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  Praise for

  DEFCON One

  “A blazing debut by one of America’s new thriller stars.”

  —Tom Clancy

  “Frighteningly credible. . .”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “An ominous, nightmarish scenario about how World War III could happen. Chilling and credible . . . It’s a must read, as immediate as this morning’s headlines.”

  —Stephen Coonts

  New York Times best-selling author of Flight of the Intruder

  “Joe Weber’s mastery of a wide range of military technology puts the reader at the controls of both US F-15 fighters and Russian Bear bombers, on the bridge of a US nuclear submarine, and in the highest councils of Russian and American governments.

  “DEFCON One should be thought-provoking to everyone interested in the global balance of power. Lessons to be learned from DEFCON One just may let us avoid nuclear holocaust for another forty years.”

  —W.E.B. Griffin

  Best-selling author of the Corps and Brotherhood of War series

  “DEFCON One is a humdinger! Joe Weber mixes up the fast-paced action for an exciting read!”

  —Payne Harrison

  New York Times best-selling author

  “His flying scenes especially are superb. It’s a chilling vision. . . The best high-tech military thriller. . .”

  —Franklin Allen Leib

  Best-selling author of Fire Arrow

  “DEFCON One is a skillfully constructed and exciting first novel. Vivid and frighteningly plausible. Crammed with high-tech action and nail-biting suspense. A brilliant novel!”

  —Herbert Crowder

  Best-selling author of Ambush at Osirak

  “Thanks be to the book-writing gods; we have a writer who does what writers are supposed to do—tell a story.”

  —The Wichita Eagle

  Wichita, Kansas

  DEFCON One

  Also by Joe Weber

  Shadow Flight

  Rules of Engagement

  Targets of Opportunity

  Honorable Enemies

  Primary Target

  Dancing with the Dragon

  Assured Response

  DEFCON One

  Joe Weber

  DEFCON One

  Ignition Books

  Published by arrangement with the author.

  Copyright © 1989 by Joe Weber.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical (including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval) without permission in writing from the publisher. For information please contact: [email protected] or by writing Endpapers Press, 4653 Carmel Mountain Road, Suite 308 PMB 212, San Diego, CA 92130-6650.

  eISBN: 978-1-937868-09-3

  Cover design by Cory Clubb.

  Cover Image: Dan Thornberg via Getty Images

  Visit our website at:

  www.endpaperspress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, or events either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, corporations, or other entities, is entirely coincidental.

  Ignition Books are published by Endpapers Press,

  a division of Author Coach, LLC.

  The Ignition Books logo featuring a flaming “O” is a trademark ™ of Author Coach, LLC.

  As the tree is fertilized by its own broken branches and fallen leaves, and grows out of its own decay, so men and nations are bettered and improved by trial, and refined out of broken hopes and blighted expectations.

  —F. W. Robertson

  Acknowledgments

  I am especially indebted to my wife, Jeannie, who has supported my effort with patience and constructive criticism. A special thanks to Bob Kane, of Presidio Press, who gave an unknown author an opportunity to become published. My sincere gratitude goes to Presidio Press Editor Adele Horwitz, who worked tirelessly to assist me in my efforts.

  DEFENCE READINESS CONDITION (DEFCON)

  DEFCON Five—normal peacetime activities.

  DEFCON Four—increase intelligence watch and increase security.

  DEFCON Three—forces on standby, waiting further orders.

  DEFCON Two—forces ready for combat.

  DEFCON One—forces deployed for combat.

  PROLOGUE

  Fouad Baqir al-Sadr watched the Aeroflot Ilyushin-62 accelerate down the runway, then climb gracefully into the gray, overcast sky above Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport.

  The stocky Libyan militiaman glanced quickly around the apartment roof, then raised the weapon to his shoulders. An expert in the use of portable air defense missiles, he braced his feet, steadied himself, and aimed the Russian-built SA-14 missile launcher. He carefully set the element sight on the Soviet transport and immediately heard the high-pitched screech that indicated the weapon was tracking.

  “What a beautiful flying machine,” the Libyan lieutenant said to himself, then took a breath and held it while he waited patiently, watching the transport’s landing gear disappear into the fuselage. Three seconds later, the militiaman gently squeezed the trigger.

  The launcher kicked slightly as the projectile arced away, nosed-over for a split second, then curved skyward toward its unsuspecting prey.

  Baqir al-Sadr lowered the launcher, then watched, fascinated, as the lethal missile pursued the climbing jet. The thin wisp of the weapon’s exhaust trail blended perfectly into the leaden overcast.

  Almost instantly the quiet morning was shattered by a deafening explosion. The lieutenant stared, transfixed, as the huge Aeroflot transport shed an engine, then a wing, and tumbled out of the sky, trailing flaming debris.

  The Ilyushin-62 crashed on the perimeter of the airport in a horrendous fireball, showering nearby traffic in blazing jet fuel.

  Lieutenant Baqir al-Sadr turned away from the inferno, smiled, then dropped the missile launcher down a ventilation shaft.

  The general secretary had made his last trip. The era of glasnost was over.

  Chapter One

  USS DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER, North Atlantic—January

  The Nimitz-class carrier plunged through foaming troughs, sending showers of cold spray over the bow, as dawn began to light the gray sky.

  The constant rolling motion of the mammoth ship sent torrents of icy seawater pouring through open flight deck elevator doors. A river of water flowed the length of the hangar deck, mixing with oil and hydraulic fluid, before returning to the open sea from the aft elevator platforms.

  The aircraft handling crews were having difficulty keeping their footing as they attempted to secure aircraft sent below at the completion of flight operations.

  Lt. Cmdr. Frank Stevens leaned closer to the radar plot in the CIC, the Combat Information Center. The Hawkeye early warning aircraft, nicknamed “Hummer,” had just informed him of unidentified “bogies” approaching the battle group.

  Frowning, Stevens watched the radar blips approaching from the northeast on a direct course to the battle group. He strained harder to focus on the images displayed by the luminescent scope. The tension was stretching his nerves. Unidentified, in this region, meant Russian.

  CIC, the brains of the “Ike” during any hostile action, was a myriad of radar scopes, cathode ray tubes, and see-through luminescent plotting boards. The room was lit by soft red light. A group of enlisted men stood behind a transparent plastic screen, writing backwards with yellow greasepencils, providing constant updates on the status of aircraft and escort ships. The glowing letters and numerals, seeming to appear by magic, changed continually as various commands checked in with fuel and ordnance reports.

  Stevens stared at th
e glowing scope. The radar repeater cast a sallow, green reflection on his taut face as he pressed his microphone transmission button.

  “Stingray, this is Tango Fox,” Stevens radioed the Grumman E-2C Hawkeye.

  “Roger, Tango Fox. Stand by,” replied the officer in command of the Hawkeye’s airborne tactical data system team.

  The “Miniwacs” Hawkeye, always the first fixed-wing aircraft airborne and the last one to land, had been circling the Eisenhower at 24,000 feet for two and a half hours. The big twin-turboprop, with its enormous rotodome, was absolutely critical to the carrier and accompanying battle group.

  The Hawkeye’s radar provided the capability to detect approaching aircraft and cruise missiles, in addition to surface craft, at ranges up to 260 miles, thus making it difficult for aggressors to penetrate the defenses of the fleet.

  Stevens paused, a trickle of perspiration running down the inside of his right arm. “Navigation, CIC. What is our position?” Stevens requested through the intercom system.

  “Sir, our present position is seventy nautical miles due north of Faeroe Island, two hundred ten miles below the Arctic Circle,” replied the navigation watch officer, roused from his paperback by the unexpected request.

  Stevens was debating his options when the Hawkeye commander responded.

  “Tango Fox, Tango Fox, this is Stingray,” the voice exploded from the overhead speakers. “We have confirmation on the bogies. Appears to be two Russian Backfire bombers, bearing zero-two-zero, two hundred forty at angels four-three. They’re descending with a fighter escort of three, possibly four, aircraft. Acknowledge.”

  “Roger, Stingray,” replied Stevens. “We’re launching Ready CAP One at this time, call sign ‘Gunfighter’ on button seven.”

  “Okay, Tango Fox, better have ’em move it out. These guys are closing at the speed of heat!”

  The standby combat air patrol (CAP) pilots, Lt. Cmdr. Doug “Frogman” Karns, Gunfighter One, and Lt. (jg) Steve Hershberger, along with their radar intercept officers (RIOs), reacted swiftly to the urgent blaring of the launch signal in their ready room.

  The aircrew ready rooms, directly below the flight deck, were adjacent to the F-14D Tomcat fighter planes poised for launch on the two forward catapults.

  Lt. Rick Bonicelli, the RIO for Karns, and Lt. Cmdr. Gordon “Gator” Kavanaugh scrambled into the rear cockpits of their respective jets and began the demanding task of spinning-up the navigation and armament panels.

  As the RIOs worked on the complex weapons systems, Karns and Hershberger were strapping in and starting their twin General Electric turbofans. The new generation engines, collectively producing over fifty-eight thousand pounds of thrust, could power the Grumman multi-role fighters past Mach 2 plus—over 1,600 miles per hour.

  Each Tomcat was equipped with six advanced air-to-air missiles, along with a 20-mm M61 Vulcan cannon for hosing-down targets at close range.

  “Launch the CAP! Launch the CAP!” the hollow voice reverberated over the flight deck.

  “Jesus, Bone, why didn’t we go to medical school like normal people?” Karns laughed over the intercom (ICS) to Bonicelli. “Canopy coming down.”

  “Yeah, Froggy, this is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into,” responded Bonicelli with a nervous laugh. “I’ve got a bulletin for you, Frog. Our radar isn’t comin’ up.”

  “Figures. Only works when we don’t need it,” replied Karns in his usual, relaxed manner. “If it goes tits up, Bone, we’ll pass the lead to Hersh and go visual.”

  “Rog.”

  The sophisticated AWG-9 weapons control system in the Tomcat, augmented by the supersensitive radar, could detect and count engine turbine fan blades in approaching aircraft at a range of over a hundred miles.

  “You up, Two?” Karns called over the radio to Hershberger, flying Gunfighter Two.

  “Oh yeah, Frog, we’re go.” Hershberger glanced at the forbidding sky and angry sea. “Beautiful day for flying.”

  The fighter pilots and their RIOs, racing to get airborne, had no idea who or what the adversary might be. Their mission was to “scramble” off the carrier as quickly as possible, then confront the unknown gomers. The anxiety level was high and the aircrews tried to dispel their apprehension with light banter.

  The Ike was straining and groaning in the turbulent ocean to maintain a twenty-seven-knot speed into the wind. The fighters had to take off and land into the wind, as they would from a shore-base runway, and the carrier steamed as fast as possible to assist the aircraft in getting airborne.

  The enormous collisions between ship and thirty-foot ocean swells sent cold spray raining down on the F-14 canopies, obscuring the pilots’ vision in the semidawn and low cloud cover. The flying conditions were abominable.

  The yellow-shirted catapult officer signaled for the deckedge operator to take tension on the F-14 piloted by Karns. At the same time a green light from PRI-FLY, the control tower of the carrier, indicated clearance to launch the two fighters.

  “You ready, Bone?” Karns asked as he advanced the twin throttles to military power, then into afterburner. The aircraft was straining and vibrating under the tremendous thrust of the big GE turbofans.

  “Actually, I was really looking forward to breakfast,” Bonicelli responded with a chuckle.

  “I s’pose you want me to call room service,” laughed Karns as he snapped off a salute to the cat officer, signifying that his Tomcat was developing full power and ready for launch. The catapult blast deflectors, now raised behind the F-14s, were glowing cherry red from the tremendous heat of the powerful engines.

  “Naw, I want—”

  The statement abruptly ended as the cat officer leaned forward and touched the flight deck, sending a signal to the deckedge operator, who pressed the launch button.

  The Tomcat, engulfed in swirling clouds of superheated steam, exploded down the catapult track in a thundering roar.

  Helmets pressed back into head restraints. Breathing was impossible, even with masks supplying 100 percent oxygen. Eyeballs flattened, causing momentary tunnel vision and a graying-out effect. The excruciating G-forces rendered the crew semiconscious during the violent launch.

  The catapult stroke hurled the 70,000-pound fighter plane from zero to 170 miles per hour in two and a half seconds. The sensation was impossible to imagine without experiencing it firsthand.

  “Good shot,” Karns said, snapping the landing gear handle up. His breathing and pulse rates were returning to normal.

  “Are we still alive?” Bonicelli asked, happy to have lived through another launch in abysmal weather conditions.

  The Tomcat continued to accelerate in afterburner as Bonicelli looked back over his left shoulder. He glimpsed Dash Two accelerating down the catapult.

  “I’ve got a visual on Hersh—off the cat, closing,” reported Bonicelli, as Karns cleaned up the Tomcat and swept back the variable-geometry wings.

  “Okay, Gunfighters, let’s go button seven and talk with the saucer,” Karns said into his radio as his wingman smoothly slid into a loose parade formation.

  “Two,” replied Hershberger in the abbreviated style the fighter jocks had developed during the Korean conflict.

  “Stingray, Gunfighter One up, flight of two, six missiles each, state seventeen point two,” Karns said as he advanced the throttles to continue the climb now that his wingman was aboard.

  “Roger, Gunfighter. Initial heading zero-two-two at one hundred ninety-five. Bogies descending out of angels three-eight and indicating four hundred sixty knots.”

  “Okay, Stingray, we’re outa’ twenty-one and a half. Stand by one.

  “You got anything on the radar?” Karns queried Bonicelli, hoping the gremlins had vanished from the intricate black boxes required to see the enemy at long range.

  “Sorry, boss. The tube is down for the count,” Bonicelli replied, thinking about all the imbroglios the flight crews had gone through with avionic technicians.

  “Hersh, you and
Gator have a lock?” Karns urgently asked.

  “That’s affirm, Frog. Want us to take the lead?” replied Hershberger, realizing the flight would rendezvous with the Soviet aircraft in eight minutes.

  “Yeah, Hersh, take the lead and let’s go combat spread,” Karns directed, as he passed control of the intercept to the Tomcat with the functioning radar system.

  “Stingray, we’ve switched the lead to Dash Two. Our radar is bogus,” Karns stated with a trace of irritation in his normally relaxed voice.

  “Understand, Gunfighter.” The Hawkeye coordinator had a tense, controlled voice. “Targets at zero-two-four, one hundred ninety, descending out of angels three-four. We confirm two Backfires and a flight of four fighters.”

  From the repeater television screen in CIC, Lieutenant Commander Stevens had watched the CAP Tomcats roar off the pitching deck, shrouded in clouds of catapult steam.

  Stevens, lifting his phone handset, swiveled in his chair and punched the code to connect him with the commanding officer.

  The CO, Capt. Greg Linnemeyer, was exhausted. He had fallen into a deep sleep after a strenuous night supervising air operations.

  “Captain,” a groggy voice responded.

  “Captain, this is Frank Stevens, the watch officer in CIC. We have a situation developing that I believe you need to be aware of.”

  “Alright, Frank,” replied Linnemeyer in a raspy voice, “what’s the problem?”

  “Well, sir, we launched the CAP. They are intercepting two Russian Backfire bombers and four escort fighters. We haven’t had any conf—”

  “Goddamn,” Linnemeyer interrupted tersely, “go to general quarters, launch Ready Two CAP, and notify the battle group commander. I’ll be in CIC in five minutes.”

  Linnemeyer juggled the phone, almost dropping it, as he transferred the receiver to his left ear, the ear not so damaged by years of jet engine noise. “How far out are the Russian aircraft?”

  “Sir, the bogies are …” Stevens leaned over to see the latest plot, “one hundred eighty at zero-two-two, descending from three-three-zer—”