“Look clear between here and the coast, John?” Buchanan asked his copilot.
John Higgins, without taking his eyes from the radar screen, replied. “Don’t see a thing, Buck.”
“Good,” Buchanan answered, then checked with his other crewmen. “Blackie, you and Steve ready?”
“You bet, Major,” the former Marine gunnery sergeant replied, then added, “just like old times.”
Buchanan and Higgins laughed quietly at the forced bravado of their crew chief.
All three flight crews, including the crew chiefs and gunners, had been Marine Corps helicopter pilots and crew members. The Night Hawk crews worked in harmony and retained their military roots, including rank at the time of discharge. Every crew member, whether former officer or enlisted, had been hand-picked by the CIA from the best in the Marine Corps.
Buchanan thought about the mission, especially the last-minute briefing, as he continually scanned his flight instruments. He realized this was going to be a tough, if not impossible, extraction. Too many obstacles between here and the recovery ship.
Buchanan’s thoughts were interrupted by his copilot, former captain John Higgins.
“Buck, looks like a possible, two o’clock, eight miles,” Higgins reported, adjusting the intensity of his radar scope. “Yeah. Don’t know what it is.”
“Christ,” Buchanan replied, “just what we need.”
“Yeah, Buck, it’s a ship alright,” Higgins replied. “We better come left … let’s see … twenty degrees and see if we can skirt around it.”
“Okay, left twenty,” Buchanan answered. “Sure hope Two and Three are paying attention.”
“Stop worrying, Buck,” Higgins said, grinning, “they’re going to be just fine.”
The crew of Scarecrow One remained quiet, listening to the powerful throb of the big turboshaft engines.
Suddenly, Higgins gasped. “Uh-oh … Oh, shit! They’ve got a radar lock on us.”
Buchanan heard the same electronic warning tone in his helmet. “The ruse may be over, gents.” Buchanan looked back at his crew. “Hold on … we may have to do some violent maneuvering.”
“Major,” Oaks said, “ten to one that sumbitch is a Russian trawler.”
“Probably so,” Buchanan answered, knowing Oaks was right. The Night Hawks had been discovered.
The Soviet intelligence-gathering and surveillance vessel had been headed for the island of Kronshtadt, forty kilometers west of Leningrad, when the radar operator detected the unidentified helicopters.
The captain of the Soviet ship confirmed the sighting, then broadcast a mandate for the low-flying craft to identify themselves.
After repeated efforts to communicate with the suspicious intruders, the captain of the Ganyushkino radioed the Soviet Air Force Northwestern Air Sector Control. The Soviet Air Defense Force and surface surveillance ships enjoyed a close relationship in thwarting intruders.
The Russian Air Defense commander, hampered by the inclement weather, couldn’t launch his potent jet fighters against the low-flying helicopters. Instead, the Soviet commander elected to launch seven gunship helicopters from the Coast Aviation Brigade. Within minutes of the sighting, four Mil Mi-28 Havocs and three Mi-24 Hind-D combat helos were airborne.
The captain of the Ganyushkino continued to relay position and heading information to the Air Defense Command Post until the unidentified helicopters disappeared in radar ground clutter after crossing the beach.
Two of the Soviet gunships, based at Narva, twenty kilometers west of the Night Hawks, were already airborne when Scarecrow Three raced low across the Russian shoreline.
The Soviet deputy foreign minister, trailed by the Russian ambassador, walked briskly into the Situation Room. The atmosphere was cold and aloof, without pretense of convivial posturing. Both Soviets looked extremely uncomfortable.
Herb Kohlhammer, as secretary of state, was the only member of the president’s staff to offer a greeting to the Russian politicos.
“Please have a seat,” Kohlhammer gestured to the end of the expansive table.
The Soviets, looking pensive, sat down holding their coats. The deputy foreign minister nervously ran a handkerchief over his forehead, then cleared his throat.
The president spoke to the Soviet deputy foreign minister first.
“Mister Shcharansky, your country, your government has elected to place the United States in an awkward and very delicate position.”
The president paused, waiting for a response. Both Soviet officials remained quiet, avoiding the American leader’s eyes.
The president, becoming visibly irritated, continued.
“Your government…No, Soviet leadership, General Secretary Zhilinkhov, has plunged our two countries into a combative posture.” The president stared at the Soviets. “Does that concern either of you?”
The president fixed his gaze on Shcharansky, then turned to the Soviet ambassador, Krikor Gerasimov. Both Russians remained silent, glancing down at the surface of the table, then back to the American leader.
The president, showing restraint, lowered his voice and spoke to the Soviets. “Do you understand English?”
“Yes, of course,” the shocked Russians responded in unison.
“Good, goddamnit,” the president boomed, surprising his own staff and startling the Russians.
“This is not a pleasant time for us, I can assure you,” the president continued. “Your government is responsible for placing the United States in a position of imminent nuclear confrontation.” The president was livid.
“In addition, General Secretary Zhilinkhov is responsible for the deaths of twenty-three American servicemen. He is also responsible for causing severe damage to our space shuttle and for the death of one of our astronauts!”
The president glared at the Soviets. “Do you deny those facts?”
Shcharansky blinked his eyes several times before responding. “Mister President, I am not at liberty to discuss those issues. We have been informed that … that our government is only responding to American aggression. We … have no comment.”
“Then why the hell are you taking up space here?” The president, catching Wilkinson’s eye, calmed himself before continuing.
“I am formally requesting that you contact General Secretary Zhilinkhov, here and now, on our direct line, and explain our position.”
The president lighted a cigar, then outlined his ultimatum to the surprised Soviets.
“Very simple, gentlemen. We are not budging another inch. You understand?” The president was pleased to see both Russians nod in acknowledgement.
“General Secretary Zhilinkhov, and the Soviet government, have six hours to turn everything around. Everything, for your clarification, includes bombers, submarines, tanks, and troops — everything!”
The president placed his cigar down and folded his hands on the table. “If Zhilinkhov doesn’t comply, the Soviet Union can anticipate immediate retaliation.”
The room remained silent until the president spoke again.
“Do you have any questions … either of you?” the president asked, staring intently into the Soviets’ eyes.
Shcharansky, unsure of himself, spoke first. “No questions, Mister President.”
The deputy foreign minister, fidgeting, continued. “But I do not have the authority to conduct such discussions directly with the general secretary and I have never attempted to cir—”
“I don’t give a damn,” the president responded. “I’m giving you the authority! We’re out of time and options, Mister Shcharansky.”
Everyone in the White House Situation Room knew this was an unprecedented move by the president. Forcing the Soviet hand was a departure from normal relations.