“Grant, I’ve been thinking about the Soviet preparedness for nuclear conflict.”
“Yes, sir.” Wilkinson waited for the president to collect his thoughts.
“We all know their belief in surviving a nuclear confrontation, a full-blown war.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We also realize the differences between American and Soviet Union thinking. Both philosophies are deeply rooted and abiding.”
Silence.
The president continued. “There is no moral equivalence between our nations. The really salient aspect of the Soviet attitude toward nuclear confrontation is widespread preparation for the ensuing consequences. Correct?”
“Absolutely, sir,” Wilkinson responded as he rolled up his shirt sleeves.
“Then let me ask you something, Grant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If the Russians believe they can survive a nuclear holocaust with the United States, and they believe our new strategic defensive systems will negate their ballistic missiles, would it follow that Soviet leadership would use their first-strike capability to crush us before we render their weapons useless?”
“The logic does track, Mister President.” Wilkinson knew when to be quiet and analytical.
“Then why in hell, assuming the Russians plan to launch an all-out offensive, would they bring us to this state of readiness for a preemptive strike?”
Not waiting for an answer, the president continued, lighting a rum-soaked cigar. “It’s suicidal, Grant. One miscue, one commander gets the wrong word, and BOOM. It’s all over. The civilized world will be blown back to the age of the Australopithecus man. If the goddamn planet survives.”
Silence followed as the president puffed on his cigar and blew a smoke ring.
“I’m not so sure man can be labeled civilized, Mister President,” Wilkinson said in a low even tone.
“Point taken,” the president replied, blowing a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke toward the ceiling.
Wilkinson leaned forward. “Mister President, I wish to offer an opinion and suggestion.”
“I’m open to anything, Grant,” the president responded without a pause, inhaling deeply on his cigar.
“Sir, if Zhilinkhov is becoming senile, or unreliable, a likely assumption at his age, then we can’t know where we are.”
“True. Continue.”
“If Zhilinkhov’s thinking isn’t rational, then we might as well be dealing with a lowerclass primate. A very deadly one, I might add.”
The president leaned back in his chair, gazed at the blue and gold ceiling of the jumbo jet, and looked Wilkinson in the eyes before speaking. “What do you suggest, Grant?”
“Sir, DEFCON-Two is tantamount to a declaration of war, or as close as one can get to war before pushing the final button.”
“Agree. Go on.”
“I recommend that we contact our operative in the Kremlin, in the quarters of the general secretary, and see if he can obtain any relevant intelligence for us. He will most likely be sacrificed. We’ve had him in place for two and a half years, but we need substantive information now, Mister President.”
“I could not agree more.” The president paused. “How reliable is this agent, Grant?”
“Very reliable, by all indications, sir. He is highly regarded at Langley.”
“Very well. Make contact as quickly as possible, and give me an update on the DEFCON-Two status when you have an opportunity.”
“Will do, sir.”
Wilkinson gently shut the door as he hurried down the corridor to the message center of Air Force One.
Gen. Richard “J. B.” Matuchek, United States Air Force, CINCNORAD, stared in disbelief as the status light on the situation board blinked on and off, accompanied by a loud buzzer, indicating a DEFCON-Two alert.
The general had just returned to his command post, deep in the 100-million-year-old Cheyenne Mountain, from a global situation briefing. This new development was totally unexpected, in view of the pending conference between the two superpowers in Lajes.
Matuchek was trying to grasp the consequences of this latest twist in the rapidly eroding American-Soviet relationship. Absently, the four-star general checked the authenticator code a third time. No question. This alert was real, not a computer glitch.
Matuchek opened the DEFCON-Two orders. The NORAD chief was startled when his command phone rang. He fumbled with the operational orders book and reached for the receiver.
“General Matuchek.”
“Dick, Milt Ridenour,” the Air Force chief of staff continued without waiting for an acknowledgement. “We are going to move our active East Coast fighter squadrons across the pond. Immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” Matuchek answered, momentarily glancing at a new message placed on his console.
“The Stealth fighters are going to be based with our NATO friends. The movement is underway, along with the B-1 repositioning,” Ridenour concluded.
“Yes, I was just briefed on their status for immediate deployment.”
“Dick, we are going to replace the deployed squadrons in six hours, or less, with reserve and guard units.”
“Yes, sir,” Matuchek responded. “Most everyone has anticipated that possibility.”
“Good show, Dick.” Ridenour sounded upbeat. “What is your current readiness condition?”
Matuchek quickly checked the status board before replying. “Eighty-two point two percent at this time. We can expect, conservatively, eighty-four plus in four hours or less.”
“Appreciate that, Dick.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ve got a hell of a mess in our lap and I know I can count on you and the rest of the NORAD crew.”
“Thanks, Milt. We haven’t been to DEFCON-Two in ages. Afraid we have a few cobwebs to dust off in the mountain.”
“You’re not the only one, Dick. SAC has had some minor problems, but we’ve got the 52s and B-ls deployed and on alert. We did lose one 52 out of Carswell. Crashed on takeoff.”
“Yes, sir,” Matuchek replied, saddened. “I was informed. Sorry to hear that.”
Ridenour continued without acknowledging. “The Stealth bombers — the ones we have available — are in the process of being deployed throughout North America. The last one left Whiteman ten minutes ago. We made sure the Russians are aware of that fact, along with the knowledge that some of our B-2s are carrying burrowing missiles. Their underground bunkers aren’t going to be of much use to them if they push the button. The Soviets know we have shuffled everything in the inventory.”
“Sounds good, Milt. The Stealth presence is going to confuse the Russian air defense, no question.”
Matuchek glanced up when an aide motioned excitedly to him, pointing out satellite confirmation of massive Soviet bomber groups joining over the Barents Sea.
“Sir,” Matuchek stared at the brightly lighted display, “we are receiving SAT-INTEL confirming large Russian bomber join-ups over the Barents Sea.”
“Better let you do your job and get on with mine,” Ridenour said in a pleasant, but clipped voice. “Be in touch soon.”
“Yessir.” The line went dead as Matuchek felt his stomach growl again.
The original DEFCON alert had taken away his appetite and the NORAD boss knew he needed to eat a few bites of something bland.
Matuchek ordered a chicken salad sandwich on white bread and a glass of iced tea. Waiting for his sandwich, the general thought about the NORAD complex. If the “Big One” ever happened, the underground operations control facility would be as safe as any place receiving a direct strike by a nuclear missile.
Experts believed a twenty-megaton warhead, a massive weapon, dropped on top of Cheyenne Mountain would most likely only pop the eardrums of those personnel inside the tunnels of the solid granite mountain.