Chambers cleared his throat and resumed his outline. “The Navy is remaining in a high state of readiness and will be conducting around-the-clock sorties from the carriers, concentrating the ASW efforts. The Army has completed most of the troop relocation needed at this time, freeing sixty percent of our heavy airlift capability.
“The Marines are in place at strategic locations, aboard ship, in the air, and at land installations, to effect amphibious landings or secure sensitive areas quickly.”
General Ridenour, Air Force chief of staff, motioned to Chambers.
“Milt,” the admiral responded.
“One point. We have elected to keep our Stealth aircraft on the ground, camouflaged and guarded, unless they absolutely have to be launched. The technology is too advanced to take the chance of having one fall into Soviet hands.” Ridenour sat back, waiting for a response.
The room remained quiet.
“That is our status to the moment, Ms. Blaylocke,” Chambers concluded, readjusting his glasses.
“Thank you, Admiral.” Blaylocke used her thumb to rotate the petite diamond ring on her right hand. “I wish to make a suggestion in regard to countering the Soviet intimidation.”
No one spoke in the quiet room.
“I propose, gentlemen, that any further Soviet attacks be met with swift and decisive consequences, strong military retaliation in whatever form it takes.”
Cliff Howard seconded the order. “I agree, on behalf of the president and the chief of staff.”
“We appreciate your endorsement, Ms. Vice President,” Admiral Chambers said, noticing the nods of the service chiefs. “We will respond accordingly, I assure you.”
“I know you will, Admiral,” Susan Blaylocke said, turning to reach her notes. “I have been informed by Ted Corbin, minutes ago, that our agents in Moscow are not in custody. They have apparently escaped, killing an unknown number of Soviets in the process. Nothing has been verified, but Corbin believes the information is accurate.”
Blaylocke looked around the table, then added a comment. “I’ve had enough shocks today, gentlemen. This information isn’t going to serve the president well in Lajes.”
The Joint Chiefs were solemn.
Blaylocke again looked at Cliff Howard. “I believe you have some information concerning the shuttle.”
The defense secretary frowned. “I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but they are having some difficulty launching the satellites. NASA reported a—”
“Is the mission threatened?” Chambers was stunned.
“Not at the moment,” Howard said wearily. “Apparently, from what I gleaned from Doctor Hays, two satellites have been launched. The third one is jammed somehow. At any rate, an antenna on the satellite was twisted, or bent, and they will have to send one of the crew out to fix the problem.”
“Damn! What next?” General Hollingsworth blurted, frustration showing in his voice. “Sorry, ma’am.”
“No apology necessary, General. I couldn’t have said it better. Anyone else have anything?”
No one responded, their faces showing disappointment. “Then we’ll take a break and reconvene in twenty minutes.”
Blaylocke looked around the table. “Thank you, gentlemen.”
The speaker-phone next to the vice president buzzed softly. “Yes,” Blaylocke answered.
“Ms. Vice President,” the male voice said, “DEFCON-Two has been reinstated.”
Major DiGennaro and his wingman, Wild Bill Parnam, had been amazed when the Soviet bomber group suddenly turned ninety degrees to the right.
The pilots, along with Hawk flight and the Leopards, had listened in relieved silence to the AWACS coordinator. The Russians were turning back and DEFCON-Three would be implemented when the order could be verified.
“Cobra and Leopard flight, return to base,” the controller ordered.
“Cobras RTB,” DiGennaro replied.
He looked over at the moonlight reflecting off Parnam’s canopy, then smiled.
“Cobras and Leopards, go tactical four. Have a nice trip.”
“Tact four, switching,” DiGennaro responded as he rapidly added power to the F-15 Eagle. He waited for the other flight to check in, then called. “Cobra is up, flight of two.”
“Roger,” the controller answered immediately. “Initial heading zero-three-zero. We’ll switch you to Gator Control shortly.”
“Cobra One,” DiGennaro replied, scanning his cockpit. Engine parameters, hydraulics, weapons systems, avionics, and navigation instruments all looked normal.
“Two,” DiGennaro radioed, “you might want to turn on your lights before someone runs over us.”
“Sorry, boss,” Parnam replied, flipping on his formation and navigation lights.
The lead pilot flew without lights, save the small, dull formation lights, so he wouldn’t blind his wingman.
“Cobras, contact Gator Control.”
“Switching,” DiGennaro replied, relieved to be so close to home base.
The two pilots, emotionally drained, were slowly winding down from the gut-wrenching tension of the previous hour.
“Gator, Cobra flight. Two Fox-Fifteens and we’re fat on fuel.”
“Roger. When you rollout, follow the wagon to refueling. Be prepared for hot-refueling and crew changes.”
“Understand hot-pumping and pilot changes.”
Twenty-five minutes later the two sleek McDonnell Douglas fighters turned off the Galena runway and fell in behind the “Follow Me” cart.
The F-15s eased to a stop, canopies raised, in front of the fueling pits. The engines would remain running while ground crew members quickly topped off the fuel tanks and checked the armament and missiles.
Both pilots glanced over in the semilight to see their replacements. They couldn’t see the pilots’ faces but knew their stances, two experienced flight leaders, including a former Thunderbird pilot.
DiGennaro was in the process of unstrapping and removing his helmet when his crew chief scrambled up the side of the cockpit.
“Major, the shit has hit the fan again!”
The crew chief was a grizzled veteran of sixteen years in the Air Force. DiGennaro knew he could take the sergeant’s word to the bank.
“Wha … I don’t understand,” DiGennaro replied, trying to remove his sweat-soaked gloves.
“The Russians turned back okay, but now they are holding in an eighty-mile-long pattern, sir. The latest skinny is we might be going back to DEF-Two,” the sergeant said breathlessly. “It’s the goddamnedest mess I ever seen, Major.”
“Thanks, Red,” DiGennaro replied, slapping the sergeant on the shoulder as he climbed over the side of the canopy. Reaching the pavement, DiGennaro turned toward the advancing pilots. Both of the fighter jocks simultaneously saluted their deputy detachment commander. DiGennaro smartly returned their snappy salutes and began unzipping his uncomfortable g-suit.
The major felt the tremendous burden of being the frontal West Coast fighter defense against the Soviet bomber groups.
Chapter Eleven
The American CIA agent knew he didn’t have a second to waste. One of the Soviet guards, standing in the open door of the guard shack, not seven meters away, was clearly ringing a number on the wall phone.
The guard who had asked for the ignition key was behind him, near the back of the automobile.
Wickham didn’t hesitate as he straightened his body and half-turned toward the Russian guard.
“Oh, how dumb of me, comrade. The keys are here in my coat pocket,” Wickham said as he squeezed the trigger of the Beretta twice.
Two small holes appeared near the bottom of the CIA agent’s left coat pocket, accompanied by two explosive reports.
The shocked Soviet guard, eyes bulging, staggered sideways clutching his groin, then fell headfirst into the side of the vehicle. His body convulsed twice, then quivered for over a minute.