Red Hammer 1994 (9 page)

“You actually acted this out?”

“Yes, Defense Minister. We spread players across the western Russia, linked with simulated WWMCCS command and control circuits. They even followed fabricated schedules, moving from place to place. The best they could accomplish was a hasty conference call in twenty minutes, and that was with all the players well coached. In many ways, the Americans’ technological superiority hinders them. Their sensors provide a surfeit of data. What specific bases or facilities are targeted? When will the weapons arrive? The decision makers drown in detail.”

“But,” interrupted the defense minister, “the Americans have contingency plans. Just as we do.”

“No question. But remember, the American bombers and tankers are no longer on alert. They will be caught on the ground. Even their ICBMs are taken off alert more frequently for maintenance. And no employment of weapons may take place until proper release authority is received from their president.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Positive. Only in an increased state of readiness could that authority be predelegated to their theater and specified commanders in chiefs. And only then after extensive consultation.”

“I suppose. Continue.”

Ryzhkov hunched forward, his eyes riveted on the defense minister. “The American president faces a dilemma. At best, he has ten minutes before the first reentry vehicles arrive at the silo fields in North Dakota. Probably less. Five minutes more for the southernmost fields. Taking into account the necessity to avoid flying their ICBMs through detonating weapons, our simulations predicted an average decision time of six minutes. Six minutes to decide whether to retaliate. Even if the president immediately acceded to his military advisors, he would have to step through authentication to generate and release the appropriate messages to their nuclear forces. We estimate that process at two to three minutes at best, assuming no delays. Then the launch control crews in the silo fields must decode the message, complete checklists, and then launch. Under training conditions, this can be done in two minutes. With the pressure of a surprise attack, the time could easily double. So, you can see, if everything went perfectly, the Americans would launch their ICBM’s just as our nuclear warheads detonated overhead, blasting them from the sky. In reality, they would never get close. We are convinced the decision to retaliate would require from fifteen to thirty minutes. By then our strike would be history.”

The defense minister shook his head, wincing. “You make it sound so neat. This would not be some damn military exercise; it would be the start of an all-out war with the United States.” He threw himself heavily back against the couch, slicing the air with his hand. “The Motherland would be devastated.”

“I understand your consternation, Defense Minister, but imagine if you were the American president, suddenly having to deal with a surprise nuclear attack. Could you really contend with that prospect? Don’t forget, the Americans could do it to us right now.”

“They never would.”

“I’m sure they feel the same way,” smiled Ryzhkov.

“When we started this,” Strelkov weighed in, “we felt like you. No one would ever contemplate such an action. But that is precisely the point. Nations rarely make a deliberate decision to go to war. They stumble through a period of mobilization or belligerent actions geared to provoke an enemy. Why not strike hard and defeat an adversary in a quick, potent attack before he can husband his forces?”

Strelkov stood to stretch and then answered his own question. “Because decisions concerning war are facilitated when tempers are short and cries of revenge are in the air. Adolf Hitler was probably the last modern head of state to coldly and deliberately commit his nation to total war.”

“What would the Americans do after their ICBMs were destroyed?”

“Their options would be to doing nothing, capitulating, or they could strike with surviving SLBMs and bombers, if there were any.”

“I know that,” snapped the defense minister. “But what would they do?”

Ryzhkov drew back, waiting for the defense minister to regain his composure.

“It’s difficult to say. If they committed their SLBMs, they would be going after urban industrial targets and will have expended what reserve force they have left. We will have communicated our intention to meet any retaliation with a devastating counterattack. The United States would have sustained little damage outside key military targets and the silo fields. Would you, as president, commit your nation to mass destruction simply to satisfy a primitive urge for revenge?

“We would emerge from the attack unscathed, the majority of our strategic forces intact, while the Americans would be broken. Yes, the risk would be high, but the reward would be commensurate.

“Surprise attacks always succeed, Defense Minister; history supports the thesis. Without exception, attackers gain the initiative. They fail when they neglect to press their advantage.”

The defense minister slowly rose and walked across his office to the window overlooking the Kremlin grounds. “That will be all,” he ordered, staring out across the distance. The three officers exchanged puzzled glances then quietly rose and left. “Marshal Kiselev,” the defense minister called as he stepped through the door. “I wish to see you first thing tomorrow morning.”

Gazing across the tree-lined cobblestone courtyard, the defense minister struggled to get a grip on the images coursing through his brain. He was beginning to think like his unstable master. It was terrifying.

The somber mood engulfing the Kremlin was ripe with a grim fatalism. Russia was rapidly slipping down a steep slope toward extinction. Laptev’s ruling clique proposed patchwork solutions, but most members secretly accepted the endemic weaknesses which doomed Russia to third-world status in the twenty-first century. Frustration was forged to hatred of the perceived architect of all Russian troubles—the United States. The Russians were like beggars, cup in hand, prostrate before the world community.

The defense minister turned and stared at the far wall of his office. On it was a diploma from the Moscow Officers’ Academy. He reflected on the rigorous doctrine pounded into their heads day after day so many years ago. Those hoary tenants of Marxism/Leninism, which stressed the criticality of the correlation of forces and the inevitability of conflict with the capitalistic West. It was the unquestioned foundation for every decision in the sixties and seventies. The eighties had swept that aside, formulating a dynamic which stressed integration and cooperation with the West. Now they had come full circle.

CHAPTER 8

“Here it is, Mr. Secretary,” said Thomas, handing the seated Alexander a manila folder emblazoned with a crimson swath stamped “top secret, code word.” It was the latest on a black satellite program that was grossly over budget and behind schedule. Alexander adjusted his reading glasses. Alexander’s brow knitted in direct proportion to his distress as he progressed down the page. Thomas shuffled to a nearby chair and plopped down. He had earlier reviewed the bad news, as he did all incoming correspondence, messages, and reports.

“Shit,” groaned the veteran secretary of defense, flipping the folder shut. He gave Thomas a tight-lipped frown then a look of resignation, flipping his glasses on his massive oak desk.

“I thought that would be your reaction,” Thomas said. “How about I visit my friends at the Air Staff and see if I can work a deal before this gets worse.”

Alexander nodded. He rocked back in his high-back swivel chair and gazed out his E-ring window at the lush trees and the peaceful Potomac lazily rolling toward the Chesapeake Bay.

Secretary of Defense Matthew Alexander was a fifty-year-old financial wizard who had made his mark in the dog-eat-dog world of computer chips and electronics. From his corporate suite, he had fought his bitter enemy the Japanese to a standstill and eventually emerged victorious. A series of deft strategic alliances had actually recovered market share in semiconductors for his shareholders, and he had successfully lobbied Congress to relax antitrust laws and greatly increase government research and development spending. After such stunning success, fingers began to point his way. He was already a CEO, a well-paid one at that, but he wanted a new challenge. Another firm, even larger, would be more of the same, and exercised stock options had made him a very rich man. So he looked to public service to put meaning into his life.

The secretary was a simple man who purchased his suits on sale and lived in a modest two-story home with his wife in Falls Church. He deliberately avoided the Washington social circuit and spent his off time with his one remaining son. The other two children, a boy and a girl, were long gone, with families of their own. His wife thought him handsome with his combed-back, thick silver hair and high cheekbones; others called him distinguished. The universal descriptor was gentleman. Thomas considered him first-rate, a man of honesty and integrity.

Alexander swung left to face Thomas. “Sounds like a plan. See what you can do.” He glanced at his watch. They were running late. It was time for Secretary Alexander’s weekly intelligence brief and staff meeting. This one promised to be interesting. The Russians were frantically searching a wide swath of ocean southeast of the Kurile Islands, and the consensus pegged the lost prize as a missing Delta IV ballistic-missile submarine—one of the Russians’ frontline jobs. And one of the few still operational after years of neglect.

Thomas walked side by side with Alexander to the his personal conference room. They filed in to discover a full room with several new faces. The usual attendees came in various shapes and sizes and were the direct-report under and assistant secretaries, with a sprinkling of military men. The civilian dress ranged from the rumpled college-professor look for the older technical types to the younger men and women in expensive suits. There was little middle ground. When Alexander took his end seat, the chitchat ceased.

“Let’s skip today’s intel summary and get right to the Russian search and rescue (SAR) effort,” said Alexander, counting noses.

An invited guest, an admiral from the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations, rose and introduced himself then stepped to a large map of the Pacific theater, hanging on the wall next to the entrance. He patiently waited for the private discussions to end. Everyone had their own spin on the incident, even before they had all the facts. The admiral’s delivery was even and tempered. Funny, Thomas thought, how they all sounded the same when they briefed, including himself. Alexander nodded the go-ahead, and the show began.

“Two days ago, the Russians began sending Pacific Fleet units to this area here,” the admiral said, tapping on the map with a pen. “At first we thought one of their bombers had gone down, like that Bear H that caught a wingtip and cart-wheeled into the drink two months ago. But the op tempo rose as the week progressed, and we have just received word that they have gotten a submarine rescue vessel underway from Petro.” The private whispers started again.

“We’re convinced now that one of their boats went down. If we’re right, a Delta IV SSBN is resting on the bottom somewhere east of the Kurile chain, chock-full of SS-N-23 ballistic missiles. The water is too deep for an attempted rescue but not too deep for surveillance of the wreckage or a possible recovery of debris. We have unconfirmed reports that the Russians have already contacted the French about purchasing deep-water salvage equipment, including a side-looking, high-frequency sonar. We’ve offered assistance, but they turned us down cold.”

The admiral’s last remark brought sustained laughter. “Our response has been twofold. First, we dispatched fleet units to monitor Russian SAR operations. USS
Texas
, a cruiser, was detached from Battle Group Echo. Coming from due east will be USS
Los Angeles
, a 688 class boat, currently on patrol near the Aleutians. Hopefully,
Texas
will draw all the attention and allow
Los Angeles
to slip into the area undetected. During a recent overhaul, she received a new, experimental coating over her entire hull and a sonar upgrade. She’s ideally suited for this operation.

“Secondly, we are intensifying our antisubmarine warfare efforts to make an inventory of Russian SSBNs, SSGNs, and SSNs. If it is the Delta IV, we’ve got the makings of a real intelligence coup. Since the water is deeper than the Russians can conduct salvage operations in, we estimate they’ll attempt to locate the wreckage and destroy it. We should be ready to move in and see what pieces we can pick up.”

When the admiral paused, Thomas leaned forward on his elbows and spoke. He had a well-defined role, and Alexander smiled before the words came out of his aide’s mouth.

“Admiral, why are the Russians going to let us waltz in and recover the wreckage?” He was wondering if the navy knew something he didn’t.

The admiral took a drink of ice water before delivering his answer. He had expected a question like that from a civilian, not a fellow officer.

“The Russians can’t stay there forever, and if they don’t find the wreck, they’ll leave. They’ve done the same thing in the past; so have we, for that matter. They’ll stay until they’re convinced that either no one can find it or that they have reduced the wreckage to rubble. Much of this is face-saving. This is a serious loss for the Russian Navy. Someone is doing considerable explaining at the main Naval Headquarters in Moscow. Second, we’ve developed covert recovery techniques. We can’t expect to go in and raise an entire Russian SSBN in their backyard; they would never stand for that. We’ll have to be content with small pieces determined to have the best intelligence value.”