Red Hammer 1994 (16 page)

The Kartaly base perimeter encircled the six expansive octagon-shaped missile complexes that housed many of the last-surviving SS-18 ICBMs. At one time there had been 308 of the monsters, but now the number had been cut to less than 150. Each grid measured over three miles across; protective spacing ensured defense against a US attack. No American warhead would be allowed to take out more than one SS-18. Bedded down in super-hardened silos, each cluster of nine missiles carried ninety super-accurate 600-kiloton reentry vehicles, accompanied by a collection of decoys and chaff to foil American sensors and ABM defenses. Despite the remarkable technology encased within the aluminum missile skins, the launch crews labored in deplorable conditions. They were condemned to endless days buried deep beneath the earth within six-foot-thick steel-reinforced walls that dripped with condensation and nurtured a variety of colorful molds. The master LCC, which linked all three wings in a redundant web of landline communications, was somewhat larger, but the extra space was reserved for rack upon rack of lead-acid batteries, which provided critical emergency power.

“The interlocks check out perfectly, Captain.”

Aetmatov’s only reply was a glare.

“Shall we move to the next procedure?” the young man grinned.

Aetmatov stood and arched his back. “Let’s take a break. We have all night to complete the maintenance. I need some hot tea.” What he really needed was a few shots of vodka.

Aetmatov stepped through the metal hatchway to the crew’s quarters, ducking instinctively from numerous runins with the sharp steel rim inches from his head. Two sagging bunks occupied one corner while a small electric burner sat on a nearby counter. The cheap hot plate provided only occasional snacks—hot meals were delivered via a messenger thrice daily. Aetmatov turned on the electricity and set a small pot containing tea atop the coils. He sat down at the small metal table and picked up an old copy of
Russian Military News
, leafing through the worn pages, but his mind was elsewhere.

Unknown to his cellmate, Aetmatov had received a specially coded message ordering a heightened alert status two hours earlier. This unusual event had followed four weeks of frequent, unscheduled drills. The entire chain of command was extremely edgy.

The spitting of boiling tea splattering on the burner broke his train of thought. He retrieved the brew and poured it into a stained mug. Resting, he slipped back into the destructive thought pattern churning inside his skull. What would he do if the real message came through? The message to launch? If it did, he was sure it would be because Mother Russia was under a crippling nuclear attack. The Americans might publicly dismiss talk about a surprise nuclear attack as fantasy, but the Russians were far more practical. The distinct possibility of a nuclear ambush loomed over all their military planning. It was ingrained in their mind-set, nurtured by the treachery of past enemies who had talked peace while planning war. No nation in modern history had suffered more at the hands of ruthless invaders. Mobile ICBMs, the Moscow ABM system, the extensive underground command and control bunker network, and costly civil defense initiatives were all designed and implemented at huge expense to ensure that the Russian people would prevail in any nuclear exchange with the Americans. That was in the 70s and 80s, but then, what had really changed? Their history forced them to contemplate the unthinkable. Yes, he would do his duty. Aetmatov was sure of that.

On the outskirts of Moscow, an innocuous-looking freight train rested on a spur next to a dilapidated warehouse. Located one hundred meters from the main station, only a flimsy chain-link fence prevented access. Two ordinary-looking guards paraded in front of a small gate, casually swapping stories. The hidden train’s unusual configuration escaped notice by all but the professionally trained eye—two powerful locomotives attached to only four worn freight cars. Three heavy umbilical cables exited the last car, looking like black spaghetti on the ground, and were routed into a dimly lit warehouse. The muffled hum of a diesel generator flowed from the building and drifted across the rail yard, carried by the light summer breeze that rustled the leaves in the surrounding forest.

At two minutes after eleven at night, a convoy swept around the corner, led by a two-and-a-half-ton military truck carrying crack Interior Ministry troops in full battle gear. They hastily dismounted and surrounded the fenced compound, weapons at the ready, eyes scanning the tree line. A minute later, through the late-night mist came a lone black limousine bearing the flag of the president of the Russian Republic. It sped through the gate and pulled up next to the train. A senior officer emerged from the shadows and snapped to attention.

First out was the director of the SVR, dressed in a full-length coat. He was followed by Marshal Ryzhkov, commander in chief of the Strategic Rocket Forces. The marshal was in full dress uniform, his rows of medals reflecting the faint moonlight upward to his tight, angular face. After an inordinate amount of time, Nikolai Laptev emerged from the car, aided by an army colonel. He stood for a long moment, taking in the sights, raising his head slightly, and sniffing the pleasant summer air. The trio had been rushed from city’s heart via the secret high-speed underground rail line that ran from the Kremlin to all four quadrants of the compass. It had deposited a handful of key government officials at numerous hardened command bunkers, which populated the line, but had saved this select group of Defense Council members for the final destination. The limo had transported the group the last few miles.

The president strode toward the gray metal platform protruding from the boxcar’s recessed wooden door. To reach the car, each man in turn navigated three steep steps. Laptev paused on the last and, gripping the stainless-steel handhold, twisted his body toward his beloved Moscow. Invisible were the city’s festive summer lights, but he felt her soothing presence, as so many had down through the centuries. He was merely an instrument to be used as she saw fit. He would most certainly take his rightful place among the heroes who had sacrificed and struggled to thrust Russia on her inexorable journey to greatness. He wanted nothing for himself.

Most confidants assumed this was another in a long series of drills—Laptev knew better. He had been juggling his nuclear forces for the last few months to the point of putting the Americans to sleep. Only a handful of trusted top aides knew the truth. What if they failed him at the last crucial moment? He had planned for that, too. The last Russian president, Nikolai Laptev, lowered his head and ducked inside the door.

Within minutes, the two diesel locomotives roared to life, belching black smoke skyward. The last of the cables was disconnected as the train pulled slowly from the station. The intermediate destination was Gor’kiy, to the southwest. From there the specially configured command train would travel over the stretch of track between Gor’kiy and Kirov, slipping into a heavily forested area thirty kilometers before the city proper to rendezvous with crack Spetsnaz and Air Defense troops.

The Russian president’s command train was equipped with the latest in satellite- and terrestrial-communications equipment to maintain tight control of all Russian nuclear forces, even under the worst of conditions. To the north and west, identical trains departed for other dispersal sites, providing well-planned redundancy for Russian command and control. It was ten minutes after three in the afternoon in Washington D C, where the city was melting under the afternoon heat, awaiting the holiday weekend.

CHAPTER 15

“Left standard rudder, ahead one-third, steady on course 195,” crisply ordered Sanchez. The young sailors at the controls answered smartly in turn. The tension and silence in Control recalled memories of the last few months. Sanchez stared at the digital depth readout, mentally juggling the myriad of interconnected and mutually dependent parameters that would determine his boat’s performance and, ultimately, fate.

San Francisco
had slipped between the two intruders, falling in behind the larger Delta at less than eight thousand yards, tucked securely in her baffles. The dangerous Victor trailed
San Francisco
by another ten thousand, at that distance deaf, her old technology sonar unable to weed out the faint, telltale signature of the quiet LA-class boat from the low-frequency reverberations of the Delta’s huge propellers. Sanchez hated being sandwiched, but his options were few, and his margin for error was nonexistent. He’d sweat it out just long enough to record signature tapes on the Delta, then slip away, dive deep, and come up six to ten miles behind the Victor, clearly in the tactical driver’s seat. Then they could all breathe easily.

Sanchez closed in on the Delta, shooting for no more than four thousand yards astern. A couple of nautical miles sounded huge, but in the pitch black, undersea cat-and-mouse game he was playing, that tiny gap could evaporate in the wink of an eye. Passively generated ranges were estimates, not absolutes. Surprise could come at any moment given the relative motion.

San Francisco
settled on a true heading of 195 degrees, properly trimmed, inching forward on the unsuspecting Delta. It was a game that they had played many times in the past. Sanchez took a stroll around Control to unwind, shaking the tenseness out of his arms. He wanted to measure his crew. They were taking it all in stride. True professionals in every sense of the word, he thought, I couldn’t ask for better.

“We made it, Skipper; we’re there. It should take another half an hour to close to four thousand,” said a lieutenant at the plotting table. The strain partially lifted from Sanchez as he stopped dead in his tracks. He felt a flush of relief, a respite. His boat had regained her natural rhythm. They were in charge, the one forcing events.

“Good,” he said, his hands resting comfortably on his hips. “Take it slow and easy.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Take the conn, XO.” His number two nodded and barked the announcement to the crew. Sanchez wanted to bone up on his peacetime rules of engagement. He wasn’t flirting in Russian waters this day.

At his stateroom door, a panicky sailor ran up behind, out of breath. “Captain, the XO wants you back in Control, sir!”

Shit, he groaned, how had he screwed up? The Victor’s sonar was a dog. No way, he thought. Sanchez jogged down the narrow passageway and was back in Control in seconds when he heard the normally unshakable XO hailing sonar on the 21MC.

“Are you sure?” His voice carried his alarm. The taller XO turned as his Captain approached. He spoke in deliberate hushed tones.

“The Delta’s increased speed, Skipper. No indication of a turn yet. If she does, we’re screwed.” Sanchez could have done without the last prediction. He matter-of-factly regained the conn. The XO moved over to supervise the attack plot. The first team was in place.

“We’ve got to ride the Delta’s ass,” said Sanchez to the entire room. “If not, the Victor will nail us.” He surveyed the crew, busy at work. After a short time, the answers started to flow from the attack team.

“Recommend ten knots, sir.” Sanchez nodded and so ordered.

“Aye, aye, sir,” said the sailor ringing up the necessary turns on the engine order telegraph.

San Francisco
accelerated smoothly, fighting to stay nestled behind the Delta. Sanchez suddenly realized he had lost track of the Victor, a sloppy, stupid move. He had absolutely no idea where the Russian attack boat was or was heading. Break off, he scolded himself.

“Come right to course 245,” ordered Sanchez. “Increase ordered depth to four hundred feet.” Then he added in a much lower tone, “We’ve got to get the Victor out of our baffles.” The XO glanced up and nodded approvingly.

As
San Francisco
rose and swung starboard, the rhythmic beating of the Victor’s propellers suddenly filled the sensitive hydrophones attached to the hull. Within seconds, the sonar operators had deduced an accurate turn count and sounded the alarm. The ordered course and depth change had made all the difference.

“The Victor’s accelerated to probably twelve knots, Skipper, faster than the Delta.” Sanchez breathed easier. A break, if you could call it that. They had slipped undetected out of the sandwich.

Sanchez signaled the XO. “Give me a turn time to parallel at eight thousand yards.” Then he turned to the 21MC and sonar. “I want an immediate report of any changes in the Victor—speed, depth, anything.” Two clicks on the speaker were Sonar’s cryptic reply.

Sanchez stepped over and put his hand on the XO’s shoulder. His second’s pale blue eyes were glued on the two-dimensional plot covered with a maze of colored lines representing the three boats’ tracks through the water. Computers could do many things, but manual plotting still persisted despite the best efforts of the shore-based PhDs. And everybody knew that an experienced submariner’s brain always won the contest, hands down. Sanchez glanced up at the clock. “Ten seconds to turn, Skipper.”

“Come left, resume base course 195.” The boat banked gently to port, forcing the crew to grab rails or equipment until she steadied out. An attack submarine flies through water like an airplane flies through the sky. Turns are performed with a balance between the vertical rudder and the co-located horizontal diving or stern planes. The impressive-looking fairwater planes on the sail are for subtle trimming maneuvers. Maintaining the ordered depth is the work of the stern planes.