Red Storm Rising (1986) (79 page)

Edwards found himself struggling with his words again. “Well, after—after what happened to you, I mean, you probably don’t need a bunch of strange men standing around looking at you when you’re, well, naked.”

“Michael, you are not like that one. I know you would never hurt me. Even after what he do to me, you say I am pretty—when I grow fat.”

“Vigdis, baby or no baby, you are the prettiest girl I have ever known. You’re strong, and you’re brave.”
And I think I love you, but I’m afraid to say so.
“We just picked a bad time to meet, that’s all.”

“For me was a very good time, Michael.” She took his hand. She smiled a lot now. She had a gentle, friendly smile.

“As long as you know me, every time you think about me, you’ll remember that—Russian.”

“Yes, Michael, I will remember that. I remember that you save my life. I ask Sergeant Smith. He say you have orders not to come near Russians because it so dangerous for you. He say you come because of me. You do not even know me then, but you come.”

“I did the right thing.” He held both of her hands now. What do I say now?
Darling, if we ever get out of this alive . . . that sounds like a bad movie.
Edwards hadn’t been sixteen in a long time, but now all the awkwardness that had poisoned his adolescence came back to him. Mike hadn’t exactly been the makeout king of Eastpoint High School. “Vigdis, I’m not any good at this. It was different with Sandy. She understood me. I don’t know how to talk to girls—hell, I’m not that good talking to
people.
I do weather maps, and play with computers, but I usually have to have a few beers in me before I get the nerve to say—”

“I know you love me, Michael.” Her eyes sparkled when she revealed the secret.

“Well, yes.”

She handed him the soap. “Your time to wash. I will not look too much.”

Major Sergetov handed over his notes. The Leine had been forced at a second place—Gronau, fifteen kilometers north of Alfeld—and now six divisions were involved in the drive on Hameln and others were attempting to widen the breach. Still they were handicapped. There were relatively few roads in this part of Germany, and those routes they controlled were still suffering from air and artillery attacks that bled reinforcement columns long before they could be committed to battle.

What had begun with three motor-rifle divisions attempting to forge an opening for one tank division had now become the focus of two complete Soviet armies. Where they had attacked into a pair of depleted German brigades, now they faced a hodgepodge of units from nearly all NATO members. Alekseyev anguished over lost chances. What if divisional artillery hadn’t dropped multiple rocket fire on the bridges? Could he have reached the Weser in a day as he had thought?
That is in the past,
Pasha told himself. He looked over the information on fuel availability.

“One month?”

“At current operational tempos, yes,” Sergetov said grimly. “And to do this we have crippled the whole national economy. My father asks if we can reduce expenditures at the front—”

“Certainly,” the General exploded. “We can lose the war! That ought to save his precious fuel!”

“Comrade General, you requested that I provide you with accurate information. I have done this. My father was also able to give me this.” The younger man took a document from his coat pocket. Ten pages thick, it was a KGB intelligence assessment marked POLITBURO EYES ONLY. “It makes very interesting reading. My father asks me to point out the risk he has taken in giving you this document.”

The General was a fast reader and ordinarily not a man given to displays of emotion. The West German government had established direct contact with the Soviets through the embassies both maintained in India. The preliminary discussion had been an inquiry into the possibility of a negotiated settlement. The KGB’s assessment was that the inquiry reflected the fragmentation of NATO politically, and possibly a grave supply situation on the other side of the battle line. There followed two pages of graphs and claims of damage to NATO shipping, plus analysis of NATO’s munitions expenditures to date. The KGB calculated that NATO supplies were down to the two-week mark now, despite all the shipping that had arrived to date. Neither side had produced enough consumable ordnance and fuel to sustain its forces.

“My father feels that this data on the Germans is particularly significant.”

“Potentially so,” Alekseyev said cautiously. “They will not slacken their fighting while their political leadership works to achieve an acceptable settlement, but if we can make them an acceptable offer and remove the Germans from NATO, then our objective is achieved, and we can seize the Persian Gulf at leisure. What offer are we making to the Germans?”

“That has not yet been decided. They have asked for our withdrawal to pre-war lines, with final terms to be negotiated on a more formal basis under international supervision. Their withdrawal from NATO is to be contingent upon the terms of the final treaty.”

“Not acceptable. It gives us nothing. Why are they negotiating at all, I wonder?”

“Evidently there has been considerable turmoil in their government over the dislocation of civilians, and destruction of economic assets.”

“Ah.” The economic damage to Germany was not something in which Alekseyev had the slightest interest, but the German government was watching the work of two generations being dismantled by Soviet explosives. “But why haven’t they told us this?”

“The Politburo feels that news of a possible negotiated settlement would discourage further pressure on the Germans.”

“Idiots. This sort of thing tells us what to attack!”

“That is what my father said. He wants your opinion on all this.”

“Tell the Minister that I see no indication at all of weakening NATO resolve on the battle line. German morale in particular is still high. They resist everywhere.”

“Their government could be doing this without the knowledge of their own army. If they are deceiving their NATO allies, why not their high command also?” Sergetov suggested. After all, it worked that way in his country . . .

“A possibility, Ivan Mikhailovich. There is another one, as well.” Alekseyev turned back to the papers. “That this is all a sham.”

The briefing was conducted by a captain. As he spoke, the escort commanders and their senior officers leafed through the briefing documents like high school students at a Shakespeare play.

“Outlying sonar pickets will be positioned along the threat axis here.” The captain moved his pointer across the viewgraph. The frigates
Reuben James and Battleaxe
were to be almost thirty miles from the rest of the formation. That put them outside SAM coverage from the other ships. They had their own surface-to-air missiles, but they would be completely on their own. “We will have SURTASS support for most of the trip. The ships are repositioning themselves now. We can expect Soviet submarine and air attacks.

“To deal with the air threat, the carriers
Independence
and
America
will be supporting the convoy. The new Aegis cruiser
Bunker Hill,
as you may have noticed, will be traveling in the convoy. Also, the Air Force will be taking out the Russian radar-ocean-reconnaissance satellite on its next pass, about twelve hundred hours zulu tomorrow.”

“All right!” a destroyer captain observed.

“Gentlemen, we are delivering a total load of over two million tons of equipment, plus a complete armored division made up of reserve and National Guard formations. Not counting the materiel reinforcements, this is enough supplies to keep NATO in action for three weeks. This one goes through.

“Any questions? No? Then, good luck.”

The theater emptied, the officers filing past the armed guards onto the sunny street.

“Jerry?” Morris said quietly.

“Yes, Captain?” The pilot donned his aviator’s sunglasses.

“About last night—”

“Captain, last night we both had too much to drink, and to tell you the truth, I don’t remember all that much. Maybe six months from now we can decide what happened. You sleep well?”

“Almost twelve hours. My alarm clock didn’t go off.”

“Maybe you should get a new one.” They walked past the bar both had visited the night before. The captain and the pilot gave it a look, then laughed.

“Once more into the breach, dear friends!” Doug Perrin joined them.

“Just don’t give us any of this laying your ship alongside the enemy crap,” O’Malley suggested. “That ‘away boarders’ shit is dangerous.”

“Your job to keep the bastards away from us, Jerr-O. Up to it?”

“He’d better be,” Morris observed lightly. “I’d hate to think he’s
all
talk!”

“We got a real nice bunch here,” the pilot observed angrily. “Jeez, I fly up all on my own, find a damned submarine,
give
it to Doug here, and do I get any respect?”

“That’s the problem with aviators. You don’t tell them how great they are every five minutes, they go and get depressed on you,” Morris said with a smile. He was a different person from the one who had mumbled through dinner last night. “Anything you need that we might have, Doug?”

“Perhaps we might exchange some foodstuffs?”

“No problem. Send your supply officer over. I’m sure we can negotiate something.” Morris checked his watch. “We don’t sail for another three hours. Let’s have a sandwich and talk over a few things. I got an idea for spoofing those Backfires that I want to try out on you . . .”

 

Three hours later, a pair of Moran harbor tugs eased the frigates away from the pier.
Reuben James
moved slowly, her turbine engines pushing her through the polluted water at a gentle six knots. O’Malley watched from the right seat of his helicopter, on alert for a possible Russian sub near the entrance to the harbor, though four Orion patrol aircraft were vigorously sanitizing the area. Probably the Victor they had killed two days before had been detailed to trail and report on the convoy, first to direct a Backfire raid, then to close and launch her own attack. The trailer was dead, but that did not mean that the sailing was a secret. New York was a city of eight million, and surely one of them was standing at his window with a pair of binoculars, cataloging the ship types and numbers. He or she would make an innocent telephone call, and the data would be in Moscow in a few hours. Other submarines would close on their expected track. As soon as they were outside of shore-based air cover, Soviet search aircraft would come looking, with missile-armed Backfires behind them.

So many ships,
O’Malley thought. They passed a series of Ro/Ros, roll-on/roll-off container ships loaded with tanks, fighting vehicles, and the men of a whole armored division. Others were piled high with containers that could be loaded right onto trucks for dispatch to the front, their contents recorded on computer for rapid delivery to the proper destination. He thought about the news reports, the taped scenes of land combat in Germany. That was what this was all about. The Navy’s mission: keep the sea-lanes open to deliver the tools those men in Germany needed. Get the ships across.

 

“How does she ride?” Calloway asked.

“Not too bad,” Morris answered the reporter. “We have fin stabilizers. She doesn’t roll very much. If you have any problem, our corpsman can probably come up with something. Don’t be bashful about asking.”

“I will try to keep out of your way.”

Morris gave the man from Reuters a friendly nod. He’d arrived with only an hour’s warning, but he seemed to be a pro, or at least experienced enough to have all his gear packed in one bag. He took the last available bunk in officers’ country.

“Your admiral said that you’re one of his best commanders.”

“I guess we’ll find that out,” Morris said.

The first two days went well. The escort force sailed first, blasting with their sonars at the shallow coastal water for possible submarines and finding none. The merchant ships followed, forming slowly into eight columns of ten each. The twenty-knot convoy was in a hurry to deliver its goods. Covered by a massive umbrella of land-based aircraft, it pressed on through the first forty-eight hours with only minor zigzagging as it sailed past the coast of New England and Eastern Canada, Sable Island, and the Grand Banks. The easy part was behind them now. As they left coastal waters for the Atlantic Ocean proper, they entered the unknown territory.

 

“About filing my dispatches . . .” Calloway said to Morris.

“Twice a day you can use my satellite transmitter as long as it doesn’t interfere with official traffic. You understand that your reports will be run through Norfolk for sensitive information?”

“Quite so. Captain, you may believe me when I say that as long as I’m here with you, I will reveal nothing that would endanger your ship! I had quite enough excitement this year in Moscow.”

“What?” Morris turned and lowered his binoculars. Calloway explained what his spring had been like.

“Patrick Flynn, my opposite number from Associated Press, is aboard
Battleaxe.
Doubtless drinking beer,” he concluded.

“So you were there when all this boiled up. Do
you
know why all this started?”

Calloway shook his head. “If I did, Captain, I’d have filed the story long ago.”

A messenger appeared on the bridge wing with a clipboard. Morris took it, read through three messages, and signed for them.

“Something dramatic?” Calloway asked hopefully.

“Fleet weather-update and something about that Russian reconnaissance satellite. It comes overhead in another three hours. The Air Force is going to try and shoot it down before it gets to us, though. Nothing major. You’re comfortable, I presume. Any problems?”