Show of Force

by Charles D. Taylor

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The office was austere, much like the man who sat behind the large wooden desk. The desk and the comfortable chair he sat in were the only items in the room that signified his authority. There was a drab rug of a nondescript brownish color on the floor, and there were no curtains on the windows, only the folding wooden blinds, so familiar in Russia, that slid on squeaky metal tracks to cut out a too-bright sun. The wails and ceiling were of a pale beige color, and minute cracks showed in the plaster, which needed renewing. The only decorations were on the wall opposite the desk where he could look up at them from his work. Behind him were the normal charts and scrolls that signified various awards he had won in his long naval career. They were there for effect, for he wanted visitors to see them when he talked. There were two smallish windows to his right. He leaned back in his chair to look out at the lightly falling snow in the Kremlin yard. The air was still bright with the light crystal snow that fell this time of year from the fluffy clouds. They skittered across the sun, the one that never rose very high in the wintry Moscow sky. He pushed back from his desk, putting his hands behind his bald head. What little hair he had left provided a gray fringe around the base of his skull. This made his ears look bigger than they were, and his jowls, not large for a man nearly seventy years old, were also emphasized. He had a big head, wide, with a pronounced forehead and high Slavic cheekbones. To complete this tough-looking appearance, his eyes should have been a steely gray. But they were a soft brown instead. It might have been a handsome face, but the many hard years during the war, coupled with the sternness of a senior Russian military official, produced a perpetual downturn at the corners of his mouth.

  His military blouse was open, one of the rare times he allowed himself this relaxation. He needed that comfort when he was alone with his thoughts. His chest carried an impressive array of combat ribbons, and the gold on his sleeves signified his position as the single Admiral of the Fleet of the Soviet Union. He was not only the man who had built the Soviet Navy after the Great Patriotic War, he was still in total command of it. Only moments before, he had given the order for destruction of the U.S. satellite in retaliation for whatever the Americans had done to his own.

  He was well aware of the fire at the American Embassy, although that had been the work of the K.G.B. They would handle the Americans in Moscow. His responsibility was coordinating the confrontation at Islas Piedras in the Indian Ocean, working closely with both the Premier and Admiral Kupinsky aboard the flagship Lenin. The phone on his desk buzzed briefly, and his secretary explained that the head of the K.G.B. was waiting to talk with him.

  He picked up the phone and identified himself, then listened intently, not responding but nodding his head a few times to himself. When the caller had finished, he thanked him briefly for the information, hanging up before the other could add anything else to the one-sided conversation. It was simply formal notification that communications between the United States Embassy and Washington had been completely cut for the time being. The Americans were isolated.

  There was a sharp knock at the single door to his office. An aide appeared after a respectful wait, wheeling in a chart of the. Indian Ocean. Admiral Gorenko wanted nothing cluttering his office, nothing that would interfere when he was thinking. All the charts, television screens, communications equipment, computer consoles, and assorted command paraphernalia were kept in the command room next to his office. He had asked to be brought up to date every two hours, but did not care to step into the noise of the next room, where its occupants would invariably snap to attention as he entered.

  The aide saluted. “The position of Lenin at seven A.M. was exactly here, Admiral Gorenko,” and he pointed to a spot well marked on the chart. “The American force is located here,”—he pointed to another distinctly marked spot—“northeast of Islas Piedras. They changed course in the middle of the day as you expected, bringing them to this point at sixteen hundred, about one thousand miles from our own force.”

  Gorenko's eyes turned from the chart to the aide. “Are there still just six ships in that formation?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any sign of Nimitz?” “No, sir. We believe she's still heading for Simonstown,”

  “Don't believe. Check again.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “She will be turned back north, and she will be joined by all of those ships spread out on your chart. That you can be certain of, and I want to know instantly when she does.” His head lowered back to the papers on the desk.

  But he could not concentrate. He leaned back in his chair again, and found himself looking at a photograph on the wall. There were two men in the picture standing side by side, dressed in combat gear, guns slung on their shoulders. The backdrop was rubble. No buildings were standing. Written in the lower right-hand corner was “Stalingrad, Nov. 18, 1942.” One of the men was Gorenko, hardly recognizable today because of the strange clothes he wore then and the forty-year difference in time. The other was his friend, Georgi Kupinsky, Alex's father. And now, he thought to himself, I may be sending the son to his death.

  . . . The clothes they had worn then made them look like awkward bears, but they were warm, much warmer than the Germans or Rumanians. Their hats, with short visors to accommodate their helmets, had earflaps that encircled all but nose and eyes. The sheepskin coats were bulky and hung below their knees, and their weight made fast movement difficult, but it was preferable to freezing to death. The Volga was already filled with ice flows, and it would get much colder before the next offensive was over. They had warm gloves that were pliable enough to allow them freedom of movement, but the best- part of their uniforms were their valenki, the felt-covered, padded boots. It was said that armies traveled on their stomachs, but since there was little food the 62nd Army managed to get by with warm feet. The Germans they were able to capture could not run because their feet had frozen in their straw-stuffed boots, worthless protection in the Russian winter.

  The photo had been taken between one of the many pitched battles during the street fighting in Stalingrad. They were standing near the Central Railroad Station, a place that General Chuikov had decided would be a “must hold” position. It was near Mamai Hill, another of the bluffs in the city that had seesawed back and forth. They were not allowed to give up the station as long as they were still alive.

  That was another order that had been forgotten with time. Russians in Stalingrad had to be dead before they gave ground.

  It had been decreed that the city would be the turning point of the war. If they did not stop the advance here, then the Germans would move on the Baku oil fields. They had been told they had only two obligations to the state—continue to fight or die. The Germans seemed to be of the same mind. They fought fiercely, giving up an attack only when there was no one left to fight. The Rumanians to the north and the Italians to the south, who were fighting for the Germans, were not as motivated. They preferred to take their chances as prisoners. They did not fear the torture the German soldiers expected if they were captured. Himmler's doctrine of Untermensch, the Commissar Decree of May 1941, ordered all Russian political officials and army political commissars killed on capture. The German soldiers expected no less.

  The Admiral's thoughts drifted back to the early days of the war, after Hitler had surprised Stalin by striking on three fronts. Gorenko had been a young captain of his own destroyer in the Black Sea Reel. He had been too junior to be caught up in the purges of 1937 and 1938, and the loss of so many of his superiors had created a rapid career path for him. He had then been made a commander of a squadron of destroyers, and when the Germans were sweeping into the Odessa region he had been charged with organizing the “sailor army.” It was September, 1941, and his sailors had delayed the Germans until late October. The plan was to slow them down as much as possible until they were stopped completely by the Russian winter.

  They had evacuated the sailors after Odessa fell. Then they became part of the Azov Flotilla, trying to keep the su
pply lanes open through the Azov Sea and up the Don near Stalingrad. He had organized the Kerch Landing in the struggle to save Sebastopol. The German armies were relentless and their tanks gradually drove the Russians back to the sea. But they held the city through the winter, effectively stalling Hitler's advance until the spring. It was Gorenko's sailor army that had fought the Germans 50 bravely, time and again throwing back the advances and taking such heavy losses. They were forced to evacuate Kerch in May of that year and in July of 1942 Sebastopol finally fell. There were few of those sailor soldiers left. The citizens never forgot the brave “five sailors of Sebastopol” who threw themselves under advancing German tanks. It was a defense of the homeland and each sailor was committed to die on land or sea.

  On his wall, next to the photo from Stalingrad, was the simple message found on the body of one of his sailors at Firing Point Number Eleven:

  Russia, my country, my native land! Dear Comrade Stalin! I, a Black Sea sailor, and a son of Lenin's Komsomol, fought as my heart told me to fight. I slew the beasts as long as my heart beat in my breast. Now I am dying, but I know we shall win. Sailors of the Black Sea Navy! Fight harder still, kill the mad fascist dogs. I have been faithful to my soldier's oath.

  No one ever passed through his office without having it pointed out. Gorenko expected no less of his sailors forty years later.

  By August, they had lost control of the Azov Sea to the Germans, and Gorenko led his small band of survivors toward Stalingrad, where the final stand would be made. If the Germans took Stalin's city and captured the oil fields, then the war was lost. Word of mouth preceded him as he led his men up the Don, skirmishing with German elements as they made their way to the next front. They did not go hungry, for the peasants brought what little they had to the sailors, whose commander was already a myth.

  He lost more men at Kalach when they successfully destroyed a German fuel depot, the primary one the Panzer divisions depended on in the struggle for Stalingrad. Then, they captured a freight train and ran it along the canal to the great city. They arrived during the hardest month, October, the month in which General Paulus knew he must capture the city or face another cruel winter. The defenses had already pulled within the city limits and reinforcements from the Volga's eastern bank found themselves instantly in the front lines. The heroes were greeted for five minutes and then immediately sent to General Gorishnyi's 62nd Army, a unit already famous in its own right. Perhaps Chuikov had realized that the two heroic units should be charged with defending that part of the city -that protected the supply paths over the Volga behind them. At any rate, the remainder of those sailors who had left their ships to defend Odessa, Sebastapol, and now Stalingrad would never again see the Black Sea. They died defending Mamai Hill, and a Central Railroad Station that was already unrecognizable when they got there.

  There was a sharp knocking at his door. “Yes.” His aide entered, saluting as he stepped inside. “A report from Admiral Kupinsky, sir.”

  Gorenko nodded, not answering, as was his habit. “Two aircraft were sent to harass the Americans. They fired missiles from long range making one hit on a cruiser. Little damage reported. One of the Rigas was brought down by a low-level missile we were unaware of. The remaining aircraft successfully evaded the others.”

  “Is there any sign of Nimitz yet, or any of her screening or supply ships'?”

  “Nothing, Admiral.”

  He pondered for a moment, then looked up to the aide. “Message to Admiral Kupinsky—continue harrassment. Sacrifice if necessary to determine any other new weapon systems.”

  “At once, Admiral.” He wheeled and left, shutting the door quietly behind him and leaving Gorenko to his thoughts again.

  Gorenko rose from behind his desk and moved over to the windows, looking into the courtyard below. The snow had stopped, and there were already many footprints through the light dusting. Soon, flakes would again drift down, erasing those prints and making room for new wanderers, though there were few in this section of the Kremlin. A brief flash of midday sun glanced off one of the domes on the Cathedral of the Archangel. He turned and looked directly at the photo.

  The smells came back to him again, the gut-wrenching odor of death that hung over the city no matter where you were, and the calming blend of black bread and cabbage and makhorka tobacco in the basement command post. They had lost Mamai Hill once again and the General had been forced to move his headquarters. A fuel-storage depot had been bombed and burning oil was running into the basements. It was quiet outside because the Germans did not usually attack during the day. Gorenko was eating a hasty meal with Kupinsky, the young sergeant who had just been made lieutenant to replace the last officer in his unit who had been killed that morning.

  Gorenko decided to stay close to this man, for his troops still had a full supply of ammunition, especially grenades, which slowed any attack. And Kupinsky and his men were brave and experienced. They had been there since early September, always near Mamai Hill. Young Georgi Kupinsky had liked the Navy man, and they found that the defenders of Sebastopol and the defenders of Mamai Hill fought well together.

  Their newly designated basement headquarters were by the Stalingrad Tractor Plant. They would soon try to take back the Hill.

  “Tell me, Commander,” inquired the young man, as he lit one of the foul-smelling cigarettes, “now that they have allowed us to finish a meal, do you think they will attack soon? Or do you think they are already aware of the counteroffensive?” It was November 18, and General Chuikov had planned a massive counterattack to take place simultaneously on each of the fronts around the city.

  “It is hard to say, Georgi. And, please . . . please call me Pietr. We are friends, now.” He paused to light his own cigarette. “I don't think they like the daylight any more than they have before. They like to attack at night when we can't see them as well.” He stood up, motioning to the other. “Let's check with our men and see for ourselves if the Nazis seem to be curious.”

  As they came up onto the street, Gorenko looked for the outline of the sun through the dust and smoke that had changed it to a dull, reddish ball. It was either night and black out or a little lighter as the sun tried to penetrate the thick blanket of smoke. Few buildings existed as more than piles of masonry, an occasional wall or chimney piercing the air. Chimneys were hard to hit, so there were more of them than anything else to identify which part of town one occupied.

  The rubble served as both a hindrance to movement and a boon to the foot soldiers for its excellent protection from rifle fire. The best part for the Russians was the fact that the German destruction of the city was so complete that their tanks were unable to maneuver through much of the area they wanted to capture. German soldiers had to advance without the mechanized divisions that had led them in their sweep across Russia. When they had elected to reduce the city to mortar and ashes they had not realized that they were also halting their own most effective weapon. This gave the Russians the opportunity to pound the German positions with their artillery twenty-four hours a day, firing with accuracy from the opposite bank of the Volga.

  And then, Gorenko remembered, there were the katyushas, those immense mortars, one of the few items in the Russian arsenal that genuinely frightened the Germans. Since they were fired from a distance, there was no warning of the impending explosion until the first shell began its descent. The great whooshing sound then announced its imminent arrival, too Sate for the Germans to avoid the tremendous explosions. The Russians used them effectively against troop concentrations, knowing the psychological value was worth almost as much as its destructiveness. Its intention was antipersonnel and its effectiveness justified its use, once reducing an entire advancing battalion to bits and pieces. Perhaps, he thought to himself, that's what kept us going in those days—we knew they had no katys. They kept close to the remaining walls as they found their men around the next corner. Gorenko stopped to talk with one of his squad leaders for a moment, while Kupinsky moved among his own
larger group.

  “Georgi, has there been any movement out there?” He gestured in the general direction of the German positions.

  “No, not yet. One of my scouts has just been out and has seen some ammunition carts hauling in more men. He thinks they may just be probing in the next couple of streets. They must know something's in the air.”

  “It's not like them to be so still during the day. Let's get ourselves a prisoner or two for Gorishnyi. He doesn't want them pulling back far enough to use aircraft.” General Chuikov had ordered that his men would maintain close combat positions with the Germans, just a “grenade's-throw distance at most,” so that their enemy could not utilize their air superiority. Every time the Germans moved forward they met stiff resistance, and whenever they withdrew, the 62nd Army was at their heels. Attacking was thought to be the simplest way to stay alive.

  As quietly as six men could move through the remains of a pulverized building, they eased their way onto a pile of stone. Kupinsky used his binoculars to check activity behind the lines, while Gorenko and his men moved to one side to protect their post from the street. Less than thirty seconds after they had taken their positions, a German reconnaissance squad inched cautiously down the street in their direction. Gorenko communicated with his men by making hand signs for an ambush.

  Looking over his shoulder, Kupinsky saw what was coming. He, too, used hand signals and his men began to move silently. But before they got there, the others opened fire. Shouts and screams, combined with the fire of automatic weapons, shattered the air. The surprised Germans had little chance to return fire. It was over almost before it began, except for the second squad of Germans following the first.

  Gorenko didn't see them as he and his men jumped down from their position to locate a survivor. The second German group opened fire on them immediately, hitting one of his men. He and the other ducked behind the remains of a wall that had toppled into the street. The Germans had divided their group and, while one held down the two Russians behind the rubble, the others circled, not knowing Kupinsky was easing around behind them.