DEFCON One

Chapter Fifteen

The three Sikorsky S-70 Night Hawks, completely blacked out, raced across the Gulf of Finland. Snow and freezing rain reduced the forward visibility to less than a quarter mile. The weather conditions forced the pilots to fly solely by reference to their instruments.

Navigation was the easy part. The crews relied on their inertial navigation systems to supply the heading, distance remaining, and time of arrival at Novgorod. The INS navigation gear would place the Night Hawk pilots within one-sixteenth of a mile of their destination.

The pilots, concentrating intensely, watched their radar altimeters and scanned the flight instruments continuously. The radar altimeters, set at seventy feet, would be reset to one hundred feet when the helicopters passed the Russian shoreline.

The Night Hawks had passed between the Soviet-held islands of Gogland and Moshchnyy. Landfall would be in eleven minutes, thirty-five seconds, according to the soft, green glow of the INS unit in Scarecrow One.

Brad “Buck” Buchanan checked his fuel gauges, then focused on his engine instruments. He noted everything in the green as the powerful General Electric turboshafts, delivering over 1,700 shaft horsepower, generated a deep, pulsating roar.

“Look clear between here and the coast, John?” Buchanan asked his copilot.

John Higgins, without taking his eyes from the radar screen, replied. “Don’t see a thing, Buck.”

“Good,” Buchanan answered, then checked with his other crewmen. “Blackie, you and Steve ready?”

“You bet, Major,” the former Marine gunnery sergeant replied, then added, “just like old times.”

Buchanan and Higgins laughed quietly at the forced bravado of their crew chief.

All three flight crews, including the crew chiefs and gunners, had been Marine Corps helicopter pilots and crew members. The Night Hawk crews worked in harmony and retained their military roots, including rank at the time of discharge. Every crew member, whether former officer or enlisted, had been hand-picked by the CIA from the best in the Marine Corps.

Buchanan thought about the mission, especially the last-minute briefing, as he continually scanned his flight instruments. He realized this was going to be a tough, if not impossible, extraction. Too many obstacles between here and the recovery ship.

Buchanan’s thoughts were interrupted by his copilot, former captain John Higgins.

“Buck, looks like a possible, two o’clock, eight miles,” Higgins reported, adjusting the intensity of his radar scope. “Yeah. Don’t know what it is.”

“Christ,” Buchanan replied, “just what we need.”

“Yeah, Buck, it’s a ship alright,” Higgins replied. “We better come left … let’s see … twenty degrees and see if we can skirt around it.”

“Okay, left twenty,” Buchanan answered. “Sure hope Two and Three are paying attention.”

“Stop worrying, Buck,” Higgins said, grinning, “they’re going to be just fine.”

The crew of Scarecrow One remained quiet, listening to the powerful throb of the big turboshaft engines.

Suddenly, Higgins gasped. “Uh-oh … Oh, shit! They’ve got a radar lock on us.”

Buchanan heard the same electronic warning tone in his helmet. “The ruse may be over, gents.” Buchanan looked back at his crew. “Hold on … we may have to do some violent maneuvering.”

“Major,” Oaks said, “ten to one that sumbitch is a Russian trawler.”

“Probably so,” Buchanan answered, knowing Oaks was right. The Night Hawks had been discovered.

The Soviet intelligence-gathering and surveillance vessel had been headed for the island of Kronshtadt, forty kilometers west of Leningrad, when the radar operator detected the unidentified helicopters.

The captain of the Soviet ship confirmed the sighting, then broadcast a mandate for the low-flying craft to identify themselves.

After repeated efforts to communicate with the suspicious intruders, the captain of the Ganyushkino radioed the Soviet Air Force Northwestern Air Sector Control. The Soviet Air Defense Force and surface surveillance ships enjoyed a close relationship in thwarting intruders.

The Russian Air Defense commander, hampered by the inclement weather, couldn’t launch his potent jet fighters against the low-flying helicopters. Instead, the Soviet commander elected to launch seven gunship helicopters from the Coast Aviation Brigade. Within minutes of the sighting, four Mil Mi-28 Havocs and three Mi-24 Hind-D combat helos were airborne.

The captain of the Ganyushkino continued to relay position and heading information to the Air Defense Command Post until the unidentified helicopters disappeared in radar ground clutter after crossing the beach.

Two of the Soviet gunships, based at Narva, twenty kilometers west of the Night Hawks, were already airborne when Scarecrow Three raced low across the Russian shoreline.

The Soviet deputy foreign minister, trailed by the Russian ambassador, walked briskly into the Situation Room. The atmosphere was cold and aloof, without pretense of convivial posturing. Both Soviets looked extremely uncomfortable.

Herb Kohlhammer, as secretary of state, was the only member of the president’s staff to offer a greeting to the Russian politicos.

“Please have a seat,” Kohlhammer gestured to the end of the expansive table.

The Soviets, looking pensive, sat down holding their coats. The deputy foreign minister nervously ran a handkerchief over his forehead, then cleared his throat.

The president spoke to the Soviet deputy foreign minister first.

“Mister Shcharansky, your country, your government has elected to place the United States in an awkward and very delicate position.”

The president paused, waiting for a response. Both Soviet officials remained quiet, avoiding the American leader’s eyes.

The president, becoming visibly irritated, continued.

“Your government…No, Soviet leadership, General Secretary Zhilinkhov, has plunged our two countries into a combative posture.” The president stared at the Soviets. “Does that concern either of you?”

The president fixed his gaze on Shcharansky, then turned to the Soviet ambassador, Krikor Gerasimov. Both Russians remained silent, glancing down at the surface of the table, then back to the American leader.

The president, showing restraint, lowered his voice and spoke to the Soviets. “Do you understand English?”

“Yes, of course,” the shocked Russians responded in unison.

“Good, goddamnit,” the president boomed, surprising his own staff and startling the Russians.

“This is not a pleasant time for us, I can assure you,” the president continued. “Your government is responsible for placing the United States in a position of imminent nuclear confrontation.” The president was livid.

“In addition, General Secretary Zhilinkhov is responsible for the deaths of twenty-three American servicemen. He is also responsible for causing severe damage to our space shuttle and for the death of one of our astronauts!”

The president glared at the Soviets. “Do you deny those facts?”

Shcharansky blinked his eyes several times before responding. “Mister President, I am not at liberty to discuss those issues. We have been informed that … that our government is only responding to American aggression. We … have no comment.”

“Then why the hell are you taking up space here?” The president, catching Wilkinson’s eye, calmed himself before continuing.

“I am formally requesting that you contact General Secretary Zhilinkhov, here and now, on our direct line, and explain our position.”

The president lighted a cigar, then outlined his ultimatum to the surprised Soviets.

“Very simple, gentlemen. We are not budging another inch. You understand?” The president was pleased to see both Russians nod in acknowledgement.

“General Secretary Zhilinkhov, and the Soviet government, have six hours to turn everything around. Everything, for your clarification, includes bombers, submarines, tanks, and troops — everything!”

The president placed his cigar down and folded his hands on the table. “If Zhilinkhov doesn’t comply, the Soviet Union can anticipate immediate retaliation.”

The room remained silent until the president spoke again.

“Do you have any questions … either of you?” the president asked, staring intently into the Soviets’ eyes.

Shcharansky, unsure of himself, spoke first. “No questions, Mister President.”

The deputy foreign minister, fidgeting, continued. “But I do not have the authority to conduct such discussions directly with the general secretary and I have never attempted to cir—”

“I don’t give a damn,” the president responded. “I’m giving you the authority! We’re out of time and options, Mister Shcharansky.”

Everyone in the White House Situation Room knew this was an unprecedented move by the president. Forcing the Soviet hand was a departure from normal relations.

“Mister President,” Shcharansky responded nervously, “I have been ordered not to enter into any discussions without the express consent of the foreign minister.”

“That’s probably true, sir,” Wilkinson interjected. “Zhilinkhov is not a solo player, as we’ve witnessed.”

“Well, the rules are changing,” the president stated, motioning to Kohlhammer. “Herb, get the Kremlin on the line, and make Mister Shcharansky comfortable.”

Grasping frantically with his good arm, Wickham managed to impede Dimitri’s sudden thrust toward the surface of the freezing river. The CIA agent yanked violently on Dimitri’s pant leg, slowing the panicked agent from surfacing until the spotlight had passed over their position.

Dimitri surfaced, coughing and gagging, as the Soviet Havoc gunship continued to sweep the river with its powerful halogen lamp. Wickham surfaced a second after Dimitri and began tugging the gasping agent toward shore. The sound of the two helicopters masked the splashing and coughing of the two soaked agents.

“Come on, Dimitri,” Wickham pleaded. “You’ve got to hang on. Think about your girl — Svetlana.”

Wickham paused, sucking in air as the two men lay on their backs, feet still in the river.

“Think about her, Dimitri.” Wickham slowed his breathing, glancing at the supine form next to him. Dimitri struggled, chest heaving, as he tried to catch his breath in the gently falling snow.

“Dimitri, if you’ll give me every last ounce of strength until we get out of h-here,” Wickham shivered, “I promise to do everything possible to reunite you and Svetlana back in the s-states. In America.”

Dimitri turned his head toward Wickham. “Svetlana,” Dimitri half-choked, “you w-would help my Svetlana?”

“Anything,” Wickham responded, “in my power. Just hang in th-there … for both of us,” Wickham breathed deeply, “and your girl … Svetlana.”

Wickham struggled to his knees in the mud and broken ice, then helped Dimitri to his hands and knees. Both men crawled up the muddy embankment, shaking from the numbing cold, and rolled into the shelter of the shrub trees.

Wickham could see the Soviet troops gathering around the area where he and Dimitri had circled across the road. It would be only a matter of time until the Russians discovered the point of entry into the river.

“You will h-help my Svetlana?” Dimitri asked again, crawling further under the shrubs.

“Yes,” Wickham responded. “I give you my word. But you’ve got to help me, Dimitri. We’ve got to get out of here. Alive, Dimitri.”

Wickham jerked around, not quite sure of what he had heard. The night was ink black. He listened intently, senses keyed in frightened anticipation.

“You hear that, Dimitri?” Wickham asked. “There it is again.” Wickham waited a couple of seconds, listening. “That was a splash.”

Dimitri strained to hear but couldn’t make out anything. It was too dark to see well and his ears ached from the ice-cold water.

“Let’s go!” Wickham nudged Dimitri, then pointed downstream. “We’ve got to m-move out … get farther away. They’re gaining on us.”

Dimitri shoved himself up to his hands and knees, crawled from under the shrubs, and focused down the river. His heart received a shock when he saw what was happening on the opposite bank.

“Come on, Dimitri,” Wickham yelled softly. “Move it! Follow me.”

“Okay,” Dimitri replied, looking over his shoulder at the inflatable rubber boat being placed in the water at their original point of entry into the river.

The three Sikorsky Night Hawks were twenty kilometers west of Gatchina when Scarecrow Three detected two fast-moving radar blips approaching the S-70s.

Capt. James E. “Jungle Jim” Charbonnet decided it was time to break radio silence.

“Scarecrow Lead, Three,” Charbonnet said into his microphone.

“Lead,” came the brief reply from the flight leader. The pilot was concentrating on the terrain rushing under his helicopter.

“Mother-in-law at sixteen hundred,” Charbonnet responded, referring to bogies approaching from the four o’clock position.

“Okay,” Buchanan replied. “Two and Three, go high and engage.”

“Two with a copy,” Pete Barnes radioed.

“Three.” Charbonnet said, rechecking his armament panel.

Buchanan looked at Higgins. “How long ’til we get to Novgorod?”

“Ah …” Higgins punched three buttons, then waited a second. “Fourteen minutes, Buck.”

“Looks like the visibility is improving,” Buchanan said, then noted the overcast. “We’ve got four hundred, maybe five hundred over now.”

“Yeah,” Oaks responded. “Hope the zone is cold.”

No one answered as the Night Hawk gunship raced toward Novgorod. The radar altimeter continuously chimed warnings as the S-70 oscillated above and below one hundred feet of altitude. This was contour flying on the ragged edge.

“John, double-check the ADF,” Buchanan instructed, “and go ahead and broadcast Scarecrow identification for our agents.”

“Now, Buck?” Higgins asked. “We’re still a ways out.”

“Can’t hurt,” Buchanan replied. “Sooner we make contact, the better off we’ll all be.”

“Roger,” Higgins said, then pressed the transmitter key on the discreet frequency radio. “Scarecrow calling Sandman. Scarecrow One to Sandman.”

The copilot waited three seconds, then tried again to reach the CIA agents. “Scarecrow One to Sandman.”

The receiver remained quiet, emitting occasional broken static. Higgins adjusted the volume.

“Try every thirty seconds or so,” Buchanan ordered. “We gotta have contact.”

“Will do,” Higgins answered, fine-tuning the radio receiver. “Should be in range in a minute or two.”

Buchanan scanned his instruments, then looked at the soft glow under the overcast. A small town or village was providing enough light to see the bottom of the low-hanging clouds clearly. Light snow continued to drift slowly from the thick overcast.

Scarecrow One was looking at the settlement, wondering whether or not the CIA agents were still alive, when his headphones came to life.

“Buck, the cat is out!” Pete Barnes radioed his leader as he initiated a “stern conversion” to jump the Soviet helicopter gunships.

“Roger, Pistol!” Buchanan replied excitedly. “Pump the bastards and rejoin ASAP!”

“Comin’ to ya,” Barnes groaned under the G-forces as he pulled up steeply, performed a wingover, then dove into an attack position on the nearest Russian gunship.

The Soviet pilots, caught off guard by the frontal assault, countered with a steep upward spiral, oblivious to Scarecrow Three.

Charbonnet raised the nose of his S-70, turned into and under the Soviet Mi-28 Havoc combat helos, then loosed a salvo of air-to-air missiles.

Both Russian gunships exploded, one spiraling down in ever-widening circles. The other helicopter, trailing orange flames, plunged straight into the ground, exploding again on impact.

“Goddamn, Jungle,” Barnes yelled over the radio. “How about a warning next time! You almost took us out.”

“Sorry, Pete,” Charbonnet responded, apologetically. “I forgot to holler.”

Buchanan broke in. “Clear the radios and smoke it up here.”

“Roger, Buck,” Barnes answered. “We splashed both intruders and we’re on our way.”

Buchanan checked the INS again as Higgins continued to transmit to the CIA agents.

“Scarecrow to Sandman.” Higgins waited ten seconds.

“Scarecrow calling Sandman. Copy, Sandman?” Higgins waited, then tried again. “Scarecrow to Sandman. Do you read, Sandman?”

Intermittent static was the only sound Higgins heard from the small transmitter.

“Blackie” Oaks keyed the intercom system. “Sounds like Cap’n Charbonnet got a kill.”

Steve Lincoln, sitting across from Oaks, pressed his intercom. “Two kills, gunny.”

Buchanan interrupted. “Cut the chatter. Too many distractions right now.”

“Yessir,” Oaks replied in a respectful manner.

Wilkinson watched Shcharansky tentatively accept the Moscow “directline” telephone. The deputy foreign minister was clearly nervous, eyes blinking continuously.

The Soviet ambassador, Krikor Gerasimov, normally verbal and animated, sat quietly in his chair. He hadn’t said a word since the president had issued his order.

While the White House staff and Russian officials waited for the Kremlin call to be completed, Wilkinson leaned over to the president. “Sir, do you want the carrier air groups to launch some leverage?”

“Let’s see what develops from this effort first,” the former carrier pilot quietly answered. “If your hypothesis is correct, Zhilinkhov may use this situation to break the logjam he developed.”

Wilkinson nodded his head in agreement.

The president suddenly snapped his fingers, then turned to Herb Kohlhammer. “Get the linguist, the Russian interpreter, in here.”

“Yes, sir,” Kohlhammer responded, pressing a code into his console. “She is in the waiting room.”

Shcharansky winced when a burst of Russian shot through the phone receiver. The deputy foreign minister attempted to speak several times, openly flinching at the rebukes, then loudly exclaimed that he was at the White House. At the White House with the president. A very upset American president.

Shcharansky explained the extreme situation in Russian to the Soviet general secretary, then fell silent.

The interpreter, skipping the profanity, repeated both sides of the conversation.

The deputy foreign minister was taking a severe tongue-lashing, knowing his career was over. He, too, thought the general secretary of the Communist party, psychologically, was not a well person.

“Comrade General Secretary,” Shcharansky said as forcefully as he dared, “I am making an attempt to convey the situation as it sta—”

The telephone line went dead as a chagrined and humiliated Boris Shcharansky, former Soviet deputy foreign minister and rising political star, hung up the phone. He spoke slowly, haltingly.

“The general secretary will comply … with the wishes of the United States.”

No one responded as the two Soviets, now standing, placed their coats over their arms.

The president stood up, followed by the rest of the White House staff, then spoke to the Soviet delegates.

“Thank you for your efforts, gentlemen. You may have made a significant contribution.” The president, unsmiling, stepped forward to shake hands with the Russians. “Thank you, again.”

Both Russians nodded in acknowledgement, then quietly walked out the door.

“Well,” the president exhaled, then sat down, “we’ll see what the next few hours bring.”

Wilkinson and Cliff Howard, hearing the vice president gasp, turned to see what was happening. An Army lieutenant colonel, serving as a White House aide, was conferring with Blaylocke. His face was a grim mask of pain.

The president, noticing the exchange, spoke to his vice president. “What is it, Susan?”

Blaylocke thanked the officer, then turned toward the president as the aide left the room.

“Gentlemen, you better have a seat. I have some bad news to report.”

No one said a word, including the president, as everyone sat down.

“We have lost the shuttle,” Blaylocke said, squeezing one hand with the other. “Columbia crashed into the water off southern California. They are launching search and rescue efforts at this time, but the SAR people, and NASA, don’t have much hope of finding any survivors.”

The president sat back and closed his eyes. Fifteen seconds elapsed before he opened them again, turning to the secretary of defense. “Cliff, I want the Navy to sink the three Soviet submarines off the coast of Florida.”

Kohlhammer and Howard, both shocked, tried to respond at the same time. The secretary of state deferred to Howard.

“Mister President, the general secretary is backing off. I am not sure we want to send the wrong message at this crucial time.”

“Yes,” the president said, staring into Howard’s eyes, “and Zhilinkhov knows our shuttle crashed because he ordered it attacked, along with the Tennessee, the Virginia, and our fighter planes. Order the attack.”

The snow had begun to fall more heavily as the two CIA agents struggled along the edge of the riverbank. Slipping, stumbling, and occasionally falling, the operatives slowly distanced themselves from the group of spetsnaz commandos in the inflatable raft.

Overhead, the Russian gunship helicopters continued to orbit in ever-widening circles. Their spotlights looked like dancing luminous spheres, darting at times, against the dark overcast.

Wickham, feeling sluggish, slipped and fell sideways on his limp right arm. Stifling a loud groan, the American felt Dimitri trip over his legs, then watched him fall headfirst down the muddy embankment.

The opposite side of the river was teeming with Soviet special forces troops, each carrying a powerful flashlight or spotlight.

Dimitri lay completely exposed to the light beams arcing randomly back and forth across the partially frozen river.

“Oh, God,” Wickham pleaded in frustration and weariness, “please help us.”

The CIA agent first crawled, then slid down the muddy slope of the riverbank, inadvertently kneeing Dimitri in the side. Fortunately, Dimitri was only frightened by the unexpected fall, not hurt.

As the two men struggled back up the slippery incline, Wickham was startled to hear his miniature radio receiver transmit a message.

“Sandman, do you read Scarecrow?” There was an urgency in the voice. “Do you copy, Sandman?”

“Hurry, Dimitri, they’re here!” Wickham encouraged the young agent to move up the embankment faster, so they could conceal themselves and communicate with the rescue helicopters.

“Scarecrow calling Sandman,” Higgins called, annoyance in his voice. “Come in, Sandman.”

Buchanan looked at his copilot, then spoke without using the intercom. “If they aren’t there … Shit! We may get gama-rooshed for nothing.”

“Yeah,” Higgins keyed the intercom, “they may already be dead, and we’re going—”

“We’re goin’ into a trap,” Buchanan finished the grim statement for his friend.

“Scarecrow One to Sandman!” Higgins said into the radio. “Copy, Sandman?”

Wickham pulled on Dimitri’s coat sleeve as hard as he could with his left arm. The young operative finally struggled over the lip of the riverbank and rolled under a clump of low shrub trees.

Both agents could clearly hear the excited barking of dogs in the inflatable boat. The Russians were almost across the river, slowed only by thin ice along the bank. Time was rapidly running out for the two CIA operatives. The Russians were closing fast, aided by the highly trained attack dogs.

Wickham tugged at the combination radio/homing beacon, folded out the antenna, flipped the automatic direction finder to the on position, then transmitted over the radio.

“Scarecrow, Scarecrow, this is Sandman, over!” Wickham’s voice quivered from the freezing cold and adrenaline rush through his body.

“Sandman!” the surprised voice responded immediately. “Stand by one.”

“We can’t stand by!” Wickham angrily transmitted back. “We’re surrounded by Russians!”

“Okay, Sandman,” Higgins radioed, “we’ve got a sweet beacon. Hang on. We’re seven out and rapidly closing on your position.”

Wickham could hear the sound of the engines and beat of the rotors over the radio. He turned the volume down as far as it would go. The American agent knew the real worry was the Soviet gunships.

The senior agent turned to Dimitri and spoke reassuringly. “Seven m-miles out. Three minutes at the outside. Sweet Jesus, w-we’re going to make it! We’re going to make it, Dimitri.”

Wickham, using his left arm in a backwards motion, slapped the young agent across the shoulders in a gesture of friendship and elation.

Dimitri, half smiling, tears streaming down his cheeks, turned to Wickham. “W-we’re going home, we’re going home,” he choked.

“Snap out of it, Dimitri!” Wickham ordered, then continued. “Take off your coat and get ready to run. Your s-sole mission is to concentrate on getting into the chopper, okay?”

“Y-yes,” Dimitri replied, shaking violently, “that’s all I want to do.”

Wickham looked down the river at the inflatable raft. They had reached shore and the two dogs were leaping from the boat to the muddy edge of the river.

Wickham pressed the radio transmit key again.

“Scarecrow, Sandman. Urgent!”

“Copy, Sandman,” Higgins instantly replied. “Go!”

“Be advised,” Wickham paused, counting, “there are approximately forty, maybe fifty, ground troops around us, plus two helicopters.”

Wickham waited, without hearing anything, not even an acknowledgement, for ten, then fifteen seconds.

“Say type of helicopters,” Higgins said.

“Gunships. Havocs, I believe,” Wickham responded. “I think they’re low on fuel.” Wickham looked up at the Russian Mi-28 crossing the river. “They’ve been out here for quite a while.”

“Good,” Higgins replied. “Hang in there, Sandman. We’re almost there!”

“We’re tryin’ to,” Wickham said, watching the six advancing spetsnaz troops and their dogs.