“We already have an entire carrier task force in place. The Mockba-class Leonid V. Brezhnev aircraft carrier is stationed in the Persian Gulf. The Brezhnev battle group is nearly unopposed—the Americans, I’m glad to say, still refuse to put one of their carriers in the gulf out of fear of reprisal. The Brezhnev has six cruisers, ten destroyers, and ten support vessels. When the destroyer Sovremennyy is attacked, the battle group will attack the Iranian military ports of Abadan, Bandar-Abbas, and Bushehr. The group will be reinforced by Tu-95 and Tu-121B naval bombers from our ports in South Yemen. Control of Bandar-Abbas will give us control of the Straits of Hormuz, the major chokepoint, as you well know, of the entire Persian Gulf. The southern Teatr Voennykh Deistvii will occupy Tehran, with assistance from three divisions from Afghanistan, which will control the eastern border. Southern TVD, Caspian flotilla, and Iraqi forces will capture the western frontier.”
Czilikov noticed a few nervous faces in the Kollegiya. They were not, it seemed, itching for battle. They would follow orders, but this was a far more ambitious operation than they had expected.
Khromeyev pushed on. “Syrian and Iraqi forces will contain any American military reaction from Turkey, and the Brezhnev carrier battle group in the Persian Gulf will close off the air and sea approaches to the Persian Gulf, the Gulf of Oman and the Arabian Sea.” Czilikov stood and faced the Kollegiya. The computer map had frozen with the scene of red sickles and hammers spread from Syria to Pakistan.
“In one week we will occupy Iran,” Czilikov said. “A coup will reinstate the Islamic regime of Larijani, which will, as mentioned, unify Iran under the Islamic Republic of Persia. We will retain both political and military control of the region and prevent the United States from ever regaining a strong strategic foothold in the Persian Gulf.”
There was a low rumble of voices. Czilikov sat, folded his hands before him on the table, waiting for the rumble to subside. A few short years ago such a bold plan would have provoked vigorous, angry protests. No longer. Already the men surrounding Czilikov began to quiet. The members of the Kollegiya were either too dumbfounded or afraid or both to speak out. Czilikov let his words linger for a few moments, then said, “Your comments, tovarischniyes.”
“It’s a brilliant plan,” Ilanovsky said enthusiastically. “A swift, crushing pincer that will grab the entire region away from the U.S.”
“I assure you the navy stands ready, gentlemen,” Admiral Cher- cherovin added. “The Brezhnev battle group can easily control the region, and our naval aviation forces from South Yemen and Vietnam will intercept all American rapid deployment air forces.”
Each of the commanders of the armed forces, in turn, weighed in with their enthusiasm and support for Czilikov’s invasion plan. But such overwhelming support didn’t especially hearten the Minister of Defense. Intimidated military commanders tended to make unreliable decisions. He was about to make some comment about his staff’s excessive enthusiasm when he noted a quiet but animated discussion between Deputy Minister Alexi Ivanovich Rhomerdunov, commander in chief of aerospace forces, and one of his staff members. The staffer was all but being pushed back into his seat by Rhomerdunov, who had to be at least thirty years older than his enthusiastic aide.
“Is there a problem, Rhomerdunov?”
All heads swiveled in the direction of the seventy-year-old head of air defense forces. Rhomerdunov straightened in his seat, stabbing an angry glare in his aide’s direction. “No, Comrade Minister.”
Czilikov nodded and was about to issue his orders to the Kollegiya when Rhomerdunov cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Minister Czilikov”—he again looked apprehensively in the aide’s direction—“perhaps there are some important points to be made about this Iranian offensive.”
The members of the Kollegiya froze and stared at Rhomerdunov, as if he had just badly insulted the minister of defense. Czilikov said nothing. Then, without further prompting, Rhomerdunov’s aide stood and straightened to attention. The officer was tall, lean, powerfully built. Ukrainian, obviously, judging by his wide shoulders, flat nose, and square jaw, Czilikov decided. He hit on the man’s name as he began to speak.
“Sir, I am—”
“I know who you are, General Lieutenant Govorov. As the Soviet Union’s first space shuttle cosmonaut and a Hero of the Soviet Union you’re known to us all.” Czilikov ground a fist into his palm in barely restrained anger. “Your contributions to the scientific and military excellence of our country forgive many... transgressions. Since you have seen fit to grant yourself permission to speak before the Kollegiya, please proceed. I’m sure everyone wants to hear from the new commander of the space-defense command.”
“My apologies, sir,” which was as far as Govorov’s apology went Most officers below the rank of three-star general would be a mass of jelly speaking in front of the Kollegiya, even without committing a major breach of protocol. But it didn’t seem to affect young Govorov.
“Well, proceed, General Lieutenant.”
Govorov stayed at attention. “It is my opinion that this mission to attack Iran will ultimately fail.”
Rhomerdunov straightened in his seat and looked straight ahead, as if steeling himself for the executioner. All eyes in the room moved from Rhomerdunov’s granite face to the surprised Marshal Czilikov.
“I’ve heard,” Czilikov said, “that subtlety is not exactly your style. I see it is true.” He looked to Rhomerdunov, who kept staring straight ahead. Well, Czilikov thought, it seemed the old war horse Rhomerdunov wasn’t afraid to challenge the party, even if it was indirectly through his deputy Govorov.
As for Govorov, he took Czilikov’s silence as a cue to continue. “The Americans have a device that is not only capable of warning of any impending invasion but also of directing American and NATO counterforces. This device, sir, is the Armstrong Space Station—”
“The space station? Their military station? It’s only been in orbit for a few months—”
“Yes, and it is fully operational,” Govorov said. “As we all know, sir, the Americans have successfully completed their first operational test of their illegal Thor space-based interceptor missile. Although the test was less than perfect—”
“That is an overstatement, Govorov,” Khromeyev put in. “The Americans called it an operational test, but it was carefully staged to insure optimal results. In spite of their choreography, our intelligence reported several clear misses with the Thor missile. It is an obvious propaganda ploy—”
“Our intelligence puts the effectiveness of the Thor missile at no better than eighty-three percent,” Govorov agreed, “which my staff feels is no better than fifty percent in an actual wartime scenario. But, sir, the Thor missile is not at issue. My staff is more concerned with the system of advanced sensors now in use, especially the phased- array, space-based radar aboard the space station Armstrong. It has a far greater capability than we first estimated. We believe, sir, that the space-based radar can track and identify objects on land, sea, and in the air from ranges in excess of sixteen hundred kilometers.”
A clamor of voices erupted in the conference chamber. Czilikov’s voice boomed out above them all. “Sixteen hundred kilometers? That’s impossible. No radar can do that.”
“No earth-bound radar, sir. But a radar mounted in space has no size or geographical limitations. It’s limited only by the power available to it—and the space station has enough solar-energy capability to power the whole Kremlin.”
“You are trying to tell us,” Deputy Minister Ilanovsky said, “that a single space station can monitor all movement of military equipment involved in Operation Feather? Thousands of vehicles spread out over millions of cubic kilometers of space in mountainous terrain and in bad weather? That is preposterous—”
“It may sound so,” Govorov said to the commander of the army, “but our estimates confirm it.”
“I say that whether this radar can do all of these things is still immaterial,” Deputy Minister Marasimov, the commander
of Strategic Rocket Forces, said. “The station is in polar earth orbit. It does not permanently position itself over the Middle East. It can only provide short-term glimpses of the region a few times each day. Which would make it impractical as a warning and control station.”
Govorov hesitated for a moment. “That’s true, but—”
“This expensive toy has no more capability than an ordinary reconnaissance satellite,” Marasimov went on, smiling benignly at young Govorov. “What you have said about the Armstrong’s radar is true ... if the radar is in operation when it passes over the area, if it works properly, if its operators and interpreters correctly analyze the images, and if they can get the information to regional commanders in time to be of some use. By my count that’s four pretty damn big ifs.”
Marasimov nodded to Czilikov. “I believe our young colleague has presented some very... interesting information, but I also believe that the radar on the American space station would be no obstacle to the success of Feather.”
Govorov looked amazed. “Excuse me, but—”
“Thank you, General Lieutenant Govorov,” Czilikov said, dismissing him. “I will expect detailed briefings on each command order of battle for Operation Feather in two weeks.”
Govorov sank back into his metal folding chair as Czilikov continued issuing his orders. He struggled to remain poker-faced, his eyes narrowed into angry slits as a few of the deputy ministers and marshals cast amused glances his way.
They can’t believe now, Govorov told himself. But they will. The American space station won’t just be talked, or wished, away.
EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND
From the northernmost cannon mounts known as the Argyle Battery of Edinburgh Castle, the view of the New Town section of Edinburgh was breathtaking. Far below the craggy heights of the ancient castle, which seemed to grow out of the rock like a gnarled oak, the snow- covered Princes Street Gardens stretched from St. Cuthbert’s Church to the west, to Waverley Station to the east and far, far down the Lothian Valley to the North Sea. Beyond Princes Street Garden, the modem shops, hotels and homes of New Edinburgh—“new” in this instance meaning the part of town that was only two hundred forty years old, as opposed to the rest, which was over twelve hundred— bustled with activity despite the cold winds and occasional snowfalls.
There were a few die-hard tourists visiting this imposing stone castle overlooking Edinburgh, but for the most part the site was deserted except for the warders and members of the Castle Guard. Only a few hardy, well-dressed individuals stood by to watch as the Royal Scots Dragoon Guard made their way to the Mill’s Mount gun platform for the one o’clock signal.
“The townspeople, merchants and sailors of Edinburgh have set their timepieces to the one o’clock gun ever since the time of Napoleon Bonaparte,” a tour guide was saying. His thick Scottish brogue, dulled by the chill winds swirling around the top of the castle, made him difficult to understand, but the man who stood a few feet to his left, dressed in a gray trenchcoat, wool-brimmed hat, leather gloves and sunglasses was not really listening. “It is even said that Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, stops by Edinburgh every day to check the spin of the earth and moon with the gun so sailors won’t get lost.”
“Why do they fire the gun at one o’clock?” a man with a slight Middle Eastern accent asked. He had been waiting there for some time, and was now standing right up near the chain and stanchions that kept visitors away from the small fifty-five-millimeter howitzer. “It seems a strange hour. Why not signal at noon?”
Now the man in sunglasses was interested, but not in the tour guide’s reply—being a native of Scotland, he’d already guessed the answer.
“Ye forget, sir,” the tour guide replied, his lips forming a sly smile, “you’re in Scotland. Having to fire only one shot per day, rather than twelve, appeals to a Scotman’s sense of economy.”
The foreigner gave a short laugh and the tour guide went on with his well-rehearsed script. The Scots, the man with the sunglasses observed, seemed as fond of making fun at themselves as they were of the English and Irish.
Presently the guards entered the chained-off area, and at the direction of the officer in charge, fired one economical round to the north over the New Town. By force of habit the man in sunglasses checked his watch—the timing was perfect. The Scots were nothing if not both thrifty and punctual.
The tourists quickly retreated out of the numbing wind that blew in from the glacial bay called the Firth of Forth; even the Dragoon Guards’ pace seemed to quicken as they marched off the Argyle Battery back to the massive group of two-hundred-year-old buildings called the New Barracks.
The man with the slight Middle Eastern accent turned away from the Mills’ Mount Battery as if reluctantly relinquishing the sting of the icy winds on his face and walked down the cobblestone concourse toward the Portcullis Gate. He almost walked right into the man in the sunglasses. “Excuse me.” His voice was even colder than the chill Scottish winds.
The man in the sunglasses began in French. “Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur le President Alientar.”
“McDonough?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“I was afraid you were not going to come. I thought your government was going to change its mind again.”
“We can talk over here, sir,” McDonough said, letting Alientar’s shot glance off him unanswered. He led him past the former cart sheds turned souvenir shops and down a narrow alley to the Back Parade between the Butts Battery and the building marked “Governor’s Residence.” They then turned left across to a cobblestone halfmoon carriageway to an entrance in the rear of the governor’s residence.
“We are going in here?” President Alientar asked.
“The English and Scottish governments were kind enough to offer us a secure place to talk,” McDonough said. They walked up the stone-and-tiled portico of the rear of the building and were immediately met by a member of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guard in a black cold-weather uniform. No kilts, dirks or ceremonial basket-hilt broadswords here—the guard had a very mean, modem-looking Heckler and Koch MP5A3 assault submachine gun at portarms. He checked McDonough’s ID, compared it against a separate roster, motioned them inside.
A man dressed in household whites but clearly a member of the Dragoon Guard—the bulge of a Special Air Services Browning high- power automatic pistol was visible under his tunic—led the two foreigners through the outer galley and kitchen area, through the well-appointed dining room and large sitting room and into a smaller office area. He eyed them both suspiciously, then left without saying a word.
“Not very friendly...”
“He probably feels this meeting of foreigners demeans the surroundings,” McDonough said, and motioned Alientar to a leather- covered seat. A few moments later the guard returned with a tray of tea and scones.
“M’omercia,” McDonough said in Gaelic. “My thanks.” The guardsman gave McDonough a piercing look, obviously feeling that the foreigner was making fun of him by speaking the ancient Scottish tongue. He left with a loud thud of the heavy oak door.
“No doubt my presence is a particular irritant,” Alientar said. He eyed McDonough as he removed his hat, coat, and gloves. “What is it you do, Mr. McDonough?”
“I’m an assistant to the president of the United States. I’m assigned to the National Security Council but I report directly to the president.”
“Are you a military man?”
“Retired—United States Air Force. I was an air attache to Tehran before the revolution.”
“A spy, then.”
“No, an air attache. I was liaison between the Iranian and U.S. air forces.”
“You would deny it in any case,” Alientar said blandly. McDonough took a deep breath, surprised at how steady his hands were as he poured the tea.
“I am distressed that the president did not send one of his senior advisors to this meeting,” Alientar said. “I would have expected at least a cabinet-level officer, or
the vice-president.” He looked casually around the office, as if trying to decide whether or not to continue. “This troubles me—troubles me deeply. I question the sincerity of your government if they can’t at least send someone of ministerial or ambassadorial rank—”
McDonough thought how a few years back Bud McFarland said almost the same thing to second-rank Iranians when he had come to Tehran to sell arms for hostages. Full-circle. . . . “My apologies if we’ve offended you,” McDonough said. He had been expecting this. “But the president requested this meeting in anticipation of a more formal state visit by you to Washington at the earliest opportunity. He asked me to talk with you, hear you out, and transmit your messages to him.”
Alientar shrugged. "Very well, but I am disappointed. And to have this meeting in Scotland? In the dead of winter? A poor choice.” “Excuse me, sir, but this was by far the most secure place for this meeting. True, it’s not recommended that you stray too close to these Royal Scots Dragoons. Too many Scottish seamen in the Royal Navy have lost their lives in the Persian Gulf because of your predecessor’s attacks on British escort vessels in recent months. But almost any other site would be far more dangerous.” McDonough paused for a moment, then went on. “Internal disputes in your own Revolutionary Guard make it no longer safe for you to be in your own palace in Tehran. Half the Muslim nations have shunned you or are afraid to show you any friendship, and the other half want you dead. Even France, where you’ve stayed for the past month, is close to deporting you because of the terrorist attacks you provoke by being there. You were let into Great Britain only after personal assurances from my president that secrecy would be maintained. All in all, I’d say we are lucky that this meeting is being held in the office of the governor of Scotland rather than in some jungle hut in South America—”
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