by Bart Gauvin
“Why do you say that?” asked Romanov.
“It is clear to see,” Sviashenik went on. “Things are coming to a head in Poland. I would not be surprised if we intervene there before the end of the year. President Medvedev’s statements are becoming increasingly firm on the matter. Last week he announced again that he would not allow the Germans to establish themselves on the border of the Soviet Union. His rhetoric is growing more belligerent each week.”
Ilya nodded. He had observed the same in the state-controlled newspapers. Then he asked, “What of NATO? If we intervene directly do you think they will use force to stop us?”
Sviashenik shrugged. “Who knows? They went to war over Poland once before. They have been willing to use their economic advantages so far to try to pound us into submission. Why not military advantage as well?”
“That would mean war,” Elena said, concerned. “Why must we concern ourselves with the chaos in that country? Can we not just live in peace? Why must we continually wrestle with the Americans over this country or that?”
“If only the world were so simple,” Romanov agreed. “Right now, we are like two wrestlers. Our opponent thinks he has us nearly pinned and is applying pressure to finish us. Our president does not strike me as the kind of man who will submit to this.” He gave Elena’s hand a knowing squeeze, silently reassuring her that he was only coaxing the political officer out of his shell with such talk, trying to get to know the man better.
The major shook his head. “We will have a good indication of what President Medvedev intends soon, I think. If the old bear intends to start something, he will not let our grandfathers go on schedule in September.”
Ilya nodded. He hadn’t considered that. The Red Army received new levies of two-year draftees, “srochniki,” twice a year. If the “grandfathers,” the men whose service was supposed to be complete this fall didn’t depart then, Ilya thought, we’d better prepare ourselves. He would have to start taking measures so the barracks do not become overcrowded, for one thing.
They reached the trolley stop and the colonel said, “Thank you for your thoughts, Major, and blessings on this Lord’s Day. No. Forgive me, Saturday is your holy day, is it not?”
“It is Colonel, but I am not devout. Thank you for the melon. I will enjoy it for lunch today,” said the zampolit.
They parted ways, Sviashenik waiting to catch the trolley back to the base while Ilya and Elena turned and walked the short block down to the Velikaya River bank before turning back north. The political talk with the zampolit troubled both of them. Ilya’s tours in Afghanistan had been hard on Elena, and she prayed daily that he would not be sent off to another war. For Ilya, the issue was more complicated. He did not want to see his country as the aggressor in another conflict, but, If what the president says is true and the west is truly trying to strangle us and force us to accept NATO—German—influence and armies in Poland, then they are also directly harming the health of my family, my unborn child, for political gain, and they do it intentionally. This must be opposed somehow. Our president will surely act.
Walking north along the riverbank, the colonel took in the familiar scenery. Small, quaint monasteries and churches dotted both sides of the river, their onion domes making the scene distinctly Russian. Ahead again was the Krom, that Russian fortress that had seen so many invaders over the years. Like any good Red Army officer, Romanov knew his country’s military history well. It was a history of struggle to turn back one invader after another. The Mongols who had driven the original Rus out of Kiev and then north, into the forests. The Tatars. The Teutons, who had been driven out of this very city by the great Prince Alexander Nevsky. The Swedes. Napoleon. The Germans. Hitler.
Why do they hate us? Fear us so? wondered Ilya. Why do they regard us as such barbarians? Walking up the bank with Elena, surrounded by the beautiful symbols of his country’s culture, with the imposing walls of the Krom before them to remind him of his duty, Ilya knew that if his country called, he would proudly answer again, like generations of Russian soldiers before him.
CHAPTER 13
2230 EST, Friday 30 July 1993
0330 Zulu (31 July)
Aboard USS Mount Whitney, off Cape Henry, Virginia, USA
ROB BUCKNER STEPPED through the hatchway leading out of USS Mount Whitney’s dimly lit central island superstructure and into the warm, breezy, starlit night that reigned over the ship’s expansive deck. He walked the dozen meters to the railing on the port side of the ship and stopped. The dark line on the horizon, set against the dark blue of the sea below and the starry night sky above, denoted the southern headland at the entrance of Chesapeake Bay. A light winked rhythmically from that line. The Cape Henry lighthouse, most likely, Rob thought. Beneath him the gentle swish of the ship’s hull sliced through the sea. Ahead he could just make out the string of lights adorning the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, stretching across the ship’s course. The Mount Whitney would pass over one of the two tunnels on her way back into Norfolk tonight.
The Marine colonel pulled a cylindrical plastic case out of his trouser pocket, unscrewed one end, and tapped a cigar out of it. Helen would be pissed if she could see me right now, Rob mused, as he always did when he engaged in this vice. He had picked up cigar smoking from his platoon sergeant as a second lieutenant fresh out of Quantico. Helen hated the smell, and he only indulged when in the field, which still earned him a withering look whenever he returned home. Now “in the field” means a comfortable bunk on this pleasure bucket, Rob thought, contemplating the flagship of the US 2nd Fleet beneath his feet. Not even the stench of sweat and dirt to cover up the cigar smoke. You’ve come a long way from sleeping in the rain and the mud with only your woobie for comfort.
Buckner took a Zippo lighter out of his other pocket and lit the cigar. He kept one hand cupped to protect the flame from the breeze and flicked the lighter several times, sucking in until the comforting aroma of smoldering tobacco filled his senses. He put the lighter away and inhaled deeply, savoring the warm, earthy taste. Exhaling, he watched the wisps of smoke blow back towards the ship’s stern. Beyond the dissipating smoke he could see the green and red running lights of USS Carl Vinson, the massive Nimitz-class aircraft carrier with whom Mount Whitney and the embarked 2nd Fleet staff had been training for the past several days. Rob took another pull from his cigar as he contemplated the exercise they’d just concluded.
Admiral Falkner insisted on realistic training, not only for his operational forces, but for his staff as well. Hence, Rob was on the flagship, bunking in a closet-sized cabin with a Navy captain, across the passageway from the slightly more spacious quarters of two rear admirals. Some staff grumbled about the inconvenience of going to sea just to do their normal work, causing Buckner to smirk, as he remembered training exercises with the Marines where he had formulated and issued orders under a poncho in the pouring rain with only his red-lensed L-shaped flashlight to illuminate his map. Some of these swabbies are a little soft, he thought.
The new commanding officer of the Vinson, Captain Ben Stevenson, had taken the exercise as an opportunity to show off his aggressiveness. Over the course of four days he’d pushed his carrier’s air group hard, launching one simulated “alpha strike” after another while still maintaining a heavy combat air patrol day and night. Even Buckner, who was only passingly familiar with carrier operations, was impressed with the tempo, the rumbling sound of jet engines overhead at all hours of the day and night. Admiral Falkner was pleased as well, and he let Stevenson know earlier this afternoon. Four days of heavy air operations was about the limit of what a lone carrier could sustain before magazines began to run empty and crews began to drop from exhaustion, but Stevenson had managed the drill with such precision that Falkner’s staff estimated that “Battle Star,” as many sailors colloquially referred to the supercarrier, had at least another day of fight left in both ship and crew.
Rob
turned his head as a dark figure exited the hatchway behind him. The dark shape materialized into Vice Admiral Falkner, who joined Buckner at the rail. Rob stiffened as his chief approached.
“‘Evening, Rob,” said the admiral, waving his hand dismissively at his subordinate’s rigid posture. “Relax, son. I thought I’d find you out here. Most of the staff is packing up their sea bags so they can get down the gangplank as quick as possible when we put in. I figured an infantryman like yourself packs light, am I right?”
Rob smiled and nodded in acknowledgment. He prided himself on keeping his bags ready to go at a moment’s notice, something his instructors at Quantico had pounded into him.
“Beautiful night for a smoke,” the admiral went on. “Mind if I join you?”
“Of course not, Admiral,” said Rob.
“Good, good.” Falkner pulled a pipe from his pocket and went through the motions of packing the bowl with loose tobacco from a small pouch in his breast pocket. As he did so he asked, “How’s morale on the staff?”
“I would say it’s good sir,” Rob answered. “There’s the usual griping about being here while there are everyday fires to put out back at Norfolk, but overall I think everyone appreciates the value of coming out here and doing it like we would in wartime.”
“Not everyone,” said the admiral. “I know several of the staff don’t believe in coming out to sea. They think we could, and should, run a war from the headquarters in Norfolk.” Falkner shook his head. “They’re wrong, Rob. The proper place for a fighting admiral and his staff is at sea, not stuck in an immobile concrete building waiting for the next Russki cruise missile or nuke to obliterate the place.” Falkner’s tone was not defensive, but rather instructive. He retrieved a small matchbook from his breast pocket and struck one of the flimsy matches. The flame immediately flickered out in the warm breeze. The admiral tried again, this time shielding the match against his body, but the result was the same. “You would think,” the older man chuckled, “that after thirty years I would have learned to do this by now.”
Rob fished out his Zippo and handed it over. Falkner thanked him and sparked the flame into the pipe’s bowl, finally lighting it. After a few seconds he let out a satisfied puff, watching the smoke dissipate astern. Then he turned to the Marine and asked, “What do you think, Rob? Honest opinion. Is it worth it, taking the whole staff out like this on a regular basis?”
“Well, sir, to be honest, I rather enjoy it. Pretty comfortable digs for a Marine.”
“They are that,” agreed Falkner in a low voice, thick with smoke. “Mount Whitney, and Blue Ridge over in the Pacific, are probably the most advanced communication platforms ever created. They were designed from keel up as command ships. Even better comms than Vinson back there.” The admiral motioned with his pipe astern, towards the distant behemoth. “Did you know they were designed to act as alternate national command posts in the event of nuclear war? God forbid, of course.”
“I didn’t, sir,” answered Rob after a moment. God forbid indeed, he agreed silently, briefly imagining riding out a nuclear war on this tin can while families and cities were incinerated ashore. Though I could have guessed, based on the antennae that sprout from every surface on this can. “Admiral, I’m no expert, but some of the staff say we’re more vulnerable at sea if the balloon goes up. I mean, one lucky Russian sub captain and 2nd Fleet loses its whole primary staff.”
“It’s a risk, I admit,” Falkner acknowledged. “In fact, if I were the Russians and decided to go nuclear, this ship is one of the first things I would target,” Falkner nodded as if concedeing before continuing, “If I could find it, and there’s the rub. When we’re mobile, we’re hard to find. At Norfolk they always know where we are. When we’re at sea, they have to find us before they can hit us.”
Buckner nodded, conceding the point and taking a deep pull on his cigar.
“Anyway, Rob,” the admiral said, changing the subject, “I’ve read your reports but haven’t had a chance to ask you about your world tour. How was Hawaii and Japan? How was England?”
Falkner had sent him on a feeling-out expedition to 2nd Fleet’s counterpart headquarters at San Diego, Pearl Harbor, Yokosuka, the Persian Gulf, and Naples, and then on to Portsmouth in the United Kingdom. Buckner was acting as Falkner’s eyes, to see if they were seeing the same troubling signs of a Soviet Christmas gambit as 2nd Fleet.
“Well, sir, I didn’t have much time to work on my tan in Hawaii, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Buckner said wryly. Falkner had a good sense of humor and rewarded Rob with a chuckle. “Pacific Fleet agrees with our assessment of what the Russians are doing, as does 7th Fleet at Yokosuka. They see the same ramp up in readiness for the Soviet Pacific fleet that we do here, and they’re adjusting their overhaul schedules accordingly. They won’t have as big of a gap in coverage as we will after the New Year, but they have more ocean to cover.”
Falkner grunted as he took another puff from his pipe. “I’m concerned about that gap in our carrier readiness. Right now, the Russians have us reacting to their schedules. I don’t like it.”
Rob was surprised. The admiral was receptive to criticism from others, but Buckner had never actually heard the man express doubt about a decision already made.
“But sir,” Rob said, “I thought the idea was that they’d have to stand down after the New Year as well. At least, that’s what Ed Franklin’s been briefing.”
“Ed’s not wrong, but he’s handicapped because we don’t know the Russians’ intentions, if they even know themselves.” Falkner tapped his fingers on the ship’s railing and went on, “They could conceivably delay yard work for several weeks or even months, if need be. We, on the other hand, are committed to our new maintenance schedule. The chief of naval operations had some trouble getting the money from Congress to speed up Enterprise’s refueling, and he had to cut back on weapons procurement to balance the books. That means we’re not buying nearly as many of those new AMRAAMs as quickly as I would like.” Falkner referred to the new fire-and-forget AIM-120 air-to-air missiles now being fielded by the fleet to replace the older and far less capable AIM-7 Sparrow missiles.
“Truth be told,” the admiral continued, “I’d rather we retire some of our older ships if it meant we could train more and build up some ordnance reserves, but, congress has their own priorities, I suppose.” The older man shrugged and took another puff from his pipe, “Maybe they’re right. More ready hulls will be better if it comes to shooting. Hard to believe the Soviets would really try something in this day and age though.” The US Navy had been holding steady at just under the peak goal of six hundred warships set by the Reagan build-up of the eighties. The maintenance on all those hulls was becoming increasingly difficult as a divided Congress tried to find ways of cutting corners and balancing the budget.
The admiral paused before saying, “I wonder if we’re not pushing the Soviets too hard with these sanctions. From what you read in the news, things are getting pretty hairy over there. I’m inclined to take Medvedev at his word when he says he won’t stand for it much longer.”
“Congress and the president seem to think that’s a good thing, that it’s only a matter of time until the economic screws make ordinary Soviet citizens start to question Medvedev’s leadership,” responded Buckner.
“Maybe, maybe not,” said the admiral, and Buckner found himself zeroing in on the admiral’s every word. Geopolitics was not his game, but it was certainly an interest. “I’m inclined to take a man at his word until he proves me wrong.” The admiral continued, “So far that old bear in the Kremlin has done everything he said he would. Franklin Roosevelt thought the same thing about our sanctions against Japan back in forty-one, and how did that turn out for Pearl Harbor?” Falkner let that thought linger.
“Anyway, how was England? Did my old friend Pete Reeves show you a good time?” The admiral continued in a more upbeat tone.
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br /> Rear Admiral Peter Reeves, Royal Navy, had done more than show the visiting American Marine a “good time.” Rob hadn’t felt a hangover like that in years, and his sides still hurt when he remembered about how hard and long he had laughed at the gregarious British sailor’s off-color sea stories.
“Sir, the admiral sends his regards,” Buckner answered. “He asked me to convey that the Royal Navy is on board for a combined exercise in mid-December. He says he will have Invincible and a task force ready to play red team for us. My report on that trip is on your desk back at Norfolk. Admiral Reeves also meant to send along a bottle of scotch, but…I think we drank it.”
“He would, the scoundrel,” Falkner laughed through his pipe. “Great news. Always love working with the Brits. The Royal Navy may not be what it used to be, but by God they have a sense of their history over on that side of the pond. You ever read about Horatio Nelson?” Falkner was always recommending books to his subordinates. “What a leader that man was! Great book. Decision at Trafalgar by, it was Dudley Pope, I think. Well worth a read. A jarhead like you would really appreciate him, even if he was a navy man. Excellent study in leadership.”
“I’ll check it out, sir,” said Rob. He would. The colonel had learned early on that Falkner only recommended excellent reads.
Falkner shifted gears again, forcing Buckner to keep up, though he was starting to learn the admiral’s subtler body language. Softening his tone, Falkner said, “How are you doing, Rob? You’ve had a few months to get your feet planted. You’re meeting all the lofty expectations I have, but how are you getting on?”
Buckner took a pull on his cigar while he gathered his thoughts. The admiral always remembered to ask after his officers’ welfare, but Rob hadn’t been prepared for the question because the answer was complicated. Do I tell him?