by Bart Gauvin
“Roger.”
“Loud and clear.”
“Jolly good.”
The chief of staff nodded, then concluded, “Very well, I’ll be followed by the N2, who will detail what the Soviets have apparently been up to in the past few days.”
Forest resumed his seat heavily, just as the ship bottomed into the trough of a wave. 2nd Fleet’s chief intelligence officer, Captain Ed Franklin, stood and removed the glasses from his thin, bookish face. He nodded to a junior officer, who clicked on a projector that shone a map of northern Europe and the North Atlantic onto a screen on the port bulkhead. The map was annotated with red symbols and markings clustered north of the Kola peninsula and, more menacingly, all around the strife-riddled country of Poland. The intel officer walked over to the projection and began to speak.
“Sir, as you know, Soviet naval forces have brought themselves to an unprecedented level of readiness over the past two months. In the first two weeks of December we’ve seen the Red Banner Northern Fleet conduct exercises,” he tapped the red markings north of the Kola with a pen, “in the Barents and Norwegian Seas involving more ships and complex operations than in many years. This included carrier flight operations in coordination with surface action groups that have shown far more capability for offensive, expeditionary operations than we have seen to this point. Our counterparts over in Pacific Fleet are reporting Soviet exercises out there on a similar scale.”
Now Franklin moved the pen to Poland. “More troubling,” he continued, “is that the Soviets simultaneously launched snap exercises of unprecedented size involving a significant portion of their forces in Czechoslovakia. These exercises were apparently coordinated with other forces in the western USSR. During these operations we’ve seen significant logistical elements move from the interior of the USSR to forward staging areas in a way that indicated a Soviet intention to initiate a direct intervention in Poland. These actions drew statements of concern from many in the international community and prompted the US president to implement many of the discretionary sanctions against the Soviet Union authorized in the most recent Congressional bill. Even so, a week ago, all signs pointed towards imminent Soviet military action to intervene in Poland, regardless of the international consequences.”
Buckner looked at the map. The scale of the Soviet exercises, at sea, in the air, and on land, had been impressive. A year ago they wouldn’t have been able to put on a show nearly half as big, he thought. Fortunately, it looks like that’s all it was, a show.
Franklin paused and stepped away from the projection. He deftly shifted his weight through a deep roll of the deck before continuing, agreeing with Rob’s unspoken assessment. “All of that has apparently changed in the past seventy-two hours. War, or at least an invasion of Poland by the Red Army, seemed inevitable, but our first indications that the Soviets were standing down came from submarines trailing their major surface units in the Barents Sea. They reported that the Soviet fleet appeared to be returning to port. These reports were later confirmed by our units on X-Ray Station and by satellite imagery which now shows nearly every Russian surface unit, and a very large number of their submarines, back in port with cooling reactors and power plants, as you can see from this imagery, taken about six hours ago when the satellite had clear skies over the Kola.”
Now Franklin’s assistant distributed folders marked with red and white striped tape and emblazoned with the words “Top Secret” to the principal staff members around the table. Over Admiral Johnson’s shoulder Buckner could see that his superior’s folder contained high quality faxes of overhead imagery showing the familiar landscape of the Soviet base at Severomorsk. As Johnson flipped through the contents, Buckner saw that one true color picture showed the base’s piers jammed full of warships, some of the smaller vessels rafted up two and even three deep alongside each other.
The next image gave the same perspective, but was clearly produced by a thermal sensor. The black and white images showed the engine spaces of the ships in different shades of darkness, with the ones that had been berthed the longest emitting the least heat. They’ll need some time to get the engines going again if they want to send those ships back out, Rob realized.
“Then, two days ago,” Franklin went on, “the Red Army began shutting down its training exercise in Europe, returning troops to their barracks, even shipping some reinforcing units back to their bases in the interior. It appears what we are seeing is a nearly global stand down of Soviet military forces.”
At this point Falkner broke in, asking, “Any indication as to why, Ed? Why go to all the effort of putting yourself on a war footing and then shutting it all down?”
“My read, sir,” answered Franklin, who had anticipated the question, “and my contacts at State and NSA agree, is that this was a play on Medvedev’s part to break the diplomatic logjam with NATO regarding the Polish situation, and perhaps drive a wedge between Germany and NATO at the same time. The Soviets probably thought if they amped up the pressure enough that we would back down over their interference in Poland. I think they were also trying to encourage the elements of the German government that were making noise about no longer needing ‘collective security’ to start asking themselves if they really want to fight a war with the USSR over Poland. The question was, how far was Medvedev willing to take this? Was he willing to actually invade Poland? Their stand down indicates that the answer was, or is, ‘no.’ This surge of readiness and exercises was a huge bluff, and one that has apparently failed.”
“It’s not surprising, really,” rumbled Admiral Johnson. “Even with all the resources they’ve put into their military in the past couple years, the balance of power is still heavily in our favor, especially since they can’t lean as deeply into their remaining Warsaw Pact allies any more. Frankly, their economy is on the rocks.”
There was a pause that Falkner filled with a: “Hmm…” Non-committal, Buckner noticed. He’s not convinced yet. The admiral nodded for Franklin to continue.
“Sir,” the intel officer went on, an uncharacteristically hopeful note creeping into his voice, “what this means for us is that the Russians won’t be able to put their fleet back out to sea in any sort of strength for at least a week or two, and we’ll likely have several days’ advance warning if they try. The same is true for their forces in Europe.” Franklin stepped back behind his chair, grasping the backing as the deck pitched again, and finished with, “Sir, that concludes my brief, pending your questions.”
“Thank you, Ed,” Falkner nodded. Then he turned to Johnson and asked, “Xavier, give us a recap of how our forces are arrayed right now.”
The N3 straightened in his chair and said, “Task Groups 20.1 and 20.2, Eisenhower and Vinson and their escorts, have been operating together southwest of Iceland for the past week. Invincible’s task group, west of the Faroes, has been playing red force to our blue force, supported by the 57th Fighter Squadron out of Keflavik, and doing a mighty fine job of it too, if I do say so myself.” The rear admiral had raised his voice into the speaker for the last part.
“We do what we can, old boy,” came the very proper response from Admiral Reeves through the speakerphone.
“Who knew a baby carrier could pack such a punch?” said Captain Ben Stevenson’s teasing voice through the speakerphone from aboard the Carl Vinson.
“We do have some experience fighting a real war from this ship,” reminded Reeves, referencing Invincible’s vital role in the 1982 Falkland Islands War.
“The Gulf War doesn’t count, I guess?” asked the captain of the Eisenhower good-naturedly through the phone.
“Given our deployments, sir,” Johnson refocused the group and addressed his chief, “we are well postured to counter any Soviet movement into the Atlantic, be it air, sea, or submarine. The Soviet withdrawal back to their ports has increased the lead time we have if things go hot. This gives us some operational flexibility. We now have
the option of engaging the Soviets north of Iceland if the balloon goes up, if we so choose. Overall, sir, I feel very confident with the force we have assembled right now.”
Falkner nodded once more, then turned to his logistics chief, Captain Hank Elliot, and said, “Hank, how are we on sustainment?”
The portly N4 looked up from his notes and responded, “We’re as ready as we’ll evah be, sir. All carriers have full tanks of aviation fuel, all magazines have complete war loads configured for anti-air and anti-surface wahfare. Fleet trains ah standing by to the south to replenish our stocks if and when necessary.”
Falkner grunted, then said half-jokingly, “Too bad it’s not the real deal. We’re as ready as I’ve seen us in years. That’s probably why the Sovs aren’t going to try us, I suppose. Walter,” he addressed the chief of staff to his right, “what’s the impact if we decide to stand down our own forces?”
Admiral Forest was ready for the question. “Sir, really very little. Eisenhower’s not going back to port anyway since she’s headed for the Med, so we can keep her on station a few more days. More than just getting our boys and girls home for Christmas, Vinson needs some work in port. Captain Stevenson has been running his carrier hard for the past few months.”
“It’s what the taxpayers pay me for,” quipped Stevenson from the speaker.
“The sooner we get Vinson into port, the sooner we can do the necessary work and get her back out,” added Captain Elliot.
“Hank, what’s the status on Enterprise’s accelerated refit? When can we expect her ready for operations?” asked Falkner, switching gears somewhat.
“Sir, she floated out of dry dock last week,” answered the N4, indicating that the most expensive and complicated part of the carrier’s refueling and overhaul was complete. “We’re on track to get her back to the fleet in mid-January. I believe Admiral Johnson has a workup scheduled for her in the Caribbean for mid-February?”
The N3 nodded that Elliot was indeed correct.
“Later than I would like,” lamented Falkner, “but I suppose the yard dogs have done their best.” His tone communicated that he was not sure they had.
2nd Fleet’s commander steepled his fingers to consider the question at hand: whether to cut his available combat strength by more than half by sending Carl Vinson and Invincible back to port in time for their crews to enjoy the holidays with friends and family. The admiral had built his reputation in the Navy as a firm but fair operator, someone who truly cared about the people under him but didn’t let that care deter him from the mission at hand. If he lets us go home, Buckner thought, watching Falkner, a man he’d come to know fairly well over the past year, weigh his options, it means he really believes this scare of the past two weeks is over. The whole staff held their breaths, waiting to hear whether they’d be making a joyful homecoming on Christmas Eve, or eating sliced galley turkey and instant potatoes here aboard ship for the holiday.
The deck rolled slowly one way in the swell, then the other. After a few more moments Falkner dropped his hands and announced, “Xavier, give the order; Vinson and Invincible and their groups can head for the barn. Eisenhower will stay on station just in case the Russkis decide to try some sort of bolt from the blue. I’m not convinced this,” he waved his hand in a circle, “whatever it was they were doing was actually just a bluff. Just doesn’t feel right to me, but we can’t stay on station forever, and it seems they’ve given us some breathing room. I’m still uneasy until we get Enterprise back, but there’s nothing we can do about it now. We made our bed and we’ve got to lie in it.”
Buckner watched as everyone in the room seemed to visibly relax, everyone already imagining being free of this pitching ship. That is until Admiral Forest said, “What about the flagship, sir?” Buckner realized that Falkner had said nothing about whether or not Mount Whitney could return home.
A smile crept across Falkner’s face at the tension that had so quickly left and then re-entered the room. He let the question hang in the air for just a moment before saying, “Well, what say you, Walter, has the staff earned a Christmas leave?”
Forest smirked mischievously back at his chief and said, “Well sir, we could use the time for a little more work on our concepts for operations north of Iceland,” The mental groan from the rest of the staff was no less anguished for its silence. Rob’s thoughts flashed to his son Joshua. This would be his last Christmas at home before heading off to the University of Wisconsin on an NROTC scholarship. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to give them the time off,” concluded the chief of staff with a smile that grew into genuine warmth.
Admiral Falkner’s grin also grew wider. “Very well, Walter, give the flag captain the order. We’re heading home.” Then as smiles broke out around the conference table, the admiral said loudly in his best imitation of Charles Dickens’ Scrooge: “Be here all the earlier the next day! Merry Christmas.”
CHAPTER 18
1745 CET, Friday 24 December 1993
1645 Zulu
Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Victoria Terrasse, Oslo, Norway
“HAVE YOU FOUND a man down there, then?” said the speakerphone.
“Mother!” Kristen Hagen said as her hand shot across the desk to snatch the phone’s receiver from its cradle, taking the device off speaker. She could feel her cheeks burning as she swiveled her tall frame toward the open door of the bland Foreign Ministry office to see if anyone had been passing near enough to hear the embarrassing question, realizing in the same instant that her fear was unfounded. Everyone’s gone home for Christmas.
Over the receiver, Kristen could hear her father chuckling from the living room of their modest family home in Kirkenes. The small town in was nestled in the northernmost fylker, or county, of Norway.
“No, I have not found a man,” said Kristen, trying to make her voice sound exasperated. She smoothed a wisp of blond hair back over her ear in annoyance. Why do these phone calls home always go this way? She tried to change the subject. “I’m spending my time learning how to be the chief of staff for a new foreign minister.”
Her mother’s tone changed with the mention of the new foreign minister. “Yes, we were so sorry to hear about Mr. Holst’s stroke.”
“Had to read about it in the papers up here,” Kristen heard her father say in the background, the unspoken part of his message Kristen understood: You should call us more often.
Until recently, the Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs had operated efficiently under the able leadership of the brilliant Johan Jørgen Holst, who had thrown his heart and soul into trying to broker peace between Israel and the Palestine Liberation Organization. His efforts had come so very close to producing a meaningful agreement, but some unhelpful meddling from the Soviet foreign ministry had scuttled the talks before they’d even convened in Washington last September. Kristen more than suspected that some illicit arms shipments to the PLO from the USSR via Syria were involved.
The disappointment, or perhaps the effort he’d expended in the failed attempt, had been too much for the elderly statesman, and he collapsed from a stroke in early December.
“I’m afraid the doctors are less and less positive about his recovery,” Kristen said, sad about her erstwhile chief’s failing health but relieved to be discussing something other than her love life.
“Yes, I know you really enjoyed working for him,” Kristen’s mother was saying, “but doesn’t the new minister like you as well? He made you his chief of staff, after all.”
“Well, he’s not exactly the new minister yet,” Kristen said, “not while Minister Holst is still with us anyway.” Kristen suddenly felt uncomfortable talking about her career while the man whose poor health had propelled her to the next rung of her ministry’s administration clung precariously to life just a few kilometers away. She loved working here, and she was ambitious to one day, perhaps, run for a seat in the Storting so that she mig
ht have the chance to be the minister, not just serve on his staff. “I would much rather he recover than take the promotion.”
“Of course, Kristen, of course,” her mother said. “How have things been at the ministry otherwise?”
“Oh my goodness, busy!” Kristen said picking up her tone, thankful once again for the change of subject. “We’ve been working like mad to finalize preparations for Lillehammer. I never knew a sporting event like this could take up so much of the ministry’s attention. We barely have time to focus on anything else.”
“What takes up so much time?” asked her mother, showing a genuine interest in her oldest daughter’s work. “We’re really looking forward to watching.”
“Visas for the athletes,” Kristen answered. “The USSR team is giving us some real headaches. They’ve been switching out athletes like crazy over the past few weeks, and every time they do it creates more paperwork.”
“That’s that devil Medvedev’s doing I’m sure,” Kristen heard her father say. “He’s probably worried about some Ukrainian figure skater defecting while they’re here.” Having lived his whole life in Kirkenes, less than ten kilometers from the Soviet border, Kristen’s father had never warmed to their Slavic neighbors. Sometimes, after dinner, over glasses of aquavit, her father would recount with bitterness his childhood memories of how the Soviet liberation of Northern Norway in 1945 had left so many of the small communities in ruins.
“Yes, well,” Kristen said, “I don’t think they’re doing their team any favors, anyway.”
“Well, we’re of course very proud of you and we’re looking forward to watching your handiwork,” her mother said.
“Thanks, mamma,” said Kristen into the phone. “Is Anna there? I feel like I haven’t talked to her in ages.”
“Sorry, no. She’s out with some friends enjoying the Christmas cheer this evening,” mother said. “I think one of them might even be a boy,” she teased.