“I don’t agree with you. Pat. We could lose that many just in the ensuing panic. I’ve studied all the civil defense manuals and have a pretty good grasp of the problems involved with crisis relocation. We’d need at least a week to properly evacuate the Los Angeles basin. A couple of hours isn’t going to make much of a difference.”
This observation was delivered in a flat, grim tone.
Palmer’s next words were more hopeful.
“Right now, I want all of us to put such thoughts out of our minds. We must instead concentrate on doing everything within our capabilities to stop the Vulkan from firing. We’re going to need a conference line opened between Kneecap, the Joint Chiefs and the Soviet PVO headquarters. Then, I’m going to want to talk with Admiral Miller. The ball is in Pacific Command’s court now. I’m counting on them to end this game with a single shot.”
Viktor Rodin watched the President’s advisor absorb these words, and could tell that he entertained a solution of a vastly different nature.
Like his own Stanislav Sorokin, the man most probably thought that a show of force would be a much better answer to their problem. Thankful to have Robert Palmer for his ally, the General Secretary wondered if his new friend would change his mind once the first of the warheads began dropping on American soil. His stomach soured and he struggled to wipe this line of thought from his consciousness.
Some 2,500 miles away from Kneecap, a Sikorsky SH-60B Seahawk helicopter soared over the Pacific.
From its central hatch window, Captain Michael Cooksey peered down at the ocean’s surface.
For the last hour, their course had been to the northwest, as they followed the Hawaiian Ridge up toward Midway Island. Cooksey knew these waters well, but not from this particular vantage point. They were passing over a handful of the tiny coral atolls from which the Ridge derived its name. Formed by volcanic activity millions of years ago, the Ridge stretched westward to merge with the Emperor Seamount Chain. Separating these two subterranean features was Midway itself.
So far, the flight had progressed smoothly. The crew of three had been quite courteous, staying mostly to themselves. That was fine as far as Cooksey was concerned. At the moment, he had plenty to think about.
The unexpected trip up from Kauai had happened so quickly that he needed the time alone to put his thoughts in order. His primary concern had been his hasty briefing with Admiral Miller. The Commander of the Third Fleet had seemed unusually tense as he told Cooksey the facts regarding the current crisis.
There was no doubting the seriousness of the situation, especially when the proper launch code had already been conveyed. That such a situation had come to pass did not really shock Cooksey. Having sailed aboard a missile-carrying vessel himself, he knew that the launch of a submarine-based nuclear warhead could be achieved with a minimum of obstacles.
This was unlike the release procedure that took place inside an ICBM launch capsule or a strategic bomber. Those delivery systems required the receipt of complex codes before a warhead’s triggering mechanism would work. The device that received this code was called a PAL, for Permissive Action Link. It insured that the weapon couldn’t be utilized without proper authorization from command.
While visiting a cousin assigned to Whiteman Air Force base in western Missouri, Cooksey had been given a tour of a Minuteman launch capsule.
Here he had seen the elaborate safeguard system at work. The process of releasing an ICBM was unbelievably complex.
Generally, each two-man launch crew was in charge of ten separate missile silos. When an Emergency Action message or launch order arrived, it had to be decoded and validated. It was then entered into the PAL. Once authorized, each officer would position himself before one of a pair of widely spaced keyholes.
The keys had to be turned simultaneously, eliminating the possibility of a launch by a single, renegade officer.
In contrast, missiles launched from submarines had no elaborate PAL devices. Because of the constraints caused by communications difficulties, they could be fired without specific go codes from command. All they needed was a single message informing them that a war alert existed. Then it was up to each individual captain to reconfirm that such a state indeed existed and to act accordingly.
Since the same communications restraints limited the Soviets, their submarine-launched missiles were most likely operated in a similar manner. If somehow a war alert had been conveyed to one of their Delta Illclass vessels, it was very possible that its skipper thought a nuclear conflict between the two superpowers existed. Whether by intention or accident, a failure to correct this mistake could lead to a most unpleasant outcome. Since the Soviets had so far failed in their efforts to reach the submarine, the U.S. Navy had been called in to do their dirty work.
Cooksey was surprised that the Russians had so openly asked for help.
It wasn’t every day that the General Secretary of the Soviet Union gave the United States his blessing to blow away one of their most sophisticated strategic platforms. Something must have occurred inside his own command chain that made contacting the sub an impossibility.
Cooksey was aware of a change in the steady pitch of the Seahawk’s rotors. Glancing outside, he saw that they were losing altitude. As he studied the rolling swells, he weighed the Triton’s chances of completing its mission.
He really didn’t think that locating the Soviet sub would be very difficult. Such ships were large and noisy. If they were where they were supposed to be, the Triton’s superior sensors would quickly track them down.
The element that was critical was the time factor.
The admiral had given him a rough idea as to when the Soviets were due to launch. Even with the Triton’s head start, they would have to proceed with their throttles wide open if they were going to have any chance of reaching the Vulkan in time.
He remembered that the Triton was now loaded with a new, experimental weapons system that effectively extended their range of attack to a full three hundred miles. The ASW/SOW device could prove crucial to their mission’s success.
A coordinated effort on the part of the carrier task force would aid them also. At last report, the John F. Kennedy and its escorts were steaming in from the waters northeast of Midway. Their choppers would soon be within range of the southern sector of the Emperor Seamount Chain. Here they would saturate the ocean with hundreds of sonobuoys. Assisted by ultra-sensitive dunking hydrophones and the ever probing magnetic ana moly detectors, the helicopters would radio news of a find back to the carrier. The Triton would then be informed and a proper kill initiated.
Though it all sounded relatively simple, Cooksey knew that it was an enormous task. If the Vulkan wasn’t where it was supposed to be, finding it could take days, or even weeks. And even if they were able to tag the sub, there was always the likely possibility that a companion Alfa-attack vessel would be standing by to defend it.
Cooksey stirred restlessly as he recalled their last encounter. It wasn’t far from these very seas that the Alfa had shot under the task force at unheard of speeds. He would never forget his feeling of utter frustration as the Triton had tried in vain to pursue them, or his exasperation when they realized he didn’t even have a weapon capable of touching the Soviet attack sub.
Although not really certain of the Alpha’s offensive capabilities, Cooksey knew he was up against a potent adversary. The Triton would have to be kept in a state of constant alert to retain the advantage of surprise.
The next few hours proved to be most trying ones.
Thankful for a rested body and mind, Cooksey anxiously awaited the challenge. At long last, twenty years of intense study and endless practice exercises were about to be applied. He was feeling most confident that his crew and equipment were the best that the country had to offer when the pitch of the rotors again changed.