Brown, Dale - Independent 01

by Silver Tower (v1. 1)

  “Aye, sir,” Edgewater replaced the phone to CIC and picked up the phone to flight operations. “Air ops, this is the bridge. Get Whiskey One airborne and Sierra on deck. Send Whiskey One to back up Tango.”

  He turned back to Clancy, who was staring at the buzz of activity surrounding the two F-14 Tomcats on the catapults. Behind the retractable blast-fence two more Tomcats waited for their turn on the catapults, and eight more were lined up waiting to taxi behind them. The number-three elevator was bringing still another Tomcat up out of the hangar deck to take its place in line. The flight deck was noisy and smelly, and cold rain began to pelt the lookout deck surrounding the bridge of the Nimitz—but Clancy was in his element as he watched his sailors do their stuff.

  A messenger ran up to Edgewater and handed him a sheet of computer paper. “Message from the Mississippi, Admiral,” Edgewater called out. When Clancy did not reply, Edgewater went out to him on the catwalk. “The Mississippi intercepted a Soviet AS-6 cruise missile launched from the north Arabian Sea.”

  “What about the Backfires? Did the Tomcats ... ?”

  “All six down,” Edgewater said, allowing a smile. “The Tomcats took out five of them. A sixth went out of control.”

  Clancy raised his eyes skyward, letting pellets of cold rain hit his face.

  Thank you, Silver Tower....

  TYURATAM, USSR

  The night of the abortive Backfire bomber attack in the Arabian Sea a uniformed man appeared at Govorov’s home at the Space Defense base at Tyuratam. The banging on the apartment door startled Govorov’s wife and caused their five-year-old daughter to wake up, asking if the apartment was on fire. Govorov opened the door and found an aide of the Minister of Defense with a sealed letter in his hand. The letter told him there was a MiG-31 waiting for him at Tyuratam Aerodrome; he was to report to the Kremlin immediately. The letter stated the exact time of his appointment with the Stavka.

  Govorov was irritated but hid it from Czilikov’s aide. There was no way he could arrive at the designated time, even aboard one of the world’s fastest jet fighters. But that was intended, an obvious ploy to show how displeased the Stavka was with him.

  Telling the aide to give him a few minutes, he went back to the tiny bathroom in his master bedroom and without a light began to run hot water to shave. His wife propped herself up on one elbow in their bed. “Who was it, Alesander?”

  “A messenger for Moscow. They want me there.”

  “And you were going to shave in the dark?” She got up from bed and snapped on the bathroom light. “I’d better check on Katrina. The messenger scared her.”

  He could hear his wife’s soothing voice trying to calm their daughter and had to steady his razor hand to keep from nicking himself. If one of the august members of the Stavka were roused out of bed as he had been, heads would roll. He didn’t really stand much on ceremony or rank, but they were still treating him like a squadron commander.

  He knew why, of course.... It was because of the American space station Armstrong’s not being destroyed as he’d thought at first... .

  He shaved, quickly washed, dressed in a space defense command flight suit and a pair of boots. His wife was waiting at the door with his flying jacket, an insulated bottle of coffee and an egg-and-sausage sandwich wrapped in a napkin.

  He took her face in both his hands and kissed her on the lips. “I do not deserve you,” he said.

  “Oh, I think you do,” she said, helping him on with his jacket, “but I deserve you as well.” She zipped up his jacket for him and returned his kiss with a long, warm one of her own. “Will you call me before you launch?”

  Her question had been unexpected. “I won’t ask how you knew that I might be flying today. If I could conquer the mysteries of a woman, I could conquer outer space, maybe even the Stavka members.” She smiled, but it was strained. “Yes,” he said quickly, “I will try to call.”

  “I love you, Alesander.”

  Her tone held him. He searched her round eyes—looked away. What he saw bothered him....

  “I’ll call you,” he said, and hurried out. He nearly stumbled over the aide in his rush toward the stairway. The man ran ahead to open the door for him as they emerged into the cold darkness. Govorov snatched up the telephone in the rear of the car as the driver hustled behind the wheel and sped off.

  Govorov punched four digits into the dialing keypad. “Marshal Govorov here. Duty officer. Gulaev? Put him on. Nikolai. I’ve been ordered to Moscow. Call dispatch at the aerodrome and take whoever is the pilot of the MiG-31 off the flight orders. I’ll fly myself to Moscow. Have life-support put my gear on the plane, then put me on the flight orders for Elektron One effective upon my return to Glowing Star. Shift Colonel Kozhedub to Elektron Two and Litvyak to Three. Put Vorozheykin on the flight orders of Elektron One until I get back. He will drop back to standby with Pokryshkin when I take command of Elektron One.”

  Govorov dropped the phone back onto its cradle and leaned toward the front seat. “Drive faster.” A vivid image of his wife and daughter came to him and he forced it away. He had seen something in his wife’s eyes back in the apartment that he badly wanted to change. She was scared, too scared for her own good... or his.

  “Faster. ”

  CHAPTER 12

  October 1992

  THE EMERGENCY INFORMATION AND RESPONSE CENTER, NOVOMOSKOVSK, USSR

  It was the first time in months that any member of the Stavka VGK, the Armed Forces Supreme High Command, had been in the Soviet military’s alternate command post located one hundred sixty kilometers south of Moscow. This particular post was never involved in any preparedness exercises or drills, was manned by only a small staff of hand-picked technicians and soldiers and did not have a major military airfield associated with it—Stavka members from Moscow were flown in to Novomoskovsk by helicopter. The other well-known “high-value” alternate command posts under the Kremlin and in Pushkino received all the attention and publicity and, it was assumed, were the ones targeted by the West in the event of a thermonuclear exchange. Novomoskovsk, well away from military targets, factories, rail depots and—most important—publicity, was designed to escape all but a direct hit. Unless an attack had already been launched against the Soviet Union and time was running out, the eleven men of the Stavka and their aides and assistants knew that the Novomoskovsk command post was far safer and more secure than any in Moscow.

  In fact, the Novomoskovsk command post was probably the most secure place in eastern Europe. When the Soviet Union perfected the technique of welding ultrathick pieces of metal they had immediately applied that technology to the walls of the three-thousand-square-foot underground facility. The main construction of the bunker consisted of four-foot-thick walls of steel welded by small nuclear detonations in industrial reactors. The steel chamber rode on huge shock absorbers that would cushion the chamber from the terrific overpressures of a nearby nuclear explosion. Two dozen men and women could live and work there in reasonable comfort for at least a month. No question, Novomoskovsk was the place to be if there were ever a nuclear war.

  But at the moment the command post was not the place to be if one wanted to be safe from the stinging disapproval of the general secretary of the Soviet Union. The Soviet leader sat at the apex of a large triangular table, listening with growing irritation to First Deputy Minister Khromeyev as he stood before an electronic briefing board, reviewing the progress of Operation Feather. The Stavka members were arranged on either side of the general secretary, each with a communications terminal and a telephone at his side.

  Yesterday, when the first of the massive air attacks on the Nimitz carrier group had begun, the general secretary had postponed all his appearances and appointments to take personal command of the Arabian Sea conflict. The breaking of the American blockade around the mouth of the Persian Gulf was now the major focus of his attention, and he was growing progressively angrier as he realized nothing was working as planned. And who could blame him? He als
o had a rather complex domestic economy to run. His military people were supposed to handle their end once the goals and strategies had been spelled out.

  “The Arkhangel task force will soon open the high-speed air-attack lane around the Nimitz carrier force,” Khromeyev went on. “This lane will provide a relatively clear path for our Sukhoi-24 carrier-based fighter bombers to transit the American fleet and reinforce the Brezhnev carrier group in the Persian Gulf. We are expecting—”

  “Stop,” the general secretary broke in. “What is all this about a ‘relatively clear’ air attack lane? I want to know about the damned Nimitz. It’s still blocking the Strait of Hormuz, isn’t it? Why aren’t we launching another attack on the Nimitz? Why don’t we have control of the Arabian Sea? Why can’t we bring the Arkhangel carrier group through to the Gulf of Oman? Why?”

  “We have not sufficiently reduced the American forces to allow our vessels to pass,” Admiral Chercherovin said. “Sir, it will take time—”

  “How much have we reduced the American forces? How many ships have we sunk?”

  Chercherovin’s silence said it all.

  “None? We’ve sunk none?”

  “The conflict has not progressed far enough where the surface combatants are in direct conflict,” Minister of Defense Czilikov put in. “That is a phase of battle still a few days away. The battle is being fought in the air, with our aircraft winning the ships’ right to move forward....”

  “And we have inflicted heavy damage on some American vessels,” Chercherovin added. “Our AS-12 missiles are very effective against the older American search-and-tracking radars. Once their guided- missile cruisers are made ineffective our bombers can clear a path for the Arkhangel group to pass—”

  “You seem fixed on this idea that we are conducting this latest offensive merely to let the Arkhangel pass into the Persian Gulf, Admiral,” the general secretary said. “That is not our goal. Our goal is to remove the Nimitz carrier group as a presence in the Persian Gulf area. If necessary I want the Nimitz and all her escorts blown out of the water.... I believe that’s the phrase you people use. Well, is that clear, Admiral?”

  “Yes, sir,” Chercherovin said, literally feeling the heat. The Soviet commander in chief turned to the other Stavka members. “All right,” he said, “let’s get the rest of the bad news out in the open. What about our losses?”

  “Principal surface combatant losses are still zero,” Khromeyev quickly put in. “Damage has been reported aboard five vessels, all due to antiradiation missile attacks. The Krivak-class frigate Kara- marov was seriously damaged but is still under way. Aircraft losses reported from Arkhangel are eighteen Sukhoi-27 fighters, three Kamov-27 anti-submarine warfare—”

  “Eighteen fighters,” the general secretary said. “In two days we have lost eighteen fighters from the Arkhangel? How many were on it to begin with?”

  “Seventy-four—”

  “We have lost one-fourth of our carrier-based fighters? How?” He turned to Chercherovin. “The Arkhangel was supposed to be the ultimate weapon, Chercherovin. So far it has been damn near worthless.”

  “That is not true, sir,” the admiral said quickly. “Our losses have been higher than anticipated because the Americans apparently aren’t concerned about the dangers of escalating this conflict into a major confrontation. The Nimitz group should have pulled back from the Persian Gulf area—instead, it has not only blocked the sea lane but has used force to repel any overflight of the area—”

  “Admiral, what is the problem here?... We should be the ones willing to engage the enemy whatever the cost. We should be taking the battle to them. Instead we’re being pushed around the Arabian Sea by a much inferior force.” He glanced at Czilikov, anticipating a response. When none came he added, “I think it’s time a younger, more aggressive admiral take charge of the Arabian Sea flotilla.”

  Admiral Chercherovin quickly scanned the room, searching for supporters. No one said a word. Not even Czilikov. Then the Admiral looked to Alesander Govorov.

  “I think we should first ask Marshal Govorov the status of the American military space station. That station he supposedly crippled has obviously increased the Americans’ ability to repel our attacks these past two days.”

  The general secretary understood Chercherovin was trying to shift the blame, though the admiral did have a point. He gave Chercherovin a look that told him he wouldn’t get off this easily, then turned to Govorov. “Military intelligence has reported that the Armstrong space-based radar is operational again. Satellite relay signals suggest that the station is warning American vessels of attack and directing attacks against our forces. Is it possible?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. I was mistaken in my damage estimates. We carried only twenty nonexplosive missiles on our first attack, and Colonel Voloshin was lost before expending all his missiles. In my rush to search for Voloshin I depleted my fuel reserves and had to withdraw from the attack before all missiles were directed on the station. The damage estimates on each station subsystem were accurate—”

  “Govorov, I respect you. At least you aren’t making stupid excuses, although it seems you made some stupid, or at least unwise decisions. Concern for a comrade is admirable, but there are times when difficult decisions need to be made. You left the job half finished. And more than one man has suffered for it. Well, do you have any thoughts about what you can do to make some amends?”

  At that moment Govorov was easily the most resented man in that room. And he understood the general secretary’s indulgence was a double-edged sword. He was being given a second chance—partly at least because he was still the most qualified man to do what had to be done. But he also understood if he should fail again, it would be better for him if he didn’t come back.

  “Sir, I propose to lead another attack on the space station—to complete what I should have finished the first time.” He turned to include the other Stavka members. “The way I see it, the attack will be preceded by a chemical-laser barrage from Sary Shagan Research Facility against the new American Air Force geosynchronous surveillance satellite over the Indian Ocean. The laser will keep firing at the satellite while the space station Armstrong is on the opposite side of the earth, until we can be sure that the satellite has been neutralized or knocked out of its orbit. This will insure that our launch from Tyuratam will go undetected. Ground-tracking stations will find it difficult to track us without first knowing our launch point or orbital insertion point, so the space station Armstrong can receive no advance warning of our attack

  “The attack will again be made by armed Elektron spaceplanes launched from Glowing Star Launch Facility at Tyuratam, but this time there will be three Elektron spaceplanes instead of two. My two wingmen will each carry ten Bavinash missiles aboard each space- plane, which have been modified with forty-kilogram high-explosive warheads instead of depleted uranium and molybdenum armor-piercing nosecaps. The objective of my two wingmen will be to disable the Armstrong’s space-based radar system, station propulsion and any defensive armaments. My Elektron will carry a far more important cargo, sir. The Scimitar missiles cannot destroy such a large station as Armstrong, and our spaceplanes cannot drag the station into the atmosphere. Therefore I will carry a two-thousand-kilogram space-reactive bomb into orbit. The bomb uses a chemical reaction to provide the heat and the power to mix a large volume of hydrogen and oxygen gas together in a compressed chamber that will produce the power of over two tons of TNT in the vacuum of space. When Armstrong’s defenses have been neutralized I will fly to the station, plant the explosive on it, then detonate it once my wingmen and I are away. ... On my first mission I took it on myself to slow my attack to allow the station’s crew to evacuate the station. I don’t apologize for my intent. But 1 also understand that it gave the Americans time to build a defense that ended in the death of Colonel Voloshin. By returning to their station and reactivating their offensive surveillance and warning systems, the Americans have shown that they don’t consider our
spaceplane force a threat. So this time my attack will begin immediately. And this time I will destroy that station.”

  The general secretary didn’t show it, but he was pleased. At least this young officer came up with options. He wished the others in the room could be as creative. “It sounds like a workable plan. Do you agree, Czilikov?” He did. “Comments?” There were none. “Then it is authorized.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Govorov said. “I’ll be requesting final launch approval in eight hours. The attack will begin approximately three hours later.”

  “Very well, Marshal. You are dismissed.” Govorov stood, saluted the general secretary and left.

  After he had gone the general secretary turned once again to Chercherovin. “Any other scapegoats, Admiral?” Chercherovin kept his mouth shut.

  “If, as I believe, Marshal Govorov makes good on his promise to destroy the American space station,” the general secretary said, “will this mean that the Arkhangel group can force the Nimitz carrier group to withdraw, or is there some other small bit of information that has not been revealed, some other excuse that you will tell me only after we have had another defeat?”

  “The aircraft lost on the Arkhangel must be replaced,” Chercherovin said. “We have no accurate figures as to how many the Americans have lost—”

  “Which to me sounds like they have not lost any,” the general secretary broke in. “I sense the worst. If I can’t get the truth, the whole truth, out of you, I will assume the worst has happened... so we will assume the Americans lost no fighter aircraft, and we have lost twenty fighters from the Arkhangel. How soon can we send twenty fighters out to the Arkhangel?”

  “It may be difficult,” the admiral said slowly, expecting another outburst. “Sukhoi-27 aircraft modified for carrier duty aboard the Arkhangel are only stationed at Vladivostok, the Arkhangels home port. An operation to move twenty Su-27s from there will take at least a day of planning and a half-day of flying.”