“How long do you anticipate being there?” Hays asked, thinking the president might be out of the country when they launched Columbia.
“Three, possibly four days. Perhaps longer if we make any progress. The president has some ideas to present. I’m obviously not at liberty to discuss those topics, but you’ll be kept apprised.”
Hays doodled continuously, not wanting to interrupt Wilkinson. He was fascinated by the intrigue.
“Better let you off the phone. This place is a madhouse and I’ve got a plane to catch. Good luck with your launch, Rex.” Wilkinson concluded the conversation as he packed files in his leather attaché case.
“Thanks, Grant, and best of luck in the Azores.”
“We’ll need it. So long.”
Hays placed the receiver down, reaching for his coat, as he pictured the meeting in Lajes. He headed directly for the cafeteria, having missed his late lunch waiting for the preplanned call from the White House.
Talking with the president’s chief of staff was unusual, Hays thought, but the present circumstances were unusual, too.
The nuclear-powered heavy cruiser, steaming at full speed, pitched and rolled violently in the towering swells. Waves of ice-cold seawater smashed into the base of the bridge as the missile cruiser staggered from trough to trough.
A North Atlantic winter storm was developing and the Virginia was dogged tight for heavy seas. Another 240 nautical miles — nine hours — and she would rendezvous with the Eisenhower battle group. The mission was to augment her sister ship, the Mississippi, until the DEFCON alert was cancelled. The Mississippi would then return to Norfolk for repairs to her damaged rudders.
Cmdr. Fred Simpson, skipper of the Virginia, automatically swayed back and forth in front of his mirror, compensating for the rolling motion of the ship.
“Damn!” That was the second nick and he still had the other side of his face to shave.
More swearing ensued as Simpson lurched into a towel holder, then banged his elbow on the sink. He had decided to shave and shower before the seas became rougher, as they were predicted to be near the battle group.
Simpson glanced at the brass clock mounted over his stateroom desk. It was 0300 hours, a hell of a time to be shaving, Simpson thought, as he bounced off the bulkhead, nearly losing his balance. The Virginia would rendezvous with the Ike at noon and Simpson would be too busy in the early morning hours to refresh himself. Besides, he couldn’t sleep, reflecting on the DEFCON-Three alert.
Simpson toweled his face and reached for his comb when the speaker sounded.
“Captain to the bridge! Captain to the bridge!”
Simpson reached for his phone, punching the bridge code.
“Bridge, sir.” The Virginia’s officer of the deck answered personally.
“This is the captain, Stan.”
“Sir, sonar has picked up a submarine, Russian signature, two points off the starboard bow, range nine thousand yards and closing.”
“I’ll be there in a minute. Meantime, turn twenty degrees to port and we’ll see if Ivan follows.” Simpson stopped a moment, thinking.
“Stan, we’re at DEFCON-Three, so sound general quarters and give me the status of our ASW gear,” Simpson ordered as he placed the receiver back in the cradle. He reached for his shirt as the general quarters alarm sounded.
The loud warning signal reverberated throughout the ship, shocking sleeping crew members awake.
“All hands man your battle stations! All hands man your battle stations! General quarters! General quarters!”
Sailors piled out of racks, clamoring for uniforms and shoes, bewilderment written on the faces of the young men as they raced for their assigned duty stations.
Simpson stepped into the bridge, noting with satisfaction that his officer of the deck, Lt. Cmdr. Stan Jenkins, was on the new course and slowing. The seas were too rough to remain at full speed while the men were at battle stations.
“Captain, the ASROCS and launchers are up and ready. Torpedoes and tubes ready and standing by.” Jenkins waited for a response from Simpson.
“Very well, Stan. What about the LAMPS helo?”
“Being readied in the hangar. The duty crew is boarding now. The pilot isn’t very enthusiastic about this weather, though.” Jenkins knew the skipper didn’t care for naval aviators in general.
“Well, get him enthused,” Simpson replied sharply. “That’s why they get flight pay.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Jenkins responded and turned to the radioman. “Tell Seahawk Thirty-eight to launch and commence search pattern.”
“Yessir,” replied the petty officer, a question in his eyes.
The pilot, Lt. Hector Chaveze, had the LAMPS III helicopter’s main rotors up to speed. He was still lashed to the deck and knew when he signaled for release, crazy in this weather, he would have to rise straight up as quickly as possible or risk colliding with the ship as it rolled in the turbulent seas.
Chaveze knew the risky operation was borderline in his NATOPS flight manual, but Simpson made the rules out here. Better to crash the helo than disobey the omnipotent captain.
“Sonar?” Jenkins formed the word into a question.
“Closing on us, sir,” the first class petty officer reported, studying his scope. “Appears to be on a thirty-degree intercept course … no, they’re closing the angle of intercept, sir.”
“Flash to CINCLANT, Eisenhower, and Kennedy,” Simpson ordered, turning to Commander Jenkins. “Tell Ike we need ASW coverage, on the double! Is the helo up yet?”
“Lifting off at this time, Captain,” Jenkins replied, reaching for the message phone.
Chaveze twisted all the power he could muster from the twin turbine engines, signaled for release from the pitching deck, and grasped the collective firmly.
Rolling waves of frigid water smashed into the side of the helicopter hangar, spraying the LAMPS helo and sodden deck crew.
At the precise instant the hook was released, Chaveze yanked the collective up sharply, popping the helicopter into the turbulent air.
The lieutenant was on instruments immediately. The darkness was absolute, the stars and moon blanked by cloud cover at 3,000 feet. He leveled at 800 feet above the cold, churning ocean. His copilot, Ens. Randy Gill, noted with great satisfaction that both altimeters, radar and pressure, were precisely in agreement.
The LAMPS crew activated the on-board magnetic anomaly detection (MAD) sensors and lowered their sonobuoy into the raging Atlantic. The Soviet hunter-killer submarine immediately registered on their equipment and Chaveze changed course slightly, closing slowly on the Russian.
“Nest Egg, Seahawk Thirty-eight has the submarine,” Chaveze radioed the Virginia. “Signature confirms a Russian hunter-killer. We’re making another sweep.”
“Roger, Seahawk,” the captain looked at the sonar operator, then spoke to the LAMPS pilot again. “Let ’em know you’re overhead. We have a Viking on the way.”
The Virginia’s skipper, mentally computing the time it would take for the ASW aircraft to reach his position, was extremely edgy. The captain, who had been on board the USS Vincennes (CG 49) in the Persian Gulf during July 1988, had every reason to be nervous. The message detailing the Tennessee encounter was fresh in his mind.