Aboard Iron Man One, the normal TACAMO communications personnel were joined by a command battle staff. This emergency action team was responsible for transmitting Emergency Action Messages, the unlock codes for America’s nuclear warheads. In addition to releasing these codes, the battle staff had the capability of actually launching an ICBM from the air, should ground based command and control be compromised.
“Admiral Warner,” said Red into her mike, “I have General Spencer on the line.”
The moment the two senior officers began conversing. Red cut off the verbal feed, and she looked up to address Brittany.
“That should keep him out of my hair for a couple of minutes.
Now what’s all this about those MiGs hightailing it back home?”
“It seems that our saviors are a group of F-16 Fighting Falcons out of Incirlik,” Brittany told her.
“They were originally scrambled to assist Checkmate One, and arrived seconds before that lead Foxbat was threatening to blow us out of the skies.”
“I’m sure glad we weren’t forced to land at Simferopol, Commander.
From what I could tell from the Ukrainian Defense factor, or part of the plan so as to disenable us from reaching and perhaps siding against the coup’s leadership,” mused Brittany.
“Though I caught only a portion of the Chairman’s conversation with the Defense Minister, it actually sounded as if the Ukrainians were blaming us for both the attack on the motorcade, as well as the coup attempt that followed. And that’s why they sent up those MiGs.”
A loud electronic tone sounded from Red’s computer, and she immediately broke off her conversation with Brittany, typed a flurry of commands into her keyboard, and spoke into her chin mike.
“Yes, Admiral … I understand, sir … I’ll see what I can do about it, sir.”
Red cut off her mike, and, still able to hear the audio feed over her lightweight headphones, she began attacking the keyboard.
“Damn static,” she cursed, more in annoyance than in anger.
“You’d think that with all the big bucks we spend on this high-tech gear, the least we could get is a clear telephone conversation.”
Brittany sensed her frustration, yet realized that establishing secure communications via satellite between two airplanes — one flying over the Black Sea, the other off America’s East Coast-was no easy feat to begin with.
“Admiral Warner, keep your cool, dude,” mumbled Red to herself, in reference to the conversation she was continuing to overhear.
“Even if you are Chairman, the man’s still a General.”
Brittany didn’t have the foggiest notion what Red was referring to. She watched her complete the final filtering process before removing her headset and looking up at Brittany, a mischievous look in her eye.
“Though I could get a court-martial for sharing this with you, it seems our esteemed Chairman just read General Spencer the riot act.”
“Whatever for?” asked Brittany, her curiosity piqued.
Red’s voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper.
“With your clearance, you’d probably find out anyway. But promise me you’ll keep it between us.” then that Warner went ballistic. It seems Spencer played a SIOP option. He had Iron Man One transmit an EAM to one of our Tridents, authorizing a limited nuclear strike against Ukraine, should Nightwatch have been downed. And all he wanted to do was properly revenge our deaths, and Warner goes and cuts his head off!”
Chapter 18
Commander Benjamin Kram sat alone in his stateroom, the nautical strains of Richard Rodgers’s “Victory at Sea” playing on his CD player. Though his small, fold-down desk was loaded with paperwork, his complete attention was riveted on a single document.
He had read it over and over since receiving it in Norfolk a little over two weeks ago.
Kram had had an intuitive feeling about what lay inside the sealed envelope from COMSUBLANT, and he’d waited until Hampton Roads was well behind before opening it. Inside was a single sheet of paper, instructing him that, starting this fall, he was to be transferred to the Pentagon to work for the Director of the Submarine Warfare Division. Careerwise, this was an excellent move. Yet it was devastating on an emotional level.
For all he knew, this current patrol could be his last. Command at sea was the reason he had decided to join the Navy over two decades ago. He had dedicated twenty-seven years of his life, endured countless extended watches, and missed too many of his kids’ birthdays, all to earn the coveted title of “skipper.”
And now he would be packing his sea bag for the final time, to join the ranks of those forlorn sailors who would sail the oceans no more.
His wife. Donna, would certainly be thrilled with this new assignment, as would his twin sons, Michael and Andrew. They would be getting a full-time husband and father back, while he would be losing another family, the existence of which his wife and kids never really comprehended. He had yet to inform the crew of his new orders, and he supposed he should first share the news with Dan Calhoun, his Executive Officer. Then he’d inform Master Chief Inboden, the Folk’s affable Chief of the Boat.
Sharing the news would put him one step closer to stepping off the submarine’s gangway for that final time. And once the rest of the crew got wind that the “Old Man” was leaving, he’d be like a baseball player announcing his retirement, and then making the last round of ballparks to share his glory days with the fans. Reveling in the past was certainly not the way he wanted to spend his last days on the Polk, and Kram decided to delay sharing his new orders for the immediate future.
The growl of the intercom diverted his musings, and he reached under the lip of the desk to grab the nearest handset.
“Captain here.”
The anxious voice on the other end was the boat’s radio officer, reporting that he believed he knew the reason that the exercise they were supposed to be in the midst of had been suddenly canceled. Kram cut short his introspection and notified the young officer that he was on his way to radio to get these findings firsthand.
He hid his transfer orders under the latest “Naval Submarine League Review” and, before leaving the stateroom, changed into a fresh set of blue coveralls, or poopy suit, as it was known to the submariner. After a quick splash of cold water on his face from his Pullman-style washbasin, he strode out into the passageway, turned to the right, and had to walk but a few steps toward the aft portion of the boat in order to reach the radio room.
He found the officer in charge seated at a workstation reserved for crypto graph analysis. This newly installed encryption system was designed by the National Security Agency, and incorporated into the sub’s communications shack to secure the integrity of all message traffic. In 1985, the Walker family spy ring taught the Navy the utter importance of ensuring secure cryptography.
During the years since, new equipment and procedures had come on line to rectify such security breaches.
Operating these complicated systems was a new generation of computer-savvy sailors. It was in the high-technology end of his business that Kram felt his age. Men like his current radio officer were incredibly competent technicians. Young and bright, they were the faces of the new Navy, a fighting force designed around microchips and high-tensile steel.