Counterforce

Chapter Six

Junior Lieutenant Andrei Yakalov’s present duty was a dream come true.

Since he was a child in the Ukrainian wheat fields outside of Kiev, airplanes had always fascinated him. Just to see aircraft passing in the skies above was enough to thrill him. He would not have believed that, one day soon, his service to the Motherland would find him flying almost five days out of every week.

Long was the road that brought him to his current duty as sensor operator aboard an Ilyushin IL-38 turboprop command plane. Yakalov had consigned himself to the fact that he would most likely follow his forefathers into the wheat fields Though the younger dreamed of flying off to foreign lands, he never really thought such an opportunity would come his way. His chance came during his eighth-grade exams. It was at this time that he was found to have unusually sensitive hearing. The school’s DOSAAF administrator reported this to Kiev, and several weeks later he received a letter inviting him to enter the Nakhimov Naval School in far-off Sevastopol. Here he would be given further tests and, upon passing them, would be given the opportunity to earn a naval commission.

Though he was ecstatic, his parents were somewhat saddened by the fact that they would soon be losing their boy for good. Knowing a rare opportunity when he saw it, Yakalov packed up his few belongings and anxiously initiated the long train ride south to the legendary Black Sea port. Once there, he passed his tests easily and was soon on the way to realizing his dream.

The 11–38 bucked in a pocket of headwind, and the junior lieutenant snapped from his reverie. Still having trouble believing the reality of his present duty, he checked the bank of instruments for which he was currently responsible. Before him were the controls to the plane’s sonobuoys, hydrophones, and the magnetic ana moly detector, commonly called MAD.

These sophisticated devices could be utilized to pick up the presence of the enemy’s attack and missile carrying submarines. This was quite an accomplishment, considering their normal cruising altitude was 20,000 feet above sea level.

They were currently over the Pacific ocean, somewhere between Vladivostok, their home base, and the Hawaiian Islands. They had been in the air for over seven hours now, and should be turning back west any moment.

So far, the flight had been an easy one for him. The majority of the patrol had been spent applying the IL38‘8 other capability, that of a communications relay platform for the Soviet Union’s own submarines.

The equipment, and the specialist who ran it, were in a separate compartment in the forward fuselage. Since the majority of that gear was top secret, Yakalov was quite happy to stay in his own quarters.

One of the first lessons he had learned in Sevastopol was that, to get ahead in the military, one had to learn to mind one’s own business.

Where Yakalov really wished he could venture was the cockpit. To him, this was where the action was coming down. He had tried hard to get into the pilot program, but had received one rejection letter after another. It was soon evident that the military wanted him for his ears, not his eyes. He thought it fitting that the tail section of the IL-38 didn’t even have a window. This made it easier for him to concentrate with his other senses.

Able to check their course, altitude and airspeed, Yakalov had learned to mentally visualize the scenery that stretched out down below.

Efficiently scanning the instruments, his gaze halted on a wallet-sized photograph he had taped to the bulkhead wall. Staring back at him were the figures of his mother, father, and teenage sister as they stood in the fields — the wheat up to their waists. Like looking back at a past life, he pondered the great change in not only his lifestyle, but his entire world outlook.

Farming was an important, noble occupation, but it offered nothing like the opportunities presented to a naval aviator. Already he had seen more of the Motherland than his forefathers had seen in their collective lifetimes. He would never forget the moment that he first set eyes on the Black Sea. Until then, the largest body of water he had seen was the lake where he and his father used to go carp fishing.

Once at the Nahkimov Institute, he had begun meeting lads his own age, the likes of which he never knew existed. Many were from Moscow itself, the sons of high-placed Party bureaucrats. Sophisticated and sure of themselves, they represented an alien world, far removed from the innocent milieu of the wheat fields. What Yakalov lacked in world lines he more than made up for in studious application. An avid reader since early childhood, he studied with a zeal that brought him to the upper tenth of his class.

After the completion of his second year of classes, he was given the choice of either duty aboard a ship or one of the new IL-38 flying platforms. Without hesitation, he picked air duty.

His memories of home all but faded as his mind filled with visions of assignments in foreign ports. Rumor had it that crews would soon be chosen for basing in Viet Nam’s Cam Rahn Bay facility. Tropical duty was considered the best, not only for the mild weather, but Asia’s gorgeous, exotic women. Other scuttlebutt mentioned that Cuba was to be the home of a large IL-38 contingent. That would even be more exciting!

To achieve such an assignment, Yakalov’s record had to be spotless.

Ever mindful of his still relatively low rank, he was the first to volunteer for unwanted assignments. He made certain that he could be known for his thorough, conscientious work. His effort was paying off, for this flight was his first without a supervisor. He had achieved this level of competency in an unprecedented six months time after arriving in Vladivostok the previous spring. He was proud of this fact, and surprised when the pilot congratulated him for his achievement during the morning’s briefing.

Yakalov had flown with Captain Gregor Silkin on his last dozen missions. The grayhaired aviator was something of a legend to the younger officers, for he had been the first pilot to land a Yak-36 VTOL (Vertical Take-Off and Landing) jet fighter on the pitching deck of the carrier Kiev, in 1976. That Silkin had noticed him was a very good sign, indeed.

Unfortunately, Yakalov had trouble relating to the aircraft’s other two occupants. The copilot. Senior Lieutenant Martyn Pilyar, seemed cold and distant.

The communications specialist. Lieutenant Georgi Romanov, was downright hostile. The man hardly met his glance, as it he were embarrassed to know him.

In Sevastopol, Yakalov had encountered several individuals who seemed most disturbed with his humble origins. His advisor cautioned him that such antagonism would be present throughout his career, for discrimination abounded even in the Soviet Union.

This was merely because his parents had not been Great Russian. Thus, he would have to work harder to make up in competence for his lack of the proper ancestors.

If this was the cause of Lieutenant Romanov’s iciness, Yakalov knew that he’d have to proceed cautiously. Alienating the man would only lead to getting written up. This was something he had to avoid at all costs. He would keep his relations with the communication’s specialist to a minimum and speak only when spoken to.

Again the plane shook in a pocket of gentle turbulence, and Yakalov’s eyes went to the digital clock.

The return point of their patrol radius was rapidly approaching. In fact, the junior lieutenant anticipated feeling the angled bank of the homeward turn any second now. To occupy his time until the moment came, he decided to have some lunch. A piece of crusty black bread, some fragrant goat cheese and a crispy, green apple comprised his feast. After washing it down with a cup of thermos-hot sweet tea, he burped and once more scanned the instruments.

Amazingly enough, he found they were still headed in a northeasterly direction. Checking their flight time, he calculated that even if they turned around right now, chances were slim that they’d have enough fuel to reach Vladivostok. Perhaps Captain Silkin had an alternative destination not on their original flight plan. To doublecheck this possibility, he decided to chance a call to the cockpit.

Yakalov reached forward to trigger the intercom and, much to his surprise, he found it dead. This discovery disturbed him, and he decided that it would now be appropriate to make his way to the cockpit.

After unbuckling his seat belt, he stood and made his way to the sealed hatch leading to the communications compartment. Not looking forward to an encounter with Lieutenant Romanov, Yakalov took a deep breath and pushed open the doorway. He found the radio expert hunched over the very-low-frequency transmitter. So intense was his concentration that he didn’t notice his new visitor until Yakalov had nearly crossed the room’s length.

“Get back to your section. Comrade!” Romanov snapped tensely.

“You have no business in these parts.”

Halted by the stern words, Yakalov stuttered.

“I–I — I want to talk to the Captain, and my intercom’s not working.”

Romanov exploded.

“You fool! Don’t you realize that we’re in the midst of a Red Flag alert? The Captain has no time for your foolish small talk. Now, return to where you belong!”

Yakalov, not used to being spoken to with such rudeness, stood his ground.

“Why wasn’t I notified of the receipt of such an alert? I still think it’s important that I have a word with Captain Silkin.”

Impressed with his own bravado, the junior lieutenant resumed walking, oblivious to the radio officer’s threats.

“Comrade Yakalov — I’m warning you to halt this insubordination at once!”

His heart pounding, Yakalov boldly opened the hatch leading to the flight deck. He would never forget the sight that awaited him there.

Sitting stiffly in his padded leather chair was Captain Gregor Silkin.

Staring outward, eyes unblinking, it was obvious that the pilot was dead. Yakalov’s glance went from the bloody welt across the captain’s right temple to the figure of the copilot, sitting calmly beside him.

A gloating sneer painted Martin Pilyar’s face as a pair of iron hands grabbed Yakalov tightly from behind.

“I told you to mind your own business,” Romanov spat.

“Now look what your peasant curiosity has led you to.”

Ineffectively, Yakalov attempted to break the lieutenant’s grasp.

“What the hell is going on up here?”

Ignoring him, Pilyar reached forward and switched on the autopilot.

“We’ll dispose of this fool back in the radio room, Comrade Romanov.

Hurry now, we are rapidly reaching the rendezvous coordinates.”

Yakalov felt himself being dragged backward. As they reached the communications compartment, a high-pitched squeal sounded from the VLF receiver.

“It’s the Vulkani” exclaimed Romanov.

“Hold this imbecile while I confirm the release code.”

The copilot’s icy grasp replaced Romanov’s. With his arms held painfully from behind, Yakalov watched the radio expert hurry over to the transmitter.

Not even taking the time to seat himself, he began signalling a Morse-coded message that Yakalov easily translated:

“Roger, Vulkan, this is May leader. We confirm alert code Red Flag, launch priority one. Release code.

Delta-Bravo-Delta-Alpha-one-zero-one-niner-Foxtrot.”

Romanov repeated the message; its implications set Yakalov’s head spinning. Though the code at that time was different, he had participated in a war-alert exercise once before, and knew that he was hearing orders instructing a Soviet submarine to release its load of missiles. Were they, indeed, at war? Then why had the captain been murdered, and what was the reason for his current criminal treatment?

No one in their right minds would deliberately start World War III, would they?

Yakalov trembled with dread as a simple morse coded response broke from the transmitter.

“Red Flag alert confirmed. Vulkan.”

A shout of glee broke from his captors throats.

“The First Deputy will be most pleased,” added Romanov.

“Now, what should we do with Yakalov here?” “Whatever we do, it had better be quick,” said the copilot.

“We’ve got to get into our parachuting gear.

The rendezvous spot is only minutes away.”

Romanov removed a hand-sized, hard rubber truncheon from the pocket of his flight suit. Smacking it in the palm of his hand, he approached his prisoner.

“Enjoy the rest of the trip, Comrade Yakalov.

There’s enough fuel to keep you airborne for another four hours. I’m afraid though that the landing may be a little bit wet.”

A malicious gleam poured from Romanov’s eyes as Yakalov struggled to free himself.

“You men are mad!” Any further comments from Yakalov were silenced by a painful crack on the forehead. Cold, black unconsciousness followed.

He came to groggily a half-hour later. Beyond the pulsating pain in his skull, the young Ukrainian was instantly aware of a frigid draft.

His thoughts still hazy, he rolled over and attempted to orient himself.

As the outline of the communications compartment came into focus, his jaw dropped as he saw the plane’s forward emergency exit wide open.

Satisfied that he had found the source of the draft, he allowed the steady drone of the IL-38’s engines to further clear his tangled mind.

The shock of total realization hit him several minutes later. Was it but a horrible nightmare, or had Romanov and Pilyar indeed killed the captain and then issued orders to begin World War III?

His hair was matted with dried blood. Slowly, painfully, he tried to sit up. A wave of dizziness was suddenly compounded by nausea, and for a second he thought he might black out again. Fortunately, his lightheadedness passed and, with an effort, he was able to stand.

His first duty was to close the emergency hatch.

Carefully, he proceeded to the open doorway, using the equipment-packed wall of the fuselage to keep him balanced. He peeked outside and took in the vast, surging Pacific below. Thankfully, they were far below cruising altitude, eliminating the need for a pressurized cabin. He hit a button that sent the door slamming shut with a loud hiss.

The quiet was immediate, and it was soon noticeably warmer. Quickly now, Yakalov determined his next priority. Though he would have liked to do something about’re contacting that submarine, his continued survival took precedence. Gently massaging his swollen forehead, he made his way to the flight deck.

Gregor Silkin’s corpse was a bloody reminder that he had not merely awakened from a bad dream.

Seated on the left side of the cockpit, the pilot looked as if he had received his death blow while in mid-sentence.

Trying to ignore his startled, vacant stare, Yakalov positioned himself in the copilot’s chair. He broke into a cold sweat and fought back panic as he surveyed the complex mass of instruments and remembered that he had yet to take his first official flying lesson!

Thankful for those precious patrols when his curiosity and persistence had drawn him to the flight deck, he was able to identify the altimeter, the horizontal-situation indicator, the airspeed counter and the fuel-quantity meter. He was extra cautious not to disturb the pearl-handled throttle to his left or the flap-control petals, which were recessed into the floor board.

So far, the automatic pilot had done an admirable job of flying the lumbering aircraft. The weather remained clear and the fuel gauge showed at least another hour’s worth of available flight time. Yakalov looked out into the vibrant, cloudless blue sky and visualized the moment when the four Ivchenko engines would guzzle their last drop of petrol. Unforgivingly, the IL-38 would plummet into the waiting sea below.

Vainly, the junior lieutenant searched the cabin for any type of manual that could explain the flight systems in greater detail. He grinned sardonically upon uncovering the only printed matter in sight-four dog-eared Swedish porn magazines.

Desperately, he attempted to clear his cluttered mind. There had to be some way out of this predicament.

The answer presented itself when a throaty blast of static emanated from the headphones clipped to the left side of his headrest. Of course — he’d use the radio! At least he had had some experience in operating that system.

Fitting on the rubber-padded headset, he easily located the communications panel, set within arm’s reach, to his right. Though his knowledge of transmitting frequencies was limited, he did know the band reserved for emergencies. Fighting to keep his hand from shaking, he dialed in the proper wavelength on the digital selector and hit the transmit button. The static immediately stopped its scratchy roar as he spoke into the chin-mounted microphone.

“Mayday! Mayday! This is May leader zero-two niner requesting emergency assistance. I repeat, this is May leader zero-two-niner requesting emergency assistance.”

He listened intently to the receiving speakers, but heard only a lonely pulse of static. Faced with no alternatives, Yakalov sat forward and again hit the transmit button.

“Skipper, we’re picking up some kind of transmission on the international distress band. You’d better take a listen. I think it’s Russian.”

Lieutenant Bill Todd, pilot of the Grumman E2C Hawkeye early-warning aircraft, utilized the plane’s intercom to reply to his Tactical Coordinator, Mac Arnold.

“Roger, Mac. How about playing this call over the system so that we all can have a listen?”

Quick to accommodate his commanding officer, Arnold diverted the transmission so that the entire crew could hear it. It proved to be the copilot who identified the distant signal.

“It’s Russian all right. The bogey refers to itself as “May leader zero-two-niner,” and they are indeed requesting emergency assistance.”

“Where’s that signal coming from?” Lieutenant Todd asked.

Arnold responded instantly.

“Our AL-F-59 shows them at the limit of our northern periphery, some 500 miles distant.”

“Who’s working that district for the good guys, Mac?” the pilot queried.

Arnold checked the radar screen.

“Tomcat two-zero-zero pulled that duty this afternoon, sir.”

Todd’s voice boomed with authority.

“We’d better pull two-zero-zero off his cap station and have him take a look. Mac, beam this distress call down to the Kennedy. I think the Admiral would like to take a listen.”

Bill Todd turned off the intercom. The tanned, curly-haired aviator turned to his right and caught the eye of his copilot.

“Well, Lieutenant, do you know enough of that Ruskie lingo to try a response?”

The young flyer smiled.

“I’ve been itching to put to use those two grueling years of Soviet language studies at the Academy, sir.”

Todd nodded.

“Then let’s give ‘em a jingle. Even without knowing Russian, I’d say that the voice belonging to that plea is damn scared.”

The copilot selected the proper frequency and spoke fluidly into his chin-mounted transmitter.

Thirty seconds later a startled yet clearly relieved response flowed into his headphones. Confidently, he flashed Lieutenant Todd a hearty thumbs-up.

From the tactical data compartment, Mac Arnold listened to the unintelligible transmission and grinned. The Hawkeye was one hell of an aircraft, and he was proud to serve on it. As lady luck would have it, the Russian distress call was picked up at the very limit of their range. Since they were due to swing back to the John F. Kennedy, the carrier they were based on, they had received the transmission just in the nick of time. Fondly, he patted the gray-steeled side of the massive digital panel in front of him. Glancing at the green cathode-ray screens that lined its length, he was again impressed by the sensitivity of the 24foot diameter radome attached to the top of their fuselage.

Not only could it detect a sea-skimming cruise missile over 115 miles distant, track more than 250 targets simultaneously, and control more than 30 air interceptions, it could also detect radio signals at a distance of over 500 miles. Some controllers even said that the APS-125 could monitor all of the commercial air traffic coming in and out of New York City’s three metropolitan airports at the same exact time! Mac always got a kick out of that awesome fact.

To see if he could pick up their bogey’s radar signature, he was just giving the plane’s over-the-horizon system a try when a familiar, trim officer ducked through the forward hatch. The copilot met his nod, then took a seat beside him.

“I’m afraid that we’re going to have you earn your keep today, Mac. I need you to tie in with the Kennedy’s tactical data system. They’ll be sending us some info shortly of the highest priority.”

Mac entered this request into his computer. While they waited for the monitor screen to flash the requested data, Arnold asked, “Is that distress call for real. Lieutenant?”

The copilot hedged his answer.

“It sounds like it, Mac. We’ve got a Tomcat eyeballing them right now.”

“What kind of plane is it?” Arnold pressed.

“She’s an Ilyushin IL-38—one of the Soviets’ big maritime patrol planes. Their primary duty is much like that of our TACAMO C-130, to relay messages to submerged submarines.”

“May I ask what the problem is?” Arnold asked discreetly.

The copilot paused before responding.

“All that I can tell you is that they’ve apparently got a neophyte up there at the controls. The pilot’s dead and there’s less than an hour’s fuel left. We’re bringing the USS Eagle in presently to see about picking up any survivors.

“But if there’s an amateur flying that plane, what good is a destroyer going to do? Do you really think that a novice could ditch that thing in one piece?”

The copilot shrugged.

“If I’ve got anything to say about it, he certainly will. The Kennedy is pulling the specs on the IL-38 right now. They’re going to send up a diagram of the cockpit controls, and then I get to play angel and talk that scared Ivan down.”

“Holy Mother Mary!” Arnold shouted.

“This is better than the movies. All that we have to do now is make certain that we write ourselves a happy ending.”

As he spoke they saw a flash on the monitor. Both aviators watched as the screen began filling with an intricate sketch of the IL-38’s cockpit.

“That’s the miracle of modern computers,” Mac sighed as the copilot cooly studied the diagram.

After patching his headphones into the radio circuit, the lieutenant hit transmit and spoke loudly in perfect Russian.

“Comrade Yakalov, this is Hawkeye One. I’ve got the data that I needed. Now, let’s see about getting you down. First, we’re going to have you head south, so that you’ll be within range of the ship we’re sending out to pick you up. This won’t entail a throttle change, but we are going to have to take you off autopilot. The toggle switch that will accomplish that task is located immediately before you. You’ll find it to the left of the round black ball of your altitude indicator.

After switching the toggle downward, your next task will be to keep your eyes on the compass that is set beneath the altitude ball. To change your heading to due south, we’ll be activating the steering mechanism. When you put your hands on the wheel, do it gently, taking care not to jerk it forward or back.”

Watching the lieutenant convey these directives, Mac Arnold had a new appreciation of not only the E2-C’s equipment, but also of her crew. If there was anyone who could bring that plane down safely, it would be the men and officers of the United States Navy.

Of course, Arnold couldn’t see anything wrong about asking for a little assistance from a higher source. Reaching beneath his T-shirt, he fingered the crucifix that had been handed down in his family generation after generation. To the copilot’s unintelligible discourse, he added a silent prayer of his own.

The Spruance-class destroyer USS Eagle was in the midst of an anti-sub-warfare exercise when it got the call informing them of the approaching IL-38. When notified of their new duty. Captain Robert Powell snapped into action. The gangly Midwesterner hurried from the sonar control compartment set deep in the ship’s hull. Quickly, he climbed two banks of steep metal ladders and entered the combat information center. It was from this vantage point that the rendezvous would be coordinated.

The CIC was a dimly lit space, dominated by a massive plotting table.

Surrounding it were glowing radar screens, chattering teletypes, several radios and dozens of other pieces of sophisticated gear.

Powell moved to a large, edge-lit vertical sheet of clear plastic.

Here he joined his executive officer, who stood before the plotting board with grease pencil in hand.

“What have we got so far, Mr. Morley?”

The XO used a ruler to draw a line from a spot indicating the Eagle’s current position to a location in the Pacific due north of them.

“Radar’s got a good track on the bogey now, sir. Its range is approximately two-eight nautical miles and continuing to close.”

“What’s its altitude?”

“Five thousand and dropping. Skipper.”

Powell responded thoughtfully.

“I didn’t realize it was coming down that fast. Fuel must be getting critical. Let’s scramble our Seasprite and get out there on the double. No telling how that IL-38 is going to handle as it hits the drink.”

Two floors beneath the CIC, the destroyer’s helicopter crew were in the midst of an early dinner when a tone sounded. The pilot went to a nearby intercom.

Air Tactical Officer Gerald Grodsky anxiously shoved another spoonful of mashed potatoes and gravy into his mouth as he watched the lieutenant pick up the handset.

“You’d better get moving on that chicken,” Grodsky said to the diver sitting beside him.

“I got a feeling that this chow period’s about to get an abrupt ending.”

“What are you talking about, Grodsky?” the diver asked between sips of hot coffee.

“We did our bit for God and country this morning, during that two-and-a-half-hour ASW sweep.”

Grodsky had been watching the pilot’s expression as he spoke on the phone, and serenely began wrapping up the two chicken breasts that still lay on his plate.

“You’ll soon see, my friend.”

Seconds later, the Hushed figure of the pilot arrived at their table, waving them on excitedly.

“Let’s move it, gentlemen! We’ve got ourselves a red alert.”

The diver flashed Grodsky a brief how did you know look. Pushing their trays aside, they scurried from the mess and headed quickly toward the ship’s stern.

Upon first glance, the USS Eagle looked sparsely armed. One of America’s newest warships, the sleek, modular destroyer’s only visible weapons were a pair of 5-inch Mk 45 lightweight cannon mounted fore and aft, and a single ASROC box launcher located forward of the bridge.

Most of the ship’s offensive capabilities were hidden. They included six torpedo tubes capable of firing both Mk 32 torpedoes and Harpoon missiles, a NATO Sea Sparrow launcher and two Phalanx CIWS gatling guns. Other features included a powerful SQS-53 bow sonar array, a pair of LM 2500 gas turbines, which gave them excellent speed with low noise emission, and, lastly, the ability to carry two helicopters.

The ability to carry its own airborne vehicles was most important. Not only was it necessary for effective anti-sub-warfare operations, it also allowed the Eagle to launch its present mission.

The helicopter hangar was located to the rear of the after-funnel uptakes. The Eagle’s chopper crew arrived just in time to help the support team slide open the large metal door and tow the Kaman SH-2 outside. The pilot then ducked into the cockpit and activated the Seasprite’s two General Electric T58-8F turbo shafts With a staccato roar, the 44-foot-diameter intermeshing rotor blades spun into action.

The body of the dark-green vehicle vibrated and the chopper gently lifted.

Gerald Grodsky made his way to the copilot’s seat while the diver put on his wet suit. As Grodsky buckled in, he turned to his left and asked, “Where the hell are we off to. Lieutenant? I haven’t seen you move this quickly since last month’s surprise leave came down.”

The pilot answered while scanning the instruments.

“Hit the chin radar switch and you should be able to see for yourself.”

Grodsky reached out and activated the Marconi LN-66HP unit. His monitor came instantly alive and he had no trouble picking out a rapidly approaching, low-flying bogey.

“Whatever it is, it better pull up quick. That aircraft can’t be more than two hundred feet above the ocean.”

“Do we have a visual yet?” the pilot asked.

Grodsky picked up a pair of binoculars and hastily scanned the northern horizon. His intense survey abruptly halted forty-five seconds later.

Focusing on one particular patch of sky to his right, he cried out incredulously, “I can see it! It’s a big, old four-engine turboprop job, with a bright red star on her tail.

Lieutenant, that poor Russian is headed for a certain appointment with Davy Jones’ locker.”

“That’s the idea,” the pilot replied.

“Get back and give Simpson a hand with the rescue gear. Our job is to pull any survivors from the drink.”

Grodsky could now see the lumbering, silver skinned aircraft without the binoculars. It continued toward them, a mere one hundred feet from the water’s smooth surface. Shaking his head in wonder, he returned to the rear compartment to point out their quarry to the diver.

The Seasprite was still a good thousand yards from the plane when the IL-38’s engines feathered to a halt. In response, the aircraft slowly settled downward, skimming, then making contact with the waiting water. Its angle of descent allowed the vehicle to absorb the primary landing shock with its rear fuselage.

Only then did the nose pull down, and the wings hit the Pacific, dragging the IL-38 to a frothing halt. Grodsky had seen several ditchings, but never one so perfectly executed. Inwardly praising the Russian pilot’s skill, he slid back the side hatch and began preparing the rescue harness.

Beneath the roar of the Kaman’s rotors, he peered down at the choppy sea. They were hovering now, only fifty feet from the downed aircraft, which amazingly enough was still afloat. The wet-suited diver took a position beside Grodsky and both men scanned the plane for any signs of life. Fingers of smoke could be seen rising from the still engines, when suddenly the tail section began sinking.

The diver hit Grodsky on the arm and signaled that he wanted to enter the water. Grodsky signaled him to wait. Until any survivors showed themselves, it would be both useless and dangerous to risk one of their own men.

As the tail continued to sink, the crew of the Seasprite began to fear that their rescue attempt had been futile, when a hatch, set into the IL-38’s upper cockpit, miraculously popped open. Each of the naval aviators saw this movement and moved to their action stations. The chopper dipped to a mere twenty-five feet above the surface. The diver cupped a hand over his diving mask and jumped feet first, into the Pacific. Grodsky watched him slice into the ocean, then bob up and begin swimming toward the downed aircraft. Meanwhile, Grodsky began lowering the rescue harness. This sturdy canvas shoulder strap was attached to the Seasprite’s powerful winch by a thick, steel cable.

A green, jump-suited figure could be seen now, slowly crawling out of the hatch set into the plane’s upper fuselage as the aircraft continued to sink. The entire back half of the fuselage was now underwater; any moment the wings would tip backward and the plane would go down.

Grodsky attempted to urge the man on. With leaden, ponderous progress, the Russian yanked his torso up and kicked his legs free. As he slipped off into the ocean the ship plunged beneath the surface, leaving nothing but a swirling vortex in its wake.

A handful of anxious seconds followed; the survivor was no where to be seen. Had he been sucked down by the plane’s maelstrom? The Seasprite’s diver was visible, searching the area into which the Russian had jumped. This would be the ultimate tease — to lose him after they had come so close.

The men of the U.S. Navy did not concede defeat easily, and the crew’s persistence paid off shortly when a man’s head popped to the surface.

The diver was quickly at his side. Skillfully, he secured the rescue harness and signaled Grodsky to haul away.

The downdraft of the rotors bit white into the surrounding waters as the winch strained and the cable tightened. Without incident, both men were eventually pulled into the chopper’s interior.

Grodsky’s concern centered around the Russian.

The man was pale and shaking, clearly traumatized by both hypothermia and shock. A bloody gash on his forehead oozed steadily. Grodsky did his best to stem the flow. Then, stripping him of the soaked flight suit, Grodsky covered him up with a thick wool blanket.

His trembling soon passed, and a gleam of awareness returned to the survivor’s bloodshot eyes. A slight, trembling grin shaped his thin lips as he returned the concerned stares of his rescuers. This feeble attempt at a smile was short-lived, for a wave of tears was soon falling down the man’s sharply angled cheeks.

Both Americans looked at each other, unable to comprehend if these were tears of joy or sorrow. Their confusion was increased as the Russian began babbling a simple phrase, constantly repeating it over and over.

The diver leaned forward to see if he could make any sense of the strange words which, he supposed, were spoken in the man’s mother tongue.

“Grodsky, your people were Russian, weren’t they?

What in God’s name is he saying?”

The ATO, who indeed was of Russian heritage, placed his ear near the man’s lips and closed his eyes to aid in concentration. Though it had been many months since he had last heard his Ukrainian grandparents use this very same dialect, the words were easy to translate. Sitting up, he opened his eyes and caught his co-worker’s worried gaze.

“Well, Grodsky, can you understand him? What is he trying to tell us?”

The Seasprite’s air tactical officer icily replied, “I don’t know what the hell it means — but he keeps repeating it like all of our lives depended upon it.”

“What, for Christ’s sake?” shouted the frustrated diver.

The aid’s voice didn’t falter.

“World War III!”