He could tell by the sound that he had hit it well.
Fearful that he had used too much club, he watched the ball shoot forward in a low, whistling arc. His anxieties were negated as the ball bounded onto the green, struck the pin itself, and dropped only a few inches from the cup.
“All right!”
Jubilant and self-satisfied, Cooksey shoved the club back in the bag and was about to enter the cart, when an alien chopping sound caught his attention. From the deep-throated clatter, he knew immediately that it was a military helicopter. Wondering what it was doing in his neck of the woods, Cooksey looked up in an effort to spot it. It wasn’t difficult. Soaring in from the pineapple fields to his right was a sleek, white Sikorsky Seahawk chopper. Only a few hundred feet from the ground, the vehicle circled the twelfth fairway and then sped forward. The downdraft from its rotors scrambled Cooksey’s hair as the Seahawk hovered over the green for which he was headed. When the swirling giant began gently settling on the grass, Cooksey knew it had come for him.
Conscious that his vacation was over, he watched calmly as the chopper landed on the fairway and its side hatch popped open. A white, jump-suited figure emerged and climbed down onto the grass. This would be the Sikorsky’s airborne tactical officer. The rotors continued to whirr as the ATO hunched over and ran toward him.
“Captain Michael Cooksey?” Cooksey nodded in response and the ATO continued.
“I’m Lieutenant Rayford, Captain. Admiral Miller sent us here to taxi you back to Pearl. Sorry to interrupt your game and all, but the Admiral needs you on the double.”
From the chopper’s rear cabin, Cooksey watched the golf course quickly recede. It was soon out of sight. His fine approach shot and the ball, which still lay only inches from the thirteenth cup, were soon forgotten. Seconds later they were out over the blue waters of the Kauai Channel.
Cooksey was thankful for the ATO’s silence as the chopper sped southeast. Closing his eyes, he reflected on the events of the last couple of days. He was in the process of visualizing his hike into the wilds of Kauai’s north shore when he felt the Seahawk begin to lose altitude. He glanced outside in time to see Oahu’s Kaena Point pass by. Below, the Waianae Mountains were visible. They would most likely follow this range’s southern slopes to Pearl itself.
A quarter of an hour later, Cooksey found himself seated before Admiral Broderick Miller. He noticed that the admiral’s usually neat desk was cluttered with various reports and an opened map. The senior officer nodded in approval on seeing him and hastily concluded a phone conversation.
“Sure, Martin, of course I understand the time parameters we’re facing.
Like I said before, all that I can promise you is a total effort on our end. I’ll call you as soon as our units are in position.”
The admiral appeared tense as he hung up the receiver and greeted the captain.
“Welcome, Michael.
Sorry to bring you in like this, but I’m afraid I didn’t have much choice in the matter. By the way, you look like a different man. I told you that I had the proper prescription to recharge your batteries.
Unfortunately, you’re going to have to pay the piper now.”
Miller stood and walked over to the drawn wall map, which showed a large sector of the Pacific, bordered by the Aleutian Trench to the north, the Kuril Trench to the west, and Midway Island to the south.
Using his right index finger, he pointed to the undersea mountain range known as the Emperor Seamount Chain. This subterranean ridge began at Midway and stretched northward for over one thousand miles.
“Several hours ago, a Soviet IL-38 relay plane ditched in these waters.
As you know, that particular aircraft is used much like our C-130 TACAMO — it sends command instructions to their submarine fleet.
A single survivor was plucked from the seas by a Seasprite and taken to the John F. Kennedy. There he related to us news of a most shocking nature. Somehow, a group of mutineers was able to gain control of the IL-38 and relay to the Delta Illclass vessel Vulkan a set of legitimate ‘go to war’ orders. By the way, this sub is believed to be the same vessel that you reported contact with at the end of your last patrol. To make matters even more confusing, we’ve intercepted a Soviet naval transmission believed to be a confirmation that one of their Kresta-class cruisers has gone down in these very same waters.
Intelligence believes that what we are possibly witnessing is a mutiny on the part of a select group of high-placed Reds. This plot — if, indeed, it is a plot — was cleverly conceived to interfere with the initiation of the Rodin-Palmer summit.” After checking his watch, he continued.
“General Secretary Rodin is scheduled to land in Los Angeles less than two hours from now. I don’t have to tell you how news of this conspiracy has gone down in Washington.
The Pentagon, State, and the CIA have all been on my back since the moment that Soviet aviator was pulled from the Pacific.”
Astounded, Cooksey’s response was tinged with disbelief.
“Are the Soviet war codes that easily obtainable?
And if that Delta received an alert order, why haven’t they already launched?”
Broderick Miller moved his dignified frame over to his desk and sat on its forward edge, facing his visitor.
“As is the case with any code, no matter how secretive it may be, more than one individual was involved in its creation. This leak was probably at the highest level, confirming intelligence’s belief that Kremlin bigwigs are responsible.
“Your second question can be answered by our own war plans. Because of the survivability factor, a good majority of our Tridents are to be held back, to be released several hours after initial hostilities have begun. We believe this is what’s happening aboard the Vulkan.
“Then you really think there’s a Soviet sub out there that could empty its missile magazine any second now?” Cooksey asked incredulously.
“As unbelievable as it may seem … yes, Michael, I’m afraid this is the premise on which we must operate.”
“Jesus! If I may ask, what are we doing to counter this supposed threat?”
Miller answered without hesitation.
“Though we’re still hoping that the Soviets will be able to deal with the problem before it gets further out of hand, the President has given us permission to mount an intercept mission of our own. Scuttlebutt has it that the executive order was issued at Premier Rodin’s urging.
It was from this same source that we supposedly received the Vulkan’s patrol sector and its optimum missile-release point.
“We’re presently concentrating our ASW operations on the southeast quadrant of the Emperor Seamount Chain. Fortunately, we’ve still got the Kennedy task force out there. We hope to augment their capabilities by calling in every attack sub in the North Pacific.”
“How can the Triton help?” Cooksey inquired.
The admiral responded matter-of-factly.
“As our second consecutive battle-efficiency award winner, I’m counting on your boat to tag those Ruskies first. I’ve already taken the liberty of sending the Triton to sea under the temporary command of Lieutenant Commander Craig. Incidentally, we pulled your smiling XO out of a maternity ward — minutes after his wife gave birth to a healthy, eight-pound boy.
“You’ll be taken to a prearranged rendezvous point west of Midway by the same chopper that brought you in. I know this is quite a load to hit you with, but there’s no better man I’d rather have out on this job than you. Captain.”
Accepting the compliment with a brief smile, Cooksey explored another line of reasoning.