Red Storm Rising (1986) (101 page)

An explosion rocked the island of Hrappsey, four miles away. Then another on Seley. It was working!

Ten miles up, the Russian missiles switched on their radar seeker heads and found their target windows crammed with blips. Overloaded, they automatically scanned the largest for infrared signatures. Many of the blips gave off heat, and the missiles automatically selected the largest for their attention as they made their final Mach 3 dives. They had no way of knowing that they were attacking volcanic rocks. Thirty missiles got through the SAM defenses. Only five of them actually aimed themselves at ships.

Two of
Nassau’s
R2D2s swiveled together and fired at a missile traveling too fast to see. The captain looked in the direction of the barrels just in time to see a white flash a thousand feet overhead. The sound that followed nearly deafened him, and he realized how foolish it was to be exposed when fragments
dinged
off the pilothouse next to him. Two more missiles fell into the town to his west. Then the sky cleared. A fireball to the west told him that at least one ship had been hit.
But not mine!

“Son of a bitch.” He lifted the phone to the Combat Information Center. “Combat, Bridge, two missiles fell into Stykkisholmur. Let’s get a helo over there, there’s gonna be some casualties.”

 

As Toland watched, the tapes of the air engagement were replayed at fast speed. A computer tallied the kills. Everything was automated now.

“Wow,” the intelligence officer said to himself.

“Not like before, was it, son?” Jacobsen observed.“Spaulding, I want word on the ’phibs!”

“Just coming in now, sir.
Charleston
took a hit and broke in half. We have minor damage to Guam and
Ponce
—and that’s it, Admiral!”

“Plus
Wainwright.”
Jacobsen took a deep breath. Two valuable ships and fifteen hundred men were gone, yet he had to call it a success.

“The attack should be over by now.”

Andreyev didn’t expect rapid information. The Americans had finally succeeded in damaging his last radar, and he had no way of tracking the air battle. His radio-intercept crews had copied numerous voice transmissions, but they’d been too faint and too fast for any conclusion other than that a battle had in fact been fought.

“The last time we caught a NATO carrier force, we smashed it,” the operations officer said hopefully.

“Our troops above Bogarnes are still under heavy fire,” another reported. The American battleships had been hitting them for over an hour. “They are taking serious losses.”

“Comrade General, I have a—you’d better listen to this, it’s on our command circuit.”

The message repeated four times, in Russian: “Commander Soviet Forces Iceland, this is Commander Strike Fleet Atlantic. If you don’t get this, somebody will get it to you. Tell your bombers better luck next time. We’ll be seeing you soon. Out.”

Sergetov staggered up to the traffic-control point in time to see a battalion of tanks move down the road toward Alfeld. He stood slumped over, hands on his knees, as he watched the tanks roll off.

“Identify yourself!” It was a KGB lieutenant. The KGB had taken over traffic management. The authority to shoot violators came easy to the KGB.

“Major Sergetov. I must see the area commander at once.”

“Attached to what unit, Sergetov?”

Ivan stood up straight. Not
Comrade Major, not Comrade,
just
Sergetov.

“I am personal aide to General Alekseyev, Deputy Commander West. Now get me the hell to your commander!”

“Papers.” The lieutenant held out his hand, a coldly arrogant look on his face.

Sergetov smiled thinly. His identification documents were in a waterproof plastic envelope. He handed the top card over to the KGB officer. It was something his father had managed to get for him before mobilization.

“And what might you be doing with a Class-1-Priority pass?” The lieutenant was wary now.

“And who the fuck are you to ask?” The son of a Politburo member brought his face to within a centimeter of the other man’s. “Get me to your commander
now
or we’ll see who gets shot here today!”

The
chekist
deflated abruptly and led him to a farm cottage. The commander of the traffic-control station was a major. Good.

“I need a radio on the Army command circuit,” Sergetov snapped.

“All I have is regimental and division,” the major answered.

“Nearest division headquarters?”

“Fortieth Tanks at—”

“It’s destroyed. Damn, I need a vehicle. Now! There is an American force at Alfeld.”

“We just sent off a battalion—”

“I know. Call them back.”

“I have no such authority.”

“You damned fool, they’re heading into a trap! Call them
now!”

“I don’t have the auth—”

“Are you a German agent? Haven’t you seen what’s going on there?”

“It was an air attack, wasn’t it?”

“There are American tanks in Alfeld, you idiot. We must launch a counterattack, but one battalion isn’t enough. We—” The first explosions started, six kilometers away. “Major, I want one of two things. Either you give me transport right now or you give me your name and service number so that I can denounce you properly.”

The two KGB officers shared a look of incredulity.
Nobody
talked that way to them, but anyone who did . . . Sergetov got his vehicle and raced off. Half an hour later he was in the supply base at Holle. There he found a radio.

“Where are you, Major?” Alekseyev demanded.

“Holle. The Americans got through our lines. They have at least one battalion of tanks at Alfeld.”

“What?”
The radio was silent for a moment. “Are you certain?”

“Comrade General, I had to swim the damned river to get here. I counted a column of twenty-five armored vehicles a few kilometers north of the town. They shot up the tank-repair station and massacred a column of trucks. I repeat, General, there is an American force at Alfeld in at least battalion strength.”

“Get transport to Stendal and report personally to Commander-in-Chief West.”

“Good evening, Major Chapayev. How’s the leg?” Toland asked, sitting down beside the hospital bunk. “Are you being treated properly?”

“I have no complaints. Your Russian is—fair.”

“I do not often get to practice with a Soviet citizen. Perhaps you can help me somewhat.”
Major Alexandr Georgiveyich Chapayev,
the computer printout read.
Age 30. Second son of General Georgiy Konstantinovich Chapayev, commander of the Moscow Air Defense District. Married to the youngest daughter of a Central Committee member, Ilya Nikolayevich Govorov.
And therefore probably a young man with access to lots of under-the-counter information...

“With your grammar?” Chapayev snorted.

“You were the commander of the MiGs? Be at ease, Major, they’re all finished now. You know that.”

“I was the senior flying officer, yes.”

“I’ve been told to compliment you. I am not a flyer myself, but they tell me your tactics over Keflavik were excellent. I believe you had five MiGs. We lost a total of seven aircraft yesterday, three to MiGs, two to missiles, and two to ground fire. Considering the odds, we were disagreeably surprised.”

“I had my duty.”

“Da.
We all have our duty,” Toland agreed. “If you are concerned at how we will treat you, you should not be. You will be treated properly in all respects. I don’t know what you have been told to expect, but probably you have noticed once or twice that not everything the Party says is completely true. I see from your identification papers that you have a wife and two children. I have a family, too. We’ll both live to see them again, Major. Well, probably.”

“And when our bombers attack you?”

“That happened three hours ago. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

“Ha! The first time—”

“I was on
Nimitz.
We took two hits.” Toland described the attack briefly. “This time things worked out differently. We’re conducting rescue operations now. You’ll know for sure when we bring some survivors in. Your air force is no longer a threat to us. Submarines are another matter, but there is no sense asking a fighter pilot about that. In fact, this isn’t really an interrogation.”

“So why are you here?”

“I will be asking you some questions later. I just wanted to come down and say hello. Is there anything I can get you, anything you need?”

Chapayev did not know what to make of this. Aside from the possibility the Americans would shoot him outright, he didn’t know what to expect. He’d had the usual lectures about trying to escape, but clearly these did not apply to being aboard a ship in the middle of the ocean.

“I do not believe you,” he said finally.

“Comrade Major, there is no point in asking you about the MiG-29, because none are left on Iceland. All the others in the Soviet Air Force are in Central Europe, but we’re not going there. There is no point in asking you about ground-defense positions on Iceland; you’re a pilot and you don’t know anything about that. The same is true of the remaining threat against us: submarines. What do you know about submarines, eh? Think, Major, you are an educated man. Do you think you have information that we need? I doubt it. You will be exchanged in due course for our prisoners—a political question, for our political masters. Until then we will treat you properly.” Toland paused.
Talk to me, Major
. . .

“I’m hungry,” Chapayev said after a moment.

“Dinner should be in about thirty minutes.”

“You will just send me home, after—”

“We don’t have labor camps and we don’t kill prisoners. If we were going to mistreat you, why did the surgeon sew up your leg and prescribe pain medications?”

“The pictures I had with me?”

“Almost forgot.” Toland handed the Russian’s wallet over. “Isn’t it against the rules to take this up with you?”

“I carry it for luck,” he said. Chapayev pulled out the black-and-white shot of his wife and twin daughters.
I will see you again. It may be some months, but I will see you again.

Bob chuckled. “It worked, Comrade Major. Here are mine.”

“Your wife is too skinny, but you are a lucky man also.” Chapayev paused as his eyes teared up for a moment. He blinked them away. “I would like a drink,” he said hopefully.

“Me, too. Not allowed on our ships.” He looked at the photos. “Your daughters are beautiful, Major. You know, we have to be crazy to leave them.”

“We have our duty,” Chapayev said. Toland gestured angrily.

“It’s the damned politicians. They just tell us to go—and we go, like idiots! Hell, we don’t even know why the Goddamned war started!”

“You mean you do not know?”

Bingo. Codeine and sympathy . . .
The tape recorder he had in his pocket was already turned on.

“If I continue the attack, we’ll be destroyed here!” Alekseyev protested. “I have two full divisions on my flank, and I have a report that American tanks are at Alfeld.”

“Impossible!” CINC-West replied angrily.

“The report came from Major Sergetov. He saw them arrive. I have ordered him to Stendal to make his report to you personally.”

“I have 26th Motor-Rifle approaching Alfeld now. If any Americans are present, they’ll handle matters.”

“What progress have you made on the crossing?”

“Two regiments across, a third moving now. Enemy air activity has picked up—dammit! I have enemy units in my rear!”

“Get back to Stendal, Pasha. Beregovoy is in command at Hunzen. I need you here.”

I’m being relieved. I’m being
relieved
of my command!

“Understood, Comrade General,” Alekseyev replied. He switched off the radio.
Can I leave my troops this vulnerable to counterattack? Can I forgo warning my commanders?
Alekseyev slammed his fist on the worktable. “Get me General Beregovoy!”

It was too far for artillery support from the NATO lines, and they’d been forced to leave their own guns behind. Mackall trained his gunsights through the haze and saw the advancing Russian formations. He estimated two regiments. That made it a division-sized attack in the classic two-up, one-back fashion.
Hmm. I don’t see any SAM launchers up front.
The colonel in overall command started giving his orders over the command circuit. Friendly air was coming in.

Apache attack choppers popped up right behind the Cav’s positions. They moved south to flank the advancing Russian vehicles, jinking and skidding as they launched their Hellfire missiles into the leading echelon of tanks. Their pilots sought out missile-launch vehicles but found none. Next came the A-10s. The ugly twin-engine aircraft swooped low, free for once of the SAM threat. Their rotary cannon and cluster bombs continued the job of the Apaches.

“They’re coming in dumb, boss,” the gunner commented.

“Maybe they’re green, Woody.”

“Okay by me.”

The Bradleys on the eastern edge of the town engaged next with their missiles. The leading Soviet ranks were savaged even before they came into range of the tanks over the river. The attack began to falter. The Russian tanks stopped to shoot. They popped smoke and shot wildly from inside it. A few wild rounds landed close to Mackall’s position, but they were not aimed shots. The attack was stopped two kilometers short of the town.

 

“Head north,” Alekseyev said over the headset.