The first step had already been completed. Russian bombers with fighter escorts had approached American battle groups.
The inner circle knew they could launch cruise missiles at the U.S. carriers from within 150 kilometers.
Now Soviet submarines would pursue U.S. carrier groups, pressing closer than ever before, to evaluate Russian first-strike capabilities.
The bomber and submarine probes had been carefully designed to appear as normal military operations under the new regime. Zhilinkhov didn’t want to create any suspicion in the Kremlin, or the military, prior to giving the order to launch missiles.
If the secret plan leaked out, Zhilinkhov’s power to launch a strike on a moment’s notice, without question, would be stripped by the eight uninformed Politburo members. Zhilinkhov was one of two men on the planet who could launch a massive, world-threatening nuclear strike, on his own authority.
Zhilinkhov now waited patiently for the next step to take place — sinking the American submarine prowling the Sea of Okhotsk.
The general secretary looked at his watch again, thinking about the afternoon session with the Central Committee. He would tell them of his economic reforms, reorganization of bureaucratic dynasties, industrial incentive plan, and revitalization of the energy industry. His message was simple: the future would restore Russia to her prominence, if the Party would give him the time needed.
“Comrade General Secretary, the members await you. It is past one,” Dimitri, head of the kitchen staff, gently reminded the eighty-six-year-old party leader.
Linnemeyer awoke in his cabin as the ship rolled hard to starboard in a 180-degree course reversal. The CO turned over, glanced at his portable alarm clock, blinked a number of times to clear his vision, and read the hour. He had been asleep over seven hours, much longer than his customary four or five hours.
Linnemeyer rubbed his face gingerly, finding the stubble coarse and uncomfortable. He forced his way out of the warm, inviting bunk and reached for his shaving kit, knocking over a glass of water in the semidarkness of his room.
The private stateroom contained a toilet and shower, the size of a small closet, off to the side of a combination sitting room/bedroom.
Linnemeyer brushed his teeth, shaved, and enjoyed a brief, but exhilarating, hot shower. Conservative use of fresh water was mandatory aboard Navy vessels at sea.
He changed into fresh work khakis, smartly laundered and pressed to razor-sharp crispness, and combed his hair. Slipping into his sage green flight jacket, Linnemeyer grabbed his wallet and watch, opened his cabin door and stepped into the soft red glow of the passageway.
CIC was a short walk away and he looked forward to having a hot cup of coffee, along with an update briefing on the latest Soviet activities, before going back to have his dinner. He had slept through lunch and his body was telling him it was past time to eat.
Linnemeyer stepped over the hatch-combing into the Combat Information Center and was greeted by the senior petty officer of the watch, Jim Puckette, electronics technician first class.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Evening. Where’s the watch officer?” Linnemeyer asked, observing the activity in the room.
“Went to the head, sir. Be right back,” Puckette responded, knowing the CO didn’t have a lot of patience. “Care for some hot tea, sir?”
Linnemeyer glanced at the small, fold-out table normally reserved for the battered coffee pot.
“Hot tea? What happened to the coffee?” Linnemeyer asked as he noticed the watch officer, Lt. Pete Dyestrom, step back into CIC.
“Coffee pot shelled, sir.” Puckette looked at Dyestrom, seeking approval. “We deep-sixed it, sir. Graham broke out Wilson’s four-cupper. He only drinks tea.”
Puckette reached for the CO’s cup hanging on the bulkhead and poured him a steaming cup of strong rosewood tea.
“Sounds great to me. Can’t be choosey when ya’ come a-bummin’,” Linnemeyer responded, noticing the grins on the sailors’ faces.
“Well, Pete, what’s the picture at the present time?” the CO asked the CIC watch officer.
“Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
“Let’s go with the good. I’m an optimist,” Linnemeyer grinned as he tasted his tea, still too hot to drink comfortably.
“The Kennedy is joining us. They’re out of the Med now, somewhere off Lisbon—” Dyestrom abruptly ended the sentence when his intercom rang.
Linnemeyer looked at the ship’s position plot as Dyestrom completed his conversation.
“Staff wants to see you, sir. They tried your quarters and figured you’d be here,” Dyestrom hurried. “The bad news, briefly, is that we still have the two subs trailing along and the Kiev is standing off about—” Dyestrom looked over to the petty officer manning CIC plot.
“One hundred five miles, zero-six-zero, sir.”
“That’s about it. No action yet. We have a two-plane Barrier Combat Air Patrol orbiting seventy miles northeast of the ship. As you can see, sir, we’ve been steaming back and forth over the same course the past six hours,” Dyestrom concluded.
“Okay. Appreciate the tea. What’s the deck status?” Linnemeyer asked as he drank the last swallow in his cup.
“Spotted for immediate CAP launch, sir. The pilots are in the cockpits. The Hummer is airborne, along with two Vikings and a tanker. One Viking is on the subs and the other is patrolling around the battle group. Also, we have a LAMPS antisubmarine helo between us and the subs. We are relieving everyone on station at four-hour intervals,” Dyestrom glanced at the twenty-four-hour clock. Another thirty-five minutes before the next launch.
“Sounds mighty fine, Pete. See ya’ later.” Linnemeyer rinsed his cup and placed it on a wall peg before stepping into the passageway leading to the ship’s bridge.
The Trident II fleet ballistic missile submarine, one of the newest in the inventory, had been fitted with new D5 missiles during a dry-dock period in March 1990.
The advanced nuclear sub was now on patrol with the Seventh Fleet and attached to the battle group led by the carrier USS Constellation.
The skipper of the Tennessee, Capt. Mark McConnell, had received orders to return to the battle group. He had been reconnoitering deep in the Sea of Okhotsk and was underway for the Constellation and her escort ships.
Ohio-class “boomers” normally patrolled the depths of open oceans. However, the Tennessee had been given a highly classified mission to reconnoiter the capabilities of the latest Soviet antisubmarine warfare (ASW) technology.
The Russians had launched a number of secret Cosmos satellites in 1991. Each unit contained a “blue hue” blue-green laser able to penetrate deep below the ocean’s surface. The laser system converted ultraviolet light from an xenon laser source to ultrahigh-intensity, narrow-band blue-green laser light.
Soviet scientists, in less than fourteen months, had launched twenty-nine Cosmos satellites with only one failure. The laser aboard the fourteenth satellite had failed to energize.
The Soviet technological breakthrough had caused great concern in the Pentagon. Had the Russians finally been able to make the oceans “transparent”? Were our submarines being tracked from home port to destination?
If the answer was yes, our worst fears would be true. The Soviets’ latest generation bomber, the “Blackjack,” carrying nuclear-tipped cruise missiles, would be able to select and destroy every American submarine. The triad of United States landbased nuclear missiles, bombers, and submarines would be irretrievably weakened.