Red Storm Rising (1986) (104 page)

 

“I show SAM radars, Duke,” Eisly said. “I’ll call it one battery of SA-6 and another of SA-11. They must think this place is important.”

“And a hundred little bastards with hand-held SAMs,” Ellington added. “ETA on the strike?”

“Four minutes.”

Two batteries of SAMs would be very bad news for the strike aircraft.
“Let’s cut those odds down some.”

Eisly singled out the SA-11 search/acquisition radar. Ellington headed toward it at four hundred knots, using a road to travel below the trees until he was two miles away. Another Sidearm dropped off the airframe and rocketed toward the radar transmitter. At the same moment, two missiles came their way. The Duke applied maximum power and turned hard to the east, dropping chaff and flares as he did so. One missile went for the chaff and exploded harmlessly. The other locked onto the fuzzy radar signal reflected from the Frisbee and wouldn’t let go. Ellington jinked up hard, then pulled the aircraft into a maximum-g turn in hope of outmaneuvering the missile. But the SA-11 was too fast. It exploded a hundred feet behind the Frisbee. The two crewmen ejected from the distintegrating aircraft a moment later, their parachutes opening a scarce four hundred feet off the ground.

Ellington landed at the edge of a small clearing. He quickly detached himself from the chute and activated his rescue radio before drawing his revolver. He caught a glimpse of Eisly’s chute dropping into the trees and ran in that direction.

“Fuckin’ trees!” Eisly said. His feet were dangling off the ground. Ellington climbed up and cut him down. The major’s face was bleeding.

Explosions thundered to the north.

“They got it!” Ellington said.

“Yeah, but who’s got us?” Eisly said. “I hurt my back.”

“Can you move, Don?”

“Hell, yes!”

The dispersal of fuel reserves into small depots had reduced NATO attacks on them nearly to zero. The resulting sense of security had lasted nearly a month. The attacks on tank columns and munitions stores were serious, but there were plenty of replacements for both. Fuel was a different story.

“Comrade General, NATO has changed its pattern of air attacks.”

Alekseyev turned from the map display to listen to his air-intelligence officer. Five minutes later, his supply chief came in.

“How bad is it?”

“Overall, perhaps as much as ten percent of our forward supplies. In the Alfeld sector, over thirty percent.”

The phone rang next. It was the general whose divisions were to attack Alfeld in five hours.

“My fuel is gone! The convoy was attacked and destroyed twenty kilometers from here.”

“Can you attack with what you have?” Alekseyev asked.

“I can, but I won’t be able to maneuver my units worth a damn!”

“You must attack with what you have.”

“But—”

“There are four divisions of Soviet soldiers who will die if you do not relieve them. The attack will go as scheduled!” Alekseyev set the phone down. Beregovoy was also short on fuel. A tank could have enough fuel to drive three hundred kilometers in a straight line, but they almost never traveled in a straight line, and despite orders, the crews invariably left the engines running when sitting still. The time needed to start their diesels could mean death if a sudden air attack fell on them. Beregovoy had been forced to give all of his reserve fuel to his eastbound tanks so that they could hit Alfeld in conjunction with the westbound C divisions. The two divisions on the left bank of the Weser were essentially immobilized. Alekseyev was gambling the offensive on his ability to reestablish his supply routes. He told his supply chief to get more fuel. If his attack succeeded he’d need more still.

The transition was ridiculous—less than two hours from Stendal to Moscow by jet, from war to peace, from danger to safety. His father’s chauffeur, Vitaly, met him at the military airport and drove at once to the Minister’s official dacha in the birch forests outside the capital. He entered the front room to see a stranger with his father.

“So this is the famous Ivan Mikhailovich Sergetov, Major of the Soviet Army.”

“Excuse me, Comrade, but I do not think we have met before.”

“Vanya, this is Boris Kosov.”

The young officer’s face betrayed just a fraction of his emotions on being introduced to the Director of the KGB. He leaned back into the easy chair and observed the man who had ordered the bombing of the Kremlin—after arranging for children to be there. It was two in the morning. KGB troops loyal—thought to be loyal, Minister Sergetov corrected himself—to Kosov patrolled outside to keep this meeting a secret.

“Ivan Mikhailovich,” Kosov said genially, “what is your assessment of the situation at the front?”

The young officer suppressed a desire to look to his father for guidance. “The success or failure of the operation hangs in the balance—remember that I am a junior officer and I lack the expertise for a reliable evaluation. But as I see things, the campaign could now go either way. NATO is short on manpower but they’ve had a sudden infusion of supplies.”

“About two weeks’ worth.”

“Probably less,” Sergetov said. “One thing we’ve learned at the front is that supplies get used up much faster than expected. Fuel, ordnance, everything seems almost to evaporate. So our friends in the Navy must keep hitting the convoys.”

“Our ability to do this is seriously reduced,” Kosov said. “I would not expect—the truth is that the Navy has been defeated. Iceland will soon be back in NATO hands.”

“But Bukharin didn’t say that!” the elder Sergetov objected.

“He didn’t tell us that Northern Fleet’s long-range aircraft were nearly exterminated either, but they were. The fool thinks he can keep me from learning this! The Americans have a full division on Iceland now, with massive support from their fleet. Unless our submarines can defeat this collection of ships—and remember that while they are there, they cannot strike at the convoys—Iceland will be lost within a week. That will obviate the Navy’s strategy for isolating Europe. If NATO can resupply at will, then what?”

Ivan Sergetov shifted nervously in his chair. He could see where the conversation was leading. “Then possibly we have lost.”

“Possibly?” Kosov snorted. “Then we are doomed. We will have lost our war against NATO, we still have only a fraction of our energy needs, and our armed forces are a shadow of their former selves. And what will the Politburo do then?”

“But if the Alfeld offensive succeeds . . .” Both Politburo men ignored this statement.

“What of the secret German negotiations in India?” Minister Sergetov asked.

“Ah, you noted that the Foreign Minister glossed over that?” Kosov smiled wickedly. He was a man born to conspiracy. “They have not changed their bargaining position a dot. At most it was a hedge against the collapse of NATO forces. It might also have been a trick from the beginning. We’re not sure.” The KGB Chief poured himself a glass of mineral water. “The Politburo meets in eight hours. I will not be there. I feel an angina attack coming on from my damaged heart.”

“So Larionov will deliver your report?”

“Yes.” Kosov grinned. “Poor Josef. He is trapped by his own intelligence estimates. He will report that things are not going according to plan, but still going. He will say that NATO’s current attack is a desperate attempt to forestall the Alfeld offensive, and that the German negotiations still hold promise. I should warn you, Major, that one of his men is on your staff. I know his name, but I have not seen his reports. It was probably he who provided the information that got the former commander arrested and put your general in his place.”

“What will happen to him?” the officer asked.

“That is not your concern,” Kosov answered coldly. A total of seven senior officers had been arrested in the past thirty-six hours. All were now in Lefortovo Prison, and Kosov could not have altered their fates even if he’d had the mind to.

“Father, I need to know the fuel situation.”

“We are down to minimum national reserves—you have a week’s fuel delivered or being shipped now, and roughly one week’s supply is available for the forces deployed in Germany, plus a week for the armies detailed to go into the Persian Gulf.”

“So tell your commander that he has two weeks to win the war. If he fails, it will mean his head. Larionov will blame the Army for his own intelligence mistakes. Your life will be in danger too, young man.”

“Who is the KGB spy on our staff?”

“The Theater Operations Officer. He was co-opted years ago, but his control officer is in the Larionov faction. I don’t know exactly what he is reporting.”

“General Alekseyev is—technically he’s violating orders by taking a unit on the Weser and sending it east to relieve Alfeld.”

“Then he is already in danger, and I cannot help him.” Not
without tipping my hand.

“Vanya, you should return now. Comrade Kosov and I have other things to discuss.” Sergetov embraced his son and walked him to the door. He watched the red taillights disappear behind the birch trees.

“I don’t like using my own son in this!”

“Whom else can you trust, Mikhail Eduardovich? The
Rodina
faces possible destruction, the Party leadership has gone mad, and I don’t even have full control of the KGB. Don’t you see: we have
lost!
We must now save what we can.”

“But we still hold enemy territory—”

“Yesterday does not matter. Today does not matter. What matters is one week from today. What will our Defense Minister do when it becomes obvious even to him that we have failed? Have you considered that? When desperate men realize they have failed—and those desperate men have control of atomic weapons, then what?”

Then what, indeed?
Sergetov wondered. He pondered two
more questions. What do I
—
we?
—
do about
it? Then he looked at Kosov and asked himself the second.

The Russians were not responding very fast, Mackall was surprised to see. There had been air attacks and several vicious artillery bombardments during the night, but the expected ground assault hadn’t materialized. For the Russians this was a crucial mistake. More ammunition had arrived, bringing them to full loads for the first time in weeks. Better still, a full brigade of German Panzer Grenadiers had reinforced the depleted troopers of the 11th Cav, and Mackall had learned to trust these men as he trusted his tank’s composite armor. Their defensive positions were arrayed in depth to the east and west. The armored forces pushing down from the north could now support Alfeld with their long-range guns. Engineers had repaired the Russian bridges on the Leine, and Mackall was about to move his tanks east to support the mechanized troops guarding the rubble that was Alfeld.

It was strange crossing the Soviet ribbon bridge—it was strange to be moving east at all! Mackall thought—and his driver was nervous, crossing the narrow, flimsy-looking structure at five miles per hour. Once across, they moved north along the river, swinging around the town. It was raining lightly, with fog and low-hanging clouds, typical European summer weather that cut visibility to under a thousand yards. He was met by troops who guided the arriving tanks to selected defensive positions. The Soviets had helped for once. In their constant efforts to clear the roads of rubble, they’d given the Americans neat piles of brick and stone about two meters high, almost exactly the right size for tanks to hide behind. The lieutenant dismounted from his vehicle to check the placement of his four tanks, then conferred with the commander of the infantry company he was detailed to support. There were two battalions of infantry dug in deep and hard on the outskirts of Alfeld, supported by a squadron of tanks. He heard the overhead whistling of artillery shells, the new kind that dropped mines on the fog-shrouded battlefield ahead of him. The whistling changed as he mounted his tank. Incoming.

“It’s taken too long to get them moving,” Alekseyev growled to his operations officer.

“It’s still three divisions, and they are moving now.”

“But how many reinforcements have arrived?”

The operations man had warned Alekseyev against trying to coordinate a two-pronged attack, but the General had stuck to the plan. Beregovoy’s A tank division was now in place to strike from the west, while the three C reserve divisions hit from the east. The regular tank force had no artillery—they’d had to move too fast to bring it—but three hundred tanks and six hundred personnel carriers were a formidable force all by themselves, the General thought... but what were they up against, and how many vehicles had been destroyed or damaged by air attack on the approach march?

Sergetov arrived. His class-A uniform was rumpled from his traveling.

“And how was Moscow?” Alekseyev asked.

“Dark, Comrade General. The attack, how did it go?”

“Just starting now.”

“Oh?” The major was surprised at the delay. He looked rather closely at the Theater Operations Officer, who hovered over the map table, frowning at the dispositions while the plotting officers prepared to mark the progress of the attack.

“I have a message from high command for you, Comrade General.” Sergetov handed over an official-looking form. Alekseyev scanned it—and stopped reading. His fingers went taut on the paper briefly before he regained self-control.

“Come to my office.” The General said nothing more until the door was closed. “Are you sure of this?”

“I was told by Director Kosov himself.”

Alekseyev sat on the edge of his desk. He lit a match and burned the message form, watching the flame march across the paper almost to his fingertips as he twisted it in his hand.