Brown, Dale - Independent 01

by Silver Tower (v1. 1)

  “They are already overwhelmed. We outnumber them two to one. Once the Brezhnev controls the skies over the region, the Western ships in the gulf will be impotent.”

  Kromeyev nodded. “Stationing the Brezhnev in the gulf was a master stroke, the tactical advantage we now have there far outweighs the dangers we faced moving it past the Strait of Hormuz. Who would have thought the Americans would allow us such free access into the gulf? At the very least, I expected them to match our forces—even that was never fully accomplished.”

  “And that will be the Americans’ greatest mistake,” Czilikov said. “They wanted to play power politics in the Persian Gulf without supporting their policies. Soon they will pay the price....”

  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

  The master SBR display now only showed the three-hundred-mile area surrounding the Strait of Hormuz, but even so it took Jake Jefferson and two other technicians to process the volume of data being collected.

  “The Brezhnev is within one hundred miles of Bandar-e Lengeh,” Jefferson reported. “Numerous aircraft in the area.”

  “Those Russians sure are getting ballsy with that carrier,” Walker said, studying the display. “Only one ship, a Krivak-class frigate, between it and Bandar-Abbas. If the Iranians decide to shoot again, the carrier will make one inviting target.”

  “Aircraft launching from the Brezhnev, sir,” Jefferson reported again. “Fast moving, not rotorcraft.”

  “I still can’t figure the Iranians shooting at those ships,” Kevin Baker said. “Did it look like those Soviet ships were threatening them, about to go into Iranian waters?”

  His question got him no answer. Saint-Michael was intently scribbling in a notebook, Ann staying near him.

  “Where is the California?” she asked.

  “Still about six hundred miles away from the Strait of Hormuz,” Saint-Michael said distractedly. “The Nimitz will probably move a few hundred miles closer, within flying range of its fighters, and wait there.” He looked at her. “I’d say your father’s safe, don’t worry.”

  “Safe? I wish I could believe that.” She looked at the master SBR display. “How come we can’t see the Nimitz and the California on the screen?”

  The general was now ignoring her, so Walker took it up: “The Joint Chiefs asked us to zoom in on the Strait of Hormuz. They want a detailed look at where that Soviet carrier Brezhnev is going and what she’s going to do.”

  “But the Nimitz's battle group... ?”

  “Still under surveillance. The SBR still scans the area for a thousand miles around the target area, and that includes the Arabian Sea and the Nimitz. The results of its scans are still recorded—we just don’t display the whole area. There’s just too much data to digest, and we can’t keep both shifts going ’round the clock.”

  “But how can you tell if something’s happening near the Nimitz?”

  “The system is programmed to alert us if the SBR detects a threat near our own ships. An alarm will go off and the display will change to scan—”

  “Rotorcraft recovering on the Brezhnev, sir,” a tech cut in. “Brezhnev turning northwest into the wind again.”

  Walker motioned to Ann. “Why don’t you check those monitors there? You can use them to plot out the California's position.”

  Ann thanked him with her eyes and moved over to the unoccupied computer monitor. She studied the display, noting with fascination that it identified the type of vehicle, its location, its speed and its probable destination and time of arrival. It was identifying trucks, boats and planes of all sizes, even barges and light airplanes—it even had a line of data on a contact labeled “MARINE MAMMAL.”

  There was nothing on the screen mentioning the Nimitz or California, so she used an arrow key on a small keyboard to scroll through several pages of SBR contract-data reports. The list was very long, and she worked the arrow key faster and faster—

  “Ann, hold it.” Saint-Michael suddenly appeared beside her. “Scroll forward again. Did you see a blinking data line a second ago?”

  “Yes, I think so.” She scrolled forward, wondering what she should be looking for.

  “Faster, Ann.” The general finally nudged her aside and pounded the arrow key, finally stopping at a data block that blinked on and off about once every two seconds. He touched his earset controls.

  “Full SBR master display.”

  Walker turned toward his commanding officer. “Sir, that will spoil the data transmissions for the area. Nimitz and JCS are only formatted for a three-hundred-mile dis—”

  “I want full SBR display, Jim. Right now. Those Soviet fighters that launched a few minutes ago from the Brezhnev—they went inland. And fast.”

  He made his way back to his command chair and strapped himself in just as the large master SBR display shimmered and transformed itself back to its large-scale diagram of the entire target region. Several blocks on the display were blinking—areas in northern and northeastern Iran, southern Iran and Afghanistan. The dot representing the Brezhnev was also blinking furiously.

  “Get on ’em, dammit,” Saint-Michael ordered.

  The response was immediate. “Fast-moving fighter aircraft, origin Brezhnev, four hundred seventy knots, one thousand feet above the ground. Sixty miles south of Shiraz.”

  “Four high-speed, low-altitude aircraft heading south, origin estimated as Lyaki on the Caspian Sea, one hundred forty miles north of Tehran.”

  “Brezhnev launching.... Two high-speed aircraft heading north- northwest along the Iranian coast—”

  “The California is on channel six, General,” Walker cut in. Saint- Michael punched a button on his communications panel.

  “California, this is Armstrong Alpha. We’ve detected several highspeed Soviet aircraft overflying Iran. Several from Lyaki heading for Tehran and Tabriz, several from the Brezhnev heading north toward Shiraz and Esfahan. It sure looks like an invasion force.”

  Commander Meserve aboard the California turned pale in the unearthly blue glow of the California's combat information center, then whirled toward the intercom.

  “Attention all hands. Condition yellow. Repeat, condition yellow. Captain to CIC.” He turned again to the headset that linked him with the orbiting space station. “We’re blind down here, Armstrong. We’ve lost the real-time display. Can you assist?”

  “You need to reconfigure your display for one-thousand-mile scan range,” Saint-Michael told him. “We’re only programmed to transmit either the full-scan picture or the three-hundred-mile scan of the strait.”

  Captain Matthew Page was sweating in his life jacket as he trotted back into CIC. “Report, Commander.”

  “Armstrong reports several aircraft from the Soviet Union and from the carrier Brezhnev entering Iranian airspace. Says it looks like an invasion force.”

  “A what?” Meserve held out the headset to Page. “Armstrong, this is Captain Page. General, what the hell is going on?”

  Saint-Michael keyed his earset. “It’s confirmed, Captain. Six highspeed aircraft heading toward Tabriz, six toward Tehran, six toward Esfahan and six for Bandar-Abbas. We’re also showing eight large, slow-moving aircraft at low altitude heading for Tehran. SBR hasn’t identified them yet but I think they’re probably troop transports or heavy bombers. Take your pick—it spells trouble.”

  The eight men in CIC looked to Page for orders. After a few moments he pulled the headset’s microphone to his lips. “How much longer do you have on this orbit, General?”

  “One hour of reliable real-time data. After that another half hour of less precise position-only data until we drop below the horizon. It’ll take another hour after that to resume coverage—”

  “Can’t you slow yourself down, sort of hover over the area? Buy more time?”

  Saint-Michael rolled his eyes in exasperation and glanced at Ann. “Haven’t you ever explained this to your father?” He returned to the laser communications link. “Captain, just take my word for it. We can’t hover anywhere.
”

  “Stand by, Armstrong.” Commander Meserve had pushed the red telephone into Page’s hands. “Page here.”

  “Matt, this is Admiral Clancy. The group is on yellow alert. Repeat, yellow alert.”

  “Aye, sir. We went to yellow as soon as we got the word from the space station.”

  “Very well. Stand by to maneuver. We’ll be launching Hawkeye radar planes, four escorts and two patrol birds. Are you still in contact with the space station?”

  “Affirmative. We’ve lost the real-time display but we have voice contact. We’ll be reestablishing data link with Armstrong momentarily”

  “It looks like you’re it, then, Matt. We’ve lost the real-time display and we have no voice contact. Maintain contact with Armstrong Station by the best possible means and report any significant developments to us pronto. Advise them that we’ll be launching aircraft and request maximum SBR coverage. Over.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. Out.” Page replaced the red phone and returned to the headset. “General, aircraft will be launching from the Nimitz shortly. Can you keep those planes under surveillance until we get our equipment reconfigured? We’re still blind down here.”

  “Affirmative, we’ll give you voice narrative until you get your tactical screen reprogrammed.” Saint-Michael turned to Jefferson and spoke through the wireless intercom: “Jake, you’re on channel six. Give the California verbal advisories on any aircraft or vessels near the carrier group or near the aircraft it’ll be launching. Get Kelly to help the Squids on the California to get their display reformatted.” “Yes, sir.” Jefferson positioned himself in front of the master SBR screen and readjusted his headset as he studied the screen. “California, this is your controller on board Armstrong Station. Fifty-seven more minutes until we’re out of optimal SBR range. How copy?”

  Page nodded to his senior radioman in charge of the California's combat-information electronics system. “Loud and clear, Armstrong.” As Jefferson issued his report the crew of Silver Tower watched the Soviet attack rapidly intensify.

  “More aircraft launching from Brezhnev,” a tech reported. “Several aircraft over Tabriz and Tehran. ETA for large Soviet jet aircraft from Baku Military Airfield is five minutes.” Ann and Kevin Baker could only stand by as the SBR technician reported wave after wave of aircraft swarming over Iran. Through it all, Sergeant Jefferson continued his calm, steady litany in a low, unwavering voice.

  “Looks like an execution,” from Colonel Walker. “We’ve picked up the first emergency reports from Iran. The word is the Soviets are attacking with chemical weapons ”

  THE KREMLIN, USSR

  The battle staff members, chaired by Minister of Defense Czilikov himself, had met every hour on the hour since the first Silkworm missile was launched by exiled Iranian Revolutionary Guardsmen and Soviet agents. First Deputy Minister of Defense Marshal Khromeyev conducted the latest hourly operations briefing.

  “The first sorties from the Brezhnev have already returned,” he began. “All aircraft report complete success. No opposition all the way to their targets and only minimal on their return route. Latest casualties and losses are one Sukhoi-27 fighter bomber from the Brezhnev shot down by Iranian antiaircraft artillery while exiting hostile territory; one Tupolev-26 bomber from the Seventy-Fifth Naval Aviation Bombardment Squad at Lyaki lost over Tabriz in Northern Iran, all four crewmembers lost....”

  “That’s all?” Czilikov said. “Out of nearly a hundred aircraft over Iran in eight hours only two were lost?”

  “Yes, sir, I would like to mention the actions of the men of the Second Rescue Operations Force aboard the Brezhnev. When the Sukhoi was reported downed the men of the Second ROF volunteered to attempt a rescue of the downed airman. Two Mil-14 helicopters from Second ROF were dispatched along with a single Yakovlev-38 vertical takeoff-and-landing aircraft for support cover. After destroying an Iranian gunboat near the crash site, the Second ROF rescued the Sukhoi fighter pilot and all three aircraft safely returned to the Brezhnev. The Sukhoi pilot immediately volunteered for another sortie. I request that the men of Second ROF be awarded the Order of Lenin for heroism.”

  “So ordered,” Czilikov said. “In less than half a day the forces under Marshal Chercherovin have crushed all opposition from Iranian land, air and sea forces. The skies over Iran, Iraq and the Persian Gulf belong to us.” He turned to Chercherovin. “And what about the Americans in the area? What has their reaction been?”

  “Negligible. The four American vessels in the Persian Gulf have taken our warnings and stayed away from the Brezhnev—as a matter of fact, they’ve kept their distance even when the Brezhnev and her escorts moved to launch or recover aircraft. In response, all aircraft involved in Feather have stayed a minimum of one hundred sixty kilometers from all American ships, as you ordered. The Americans are not stupid—they know they’re significantly outnumbered in the gulf. They won’t risk destruction for Iran.”

  “And the American carrier fleet in the Arabian Sea?”

  “Absolutely no response, sir, except to launch a few medium-range reconnaissance aircraft near Iran’s southern shore to monitor our invasion. Admiral Ynoliev of the Brezhnev had allotted ten Sukhoi fighters to counter any actions made by the Nimitz, but none was necessary. The Brezhnev remains at the very edge of the Nimitz's effective combat radius. The American carrier will have to move several hundred kilometers closer to the Gulf of Oman to be able to strike at the Brezhnev, but if it does it will expose itself to counterattack by the Brezhnev's escorts. The exact distance between the Brezhnev and the Nimitz is, I feel, significant, Comrade Minister. The Americans are telling us they’re aware and concerned about our operation but for now will not interfere. The reality of the situation is obvious to anyone—neither the Nimitz nor the Persian Gulf flotilla is in a strong enough position to strike.”

  Czilikov, as much as his aged face would allow, managed an almost childlike smile. “The great American navy, confined like a spoiled brat in a crib.”

  “Perhaps we put too much emphasis on the disposition of the Americans’ surface forces, sir,” Deputy Minister of Defense Marshal Yesimov, the commander in chief of the Soviet Air Force, said. “It is the heavy and medium bombers of the American air forces in Turkey and Diego Garcia that are our chief concern. Those bombers will undoubtedly be allowed use of Saudi Arabian bases as staging areas. The Brezhnev's planes cannot counter enemy land-based aircraft from Turkey and Saudi Arabia and carrier aircraft from the Nimitz all at once, no matter how skilled their pilots are.”

  Noting something less than pleasure on the face of Admiral Chercherovin, Yesimov hurried to put his remarks in context. “My comments are, of course, not meant to reflect Admiral Chercherovin’s brilliant execution of phase one of Operation Feather. What I’m concerned about is phase two. Our use of chemical weapons to neutralize the Iranian surface-to-air missile batteries was, I feel, an... unfortunate miscalculation. We’ve been able to land only a small regiment of paratroopers in Tabriz, Esfahan and Shiraz—the chemical residues are still too dangerous for any more than a small neutralization force. The defenses surrounding Tehran were stronger than we had anticipated and the battle for Tehran Airport hasn’t yet been resolved. Also, Bandar-Abbas was too heavily damaged to land transports at its airfield—our carrier-based fighter-bombers were, unfortunately, a bit too enthusiastic.”

  Commander of the Red Army Ilanovsky cleared his throat several times and added, “Marshal Yesimov is correct, sir. Although we have made remarkable headway, our gains are still not consolidated....”

  “We must push forward,” Czilikov said in a deep, rumbling voice. “The speed of our false Iranian attack has frozen the Americans. They may have had plans to reestablish ties with the present Iranian government but the distrust, distaste, most Americans feel toward all Muslims is still there—and that has worked to our advantage. We’ve not even received an official protest from the U.S. government.”

  Czilikov directed his gaze toward Ilanovsky.” Teh
ran and Bandar- Abbas must be subdued immediately. We must take control of the Strait of Hormuz for our resupply ships to enter, and the central command and control centers of the Iranian military must be neutralized. You have explained the dangers and difficulties associated with conducting military operations in the chemical antiexposure suits and hermetic equipment, but we can’t wait for another twenty-four hours to consolidate our advances. At least a full division must advance on both Bandar-Abbas and Tehran within six hours.”

  “Six hours? With full hermetic equipment? That is impossible,” Ilanovsky said abruptly.

  “We have the transport resources,” Marshal Yesimov put in. “I can land a division within an hour of notification that your shock troops have secured the airfield at Bandar-Abbas and made sufficient repairs—”

  “Another raid on Mehrabad Airport in Tehran from the Brezhnev should crush all opposition,” Chercherovin said. “Doshan Tappeh Airfield in Tehran can be used as an alternate; a squad of shock troops has already occupied that airport, although they hold it by a shoestring. The Antonov-124 may not be able to land at Doshan Tappeh, but a smaller Antonov-72 or -74 should be able to land there.”

  “And Bandar-Abbas?” Ilanovsky asked, trying to calm his anger at being upstaged by the others in the general staff. “What happens after my shock troops are put in place? They’re elite soldiers, not engineers. Who will repair the runway?”

  “Combat Engineers from the Brezhnev will be landed in Bandar- Abbas to make repairs,” Chercherovin replied easily, bathing in the satisfied smile of approval from Minister of Defense Czilikov. “Equipment can be airlifted from the Brezhnev easily—provided your soldiers can secure the coastline.”

  “One company of Seventh Shock Force can control the whole damned town,” Ilanovsky told him. “Bring your ditch-diggers to repair the damage your pilots caused—my men will protect them.”

  “Then we’re decided,” Czilikov said, shooting a stem look at both generals. “The Brezhnev will be responsible for repairs to the airfield at Bandar-Abbas and for a second heavy strike on Tehran. The air force will provide air support and a second bomber strike. Communications will be maintained so that the transports are airborne and over Tehran and Bandar-Abbas when the respective airfields are secure. Those two divisions will be in Tehran and Bandar-Abbas within six hours.”