Red Storm Rising (1986) (67 page)

“That looks like shroud release,” the man in Sunnyvale said. The radar picture showed four new objects fluttering away from the third stage. Probably the protective aluminum shroud needed for atmospheric flight, but unnecessary weight for a space vehicle. People began to breathe more regularly. A reentry vehicle needed such a shroud, but a satellite did not. After five tense minutes, this was the first piece of good news. The FOBS didn’t do that.

An Air Force RC-135 aircraft was already lifting off the ground at Tinker Air Force Base, Oklahoma, its engines fire-walled as the flight crew raced the converted 707 airliner to altitude. The roof of what otherwise would be a passenger compartment held a large telescope/camera assembly used to inspect Soviet space vehicles. In the back, technicians activated the sophisticated tracking systems used to lock the camera in on its distant target.

“Burnout,” they announced at Sunnyvale. “The vehicle has achieved orbital velocity. Initial numbers look like an apogee of one hundred fifty-six miles and a perigee of one hundred forty-eight.” They’d have to refine those numbers, but NORAD and Washington needed something right now.

“Your evaluation?” NORAD asked Sunnyvale.

“Everything is consistent with a radar-ocean-reconnaissance-satellite launch. The only change is the orbital insertion path was southerly instead of northerly.” Which made perfectly good sense, as everyone knew. Any kind of rocket launched over the pole entailed dangers that no one wanted to contemplate.

Thirty minutes later they were sure. The crewmen on the RC-135 got good pictures of the new Soviet satellite. Before it had completed its first revolution, it was classified as a RORSAT. The new radar-ocean-surveillance satellite would be a problem for the Navy, but not something to end the world. The people in Sunnyvale and Cheyenne Mountain maintained their vigil.

They followed a footpath around the mountain. Vigdis told them it was a favorite place for tourists to visit. A small glacier on the northern side of the mountain fed a half-dozen streams, which led in turn to a sizable valley full of small farms. They had a fine vantage point. Almost everything in sight was below them, including several roads that were kept under constant scrutiny. Edwards debated the advantages of cutting straight across the valley toward their objective or staying on the rough ground to the east.

“I wonder what kinda radio station that is,” Smith said. There was a tower of some sort eight miles west of them.

Mike looked at Vigdis and got a shrug. She didn’t listen to the radio.

“Not easy to tell from this far,” Edwards observed. “But probably they have some Russians.” He unfolded his big map. This part of the island showed lots of roads, but the information had to be taken with a grain of salt. Only two of the roads had decent surfaces. The rest were called “seasonal” on the map—meaning exactly what? Edwards wondered. Of these, some were well maintained, others were not. The map didn’t say which was which. All of the Soviet troops they’d seen on the ground were driving jeep-type vehicles, not the tracked infantry-carriers they’d observed on the invasion day. A good driver in a four-by-four could go almost anywhere, however. How good were the Soviets at driving jeeps over broken ground . . . so
many
things to worry about, Edwards thought.

Edwards tracked his field glasses over the area to his west. He saw a twin-prop airliner lift off from a small airfield.
You forgot about that, didn’t you? The Russians are using those puddle-jumpers to ferry troops around . . .

“Sarge, what do you think?”
Might as well get a professional decision.

Smith grimaced. The choice was between physical danger and physical exhaustion.
Some choice,
he thought.
That’s supposed to be why we have officers.

“I’d at least have some patrols down there, Lieutenant. Lots of roads, figure some checkpoints so they can-keep an eye on the local folks. Let’s say that radio’s a navigation beacon. It’ll be guarded. Regular radio station’ll be guarded, too. All these farms—what kinda farms, Miss Vigdis?”

“Sheep, some milk cows, potatoes,” she answered.

“So when the Russkies are off duty, there’ll be some wandering around to get some fresh food instead of their canned crap. We would, too. I don’t much like it, Lieutenant.”

Edwards nodded agreement. “Okay, we head east. Just about out of food.”

“There’s always fish.”

Chicago
led the procession. A Royal Navy fleet tug had helped her away from the quay, and the American sub was heading out the channel at six knots. They were taking advantage of a “window” in Soviet satellite coverage. It would be at least six hours before another Russian reconnaissance satellite came overhead. Behind McCafferty came
Boston, Pittsburgh, Providence, Key West,
and
Groton,
at two-mile intervals.

“What’s the sounding?” McCafferty asked over the intercom.

“Five hundred seventy feet.”

Time. McCafferty ordered the lookouts below. The only ships in sight were aft.
Boston
was clearly visible, her black sail and twin diving planes gliding over the water like the angel of death.
That was apt enough,
he thought. The captain of USS
Chicago
made a final check of the control station atop the sail, then dropped down the ladder, pulling the hatch closed behind him. Another twenty-five feet and he was in the attack center, where he closed another hatch, turning the locking wheel as far as it would go.

“Straight board shut,” the executive officer reported, going through the official litany that signified that the submarine was rigged for dive. Submariners evolved check lists long before aviators discovered them. McCafferty checked the status boards himself—and so, furtively, did several others of the attack center crew. Everything was as it should be.

“Dive. Make your depth two hundred feet,” McCafferty ordered.

The submarine filled with the sound of rushing air and water, and the sleek black hull began her descent.

McCafferty reviewed the chart in his head. Seventy-four hours to the icepack, and turn east. Forty-three hours to Svyatana and turn south. Then came the really hard part.

The Battle of Alfeld was turning into a living thing that ate men and tanks like a wolf eats rabbits. Alekseyev chafed at being two hundred kilometers distant from the tank division he now regarded as his own. He could not complain about his relief—which only made things worse. The new commander had staged a successful forced river crossing, putting another two regiments of mechanized infantry on the far bank, and now three ribbon bridges were being built across the Leine-or at least a spirited attempt was under way to build them, despite murderous artillery fire from NATO units.

“We have created a ‘meeting engagement,’ Pasha,” CINC-WEST said, staring down at the map.

Alekseyev nodded agreement. What had begun as a limited attack was fast becoming the focal point of the whole fighting front. Two more Soviet tank divisions were now near the battle area, racing to the Leine. Three NATO brigades were known to be heading the same way, along with artillery. Both sides were pulling tactical fighters from other sectors, one to smash the bridgehead, the other to support it. The terrain at the front didn’t give the SAM crews enough time to discriminate friend from foe. The Russians had many more surface-to-air missiles, and so a free-fire zone had been established at Alfeld. Anything that flew was automatically a target for the Russian missiles, while Soviet aircraft kept clear, working instead to locate and kill NATO artillery and reinforcements. That ran contrary to pre-war doctrine—another gamble, but a favorable one, Alekseyev judged, given his experiences at the front. That was an important lesson not stressed enough in pre-war training: senior commanders had to see what was happening with their own eyes.
How did we ever forget that?
Pasha wondered.

He fingered the bandage on his forehead. Alekseyev was suffering from a murderous headache, and a doctor had used twelve stitches to close the wound. Crude stitches, the doctor had told him—they would leave a scar. His father had had several such scars, all worn with pride. He’d accept the decoration for this one.

“We have the ridge north of the town!” 20th Tanks’ commander called in. “We’ve pushed the Americans off.”

Alekseyev took the phone. “How soon on the bridges?”

“We ought to have one ready in another half hour. Their artillery support is slackening off. They blew one bridging unit to hell, but this one will be completed. I have a battalion of tanks lined up already. The SAMs are doing well. I can see the wreckage of five aircraft from where I’m standing. I see—” The General was interrupted by man-made thunder.

Alekseyev could do nothing but stare at the telephone receiver. His fist tightened in anger around the handset.

“Excuse me. That was close. The final section of bridge is rolling out now. Those engineers have taken terrible losses, Comrade General. They deserve particular attention. The major in command of the unit has been exposed for three hours now. I want the gold star for him.”

“Then he’ll get it.”

“Good, good—the bridge section is off the truck and in the water. If they give us ten minutes to anchor the far end, I’ll get those damned tanks across for you. How long on my reinforcements?”

“The lead elements will arrive just after sunset.”

“Excellent! I must leave now. I’ll be back when we start rolling tanks.”

Alekseyev handed the phone back to a junior officer. It was like listening to a hockey game on the radio!

“The next objective, Pasha?”

“Northwest to Hameln and beyond. We might be able to cut off NATO’s northern army groups. If they start to disengage their forces around Hamburg, we go to a general attack and chase them all the way to the English Channel! I think we have the situation we’ve been hoping for.”

At NATO headquarters, staff officers looked at the same maps and reached the same conclusions with less enthusiasm. Reserves were dangerously low—yet there was no choice. Men and guns converged on Alfeld in ever increasing numbers.

It was the biggest transit of U.S. Navy ships in years. The gray hulls used both sides of each lock system, preventing westbound traffic from moving. They were in a hurry. Helicopters moved the Canal pilots to and from ships; speed restrictions were broken, regardless of the erosion problems at the Gaillard Cut. Those ships needing refueling had it done as soon as they exited the Canal at the Gatun Locks, then formed an antisubmarine barrier outside Limón Bay. The formation’s transit from Pacific to Atlantic lasted twelve hours under ruthless security. Finished, they departed north at a fleet speed of twenty-two knots. They had to go through the Windward Passage at night.

They call it the smell of the sea,
Morris thought,
but really it’s not. It’s the smell of land.
It came from the tidal marshes—all the things that lived and died and rotted at the water’s edge, all the smells that fermented in the marginal wetlands and when released blew out to sea. Sailors considered it a friendly odor because it meant that land, port, home, family were near. Otherwise it was something to be neutralized with Lysol.

As Morris watched, the tug
Papago
shortened her towline for better control in the restricted waters. Three harbor tugs came alongside, their crews throwing messenger lines to the frigate’s sailors. When they were secured,
Papago
cast off and proceeded up the river to refuel.

“Good afternoon, Captain.” The harbor pilot had come out on one of the tugs. He looked to have been bringing ships in and out of Boston for fifty years.

“And to you, Captain,” Morris acknowledged.

“I see you killed three Russian subs?”

“Only one by ourselves. The others are assists.”

“How much water are you drawing forward?”

“Just under twenty-five feet—no,” Morris had to correct himself. The sonar dome was at the bottom of the Atlantic now.

“You did well to bring her back, Captain,” the pilot said, looking forward. “My ’can didn’t survive. Before you were born, I guess.
Callaghan,
seven ninety-two. Assistant gunnery officer, I’d just made j.g. We got twelve Jap planes, but just after midnight the thirteenth kamikaze got through on us. Forty-seven men—well.” The pilot took the walkie-talkie from his pocket and started giving directions to the tugs.
Pharris
began to move sideways toward a pier. A medium-sized drydock was straight ahead, but they were not moving that way.

“Not the drydock?” Morris asked, surprised and angry that his ship was being moved to an ordinary pier.

“Mechanical problems in the dock. They’re not ready for you yet. Tomorrow, day after for sure. I know how you feel, Captain. Like your kid’s hurt and they won’t let her in the hospital. Cheer up, I watched mine sink.”

It made no sense to grumble, Morris knew. The man was right. If
Pharris
hadn’t sunk during the tow, she was safe enough alongside the pier for a day or two. The pilot was an expert. His trained eye measured the wind and the tide, and he gave the proper orders to the tug captains. Within thirty minutes the frigate was secured to the cargo pier. Three TV news crews were waiting for them behind a screen of sailors in shore patrol livery. As soon as the brow was rigged, an officer hurried aboard and came right to the bridge.

“Captain, I’m Lieutenant Commander Anders. I have this for you, sir.” He handed over an official-looking envelope.

Morris tore it open and found a standard Navy dispatch form. The message ordered him in terse Navy prose to Norfolk by the quickest available transport.