General Matuchek sat at his control console, intently watching the surge of airborne activity. He had forgotten about the cup of lukewarm coffee at his elbow. His tie was undone and the strain was evident on his face.
His vice commander, Lt. Gen. John Honeycutt, was at his side providing a situation update.
“J.B., the AOA aircraft is airborne and the standby Boeing will be up in twenty-five minutes,” the jovial Canadian reported in his normal, chipper manner.
“Okay, John. Thanks,” Matuchek replied, thinking about the Airborne Optical Adjunct Boeing 767s. The specially modified planes, sporting elongated cupolas, contained SDI missile detectors and worked in conjunction with the strategically deployed satellites.
The airborne sensors could acquire and track attacking missiles’ reentry vehicles, predict their impact points, and hand over data to ground-based radar for terminal intercept and destruction.
The airborne sensor system had been on-line less than two years. The AOA provided a wide field of view and high resolution for intercepting attacking missiles. However, the SDI satellite network was absolutely essential for the AOA program to function correctly.
Matuchek was concerned about the airborne instability in so many regions of the Northern Hemisphere, along with the frailties of the SDI system. The skies were crawling with Soviet and American warplanes.
“John, if this alert blows over without a major confrontation, if we survive this insane mess, I’m going to retire early and dig out my fishing gear.”
“J.B.,” the surprised Canadian responded, “you can’t be serious. You’ve been selected to become vice chief of staff the first of April.”
“John, I’ve had it. The kids are grown. Alice is supportive of my desire. I’m developing, or have developed, a bleeding ulcer.”
Matuchek looked up at Honeycutt. “Alice and I want to retire on a lake somewhere — not sure where — and take the pack off. If the idiots and lunatics of the world want to blow it to smithereens, John, I don’t want to be the first to know. I want to be fishing with Alice when the switch is pulled.”
“J.B., you need to take some time off. Two weeks, at minimal, and relax with Alice. You deserve some rest.”
“No. My decision has been made, John. It’s over. Time to retire.”
The NORAD commander and his deputy were interrupted by the alert and warning alarm. The startled generals looked at the airspace situation display.
The massive Soviet bomber groups had altered course again, closing on the territorial waters and shores of the United States.
Most alarming were two new threats. A third Soviet group of bombers had become airborne heading over Taymyr Peninsula, due north, directly over the North Pole. Their flight path, if not altered, would take the Russian nuclear bombers over Thule, Greenland, and northern Canada.
The fourth group of Soviet warplanes was flying parallel to the Koryak Range, just off-shore in the Bering Sea, headed for Alaska.
The NORAD leaders looked at each other and made simultaneous decisions.
“Let’s get everything up, John,” Matuchek stated as he actuated the fighter scramble order for all Air Force Tactical Fighter Wings deployed in the high-threat areas.
Matuchek pressed another switch, then a third. He waited, then pressed two more alarm switches. Status and tracking displays illuminated instantaneously, changing colors and formats.
Satisfied, CINCNORAD pressed another button which displayed an overview of all space and satellite activity. Nothing unusual at this point, Matuchek noted, punching his intercom.
“Colonel Griffin, what is the real-time status of the orbiter?”
The assistant operations officer replied without hesitation. “One of the crew members is preparing to enter the airlock at this time, General.”
“Good. Keep me informed on their progress.”
“Will do, sir,” Griffin responded, scratching event/time notes on his pad.
“One other thing, Bob.”
“Yes, General,” Griffin replied, placing his pen on his console.
“Are the two deployed satellites working satisfactorily?”
Matuchek would be ecstatic to have the basic SDI system in place and functioning correctly.
“Yes, sir. We haven’t seen any anomalies in the data procurement.”
“Excellent.” Matuchek looked relieved. “How about the down-link channels for the two satellites they’ve already deployed?”
“We see no problem, sir. Okay status on all SDI downlinks checks with Space Command,” Colonel Griffin replied as he rechecked both reporting systems.
“Good work, Bob. Keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Matuchek looked at his Canadian friend. Honeycutt’s normally relaxed face wasn’t smiling.
The two agents were approaching Staraya, near their pickup point at Novgorod. Wickham had decided against taking the train. Too many risks and too much exposure.
The Lada had just rounded a curve when the two men heard the sounds. Wickham cocked his head to one side, motioning Dimitri to be silent. The CIA agent pulled the vehicle to the side of the road and stopped under a grove of barren trees. His shoulder continued to throb and he felt light-headed from the loss of blood.
Wickham released the “hot-wire” switch, killing the engine, and rolled down the window. The staccato sound was still unclear, almost muffled.
“What is it?” Dimitri whispered.
“Sh-sh,” the American hissed, straining to interpret the alarming sound.
Wickham opened the door of the Lada and stepped out into the cold air. He listened intently, then walked closer to the roadside, hesitated a moment, then jumped back in terror. His mind could not comprehend what his eyes were seeing.
Low on each side of the road, less than three kilometers away, were two Soviet Mil Mi-28 advanced combat helicopters. It was obvious they were conducting a methodical search-and-destroy mission.
The Russian helicopters remained low and moved slowly, checking every square dekameter of ground.
The American agent now understood why the engine and rotor blade sounds had been muffled. The trees and rolling terrain had distorted and masked the sounds of the approaching gunships.
No question about their purpose. The two CIA operatives were being stalked in a deadly game of persistent pressure. Fatigue and panic would take their toll — eventually.
The stunned American yelled at Dimitri. “Get some tree branches for camouflage. Move! Move!”
Dimitri leaped into action, stumbling through the brush. Wickham jumped back into the Lada and started the engine.
The two Mi-28s, NATO code name HAVOC, were only two kilometers away when Wickham ran the Lada under the base of the trees, smashing the right front fender.
The sound of the helos was becoming distinct and loud as Wickham and Dimitri yanked down tree branches and limbs to cover the car. The trees were practically void of foliage in the cold February winter. Both men, in desperation, threw dirt and branches on the Lada.
“Come on, Dimitri,” the American yelled, holding his right shoulder with his left hand.
The two hunched figures raced down the adjacent embankment and splashed through a narrow stream. Their progress was impeded by thin ice and slush along the bank. The footprints wouldn’t be hard to follow.
Wickham struggled up the other side of the narrow stream and motioned for Dimitri to follow. It was imperative that the two men find a hiding place in the next few seconds.
Wickham turned and sprinted toward some large mounds of earth piled next to a field. A rubbish dump was only two meters from the knolls. Dimitri rushed after the American, scrambling along in a renewed effort.
“We’ll have to dig in for now and hope the helos keep moving,” Wickham stated as both men dove behind the earthen mounds and crawled into the edge of the rubbish.