Defcon One (1989) Read online

  After a couple of beers, Phil said he had two tickets to the Yankees game the following evening, and asked if Dimitri would care to join him.

  The young Russian emigrant, who had not cultivated many new friends, was ecstatic that his American friend would ask him to a big league baseball game.

  Afterwards, over beers again, Phil told Dimitri he was a salesman (true, Dimitri reflected with irony) and traveled in the northeast sector of the United States.

  Phil genuinely liked the young Russian. That bond had solidified their friendship and Phil suggested a fishing trip the next weekend to his father's private lake and cabin. Again, Dimitri was full of gratitude and anticipation.

  The weather, fishing, and friendly banter had been great that Sunday afternoon. Phil had inquired about Dimitri's background, his immigrant parents, and what he felt in regard to the United States.

  Dimitri had described the horrors his parents, classified as dissenters, had suffered at the hands of the Russian KGB officers.

  He had told, in detail, about the suffering his father had endured in Christopol prison and the relentless interrogations at KGB headquarters in the basement of the Lubyanka.

  He had explained why he hated the Russian political system and widespread corruption. He confessed to Phil, after several beers, that he was embarrassed by his Russian heritage. Dimitri expressed love for America and thankfulness for the opportunities in his new land.

  Phil had listened intently and suggested that Dimitri meet a friend of his who could offer him an unusual opportunity. Dimitri had been taken aback and remained very excited for three days prior to the meeting with Phil's friend.

  The friend, who was in charge of CIA clandestine mole operations, was straightforward with Dimitri. The former Marine lieutenant colonel introduced himself, explained his authority and position, revealed the true identity of Phil, and carefully outlined the opportunity he had for one Leonid Timofeyevich Vochik. The young emigrant would be known henceforth as Dimitri Moiseyevich Karpov, if he accepted the dangerous assignment.

  The chief of CIA clandestine operations explained that Dimitri would go to work for the agency as an undercover operative in the heart of the Kremlin. He had been shown photos of the Russian worker he would change places with. Dimitri had been shocked by the apparent twin brother staring back.

  The similarities had been incredible, a clone to the casual observer.The only differences had been blood type, twenty-three months in age, one-quarter inch in height, and the faint scar on Vochik's lower right jaw.

  The Central Intelligence Agency, Dimitri had been informed, had searched for seventeen months to find a Russian-speaking clone, one who could be trusted, for this crucial assignment.

  The agency was willing to pay quite handsomely for his services.

  The CIA chief reiterated the importance of the operation, explained the Federal Bureau of Investigation background check conducted without Dimitri's knowledge, the salary, benefits, and rewards at the completion of the mission. He also detailed the guarantee of anonymity and relocation to the western United States after his extraction from Moscow in five years.

  The chief agent, along with Phil, who would remain a friend and be in charge of the operation, told Dimitri they needed an answer in twenty-four hours. Period.

  They also indicated that Dimitri would need minor cosmetic surgery to eliminate the scar and to flatten his nose slightly.

  In addition, Phil explained, three months of intensive and exhaustive training, six and a half days a week, would be required.

  Leonid Vochik would become Dimitri Karpov through mimicry and emulation of tapes and recordings of Karpov obtained by highly sophisticated intelligence gathering equipment.

  Dimitri looked at his alarm again. One fifty-six. He crushed the empty pack of cigarettes, reached into his top dresser drawer, felt toward the back, and retrieved another pack. Dimitri flicked open the Proshinsky cigarette lighter, staring at the inscription as the flaming tobacco sent smoke curling around him. He recalled the evening Svetlana had given him the lighter, precisely one month after they had become lovers.

  Inhaling the acrid smoke, Dimitri thought back to his decision to join the CIA operation. The money, lifetime security (providing he lived through his commitment), and the desire to be respected in the United States. If only he could take Svetlana, the only woman he had ever loved, home with him to his country, America.

  The reality of the danger involved, the high-risk factor had not focused for Dimitri until he was in the counterfeit Soviet tractor-trailer leaving Sweden for the Russian border via Finland.

  The truck, in fact, had been stolen from the Russian state trucking line, Sovtrans. The Glavnoye Razvedyvatelnoye Upravlemye (GRU), Soviet military intelligence, had used the vehicle for spying on NATO training exercises and maneuvers off the island of Musko, Sweden's most important naval base.

  Dimitri had been extensively briefed about his insertion into Russia and the Kremlin headquarters. Taking advantage of the Transport International Routier (TIR) agreement that guarantees sealed trucks customs-free transit enroute to final destinations in Eastern bloc countries, the CIA could safely blend Dimitri into Russia near Leningrad.

  Dimitri had posed as a codriver learning a new route. The driver, a CIA operative, had been the leader of the mission and familiar with the route.

  The Soviet tractor-trailer had a new serial number, side numbers, and license all numbers that corresponded to a truck then in operation by the Russians. It would be in their computer.

  From Leningrad, Dimitri and his driver had traveled to Vologda, four hundred kilometers northeast of Moscow, to await the train carrying the real Dimitri Karpov.

  Dimitri Karpov, trusted Kremlin domestic, traveled by train twice a year to see his aging mother. His father died when he was a child and his mother had never remarried. She was in poor health and nearly blind.

  Tatianna Karpov wasn't expected to live long, and, if she did, she would most likely not recognize the difference in her clone son. The replacement son had practiced speaking precisely like the real Dimitri Karpov and had memorized his life history, along with the family tree.

  The trips were predictable and always occurred in early fall and the later part of spring. Karpov traveled from Moscow to the village of Yemetsk, on the shore of the Northern Dvina River, via the city of Vologda. He always stayed in Yemetsk two to three days and returned to Moscow on the evening train.

  Dimitri lighted another cigarette and looked at the clock again. Two seventeen. He inhaled the rich smoke and thought about how easily the switch had been made.

  The agent/driver had waited for a call from an operative in Moscow when Karpov departed for Yemetsk, then boarded the train during the stop in Vologda.

  After the CIA operative left on the train with the unsuspecting Karpov, the former Leonid Vochik had only to wait for a message detailing the train he had to board for Moscow. He never left his hotel room and ate sparingly from his knapsack.

  He had not been told how the former Dimitri Karpov had been dispatched, but assumed the driver had killed him on board the train. The former head of the Kremlin kitchen staff was most probably at the bottom of Lake Kubeno, northwest of Vologda.

  Dimitri recalled the heavy lead weights the CIA agent had concealed in his bulky clothes. The agent had placed the weights inside his large coat, in heavily sewn pockets, prior to leaving the hotel for the train station.

  Dimitri could still envision the agent wrapping the body in rags, and, heavily weighted, tossing it off the long railroad bridge over murky Lake Kubeno. There wasn't any guardrail to contend with. The darkness of late night, and the sound of the train, would conceal the deed. The body had disappeared to the bottom of the lake, where it had decomposed fairly rapidly.

  The CIA operative had given Dimitri a package when he joined him in Vologda. After the train was safely enroute to Moscow, Leonid Vochik, now Dimitri Moiseyevich Karpov, had completed the transformation by changing into the c
lothes of his deceased predecessor and reviewing his credentials. He had also noted a lack of blood stains or signs of violence. The clothes were only rumpled. Dimitri had noted, however, that the shoes were a size too large. The CIA had not thought of everything.

  Dimitri had been terrified when he first approached the Kremlin.

  Remembering previous visits to Red Square and recognizing the local landmarks, Dimitri felt more confident.

  He presented the authentic credentials of Karpov and entered the Kremlin compound. He was, after all, a clone of his predecessor.

  Dimitri knew precisely where to go from months of studying the Kremlin floor plan. There had been some rough spots, but he had adjusted rapidly to his new environment. Dimitri initially felt that his colleagues sensed something different, but they couldn't fathom the subtle change.Routine soon erased fleeting doubts about the head of Kremlin kitchen staff. Everyone assumed Dimitri's slight personality change was the result of worry about the declining health of his mother.

  Swallowing the last ounce of vodka, Dimitri ground out his cigarette, set his alarm for six o'clock, and fell asleep almost immediately. He was exhausted from the strain on his nerves.

  He could not comprehend what was happening to him, or, for that matter, what would happen in the next twenty-four hours.

  His world had gone mad, spinning out of control in a kaleidoscope of confusion and fear.

  Chapter Six.

  AIR FORCE ONE The huge presidential jet, sunlight sparkling from the highly polished silver, white, and blue surface, made a straight-in approach to Lajes do Pico, Azores. The Portuguese island shimmered in the early morning sun.

  The aircraft commander. Colonel Boyd, had kept the speed fast throughout the descent, lowering the landing gear and flaps at the last possible moment, a very unusual procedure. However, a request from the president of the United States had precedence over routine, if the request didn't breach the limits of safe operation.

  The four F-14s escorting Air Force One broke off three miles from touchdown and climbed rapidly to join their tankers enroute to the Eisenhower. The roar of the F-14s' afterburners was deafening to the observers on the ground.

  During the landing roll-out. Grant Wilkinson, with a quick knock, entered the president's private study. The president, adjusting his tie in a full-length mirror, looked out the corner of his eye.

  What is it. Grant? The president's voice had a slight hesitancy in it.

  Sir, NORAD is now tracking three large Soviet bomber groups, each escorted by fifty or sixty fighters. Wilkinson paused, seeing the president yank on his tie.

  Where are they located?

  One group is 111

  What's the status? The president continued, wrestling with his tie.

  One group approximately seventy to eighty bombers-is fifty miles north of Norokapp, Finland. Appears to be comprised of a mixture of Bears and Backfires.

  The other groups? The president growled, finished with the burdensome tie adjustment.

  The other groups are split and appear to be converging north of Komandorskie Island.' The chief of staff sounded tired.

  Where? The president wasn't sure of the location.

  Komandorskie Island, sir. Approximately five hundred miles northwest of Adak, Alaska, Wilkinson replied as he looked at his notes.

  What the hell is Zhilinkhov trying to do? The president was exasperated, irritation showing in his voice.

  I wish I could answer that, sir.

  I know. Sorry, Grant. The president sat down heavily.

  Go on.

  Again, this provocation is well-orchestrated, sir. Wilkinson trailed off, not wanting to expound, unless prompted by his boss.

  How so. Grant?

  The other bombers the Backfires and Blackjacks are operating from forward bases, supported by twenty or more tankers.

  The planning for mass join-ups had to be in-depth and extensive.

  Sir, the Soviets have dispersed seven regiment-size bomber units from Alekseyevka to auxiliary airfields at Primorski Krai, Kamchatka Peninsula, and Sakhalin Island.

  Quiet surrounded the two men as the president slowly rolled a pen around in his hand.

  What's been our response? the president asked in a low voice.

  The Bering Sea join-up is considered the most serious problem at the present time. They aren't far from our bases in the Aleutian Islands and Alaska. Wilkinson sat down on the couch, exhausted.

  The bombers are staging from their Arctic air-base at Mys Schmidta, and joining a group from Petropavlovskkamchatski.

  They are armed with AS-4 Kitchen antiship missiles and cruise missiles.

  NORAD reports the Alaskan Air Command on full alert, sir. We have Air Force and Navy fighter groups joining the Russian formations.

  Excellent. The president visibly stiffened. How long until our boys intercept the bombers?

  About one hour, sir. Wilkinson consulted the scrawled notes in his hands. The Forty-third Tactical Fighter Squadron, based at Elmendorf, has twenty-three F-15s airborne.

  Will that be sufficient? the president asked, noticing Air Force One was rolling to an imperceptible stop in front of the welcoming committee.

  The Forty-third is being reinforced by two West Coast squadrons, along with the interceptors from the Ranger's carrier group. Wilkinson looked down at his notes and continued.

  They have two E-3 AWACS planes coordinating the intercept, sir.

  Okay, Grant. Keep A gentle knock interrupted the two men as an aide announced the arrival of the welcoming delegation.

  Mister President, we are prepared for you to deplane, sir.

  Very well, the president responded, Mister Wilkinson and I will be along shortly.

  Yes, sir, the Navy officer replied, waiting patiently in the hallway.

  The lights blinked momentarily, an indication that Air Force One had shifted to the auxiliary power unit. The massive turbofan engines spooled down, fan blades quietly slowing in the cool morning breeze.

  When I talk to Zhilinkhov, don't hesitate to inform me of status changes as you receive them, the president ordered.

  Yes, sir, Wilkinson said as he rose from the thick leather couch and brushed off his trousers.

  In fact. Grant, the more you interrupt me for quiet up dates, the more worried I suspect Zhilinkhov will become.

  The president looked up, eyebrows arched, dead serious in manner.

  You're probably right, Wilkinson responded as the president reached for the cabin door handle.

  Let's meet our greeting party. I want to have all the hand shaking and ceremonial posturing over with when Zhilinkhov steps on the ground. The president didn't care for officious functions. He referred to the rituals as dog-and-pony shows.

  I intend to blow the air out of his arrival and nail him to the post on the spot. The president paused for another breath as they started down the hallway. Grant, see if you can secure a place close by a hangar will do, or something similar so we can kick this off without all the ostentatious bullshit.

  I'll get right on it, sir, Wilkinson chuckled at the president's unexpected imprecation.

  The two men reached the forward air-stair door simultaneously with Colonel Boyd, who spoke first.

  Mister President, we managed fourteen minutes ahead of the Russian ETA.

  Best we could do, sir.

  The aircraft commander of Air Force One prided himself on being punctual and a perfectionist, along with retaining a sense of humor under demanding conditions.

  Couldn't be better, Don. The president shook his pilot's hand.

  Enjoyed the flight.

  Thank you, sir.

  The lean colonel snapped a salute as the president and his chief of staff, joined by the secretary of state, departed the 747 and descended the air-stairs.

  The president, analyzing the precarious stability of global politics, mindlessly went through the reception line, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with dignitaries, bureaucrats, and other officials of va
rious rank.

  The president requested that everyone accompany him to the position where the general secretary would deplane.

  The contingent, looking confused, followed the American leader to the Soviet reception area, leaving the reviewing podium nearly deserted.

  Walking slowly with Wilkinson and Herb Kohlhammer, the president kept an eye turned upward and listened for the sound of the approaching Soviet transport.

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Tedford W. Corbin, director of the Central Intelligence Agency, sat next to Marine General Hollingsworth, as the secretary of defense outlined the DEFCON-Two status report in the White House Situation Room.

  The vice president of the United States and former Navy lawyer, Susan Luthe Blaylocke, chaired the tense early morning meeting. Firing questions and fielding onslaughts was her forte.

  Blaylocke had replaced the sitting vice president, who had resigned under intense political pressure. A series of controversial social and political gaffes had underscored the lack of confidence party leadership had had in his abilities to assume the presidency.

  When a congressional hearing committee had been convened to investigate questionable financial dealings, the president requested, and received, his resignation.

  Blaylocke had been welcomed in the White House in an unusual display of bipartisan acceptance.

  She had earned the reputation of being a very business-oriented professional. As a Navy officer, Blaylocke had continually been assigned to greater responsibilities and higher visibility as her law career progressed.

  The vice president had been assigned to the Pentagon when she met her husband. Congressman Stephen Blaylocke. The couple had no children but worked tirelessly to assist underprivileged and handicapped children.

  Lieutenant Commander Blaylocke left active duty after her marriage and ran successfully for a congressional seat. Name recognition and further visibility followed, marking the intelligent brunette as a rising star in the political arena.