Commander-In-Chief

by Mark Greaney

  Belanger sat in the back of his command vehicle now, looking at the disposition of his units on the Blue Force Tracker screen and enjoying the smell of pine out the open rear hatch. Outside he could just see a bit of the thick forest around him from the red glow of the lights here in the interior of his vehicle.

  He was in a thick wood near a village called Balsiškės, although he knew he wouldn’t be here for long. The Russian tanks were approaching up rural route 5227, just a few miles away, and they’d be on him by dawn if he didn’t pull back yet again.

  He didn’t want to give away more ground. Looking at his digital map he recognized he had only two more fallback positions before he’d be in the outskirts of Vilnius itself, and at that point the Russian advance could take any one of dozens of routes to get around him, to cut him off from escape, and then to lock his force into an area small enough to destroy it with ease.

  He’d moved his field hospitals back into the suburbs of Vilnius already, but he did not want to move his fighting forces into the city. No, he wanted to stay out here, mobile and ready to keep chipping away at the enemy.

  Just then a noise roared; flashes in the sky and in the forest around him caused Belanger to launch toward the hatch of his command vehicle. Explosions throughout the woods blasted his eardrums, and he recognized the sound of Russian 300-millimeter rockets raining down around him, ripping into the forest and the village next to it.

  Eight explosions within less than ten seconds told him a 9A52-4 Tornado multiple rocket launcher vehicle either had a specific fix on his position, or just general orders to flatten the village in advance of the T-90s’ arrival.

  Either way, it didn’t matter. He needed to get his men out of here.

  He grabbed the latch of the hatch and started to pull it closed, but quickly he looked back into the red glow behind him. He saw three of the four Marines who’d been riding with him. His radio man was out taking a leak.

  “Flagger!” he shouted, and the young Marine appeared in the dark, rolled into the command vehicle, and the tracks began turning in the mud. Belanger shut the hatch, ordered his driver to take them south, and ordered all elements on the net to fall back yet again.

  This wasn’t any sort of combat he could recognize. Belanger was essentially being chased down by rockets and tanks now. He’d have to get on the roads to stay ahead of the hot pursuit, and the Russians knew how to read road maps. They merely had to pulverize the escape routes back to Vilnius, and then they would kill the retreating Marines.

  Belanger knew his force had punched above its weight for two and a half days, but he suspected they wouldn’t make it till dawn unless something stopped the T-90s.

  A new sound tore the sky directly above his vehicle, so loud all the men with him ducked down. He turned and looked at his roof-mounted camera, flipped it to infrared, and panned the lens back and forth looking for the source of the noise.

  A pair of unusual-looking fighter planes raced by just above treetop level, heading west to east.

  “What the fuck, sir?” one of his captains shouted over the noise.

  Just then explosions erupted to the northeast, right at the spearhead of advancing Russian armor.

  Belanger looked at the image of the aircraft in the distance, then another pair roared right overhead, this time on a slightly different heading. He looked the planes over as they raced by. These two dropped bombs over the Russian spearhead before banking off to the north.

  Belanger said, “Those are Saab Gripens.”

  His captain asked, “Who flies those weird-looking birds?”

  “Sweden. Just Sweden.”

  More explosions erupted over the Russians.

  “Sweden is in this war?” the radio operator asked.

  “Guess so,” the lieutenant colonel said.

  “Whose side are they on, sir?”

  “Well, they’re blowing shit up to the east, genius. What does that tell you?”

  The radio operator looked at his lieutenant colonel. “All hail Sweden?”

  Belanger fought a smile, then began ordering an immediate halt to his battalion. He could take advantage of this attack to mount a new defensive line, utilizing the EARLY SENTINEL positions in the area. With a little luck and a lot more Gripens in the air, he realized, he might actually have a shot at holding the Russians out of Vilnius until the weather cleared.

  79

  Lieutenant Damon Hart always wondered how he would feel if he actually destroyed a submarine. He’d been training for it since he’d joined the Navy, he’d served on cruisers and LCSs and guided missile destroyers with that one objective in his mind, but he never knew how he’d react if the moment ever came.

  And now that moment came and went in an instant. The sonar supervisor had just spoken over the net to announce the second ASROC Hart had ordered launched at the Russian Kilo had struck it dead center. The sounds of explosions, cavitation, and metal wrenching under pressure reported by the sonar technicians erased any doubt at all that Hart had just done his duty for his country.

  But at this auspicious moment Lieutenant Hart had no time to think about his kill.

  Instead all his attention, every synapse of his brain function, immediately turned to something else. He looked up at the Aegis screen, focusing on the tracks of the missiles in the air. While he did this he keyed his mike. “EW, USWE. Talk to me about the Vampires.”

  There were five missiles flying, every one fired by the submarine at bearing 031, now 26,000 yards off the starboard bow of the James Greer. He could see one of the missiles was on terminal flight, rocketing down toward the second Polish frigate. On one of the two Aegis displays on the wall it showed the flight path of this Oniks missile as it converged with the ship.

  There was nothing that could save that frigate from taking a direct hit.

  The second Oniks launched at that vessel had veered off course somehow. From its erratic track on the Aegis display, it appeared to all that it had suffered a mechanical malfunction of some sort.

  But there were three more launches where tracks had not shown up on the display yet. But Hart had a sinking suspicion he knew where they were going.

  “USWE, EW. Three Vampires are inbound on our heading. They are tracking, convergence in forty-two seconds.”

  On Hart’s left, Commander Hagen broadcast on the 1-MC network, sending his booming voice through almost every compartment on the ship. “All hands, inbound Vampires. This is not a drill. Prepare for evasive action and impact.”

  Hagen then called Weapons Control. “WC, Captain. Stand by on chaff. Send broadband jamming strobe.”

  “Captain, WC. Standing by on chaff. Sending broadband strobe, aye!”

  The captain then ordered his XO on the bridge to turn into the missiles, reducing the radar cross section of his ship, and this order was confirmed as well.

  Just then, the tactical air controller monitoring the two MH-60 Romeos broadcast over the net. The helo had been dropping sonobuoys to the north of the second contact, designated Contact-Enemy Sub Zero Three.

  “USWE, TAC. Casino One-Two reports good cross fix and firing solution on Contact-Enemy Sub Zero Three. Request permission to engage. Reports his loadout is two Mark-54 torpedoes.”

  Hart couldn’t jam his transmit button fast enough. “TAC, USWE. Casino One-Two is cleared batteries released. Engage with two Mark-54s.”

  The TAC confirmed the order.

  Hart grabbed on to the side of the display table as the James Greer began heeling hard to port. Up in the bridge the executive officer was positioning the warship in the best defensive position against the incoming missiles.

  The TAC’s voice came over the net. “Casino One-Two reports two weapons away.”

  A report over the net from starboard lookouts announced the sighting of two pinpricks of light above the water. Everyone in the CIC realized these
were two of the three inbound Oniks, and all eyes looked to the left Aegis screen, which showed the video display of the mast-mounted sight on the James Greer. But instead of the incoming missiles, they could see only a massive fireball in the distant night as the second Polish frigate was hit by a missile.

  Seconds later the James Greer vibrated, and Hart grabbed the table even tighter. He knew the Aegis system, set up on auto-engage, was launching RIM-174 extended-range active missiles from its aft missile deck. They were the James Greer’s main defense for antiship cruise missiles. It would be hitting a bullet with a bullet, and Hart knew that no RIM-174 had ever engaged a Russian P-800 Oniks, so this would be a first.

  Hopefully.

  The Aegis system launched a total of six missiles off its aft missile deck in rapid succession, and within seconds of the last launch, the report came across the net that all launches were successful, and there were no apparent casualties on board the ship, a standard report for any launch.

  Hart knew three state-of-the-art missiles were inbound on him at Mach 2.5, but he had to keep his focus on his job, which was the attack on the Severodvinsk-class sub to his southeast. He ordered Casino One-One into the area to launch its two torpedoes as well, and he prepared the Greer for the launch of more ASROCs at this new target. He was planning on firing every weapon he had in the direction of the vessel, including his ship’s five-inch deck gun, if it came down to it.

  The TAO interrupted Hart’s concentration—“USWE, TAO. Second inbound Vampire has lost altitude, thirteen thousand yards away. It appears to have suffered a mechanical malfunction.”

  “USWE, aye.”

  Hart watched the Aegis screen for a moment. He saw the missile track of the six outbound RIM-174s as they converged with the two remaining inbound Oniks missiles, which were steadily getting closer to the James Greer.

  Over his headset he heard the TAC’s voice. “USWE, TAC. Casino One-One reports a good firing solution on Contact-Enemy Sub Zero Three, and is requesting batteries free.”

  This was the other helo. Hart said, “You have batteries released. Launch two Mark-54s.”

  The tactical action officer spoke now. “One inbound Vampire destroyed. Remaining Vampire has made it through the ERAMs and is inbound. Impact in twelve seconds!”

  Captain Hagen was on his net with the WC and the bridge. “Launch chaff, increase to flank speed!” Then he broadcast again on the 1-MC: “All hands, one inbound Vampire on terminal attack. Brace for impact.”

  Hart bent his knees, slacked his jaw, and held tightly to the table, but he kept his eyes on the digital dead-reckoning tracer table in front of him. He could see four torpedoes active, and the Severodvinsk sub was taking evasive actions, trying to avoid its own destruction.

  At the same time, the USS James Greer was doing exactly the same thing.

  It occurred to Hart then and there that each combatant in this fight was about to kill the other, and everyone would die.

  He heard a low, whining sound above him now, loud enough that he squatted down for an instant as if to take cover. Soon he realized what he was hearing. The Phalanx close-in weapon system—abbreviated CIWS and simply called “C-whiz”—was a missile-defense system, an automatic cannon that used the Aegis radar and a Vulcan 20-millimeter Gatling gun to attack inbound antiship missiles with 4,500 rounds a minute. It was the last defense on the destroyer, and when it fired, it meant an antiship missile, in this case one moving at two and a half times the speed of sound, was only seconds from impact.

  The C-whiz sounded to Hart like the world’s largest lawn mower, and it roared above him in four two-second bursts. After the last burst, Hart heard the sound of impacts all over the ship. He felt a jolt, and lost his footing and dropped to the deck of the CIS.

  Commander Hagen knelt next to Hart, and he spoke to the bridge, calling for a status report. When none came, he dropped his headset and ran out of the Combat Information Center.

  Hart stood back up slowly. He wasn’t sure what the hell had happened, but he was pretty certain the James Greer did not just get hit by an antiship missile.

  That was noisy and disruptive, yet they hadn’t been blown to pieces as if they’d been slammed into by an Oniks.

  He had just looked down at the table when he heard, “USWE, Sonar. I have cavitation at heading zero, zero, two. Contact-Enemy Sub Zero Three. Torpedo impact!”

  Across the CIC men and women began cheering. The Severodvinsk had managed to avoid three of the four Mark-54s fired at it, but the last one detonated below its hull, and tore the submarine in half at a depth of two hundred meters.

  On his display Hart watched a Polish corvette turn toward the location of the explosion and begin steaming closer to inspect the wreckage. It was only three and a half miles away, and it would be there in minutes.

  The celebration was quick; it was subdued in the CIC when moments later the two Aegis display screens went dark. Calls over the 1-MC requesting firefighting personnel and medical teams began soon after.

  Hart made his way up to the main deck minutes later, and by then he had heard the news. The last of the three Oniks missiles fired at the James Greer had been destroyed by the C-whiz just 525 yards from impact, but the kinetic energy of the inbound missile had sent hundreds of pounds of shrapnel against the ship, ripping through radar systems, destroying communications equipment. Debris had ripped into the bridge, killing three outright and injuring eleven more.

  Hart saw small fires and torn metal, blood on the deck, and wounded carried by in the passageways.

  He figured this was only a hundredth of the effect of the Oniks had it slammed into the hull, but this was still bad. His vessel was wounded enough to severely curtail its operations until it could limp back to port and go through repairs, and men and women were dead and wounded.

  Hart walked back down to the CIC, knowing he needed to evaluate the status of the warship’s fighting capabilities. He had no idea if other dangers hid in the waters below him, and he knew the Poles had just lost their two largest naval vessels.

  Exhausted, disheartened by the death around him, he realized his work would not end until he was home, or politicians in Moscow and Washington somehow figured out how to end this war.

  • • •

  President of the United States Jack Ryan hung up the phone with the president of Poland, then he looked at Scott Adler, sitting in his customary position across his desk. “It’s settled. They’ve agreed.”

  Adler blew out a long sigh of relief. “Good.”

  He then turned to Secretary of Defense Bob Burgess and DNI Mary Pat Foley, both sitting farther away on one of the sofas in the seating area of the Oval Office. “This had better work.”

  Mary Pat said, “It’s our best play. The most direct way to affect things over there.”

  Burgess nodded. Said, “While you were on your call, I spoke with Secretary Hazelton. The naval battle is over. We had damage to our destroyer, and the Poles lost two frigates and a fast attack boat.”

  Ryan sighed. “And what did that get us?”

  Burgess cracked a hint of a smile. “Three subs. As far as we know, everything they still had in the water over there that poses a threat to our Marine landing ships.”

  “Thank God.”

  The SecDef added, “The destroyer that sank the Kazan, their most advanced attack sub?”

  “Yeah?”

  “DDG-102. The James Greer.”

  Admiral Jim Greer had been Ryan’s mentor at CIA.

  The President cocked a slow, sly smile. “Funny damn world, isn’t it, Bob?”

  “Sure as hell is, Mr. President. I think Admiral Greer would get a kick out of it.”

  Ryan said, “Let’s give it to the Poles.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The Kazan. We’ll give the credit for the kill to the Polish Navy.”

  Burgess said,
“A lot of good men and women on the James Greer gave their all to win that sub. Handing it over to the Poles diminishes the work of the U.S. Navy in all this.”

  “They didn’t get into that work to be famous.”

  “Still, Mr. President. It’s the biggest naval success in a generation, and the Poles deserve a lot of recognition, but robbing the James Greer of their part in it seems wrong.”

  “I’m not robbing anyone of anything, Bob. I’m just aware of how important a diplomatic coup it would be if the world, and the Russians, thought the Poles did this on their own.”

  Burgess was not happy about this, and Ryan saw it. “Bob, you’re pissed, and I appreciate that. But this is the right move. When the smoke clears and the James Greer gets back home, I’ll go out and visit them and make a big deal about their efforts in the Baltic, without being specific. I’ll talk about their sinking of the Kilo. I’m going to be unpopular around the Navy on this one, I understand, but I’m only thinking about discouraging Russia from attacking its neighbors.”

  Burgess blew out a long sigh. “You’re still popular with the Navy, Mr. President.” He chuckled. “Maybe you’ll let me stand behind you when the Greer gets back to port so I can give the sailors a little wink, let them know we know what they did.”

  Ryan agreed to this, then stood and looked at his watch. “It’s almost time to go on TV. If I’m going to do this I want it to be ready for the news in Moscow. I’ll spend an hour with the speechwriters and then I’ll go on-air.”

  80

  President Jack Ryan wore a blue suit with a red tie, and he sat at his desk in the Oval Office and looked into the camera. His comments would be broadcast live all over the world, certainly even in Russia, although some there wouldn’t see him.