Defcon One (1989)

by Joe Weber

  Mighty fine, boss, Parnam responded, intently concentrating on his formation flying, and the price isn't bad either.

  Digennaro chuckled to himself, knowing his wingman was damn good. He checked his fuel gauges once more, glanced at his armament panel, and called the AWACS.

  Pinwheel, Cobra with you.

  Cobra, Pinwheel.

  I'm topped and Two will be off the tanker in a minute.

  Where are the other fifteens?

  They're thirty out. Cobra, descending on the tankers.

  The voice was calm, reassuring.

  Roger, Pinwheel. Point us toward the bogies, Digennaro replied, checking Parnam's F-15.

  Two eighty-five, blocking three-three-zero to four-one-oh, one hundred forty out.

  One with a copy, responded the flight leader, waiting for his wingman to finish refueling.

  Two shows full, Parnam announced in a quiet, steady voice.

  Nightrider confirms, the boom operator verified the load, cleared down and to the right.

  Down and right, Parnam repeated, easing the F-15 back to the right of the tanker. He looked over to his flight leader on the left.

  Good hunting. Cobras, radioed the pilot of the lumbering KC-10.

  Thanks, Nightrider. Appreciate the drink, replied Digennaro as he watched his wingman slide into position on his right wing.

  Our pleasure, guys, responded the KC-10 pilot. The tanker was already turning to remain in the racetrack refueling pattern.

  Cobras, go combat spread, ordered Digennaro. Check your panel; we're going' upstairs.

  Roger, lead. Clean and green, replied Parnam, inching his throttles forward while he scanned his radar.

  The Russian bomber group and fighter escorts were approaching the American fighter pilots at a combined closure rate of over 1,000 miles per hour.

  MOSCOW The CIA agent shoved Dimitri toward the tiny bathroom, shouting orders, as he hurried to effect their escape. No time now for a full transformation or disguise. Their options were dwindling rapidly. ' Wash your hand off and wrap it with gauze, Wickham said, yanking open drawers. Keep your gloves on.

  The American agent quickly combed white powder through his hair, creating an instant aging effect. Wickham, donning different trousers, white shirt, conservative dark tie, and long black topcoat, began to look like a Soviet bureaucrat, an agriculture inspector. He topped off the ensemble with a black, Russian-made, medium-brimmed hat.

  Racing back to the window, the agent tossed Dimitri a pair of pants, long coat, and similar black hat.

  Get into those quick! Remember how to use this? Wickham asked, tossing Dimitri a 9-mm Beretta.

  Yes, Dimitri responded, dancing on one leg while he tried to get the pants over his shoes. The pistol bounced off his left knee as Dimitri simultaneously lost his balance and fell against the bed.

  Don't, unless you absolutely have to, the agent said, holding the window curtain open half an inch. We've gotta move fast!

  The American thrust a package of credentials into Dimitri's inside coat pocket, peered out the window, and quickly stepped back.

  Aw, shit! They're on us, Dimitri. Let's go.

  The two men raced down the hallway, clamored through a window, went part way down a fire escape, and leaped over a fence into an adjoining courtyard.

  Dimitri stumbled and fell forward on his knees, knocking his hat off.

  Wickham picked him up, slamming Dimitri's hat down over his ears.

  Together the men raced toward the Moscow suburb of Barviha, where the CIA operatives had a Volga. The car was registered in the name of a United States embassy official, but reserved for this type of contingency, a quick escape from Moscow proper.

  Hurry, Dimitri! We can't outrun their dogs. Wickham's breathing was becoming labored.

  Dimitri's response was a gasp, a croak, Ahh 'kay.

  The two men emerged from a narrow passage between two buildings, 150 meters from the waiting Volga, and started walking across the street.

  Suddenly, the American pushed Dimitri into a row of shrub trees, again knocking his hat askew. Wickham pointed down Kazabova street, visibly straining to slow his breathing, his lips parched dry.

  Dimitri could see the black KGB car 200 meters past the Volga, their escape vehicle. Two GRU officers, one holding the leash of a Doberman pinscher, were talking with the driver.

  The American quietly motioned to Dimitri. Follow me and stay alert.

  Dimitri responded by grabbing the back of the agent's coat as they forced their way through the shrubs and hedges until they were in a small yard.

  We'll cut between the buildings, then try to approach from the dacha directly in front of the car.' The two men crept across three small private yards in the posh suburb and stealthily approached the side of the dacha in front of the parked Volga.

  Wickham motioned Dimitri to kneel down. They moved quietly to the side of the front porch, removing their hats. Dimitri could feel the Beretta gouging him between his back and belt.

  Listen, Wickham whispered. The keys are in a special container under the left rear fender.

  Dimitri listened intently, nodding his head in understanding.

  His hand still hurt, hot and stinging, but the pain was almost forgotten in his near-panic.

  I'm going to head for the car, get the keys, and unlock the driver's door. Then and only then you walk casually out and get in the other side. Understand, Dimitri? Clearly? Yes, Dimitri said, fear written on his face. I understand.

  Wickham nervously looked around the corner of the porch.

  The GRU officers and their Doberman were slowly crossing the street, approaching the row of dachas in front of the Volga.

  The KGB men were still in their car with the passenger door open.

  Dimitri, it's very simple. We have no other choice. If we stay here, I guarantee you we will be dead, or imprisoned and tortured, very shortly.

  Yes, sir, Dimitri replied, regaining his confidence.

  Then do as I say. Put your weapon in your outside coat pocket. If we need them, we'll damn sure use 'em.

  Dimitri nodded, gently placing the Beretta in his right coat pocket.

  Here we go, Wickham said as he walked from the side of the porch, shocking Dimitri with his boldness.

  The American stepped between a tall hedge and the outside door of the dacha, pretending to be leaving the residence. He opened, then slammed the outside door, casually strolling down the short steps, carefully fitting his hat to his head.

  Good morning, comrades, the American agent said in perfect Russian.

  Dimitri was petrified as he watched the agent talk to the KGB officers.

  Morning, came the brusque reply. The black Doberman growled menacingly, straining on his leash.

  Wickham reached for the keys as the GRU officers started back across the street.

  Dimitri watched as the American unlocked the driver's door.

  The young Kremlin operative stood upright and started toward the car.

  Every step was filled with agonizing terror. Every fiber in his being cried out in alarm.

  Without warning, the door to the dacha opened, startling Dimitri. A pretty Russian woman appeared, thinking someone had knocked on her door.

  What do you want? she cried out, alarmed at the presence of GRU officers across the street.

  The two officers stopped, turned around, a quizzical look on their faces.

  Before Dimitri could respond to the frightened woman, the American turned and spoke to her in Russian.

  We apologize, Wickham said loudly, we knocked at the wrong dacha.

  Yevgeny Govorko, we have the wrong address.

  Dimitri hesitated, then started for the car.

  Keep moving, Dimitri, Wickham said under his breath.

  Halt! the GRU senior officer commanded. Stop where you are!

  Run, Dimitri! the American ordered. Get in the car.

  As Dimitri rounded the corner of the car, a black object hit him from the side. He felt
searing pain in his right ear, then heard a loud shot close to him.

  Wickham had shot the Doberman when he glanced off Dimitri, catching the vicious beast as he leaped off the pavement for another assault.

  GET IN, the American shouted as he leaped into the driver's seat and inserted the key.

  Dimitri plunged headlong into the car as Wickham floor-boarded the Volga and careened into traffic.

  The black KGB car made a U-turn and was recklessly pursuing the two CIA men, swerving wildly to miss oncoming vehicles.

  The two agents had to lose the Russians quickly if they had any chance for survival.

  Wickham yelled at Dimitri to keep his head down, then glanced in the rearview mirror at the pursuing automobile. At that precise instant the rear window was shattered by three rounds from a KGB submachine gun.

  Chapter Nine.

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  The vice president, surrounded by Cliff Howard, secretary of defense, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, waited patiently for Ted Corbin to enter the Situation Room.

  The director of the Central Intelligence Agency had called the vice president only minutes before to report an irregularity in Moscow.

  Susan Blaylocke, sensing a major problem developing, ordered the CIA director to report in person, then called a meeting of her staff.

  Corbin entered the room, tie askew, and sat down.

  The vice president spoke first. What, precisely, is the problem in Moscow, Ted?

  The director seemed flustered, hesitating before he answered.

  The information I have at the present time is preliminary and doesn't

  accurately reflect appro

  Ted, Blaylocke impatiently interrupted, just state the problem, clearly and concisely.

  Corbin's face flushed, turning almost crimson.

  Something has gone wrong in Moscow. We only know, at this juncture, that our senior field operative and the Kremlin plant have been involved in an altercation with the KGB. Our mole was apparently on to something.He violated the normal procedure for contacting the senior agent, and, we believe, that initiated the screw up.

  Every face in the room was staring at Corbin, unnerving the intelligence director.

  Altercation? The vice president looked puzzled. Could you be more specific, Ted?

  The director averted his eyes. We don't know the details as of yet.

  We do know there was some sort of scuffle. Our senior agent in Moscow,

  Steve Wickham, has disappeared, along with Dimitri. Our belief is that

  both men have been pla

  What do you mean by disappeared? Does the KGB have them in custody?

  Blaylocke, irritated, watched the director closely, measuring him.

  We don't believe the KGB has them, Corbin responded, wetting his lips.

  At least not at the moment.

  Go on, Cliff Howard prodded.

  As I started to say previously, our other senior field agent-he works closely with Wickham covering the Kremlin reported the incident and the disappearance.

  Corbin glanced at his notes as he fumbled with his attache case, then continued. Apparently, from preliminary reports, Wickham and Dimitri escaped on foot from the incident with the KGB. We don't know where they are at this time. They're probably en Wait a minute, Blaylocke said, her hand slightly raised.

  How did the incident come about? It was our understanding, at least my understanding, that everything was under control.

  What happened?

  Corbin took a deep breath. I we don't know. Our other agent sent a brief message saying that Soviet television and newspapers, Izvestia and Moskovski Komsomolyets, are reporting fatalities, including KGB officers.

  The CIA director, eyes cast downward at his briefing sheet, continued.

  The other Moscow agent suspects the KGB knew about Wickham and may have been waiting for an opportunity to seize him. They, the KGB, had never been able to link Wickham to Dimitri before the unplanned rendezvous.They made a cardinal error in deviating from standard operating procedures, perhaps because of the nature of the information.

  Silence followed that disclosure, then murmurs filled the quiet room.

  Cliff Howard broke the silence. I don't intend to be the harbinger of doom, but this is the last thing we need with the president in Lajes.

  Ted, the vice president spoke quietly, if I understand this correctly, our agents are on the run, being pursued by the whole of Moscow.

  Corbin nodded silently.

  Do we have a contingency plan to get them out of Russia without creating an international embarrassment?

  Yes, Corbin responded, providing, of course, that our senior agent, Wickham, still has his satellite transmitter.

  Blaylocke looked straight into the director's eyes, then spoke slowly.

  Again, you'll have to be more specific, Ted. Many of us are not completely aware of the CIA's capabilities.

  Blaylocke paused, then spoke in the same deliberate manner.

  Also, as a reminder, any operation, in the magnitude you refer to, will need my personal approval.

  I am fully aware of that fact, Ms. Blaylocke.

  Please continue, the vice president replied.

  ' The original plan was to have the agents return to Leningrad,

  disguised as Soviet agricultural inspectors, then cross the border

  with

  Ted, the vice president sighed, I would think the original plan is no longer applicable. Their descriptions will be posted at every crossing.What are your plans for retrieving the agents under these conditions?

  The condescending remark almost caused the CIA director to become apoplectic. Corbin's face blanched, then reddened again.

  Ms. Blaylocke, if the operatives are alive, if they have the transmitter, then we intend to rescue them with high-speed helicopters, Corbin said, darting a look at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. When we know their location.

  That's pretty risky, Admiral Chambers responded in a reserved manner.

  Yes, Admiral, it is. But we have sufficient reason to believe it is imperative mat we extract the agents.

  Okay, Ted, back to the helicopter rescue plan. Explain the operation to us, Blaylocke ordered, taking notes on a legal pad.

  We have three Sikorsky S-70 Night Hawk helicopters-they're combat rescue helos camouflaged in Russian livery, in the hold of a cargo ship in the Baltic Sea near Stockholm.

  When we know the location of our agents, the helos will take off at night from the Porkkala Peninsula, refuel in Lovisa, Finland, then proceed to the pickup point. We hope, as the original helicopter rescue plan outlines, that our agents can make it by train to Novgorod, which is about a hundred thirty miles south of Leningrad. We have a prearranged site, outside of Novgorod, to land the rescue helicopter.

  It will be on the ground only for a few seconds, just long enough for our agents to leap aboard.

  Then what? Howard asked, running a hand through his unruly hair.

  Then two helicopters will fly diversionary routes while the helo containing our agents will fly at treetop level straight over the Gulf of Riga and recover on the cargo container ship.' From there? Chambers asked.

  After refueling, the helicopter will fly our agents to Stockholm, where we will place them aboard an Air Force transport plane bound for Washington.

  What about the other two helicopters? Chambers asked, uncomfortable with the entire rescue plan.

  They will race for the Gulf of Finland, one hundred miles west of Leningrad, then proceed back to Lovisa for refueling.

  After they depar ' What is the bottom line chance for a successful helicopter rescue, as you've outlined? Blaylocke asked, adjusting her glasses.

  Ms. Blaylocke, that's like predicting what a roulette wheel will do.

  Half is black, half is red.

  The vice president glared at the contentious CIA boss, then spoke slowly, her voice rising ever so slightly. When I ask you a question, Ted, I will appreciate a straightforward, forthright
answer.

  Silence filled the room.

  The chances are fifty-fifty, Corbin shot back, thoroughly miffed by the tall, slender woman.

  Thank you, Blaylocke responded, unruffled. I will take your information under advisement.

  The vice president shifted slightly in her chair and addressed Admiral Chambers and the other chiefs of staff.

  Admiral, what is the current military status?

  Chambers looked at the Army chief of staff. General Vandermeer.

  Warren, where do you stand with the airlift?

  All buttoned and ready to go on immediate notice, replied the four-star general.

  ' Excellent, Chambers responded as he turned back to Blaylocke.

  All services are at projected manning levels for Defense

  Condition-Two.

  Blaylocke turned to the secretary of defense. Cliff, what's the status of the shuttle? Howard replied in a voice that echoed weariness.

  Final stages, ma'am. The countdown has started. No reports of security problems. Actually, no significant problems at all, so far.

  Okay, Blaylocke looked around the conference table, let's take a break, gentlemen.

  The vice president faced the CIA director. Ted, I expect an immediate response when you receive any further information.

  The intelligence agency boss didn't respond, only nodding yes to the imposing woman.

  SHUTTLE COLUMBIA The 4.4-million-pound space shuttle, poised for flight, was bathed in soft moonlight.

  The han dover/ingress personnel had already spent several hours in Columbia checking every detail in preparation for the early morning launch.

  The tempo was picking up as the flight crew settled into their launch positions.

  On the flight deck, Colonel Crawford, Hank Doherty, Alan Cressottie, and Doctor Tran were strapped into their seats. The astronauts were on their backs in a sitting position. Ward Culdrew was seated in the mid-deck cabin, apprehensive at not having any controls of his own.

  The liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen had already been pumped into the orbiter. Mission Control now acknowledged the final countdown.

  Columbia, this is Launch Control. Radio check, over.

  Roger, Crawford answered, switching to Mission Control and repeating the radio check.