by Joe Weber
Night refueling, always difficult because of a lack of depth perception, was not something pilots looked forward to facing.
Heimler glanced at the tanker, then keyed his microphone.
How much gas you have left?
'Bout four thousand pounds, the tanker jock answered nonchalantly.
Another Tex is on the way.
Okay, Heimler said. I'll take two grand and my partner can drain the rest.
Fair enough.
Simpson looked at the sonar repeater. The Soviet sub was holding the same relative position. He lifted his binoculars and scanned the horizon, wishing for dawn to arrive.
The Virginia's captain couldn't distinguish anything in the black, raging storm, but it made him feel more comfortable than sitting idle, waiting.
The radio speaker continued to blare, harsh in the confines of the bridge, as the fighter pilots finished their airborne refueling.
Simpson's disdain for aviators had diminished in the past fifteen minutes.
' Buzzard flight, Stingray.' This was a new voice, apparently the number one quarterback on the Hawkeye team.
Go, O'Neill radioed, closely monitoring his right engine gauges.
The bogies are at your ten o'clock, one hundred out.
The four Tomcats, with replenished fuel tanks, had been orbiting in a racetrack course over the Virginia.
Rog, Stingray. O'Neill was breathing faster, tension straining his voice. The fluctuating engine problem had to be forgotten at this point.
This is now Buzzard flight, O'Neill radioed. Both sections go combat spread. Three and Four to the right.
Two!
Three!
Four!
O'Neill could feel rivulets of sweat trickle down his temples as he checked his armament panel. He breathed deeply and forced himself to relax. Come port twenty degrees. Let's go switches hot.
Two!
Three!
Four!
You okay, Jeff? O'Neill clicked his intercom button. He hadn't heard a word from his radar intercept officer in five minutes.
Yeah, doin' fine, replied a hushed voice. I've got a sweet lock.
The RIO, Lt. (jg) Jeffery Barnes was new to the squadron and O'Neill could understand his problem. This was a rude introduction to operational flying.
Okay, stay alert, O'Neill said in an encouraging tone.
This deal is too well-orchestrated to suit me.
Barnes shifted his gaze outside the canopy. I was thinking the same thing.
Simpson set his third cup of coffee down on a tray, too nervous to taste the black liquid. He repeatedly swallowed involuntarily.
Captain, sonar.
Captain, Simpson responded immediately, swiveling in his bridge chair.
Sir, the sub is surfacing, the operator said quietly. Or coming to periscope depth.
Simpson looked through his binoculars at the black, turbulent ocean.
You sure?
Yes sir, they're blowing tanks. The petty officer waited a moment, then responded to what he was hearing.
A lot of activity ... and noise.
Simpson turned to Jenkins, simultaneously asking a question and giving an order. Where's the XO? Tell the Viking to get on top of the sub, or we're going to be shark bait!
The exec is in CIC, sir. Jenkins felt like he was on a treadmill.
They notified Killer Seven-oh-six.
JESUS!
WHAT THE HELL!
Everyone ducked or flinched as a brilliant flash turned night into bright day for a millisecond. There was a streak of light, too fast to follow, accompanied by a resounding crack and low rumble.
MAY DAY! MAY DAY! Killer Seven-oh-six, we've been hit! We're going' in!EJECT! EJECT! The pilot was still transmitting on the radio, forgetting to switch to ICS.
Simpson was in shock as he followed the action over the speaker.
Outside, less than a mile from the Virginia, a flaming ball of debris was tumbling toward the ocean. Jenkins had to remind Simpson that they needed to take action.
Captain Simpson, the sub shot down the Viking! What do you want to--?
Commence firing on the sub! Simpson ordered, throwing off the mental block.
SAMS! SAMS! Cangemi radioed, ducking as another flash of light streaked past his canopy. The Viking is down!
Buzzard flight, hold your fire! Hold your fire!
O'Neill was waiting for confirmation on the bogies. The Virginia would have to deal with the sub. He had his hands full setting up for the aerial engagement.
Buzzard, this is Stingray, the Hawkeye controller radioed.
Understand the Viking is Suddenly the darkness glowed miles in front of the American fighter planes. A high-pitched warble sounded in the ears of the four pilots and their RIOS. The Russian fighter pilots had launched their air-to-air missiles in unison.
Buzzard flight, launch missiles! O'Neill ordered, fumbling with his armament panel. Three and Four, break right! One and Two going' for knots ... comin' left!
Three and Four, FOX ONE! Heimler radioed as the AIM-7M Sparrow missiles streaked out in front of the Tomcats.
Going right!
Heimler snapped into a gut-wrenching 7-G turn, then glanced at the flash below him. What the hell ... is that ... on the surface?
Don't know! O'Neill was straining to breathe under the 8-G load he forced on the laboring Tomcat. One and Two going high, O'Neill groaned as he pulled back hard on the control stick, sending the big fighter into a supersonic pure vertical climb. The two Tomcats were indicating Mach 1.2 as they rocketed skyward into the sullen clouds.
O'Neill's engine problem had been forgotten.
God, what happened? Cangemi asked, inching closer to Buzzard One.
O'Neill never had a chance to answer. His fighter exploded in a horrendous fireball, lighting the sky in an eerie yellow-white burst of light.
More explosions lit the night, causing chaos over the aircraft radios.
Stingray! Stingray! We're going dow
MAY DAY! MAY DAY! shouted a high-pitched voice.
WE'RE PUNCHIN'!
Three seconds later Cangemi felt the impact of a Russian air-to-air missile. He was blinded by the explosion as his Tomcat tumbled toward the icy water, spinning wildly and spewing flaming jet fuel.
The left wing had been blown off and the fuselage was riddled with holes, leaving the young Marine pilot with only one option. Cangemi thumbed the ICS and yelled at his RIO.
EJECT! EJECT!
Cangemi could feel his head being bashed violently against the canopy as his body slammed from side to side. Then he noted the altimeter, rapidly spiraling downward, as he reached up over his helmet with both hands and pulled his ejection seat handle.
The protective face curtain had just covered his helmet visor when the blast from the rear seat ejection turned the cockpit into a howling hurricane. One-half second later Cangemi hurtled into space to join his radar intercept officer.
Buzzard One, gravely injured during the ballistic ejection, was already in his parachute, trailing his RIO down to the cold, rolling ocean.
O'Neill viewed the devastation in shock and pain as he descended below the cloud base. He could see the Virginia in the distance, flames and smoke pouring from the aft section of the cruiser. It appeared to O'Neill as if the entire fantail was ablaze.
The sky was still lit by explosions and parachute flares as O'Neill slowly drifted toward the Virginia, suspended by his parachute risers over the flames and falling debris. A sudden flash to his left, followed seconds later by an explosive noise, marked the grave of his Tomcat fighter.
O'Neill ripped off his oxygen mask, tossing it away in the darkness, and started preparing for his entry into the frigid waters.
The pilot knew he would succumb to hypothermia in minutes if he couldn't board his one-man life raft or be plucked from the freezing waters by a rescue helicopter.
Another aircraft hit the water and exploded with a deafening roar, causing O'Neill to involunta
rily jerk around in his torso harness. It was impossible to tell if it was a Russian or American aircraft.
Debris was raining down all around him. The Navy fighter pilot, battling unconsciousness, fervently hoped all four Russians were in the drink.
Cangemi's parachute opened with shocking force from the high-speed ejection. As the slightly injured Marine aviator descended below the clouds, struggling with his survival gear, another aircraft smashed into the water with a deafening concussion.
Looking in the direction of the Virginia, Cangemi thought he saw another parachute descend below the cloud deck. He didn't have time to study the other figure. The sight of whitecaps indicated only seconds to prepare for the shock of entry into freezing waters.
SEAHAWK THIRTY-EIGHT Hector Chaveze was only twenty miles from the Virginia when he heard the melee erupt. The lieutenant wheeled his helicopter around in a 180-degree turn and raced for his ship as fast as the LAMPS would go. He didn't hesitate a second, realizing aircrew members and ship's company from the Virginia might be in the cold, turbulent ocean. Chaveze and his crew would be their only hope in these conditions.
The LAMPS pilot thought about the fact he was committed to land on the Virginia after all. Not enough fuel for multiple rescue attempts and a flight to the carrier.
Chaveze briefed his crew and called the Hawkeye.
Stingray, Stingray, Seahawk Thirty-eight proceeding back to the Virginia. Standing by for rescue coordination.
Roger, Seahawk, the surprised Hawkeye controller answered.
We've gota basket of shit here ... ah ... multiple aircraft in the water.
Stingray, we have the Virginia visual! Chaveze could feel his heart pounding.
Roger, responded the controller, pausing to talk to his assistant.
We have two Tomcats, a Texaco, and ... the Viking down. Search all quadrants around the Virginia.
Wilco, Stingray.
Chaveze looked at his copilot. What the hell happened out here?
Gill shrugged, indicating it was useless to speculate at this point.
The pilot pressed his radio button again. Stingray, Seahawk.
Any more Russian aircraft loitering in the area?
Negative, Seahawk. Stand by.
The controller studied two radar scopes, then called the pilot.
Looks like three of them went down. We are tracking one headed for the coast, slow, probably damaged or conserving fuel. No observed threats at this time. No radar returns in the area, except two Tomcats still on station.
Roger, Stingray, the LAMPS pilot replied, descending toward the burning Virginia. Thanks.
Gill tugged on Chaveze and pointed in front of the helicopter.
A pencil flare or flashlight bobbed up and down a quarter mile away in the inky blackness.
Got it, Chaveze said as he nosed the LAMPS helo over and ordered the hoist ready.
USS VIRGINIA
After the first torpedo explosion rocked the Virginia, Simpson fired two ASROC missiles at the Soviet submarine.
Skipper, the sonarman shouted, I have another torpedo tracking, bearing zero-seven-zero!
Right full rudder, all ahead flank! Simpson looked for Jenkins as he tried to assess the damage to his ship.
Mister Jenkins, get a damage control report and have the XO... have Commander Risone report to the bridge on the double!
Aye aye. Captain.
The Virginia was wracked by another violent explosion, shattering windows on the bridge. The ship was slowing rapidly and starting to list to starboard.
Captain, the sonarman yelled across the bridge. We got the sub breaking up, sir!
You positive? Simpson shouted as he stumbled toward the operator.
Yes sir, the frightened sailor responded in a taut voice.
No question.
The sonarman turned the volume up for the captain. The sound of the Soviets' pressure hull, being crushed like eggshells, was eerily clear.
Simpson relaxed a moment, realizing the immediate threat was gone.
Now to save his stricken ship.
Jenkins spoke from behind. Captain, damage control says they can contain the fire. One propulsion system is out of commission and seven compartments are flooded. They can't correct the list, but the ship has watertight integrity.
Okay, Simpson answered, appearing haggard. What about casualties?
Fourteen confirmed dead, sir, including Commander Rigone . No estimate of injured yet. Everyone is too busy at the moment. Jenkins felt fatigue taking over from the adrenaline.
Very well. Mister Jenkins, Simpson sighed, eyes cast downward. The captain paused a moment, then looked back into Jenkins's face. Bud was a good man. All of them were good men.
Yes, sir, Jenkins responded, placing a hand on the captain's shoulder.
The best.
The radioman quietly interrupted the two grieving officers.
Captain, Seahawk Thirty-eight is back. They're picking up someone now.
What? Simpson looked toward the starboard side of his damaged ship.
Okay. Stand by to bring them aboard.
The Virginia's skipper was glad to have the helicopter back.
It would be impossible to put a small boat over the side in heavy seas.
The helo was the only hope for the survivors in the frigid, churning ocean.
What a goddamned nightmare, Simpson said quietly to himself as the lights of the LAMPS helicopter came into sight.
An F-14 roared low over the ship, creating a rolling thunder, as the Virginia's captain tried to piece together what had happened in the last seven and a half minutes.
Chapter Five.
AIR FORCE ONE
The new Boeing executive-configured 747 was cruising at 41,000 feet, experiencing light turbulence, when Grant Wilkinson, carrying a Flash Message, rushed into the president's private dining room.
Mister President, Wilkinson paused a second and continued, Sir, the
Russians attacked one of our ships. The Virginia is
SON-OF-A-BITCH! The president dropped his utensils in his plate, the early breakfast forgotten, as the color drained from his face.
When?
Approximately twenty minutes ago. The Virginia is badly damaged but afloat.
Wilkinson looked at the message in his hand, then subconsciously crushed the paper. Sub got them and shot down an antisub plane from the Eisenhower.
What about the sub? the president asked, clearly agitated.
He quickly wiped his mouth, then threw the linen napkin on the table.
The Virginia sunk it, sir. Another ASW plane confirmed the sinking.
How many casualties. Grant? The president was intense.
Too early to tell, sir. Fourteen aboard the Virginia estimated killed.
They have aircrews in the water and rescue operations are continuing.
What are our total losses? the president asked, standing up from his table.
93
Two fighters, a tanker plane, and the antisub aircraft are confirmed at this time.
How the hell did we lose that many aircraft?
Sir, the Russians had fighters up, came out of nowhere.
They shot down two of our Tomcats and the tanker aircraft before our
pilots had a
Did we get any of their fighters?
Yes sir, three. Wilkinson had never seen his friend this violently mad. One limped to the coast, may have bailed out over land.
How the hell did they get fighters out there without being detected?
No one knows for sure, sir. Wilkinson paused, choosing his words carefully. Our airborne radar plane reported the Russians popped out from a commercial airline track, possibly being camouflaged by a transport plane. There was an Aeroflot aircraft in the area at the time of the attack.
What do you think. Grant?
Obviously deliberate. Wilkinson sighed. An insane move on the eve of your meeting with Zhilinkhov. Just beyond comprehension.
Agree. Th
e president paused, mulling over various responses to the attack. I agree wholeheartedly. Grant.
The president was regaining his composure. How do you think I should approach Zhilinkhov and his staff?
Wilkinson did not hesitate. Sir, you're going to have to take the gloves off with this guy.
Wilkinson watched as the president, formulating a decision, lightly tapped his fingers on the edge of the table.
You're absolutely correct, as usual. The president looked straight into the eyes of his chief of staff. Order DEFCON-Two and notify Lajes that I demand to see Zhilinkhov immediately on arrival.
Yes sir, Wilkinson replied as he opened the cabin door.
The president, assimilating the unprovoked attack by the Soviets, attempted to analyze what Zhilinkhov was trying to accomplish with these blatant assaults on the Americans.
The commander-in-chief realized there were too many possibilities to contend with at this juncture. He nibbled absently on a piece of cold dry wheat toast.
The president knew the Soviets well. They would become serious and willing to talk only when threatened by systems that effectively neutralized their own forces. He thought about the new Stealth bombers and fighters.
These new weapons, along with early deployment of the basic Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI) satellites, had apparently unnerved the Soviet leaders.
The Russians had continued to exercise power by brute force, while their political system had become moribund and perfunctory.
Soviet technology, while excellent in many areas, lagged far behind the United States. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, encompassing an area of 8,649,490 square miles and 266 million inhabitants, would not be a superpower without their arsenal of intercontinental ballistic missiles and space-related capabilities.
The Russians had every reason to be concerned, considering the technological advances in American military defense systems over the past four years. The Soviets were now facing the rapid deployment of these weapons.
The president had thoroughly studied the Soviet theories and aims that constituted their political, social, and economic aspirations. The Kremlin leadership simply did not subscribe to the thesis that a nuclear war cannot be won.
All Russian command and control systems had been increasingly hardened.
