“How the hell did they move so far, so fast?” Connally asked. “I thought the plans for the defense of Norway were solid. Haven’t they been working on them for the past fifty years, for Crissakes?”
“Not quite, Mr. President,” Secretary of Defense George Vane responded. “The planning that was put in motion fifty years ago was based on having a strong NATO alliance. Most of them became obsolete the day the Berlin Wall went down and everybody started scrambling to make friends with the Russians.”
“I’ve had about all the anti-Communist bullshit I need for today from the Senate delegation that was just upstairs, George,” Connally snapped. “I don’t need rhetoric. I need results!”
“It isn’t just rhetoric, Mr. President,” Vane said quietly. “The simple fact is that the end of the Cold War era left us behind. It’s a classic case of being ready to fight the last war when the next one rolls around.”
“Just what’s that supposed to mean?” the President asked him coldly.
“It means that we didn’t evolve new strategies fast enough to keep pace with the new political realities,” Scott amplified. “For better than forty years we were all geared for one thing — the big conventional war in Europe, with Russian tanks pouring through the Fulda Gap and the NATO allies rallying to hold them off. The situation changed, but we didn’t change with it.”
“We counted on a couple of divisions attacking the Norwegian frontier,” Vane added. “So far we’ve identified six divisions on land and the equivalent of another one operating by sea, plus a pair of divisions providing desant troops for paradrops and airmobile attacks. There are at least twice as many tactical air units available in Scandinavia as we ever projected. Without the need to support operations in Germany or elsewhere the Soviets can overwhelm Norway without even trying very hard.”
The National Security Advisor, Herbert T. Waring, spoke for the first time. “There’s also the matter of our preparedness. If this had been happening in the seventies or the eighties we would’ve been on full alert the first day of the crisis, back when it was still just a lot of saber-rattling. We would have been shuttling Marines over there as fast as we could round up the flights to carry them, and the prepositioned supplies we had around Trondheim would’ve been worth something. Norway could’ve gone just like the buildup in Saudi before Desert Storm … but we let it slip by until it was too late to act.”
“Damn it, Herb, we just can’t keep on playing policeman to the world anymore,” West said harshly. “The last Administration tried that and ended up screwing around with the budget so much that we may never get the deficit under control again. And we came within a gnat’s whisker of an all-out war in Korea … not to mention the mess in India.”
“And if we hadn’t been out there pounding the old beat,” Scott said quietly, “India and Pakistan would’ve bombed each other back to the Stone Age with nukes. The world’s too small a place for isolationism to work any more.”
“Gentlemen, this isn’t getting us anywhere!” Connally said loudly. “I didn’t ask for a political debate.”
“You wanted to know why the Russians were able to push so far,” Vane said. “You’ve just heard a few good reasons. Not all of them, by any means. Without the English, supporting Norway is damned near impossible. The nearest air base we’ve got is Keflavik in Iceland, and that’s just not enough to close the GIUK gap, much less help out in Norway.”
“You’re still pushing for that, eh, George?” Connally said, raising an eyebrow. “If it’s such a lost cause, why should we get involved now?”
“Mr. President, we’re already involved. The incident this morning — the skirmish between our aircraft and the Russian recon flight — will guarantee that much.” Scott looked grim as he spoke. “Unless you’re ready to back down publicly in front of the Russians — and I mean the whole nine yards, public apologies, acceptance of their exclusion zone, everything — then we’re in this war up to our necks as of today.”
“Do the rest of you feel this way?” Connally asked.
Vane and Waring nodded. Vincent DuVall, the Director of the CIA, shrugged. “That’s our best estimate, Mr. President,” he said.
“Well, I don’t agree,” West said. “I think all of you are a little too ready to see the old Russian bogeyman lurking in the shadows again. We could stop this crisis right now if we would just give diplomacy time to work.”
Secretary of State Robert Heideman looked up. “The Soviet Ambassador was willing to arrange a conference on Norway when I talked to him last night,” he said. “Unless this incident with the Tu-95 gets in the way, we still have a foot in the door for some kind of peaceful settlement.”
“Sure,” Vane said harshly. “And in the two or three weeks it takes to get the conference rolling, Lindstrom’s people get the crap kicked out of them and the Russians occupy the rest of Norway. When are you people in State going to wake up and smell the smog? Diplomacy works best when you can back it up with firepower. Just compare the Carter era to the Reagan years. Ronald Reagan put an end to the Cold War, Bob, even if it was Gorby who got the awards.”
“I said I didn’t want a goddamned debate!” Connally exploded. They had covered this same ground over and over again since the start of the crisis. “Admiral, when you said we needed to show the flag in the Norwegian Sea I went along with it. Now it looks like your precious career has landed us in the middle of the war. But before we go any farther I need to know just what you think those men can accomplish. You tell me Lindstrom’s not going to hold out, that without British or German help we can’t deal with the Russian invasion. So why should I let your people proceed if things are as bleak as you people have been painting them?”
“Let me answer that one, Mr. President,” Vane said. “The time has come to quit thinking in terms of incremental jumps. We can’t just keep on reacting to each new Russian move, We’ve got to take the initiative.”
“How?” West demanded.
“I think our forces should go to DefCon Two immediately,” Van said. “Start mobilizing a strike fleet and a Marine Expeditionary Brigade right away, and put the 101st and the 82nd on alert. As soon as possible we need to start putting men into Norway.”
“That’s suicide!” Heideman protested. “While they have air superiority in Scandinavia we can’t possibly get the Army in place.”
“Glad to hear you understand that much,” Vane commented coldly. “We’ll also need to ferry air units into the Bergen area as quickly as possible so we have a chance to even out the odds a little.”
“Won’t all this take time?” Connally asked.
“Absolutely. Too damned much time. It’ll take days just to get the first planes in. There weren’t that many serviceable air bases in Norway when all this started … it’ll be worse now that the Soviets have had a chance to bomb Out the runways they’ve still got. And that’s why we need the Jefferson in those waters now more than ever, Mr. President. Just by being there she’s a distraction the Soviets will have to deal with. And every day, every hour she delays the advance on Bergen by keeping the Russians occupied out at sea makes our intervention more viable.”
Connally looked around the table. His eyes found the “football” at its place next to him. “So no matter how hard we try, it comes down to all-out war,” he said quietly. “is Norway really worth the risk of a nuclear exchange?”
It was Scott who answered him. “If you’re going to ask that question, Mr. President, then you might as well be prepared to resign now and let the Soviets have the entire world. It’s easy to argue that a given country isn’t really worth all that much. Norway’s not that large or that rich. So let it fall. Then what happens? Will you risk a nuclear war over Germany? Or France? What about Great Britain? These days they aren’t even our close allies. Will you risk nuclear confrontation over our right to freedom of the seas? The Russians want to keep us out of the Norwegian Sea now. What if they renew their ties with Havana and try to restrict our access to the Caribbean next?
” He pointed to the map. “The only place to draw the line is at the first victim, Mr. President. Whether you’re protecting oil in Kuwait or ice and snow in Norway. Because the only alternative is to abdicate our responsibility. Not as world policemen. As a free part of the world community. It’s too late to resist a tyrant when he’s knocking on your own door.”
Scott fell silent, and no one answered him. Finally Connally stood slowly. “Very well, you’ve made your point. Order DefCon Two, and begin drawing up a plan to support the Norwegians.” He paused. “And God help us.”
CHAPTER 12
Thursday, 12 June, 1997
0545 hours Zulu (0545 hours Zone)
Wing commander’s office, Soviet Aircraft Carrier Soyuz
The Norwegian Sea
“How could I predict what that fool Terekhov would do, Comrade Admiral?” Captain First Rank Fyodor Arturovich Glushko asked. He was uncomfortably aware of the note of pleading that had crept into his voice. “If he had obeyed his instructions-“
“The transcripts of the radio traffic with Misha show that he did obey those orders,” Admiral Khenkin said harshly. The heavyset, gray-haired fleet commander leaned across Glushko’s desk, his bluff peasant’s face flushed. “If you had spent more time reviewing them, or better yet actually listening to the transmissions as they occurred, you would be aware of this.”
Glushko stiffened, his face a studied blank that hid the churning emotions within him. It was almost unheard of for an admiral to seek out a subordinate in his own office, especially so early in the morning and with so few minutes left before a major mission briefing. But Khenkin had come to the air wing office today, and Glushko didn’t need the flag officer’s angry words to tell him that his career, maybe even his life, hung by a thread this morning.
It was not fair. For all of his adult life Glushko had played the game of Soviet Navy politics, and played it well. In the late Eighties he had commanded a squadron of Yak-38 V/STOL fighters operating from the Baku, but he had seen where the winds of change were leading the Navy and volunteered for training with the first wave of pilots at the flight deck mock-up at Saki airfield in the Crimea. Flying Su-27s off the deck of the fleet’s first true carrier back when it was still known as the Kuznetsov, he had been in an enviable position as one of the Union’s pioneer naval aviators, and that had stood Glushko in good stead.
Now he was commander of the air wing assigned to the Soyuz, and well-positioned to advance further. Operation Rurik’s Hammer offered him a superb chance to attract favorable notice, though as air wing commander he was relegated more to an administrative role than to the kind of combat duty that might really make his reputation. As a result he had focused his attention on winning over staff and political officers who could make sure that his name would receive prominent notice when the campaign was through. After all, once the Norwegians had been overcome and the conflict was over, there would be plenty of room at the top for deserving officers. General Vorobyev would see to that as he began to consolidate his domination of the new Russia.
Now all of Glushko’s efforts were threatened. He had not exactly neglected his responsibilities as air wing commander, but he had delegated much of the responsibility to juniors. Ordinarily it would have been perfectly acceptable … except for the horrible set of circumstances the day before that had culminated in the loss of a Tu-95 out of Olenegorsk and one of Soyuz’s MiG-29Ds. The other escort plane, flown by Captain Second Rank Terekhov, had broken off the engagement and returned to the carrier unmolested by the Americans.
It had been Terekhov’s fault, Glushko told himself again as he concentrated on a spot on the bulkhead above the admiral’s head. Surely they did not expect the air wing commander to monitor every routine patrol flight. But Khenkin evidently expected just that, and as a result held Glushko, not Terekhov, responsible for the incident.
The incident that might have drawn the Americans into a direct military involvement in the war in Scandinavia. That was a thought Glushko didn’t want to contemplate. “Admiral,” he said slowly, searching for the right words. “I have done my duty to the best of my ability. There was no way to predict what would happen to the patrol mission …”
“And you didn’t even try,” Khenkin finished bluntly. “That is no longer the principal concern. What has happened cannot be changed. What remains for us is to shape the future.”
“Yes, Admiral,” Glushko said.
“Shut up and let me finish!” Khenkin’s voice was loud now in the cramped office. “I have examined all of the plans submitted by your officers for the conduct of North Star. They make very interesting reading.” The admiral tapped a stack of file folders on the corner of Glushko’s desk. “Tell me, Glushko, what did you think of Captain Terekhov’s suggestions?”
“Terekhov?” Glushko almost spat the name. “Too rash. Too daring. He wants to use three full squadrons to escort the bombers … too many. It leaves but one squadron to mount CAP over Soyuz. You will find the plan I endorsed to be much more balanced in outlook-“
“Bah!” Khenkin exploded. “You would give only token escort to the bombers! This is not a time for half-measures. Why is it so difficult for you to comprehend this?”
“But, Admiral-“
“Spare me the protests.” Khenkin rose from his seat and jabbed a stubby finger at Glushko. “We will proceed on the basis of the plan Captain Terekhov submitted. You will pass orders to have the MiG squadrons readied. The mission briefing will be conducted accordingly. Do you understand?”
Glushko swallowed. “Yes, Admiral. Your orders will be carried out. To the letter.”
Inwardly he was caught between fear and anger. Plainly the admiral would be watching him very closely over the next few hours, and any mistakes Glushko made would only fuel Khenkin’s ill feelings. He would have to tread carefully.
There was a soft, almost tentative knock on the office door. “Come!” Khenkin barked.
Captain Second Rank Terekhov looked diffident as he entered. “Just a reminder, Admiral … Captain. The briefing is due to begin in ten minutes. All squadron commanders and executive officers are assembled as ordered.”
Khenkin nodded. “Thank you, Terekhov. We will come.”
As the younger officer closed the door Glushko’s mind was busy reassessing his prospects. The new orders did offer one bit of hope. At least he could manipulate events to allow Terekhov to hang himself. That would remove one thorn in his side, and he might still be able to use the squadron leader as a convincing scapegoat if he handled the situation skillfully.
The thought made him smile coldly. “I am sure Captain Terekhov’s plan will be the best choice at that, Admiral.”
0642 hours Zulu (0842 hours Zone)
Soviet Submarine Thilsiskiy Komsomolets
Northeast of the Faeroe Islands
Captain Arkady Stepanovich Emelyanov bent over the radio operator’s shoulder in the cramped communications shack of the submarine Thilsiskiy Komsomolets and watched the chattering teletype print out a jumble of letters and numbers. The submarine, which an American observer would have referred to as a Victor-class attack sub, was lying at periscope depth accepting incoming messages bounced off a communications satellite. The information would be meaningless, of course, until it was decoded, but Emelyanov liked to study his crewmen in the routine performance of their duties instead of remaining in isolation like too many of his fellow captains. It kept the crew on their toes to know that the commanding officer might come by just to observe while they were standing watch.
There was a lot of message traffic this morning, he thought with a twinge of anxiety. Lying so close to the surface, the submarine could be easily detected, and Emelyanov longed for the safety of the deep. But since the start of the campaign against Norway there was a lot of information to pass along, and it was vitally important to keep up to date with the latest unfolding developments. If nothing else the daily update was necessary because Moscow would be sending the coded phrase that would indi
cate the scope of his current operations. Without that there was no way to know if he was supposed to initiate hostilities against any foe other than the Norwegians.
That brought a smile to his lips. Four days ago Thilsiskiy Komsomolets had scored her first three kills, an Oslo-class frigate and a Sleipnir-class corvette sailing north from Bergen, and later on a small, conventionally powered Ula-class submarine that had tried to slip past the Soviet vanguard to interfere with the operations of the Red Banner Northern Fleet. Small victories, perhaps, compared to going up against American or British foes, but still a mark of pride for the attack sub.
Now, though, they were no longer close in to the Norwegian coast. The sub had been ordered to begin patrolling near the Faeroe Islands, along the vaguely defined line of the GIUK gap. It was in some ways more hazardous duty, thanks to the higher chance of detection by the American SOSUS acoustical tracking network, but it had removed the sub from the true war zone, and that was a disappointment.
The radioman made a soft-voiced exclamation that drew Emelyanov out of his reverie.
“What is it, starshina?” the captain asked him.
The petty officer looked up at him. “This message is in special code,” he said.
Emelyanov took care to control his features. “Very good, starshina. Give it to me. Then pass the word for the zampolit to meet me in my quarters before you proceed with the decoding of the regular traffic.”
He left the communications shack without even waiting for the petty officer’s acknowledgment. Special coded messages like this one were almost always concerned with a change in orders, and from its length it had to be more than a mere signal to assume one of the other previously established patrol stations on the list in his cabin safe. Perhaps Thilsiskiy Komsomolets had been picked out for an important new mission.
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