Red Storm Rising

by Tom Clancy

  “Uncle Petya?” Alekseyev nodded. “He was commissar with my father’s division on the drive to Vienna. He often visited our home when I was young. He is well?”

  “No, he is old and sick. He says that the attack on the West is madness. The ramblings of an old man, perhaps, but his war record is distinguished, and because of that I want your evaluation of our chances. I will not inform on you, General. Too many people are fearful of telling us—we of the Politburo—the truth. But this is a time for that truth. I need your professional opinion. If I can trust you to give it to me, you can trust me not to harm you for it.” The entreaty ended as a harsh command.

  Alekseyev looked his guest hard in the eyes. The charm was gone now. The blue was the color of ice. There was danger here, danger even for a general officer, but what the man had said was true.

  “Comrade, we plan on a rapid campaign. The projections are that we can reach the Rhein in two weeks. Those are actually more conservative than our plans of only five years ago. NATO has improved its readiness, particularly its antitank capabilities. I would say three weeks is more realistic, depending on the degree of tactical surprise and the many imponderables present in war.”

  “So the key is surprise?”

  “The key is always surprise,” Alekseyev answered at once. He quoted Soviet doctrine exactly. “Surprise is the greatest factor in war. There are two kinds, tactical and strategic. Tactical surprise is an operational art. A skilled unit commander can generally achieve it. Strategic surprise is attained on the political level. That is your mission, not mine, and it is far more important than anything we in the Army can do. With true strategic surprise, if our maskirovka works, yes, we will almost certainly win on the battlefield.”

  “And if not?”

  Then we have murdered eight children for nothing, Alekseyev thought. And what part did this charming fellow have in that? “Then we might fail. Can you answer me a question? Can we split NATO politically?”

  Sergetov shrugged, annoyed at being caught in one of his own traps. “As you said, Pavel Leonidovich, there are many imponderables. If it fails, then what?”

  “Then the war will become a test of will and a test of reserves. We should win. It is far easier for us to reinforce our troops. We have more trained troops, more tanks, more aircraft close to the zone of action than do the NATO powers.”

  “And America?”

  “America is on the far side of the Atlantic Ocean. We have a plan for closing the Atlantic. They can fly troops to Europe—but only troops, not their weapons, not their fuel. Those require ships, and ships are easier to sink than it is to destroy a fighting division. If full surprise is not achieved, that operational area will become quite important.”

  “And what of NATO surprises?”

  The General leaned back. “By definition you cannot predict surprises, Comrade. That is why we have the intelligence organs, to reduce or even eliminate them. That is why our plans allow for a number of contingencies. For example, what if surprise is totally lost and NATO attacks first?” He shrugged. “They would not go far, but they would upset things. What still concerns me are nuclear responses. Again, more of a political question.”

  “Yes.” Sergetov’s worry was for his elder son. When the reserves were mobilized, Ivan would climb back into his tank, and he didn’t need to be a Politburo member to know where that tank would be sent. Alekseyev had only daughters. Lucky man, Sergetov thought. “So, this unit goes to Germany?”

  “The end of the week.”

  “And you?”

  “During the initial phase we are tasked to be the strategic reserve for CINC-West’s operations, plus to defend the Motherland against possible incursions from the southern flank. That does not concern us greatly. To threaten us, Greece and Turkey must cooperate. They will not, unless our intelligence information is completely false. My commander and I will later execute Phase 2 of the plan, and seize the Persian Gulf. Again, this will not be a problem. The Arabs are armed to the teeth, but there are not so many of them. What is your son doing now?”

  “The elder? He’s ending his first year of graduate school in languages. Top of his class—Middle Eastern languages.” Sergetov was surprised at himself for not thinking of this.

  “I could use a few more of those. Most of our Arabic language people are Muslims themselves, and for this task I would prefer people more reliable.”

  “And you do not trust the followers of Allah?”

  “In war I trust no one. If your son is good at these languages, I will find a use for him, be sure of that.” The formal agreement was made with nods, and each wondered if the other had planned it that way.

  NORFOLK, VIRGINIA

  “Progress hasn’t ended as scheduled,” Toland said. “Satellite and other reconnaissance shows that the Soviet forces in Germany and western Poland are still together in operational formations living in the field. There are indications that rail transport is being marshaled at various points in the Soviet Union—that is, at points consistent with plans to move large numbers of troops west.

  “Soviet Northern Fleet this morning sortied six submarines. The move is ostensibly a scheduled rotation to replace their operational squadron in the Med, so for the next two weeks they’ll have more subs in the North Atlantic than is normally the case.”

  “Tell me about the group rotating out of the Med,” CINCLANT ordered.

  “A Victor, an Echo, three Foxtrots, and a Juliet. They all spent the last week tied alongside their tender at Tripoli—the tender stayed put, in Libyan territorial waters. They will clear the Straits of Gibraltar about 1300 Zulu tomorrow.”

  “They’re not waiting for the new group to relieve them on station first?”

  “No, Admiral. Usually they do wait for the replacement group to enter the Med, but about a third of the time they do it this way. That gives us twelve Soviet subs in transit north and south, plus a November and three more Foxtrots that have been exercising with the Cuban Navy. At the moment they are all tied alongside also—we checked up on them this morning, that data is two hours old.”

  “Okay, what about Europe?”

  “No further information on Mr. Falken. The NATO intelligence services have run up against a blank wall, and there’s been nothing new from Moscow, not even a date for the public trial. The Germans say that they have no knowledge whatever of the guy. It’s just as though he appeared fully grown at age thirty-one when he started his business. His apartment was taken apart one stick at a time. No incriminating evidence was found—”

  “Okay, Commander, give us your professional gut feeling.”

  “Admiral, Falken is a Soviet sleeper agent who was inserted into the Federal Republic thirteen years ago and used for very few missions, or more probably none at all, until this.”

  “So you think this whole thing’s a Soviet intelligence operation. No big surprise there. What’s its objective?” CINCLANT asked sharply.

  “Sir, at the very least they are trying to put enormous political pressure on West Germany, perhaps to force them out of NATO. At worst—”

  “I think we already figured the worst-case scenario out. Nice job, Toland. And I owe you an apology for yesterday. Not your fault that you didn’t have all the information I wanted.” Toland blinked. It was not often that a four-star admiral apologized to a reserve lieutenant-commander in front of other flag officers. “What’s their fleet doing?”

  “Admiral, we have no satellite photos of the Murmansk area. Too much cloud cover, but we expect clear weather tomorrow afternoon. The Norwegians are running increased air patrols in the Barents Sea, and they say that, aside from submarines, the Russians have relatively few ships at sea at the moment. Of course, they’ve had relatively few ships at sea for a month.”

  “And that can change in three hours,” an admiral noted. “Your evaluation of their fleet readiness?”

  “The best it’s been since I’ve been studying them,” Toland replied. “As close to a hundred percent as I’ve e
ver seen it. As you just said, sir, they can put to sea at any time with almost their whole inventory.”

  “If they sortie, we’ll know it quick. I have three subs up there keeping an eye on things,” Admiral Pipes said.

  “I talked with the Secretary of Defense right before I came here. He’s going to meet with the President today and request a DEFCON-3 alert, global. The Germans are requesting that we keep Spiral Green in operation until the Russians show signs of easing things off. What do you think the Russians will do, Commander?” CINCLANT asked.

  “Sir, we’ll know more later today. The Soviet Party Secretary will be speaking at an emergency meeting of the Supreme Soviet, maybe also at the funeral tomorrow.”

  “Sentimental bastard,” Pipes growled.

  In front of the office television an hour later, Toland missed having Chuck Lowe around to back up his translation. The Chairman had an annoying tendency to speak rapidly, and Toland’s Russian was barely up to it. The speech took forty minutes, three-quarters of which was standard political phraseology. At the end, however, the Chairman announced mobilization of Category-B reserve units to meet the potential German threat.

  12

  Funeral Arrangements

  NORFOLK, VIRGINIA

  The House of Unions was unusually crowded, Toland saw. Ordinarily they only buried one hero at a time with such ceremony. Once there had been three dead cosmonauts, but now there were eleven heroes. Eight Young Octobrists from Pskov, three boys and five girls ranging in age from eight to ten, and three clerical employees, all men who worked directly for the Politburo, were laid out in polished birchwood coffins, surrounded by a sea of flowers. Toland examined the screen closely. The caskets were elevated so that the victims were visible, but two of the faces were covered with black silk, a framed photograph atop the coffins to show what the children had looked like in life. It was a piteous, horrible touch for the television cameras to linger on.

  The Hall of Columns was draped in red and black, with even the ornate chandeliers masked for this solemn occasion. The families of the victims stood in an even line. Parents without their children, wives and children without fathers. They were dressed in the baggy, ill-cut clothes so characteristic of the Soviet Union. Their faces showed no emotion but shock, as if they were still trying to come to terms with the damage done to their lives, still hoping that they’d awake from this ghastly nightmare to find their loved ones safe in their own beds. And knowing that this would not be.

  The Chairman of the Party came somberly down the line, embracing each of the bereaved, a black mourning band on his sleeve to contrast with the gaudy Order of Lenin emblem on his lapel. Toland looked closely at his face. There was real emotion there. One could almost imagine that he was burying members of his own family.

  One of the mothers accepted the embrace, then the kiss, and nearly collapsed, falling to her knees and burying her face in her hands. The Chairman dropped down to her side even before her husband did, and pulled her head into his shoulder. A moment later he helped her back to her feet, moving her gently toward the protective arm of her husband, a captain in the Soviet Army whose face was a stone mask of rage.

  God almighty, Toland thought. They couldn’t have staged that any better with Eisenstein himself directing.

  MOSCOW, R.S.F.S.R.

  You cold-hearted bastard, Sergetov said to himself. He and the rest of the Politburo stood in another line to the left of the caskets. He kept his face pointed forward, toward the line of coffins, but he averted his eyes, only to see four television cameras recording the ceremony. The whole world was watching them, the TV people had assured them. So exquisitely organized it was. Here was the penultimate act of the maskirovka. The honor guard of Red Army soldiers mixed with boys and girls of the Moscow Young Pioneers to watch over the murdered children. The lilting violins. Such a masquerade! Sergetov told himself. See how kind we are to the families of those we have murdered! He had seen many lies in his thirty-five years in the Party. He had told enough of them himself—but never anything that came close to this. Just as well, he thought, that I’ve had nothing to eat today.

  His eyes came back reluctantly to the waxen face of a child. He remembered the sleeping faces of his own children, now grown. So often after arriving home late from Party work, he had stolen a look into their bedroom at night to see their peaceful faces, always lingering to be sure that they were breathing normally, listening for the sniffles of a cold or the murmurs of a dream. How often had he told himself that he and the Party worked for their future? No more colds, little one, he said with his eyes to the nearest child. No more dreams. See what the Party has done for your future. His own eyes filled with tears—and he hated himself for it. His Comrades would think it part of the performance. He wanted to look around, to see what his Comrades of the Politburo thought of their handiwork. He wondered what the KGB team that had done the deed thought of their mission now. If they were still alive, he reflected. So easy to put them on an airplane and crash it into the ground so that not even executioners would know of them. All records of the bomb plot were already destroyed, he was sure, and of the thirty men who knew of it, more than half were right there, standing in line with him. Sergetov almost wished he had entered the building five minutes sooner. Better to be dead than to be a beneficiary of such infamy—but he knew better. In that case he would have played an even larger role in this brutal farce.

  NORFOLK, VIRGINIA

  “Comrades. We see before us the innocent children of our nation,” the Chairman began, speaking with slow, quiet diction that made Toland’s translation job easier. CINCLANT’s intelligence chief was at his side. “Killed by the infernal engine of State terrorism. Killed by a nation that has twice defiled our Motherland with unholy dreams of conquest and murder. We see before us the dedicated, humble servants of our Party who asked nothing more than to serve the State. We see martyrs to the security of the Soviet Union. We see martyrs to the aggression of fascists.

  “Comrades, to the families of these innocent children, and to the families of these three fine men, I say that a reckoning will come. I say that their deaths will not be forgotten. I say that there will be justice for this vicious crime . . .”

  “Jesus.” Toland stopped translating and looked over at his senior.

  “Yeah. There’s going to be a war. We have a linguistic team across the street doing a full translation, Bob. Let’s go see the boss.”

  “You’re sure?” CINCLANT asked.

  “It’s possible they will settle for something less, sir,” Toland replied. “But I don’t think so. Everything about this exercise has been run in such a way as to inflame the Russian population to a degree I’ve never seen before.”

  “Let’s put this all the way on the table. You’re saying that they deliberately murdered these people to foment a crisis.” CINCLANT looked down at his desk. “It’s hard to believe, even for them.”

  “Admiral, either we believe that or we believe that the West German government has decided to precipitate a war against the Soviet Union on their own hook. In the second case the Germans would have to be totally out of their fucking minds, sir,” Toland blurted, forgetting that only admirals swear in front of admirals.

  “But why?”

  “We don’t know the why. That’s a problem with intelligence, sir. It’s a lot easier to tell the what than the why.”

  CINCLANT stood and walked to the corner of his office. There was going to be a war, and he didn’t know why. He wanted the why. The why might be important.

  “We’re starting to call up reserves. Toland, you have done one hell of a good job over the past two months. I’m going to request that you get bumped up a grade to full commander. You’re outside the normal zone, but I think I just might be able to handle it. There’s an open intel billet with Com Second Fleet staff. He’s put in a request for you if things go sour, and it looks like they are. You would be number three on his threat team, and you’d be out on a carrier. I want you out ther
e.”

  “It sure would be nice to have a day or two with the family, sir.”

  The Admiral nodded. “We owe you that much. Nimitz is in transit anyway. You can meet her off the Spanish coast. Report back here Wednesday morning with your bags packed.” CINCLANT came over to shake his hand. “Well done, Commander.”

  Two miles away, Pharris was tied alongside her tender. As Ed Morris watched from the bridge, ASROC rocket-boosted torpedoes were being lowered onto his bow by crane, then fed into the magazine. Another crane was lowering supplies onto the helicopter hangar aft, and a third of his crew was hard at work moving them into proper storage spaces throughout the ship. He’d had the Pharris for nearly two years now, and this was the first time they’d had a full weapons loadout. The eight-cell “pepperbox” ASROC launcher was being serviced by shoreside technicians to correct a minor mechanical glitch. Another team from the tender was going over a radar problem with his own crew. This was the end of his own checklist of problems to be fixed. The ship’s engineering plant was functioning perfectly, better than he would have expected for a ship nearly twenty years old. In another few hours, USS Pharris would be completely ready . . . for what?

  “Still no sailing orders, skipper?” his executive officer asked.

  “Nope. I imagine everybody’s wondering what we’ll be doing, but for my money even the flags”—Morris always referred to admirals as flags—“don’t know yet. There’s a meeting of COs tomorrow morning at CINCLANTFLT. S’pose I’ll find out something then. Maybe,” he said dubiously.

  “What do you think of this German stuff?”

  “The Krauts I’ve worked with at sea have been all right. Trying to blast the whole Russian command structure—nobody’s that crazy.” Morris shrugged, a frown spreading across his dark face. “XO, there ain’t no rule that says the world has to make sense.”