Red Storm Rising (1986) (92 page)

“Now. Ten degrees rise on the planes and come right twenty degrees rudder.”

“Yes, sir!”

The hull thundered with the news that their fish had found their target. Everyone jumped or cringed—they had their own problems chasing after them.
Chicago’s
maneuver left a massive knuckle in the water that the executive officer punctuated with four noisemakers. The small gas canisters filled the disturbance with bubbles that made excellent sonar targets while
Chicago
sped north. She raced right under a sonobuoy, but the Russians could not put another torpedo down for fear of interfering with those already running.

“Bearing is changing on all contacts, sir,” sonar reported.

McCafferty started to breathe again. “Ahead one-third.”

The helmsman dialed the annunciator handle. The engineers responded at once, and again
Chicago
slowed.

“We’ll try to disappear again. They probably aren’t sure yet who killed who. We’ll use that time to get back down to the bottom and crawl northeast. Well done, people, that was sorta hairy.”

The helmsman looked up. “Skipper, the south side of Chicago ain’t the baddest part of town anymore!”

Sure as hell is the tiredest, though,
the captain thought.
They can’t keep coming at us this way. They have to back off and rethink, don’t they?
He had the chart memorized. Another hundred fifty miles to the icepack.

They’d finally defeated the counterattack.
No,
Alekseyev told himself,
we didn’t defeat it, we drove it off.
The Germans had withdrawn of their own accord after blunting half of the Russian attack. There was more to victory than being in possession of the battlefield.

It only got harder. Beregovoy had been right when he’d said that coordinating a large battle on the move was much harder than doing it from a fixed command post. Just the effort of getting the right map opened inside a cramped command vehicle was a battle against time and space, and eighty kilometers of front made for too many tactical maps. The counterattack had forced the generals to move one of their precious A reserve formations north, just in time to watch the Germans withdraw after savaging the rear areas of three B motor-rifle divisions, and spreading panic throughout the thousands of reservists who were trying to cope with old equipment and barely remembered training.

“Why did they pull back?” Sergetov asked his general.

Alekseyev did not respond. There was a fine question that he had already asked half a dozen times.
There were probably two reasons,
he told himself.
First, they’d lacked the strength to pursue the effort and had had to settle for a spoiling attack to unbalance our operation. Second, the central axis of our attack was on the verge of reaching the Weser, and they might have been called back to deal with this possible crisis.
The Army group intelligence officer approached.

“Comrade General, we have a disturbing report from one of our reconnaissance aircraft.” The officer related the sketchy radio message from a low-flying recce aircraft. NATO’s control of the air had brought particularly grim losses to those all-important units. The pilot of this MiG-21 had seen and reported a massive column of allied armor on the E8 highway south of Osnabrück before disappearing. The General immediately lifted the radiophone to Stendal.

“Why were we not informed of this as soon as you received it?” Alekseyev demanded of his superior.

“It is an unconfirmed report,” CINC-West replied.

“Dammit, we
know
the Americans landed reinforcements at Le Havre!”

“And they can’t be at the front for at least another day. How soon will you have a bridgehead on the Weser?”

“We have units on the river now at Rühle—”

“Then move your bridging units there and
get them across!”

“Comrade, my right flank is still in disarray, and now we have this report of a possible enemy division forming up there!”

“You worry about crossing the Weser and let me worry about this phantom division! That’s an order, Pavel Leonidovich!”

Alekseyev set the phone back in its place.
He has a better overall picture of what’s going on,
Pasha told himself.
After we bridge the Weser, we have no really serious obstacle in front of us for over a hundred kilometers. After the river Weser, we can race into the Ruhr, Germany’s industrial heart. If we destroy that, or even threaten it, then perhaps the Germans will seek their political solution and the war is won. That is what he is telling me.

The General looked at his maps. Soon the lead regiment would try to force men across the river at Rühle. A bridging regiment was already en route. And he had his orders.

“Start moving the OMG troops.”

“But our right flank!” Beregovoy protested.

“Will have to look after itself.”

SACEUR was still worried about his supplies. He’d also been forced to gamble in giving highest transport priority to the armored division now approaching Springe. The container ships loaded with munitions, spare parts, and the millions of other specialty items were just now sending their cargoes to the front. His largest reserve formation, the tank force, was about to team up with two German brigades, and what was left of the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment, once a brigade in all but name, now only two battalions of weary men.

His supply situation was still tenuous. Many of his line units were down to four days of consumable stores, and the resupply effort would take two days, even if things went perfectly: a thin margin that in a pre-war exercise might have seemed equitable enough, but not now, when men and nations were at stake. Yet what choice did he have?

“General, we have a report here of a regiment-sized attack on the Weser. It looks like Ivan’s trying to put troops on the left bank.”

“What do we have there?”

“One battalion of
Landwehr,
and they’re pretty beat up. There are two companies of tanks on the way, ought to be there in a little over an hour. There are preliminary indications that Soviet reinforcements are heading that way. This might be the main axis of their attack, at least it seems that they’re orienting in that direction.”

SACEUR rocked back in his chair, looking up at the map display. He had one reserve regiment within three hours of Rühle. The General was a man who loved to gamble. He was never happier than when sitting at a table with a deck of cards and a few hundred dollars’ worth of chips. He usually won. If he attacked south from Springe and failed . . . the Russians would put two or three divisions across the Weser, and he had precisely one regiment in reserve to stand in their way. If he moved his new tank division there, and by some miracle they got there in time, he would have frittered away his best chance for a counterattack by reacting to a Soviet move again. No, he couldn’t just react anymore. He pointed to Springe.

“How long before they’re ready to move?”

“The whole division—six hours at best. We can divert the units still on the road south to—”

“No.”

“Then we go south from Springe with what’s ready now?”

“No.” SACEUR shook his head and outlined his plan . . .

“I see one,” Garcia called. Edwards and Nichols were beside him in a moment.

“Hello, Ivan,” Nichols said quietly.

Even with binoculars, the distance was still a little over three miles. Edwards saw a tiny figure walking along the crest of the mountaintop. He carried a rifle and appeared to be wearing a soft hat—perhaps a beret—instead of a helmet. The figure stopped and brought his hands up to his face. He had binoculars, too, Edwards saw. He looked north, slightly downward, training his field glasses left to right and back again. Then he turned and looked off in the direction of Keflavik.

Another man appeared, approaching the first. Perhaps they were talking, but it was impossible to tell at this distance. The one with binoculars pointed at something to the south.

“What do you suppose this is all about?” Edwards asked.

“Talking about the weather, girls, sports, food—who knows?” Nichols replied. “Another one!”

The third figure appeared, and the trio of Russian paratroopers stood together doing whatever it was that they were doing. One had to be an officer, Edwards decided. He said something, and the others moved off quickly, dropping out of sight below the crest.
What order did you just give?

Presently a group of men appeared. The light was bad, and they shuffled around too much to get an accurate count, but there had to be at least ten. About half of them were carrying their personal weapons, and these started moving downhill. To the west.

“Right, he’s a smart soldier,” Nichols announced. “He’s sending out a patrol to make certain the area’s secure.”

“What do we do about it?” Edwards asked.

“What do you think,
Lef
tenant?”

“Our orders are to sit tight. So we sit tight and hope they don’t see us.”

“Not likely they will, you know. I shouldn’t think they’d climb down—must be eight hundred feet—then cross that rock yard, then climb up here just to see if any Yanks are about. Remember, the only reason we know they’re there is that we saw their helicopter.”

Otherwise we might have walked right into them, and that would have been that,
Edwards reminded himself.
I won’t
be safe
until I’m back home in Maine.
“Is that more of them?”

“Must be at least a platoon over there. That is rather clever of our friends, isn’t it?”

Edwards got on the radio to report this development to Doghouse while the Marines kept track of the Russians.

“A platoon?”

“That’s Sergeant Nichols’s estimate. Kinda hard to count heads from three miles away, fella.”

“Okay, we’ll pass that one along. Any air activity?”

“Haven’t seen any aircraft at all since yesterday.”

“How about Stykkisholmur?”

“Too far to make anything out. We still can see those four-by-fours sitting in the street, but no armored vehicles. I’d say they had a small garrison force there to keep an eye on the port. The fishing boats aren’t going anywhere.”

 

“Very well. Good report, Beagle. Hang in there.” The major switched off and turned to his neighbor at the communications console. “It’s a shame to keep them in the dark like this, isn’t it?”

The SOE man sipped at his tea. “It would be a greater shame to blow the operation.”

 

Edwards didn’t take the radio apart, but left it leaning against a rock. Vigdis was still asleep on a flat ledge twenty feet below the top. Sleep was about the most attractive thing Edwards could think of at the moment.

“They’re heading in this direction,” Garcia said. He handed the glasses to Edwards. Smith and Nichols were conferring a few yards away.

Mike trained the binoculars on the Russians. He told himself that to have them come right to his position was a very low order of probability.
Keep telling yourself that.
He shifted his glasses to the Russian observation post.

 

“There it is again,” the sergeant told his lieutenant.

“What’s that?”

“I saw a flash from that hilltop, sun reflected off something.”

“A shiny rock,” the lieutenant snorted, not taking the time to look. “Comrade Lieutenant!” The officer turned at the sharp tone to see a rock flying through the air at his face. He caught it, and was too surprised to be angry. “How shiny does that rock look?”

“An old can, then! We’ve found enough trash here from tourists and mountain climbers, haven’t we?”

“Then why does it come and go and come back?”

The lieutenant got visibly angry at last. “Sergeant, I know you have a year’s combat experience in Afghanistan. I know I am a new officer.
But I am a Goddamned officer and you are a Goddamned sergeant!”

The wonders of our classless society,
the sergeant thought, continuing to look at his officer. Few officers could bear his look.

“Very well, Sergeant. You tell them.” The lieutenant pointed at the radio.

“Markhovskiy, before you come back, check out the hilltop to your right.”

“But it’s two hundred meters high!” the squad leader shot back.

“Correct. It shouldn’t take long at all,” the platoon sergeant said comfortingly.

Toland switched viewgraphs in the projector. “Okay, these satellite shots are less than three hours old. Ivan has three mobile radars, here, here, and here. He moves them about daily—meaning that one’s probably been moved already—and usually has two operating around the clock. At Keflavik we have five SA-11 launch vehicles, four birds per vehicle. This SAM is very bad news. You’ve all been briefed on its known capabilities, and you’d better figure on a few hundred hand-held SAMs, too. The photo shows six mobile antiaircraft guns. We don’t see any fixed ones. They’re there, gentlemen, they’re just camouflaged. At least five, perhaps as many as ten MiG-29 fighter interceptors. This used to be a regiment until the guys from
Nimitz
cut them down to size. Remember that the ones who’re left are the ones who survived two squadrons of Tomcats. That is the opposition at Keflavik.”

Toland stepped aside while the wing operations officer went over the mission profile. It sounded impressive to Toland. He hoped it would be so for the Russians.

 

The curtain went up fifty minutes later. The first aircraft launched for the strike were the E-2C Hawkeyes. Accompanied by fighters, they flew to within eighty miles of the Icelandic coast and radiated their own radar coverage all over the formation. More Hawkeyes reached farther out to cover the formation from possible air- and submarine-launched missile attack.