Joe Weber
DEFCON One
As the tree is fertilized by its own broken branches and fallen leaves, and grows out of its own decay, so men and nations are bettered and improved by trial, and refined out of broken hopes and blighted expectations.
Acknowledgments
I am especially indebted to my wife, Jeannie, who has supported my effort with patience and constructive criticism. A special thanks to Bob Kane, of Presidio Press, who gave an unknown author an opportunity to become published. My sincere gratitude goes to Presidio Press Editor Adele Horwitz, who worked tirelessly to assist me in my efforts.
DEFENCE READINESS CONDITION (DEFCON)
DEFCON Five—normal peacetime activities.
DEFCON Four—increase intelligence watch and increase security.
DEFCON Three—forces on standby, waiting further orders.
DEFCON Two—forces ready for combat.
DEFCON One—forces deployed for combat.
PROLOGUE
Fouad Baqir al-Sadr watched the Aeroflot Ilyushin-62 accelerate down the runway, then climb gracefully into the gray, overcast sky above Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport.
The stocky Libyan militiaman glanced quickly around the apartment roof, then raised the weapon to his shoulders. An expert in the use of portable air defense missiles, he braced his feet, steadied himself, and aimed the Russian-built SA-14 missile launcher. He carefully set the element sight on the Soviet transport and immediately heard the high-pitched screech that indicated the weapon was tracking.
“What a beautiful flying machine,” the Libyan lieutenant said to himself, then took a breath and held it while he waited patiently, watching the transport’s landing gear disappear into the fuselage. Three seconds later, the militiaman gently squeezed the trigger.
The launcher kicked slightly as the projectile arced away, nosed-over for a split second, then curved skyward toward its unsuspecting prey.
Baqir al-Sadr lowered the launcher, then watched, fascinated, as the lethal missile pursued the climbing jet. The thin wisp of the weapon’s exhaust trail blended perfectly into the leaden overcast.
Almost instantly the quiet morning was shattered by a deafening explosion. The lieutenant stared, transfixed, as the huge Aeroflot transport shed an engine, then a wing, and tumbled out of the sky, trailing flaming debris.
The Ilyushin-62 crashed on the perimeter of the airport in a horrendous fireball, showering nearby traffic in blazing jet fuel.
Lieutenant Baqir al-Sadr turned away from the inferno, smiled, then dropped the missile launcher down a ventilation shaft.
The general secretary had made his last trip. The era of glasnost was over.
Chapter One
The Nimitz-class carrier plunged through foaming troughs, sending showers of cold spray over the bow, as dawn began to light the gray sky.
The constant rolling motion of the mammoth ship sent torrents of icy seawater pouring through open flight deck elevator doors. A river of water flowed the length of the hangar deck, mixing with oil and hydraulic fluid, before returning to the open sea from the aft elevator platforms.
The aircraft handling crews were having difficulty keeping their footing as they attempted to secure aircraft sent below at the completion of flight operations.
Lt. Cmdr. Frank Stevens leaned closer to the radar plot in the CIC, the Combat Information Center. The Hawkeye early warning aircraft, nicknamed “Hummer,” had just informed him of unidentified “bogies” approaching the battle group.
Frowning, Stevens watched the radar blips approaching from the northeast on a direct course to the battle group. He strained harder to focus on the images displayed by the luminescent scope. The tension was stretching his nerves. Unidentified, in this region, meant Russian.
CIC, the brains of the “Ike” during any hostile action, was a myriad of radar scopes, cathode ray tubes, and see-through luminescent plotting boards. The room was lit by soft red light. A group of enlisted men stood behind a transparent plastic screen, writing backwards with yellow greasepencils, providing constant updates on the status of aircraft and escort ships. The glowing letters and numerals, seeming to appear by magic, changed continually as various commands checked in with fuel and ordnance reports.
Stevens stared at the glowing scope. The radar repeater cast a sallow, green reflection on his taut face as he pressed his microphone transmission button.
“Stingray, this is Tango Fox,” Stevens radioed the Grumman E-2C Hawkeye.
“Roger, Tango Fox. Stand by,” replied the officer in command of the Hawkeye’s airborne tactical data system team.
The “Miniwacs” Hawkeye, always the first fixed-wing aircraft airborne and the last one to land, had been circling the Eisenhower at 24,000 feet for two and a half hours. The big twin-turboprop, with its enormous rotodome, was absolutely critical to the carrier and accompanying battle group.
The Hawkeye’s radar provided the capability to detect approaching aircraft and cruise missiles, in addition to surface craft, at ranges up to 260 miles, thus making it difficult for aggressors to penetrate the defenses of the fleet.
Stevens paused, a trickle of perspiration running down the inside of his right arm. “Navigation, CIC. What is our position?” Stevens requested through the intercom system.
“Sir, our present position is seventy nautical miles due north of Faeroe Island, two hundred ten miles below the Arctic Circle,” replied the navigation watch officer, roused from his paperback by the unexpected request.
Stevens was debating his options when the Hawkeye commander responded.
“Tango Fox, Tango Fox, this is Stingray,” the voice exploded from the overhead speakers. “We have confirmation on the bogies. Appears to be two Russian Backfire bombers, bearing zero-two-zero, two hundred forty at angels four-three. They’re descending with a fighter escort of three, possibly four, aircraft. Acknowledge.”
“Roger, Stingray,” replied Stevens. “We’re launching Ready CAP One at this time, call sign ‘Gunfighter’ on button seven.”
“Okay, Tango Fox, better have ’em move it out. These guys are closing at the speed of heat!”
The standby combat air patrol (CAP) pilots, Lt. Cmdr. Doug “Frogman” Karns, Gunfighter One, and Lt. (jg) Steve Hershberger, along with their radar intercept officers (RIOs), reacted swiftly to the urgent blaring of the launch signal in their ready room.
The aircrew ready rooms, directly below the flight deck, were adjacent to the F-14D Tomcat fighter planes poised for launch on the two forward catapults.
Lt. Rick Bonicelli, the RIO for Karns, and Lt. Cmdr. Gordon “Gator” Kavanaugh scrambled into the rear cockpits of their respective jets and began the demanding task of spinning-up the navigation and armament panels.
As the RIOs worked on the complex weapons systems, Karns and Hershberger were strapping in and starting their twin General Electric turbofans. The new generation engines, collectively producing over fifty-eight thousand pounds of thrust, could power the Grumman multi-role fighters past Mach 2 plus — over 1,600 miles per hour.
Each Tomcat was equipped with six advanced air-to-air missiles, along with a 20-mm M61 Vulcan cannon for hosing-down targets at close range.
“Launch the CAP! Launch the CAP!” the hollow voice reverberated over the flight deck.
“Jesus, Bone, why didn’t we go to medical school like normal people?” Karns laughed over the intercom (ICS) to Bonicelli. “Canopy coming down.”