew is boarding now. The pilot isn't very enthusiastic about this weather, though. Jenkins knew the skipper didn't care for naval aviators in general.

  Well, get him enthused, Simpson replied sharply. That's why they get flight pay.

  Aye aye, sir, Jenkins responded and turned to the radio man.

  Tell Seahawk Thirty-eight to launch and commence search pattern.

  Yes sir, replied the petty officer, a question in his eyes.

  The pilot, Lt. Hector Chaveze, had the LAMPS III helicopter's main rotors up to speed. He was still lashed to the deck and knew when he signaled for release, crazy in this weather, he would have to rise straight up as quickly as possible or risk colliding with the ship as it rolled in the turbulent seas.

  Chaveze knew the risky operation was borderline in his NATOPS flight manual, but Simpson made the rules out here.

  Better to crash the helo than disobey the omnipotent captain.

  Sonar? Jenkins formed the word into a question.

  Closing on us, sir, the first class petty officer reported, studying his scope. Appears to be on a thirty-degree intercept course... no, they're closing the angle of intercept, sir.

  Flash to CINCLANT, Eisenhower, and Kennedy, Simpson ordered, turning to Commander Jenkins. Tell Ike we need ASW coverage, on the double!

  Is the helo up yet?

  Lifting off at this time. Captain, Jenkins replied, reaching for the message phone.

  Chaveze twisted all the power he could muster from the twin turbine engines, signaled for release from the pitching deck, and grasped the collective firmly.

  Rolling waves of frigid water smashed into the side of the helicopter hangar, spraying the LAMPS helo and sodden deck crew.

  At the precise instant the hook was released, Chaveze yanked the collective up sharply, popping the helicopter into the turbulent air.

  The lieutenant was on instruments immediately. The darkness was absolute, the stars and moon blanked by cloud cover at 3,000 feet. He leveled at 800 feet above the cold, churning ocean. His copilot Ens.Randy Gill, noted with great satisfaction that both altimeters, radar and pressure, were precisely in agreement.

  The LAMPS crew activated the on-board magnetic anomaly detection (MAD) sensors and lowered their sonobuoy into the raging Atlantic. The Soviet hunter-killer submarine immediately registered on their equipment and Chaveze changed course slightly, closing slowly on the Russian.

  Nest Egg, Seahawk Thirty-eight has the submarine, Chaveze radioed the Virginia. Signature confirms a Russian hunter-killer. We're making another sweep.

  Roger, Seahawk, the captain looked at the sonar operator, then spoke to the LAMPS pilot again. Let 'em know you're overhead. We have a Viking on the way.

  The Virginia's skipper, mentally computing the time it would take for the AS
W aircraft to reach his position, was extremely edgy. The captain, who had been on board the USS Vincennes (CG 49) in the Persian Gulf during July 1988, had every reason to be nervous. The message detailing the Tennessee encounter was fresh in his mind.

  USS DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER

  The Flash Message from the Virginia had been received only seconds before the carrier battle group made a course change toward the cruiser.The remaining Russian sub trailing the Ike and her escorts made the course change and followed.

  The orbiting Hawkeye was directing the CAP Tomcats, Buzzard One and Two, to rendezvous with Viking 706 near the Virginia's location.

  A Soviet trawler, sprouting electronic gear and antennas, was shadowing the Eisenhower battle group and eavesdropping on their radio conversations. The Russian submarine skipper stalking the Virginia was fully aware of the impending arrival of the American antisubmarine aircraft and escort fighters. The Soviet sub commander had his orders, orders issued from the Kremlin.

  Admiral Mckenna stepped into CIC as Texaco 514, a KA6D tanker, screeched down number two catapult, shaking the Ike from bow to stern.

  What's up, Greg? Mckenna asked Linnemeyer, as he rubbed his eyes.

  The captain had arrived in CIC only a minute before the task force commander.

  Not completely sure, sir. The Virginia sent a message indicating they were at general quarters and requesting ASW coverage.

  A Russian sub is apparently stalking them. Their LAMPS has confirmed the sub and Linnemeyer was interrupted by the admiral. They've got a helo up in this weather?' Yes, sir. Think the skipper is being overly cautious 'cause of the alert.

  Greg, Mckenna paused, thinking, can they recover the LAMPS aboard the Virginia in this kind of weather?

  Possible, Admiral, if the pilot is red-hot and the recovery crew is sharp. The CO was on a limb. Fifty-fifty, I'd say.

  Linnemeyer could see the concern registering on Mckenna's face. The task force commander turned to the CIC duty officer, Lieutenant Dyestrom, and asked to be patched to the LAMPS helicopter.

  Yes sir, Dyestrom replied. His call sign is Seahawk Thirty-eight, Admiral.

  Thanks, Lieutenant, Mckenna responded as he placed the receiver to his ear.

  Seahawk Thirty-eight, Seahawk Thirty-eight, this is Tango Fox One. Do you copy?

  Chaveze heard the message clearly. He was shocked. Tango Fox One was the task force commander, the admiral himself.

  Tango Fox, Seahawk. Five by five, sir.

  Seahawk, this is Admiral Mckenna. Understand you have ferreted an unwelcome guest.

  Affirmative, sir. We are over him now.

  Good job, son. Mckenna looked at Linnemeyer. How's the weather?

  I've seen better. Admiral, Chaveze replied as he leveled the bouncing helicopter.

  Okay, listen closely. Mckenna paused as he looked at Linnemeyer.

  If you have any doubt about landing on your ship safely, any doubt, I want you to head for the carrier and recover here.

  Yes, sir! Chaveze grinned at his copilot. As soon as the Viking relieves us, we'll be enroute to the carrier.

  Mckenna smiled. He could hear cheering in the background.

  Smart young pilot, he thought to himself.

  Okay, son, we'll have breakfast on for your crew.

  Mckenna gave the handset back to Dyestrom and turned to Linnemeyer.

  Greg, I don't like the smell of this kettle. Mckenna sipped his steaming coffee. Launch another Viking, along with a tanker, and get two more fourteens airborne, with two on the cats and two standing by, manned.

  Yes sir, Linnemeyer answered, taking the handset from the outstretched arm of Dyestrom.

  SEAHAWK THIRTY-EIGHT Ensign Gill looked over at Chaveze and smiled, slowly shaking his head. You must be livin' right. Snatched from the jaws of Simpson with a breakfast invitation from the admiral, no less.

  They both chuckled, along with the crew. This was going to be a piece of cake now.

  Seahawk Thirty-eight, this is Nest Egg, Simpson called, miffed by the radio exchange between the helicopter and the carrier. It wasn't good to have your judgement questioned by an admiral, especially the Eisenhower's task force commander.

  Roger, Nest Egg, Chaveze was trying to suppress a grin.

  You are cleared to recover aboard the carrier. Simpson grimaced.

  Copy?

  Copy, Nest Egg, Chaveze replied, thinking how embarrassed Simpson must feel.

  Seahawk, Killer Seven-oh-six has a lock on your friend.

  Take it to the boat. The Viking pilot checked in with Chaveze, not able to resist a jab at the non-aviator who ordered a helo out in this weather. Man, you shouldn't be out napping around in weather like this.Insane, brother, especially in a Spam can.

  Roger, Seven-oh-six, Chaveze answered in an even tone.

  He didn't want to fuel Simpson's rage any further.

  Mother is zero-one-zero for two hundred ten, the Viking pilot radioed.

  Got enough gas, Seahawk?

  That's affirm, Killer, Chaveze replied. Appreciate the help.

  Seahawk is off-station.

  Chaveze headed for the Eisenhower while the crew raised the sonobuoy and stowed their gear.

  THE TOMCATS Buzzard flight, Stingray. The Hawkeye's airborne controller sounded tired and bored.

  Go, Jim O'Neill, Lieutenant, USN, replied as he strained his eyes in an effort to see below the cloud base.

  The radio crackled, startling O'Neill. Killer Seven-oh-six is at your ten o'clock, twelve miles.

  No contact. Seven-oh-six, turn to three-six-zero and flash your lights, O'Neill ordered as he studied the soft glow of his radar screen. He had the Viking on the scope but not visually.

  I have 'em. Buzzard, Vince Cangemi, flying Buzzard Two, radioed his leader. The Marine captain was flying wing position on this sortie.

  Rog, I've got a tally at eleven o'clock, low, O'Neill acknowledged, sneaking a peek at his engine gauges. He had been increasingly worried about his starboard engine. The RPM gauge had been surging at sporadic intervals. If the situation hadn't been so critical, O'Neill would have flown the F-14 directly to the carrier.

  Buzzard flight, Stingray. Urgent this time.

  Go, O'Neill answered, watching the right engine surge.

  We've got four pop-ups at your eight o'clock, two hundred twenty out, smokin' like gangbusters.

  Keep us informed.

  O'Neill looked at his fuel gauges, disregarding the questionable rough-running engine, before making a decision.

  Roger, Buzzard. The bogies are closing at ... Jesus, nine hundred knots! Either Fulcrums or Foxhounds.

  Where'd they come from? O'Neill asked petulantly, his mind racing for answers. We're in the middle of nowhere.

  Came out of a commercial airline corridor, radioed the surprised controller. Boom, just exploded on my screen. Man, they have got some speed on.

  Rog, looks like a setup. O'Neill pictured a large Russian transport, disguised as an Aeroflot commercial flight, full of fuel and trailing hoses, lumbering along at night over the open ocean. They could easily stash four fighters in tight formation under the wings. The smaller aircraft wouldn't show on radar.

  Stingray, Buzzard, O'Neill radioed, watching the right engine surge again. Any Russian airliners on the corridor near the point they popped up?' Ah, stand by, the now lively voice answered.

  O'Neill checked his instruments, glanced at Cangemi, and watched his clock sweep through twenty seconds. Come on Stingray ...we haven't got much time, O'Neill said to himself.

  Buzzard, Stingray.

  Go, O'Neill said sharply.

  That's affirm. The controller released the transmit button a split second, then pressed it again. Aeroflot flight Seventeen-oh-eight.

  Where's it going? O'Neill tensed, knowing the answer in advance.

  Destination?

  Cuba.

  Keep us informed, the flight leader replied, swearing to himself.

  Have Mother send more chicks, mucho has to!
<
br />   Roger, Buzzard. Two of the Jolly Rogers' are on the way, call sign Scooter. We'll switch them to your freq in a couple minutes.

  Okay, O'Neill paused. Texaco, you copy Buzzard?

  Roger, Buzzard. The tanker pilot sounded relaxed. We are anchored over the Virginia at two-six-oh. Need some gas and a windshield wipe this evening?

  That's affirm, we're on our way.

  O'Neill looked over at Cangemi's dull gray Tomcat.

  Let's go upstairs. Two.

  Rajah.

  USS VIRGINIA

  Simpson had turned back on course directly to the Eisenhower, relieved to have the Viking overhead. His relief was short-lived when he became aware of the approaching Russian fighters, now an airborne threat.

  Mister Jenkins, status report on our Sea Sparrows, Simpson commanded as he nervously paced the bridge.

  Loaded, all systems up, launchers at the ready. Radar tracking indicates up status. Captain.

  Very well, Simpson replied, tapping his Naval Academy ring on the rim of his clipboard.

  The bridge was hushed as everyone swayed back and forth, contemplating the next few minutes. The Virginia was at battle stations, tension coursing through the ship as she topped each wave and plunged into the next abyss, sending tremors reverberating through the hull.

  Simpson and the bridge crew listened to the pilots rendezvousing overhead.

  Stingray, Scooter flight has a tally on the Buzzards, radioed It.

  Davey Pork Heimler. Going tactical.

  Copy, Scooter, answered the fully awake controller.

  Button four.

  Rog. Going' four, switch, the Jolly Roger fighter pilot ordered his wingman.

  Scooter up.

  Two, responded It. (jg) Jeb Graves.

  Buzzards, Scooter flight is aboard. Your seven, easin' in, two hundred fifty indicated.

  ' Good show, O'Neill answered, concentrating on his egress from the KA-cd. Better top off.

  Scooter, Texaco, the tanker pilot radioed. You're cleared to plug.

  Rog. One is plugging.

  Heimler eased closer to the trailing basket connected to the fuel hose.

  He slowed his closure rate to a barely perceptible mating with the bouncing basket.