“Then you’ve got my word that I’ll do everything within my power to halt its operation, and after exposing it to the authorities of your choice, I’ll be right there to wipe it out,” promised Vince, who sensed that a deal was already in the making.
” Iron man One General Spencer, we’re receiving flash traffic from Cheyenne Mountain.”
Lowell Spencer received this intercom page while stealing a spare moment to eat a pasta salad in the crew’s rest area, immediately behind TACAMO’s flight deck. He pushed away the partially consumed meal, scooted out from the fold-down table, and headed aft into the next compartment, where his five-person battle staff was stationed.
Spencer’s vacant console occupied the forward right-hand position. His SIOP and Air Launch Control System advisors were already seated beside it, with his team chief, senior NCO, and Airborne Communications Officer positioned on the other side of the compartment. As Spencer buckled himself into his padded command chair and put on his headset, his ACO addressed him.
“Sir, NORAD reports a confirmed missile launch from the Russian ICBM base in Tyuratam.”
Spencer hastily read the data that began filling his display screen. It was a copy of the original warning order that was broadcast from NORAD’s missile-warning center, situated beneath Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado. The data indicated that approximately ninety seconds ago, the sensors of a Code 647 Defense Support Program satellite known as DSP East had picked up the hot plume of a single ICBM leaving the lower atmosphere.
If this missile was armed with a nuclear warhead and headed for the continental United States, it could reach its target in less than thirty minutes, and Spencer reacted accordingly.
“Major Childless,” he said to his SIOP advisor, “what do we know about the launch site?”
“It’s an active ICBM field, sir, that reportedly houses thirty six long-range SS-18s and a dozen SS-11s.”
“I don’t suppose the Russians announced any pre scheduled missile tests for today?” continued Spencer.
Childress alertly answered, “That’s a negative, sir.”
Lowell Spencer was a thirty-year Air Force veteran who had begun his career flying B-52s for Curtis LeMay’s Strategic Air Command. An active participant in the Cold War, he had shared in many similar alerts, though none with circumstances quite like this one.
“Considering that this is indeed a belligerent launch. Major, why only a single missile?” Spencer asked.
Childress thought for a moment before responding.
“I’d say that it’s all part of a carefully orchestrated counterforce strike, sir. Since they’ve already eliminated our Commanderin-Chief, and attempted to take out our Trident alert platform, all they’d need to do is hit us with a high-altitude nuclear burst to create enough Electro-Magnetic Pulse to negate our command and control ability.”
“General,” interrupted the ACO.
“NORAD reports that the Russian ICBM has completed its post-boost phase and is initiating a polar trajectory.”
“That gives us twenty-five minutes at best to respond, sir,” Major Childress reminded him.
“I advise sending an immediate EAM to the Rhode Island, and ordering our strategic forces to DEFCON Two.”
“Unfortunately, that decision is not ours to make. Major,” said Spencer.
“It’s time to contact Nightwatch. They’ve got the ball, and it’s our esteemed Chairman who’s going to be calling the plays.”
It was Red who fielded the urgent call from Iron Man One. News of the Russian missile launch had already reached Nightwatch, and the Chairman readily listened to General Spencer’s somber assessment of the situation.
“I agree wholeheartedly, Lowell,” said Warner into a handset.
“Under the circumstances, it’s only prudent to change our alert status to DEFCON Two. Though for the life of me, I still can’t believe this is really a legitimate Russian attack. You also have my permission to convey an EAM to the Rhode Island. If we are forced to retaliate, that should give Captain Lockwood enough time to wrap up repairs and spin up his missiles.”
There could be no mistaking the solemn expression that graced Wamer’s face when he hung up the phone and addressed Red.
“Sergeant, get Colonel Pritchard and Commander Cooper down here on the double, and have them meet me at the emergency action safe. And where the hell is that secure line to General Zhukov that I asked for?”
Barely a minute after General Spencer had completed his conversation with Nightwatch, TACAMO prepared to contact the Rhode Island. From the state-of-the-art glass cockpit, the flight crew got a clear view of the sparkling waters of the Atlantic below. No surface vessels of any sort were visible, the platform they were tasked to communicate with lying deep below the ocean’s surface.
“Orbit entry checklist complete,” said the pilot into his chin mike.
“Okay, Reels, you have access.”
“Roger,” answered the reel operator from his console at the rear of the aircraft.
“Short wire’s on its way.”
In order for their radio signal to penetrate the ocean depths, a pair of thin wire antennas had to be extended from TACAMO’s belly. The short wire extended five thousand feet from the tail, and over two hundred thousand watts were needed to power it.
“Long wire’s on its way,” the reel operator next reported.
This antenna was over twenty-five thousand feet long, and was pulled from a huge spool that was stored just aft of the reel operator’s position. It formed a giant dipole with the shorter “hot” wire, and produced the actual VLF waveform.
“Both wires are out and parked,” reported the reel operator.
“Flight, you have access.”
“Roger,” acknowledged the pilot, who guided the aircraft into a steeply banked, racetrack orbit, so that the drogue-stabilized long wire would point toward the ocean’s surface.
“It’s all yours, Comm,” he added into his chin mike.
“Roger; bring up the Power Amplifier,” instructed the AGO from his V-shaped console located aft of Spencer’s battle-staff compartment.
“pa’s coming up,” the flight technician reported.
“Full power, two hundred.”
“Roger. Send it!” ordered the AGO.
“Conn, Radio. We’re receiving flash traffic. Emergency Action Message! Recommend Alert One!”
Captain Terence McNeil Lockwood listened to this excited intercom page from his command position inside the submarine’s control room. He had only just returned from Sonar, where most of the damage from their recent collision was confined, and upon hearing this dreaded announcement, he raced toward the radio room.
It was at the OP CON — a cramped compartment featuring a small three-person booth and a console topped with a trio of locked safes labeled top secret — that Lockwood was joined by his XO and his radio officer. They held the telegram-sized EAM, which had just been torn off the radio console’s printer.
“Sir,” said the XO, “we have a properly formatted Emergency Action Message from the National Command Authority, for strategic missile launch.”
“I concur, sir,” said the radio officer.
“Captain, request permission to authenticate,” stated the XO.
“Permission granted,” returned Lockwood.
The sealed packet holding the authenticator card was removed from the largest of the three safes. The XO tore open the packet, removed the card, and held it up against the EAM.
“Alpha, Tango, Alpha, Charlie, Echo, Echo, Bravo,” read the XO.
The radio officer checked the authenticator card himself and repeated this sequence, prompting the XO to report, “The message is authentic. Captain.”
“I agree,” said the radio officer.