by Bart Gauvin
This place had been chosen to issue his final “go” order for several reasons. The position of Finland in the brave new world of a resurgent Soviet Union was awkward in the extreme. The Finns wished to look west, to integrate with the coalescing European Economic Community and the other Nordic states, but their country shared a long border and a contentious history with its massive eastern neighbor. Additionally, the Medvedev regime had been less than subtle in communicating to the Finns that the USSR would not look favorably upon any moves drawing them closer to NATO. Then the United States government had played into the Soviets’ hands, canceling a planned sale of F/A-18 Hornet fighter jets for fear the technology might find its way to the Russians. The move left the Finns with little alternative than to turn to Russia to upgrade their aging air force, and the Soviets were all too happy to oblige, for a price.
Khitrov’s smile returned as he considered how unsuspecting this country was of the part they were about to play in the coming conflagration. The USSR was sorely short of allies these days and one of Khitrov’s more challenging tasks had been to manufacture new ones. He had done so, though few of the Soviet Union’s new “friends” quite knew it yet.
Turning his attention back to the screen, he ignored the message from the Iceland team for the moment and began a new email. In a few moments he’d typed out the brief message, in Finnish, of course, meant to resemble an order from a local restaurant for bulk gourmet coffee. He then added the addresses of the message’s recipients from memory. To a careful observer, the address list might look suspicious. It included ten recipients scattered around the globe, in locations as diverse at New York City and Sharm-el-Sheikh, each the senior operator in their particular area. He surmised however, that the message’s origin, would protect it from any such undue scrutiny.
Khitrov re-read the email twice, ensuring that no single letter was out of place. Once sent, the message would initiate a chain reaction. Upon receipt, the “go” order would be dispatched to corresponding networks by other varied means, instructing the teams to open sealed envelopes containing only the specified date and time for the operations they were to conduct. All other preparations had been completed over the past weeks and months.
Khitrov clicked the “send” button on the screen without hesitating. He then leaned back in his seat to savor the feeling of power, the anticipation of the storm he had just unleashed with the slightest of pressure from his finger. All the other pieces that would begin moving in the coming days—the armies, bombers, ships, and submarines—these could all be recalled at the last minute. Not so his part of the plan. Once begun, there was no turning back for the men he had sent around the world for this sole purpose: to make war on the west.
The message disappeared into what people were calling “cyberspace” with a pleasant ding that struck the colonel as anticlimactic. Khitrov rocked in his seat, still savoring the excitement of what he’d just done, the culmination of months of work. The task was not finished, he knew, but up until this point his greatest fear was that all his labors would come to naught, that peace would break out before he could execute his plans. That danger was now past.
The Russian read and responded to the email from his Iceland team, clearing up a question about targeting details for the American airbase at Keflavik, then closed out his browser, stood up, and walked to the cafe’s entrance. He retrieved his coat and hat from the hostess, smiled at her in a very un-stereotypically Russian manner as he donned them, and then strode out into the biting-cold winter night.
CHAPTER 26
0330 EST, Thursday 10 February 1994
0830 Zulu
Naval Station Norfolk, Virginia, USA
THE CORDLESS TELEPHONE’S loud warbling pulled Rob Buckner slowly from the warm comfort of a deep slumber. He rolled towards the sound, momentary confusion befuddling his response. He managed not to fumble the phone as he swung his feet out of bed and onto the carpeted floor. Blinking through bleary eyes, the Marine saw 03:31 glowing red on his bedside alarm clock. What now? he wondered grumpily as the phone continued to ring.
Buckner mashed the connect button, ending the obnoxious noise, and put the cordless to his ear. “Buckner,” he grunted.
“Sir,” came the businesslike voice on the other end of the line, “this is Lieutenant Walters, 2nd Fleet duty officer.”
Rob straightened. “Yes?” he asked, trying to sound more awake than he felt.
“Sir,” the officer went on, “Admiral Falkner has initiated a limited recall of the staff principals and select others. He directed that I contact you by name, sir.”
Recall? Rob thought. “Roger, Lieutenant. I’m en route. Did he say why?”
“There’s a developing situation over in Europe, sir. The admiral wants the staff in here to start talking contingencies.”
That was unusual. Falkner doesn’t spook easily. He’s got to be really concerned to pull the staff out of bed three hours early, in port, thought Buckner.
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Rob said, feeling himself becoming more awake by the second. “Anything else?”
“No sir, that’s all,” the officer responded.
“Roger. Buckner out,” said Rob, ending the call.
He returned the phone to its cradle and stood up, hearing Helen stir and utter a “Hmmm?” from the other side of the bed as he walked to the bathroom. “What’s going on, sweetie?” she asked groggily.
“Just need to head into work early,” Rob answered softly. “Go back to sleep, dear.”
He shut the door behind him in the bathroom hoping not to disturb Helen any further as he scraped a razor across his stubble. In two minutes, abolitions complete, he tiptoed back into the bedroom to don his khaki service uniform that Helen had laid out for him the night before. Rob paused long enough to brush a soft kiss across his wife’s cheek. She let out a content “Hmmm” as he made his way to the door.
Downstairs Rob started the coffee. A recall was a timed event, requiring the officers and staff to arrive at the headquarters as soon as possible and within sixty minutes after the alert went out. Rob took the recalls seriously, but he lived within a short drive of the headquarters building. Helen always reminded him, usually after he’d mis-buttoned a shirt or mumbled something incoherent, that he wasn’t much good to anyone this early in the morning without some caffeine.
As the percolator bubbled and steamed, filling the kitchen with the comforting aroma of brewing hot coffee, Rob stepped into the living room and turned on the TV, flipping through the channels until he found CNN. Immediately, things started to make sense.
The anchor on the television screen was holding a speakerphone conversation with someone the on-screen text identified as one of the network’s foreign correspondents for Eastern Europe. A simplistic map was inset at the top right of the screen, appearing to hang over the grim-faced anchor’s shoulder. The map showed the outline of Poland with a large dot denoting Warsaw. The scroll at the bottom of the screen read, “Coup in Warsaw; gunfire heard at the Sejm.”
The anchor was saying, in his well-rehearsed and deeply serious voice, “Lily, can you tell us any more about these reports we’re hearing of Soviet troops in the east of the country?”
“Yes Bill,” a distorted and slightly garbled female voice said as a still picture of the reporter appeared on the TV, showing the face of an attractive middle-aged woman, “Just a few minutes ago our source called to say that forces of the USSR crossed the eastern frontier of Poland early this morning. Apparently, there was some limited fighting with the Polish border guards, but the situation here is very confused. No one really knows what’s going on right now. A few moments ago, we saw a pair of helicopters fly over us her in Warsaw. We could see red stars painted on them. I can hear military jets overhead, but we can’t see them through the clouds and…just a minute…yes, yes…okay. Bill?”
“Yes Lily?” the anchor said, showing just th
e right amount of concern for the viewers.
“They’re telling us we need to leave. There are soldiers downstairs and—”
There was a loud bang on the audio followed by some shouts and a startled scream. Rob strained to listen as violent, but more distant voices filled the live feed. The last sound was a clear “Ruki vverkh!” before the line went dead. Russian for “hands up,” Rob realized.
The on-camera anchor looked stunned for a moment, then recovered himself. “Lily?” he said, “Lily, can you hear us?” Then to the camera he said, “We seem to be experiencing some technical difficulties with our feed from Warsaw. Er, we’ll get back to them just as soon as we can. For now, yes, uh, for now let’s recap what we know.”
The TV man looked down at the paper notes on his desk, as if reading. After a moment he said, “In the early morning hours of today, Warsaw time, unknown elements took control of government buildings around Warsaw. Television and radio stations appear to be off the air, though one station did report that factions seeking rapprochement with Moscow had seized the Polish prime minister for unspecified ‘crimes against the people and against world peace.’ A couple of hours ago, fighting broke out around the Sejm, the Polish legislature building. Putting the pieces together, there seems to be some sort of coup ongoing in Warsaw. Just minutes ago we began to receive reports that Soviet troops are crossing the border into Poland and…” the anchor trailed off and put his hand to his ear, “Yes, we’ll take a break now and be right back with the latest.”
Rob’s thoughts were mixed as the program cut to commercial. He felt some passing concern for the fate of the reporter, but he was far more interested in the events she had been reporting on. On the one hand he felt apprehension about an unfolding crisis that was clearly not in the interests of his country or its allies. On the other hand, the development was exciting. Why is it so easy to get excited about watching the world change in front of you? Rob wondered. He knew the answer. Military types were like elite athletes who never got to compete after training hard for the big game. Despite knowing intellectually that the test would be an awful experience, Rob longed for the chance to prove himself in the greatest arena imaginable.
Pouring the coffee into a travel mug, he exited through the garage and sat down into the seat of his Jeep Cherokee, started it up, and backed out into the street. A short drive later he walked past the bleary-eyed Marine guard, travel mug in hand, flashed his ID, and made his way directly to his office. To his surprise, Admiral Falkner was already in the N3 area, waiting for him.
“Morning, Rob,” said the admiral. Buckner had worked with Falkner long enough to know when his chief was tense, despite Falkner’s ever-calm demeanor. “Thanks for coming in,” the admiral said, as if there was a choice in the matter. Being courteous was Falkner’s way. “The rest of the staff is on their way. We’ve got a long day ahead of us. You’ve got an even longer one ahead of you.”
“No problem sir,” Rob answered, intrigued. “I saw the news about Poland, anything we need to be concerned about?”
“Too early to tell,” said Falkner. “We’ve been picking up some increased activity in the last few days. A break in the weather over the Kola gave one of our satellites a peek at some of their northern fleet’s smaller combatants warming up their boilers, and we’ve gotten some SIGINT hits indicating internal troop movements, that sort of thing. But nothing that can’t be explained by this business in Poland.”
“You don’t think a coup in Warsaw is all there is to it, sir?” Buckner probed.
“It might be. Then again, it might not. Regardless, you know I always like to be prepared. In this case though, our hands are being tied,” said Falkner.
“How so, sir?” asked Rob.
“I just took a call from the chief of naval operation,” the admiral started and then paused. “Our instructions are to ‘not make any provocative moves’ that might ‘escalate the situation.’’’ Falkner’s tone of voice made clear what he thought of the CNO’s restrictions. “The State Department wants to see how things develop before we start moving any assets. They want to use those movements to send a message to the Sovs when they think the time is right. The CNO says we’re going to try to handle things through the UN for now, but the Soviets have a veto on the Security Council, it’ll just be a sham.”
Falkner shook his head at the situation, then went on, “Not that we have anything to move right now anyway. Our bullpen is pretty thin, what with Kennedy down in the Caribbean keeping an eye on the Nicaraguans, and Vinson and Roosevelt in refit, America just back from the Med and now in dry-dock. The only piece we really have that could move right off the bat is Enterprise, and her crew and air group have had precious little time to train up. For now, we’re not even allowed to move Big E north.”
Buckner nodded. Falkner wasn’t in the habit of unloading his concerns upon subordinates. Something else is going on here.
Falkner saw the inquisitive look on the Marine’s face and said, “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m confiding all this to my resident jarhead. Well, here’s why: if I can’t move my ships to the right place, maybe someone else can move theirs. I’m at least going to get my people to where they can do the most good if the balloon goes up. The folks in Washington may not think this is a crisis yet, but they don’t pay us to be complacent. You’ve got your sea bag ready?”
“Uh, yes sir,” answered Rob, surprised. Standard operating procedure for 2nd Fleet staff officers was to be prepared to go to sea at once, their bags packed and ready at all times.
“Well, Rob, you’d best go get it. Time for you to do what I brought you here to do. I’m sending you to the UK to be my eyes over there. If things really get hot, the only real asset we have to throw in the Russians’ way right now is the Royal Navy and that tiny flat top of theirs. I want you over there as my liaison to Admiral Reeves. Go see the adjutant. He’s got the details. Your flight leaves in four hours.”
“Yes sir,” Rob said, surprised. Four hours? Do I have time to run home and tell Helen? He looked at his watch and did some quick math. Probably not. I’ll have to call.
Rob was having trouble wrapping his mind around the idea that this whole situation was any more serious than previous Soviet invasions in their sphere of influence, It’s like the Baltics two years ago. The Russians wouldn’t actually try something more serious. Would they? A look into his admiral’s face left Rob more unsure than he’d been a moment before.
CHAPTER 27
0400 CET, Saturday 12 Feb 1994
0300 Zulu
Athletes Village, Lillehammer Olympic Park, Norway
THE SIX ATHLETES, moving with purpose through the yellow-lit darkness, carried the heavy duffels across the cold, windswept parking lot towards the open back doors of an idling Ford transit van. Each man carried two heavy bags bearing the logo of the Soviet Union’s Olympics biathlon team, and the ease with which they moved was evidence of their superb conditioning. Indeed, these men were true Olympians, some of the most elite winter athletes in the world, ostensibly here to compete in the Games scheduled to begin less than twenty-four hours from now.
Unfortunately, thought the team’s captain, who loved competition in this context as well as in his true profession, we will have to wait for another time and place to test ourselves against the rest of the world’s elite athletes.
The men arrived at the van and loaded the bags, a rehearsed maneuver made to look natural. Three of the team members were not truly ones who would have been selected to compete in the Olympic biathlon event, but then again, that consideration was irrelevant. Each of them had been training hard for this day, though their training regimen had looked decidedly different from that of other nations’ athletes. Sportscasters in the west had been commenting on the numerous new faces on the Soviet team, and the absence of others, on what was the largest Soviet Olympic roster to date. Many speculated that these were the new gener
ation of Soviet athletes, part of Medvedev’s effort to renew the image of Soviet vitality in all spheres.
As the last man heaved his duffel into the van and slammed the door shut behind it, the team captain saw some movement across the parking lot. There, right on schedule. More than two dozen men performing a similar activity under the streetlights, loading baggage into a small cargo truck and then climbing into three passenger vans. The team captain recognized the broad shoulders and shaved head of his counterpart on the Soviet Union’s Olympic Hockey team.
Noting the other team’s departure, the captain pulled himself into the van. Then, without looking at the driver, he ordered, “Davai.” Go.
They rolled out onto the sleepy streets of Lillehammer, proceeded west several blocks, and then merged onto the E6 highway. Here they accelerated, keeping Lake Mjøsa on their left. They were going north.
CHAPTER 28
1100 MSK, Saturday 12 Feb 1994
0800 Zulu
USS Connecticut (SSN 22), X-Ray Station, northeast of Murmansk, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic
THE SLEEK, COLD cylindrical hull of USS Connecticut, the second of the United States’ new and lethal class of Seawolf nuclear attack submarines, glided through the dark, icy waters of the Barents Sea like some prehistoric shark, silent and listening. Inside the boat’s pressure hull, Commander Ethan Rogers tensely monitored his bridge crew. They went about their duties in a hushed and businesslike manner, as if the Russians at the Red Banner Northern Fleet’s main naval bases just a few dozen nautical miles to the south and west might hear them if they spoke too loudly. The maneuver they were about to perform, coming shallow to establish brief communications with COMSUBLANT—Commander, Submarine Forces Atlantic—via an E-6 Mercury communications aircraft was routine enough. Of course, you can’t take anything as routine up here in the Soviets’ back yard, Rogers reminded himself.