Red Storm Rising

  “You’ll be reporting no bloody news from inside Lefortovo Prison, my friend,” Calloway observed. “Isn’t one Pulitzer Prize enough?”

  Flynn laughed. “I thought nobody but me remembered. What do you know that I don’t, Willie?”

  “I know I wouldn’t be leaving without a damned good reason. And if it’s good enough for me to leave, Patrick, it’s bloody good enough for you.” He’d been told only the night before that a peaceful resolution of this crisis was now less than a 50-percent probability. For the hundredth time, the Reuters correspondent blessed his decision to cooperate with the SIS.

  “Here we go.” Flynn took out his notepad.

  The Foreign Minister entered from the usual door and moved to the lectern. He looked uncharacteristically frazzled, his suit rumpled, his shirt collar dingy, as though he’d been up all the previous night laboring to resolve the German crisis through diplomatic means. When he looked up, his eyes squinted through his reading glasses.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, a year that has gone so well for East-West relations has turned to ashes in the mouths of us all. The United States, the Soviet Union, and the other nations that accepted our invitation to Vienna are within weeks of a comprehensive agreement on the control of strategic nuclear arms. America and the Soviet Union have agreed upon and implemented a grain sales agreement with unprecedented speed and cooperation, and even as we speak, deliveries are being made in Odessa on the Black Sea. Western tourism within the Soviet Union is at an all-time high, and this is perhaps the truest reflection of the spirit of detente—now our peoples are finally beginning to trust one another. All this effort, the efforts of East and West to bring about a just and lasting peace, have been brought to ruin by a handful of revanchist men who have not taken the lessons of the Second World War to heart.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the Soviet Union has received irrefutable evidence that the government of the Federal Republic of Germany exploded its bomb in the Kremlin as part of a plot to bring about the reunification of Germany by force. We have in our possession classified German documents which prove that the West German government planned to bring down the Soviet government and use the resulting period of internal confusion to achieve their aim of remaking Germany into the principal continental power in Europe yet again. All Europeans know what that would mean to world peace.

  “In this century, Germany has invaded my country twice. Over forty million Soviet citizens died repelling those two invasions, and we do not forget the deaths of so many millions of our fellow Europeans who were also the victims of German nationalism—Polish, Belgian, Dutch, French, English, and American men and women labored as our allies to safeguard the peace of Europe. After the Second World War, we all thought that this problem was completely at an end. Such was the reasoning behind the treaties which divided Germany and Europe into spheres of influence—remember that these spheres were ratified further by the Helsinki Accords in 1975—whose balance would serve to make a European war impossible.

  “We know that the rearming of Germany by the West, supposedly a defensive measure against the imagined threat from the East—despite the fact that the Warsaw Pact was not even formed until well after the NATO alliance was formed—was the first step in the West’s own plan to unify Germany as a pawn to counterbalance the Soviet Union. That this was a foolish and unnecessary policy is now manifestly clear. I ask you if there is anyone in Europe who truly wants a unified Germany. The NATO countries themselves stopped agitating for this years ago. Except, of course, for some Germans who remember the days of German power in rather a different light from those of us who were its victims.

  “The Federal Republic of Germany has evidently turned the tables on her Western allies, and plans to use the NATO alliance as a shield behind which to launch her own offensive operations, the objective of which can only upset the power balance that has safeguarded the peace in Europe for two generations. Although we can fault the West for creating this situation, the government of the Soviet Union does not—I repeat, does not—hold America or her NATO allies responsible for this. My country, too, has learned the bitter lesson that allies can turn on their supposed friends, much as a dog can turn on his master.

  “The Soviet Union has no wish to cast away the dramatic progress made this year in foreign relations with the West.” The Foreign Minister paused before going on. “But the Soviet Union cannot ignore, cannot set aside the fact, that a deliberate act of aggression has been made against the Soviet Union, on Soviet soil.

  “The government of the Soviet Union will today deliver a note to the Bonn government. As a price of our forbearance, as a price of keeping the peace, we demand that the Bonn government immediately demobilize its army to a level consistent with maintenance of the civil peace. We further call upon the Bonn government to admit its aggressive action, to dissolve and call for new elections, so that the German people themselves may judge how well they have been served. Finally, we demand and expect that full reparations be paid to the government of the Soviet Union, and to the families of those so callously murdered by the revanchist German nationalists who hide in their city on the west bank of the Rhein. Failure to meet with these demands will have the gravest possible consequences.

  “As I have already said, we have no reason whatever to believe that any other Western nation had the slightest complicity in this act of international terrorism. This crisis is, therefore, a matter between the government of the Soviet Union and the government in Bonn. It is our hope that this crisis can be resolved through diplomatic means. We call on the Bonn government to consider the consequences of its actions with the greatest care and to act to preserve the peace.

  “That is all I have to say.” The Foreign Minister gathered his papers and left. The gathered reporters did not even attempt to shout questions at the receding form.

  Flynn tucked his notepad back into his pocket, and screwed his pen closed. The AP correspondent had stayed behind at Phnom Penh to see the arrival of the Khmer Rouge, almost at the cost of his life. He’d covered wars, revolutions, riots, and been wounded twice as a result of his devotion to his business. But covering wars was a young man’s game.

  “When are you planning to leave?”

  “Wednesday at the latest. I already have two tickets reserved, SAS to Stockholm,” Calloway answered.

  “I’m going to cable New York to shut down the Moscow office tomorrow. I’ll stick around until you leave, but, Willie, it’s time to go. If I cover any more of this story, it’ll be from a safer place.”

  “How many wars have you covered, Patrick?”

  “Korea was my first. Haven’t missed many since then. Damned near bled to death at a place called Con Thien. Caught two mortar fragments in the Sinai in ’73.”

  USS PHARRIS

  DEFCON-2. RULES OF ENGAGEMENT OPTION BRAVO NOW IN EFFECT. THIS MESSAGE IS TO BE UNDERSTOOD AS A WAR-WARNING, Morris read in the privacy of his stateroom. HOSTILITIES BETWEEN NATO AND THE WARSAW PACT ARE NOW TO BE CONSIDERED AS LIKELY BUT NOT CERTAIN. TAKE ALL MEASURES CONSISTENT WITH THE SAFETY OF YOUR COMMAND. HOSTILITIES COULD INITIATE WITHOUT RPT WITHOUT WARNING.

  Ed Morris lifted his phone. “Call the XO to my stateroom.”

  He was there in under a minute.

  “I hear you got a hot message, skipper.”

  “DEFCON-2, ROE Option Bravo.” He handed over the terse message form. “We start maintaining round-the-clock Condition-Three steaming at once. The ASROC and torpedo tube directors are to be manned at all times.”

  “What do we tell the men?”

  “I want to go over this with the wardroom first. Then I’ll speak to the crew. We haven’t got specific operations orders yet. I figure we head either to Norfolk or New York for convoy duty.”

  USS NIMITZ

  “Okay, Toland, let’s hear it.” Baker sat back in his chair.

  “Admiral, NATO has increased its alert level. The President has authorized DEFCON-2. The Naval Defense Reserve Fleet is being mobilized. Reforger wi
ll begin at 0100 Zulu. The commercial jets are already being taken into military service. The Brits have enacted Queen’s Order Two. A lot of airports in Germany are going to be busy as hell.”

  “How long to complete Reforger?”

  “Eight to twelve days, sir.”

  “We may not have that long.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me about their satellite reconnaissance,” Baker ordered.

  “Admiral, they currently have one radar ocean reconnaissance satellite up—Kosmos 1801. It’s paired with Kosmos 1813, an electronic intelligence bird. 1801 is the nuclear-powered radar bird, and we think it may have a photographic capability to back up the radar system.”

  “I never heard that before.”

  “NSA detected indications of a video signal several months ago, but that information was never released to the Navy because it was unconfirmed.” Toland didn’t say that it had been decided at the time the Navy didn’t need-to-know this. They needed to know now, Toland judged. I’m here now. “I’d expect that Ivan has another of his radar satellites ready for immediate launch, probably a few more in the barn. They’ve been launching an unusual number of their low-altitude communications birds, plus a lot of electronic intelligence satellites—ordinarily they have six or seven of them up, but now the total is ten. That gives them awfully good ELINT coverage. If we make electronic noise, they’ll hear it.”

  “And not a Goddamned thing we can do about them.”

  “Not for a while, sir,”.Toland agreed. “The Air Force has its antisatellite missiles, six or seven as I recall, but they’ve only been tested once against a real satellite, and there’s been a moratorium on the ASAT tests since last year. The Air Force can probably dust them off and try to reactivate the program, but that’ll take a few weeks. Their first priority is the radar satellites,” Toland concluded hopefully.

  “Okay, our orders are to rendezvous with Saratoga at the Azores and escort our Marine Amphibious Unit to Iceland. I suppose the Russians will watch us all the way up! Hopefully by the time we get there, the Icelandic government will allow us to land them. I just learned that their government can’t decide if this crisis is real or not. God, I wonder if NATO will hold together?”

  “Supposedly we have proof that it’s all a put-up job, but we don’t need to know what that evidence is. The problem is that a lot of countries are buying this charade, at least publicly.”

  “Yeah, I love that. I want you to refine your estimate of the threat from Soviet subs and aircraft on a continuous basis. I want information about the smallest change in what they have at sea the moment you get it.”

  15

  The Bastion Gambit

  USS CHICAGO

  “What’s the sounding?” McCafferty asked quietly.

  “Fifty feet under the keel,” the navigator answered at once. “We’re still well outside Russian territorial waters, but we start approaching real shoals in twenty miles, skipper.” It was the eighth time in half an hour that he had commented on what lay ahead.

  McCafferty nodded, not wanting to speak, not wanting to make any unnecessary sound at all. The tension hung in the attack center of the Chicago like the cigarette smoke that the ventilators would not entirely remove. Looking around, he caught his crewmen furtively disclosing their states of mind with a raised eyebrow or a slightly shaken head.

  The navigator was the most nervous of all. There were all sorts of good reasons not to be here. Chicago might or might not have been in Soviet territorial water, itself a legal question of no small complexity. To the northeast was Cape Kanin; to the northwest, Cape Svyatoy. The Soviets claimed the entire region as a “historic bay,” while the United States chose to recognize the international twenty-four-mile closure rule. Everyone aboard knew that the Russians were more likely to shoot today than request a decision under the International Law of the Sea Convention. Would the Russians find them?

  They were in a bare thirty fathoms of water—and, like the great pelagic sharks, nuclear attack submarines are creatures of the deep, not the shallows. The tactical plot showed bearings to three Soviet patrol craft, two Grisha-class frigates and a Poti-class corvette, all specialized antisubmarine ships. All were miles away, but they were still a very real threat.

  The only good news was a storm overhead. The twenty-knot surface wind and sheets of falling rain made noise that interfered with sonar performance—but that included their own sonar, and sonar was their only safe means for getting information.

  Then there were the imponderables. What sensing devices did the Soviets have in these waters? Might the water be clear enough that a circling helicopter or ASW aircraft could see them? Might there be a Tango-class diesel boat out there, moving slowly on her quiet, battery-powered electric motors? The only way they’d learn the answer to any of those questions was the metallic whine of a torpedo’s high-speed propellers or the simple explosion of a falling depth-bomb. McCafferty considered all these things, and weighed the dangers against the priority of his Flash directive from COMSUBLANT:

  Determine at once the operating areas of REDFLT SSBNs.

  That sort of language gave him little leeway.

  “How tight is the inertial fix?” McCafferty asked as casually as he could.

  “Plus or minus two hundred yards.” The navigator didn’t even look up.

  The captain grunted, knowing what the navigator was thinking. They should have gotten a NAVSTAR satellite fix a few hours ago, but the risk of detection was too high in an area crawling with Soviet surface craft. Two hundred yards, plus or minus, was fine accuracy by any rational standard—but not while submerged in shallow water off a hostile coast. How accurate were his charts? Were there unmarked wrecks out there? Even if his navigational data were completely accurate, quarters would be so tight in another few miles that a goof of two hundred yards could ground them, damaging the submarine . . . and making noise. The captain shrugged to himself. The Chicago was the best platform in the world for this mission. He’d done this sort of thing before, and he couldn’t worry about everything at the same time. McCafferty took a few steps forward and leaned into the sonar compartment.

  “How’s our friend doing?”

  “Continuing as before, skipper. No changes at all in the target’s radiated noise level. Just toolin’ right along at fifteen knots, dead ahead, no more than two thousand yards off. Pleasure cruise, like,” the sonar chief concluded with no small irony.

  Pleasure cruise. The Soviets were sorticing their ballistic missile submarines at intervals of one sub every four hours. Already a majority of them were at sea. They had never done that before. And all seemed to be heading east—not north and northeast as they usually did to cruise in the Barents or Kara seas, or most recently under the arctic ice cap itself. SACLANT had learned that piece of information from Norwegian P-3 aircraft patrolling Checkpoint Charlie, the spot fifty miles offshore where Soviet submarines always submerged. Chicago, the nearest sub to the area, had been sent to investigate.

  They’d soon detected and gotten into trail position behind a Delta-III, a modern Soviet “boomer,” as missile subs were known. Trailing her, they’d stayed within the hundred-fathom curve the whole way . . . until the target had turned southeast into shallow water toward Mys Svyatoy Nos, which led to the entrance to the White Sea—all of which was Soviet territorial water.

  How far did they dare follow? And what was going on? McCafferty returned to control and went to the periscope pedestal.

  “Look around,” he said. “Up scope.” A petty officer turned the hydraulic ring control and the portside search periscope slid upward from its well. “Hold!” McCafferty stooped at the conning station, catching the instrument as the quartermaster stopped it below the surface. From a position that was murderously uncomfortable, the skipper duck-walked the scope in a full circle. On the forward bulkhead was a television monitor which worked off a camera built into the scope. It was watched by the executive officer and a senior petty officer.

&nb
sp; “No shadows,” McCafferty said. Nothing to make him suspect that something was there.

  “Concur, skipper,” the XO agreed.

  “Check with sonar.”

  Forward, the sonar watch listened carefully. Circling aircraft made noise, and there was about an even chance that they’d heard it. But now they heard nothing—which didn’t mean that nothing was there, like maybe a high-flying chopper or another Grisha laying to, her diesels shut down as she drifted, listening for someone like Chicago.

  “Sonar says they don’t have anything, skipper,” the XO reported.

  “Two more feet,” McCafferty ordered.

  The quartermaster worked the lever again, bringing the periscope up by twenty-three inches, just barely out of the water in the troughs of the waves.

  “Skipper!” It was the senior ESM technician. The highest item on Chicago’s periscope was a miniature antenna array which fed signals to a broadband receiver. The instant it projected above the surface, three lights flickered on the ESM tactical warning board. “I read three—five, maybe six India-band search radars. Signature characteristics say ship and land-based search radars, sir, not, repeat not, aircraft sets. Nothing in the Juliet-band.” The technician started reading off the bearings.

  McCafferty allowed himself to relax. There was no way a radar could detect so small a target as his periscope in these waves. He turned the periscope in a complete circle. “I see no surface ships. No aircraft. Seas about five feet. Estimate the surface wind from the northwest at, oh, about twenty, twenty-five knots.” He snapped up the handles and stepped back. “Down scope.” The oiled steel tube was heading down before he’d spoken the second word. The captain nodded approval at his quartermaster, who held out a stopwatch. The scope had been up above the surface for a total of 5.9 seconds. After fifteen years in submarines, it still amazed him how so many people could do so much in six seconds. When he’d gone through submarine school, the criterion had been a seven-second exposure.