Red Storm Rising (1986) (66 page)

“Jesus!” said the senior officer on the LearJet as he blinked his eyes and turned away from the TV screen. Several hundred pounds of steel and ceramic had just turned to vapor. “That’s a kill, say again that’s a
kill!”

The TV picture was downlinked to Space Command, where a radar picture backed it up. The massive satellite was now an expanding cloud of orbiting rubble. “Target is negated,” said a calmer voice.

The loss of signal from the Kosmos 1801 satellite was recorded scant seconds after it was obliterated from the sky. It was no surprise to the Russian space experts, since 1801 had used up its maneuvering thrusters several days before, and had been an easy target. Another F-1M rocket booster was sitting on a launch pad of the Baikonur Kosmodrome Complex. An abbreviated launch sequence countdown would be under way inside of two hours—but from now on the ability of the Soviet Navy to locate convoys and fighting fleets would be in jeopardy.

“Well?” Buns asked as she jumped down from her fighter.

“Kill. We have it on tape,” another major said. “It worked.”

“How soon do you think they’ll launch a replacement?”
One more kill and I’ll be an ace!

“We think they have one on the pad now. Twelve to twenty-four hours. No telling how many spares they have ready.”

Nakamura nodded. The Air Force had a total of six remaining ASAT rockets. Maybe enough, maybe not—one successful mission did not make it a reliable weapon. She walked over to the squadron headquarters for coffee and donuts.

“Goddammit, Pasha!” CINC-West swore. “I don’t have a four-star deputy so that he can run around playing divisional commander. Look at you! You might have got your head cut off!”

“We needed a breakthrough. The tank commander was killed and his deputy was too young. I have given us the breakthrough.”

“Where is Captain Sergetov?”

“Major Sergetov,” Alekseyev corrected. “He performed well as my aide. His hand got carved up and he’s having it attended to. So. What reinforcements do we have moving to the 8th Guards Army?”

Both generals moved over to a large map. “These two tank divisions are already en route—ten to twelve hours. How firm is your bridgehead?”

“Could be better,” Alekseyev admitted. “There were three bridges there, but some madman started dropping rockets into the town and wrecked two of them. That left one. We managed to get a mechanized battalion across, along with some tanks, before the Germans were able to destroy it. They have plenty of artillery support, and when I left, we had boats and bridging equipment coming in. The man who relieved me will be trying to reinforce as soon as he can arrange a crossing in force.”

“Opposition?”

“Thin, but the terrain is on their side. I’d estimate one regiment or so, the remains of other NATO units. Some tanks, but mainly mechanized infantry. They also have plenty of artillery support. When I left it was a very even match. We have more firepower, but most of it’s trapped on our side of the Leine. It’s a race to see who can reinforce quickest.”

“After you left, NATO threw aircraft in. Our people are trying to hold them back, but NATO seems to be ahead in the air.”

“We can’t wait for night. Those bastards own the night sky.”

“Go now?”

Alekseyev nodded, thinking of what casualties he was bringing down on “his” division. “As soon as we can assemble the boats. Expand the bridgehead to two kilometers, then get the bridges across. What’s NATO bringing in?”

“Radio intercepts have identified two brigades en route. One British and one Belgian.”

“They’ll send more than that. They must know what we can do if we exploit this. We have 1st Guards Tank Army in reserve . . .”

“Commit half of our reserves here?”

“I can’t think of a better place.” Alekseyev gestured at the map. The drive toward Hannover had been stopped within sight of the city. The northern army groups had gotten into the outskirts of Hamburg, at the cost of gutting 3rd Shock Army’s tank formations. “With luck, we can break all of the 1st into the enemy rear. That will get us to the Weser at least—maybe the Rhein.”

“A large gamble, Pasha,” CINC-West breathed. But the odds here were better than anything else on the map. If the NATO forces were stretched as thinly as his intelligence staff said, they had to crumble someplace. Perhaps this was it? “Very well. Start posting the orders.”

“What about their ASW forces?” asked the captain of USS
Pittsburgh.

“Considerable. We estimate that Ivan has two major antisubmarine-warfare groups, one centered on
Kiev,
the other on a Kresta cruiser. There are also four smaller groups, each composed of a Krivak-class frigate and four to six patrol frigates of the Grisha and Mirka type. Add to that a large collection of ASW aircraft and finally twenty or so submarines, half nuclear, half conventional,” answered the briefing officer.

“Why don’t we let them keep the Barents Sea?” muttered Todd Simms of USS
Boston.

There’s an idea,
Dan McCafferty agreed silently.

“Seven days to get there?”
Pittsburgh
asked.

“Yes, that gives us a good deal of freedom on how to enter the area. Captain Little?”

The captain of HMS
Torbay
took the podium. McCafferty wondered if the Brits had any need for NFL-style noseguards in their team sports. Under six feet, but very broad across the shoulders, his head topped by a shock of sandy, unruly hair, James Little certainly looked like one. When he spoke, it was with toughly won assurance.

“We’ve been running a campaign we call Keypunch. The objective of Keypunch is to evaluate what ASW defenses Ivan has operating in the Barents Sea—and also, of course, to lop off the odd Sov who gets in our way.” He smiled.
Torbay
had four kills. “Ivan’s set a barrier from Bear Island to the coast of Norway. The immediate area around Bear Island is a solid minefield. Ivan’s been laying the things since he took the island by parachute assault two weeks ago. South of this area, so far as we can determine, the barrier is composed of some small minefields and Tango-class diesel subs as a front line, backed by the mobile ASW groups and Victor-III-class nuclear submarines. Their aim appears to be not so much prosecute-to-kill as prosecute-to-drive-off. Every time one of our submarines has made an attack on this barrier line, there has been a vigorous response.

“Inside the Barents, things are pretty much the same. These small hunter-killer groups can be bloody dangerous. I personally had an encounter with a Krivak and four Grishas. Inshore, they have helicopters and fixed-wing aircraft in direct support, and it was a most unpleasant experience. We also found several new minefields. The Soviets appear to be sowing them almost at random in water as deep as one hundred fathoms. Finally they seem to have set a number of traps. One of them cost us Trafalgar. They set a small minefield and placed a noisemaker within it that sounds exactly like a Tango snorkeling her diesels. As near as we can make out,
Trafalgar
moved in to collect the Tango and ran right into a mine. Something to keep in mind, gentlemen.” Little paused to let that bit of hard-won intelligence sink in.

“Right. What we intend you chaps to do is head north-northwest toward the edge of the Greenland Icepack, then east along the edge of the pack to the Svyatana Anna Trough. Five days from today three of our submarines will raise pure bloody hell on the barrier, supported by our own ASW aircraft and some fighters if that can be arranged. That ought to get Ivan’s attention and draw his mobile forces west. You should then be able to proceed south to your objective. It’s a roundabout route, of course, but it enables you to use your towed sonars for the maximum period of time, and you should be able to run at relatively high speed at the edge of the icepack without being detected.”

McCafferty thought that one over. The edge of the icepack was a noisy place, with billions of tons of ice in constant movement.

“The route has been scouted, by HMS
Sceptre
and
Superb.
They encountered minor patrolling only. Two Tangos were found in that area. Our chaps had orders not to engage.” That told the Americans how important this mission was. “They will be waiting for you, so do be careful about engaging something in your path.”

“How do we get out?” Todd Simms wondered.

“As quickly as you can. By that time we should have at least one more submarine to assist you. They’ll stay roughly twelve hours ahead of your estimate speed of advance, eliminating any opposition they find. Once you reach the icepack, you’re on your own. Our chaps will be there only as long as it takes to reach the pack. After that they have other duties to perform. We expect that Ivan’s ASW groups will come after you—no surprise there, is it? We’ll try to maintain pressure south of Bear Island to tie down as many as we can, but speed will be your best defense in this case.”

The skipper of USS
Boston
nodded. He could run faster than the Russians could hunt.

“Further questions?” asked Commander, Submarines, Eastern Atlantic. “Good luck, then. We’ll give you all the support we can.”

McCafferty leafed through his briefing papers to check for the firing orders, then tucked the ops orders into his back pocket. Operation Doolittle. He and Simms left together. Their submarines were at the same quay. It was a short, quiet drive. They arrived to see Tomahawk missiles being loaded, in
Chicago
’s case into the twelve vertical tubes installed forward of the pressure hull in the submarine’s bow.
Boston
was an older boat and had had to offload some of her torpedoes to make room for them. No submarine captain is ever happy offloading torpedoes.

“Don’t worry, I’ll back you up,” McCafferty said.

“You do that. Looks like they’re almost finished. Be nice to have one more beer, wouldn’t it?” Simms chuckled.

“See you when we get back.” Simms and McCafferty shook hands. A minute later both were below, seeing to the final arrangements for going back to sea.

The Sikorsky Sea King helicopter was a tight fit on the frigate’s helo deck, but for casualties the rules were always bent. The ten worst cases, all scald/burns and broken limbs, were loaded aboard after the helo was refueled, and Morris watched it lift off for the beach. The captain of what was left of USS
Pharris
put his cap back on and lit another cigarette. He still didn’t know what had gone wrong with that Victor-class. Somehow the Russian skipper had teleported himself from one place to another.

“We killed three o’ the bastards, sir.” Chief Clarke appeared at Morris’s side. “Maybe this one just got lucky.”

“Reading minds, Chief?”

“Beg pardon, sir. You wanted me to report on some things. The pumps have just about dried things out. I’d say we’re leaking ten gallons an hour at the crack on the lower starboard corner, hardly worth talking about. The bulkhead’s holding, and we got people keeping an eye on it. Same story with the tow cable. Those tugboat guys know their stuff. The engineer reports both boilers are fully repaired, number two still on line. The Prairie Masker is operating. The Sea Sparrow is working again in case we need that, but the radars’re still down.”

Morris nodded. “Thank you, Chief. How are the men?”

“Busy. Kinda quiet. Mad.”

That’s one advantage they have over me,
Morris thought.
They’re busy.

“If you’ll pardon me saying so, skipper, you look awful tired,” Clarke said. The bosun was worried about his captain, but had already said more than he was supposed to.

“We’ll all get a good rest soon enough.”

“We show one bird lifting off,” the watch officer told North American Aerospace Defense Command. “Coming out of Baikonur Kosmodrome on a heading of one-five-five, indicating a probable orbital inclination of sixty-five degrees. Signature characteristics say it’s either an SS-11 ICBM or an F-1-type space booster.”

“Only one?”

“Correct, one bird only.”

A lot of U.S. Air Force officers had suddenly become very tense. The missile was on a heading that would take it directly over the central United States in forty to fifty minutes. The rocket in question could be many things. The Russian SS-9 missile, like many American counterparts, was obsolete and had been adapted as a satellite booster rocket. Unlike its American counterparts, it had been originally designed as a fractional-orbital-bombardment system: FOBS,
a missile that could put a 25-megaton nuclear warhead into a flight path mimicking that of a harmless satellite.

“Booster-engine cutoff—okay, we show separation and second-stage ignition,” the colonel said on the phone.
The Russians would freak if they knew how good our cameras are,
he thought. “Flight path continues as before.”

Already NORAD had flashed a warning to Washington. If this was a nuclear strike, National Command Authority was ready to react. So many current scenarios began with a large warhead exploded at orbital height over the target country, causing massive electromagnetic damage to communications systems. The SS-9 FOBS system was tailor-made for that sort of thing.

“Second-stage cutoff . . . and there’s third-stage ignition. Do you copy our position fix, NORAD?”

“That’s a roger,” acknowledged the general under Cheyenne Mountain. The signal from the early-warning satellite was linked into NORAD headquarters, and a watch crew of thirty was holding its breath, watching the image of the space booster move across the map projection.
Dear God, don’t let it be a nuke
. . .

Ground-based radar in Australia now tracked the vehicle, showing the climbing third stage and the spent second stage falling into the Indian Ocean. Their information also was linked by satellite to Sunnyvale and Cheyenne Mountain.