“It’s difficult to say. If they committed their SLBMs, they would be going after urban industrial targets and will have expended what reserve force they have left. We will have communicated our intention to meet any retaliation with a devastating counterattack. The United States would have sustained little damage outside key military targets and the silo fields. Would you, as president, commit your nation to mass destruction simply to satisfy a primitive urge for revenge?
“We would emerge from the attack unscathed, the majority of our strategic forces intact, while the Americans would be broken. Yes, the risk would be high, but the reward would be commensurate.
“Surprise attacks always succeed, Defense Minister; history supports the thesis. Without exception, attackers gain the initiative. They fail when they neglect to press their advantage.”
The defense minister slowly rose and walked across his office to the window overlooking the Kremlin grounds. “That will be all,” he ordered, staring out across the distance. The three officers exchanged puzzled glances then quietly rose and left. “Marshal Kiselev,” the defense minister called as he stepped through the door. “I wish to see you first thing tomorrow morning.”
Gazing across the tree-lined cobblestone courtyard, the defense minister struggled to get a grip on the images coursing through his brain. He was beginning to think like his unstable master. It was terrifying.
The somber mood engulfing the Kremlin was ripe with a grim fatalism. Russia was rapidly slipping down a steep slope toward extinction. Laptev’s ruling clique proposed patchwork solutions, but most members secretly accepted the endemic weaknesses which doomed Russia to third-world status in the twenty-first century. Frustration was forged to hatred of the perceived architect of all Russian troubles—the United States. The Russians were like beggars, cup in hand, prostrate before the world community.
The defense minister turned and stared at the far wall of his office. On it was a diploma from the Moscow Officers’ Academy. He reflected on the rigorous doctrine pounded into their heads day after day so many years ago. Those hoary tenants of Marxism/Leninism, which stressed the criticality of the correlation of forces and the inevitability of conflict with the capitalistic West. It was the unquestioned foundation for every decision in the sixties and seventies. The eighties had swept that aside, formulating a dynamic which stressed integration and cooperation with the West. Now they had come full circle.
CHAPTER 8
“Here it is, Mr. Secretary,” said Thomas, handing the seated Alexander a manila folder emblazoned with a crimson swath stamped “top secret, code word.” It was the latest on a black satellite program that was grossly over budget and behind schedule. Alexander adjusted his reading glasses. Alexander’s brow knitted in direct proportion to his distress as he progressed down the page. Thomas shuffled to a nearby chair and plopped down. He had earlier reviewed the bad news, as he did all incoming correspondence, messages, and reports.
“Shit,” groaned the veteran secretary of defense, flipping the folder shut. He gave Thomas a tight-lipped frown then a look of resignation, flipping his glasses on his massive oak desk.
“I thought that would be your reaction,” Thomas said. “How about I visit my friends at the Air Staff and see if I can work a deal before this gets worse.”
Alexander nodded. He rocked back in his high-back swivel chair and gazed out his E-ring window at the lush trees and the peaceful Potomac lazily rolling toward the Chesapeake Bay.
Secretary of Defense Matthew Alexander was a fifty-year-old financial wizard who had made his mark in the dog-eat-dog world of computer chips and electronics. From his corporate suite, he had fought his bitter enemy the Japanese to a standstill and eventually emerged victorious. A series of deft strategic alliances had actually recovered market share in semiconductors for his shareholders, and he had successfully lobbied Congress to relax antitrust laws and greatly increase government research and development spending. After such stunning success, fingers began to point his way. He was already a CEO, a well-paid one at that, but he wanted a new challenge. Another firm, even larger, would be more of the same, and exercised stock options had made him a very rich man. So he looked to public service to put meaning into his life.
The secretary was a simple man who purchased his suits on sale and lived in a modest two-story home with his wife in Falls Church. He deliberately avoided the Washington social circuit and spent his off time with his one remaining son. The other two children, a boy and a girl, were long gone, with families of their own. His wife thought him handsome with his combed-back, thick silver hair and high cheekbones; others called him distinguished. The universal descriptor was gentleman. Thomas considered him first-rate, a man of honesty and integrity.
Alexander swung left to face Thomas. “Sounds like a plan. See what you can do.” He glanced at his watch. They were running late. It was time for Secretary Alexander’s weekly intelligence brief and staff meeting. This one promised to be interesting. The Russians were frantically searching a wide swath of ocean southeast of the Kurile Islands, and the consensus pegged the lost prize as a missing Delta IV ballistic-missile submarine—one of the Russians’ frontline jobs. And one of the few still operational after years of neglect.
Thomas walked side by side with Alexander to the his personal conference room. They filed in to discover a full room with several new faces. The usual attendees came in various shapes and sizes and were the direct-report under and assistant secretaries, with a sprinkling of military men. The civilian dress ranged from the rumpled college-professor look for the older technical types to the younger men and women in expensive suits. There was little middle ground. When Alexander took his end seat, the chitchat ceased.
“Let’s skip today’s intel summary and get right to the Russian search and rescue (SAR) effort,” said Alexander, counting noses.
An invited guest, an admiral from the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations, rose and introduced himself then stepped to a large map of the Pacific theater, hanging on the wall next to the entrance. He patiently waited for the private discussions to end. Everyone had their own spin on the incident, even before they had all the facts. The admiral’s delivery was even and tempered. Funny, Thomas thought, how they all sounded the same when they briefed, including himself. Alexander nodded the go-ahead, and the show began.
“Two days ago, the Russians began sending Pacific Fleet units to this area here,” the admiral said, tapping on the map with a pen. “At first we thought one of their bombers had gone down, like that Bear H that caught a wingtip and cart-wheeled into the drink two months ago. But the op tempo rose as the week progressed, and we have just received word that they have gotten a submarine rescue vessel underway from Petro.” The private whispers started again.
“We’re convinced now that one of their boats went down. If we’re right, a Delta IV SSBN is resting on the bottom somewhere east of the Kurile chain, chock-full of SS-N-23 ballistic missiles. The water is too deep for an attempted rescue but not too deep for surveillance of the wreckage or a possible recovery of debris. We have unconfirmed reports that the Russians have already contacted the French about purchasing deep-water salvage equipment, including a side-looking, high-frequency sonar. We’ve offered assistance, but they turned us down cold.”
The admiral’s last remark brought sustained laughter. “Our response has been twofold. First, we dispatched fleet units to monitor Russian SAR operations. USS Texas, a cruiser, was detached from Battle Group Echo. Coming from due east will be USS Los Angeles, a 688 class boat, currently on patrol near the Aleutians. Hopefully, Texas will draw all the attention and allow Los Angeles to slip into the area undetected. During a recent overhaul, she received a new, experimental coating over her entire hull and a sonar upgrade. She’s ideally suited for this operation.
“Secondly, we are intensifying our antisubmarine warfare efforts to make an inventory of Russian SSBNs, SSGNs, and SSNs. If it is the Delta IV, we’ve got the makings of a real intelli
gence coup. Since the water is deeper than the Russians can conduct salvage operations in, we estimate they’ll attempt to locate the wreckage and destroy it. We should be ready to move in and see what pieces we can pick up.”
When the admiral paused, Thomas leaned forward on his elbows and spoke. He had a well-defined role, and Alexander smiled before the words came out of his aide’s mouth.
“Admiral, why are the Russians going to let us waltz in and recover the wreckage?” He was wondering if the navy knew something he didn’t.
The admiral took a drink of ice water before delivering his answer. He had expected a question like that from a civilian, not a fellow officer.
“The Russians can’t stay there forever, and if they don’t find the wreck, they’ll leave. They’ve done the same thing in the past; so have we, for that matter. They’ll stay until they’re convinced that either no one can find it or that they have reduced the wreckage to rubble. Much of this is face-saving. This is a serious loss for the Russian Navy. Someone is doing considerable explaining at the main Naval Headquarters in Moscow. Second, we’ve developed covert recovery techniques. We can’t expect to go in and raise an entire Russian SSBN in their backyard; they would never stand for that. We’ll have to be content with small pieces determined to have the best intelligence value.”
“I suppose,” said Thomas. “But the Russians might be looking for a chance to mix it up. Are we ready?” Alexander would most certainly pose the same question to the Joint Chiefs later in the day. The admiral’s answer didn’t really matter.
“I can assure you, we won’t be put in that position,” responded the admiral, speaking for the navy. “The Texas is heavily armed, and I personally know the commanding officer. He’s first-rate.
Alexander raised his thick eyebrows at Thomas. The look wasn’t lost on the others. “I hope so. Thank you, Admiral. Does anyone have any other questions?”
Thomas flashed on an old incident, remembering the Glomar Explorer. He prayed this wouldn’t be another CIA escapade. He did hit on something else, though, and raised a finger.
“That particular Delta IV was involved in the new sea-launched ballistic-missile development program,” remarked Thomas. “This could have a real impact on the development schedule of the SS-N-27X missile, couldn’t it?”
“That’s correct,” replied the admiral. “They were to conduct a test launch before transiting to their final patrol area. This makes it even more important that we get a look at the wreckage.” A long pause followed.
“That it?” said the secretary, after no further questions arose from the crowd, “Let’s move on to the problem with the C-17 production.” Alexander leaned to his right and whispered to Thomas, “Keep an eye on this one, Bob.”
The USS Texas, a nuclear-powered guided-missile cruiser, steamed leisurely toward the broad entrance of Tokyo Bay at eighteen knots. Her final destination was the harbor adjacent to Yokosuka Naval Base. Texas was two months into a seven-month Western Pacific cruise as part of Battle Group Echo, spearheaded by the aircraft carrier USS Ranger. The Battle Group was slated to dock in Yokosuka for minor repairs, loading stores and taking a week of well-deserved liberty, then push off for the long transit to the Indian Ocean via the Strait of Malacca and eventually move to operations in the Arabian Sea. Duty in the IO, as the sailors called it, was arduous, monotonous, and exhausting. Long stretches underway were broken only by infrequent, dismal port calls. The best the crew could hope for was a few warm beers at Mombasa, Kenya. The worst would be Karachi, Pakistan.
One rumor had spread like wildfire through the ship’s passageways. A radioman had leaked the word at chow time—a message had been received proposing a week-long visit to the Australian port of Perth after their three-month sentence in the IO. The ship buzzed as wide-eyed sailors happily went about their duties. If true, it would partly compensate for the devastating loss of Subic Bay’s notorious Olongapo City as the crème de la crème of liberty ports. The lovely ladies of Subic had scattered to the four winds once the last Americans trooped home in late 1992. Fleet sailors still wept at the passing of such a venerable institution overtaken by both time and politics.
After weeks at sea, shipboard operations were in autopilot. Texas alternated between mundane carrier escort ops and occasionally leading a surface-action group to intercept and investigate Russian combatants nosing around in the Northern Pacific—although these days the pests were fewer. The handful that could still get underway mostly hugged the coasts both in the Sea of Japan and that perennial Russian lake, the Sea of Okhotsk, which also served as the last Pacific bastion for ballistic-missile-carrying submarines.
On Ranger, the air wing stepped up the tempo in anticipation of the rigors of life in the Indian Ocean. Flight operations commenced at first light and continued well into the night. It was a grueling schedule that exhausted both flight crews and the young sailors braving the flight deck. So far, to the credit of all, they hadn’t lost a man or a plane.
Lieutenant Commander Brad Chelson, United States Navy, Operations Officer on Texas, was hunched over a radar repeater in the blackened Combat Information Center, or CIC, located a stone’s throw behind the bridge. An occasional red fluorescent backlit the shadowy characters that called this electronic dungeon home. Chelson was slightly over medium height, with thick, sandy blond hair that flopped in a mop on top but was shaved to the scalp above the ears, a tribute to the skill of shipboard barbers. He fought constantly to maintain his college weight, but the sedentary shipboard life coupled with greasy food presented a formidable challenge. His only exercise consisted of daily laps around Texas’s steel decks, weather permitting. A look in the reflective glass of the repeater revealed a young-looking face with intelligent eyes.
Chelson had just assumed the watch when the Bridge urgently signaled Main Control over the 21MC squawk box.
“Main Control, Bridge, we’re being detached from the Battle Group, stand by for a high-speed run.” The CIC sailors stared at each other in mouth-open shock.
“Oh shit!” exclaimed the Lieutenant J.G., on watch with his boss, “My wife is going to meet the ship in Japan.”
“You mean was,” replied Chelson unsympathetically. “I’ve told you guys not to make plans. Don’t worry,” he added thoughtfully, “they’ll get word to her. If not, she’ll have a once-in-a-lifetime shopping spree without you.” The thought of his mate loose with the other wardroom wives in a shopper’s paradise caused a sharp pain in the young lieutenant’s already thin wallet.
“Where are we going, sir?” asked the senior enlisted man on watch.
“You know as much as I do.” Chelson quickly retrieved the secret message board and rummaged through the old traffic. Did I miss something? he thought. What the hell is going on?
The executive officer called an all-officers meeting in the wardroom for 1300. By then the Texas had steamed 350 degrees true at a flank bell, a magnificent, frothing rooster tail spewing fifty feet skyward, driven by the ship’s twin screws churning the sea. At precisely 1300, the commanding officer strode through the oval-shaped wardroom door.
“Attention on deck,” called the executive officer. All the officers quickly stood and braced at attention.
After a mental survey to spot absentees, the CO remarked, “Seats, gentlemen. All right, we’ve gotten new orders.” He stepped to his left, tapping his finger on a chart of the Pacific Ocean, which leaned on an easel. He pulled out his reading glasses and rested them on his nose. They made him look like a college professor. The officers knew better than to make a smart-ass comment on the old man’s appearance.
“Commander-in-Chief, US Pacific Fleet has ordered us to proceed to an op-area southeast of the Kurile Islands. It appears the Russians have lost something important. They’ve got surface units supported by land-based aircraft covering the area. CINCPACFLT thinks it was a sub. So far it’s hard to tell, but there was a Delta IV ballistic-missile submarine patrolling in the Sea of Okhotsk that’s turned up missing. On th
e other hand, it could have been just about anything. In any case, they’re worried as hell.”
At that moment, the biggest concern for all was the lost liberty. It was a bitter blow to the single men. The more numerous married officers had supposedly learned to control themselves when let loose amid the Far East liberty ports. An after-port check at the doctor’s office didn’t always support that hypothesis.
“Our orders are to patrol the area and gather whatever intelligence we can. They’ve got one of their new destroyers up there, so we should be able to get a good look at it. Hopefully, we can pick up communications traffic and get signature data on the various platforms. Might as well make the trip worthwhile.
“We’re scheduled to rendezvous with a supply ship farther north for stores,” he said, pointing to a location off the mainland, “and we’ll pick up linguists. This looks like a straightforward operation, but we’re going to have to be on our toes. The patrol area is very close to Russian territorial waters. We can expect them to tell us to clear the area, but we’ll hang tough and exercise our rights of navigation in international waters and the right of innocent passage through the territorial sea. That means precise navigation at all times, got that, Navigator? We’ve got to know exactly where we are.”
“Yes, sir,” came a voice from the end of the table. The navigator was sharp and confident, and his voice showed it.
The Captain walked to his chair and sat down. He thought for a moment then turned to an officer next to Chelson.
“We’ll make a high-speed run the entire transit. That means no engineering casualty drills, Chief Engineer; we can’t take the risk of losing one of the plants.” Then he looked at them all. “Once on station, we’ll shift to port and starboard watches throughout the ship, including one fully manned repair party.” The last comment brought a pained look to the faces surrounding the table. Port and starboard watch standing cursed the life of sailors at sea.
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