Defcon One (1989)

by Joe Weber

Will do. Major, Oaks replied, giving Lincoln a reassuring thumbs up gesture.

  I've got a tally! Buchanan said over the radio. Pete, try to work 'em on the east side!

  Best ... we ... can ... Buck, Barnes groaned, obviously under stress from the violent maneuvers he was performing.

  Bastards. Pretty quick!

  Higgins was yelling over the discreet frequency to Wickham.

  You'll have to guide us over your position, copy? The copilot couldn't hear amidst the clattering of the machine guns. Speak up!

  We can't hear you! You'll have to guide us in!

  PING!!

  THUD!

  Two rounds hit the aft left side of the main cabin. One penetrated the fuselage, missing Lincoln by three inches, while the other ricocheted upward into the rotor blades.

  We're takin' rounds. Major! Oaks said over the intercom.

  Big stuff. Better slow it down! Higgins told Buchanan, pointing to a spot across the river from the planned rendezvous point.

  There they are ... I think.

  Yeah, I have 'em, Buchanan responded. Shit! The grunts are almost on top of 'em.

  Buck, Higgins glanced at the commander of Scarecrow One. This don't look so good.

  USS SARATOGA

  Launch the Vikings. Launch the Vikings, blared the flightdeck loudspeakers as the catapult crews hustled out from under the two S-3B ASW aircraft.

  The twin engine jet on cat number one roared down the pitching deck, lifted off, and started a turn to the right as the landing gear retracted. Seconds later, engulfed in a cloud of catapult steam, the second Viking streaked into the air and turned to rendezvous with the leader.

  Two additional Lockheed S-3Bs taxied into position on the forward catapults. The four VS-30 Sea Tigers would join up five minutes after the last sub-killer was airborne.

  Each Viking carried four depth bombs internally plus two bombs on the wing pylons.

  Hummer, Fishhook Seven-Oh-Seven, flight of four, Lt. Cmdr. Spencer Rainer radioed the Hawkeye.

  Fishhook, we've got the coordinates and the clearance.

  CINCLANT authorization.

  We're ready, Hummer.

  Rainer listened to the controller while his copilot copied the coordinates for two of the three Soviet submarines, then read them back.

  That's affirm. Fishhook, the Hawkeye controller said.

  Seven-Oh-Seven and Seven-Oh-Four will take target one.

  Seven-Oh-One and Oh-Six take target two. We are vectoring two P-3s at the third target.

  Rainer keyed his radio. 'Four, let's come starboard one-zero-five.

  Roger.

  One and Six, Rainer continued, we'll see you at the boat.

  Ah ...roger, the second section leader radioed, leading his wingman to the second submarine. Good fishing.

  Rainer clicked his mike twice in acknowledgement, then keyed the ICS.

  I don't know what the hell is going on, but we're stepping into deep shit.

  THE AGENTS Dimitri lay spread-eagled in the shrubs as Wickham frantically gave instructions over the small radio.

  You're about a hundred fifty yards away! Straight ahead, along the shore, Wickham yelled into the radio. He looked around at the advancing spetsnaz troops. They had spread out and were firing at the approaching Night Hawk.

  Dimitri, Wickham shouted, fire in the vicinity of the troops! The ones off the boat!

  Wickham pulled out his Beretta and aimed in the general direction of the advancing Soviet troops. Even if the agents didn't hit the Russians, the rounds whining overhead would keep the troops at bay, or at least slowed.

  You're only a hundred yards away, Wickham shouted into the radio.

  Straight ahead!

  The high-powered round ricocheted off a tree two yards from the agents, causing both men to drop prone on the frozen ground.

  Dimitri, Wickham barked, start crawling toward the chopper. GO!

  GO!

  Dimitri dropped his weapon and started crawling on his hands and knees.

  Wickham turned toward the Russians, then froze in panic when he saw one of the killer dogs snarling twenty feet away.

  The animal had hesitated for a split second.

  Oh, shit, the agent said quietly as he gripped the Beretta with both hands, aimed at the middle of the dark, growling canine, and squeezed the trigger.

  The Dobennan staggered backwards, emitting a mournful howl, then fell over a stump and died.

  Wickham fired the remaining rounds at the advancing Russians, then dropped the Beretta and started crawling after Dimitri.

  Keep movin'! GO, Wickham yelled to the struggling figure in front of him.

  Wickham caught the flare of an explosion, then felt the concussion, as a helicopter thundered into the ground next to the roadway. He fervently hoped it wasn't an American chopper.

  Sandman! Sandman! Higgins urgently radioed, trying to expedite the rescue effort. We've got to set down here. It's the only clear spot.

  Can you make it?

  Wickham looked up, judged the distance to be sixty yards, at most, then frantically keyed his transmitter. Yeah! On our way. We need cover fire!

  The CIA agent grabbed Dimitri by the collar. Come on!

  GO! GO! RUN, Wickham shouted, racing for the settling Night Hawk.

  Run, Dimitri!

  Fifty yards, Wickham judged as the two men stumbled through the low shrub trees. Their numbed appendages refused to respond in a coordinated fashion.

  Forty yards! Just forty yards, Wickham shouted to Dimitri.

  His arm and shoulder shot excruciating pain through his body every time his right foot hit the ground. Wickham forced his mind to block the pain as he stumbled through the shrubs, limping, in a crouch to reduce the target area.

  Buchanan saw a stream of fire trailing along another helicopter on the far side of the river. He took his eyes away to orient himself, then glanced back to see tracer rounds continue to pour from the stricken gunship as it slowly rolled over and flew into the muddy river.

  RUN! RUN, Lincoln screamed as Wickham fell over the back of Dimitri.

  Move it! GO, Wickham cried breathlessly as parts from the crashed helicopter rained down amid the chaos.

  Twenty yards, Wickham shouted to Dimitri, then forcefully shoved the young CIA operative.

  An automatic weapon opened up from the far side of the river, kicking up pieces of shrub tree immediately behind Scarecrow One.

  Blackie Oaks returned fire with his Me0 machine gun, silencing the heavy weapon, then sprayed the entire riverbank with tracer rounds.

  Major, Oaks shouted over the intercom. Three is in the river! Some got out!

  Buchanan yelled over the intercom. Keep 'em covered, Gunny!

  Oaks answered with a hail of machine-gun fire directed back and forth over the downed Night Hawk.

  Wickham and Dimitri reached the side of the Sikorsky as Lincoln jumped out to assist in boarding. The rotor wash was like a hurricane, whipping everything into a blur of dust and weeds.

  Dimitri fell, picked himself up, then reached for the door as Lincoln thrust him bodily into the cabin. Wickham shoved on Dimitri, too, as the young agent rolled sideways into the fuselage.

  Wickham reached up, grabbed the door, lifted his leg, then stopped in mid-stride as if someone had hit him in the back with a sledgehammer.

  He fell into the side of the fuselage, then rolled on his side, moaning.

  Lincoln grabbed the agent and yelled for Gunny Oaks. Buchanan was shouting into the cabin as Oaks leaped out to help Lincoln get the CIA operative into the helicopter.

  What about Three? Higgins shouted to Buchanan as the pilot added power and pulled up on the collective. We can't leave them here.

  Goddamnit! I know that, Buchanan shot back, raising the Night Hawk into the air, then pivoting around to face the river as Oaks scrambled aboard after Lincoln. Wickham was lying face down on the floor, bleeding profusely from the back wound.

  Pete, cover me while I try to get Jim's crew o
ut, Buchanan ordered as he eased the Sikorsky toward the far riverbank.

  Roger, Barnes replied. We've got a Hind down. The other is running.

  Stay in there, Buchanan said, turning the Night Hawk so Lincoln would have a better view of the downed crew. Pete, spray the shoreline left of the gunship wreckage, the one you bagged.

  Will do, Barnes radioed as he swept low over the river in a forty-five degree bank, then pulled up steeply in preparation for a strafing run.

  Buchanan could clearly see the crashed S-70 as he crossed the riverbank.

  We've got survivors in the water. They're on the side of the Hawk.

  I see them, Barnes replied, then fired a stream of cannon fire down the length of the riverbank, concentrating the barrage where Buchanan had asked.

  Lower the chair, Buchanan commanded, inching closer to the twisted wreckage. Keep up the fire. Gunny!

  You got it. Major! Oaks replied, raking the shoreline with his Me0.

  Cap'n Barnes is givin' 'em some kinda hell.

  Buchanan didn't reply as he maneuvered the nimble Sikorsky over the downed sister ship. He could see three people hanging from the side of the overturned helicopter, clinging to a twisted rotor blade.

  We're going to be heavy. Major, Lincoln said over the intercom.

  Who gives a shit, Buchanan barked. We aren't leaving anyone. The pilot waited a second, then added. Just keep firing. Line, and I'll handle the decisions.

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Grant Wilkinson walked into the Oval Office, followed by Susan Blaylocke. The president was sitting in his recliner next to the crackling fire. Snow mixed with sleet fell steadily outside the warm office.

  The Joint Chiefs of Staff, except Air Force General Ridenour, airborne in the Looking Glass command post, sat across from the commander-in-chief.

  Have a seat, the president motioned to the vacant divan facing the military commanders.

  Thank you, Wilkinson replied as he waited for Blaylocke to sit down, then joined her.

  The president looked at each individual in the room, studying them at times, before speaking. Anyone have any questions, or, for that matter, suggestions, in regard to my actions thus far?

  Sir, Blaylocke paused, composing her words, there are some members of

  Congress who are less than pleased with the lack of information fr

  The bottom line, the president interrupted. Please, Susan. The vice president, controlled, replied. They have been demanding an audience with you.

  You know my feelings about that. You handle them, at least for the time being. I don't have the patience to endure any congressional pontificating at this time.

  The president shook his head in disgust. They all want more face-time on the evening news, so let them bellyache for the time being. I've got enough problems.

  Yes, sir, Blaylocke answered, formulating a response for the congressmen.

  Any word on the Soviet submarines. Cliff?

  Howard turned toward the chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Grabow.

  Admiral?

  The Saratoga's ASW aircraft should have been over their targets five minutes ago.

  The president sat back.

  Your thoughts. Grant? the president asked. I need some objective opinions.

  Mister President, Wilkinson said quietly, I would like to make a couple of observations before I suggest a possible course of action.

  By all means. The president reached for another cigar.

  We have a lot at stake, and I want everyone in this room to speak his mind honestly and openly. I want us to be perfectly candid with our thoughts, and, more to the point, our suggestions.

  Go ahead. Grant, the president said, unwrapping his rum crook.

  Wilkinson leaned forward slightly, as he always did, when he addressed a serious matter.

  Time is short. The point is, in my estimation, that it is finally time to stop placing any faith in the Soviet system. We have been made to look like fools again and again, sir, and I strongly believe we need to stand our ground. Even push a little, if we have to. I support your decision to sink the Soviet submarines.

  The president remained quiet. He looked over to Susan Blaylocke.

  You must have some feeling about our response.

  Sir, I have never advocated using force to seek solutions with the Soviets. Blaylocke smiled at Wilkinson in a friendly manner, then continued her conversation with the president.

  However, I agree one hundred percent with Grant. We are dealing with a stubborn, belligerent, and probably deranged Soviet leader.

  Zhilinkhov is threatening our future, our survival, and I endorse standing our ground on this issue. I don't see any other reasonable choice.

  The chairman of the Joint Chiefs raised his hand slightly, indicating he wished to respond.

  Go ahead. Admiral, the president said, relighting his cigar.

  From a military standpoint, Chambers looked at the other Joint Chiefs, we are on the razor's edge now. Sinking their submarines is a major step toward declared war.

  As Mister Wilkinson suggested earlier, sir, Chambers continued, we could continue to press the Soviets with our carrier groups. However, I personally believe that would lead to open hostilities on a global basis. The president thought for a while, then asked the chairman a question.

  If that becomes the case. Admiral, do you believe we could contain the skirmishes to conventional weapons?

  Chambers looked uncomfortable.

  The members of the Joint Chiefs are in agreement that a regional conflict could be con tained. Nuclear weapons, most likely, would not be used, although there is no guarantee.

  But since this situation is global in nature, the president responded, I assume you believe it would escalate into a full nuclear confrontation.

  No doubt about it, sir. Chambers paused, glancing at Wilkinson, then back to the president. Especially with Zhilinkow at the helm.

  Wilkinson leaned forward again, addressing the president.

  Perhaps we should wait and see what Zhilinkhov's reaction will be after losing his submarines.

  I agree, the president responded, but I am going to press harder if he doesn't back off within the time frame I set.

  I am convinced Zhilinkhov will be quelled by the Politburo when they realize we are deadly serious. Serious enough to start sinking submarines.

  The president frowned. If not, I will order conventional strikes aimed at their airborne bomber forces, in addition to striking any Soviet submarines we feel are a threat to national security.

  An aide stepped into the office, unobtrusively carrying a message.

  Yes, Colonel, the president said, surprised.

  Sir, General Ridenour is on -the scrambler.

  Thank you. Colonel, the president responded, picking up a receiver to one of three phones at his side. General, how is everything?

  The Joint Chiefs, along with Blaylocke and Wilkinson, spoke quietly among themselves while the president listened to the Air Force general in the airborne command post. The group fell silent when the president placed the receiver back in its cradle.

  Well, the president turned to Wilkinson, good and bad news. The submarines all three apparently have been sunk.

  No confirmation on one of them, but General Ridenour believes it went down. The bad news? Admiral Chambers asked, knowing the answer.

  We lost two aircraft. One crew did manage to get out safely.

  They're picking them up now. No one said a word in response, thinking about the scenario painted by Grant Wilkinson. Was this the prelude to a massive nuclear strike on the United States?

  Also, the president said slowly, the two Navy fighters we cleared to engage the Migs near Iceland the Migs that attacked the Air Force pilots they shot down three, without any losses. Wilkinson sighed, then addressed the president in a Ann manner. Sir, I recommend that you continue to send Zhilinkhov a strong message.

  It's time to follow up the submarine attack with a strike to the Soviet bomber gro
up approaching Alaska.

  The president remained quiet, chin cupped in his left hand, studying the surprised looks on the faces surrounding him. No one said a word to the chief of staff.

  I agree. Grant, the president replied, turning to Chambers.

  Admiral, order the attack.

  SCARECROW FLIGHT

  The Gunny's hit, Lincoln shouted as Oaks slumped to the floor, holding his stomach, then fell forward in a heap. Blood had splattered over Lincoln, warm drops in the frigid night air.

  Take his place, Buchanan yelled. Keep firing; keep the pressure on!

  PING!

  A round hit the cockpit, slightly behind the copilot's head, causing him to jump.

  Jesus! Higgins exclaimed, sliding down and forward in his seat.

  That was too damn close.

  John, Buchanan ordered, help Lincoln get 'em aboard before we all go in.

  Higgins nodded, unfastened his seat restraints, then crawled back into the cabin of the S70.

  Line, Higgins shouted, you work the winch and I'll take the sixty!

  Yes sir, Lincoln yelled in return, then moved across the cabin to the rescue winch.

  Buchanan could see the three-pronged seat banging into the side of the downed Sikorsky. He couldn't believe anyone could have survived the crash impact. The gunship was a twisted wreck, split open like a watermelon dropped from fifty feet.

  Come on, guys, Buchanan said under his breath as he stabilized the Night Hawk over the crew in the freezing water.

  Move it!

  Lincoln could see Charbonnet helping someone onto the chair. Time seemed to pass in slow motion as the Night Hawk's rotor blades whipped the surface of the muddy river into a frothy gale.

  Uh... Higgins coughed.

  Lincoln looked at Higgins a split second after the copilot took a round through the neck. The paramedic watched, horrified, as Higgins dropped to his knees, clutched his bleeding throat, then fell through the open side door. Higgins's body bounced off the tail rotor of the downed gunship, then disappeared under the surface of the churning water.

  Lincoln pressed the retrieval switch on the hoist, then contacted Buchanan. Major, Captain Higgins is dead!

  WHAT, Buchanan shouted, concentrating on the rising rescue chair.