The gallant fighter pilot never knew when his F-15 slammed into the dark, cold water.
Capt. Bill Parnam was already sinking to the bottom of the Bering Sea. He had rammed head-on into a Navy F-18 while trying to evade the MiG that had downed his flight leader.
Rear Adm. Donald S. G. McKenna, task force commander, accompanied by Capt. Greg Linnemeyer, walked into the ship’s closed circuit television station.
“Greg,” McKenna said under his breath, “this is it. I never thought we would take the plunge.”
“I have been thinking the same thing, sir,” Linnemeyer answered with a sadness in his voice.
Station technicians snapped to attention as McKenna and Linnemeyer, removing their covers, stepped over the hatch combing and into the broadcasting compartment.
“As you were,” McKenna said in a friendly tone. “Are we ready to go on the air?”
“Yes, sir,” the chief petty officer in charge of the studio replied. “Just need to alert the decks, Admiral.”
McKenna nodded and stepped behind the podium adorned with the ship’s seal. His features looked grim through the eye of the television camera.
The public address system came to life. “The task force commander is prepared to speak to the crew. Stand by.”
“This is Admiral McKenna. There have been many rumors filtering through the ship the past few minutes. I am here to clarify the situation as we know it at this time.”
McKenna waited for the noise to subside before he spoke again. “We are preparing, as I speak, to launch conventional and nuclear strikes against the Soviet Union. These strikes will take place in less than forty-one minutes.”
A hushed foreboding embraced the entire ship as all activity came to an abrupt halt.
“We are faced,” McKenna paused, “with a tremendous responsibility. Each of us.” McKenna cleared his throat, swallowing hard. “A responsibility to our country, to our families, and to the United States Navy.”
McKenna waited a moment before continuing. “But most importantly, men, is our responsibility to each other.”
McKenna looked at Linnemeyer, then back to the camera. “I know each and every one of you will do your job well. Good luck, and may God be with us.”
The Admiral stepped to the side, motioning for Linnemeyer to join him. “Now, your commanding officer, Captain Linnemeyer, will fill you in on the details.”
Greg Linnemeyer stepped to the podium as the sound of jet engines being started reverberated through the huge supercarrier.
The president walked into the War Room and spoke to his chief of staff. “One thing, Grant.”
“Yes, sir,” Wilkinson replied, staring at the lighted situation display.
“What if we told the Soviets that the Kremlin operative is safe and we know about Zhilinkhov’s plan?” The president continued without waiting for Wilkinson to answer. “That we are prepared to retaliate?”
Wilkinson turned toward the president. “They’ll back off, tell the world our accusation is insane, wait until we eventually relax, then destroy us.”
After seeing the pained look on the president’s face, Wilkinson spoke more softly. “Sir, it’s only a matter of time. The difference is measured in minutes, Mister President, between annihilation and survival. We’re better off if Zhilinkhov does believe our Kremlin operative is dead.”
“I know you’re right, Grant,” the president said in frustration. “I’m having a very difficult time absorbing this situation. You must understand.”
“Sir,” Wilkinson said in a different, serious vein, “I share your grief. I’m blocking my feelings the best I can in order to make the correct decisions.”
The president didn’t respond as the rest of the staff, except Susan Blaylocke, joined the two men. The vice president, acting on instructions from her boss, was en route to join Air Force Chief of Staff, General Ridenour, in the 747 “Looking Glass” command post.
The big Boeing was on final approach to Andrews Air Force Base as the president sat down in the War Room. Blaylocke, aboard Marine Two, would land next to the 747 when it rolled to a stop on the runway. She would be airborne in the flying command post in less than five minutes.
“Okay, Admiral,” the president said in a weary voice, “the strike goes in fourteen minutes. Tell me, again, what our priorities will be.”
“Yes, sir,” Chambers replied, appearing pale and strained. The JCS chairman stepped forward to the lighted display map. “We’re going to preempt the biggest weapons first.” Chambers pointed to various Russian missile sites deployed west of the Ural Mountains.
“We’re going after the SS-20s here,” Chambers said, tapping each site with his pointer, “at Pervomaysk, Yedrova, Yurya, Verkhnyaya, and the Caspian Sea area.”
A phone, chiming softly, interrupted the brief. Wilkinson picked up the receiver, listened for a moment, then replied quietly. The chief of staff placed the receiver down and swiveled around to face the president. “The vice president is airborne, sir.”
“Very well,” the president said, staring blankly at the lighted display map of the Soviet Union. “Please continue, Admiral.”
Chambers pushed a button on his hand-held control unit, then raised his pointer again.
“We’ve got over fifty percent of their submarines, including the big boomers, under our thumb right now,” Chambers said, pointing to isolated areas in the Bering Sea, Pacific, Atlantic, and Arctic Oceans.
“We will dispatch them,” Chambers looked at the twenty-four-hour clock, “in eleven minutes, sir.”
The phone chimed again. Wilkinson raised the receiver, nodded to Chambers, then spoke to the president.
“All commands report ready and standing by, sir.” Wilkinson darted a look at Cliff Howard before speaking to the president again. “Mister President, the fighters have engaged the Soviet bombers over the Bering Sea.”
“Okay,” the president replied, wiping perspiration from his hair line. He couldn’t take his eyes off the clock as it slowly ticked off the final minutes to Armageddon.
Wilkinson listened to further information, then gently replaced the receiver in its cradle. “Four missile sites — two at Grand Forks, one at Malmstrom, and one at Whiteman — have malfunctions. They’ll be unable to launch, sir.”
The grieving president, holding his head in his hands, didn’t respond.
“Won’t make any difference,” Marine General Hollingsworth said, standing to stretch taut muscles. “We’ve got triple overkill built into every target.”
Captain Greg Linnemeyer stepped into PRI-FLY in time to watch the first of eight A-6F Intruders hurtle down the forward two catapults. The Grumman all-weather attack aircraft were laden with conventional bombs, bound for Soviet Air Defense radar installations.
Admiral McKenna entered the ship’s control tower as the F-14s prepared to launch.
“Attention on deck,” the senior petty officer said in a loud voice.
“As you were,” McKenna replied, then turned to Linnemeyer. “We’re already in the soup, I’m afraid. I just received word that Air Force and Navy fighters shot down at least twenty Russian bombers, fighters, and tankers over the Bering Sea.”
Linnemeyer looked shocked. “How did we get into this position so quickly?”
“I wish I could give you an answer, Greg. It’s too soon for an accurate account of what preceded this tragedy.”
Linnemeyer turned slightly to catch an F-14 rushing down the number one catapult. The Tomcat left the end of the deck, sank precariously low to the water, then began to climb. The heavy fighter, afterburners howling, had kicked spray off the water.