Red Storm Rising (1986) (21 page)

Winches pulled the barge forward into the third, lowermost, cargo deck of the Seabee—for Seagoing Barge Carrier—ship. As soon as the trolleys were over their painted marks, the watertight door closed and lights came on to allow the crew to secure the barge firmly in place.
Neatly done
, the first officer thought. The whole loading process had been completed in only eleven hours, almost a record. He supervised the process of securing the after-portion of the ship for sea.

“The last barge will be fully secured in thirty minutes,” the bosun reported to the first officer, who forwarded the information to the bridge.

Captain Kherov switched buttons on his phone to talk to the engineering spaces. “You will be ready to answer bells in thirty minutes.”

“Very well. Thirty minutes.” The engineer hung up.

On the bridge, the captain turned to his most senior passenger, a general of paratroops wearing the blue jacket of a ship’s officer. “How are your men?”

“Some are seasick already.” General Andreyev laughed. They had been brought aboard inside the sealed barges—except for the General, of course—along with tons of military cargo. “Thank you for allowing my men to walk around the lower decks.”

“I run a ship, not a prison. Just so they don’t tamper with anything.”

“They’ve been told,” Andreyev assured him.

“Good. We will have plenty of work for them to do in a few days.”

“You know, this is my first trip aboard ship.”

“Really? Fear not, Comrade General. It is much safer, and much more comfortable, than flying in an aircraft—and then jumping out of it!” The captain laughed. “He is a big ship and he rides very well even with so light a load.”

“Light load?” the General asked. “This is more than half of my division’s equipment you have aboard.”

“We can carry well over thirty-five thousand metric tons of cargo. Your equipment is bulky, but not that heavy.” This was a new thought for the General, who usually had to calculate in terms of moving equipment by air.

Below, over a thousand men of the 234th Guards Air Assault Regiment were milling about under the control of their officers and NCOs. Except for brief periods at night, they’d be stuck down there until the
Fucik
cleared the English Channel. They tolerated it surprisingly well. Even when crammed with barges and equipment, the cavernous cargo spaces were far larger than the military transport aircraft they were accustomed to. The ship’s crew was rigging planks from one barge top to another so that there would be more room for them to use for sleeping, and to get the soldiers off the oily workspaces that the crew needed to patrol. Soon, the regimental officers were to be briefed on shipboard systems, with special attention to the firefighting systems. A strict no-smoking rule was being enforced, but the professional seamen took no chances. The crewmen were surprised at the humble demeanor of the swaggering paratroopers. Even elite troops, they learned, could be cowed by exposure to a new environment. It was a pleasant observation for the merchant seamen.

Three tugs pulled on lines hanging from the ship’s side, drawing her slowly away from her dock. Two others joined as soon as she was clear, pushing the bow around to face out to sea from the Leningrad terminal. The General watched the ship’s captain control the procedure, as he raced from one bridge wing to another with a junior officer in tow, often giving rudder orders as he passed. Captain Kherov was nearly sixty, and more than two-thirds of his life had been spent at sea.

“Rudder amidships!” he called. “Ahead slow.”

The helmsman accomplished both commands in under a second, the General saw.
Not bad,
he thought, remembering the surly comments he’d heard from time to time about merchant seamen. The captain rejoined him.

“Ah, that’s the hardest part behind us.”

“But you had help for that,” the General observed.

“Some help! Damned tugboats are run by drunks. They damage ships all the time here.” The captain walked over to the chart.
Good: a deep straight channel all the way to the Baltic.
He could relax a bit. The captain walked over to his bridge chair and settled in. “Tea!”

A steward appeared at once with a tray of cups.

“There is no liquor aboard?” Andreyev was surprised.

“Not unless your men brought it, Comrade General. I do not tolerate alcohol on my ship.”

“That is true enough.” The first officer joined them. “All secure aft. The special sea detail is set. Lookouts posted. The deck inspection is under way.”

“Deck inspection?”

“We normally check at the turn of every watch for open hatches, Comrade General,” the first officer explained. “With your men aboard, we will check every hour.”

“You do not trust my men?” The General was mildly offended.

“Would you trust one of us aboard one of your airplanes?” the captain replied.

“You are right, of course. Please excuse me.” Andreyev knew a professional when he saw one. “Can you spare a few men to teach my junior officers and sergeants what they need to know?”

The first officer pulled a set of papers from his pocket. “The classes begin in three hours. In two weeks, your men will be proper seamen.”

“We are particularly worried about damage control,” the captain said.

“That concerns you?”

“Of course. We stand into danger, Comrade General. I would also like to see what your men can do for ship defense.”

The General hadn’t thought of that. The operation had been thrown together too quickly for his liking, without the chance to train his men in their shipboard duties. Security considerations. Well, no operation was ever fully planned, was it? “I’ll have my antiair commander meet with you as soon as you are ready.” He paused. “What sort of damage can this ship absorb and still survive?”

“He is not a warship, Comrade General.” Kherov smiled cryptically. “However, you will note that nearly all of our cargo is on steel barges. Those barges have double steel walls, with a meter of space between them, which may even be better than the compartmentalization on a warship. With luck, we will not have to learn. Fire is what concerns me most. The majority of ships lost in battle die from fire. If we can set up an effective firefighting drill, we may well be able to survive at least one, perhaps as many as three missile hits.”

The General nodded thoughtfully. “My men will be available to you whenever you wish.”

“As soon as we clear the Channel.” The captain got up and checked the chart again. “Sorry that we cannot offer you a pleasure cruise. Perhaps the return trip.”

The General lifted his tea. “I will toast that, Comrades. My men are at your disposal until the time comes. Success!”

“Yes. Success!” Captain Kherov lifted his cup also, almost wishing for a glass of vodka to toast their enterprise properly. He was ready. Not since his youth in Navy minesweepers had he had the chance to serve the State directly, and he was determined to see this mission through.

“Good evening, Major.” In a guarded wing of the military hospital, the chief of CIA’s Bonn Station sat down with his British and French counterparts and a pair of translators. “Shall we talk about Lammersdorf?” Unbeknownst to the Germans, the British had a file on Major Chernyavin’s activities in Afghanistan, including a poor but recognizable photograph of the man remembered by the Mudjahaddin as the Devil of the Kandahar. General Jean-Pierre de Ville of the French DGSE handled the questioning, since he spoke the best Russian. By this time Chernyavin was a broken man. His only attempt at resistance was killed by listening to a tape of his drug-induced confession. A dead man to his own countrymen, the major repeated what these men already knew but had to hear for themselves. Three hours later, Flash-priority dispatches went to three Western capitals, and representatives of the three security services prepared briefing papers for their counterparts in the other NATO countries.

Spring-summer weather patterns (moderate humidity and temperatures; rain probability 35% per day); westerly and southwesterly winds of 10 to 30 km/hr at ground level, indexed for altitude; use of highly persistent agents against communications nexi, POMCUS sites, airfields, supply, and nuclear weapon storage facilities (normal computed delivery error rate, see Appendix F of Annex 1).
The chief of the Communist Party of the German Democratic Republic read on to the bottom of the abstract, despite the acid churning in his stomach:

In terms of immediate effects, the 10,000,000+ civilian fatality floor figure in Scenario 2 represents a public health problem worse by an order of magnitude than that following the Bangladesh Cyclone disaster of 1970, and is likely to include synergistic effects well beyond the scope of this study. (Contract specifications specifically excluded investigation into bio-ecological effects from a major chemical exchange. While the difficulty associated with an in-depth examination of this subject is impossible at this writing to estimate, the reader is cautioned that such far-reaching effects are less easily dealt with than studied.
It might be necessary, for example, to import tons of insect larvae before the simplest food crops can again flourish in Western Europe.)
For the moment the ability even of organized armies to dispose of millions of civilian bodies in advanced stages of decomposition is not something to be taken for granted. And the civilians needed for the reestablishment of industrial production (under what are almost certainly optimistic estimates) will have been at the least decimated in the literal, classical sense.

Johannes Bitner did not throw the report into his trash basket—he felt like washing his hands.
Yet another similarity between East and West,
he thought coldly.
Their government reports are written by computers to be read by calculators. Just like ours. Just like ours.

“Herr Generaloberst.” The Chief of the Communist Party of the DDR looked up at his Commander-in-Chief. He and another officer had come early in the morning—and in civilian clothes—to visit him at his plush private residence in Wandlitz, the enclave of the Party elite outside Berlin. They had delivered the document obtained only two days earlier through a highly placed DDR agent in West Germany’s Ministry of Defense. “Just how accurate is this document?”

“Comrade Secretary, we cannot check their computer models, of course, but their formulae, their estimates for the persistence of Soviet chemical weapons, their predicted weather patterns—that is, all of the data which supposedly underlies this study—has been examined by members of my intelligence staff and rechecked by some chosen faculty members at the University of Leipzig. There is no reason to believe that it is anything but genuine.”