Most of the American forces had escaped out of the lager. The senior officer on the scene had decided on the spot to turn and run for cover in the woods and residential streets around the brigade base. He was a lieutenant colonel, the brigade executive officer. The Colonel commanding the brigade was nowhere to be found, and the XO was now considering his options. The brigade had two mechanized infantry battalions and one of tanks. From the last, only nine of fifty-two M1A1s had gotten away. He could see the glow from the rest of them, still burning in their lager.
A DEFCON-THREE alert out of nowhere, and then minutes later, this. Over forty tanks and a hundred men lost, shot down without warning. Well, he'd see about that.
The Berlin Brigade had been in place since long before his birth, and scattered throughout its encampment were defensive positions. The Colonel dispatched his remaining tanks and ordered his Bradley fighting vehicles to volley-fire their TOW-2 missiles.
The Russian tanks had overrun the tank lager and stopped. They had no further orders. Battalion commanders were not yet in control of their formations, left behind by the mad dash of the T-80s across the line, and the regimental commander was nowhere to be found. Without orders, the tank companies stopped, sitting still, looking for targets. The regimental executive officer was also missing, and when the senior battalion commander realized this, his tank dashed off to the headquarters vehicle, since he was the next-senior officer in the regiment. It was amazing, he thought. First the readiness drill, next the flash alert from Moscow, and then the Americans had started shooting. He hadn't a clue what was going on. Even the barracks and administrative buildings were still lit up, he realized. Someone would have to get those lights off. His T-80 was back-lit as though on a target range.
"Command tank, two o'clock, skylined, moving left to right," a sergeant told a corporal.
"Identified," the gunner replied over the intercom.
"Fire."
"On the way." The corporal squeezed his trigger. The seal-cap blew off the missile tube, and the TOW-2 blasted out, trailing behind a thin control wire. The target was about twenty-five hundred meters away. The gunner kept his crosshairs on target, guiding the antitank missile to its target. It took eight seconds, and the gunner had the satisfaction of seeing detonation right in the center of the turret.
"Target," the Bradley commander said, indicating a direct hit. "Cease fire. Now let's find another one of these fuckers ... ten o'clock, tank, coming around the PX!"
The turret came left. "Identified!"
"Okay, what does CIA make of this?" Fowler asked.
"Sir, again all we have is scattered and unconnected information," Ryan replied.
"Roosevelt has a Soviet carrier battle group a few hundred miles behind them, and they carry MiG-29s," Admiral Painter said.
"They're even closer to Libya, and our friend the Colonel has a hundred of the same aircraft."
"Flying over water at midnight?" Painter asked. "When's the last time you heard of the Libyans doing that--and twenty-some miles from one of our battle groups!"
"What about Berlin?" Liz Elliot asked.
"We don't know!" Ryan stopped and took a deep breath. "Remember that we just don't know much."
"Ryan, what if SPINNAKER was right?" Elliot asked.
"What do you mean?"
"What if there is a military coup going on right now over there, and they set a bomb off over here to keep us from interfering, to decapitate us?"
"That's totally crazy," Jack answered. "Risk a war? Why do it? What would we do if there were a coup? Attack at once?"
"Their military might expect us to," Elliot pointed out.
"Disagree. I think SPINNAKER might have been lying to us from the beginning on this issue."
"Are you making this up?" Fowler asked. It was coming home to the President now that he might actually have been the real target of the bomb, that Elizabeth's theoretical model for the Russian plan was the only thing that made sense.
"No, sir!" Ryan snapped back indignantly. "I'm the hawk here, remember? The Russian military is too smart to pull something like this. It's too big a gamble."
"Then explain the attacks on our forces!" Elliot said.
"We don't know for sure that there have been attacks on our forces."
"So now you think our people are lying?" Fowler asked.
"Mr. President, you are not thinking this through. Okay, let's assume that there is an ongoing coup in the Soviet Union--I don't accept that hypothesis, but let's assume it, okay? The purpose, you say, for exploding the bomb over here is to keep us from interfering. Fine. Then why attack our military forces if they want us to sit on our hands?"
"To show that they're serious," Elliot fired back.
"That's crazy! It's tantamount to telling us they did explode the bomb here. Do you think they would expect us not to respond to a nuclear attack?" Ryan demanded, then answered his own question: "It does not make sense!"
"Then give me something that does," Fowler said.
"Mr. President, we are in the very earliest stages of a crisis. The information we have coming in now is scattered and confused. Until we know more, trying to put a spin on it is dangerous."
Fowler's face bore down on the speakerphone. "Your job is to tell me what's going on, not to give me lessons in crisis-management. When you have something I can use, get back to me!"
"What in the hell are they thinking?" Ryan asked.
"Is there something I don't know here?" Goodley asked. The young academic looked as alarmed as Ryan felt.
"Why should you be any different from the rest of us?" Jack snapped back, and regretted it. "Welcome to crisis-management. Nobody knows crap, and you're expected to make good decisions anyway. Except it's not possible, it just isn't."
"The thing with the carrier scares me," the S&T man observed.
"Wrong. If we only splashed four aircraft, it's only a handful of people," Ryan pointed out. "Land combat is something else. If we really have a battle going on in Berlin, that's the scary one, almost as bad as an attack on some of our strategic assets. Let's see if we can get hold of SACEUR."
The nine surviving M1A1 tanks were racing north along a Berlin avenue, along with a platoon of Bradley fighting vehicles. Streetlights were on, heads sticking out windows, and it was instantly apparent to the few onlookers that whatever was happening wasn't a drill. All the tanks had the speed governors removed from their engines, and they could all have been arrested in America for violating the national interstate highway limit. One mile north of their camp, they turned east. Leading the formation was a senior NCO who knew Berlin well--this was his third tour in the once-divided city--well enough that he had a perfect spot in mind, if the Russians hadn't got there first. There was a construction site. A memorial to the Wall and its victims was going up after a long competition. It overlooked the Russian and American compounds which were soon to be vacated, and bulldozers had pushed up a high berm of dirt for the sculpture that would sit atop it. But it wasn't there yet, just a thick dirt ramp. The Soviet tanks were milling about on their objective, probably waiting for their infantry to show up or something. They were taking TOW hits from the Bradleys and returning fire into the woods.
"Christ, they're going to kill those Bradley guys," the unit commander--a captain whose tank was the last survivor of his company--said. "Okay, find your spots." That took another minute. Then the tanks were hull-down, just their guns and the tops of turrets showing. "Straight down the line! Commence firing, fire at will."
All nine tanks fired at once. The range was just over two thousand meters, and now the element of surprise was with someone else. Five Russian tanks died with the first volley, and six more in the second, as the Abrams tanks went into rapid fire.
In the trees with the Bradleys, the brigade XO watched the north end of the Russian line crumple. That was the only word for it, he thought. The tank crews were all combat vets, and now they had the edge. The northernmost Russian battalion tried to reorient itself,
but one of his Bradleys had evidently scored on its commander, and there was confusion there. Why the Russians hadn't pressed home the attack was one question that floated about the rear of his brain, but that was something to save for the after-action report. Right now he saw that they had screwed up, and that was a good thing for him and his men.
"Sir, I've got Seventh Army." A sergeant handed him a microphone.
"What's happening over there?"
"General, this is Lieutenant Colonel Ed Long, we just got our ass attacked by the regiment across town from us. No warning at all, they just came into our kazerne like Jeb Stuart. We've got 'em stopped, but I've lost most of my tanks. We need some help here."
"Losses?"
"Sir, I've lost over forty tanks, eight Bradleys, and at least two hundred men."
"Opposition?"
"One regiment of tanks. Nothing else yet, but they have lots of friends, sir. I could sure use some myself."
"I'll see what I can do."
General Kuropatkin checked his status board. Every radar system that was not down for repair was now operating. Satellite information told him that two SAC bases were empty. That meant their aircraft were now airborne and flying toward the Soviet Union along with KC-135 tankers. Their missile fields would also be at full alert. His Eagle satellites would give launch-warning, announcing that his country had thirty minutes left to live. Thirty minutes, the General thought. Thirty minutes and the reason of the American President were all that stood between life and death for his country.
"Air activity picking up over Germany," a colonel said. "We show some American fighters coming out from Ramstein and Bitburg, heading east. Total of eight aircraft."
"What do we have on the American Stealth fighters?"
"There is a squadron--eighteen of them--at Ramstein. Supposedly the Americans are demonstrating them for possible sale to their NATO allies."
"They could all be in the air right now," Kuropatkin noted, "carrying nuclear weapons, for that matter."
"Correct, they can easily carry two B-61-type weapons each. With high-altitude cruise, they could be over Moscow before we knew it...."
"And with their bombsights ... they could lay their weapons exactly on any target they wish ... two and a half hours from the time they lift off ... my God." In the weapon's earth-penetration mode, it could be placed close enough to eliminate the President's shelter. Kuropatkin lifted his phone. "I need to talk to the President."
"Yes, General, what is it?" Narmonov asked.
"We have indications of American air activity over Germany."
"There's more than that. A Guards regiment in Berlin reports being under attack by American troops."
"That's mad."
And the report came in not five minutes after my friend Fowler promised not to do anything provocative. "Speak quickly, I have enough business here already."
"President Narmonov. Two weeks ago a squadron of American F-117A Stealth fighters arrived at their Ramstein air base, ostensibly for demonstration to their NATO allies. The Americans said they want to sell them. Each of those aircraft can carry two half-megaton weapons."
"Yes?"
"I cannot detect them. They are virtually invisible to everything we have."
"What are you telling me?"
"From the time they leave their bases, then refuel, they can be over Moscow in less than three hours. We would have no more warning than Iraq had."
"Are they truly that effective?"
"One reason we left so many people in Iraq was to observe closely what the Americans are capable of. Our people never saw that American plane on a radarscope, neither ours nor the French scopes Saddam had. Yes, they are that good."
"But why would they wish to do such a thing?" Narmonov demanded.
"Why would they attack our regiment in Berlin?" the Defense Minister asked in reply.
"I thought this place was proof against anything in their arsenal."
"Not against a nuclear gravity bomb delivered with high accuracy. We are only one hundred meters down here," Defense said. In the old battle between warhead and armor, warhead always wins....
"Back to Berlin," Narmonov said. "Do we know what's happening there?"
"No, what we have has come from junior officers only."
"Get someone in there to find out. Tell our people to fall back if they can do so safely--and take defensive action only. Do you object to that?"
"No, that is prudent."
The National Photographic Intelligence Center, NPIC, is located at the Washington Navy Yard, in one of several windowless buildings housing highly sensitive government activities. At the moment they had a total of three KH-11 photographic and two KH-12 "Lacrosse" radar-imaging satellites in orbit. At 00:26:46 Zulu Time, one of the -11s came within optical range of Denver. All of its cameras zoomed in on the city, especially its southern suburbs. The images were downlinked in real-time to Fort Belvoir, Virginia, and sent from there to NPIC by fiber-optic cable. At NPIC, they were recorded in two-inch videotape. Analysis started immediately.
This aircraft was a DC-10. Qati and Ghosn again availed themselves of first-class seating, pleased and amazed at their good luck. The word had gotten out only minutes before the flight was called. As soon as the report had gone out on the Reuters wire, it had been inevitable. AP and UPI had instantly picked it up, and all television stations subscribed to the wire services. Surprised that the networks had not yet put out their own special bulletins, the local affiliates ran with it anyway. The one thing about it that had surprised Qati was the silence. As the word spread like a wave through the terminal building, what lay behind it was not shouting and panic, but an eerie silence that allowed one to hear the flight calls and other background noises normally submerged by the cacophony of voices in such public areas. So the Americans faced tragedy and death, the Commander thought. The lack of passion surprised him.
It was soon behind him in any case. The DC-10 accelerated down the runway and lifted off. A few minutes later it was over international waters, heading toward a neutral country and safety. One more connection, both men thought in a silence of their own. One more connection, and they would disappear completely. Who would have expected such luck?
"The infrared emissions are remarkable," the photoanalyst thought aloud. It was his first nuclear detonation. "I have damage and secondary fires up to a mile from the stadium. Not much of the stadium itself. Too much smoke and IR interference. Next pass, if we're lucky, we ought to have some visible-light imagery."
"What can you tell us about casualty count?" Ryan asked.
"What I have is inconclusive. Mainly the visible-light shots show smoke that's obscuring everything. Infrared levels are very impressive. Lots of fires immediately around the stadium itself. Cars, I guess, gas tanks cooking off."
Jack turned to the senior Science and Technology officer. "Who do we have up in the photo section?"
"Nobody," S&T replied. "Weekend, remember? We let NPIC handle weekend work unless we expect something hot."
"Who's the best guy?"
"Andy Davis, but he lives in Manassas. He'll never make it in."
"Goddamn it." Ryan picked up the phone again. "Send us the best ten photos you have," he told NPIC.
"You'll have them in two or three minutes."
"How about someone to evaluate the bomb effects?"
"I can do that," S&T said. "Ex-Air Force. I used to work intel for SAC."
"Run with it."
The nine Abrams tanks had by now accounted for nearly thirty of the Russian T-80s. The Soviets had pulled south to find cover of their own. Their return fire had killed three more of the M1A1s, but now the odds were a lot more even. The Captain commanding the tank detachment sent his Bradleys east to conduct reconnaissance. As with their first dash, there were people watching them, but for the most part they did this from windows now unlit. The streetlights worried one Bradley commander, who took a rifle and began shooting them out, to the horror of Berliners who had the c
ourage to watch.
"Was nun?" Keitel asked. What now?
"Now we get the devil away from here and disappear. Our work is done," Bock replied, turning the wheel to the left. A northerly escape route seemed best. They'd dump the car and truck, change their clothes, and vanish. They might even survive all this, Bock thought. Wouldn't that be something? But his main thought was that he'd avenged his Petra. It had been the Americans and Russians who'd brought her death about. Germans had only been the pawns of the great players, and the great players were paying now, Bock told himself, were paying now and would pay more. Revenge wasn't so cold a dish after all, was it?
"Russian staff car," the gunner said, "and a GAZ truck."
"Chain gun." The track commander took his time identifying the inbound targets. "Wait."
"I love killin' officers...." The gunner centered the sight for his 25mm cannon. "On target, Sarge."
For all his experience as a terrorist, Bock was not a soldier. He took the dark, square shape two blocks away for a large truck. His plan had worked. The American alert, so perfectly timed, could only mean that Qati and Ghosn had done their job exactly as he'd envisioned five months earlier. His eyes shifted as he saw what looked like a flash bulb and a streak of light that went over his head.
"Fire--hose 'em!"
The gunner had his selector switch on rapid fire. The 25-millimeter chain gun was wonderfully accurate, and the tracers allowed you to walk fire right into the target. The first long burst hit the truck. There might, he reasoned, be armed soldiers in the truck. The initial rounds went into the engine block, shattering it into fragments, then, as the vehicle surged forward, the next burst swept through the cab and cargo area. The truck collapsed on two flattened front tires and ground to a halt, the wheel rims digging grooves in the asphalt. By that time the gunner had shifted fire and put a short burst through the staff car. This target merely lost control and slammed into a parked BMW. Just to make sure, the gunner hit the car again, and then the truck. Someone actually got out of the truck, probably wounded already from the way he moved. Two more 25mm rounds fixed that.
the Sum Of All Fears (1991) Page 90