by Bart Gauvin
Before the contact, Ivanenko was beginning to have doubts about his concept. The quiet American Los Angeles- and British Trafalgar-class submarines were notoriously difficult to detect, let alone track, but such a massive effort should have turned up something. Contra-Admiral Ivanenko did not even wish to consider how difficult detecting one of the newer American Seawolfs would be. Even randomly-placed depth charges had not spooked any lurking submarines into revealing their positions.
“Tell the screen commander,” Ivanenko ordered his communications officer, standing on the far side of the map, “that I expect him to maintain a firm contact with this American.” In the past, American submarines had proven dishearteningly adept at eluding their pursuers. The contra-admiral did not intend to allow this one to slip through his fingers before he had the opportunity to engage it. Ivanenko looked at his watch. The wait was growing interminable. Should we have started shooting earlier? he fretted. Would it have been worth warning the Americans about what is coming?
As Ivanenko’s order was being transmitted another report came in.
“Contra-Admiral!” the young communications officer announced, “Hunter Group V just reported that they’ve detected another American submarine near the coast, another Los Angeles, sir!”
Good, thought Ivanenko, growing more confident by the minute, very good. This plan is starting to bear fruit. He doubted that these were the only two American submarines in these waters, but if he could bag both of them then he would have done much to clear the way for the rest of the fleet, now putting to sea from its bases along the Kola Inlet.
CHAPTER 42
1500 MSK, Sunday 13 Feb 1994
1000 Zulu
Severomorsk Naval Base, Murmansk Oblast, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic
SAILORS CARRYING ALL manner of baggage and supplies scrambled up the gangplank onto the brick-colored deck of Admiral Chabanenko before quickly disappearing into the destroyer’s interior. Captain (2nd Rank) Sergei Medvedev watched as his crew arrived for the surprise recall. Sergei had just received the news himself less than two hours ago. He was sipping a cup of tea from the ship’s mess, strong and sweet, to deal with the hangover.
Medvedev was not in a good mood, having not expected this recall. Of course, he reflected darkly, you did not expect a lot of things, did you? Not the recall last night, not the fight with his mistress at the party, and certainly not his wife showing up and meeting the mistress. He hadn’t even expected to get drunk last night, but that at least had been a predictable result of the wife and mistress fiasco. Perhaps its better that I am going to sea right now, he thought with a smirk, let the sea swallow the troubles for me.
The several months since Medvedev had taken over as captain of the Admiral Chabanenko had been a resounding disappointment. He’d taken his ship to sea exactly once. Much of his ship’s work-up training had to be conducted quay-side, and even that had been truncated by the need to fix numerous maintenance problems inherited from delinquent shipyard workers.
One positive of the quay-side time was the opportunity to upload full stocks of ammunition, less the nuclear-tipped ones his father had restricted. He should have been excited about this recall, the chance to finally take his ship back out to sea, but he was not confident in his crew or his ship’s readiness. Thus, combined with the hangover and last night’s feminine fireworks, his mood was dark to say the least. Crew members, picking up on their captain’s cues, were discretely avoiding him.
Looking around the harbor, Medvedev could see the entire fleet was stirring. Across the harbor, the berths for Kiev, Baku, and their escorts were empty. That was something. Rarely did both helicopter carriers sortie at once. Something was clearly on the horizon.
Captain Medvedev watched as a junior officer, clearly a courier, pushed his way up the gangplank and through the hatch directly below the bridge. A few seconds later the man was handing over a packet of papers. Orders. Sergei accepted them and scanned their contents. Interesting. I am assigned as lead anti-submarine ship for carrier Admiral Kuznetsov. “Strong escort,” was how the orders put it. This looks like, the realization was slow through his headache, a war order! The vodka-induced mind fog began to fade. Is that what’s going on? War?
Medvedev scanned further, then swore under his breath. He turned and barked at one of the enlisted men, “Go tell the chief of the ship to ensure the flag-bridge and quarters are prepared! The group captain and his staff will be embarking with us shortly.” Of all the lousy luck, I get stuck with that man, Sergei thought, his blood pressure rising. He despised Group Captain Gordinya, the officer in charge of his destroyer squadron. The man thought he knew everything, listened to no one, and, in Sergei’s opinion, had the intelligence of a particularly dull king crab. Gordinya, just like that invasive species, would soon be boarding Admiral Chabanenko whether he was wanted or not. How long will we be out? Medvedev thought, scanning the logistical portion of the order. The list of provisions that his matrosi were hauling on board was long, too long for a short cruise. Can this be the real thing? He wondered. Probably not, but there was no telling what those warmongering Americans were up to these days.
Over the opposite side of the pier, Medvedev could see the mighty battlecruiser Kirov preparing to get underway. That ship would also be part of Kuznetsov’s battle group. If this is the real thing, it will be good to have that monster along. A Kirov displaced more than a World War I dreadnought and was armed to the teeth with missiles. It was a formidable addition to any formation.
The captain looked back down at his own ship’s quay to see Gordinya and his staff arriving. At least I won’t have to deal with the ladies, he thought with a sigh, as he turned back to his quarters. War with the Americans seemed like a more welcoming prospect right now than facing his irate wife or mistress.
CHAPTER 43
1105 CET, Sunday 13 February 1994
1005 Zulu
Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Victoria Terrasse, Oslo, Norway
KRISTEN HAGEN WAS spending her Sunday trying to smooth over what had become a foreign relations disaster: the canceled winter Games. Three hours of phone calls, faxes, and diplomatic notes to the participating nations explaining Norway’s actions had been just the beginning. The continuing drumbeat of news from the north, from central Europe, and elsewhere around the world was leading Kristen to believe that she would be composing notes of greater import for her minister soon. Is this really what I think it is? Are we on the brink of war, and just sitting here waiting for a superpower, the Russians or the Americans, to act?
The foreign minister popped his head into Kristen’s office and said with his usual politeness, “Ms. Hagen, I’ve been reading the troubling news coming in this morning and I am concerned our allies may be unnecessarily provoking the Soviet Union at a very delicate time.”
Of course, that’s what would concern him. Kristen thought, growing ever more frustrated with the man’s deference to the people who were clearly trying to pressure her country and its allies. Her previous chief, dead from a stroke, had always managed to balance diplomacy with real backbone. The new minister didn’t seem as well-balanced. Firmness was what her country needed now, and her foreign minister, despite all his diplomatic skill, did not seem the man to provide it. Fortunately, the prime minister and defense minister are made of sterner stuff.
“I do not wish for Norway to be party to such provocations,” said the minister. “I want you to go to the Akershus fortress and make sure the generals over there aren’t going beyond what the prime minister has allowed.”
“You want me to go and ensure they aren’t mobilizing beyond what the prime minister wishes?” Kristen confirmed. She knew that the leader of Norway’s government was even now sitting with the King, informing him that he intended to order a full mobilization to counter the Soviet threat. The foreign minister had resisted that decision, again with his usual politeness, co
ntinuing to argue for more time to allow diplomacy to diffuse the situation. Kristen was glad for the opportunity to go somewhere where people were actually acting as opposed to delaying. She stood, grabbed her jacket, and said, “I’m on my way.”
Again, her chief seemed to waffle. “Perhaps not,” he said. “Such an intrusion into the defense minister’s prerogative at a time like this might be impolitic. Wait for now and perhaps you can go when we have greater clarity.”
Kristen slumped back into her chair, still gripping her coat. She was trying to keep the exasperation out of her voice when she answered, “As you wish, Foreign Minister.” This man doesn’t grasp the danger we are in. Kristen turned back to her writing, her delay tactics and apologetic statements, It’s all meaningless. She realized this with a sinking feeling as she started typing.
CHAPTER 44
1400 MSK, Sunday 13 February 1994
1100 Zulu
Around Koskama Mount, four kilometers from the Norwegian border, Murmansk Oblast, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic
THE LAUNCH SITES had been carefully surveyed weeks before, six small clearings within sight of road P10, paralleling the Soviet-Norwegian frontier. Two days previous, groups of gulag prisoners had been trucked out to this cold, marshy slice of the Kola to walk back and forth over the deep snow in the clearings, packing it down sufficiently to allow the missile TELs—transporter erector launchers—to turn off the icy two-lane road and ride their eight huge wheels to the six very exactly marked points on the earth’s surface.
The TELs had arrived yesterday, the launch crews erecting tents and firing up oil heaters against the long night ahead, remaining a safe distance away from their large, volatile weapons. Today their hour had come. At the six widely spaced locations, crews initiated the launch sequence. Hydraulic systems whined as they elevated the improved R-300 Elbrus missiles, known as the SS-1e “Scud-D” in the west, until they sat in the vertical launch position. In minutes this initial task was done, all six of the large missiles fueled, elevated, and inclined ever so slightly westward. The crews sat back in their nearby launch control vehicles and watched as their clock ticked down toward the designated time.
1205 CET, Sunday 13 Feb 1994
1105 Zulu
Banak Air Station, Lakselv, Troms, Norway
Rittmester Johansen watched Berg’s column crunch and squeal onto the access road leading to the airfield’s Coast Guard compound. He’d placed his squadron headquarters in the expansive Coast Guard hangar after making a circuit of his troop leaders’ proposed positions around the wooded, mitten-shaped peninsula that housed Banak Air Station. As the lead truck slowed to a halt, the rittmester recognized his hulking executive officer in the passenger’s seat. Berg yawned, fighting off the effects of the long drive from Skjӧld. Behind Berg’s G-Wagen an M113 rumbled past towing a second of the boxy personnel carriers. Johansen gawked as further back in the column another M113 turned onto the service road towing a truck which was itself still towing a Bofors gun. His amusement was cut short however when he saw the look on Berg’s face. Then, the tall løytnant stepped from his vehicle and said, “Sir, there’s going to be a war.”
Back in the hangar Johansen handed a mug of bitter cocoa to Berg as the younger officer related the sabotage along the E6. Outside, the vehicle crews linked up with their dismounts and guides led the tracks and trucks away to their troop positions at the airfield and on the margins of Lakselv. Johansen had been feeling more confident before this troubling news arrived. He’d just returned from observing the emplacement of the 105-millimeter artillery battery, which had also been delayed on the road from the Porsangermoen. The battery commander, a fellow kaptein, and his troops were assigned to the training center at Porsangermoen, with the practical effect being that they emplaced and fired their guns far more frequently than the average battery and were at peak efficiency. All of that was not a substitute for the comfort that the rest of his battalion could provide.
“I need to call Bardufoss,” said Johansen, turning and striding towards the office rooms housing the Coast Guard’s tiny command center.
As he approached, his radioman stuck his head out of the door and called, “Sir, Battalion is on the line for you. They say it’s urgent.”
Erik increased his pace and took the handset of the civilian telephone from the young soldier. The high frequency radios that the squadron was supposed to use to talk back to Bardufoss were spotty at best over this range. The civilian telephone system was much more reliable, if less secure. “Johansen here.”
“Johansen, this is Laub,” said the major with his usual brusqueness. “What’s your status up there?”
“Sir, my vehicles just arrived. They encountered obstacles along their way here that my løytnant described as sabotage. There was a vehicle wreck blocking the Sørstraumen Bru and a full-on abatis further east.”
“Sabotage? Why is this the first we’re hearing of it?” snapped the operations officer, an edge in his voice.
“Sir, we’re operating hundreds of kilometers apart. The HF radios have been very unreliable since we left, and besides, Løytnant Berg was observing radio silence, per your instructions,” responded Johansen, sticking up for his subordinate. He had opposed the radio blackout restriction, and didn’t want his XO to suffer one of Major Laub’s tongue lashings for no reason. “He used his wreckers to clear the bridge and explosives to get through the abatis.”
Laub grunted. “We’re seeing some troubling signs elsewhere too,” the major relented. “The situation has deteriorated over the past couple of hours. The prime minister just approved full mobilization and the forward deployment of 2nd Battalion, followed by all of Brigade Nord.” That would put the brigade on the road in the next couple of hours, Johansen knew.
“I’m headed back up to Skjӧld soon to move with the headquarters. What are your deployments up there?” Laub asked.
“We’re very thin. I have a troop east of the town, a section each at the airfield and screening south of the town, and I’m keeping the anti-tank section and the pioneers in reserve. The battery from Porsangermoen is set up west of the airfield. All as we rehearsed on the last alert.”
Laub grunted again. “Well, the battalion should be there after midnight. If the war holds off for another day, we’ll be ready. There aren’t any flights available for an advance party so we’ll default to the standard deployment areas. Keep Brigade informed of any other developments. Laub out.”
The line clicked off abruptly. Johansen stood for a moment holding the handset. Conversations with the major were usually unpleasant, one-sided affairs. He would have appreciated a little more insight into the “troubling signs” Laub had mentioned. If the Russians really were coming, he would need every advantage he could get.
CHAPTER 45
0625 EST, Sunday 13 February 1994
1125 Zulu
Brighton Beach Avenue, Brooklyn, New York City, New York, USA
VOLKHOV, ABANDONING THE Mr. Taylor identity earlier that morning, swore, vehemently and repeatedly. Losing his temper so openly was out of character; he was a professional. At least he’d remembered to utter his oaths in English, rather than Russian. The Spetsnaz officer slammed his fist into the side of the object of his rage, the rental van that was to carry him and his team to their target. Looking down the alley towards the beach from where he stood, Volkhov could see his objective across the wide, gray waters of New York Harbor.
We should be over there right now, waiting outside the station gates! Volkhov raged to himself. As far as he knew, every other team was already in position around the city, ready to execute their parts in the plan hatched months before. And here we sit! Why did we not position ourselves in New Jersey yesterday? The hindsight was almost too much to take.
Shaking the pain out of his hand he noticed that he had left an indent in the van’s exterior. Good! Piece of trash, he c
ursed again at the silent vehicle. The six men had departed the safe house before dawn, carrying their heavy duffels, and loaded themselves into the rental. Not until they were all comfortably ensconced in their seats had the driver turned the ignition and nothing happened. Several more turns of the key and an inspection under the hood had brought the realization that the problem was the battery, or rather the fact that there was no battery under the hood any more.
It hadn’t taken long to realize that some hooligan had decided to lift their van’s battery for his own uses, whatever those were. If Volkhov could have found the man now he would not have hesitated to kill him with his bare hands.
Instead, he was forced to stand by while the deep-cover restaurant owner worked to acquire a new battery. That process had eaten up minutes, then hours. Now, here they sat, scant time before they were to execute their operation, within tantalizing sight of their objective. As was expected of Spetsnaz leaders, Volkhov had assigned his own team the most difficult objective. It will be much more difficult if they are alert and waiting for us.
0630 EST, Sunday 13 February 1994
1130 Zulu
US Coast Guard Sandy Hook Station, Ft. Hancock, New Jersey
The six members of the incoming US Coast Guard watch shift sat beside their counterparts on the outgoing shift. The night watch officer updated everyone on the situation in their area of responsibility, the busy and expansive harbor and ports of New York and New Jersey. The twelve men were all familiar with each other after years of service together, and low murmuring about the debacle enveloping the Winter Games in Norway and the Soviet invasion of Poland had filled the smallish watch room until the briefing officer cleared his throat.