Red Storm Rising (1986) (98 page)

“Yes, it was.”

There was much to do, and time was short.

Lieutenant Potter and his team of Force Recon commandos found eight Russian troops in the town. They were trying to escape down the only road south when they ran into an ambush which killed or wounded five of their number. Those were the last who could have warned Keflavik of the ships on the horizon.

The first regular troops came by helicopter. Platoon- or company-sized units were placed on every hilltop overlooking the bay. Particular care was taken to keep the aircraft below the radar horizon from Keflavik, where a single Russian transmitter remained in operation despite all efforts to the contrary. A CH-53 Super Stallion helicopter airlifted the components of a mobile radar transmitter to a hill on the island’s northwest coast, and a team of Army technicians went to work at once to get it operational. By the time the ships entered the rock-filled nightmare called Stykkisholmur harbor, five thousand troops were already in position over the handful of roads leading into the town.

The captain of one big LST—Landing Ship, Tank—had tried to count the rocks and shoals on the trip up from Norfolk. He’d stopped on reaching five hundred and concentrated on memorizing his particular area of responsibility, known as Green-Two-Charlie. The daylight and low tide helped. Many of the rocks were exposed by low water, and helicopter crews relieved of their immediate duties of landing troops dropped radar-reflectors and lighted beacons on most of them, which improved matters greatly. The remaining task was marginally safer than crossing a highway blindfolded. The LSTs went first, winding through the rocks at the recklessly high speed of ten knots, relying on their auxiliary bow thrusters to assist rudder movements to steer the ships through the lethal maze.

Again, Lieutenant Potter’s team of commandos helped matters. They went from house to house, locating the captains and mates of local fishing boats. The skilled seamen were flown to the lead ships to help pilot the big gray amphibs through the tightest of the passages. By noon the first LST had her ramp on land, and the first Marine tanks rolled onto the island. Right behind them were trucks loaded with steel, pierced-plank runway material, which was dispatched east to a flat piece of ground preselected as a base for Marine helicopters and Harrier jump-jet fighters.

Once the fleet helicopters had completed their task of marking the rocks and shoals, they returned to moving troops. The troop carriers were escorted by SeaCobra gunships and Harriers as they extended the Marine perimeter to the hills overlooking the Hvita River. There contact was made with outlying Russian observation posts and the first real fighting began.

“So much for our intelligence reports,” General Andreyev muttered. From his headquarters he could see the massive shapes steaming slowly into view. They were the battleships
Iowa
and
New Jersey,
accompanied by missile cruisers for air defense.

“We can engage them now,” the artillery chief said.

“Then do so.”
While you can.
He turned to his communications officer. “Has word gotten out to Severomorsk?”

“Yes, Northern Fleet will sortie its aircraft today and submarines are being sent as well.”

“Tell them their primary targets are the American amphibious ships at Stykkisholmur.”

“But we are not sure they are there. The harbor is too dangerous for—”

“Where the hell else would they be?” Andreyev demanded. “Our observation posts there do not answer us, and we have reports of enemy helicopters moving south and east from that direction. Think, man!”

“Comrade General, the Navy’s primary objective will be the enemy carrier force.”

“Then explain to our comrades in blue that carrier aircraft cannot take Iceland away from us, but their fucking Marines
can!”

Andreyev saw smoke rise from one of his heavy gun batteries. The sound followed a few seconds later. The first Russian salvo landed several thousand yards short.

 

“Fire mission!”

Iowa
had not fired her guns in anger since Korea, but now the massive sixteen-inch rifles turned slowly to starboard. In the central gunnery control station, a technician worked the joystick controls for a Mastiff remotely piloted vehicle. The miniature airplane purchased a few years earlier from Israel circled eight thousand feet above the Russian gun battery, its television camera shifting from one emplacement to another.

“I count six guns, look like one-fifty-five or so. Call ’ em sixinch.

The precise location of the Russian battery was plotted. Next the computer analyzed data on air density, barometric pressure, relative humidity, wind direction and speed, and a dozen other factors. The gunnery officer watched his status board for the solution light to come up.

“Commence firing.”

The center gun of the number two turret loosed a single round. A millimeter-band radar atop the after director-tower tracked the shell, comparing its flight path with the one predicted by the fire-control computer. Not surprisingly, there were some errors in predicted wind velocity. The radar’s own computer forwarded the new empirical readings to the master system, and the remaining eight main-battery guns altered position slightly. They fired even before the first round landed.

 

“Mother of God!” Andreyev whispered. The orange flash obscured the ship momentarily. Someone to his left shouted, perhaps thinking that one of the Russian artillery rounds had struck home. Andreyev had no such illusions. His artillerymen were out of practice and had not yet bracketed their target. He turned his field glasses to his gun battery, four kilometers away.

The first round landed fifteen hundred meters southeast of the nearest gun. The next eight landed two hundred meters behind them.

 

“Drop two hundred and fire for effect!”

Already the guns were going through their thirty-second reload cycle. Inert gas ejected scraps of the silk propellant-bags out the muzzles to clear the bores, then the breeches opened and loading ramps unfolded into place. The bores were checked for dangerous residue, then elevators from the handling rooms rose to the back edge of the ramps and the shells were rammed into the waiting gun barrels. The heavy power bags were dropped onto the ramps and rammed behind the shells. The ramp came up, the breeches closed hydraulically, and the guns elevated. The turret crews moved out of the loading compartments and held their hands over their muff-style ear-protectors. In fire-control fingers depressed the keys and the breeches surged backwards once more. The cycle began again, the teenage seamen performing the same tasks that their grandfathers had done forty years before.

 

Andreyev stepped outside to watch in ghastly fascination. He could hear the sound of ripping linen that announced the passage of the monstrous projectiles, and turned to look at the battery. Trucks were pulling up to the guns as the crews fired off their last rounds and began frantic preparations for relocating their guns. The battery had six 152mm pieces and many trucks for the crews and ammunition. A curtain of dirt and rock appeared, followed by three secondary explosions, then four more salvos as New Jersey joined her older sister in the bombardment.

“What’s that?” A lieutenant pointed to a dot in the sky.

The artillery commander tore his eyes away from what had been a third of his heavy guns and identified the remotely piloted vehicle. “I can have it shot down.”

“No!” Andreyev shouted. “You want to tell them where our last SAM launchers are?” The General had faced mortar and rocket fire in Afghanistan. This was his first experience on the receiving end of heavy guns.

“My other batteries are all camouflaged.”

“I want at least three new alternate positions prepared for every gun you have, fully camouflaged, all of them.” The General went back inside the building. He felt confident that the Americans would not shell the city of Keflavik, at least not soon. The map room contained wall-sized charts of the western Icelandic coast. Already his intelligence staff was placing flags to denote the position of suspected American units.

“What do we have on the Hvita?” he asked his operations chief.

“One battalion. Ten BMD infantry carriers; the rest of the transport is trucks and commandeered vehicles. They have mortars, antitank missiles, and hand-held SAMs. They are deployed to cover the highway bridge above Bogarnes.”

“The Americans are already looking down at them from this hill. What sort of aircraft have we seen?”

“The Americans have several carriers within striking distance of us. Twenty-four fighters and thirty-four attack aircraft per carrier. If they also landed a full division of Marines, we are facing a significant number of helicopters, plus fixed-wing Harriers. These can operate off their amphibious aviation ships or from land bases set up for the purpose—with the right materials it can be done in four to six hours. A Marine division is about double our strength in men, one heavy battalion of tanks, stronger in artillery, but not so many mortars. It’s their mobility that worries me. They can dance all around us, using helicopters and landing craft to place troops anywhere they choose—”

“Just as we did when we landed. Yes,” the General agreed soberly. “How good are they?”

“The American Marines regard themselves as elite troops, just as we do. Some of their senior officers and NCOs doubtless have combat experience, but few company officers and squad sergeants will have seen any real action.”

“How bad is it?” A new man came into the room. It was the KGB station chief.

“You
chekista
bastard! You told me the Marine division was going to Europe! They’re killing my men while we speak.” The distant thunder of heavy guns punctuated Andreyev’s words. The battleships were shifting fire to a supply dump. Fortunately not much was left there.

“Comrade General, I—”

“Get out of here! I have work to do.” Andreyev was already wondering if his mission might be hopeless, but he was a general of paratroops and not accustomed to failure. He had ten attack helicopters, all dispersed and hidden after the attack on the Keflavik airfield. “What’s our chance of getting someone in to look at this harbor?”

“We are under continuous surveillance from the American radar aircraft. Our helicopter would have to fly over enemy positions to get there. The Americans have their own armed helicopters and jet fighters—it’s a suicide mission, and it would take a miracle for our man to get close enough to see anything, much less live long enough to tell us something useful.”

“Then see if you can get us a reconnaissance aircraft from the mainland or satellite support. I must know what we’re pitted against. If we can smash their invasion beach, we stand a good chance of defeating the troops they have on the ground, and to hell with their naval aircraft!”

 

It was complicated to do, but a Flash information request from the Commander Northern Fleet cut through most of the bureaucracy. One of the two real-time-capable Soviet reconnaissance satellites burned a quarter of its maneuvering fuel to alter its orbit and came low over Iceland two hours later. Minutes later, the last Soviet RORSAT was launched south from the Baikonor Kosmodrome, and its first revolution took it within radar range of Iceland. Four hours after Andreyev’s message, the Russians had a clear picture of what was arrayed at Iceland.

“Are they ready?” SACEUR asked.

“Another twelve hours would be better, but they’re ready.” The operations officer checked his watch. “They go off on the hour. Ten minutes.” The hours spent getting the new division in place had been used profitably. Several additional brigades had been assembled into a pair of new polyglot divisions. The front had been almost entirely stripped of reserves to do it, while a hastily thought-out cover and deception plan had radio units all over the front, broadcasting radio messages to simulate the presence of the relocated formations. NATO had deliberately limited its own “maskirovka” until now, allowing SACEUR to bet all of Western Europe on a pair of fives.

It was a stimulating exercise. Alekseyev had to move his A exploitation forces forward while a battered B motor-rifle division bled to force a crossing of the Weser. All the while the General waited nervously for news from his shaky right flank. There was none. CINC-West was as good as his word, and launched a covering attack against Hamburg to draw off NATO forces from the latest Soviet breakthrough.

That was no easy maneuver. Antiaircraft missile and gun units had been drawn from other sectors. When NATO appreciated what was in the offing, they would break every effort to prevent a Soviet advance on the Ruhr. Resistance so far had been light. Perhaps they didn’t understand what was happening, or perhaps, Alekseyev thought, they really were at the end of their personnel and logistical string.

The first A unit was 120th Motor-Rifle, the famous Rogachev Guards, whose leading elements were just now crossing at Rühle, and right behind was 8th Guards Tank. Two more tank divisions were bunched on the roads to Rühle, while an engineer regiment labored to erect seven bridges. Intelligence estimated two, perhaps three, NATO regiments coming to meet them.
Not enough,
Alekseyev thought.
Not this time.
Even their air power was depleted. His frontal aviation groups reported minor opposition only around Rühle.
Perhaps my superior was right after all.

“Heavy enemy air activity at Salzhemmendorf,” an Air Force communications officer reported.

That’s where 40th Tanks is,
Alekseyev thought. The B unit had been badly chewed up by the German spoiling attack—