Brown, Dale - Independent 01

by Silver Tower (v1. 1)

  “Now to the situation in the Persian Gulf region and the status of Operation Feather,” the general secretary said, breaking through Govorov’s thoughts.

  Czilikov recognized his cue. “Yes sir, there is much to report. In the weeks since the destruction of the space station Armstrong, we have consolidated our forces in the region, strengthening not only the battlefield units in each tactical location but moving to unify the entire triple theater forces—the Persian Gulf flotilla, the Iraqi unified command in the west, and the Iran-Afghanistan command in the east. Complete unification is still weeks away. Our movement has been delayed by American naval troops in the southern Persian Gulf whose efforts have been helped by seagoing and aviation forces.”

  The general secretary cut in. “I am beginning to believe, Admiral Chercherovin, that our forces will never take control of the Persian Gulf. Your plan to attempt to move your flotilla southward to reinforce air strikes against Bandar-Abbas and the other southern Iran airfields seems to be stalled once again.”

  “Both sides are at an impasse, sir,” the admiral said. “The advantage is with the ground-based defenders. They can move air-to-air missile batteries into the area faster than we can move carrier-based fighter-bombers to the Brezhnev.”

  “Supersonic low-altitude bombers from the Southern TVD have had success attacking Iranian forward enemy positions,” Chief Marshal Rhomerdunov said. “Enemy advances to positions of tactical advantage have all been stopped or neutralized by small-scale Tu-26 bomber attacks. The Tupolev-26s are virtually invulnerable in the central mountains of Iran—”

  “Yet the strikes are strategically useless,” the general secretary said. “They are not offensive moves, they gain absolutely no ground nor do they advance the objectives of Operation Feather. They are mere reactions to American offensives. If this war of attrition goes on, sooner or later the side on the offensive will take control. That should be us. Must be. At present it clearly is not.”

  The general secretary turned to Czilikov. “The solution is obvious to me. Of the three tactical theaters of operation, the weakest is obviously the Persian Gulf flotilla. We have a limited number of vessels in the gulf with almost no hope of replenishment or reinforcement. We have only two sources of refueling these vessels, and we are under constant danger from attack by Iranian guerrillas on the Kharg Island and Abadan petroleum shipping ports. The carrier Brezhnev must use so much of its own resources for fleet self-protection that it is all but useless as a support vessel for other land-based strikes.... Admiral Chercherovin, what can you say to this? Your efforts in securing the coastal ports in the initial phases of Feather were laudable, but now that big, expensive, vulnerable fleet stuck in the northern Persian Gulf is impotent. I just read a report that four Iranian madmen carrying bazookas in an inflatable rubber speedboat inflicted extensive damage on the cruiser Dzerzhinsky before being destroyed. Is that how the great Soviet navy is going to go down in defeat? By crazed Muslims in toy rafts?”

  “No, sir—”

  “The time has come, gentlemen, to make another decision on the direction of this conflict. There has been considerable pressure from the West to withdraw from Iran. The economic embargoes against our country are beginning to be felt. We are drawing off valuable resources to maintain an uneasy stalemate that threatens to blow up in our faces, while imports of needed raw materials and food are being halted.” He sat, slowly folded his hands, and let his eyes wander across the highly polished table surface. “Perhaps we should withdraw from the region....”

  No reaction from any of the civilian or military members of the Stavka—except for Govorov. He put both palms down on the table as if to push himself up to his feet in anger.

  The general secretary was looking directly at Govorov when he made his quiet announcement, and a knowing smile creased his face. “Or perhaps I should dismiss all of you—all except Marshal Govorov, of course—and replace you with a military council that will show some leadership, some initiative, some damned backbone.”

  Czilikov’s face turned crimson. The general secretary ignored it. “I pledged to this council once that I would not become the first general secretary of the Soviet Union to retreat in the face of inferior forces and I will keep that promise. In fact, I will never retreat.”

  He stood and pointed a finger at Govorov while addressing the other Stavka members. “How can you sit here after we have just honored such a soldier as Marshal Govorov, a man who risked his life to give this nation the advantage we so badly needed and wanted, and then, with your silence, acquiesce in a plan for surrender and withdrawal?”

  “What would you have us suggest, sir?” Czilikov said. “A nuclear strike against the Nimitz carrier group? An atomic cruise-missile strike against Bandar-Abbas? Perhaps a flight of SS-20 missiles targeted against the American fleet? We can blow the United Arab Emirates off the map and create a whole new Strait of Hormuz....”

  The general secretary seemed to ignore the outburst. “I want a plan for breaking this stalemate and accomplishing the goals of Operation Feather.” He turned to Govorov. “Put yourself in the shoes of the minister of defense. What would you suggest?”

  Govorov understood he was being wedged between the minister of defense and the general secretary. Some unfriendly space. Well, he’d made a career out of speaking his mind.... “I must agree with you, sir, it was important for our forces to halt their advances while the space station Armstrong was being neutralized. A stalemate-breaking offensive such as the one we were talking about could have triggered a larger response, perhaps even a theater nuclear response from the Americans. Now Armstrong Station is no longer a threat. So I believe it is necessary to secure a strong foothold in the region, act quickly and decisively.” He paused for a breath—and to have his head handed to him—and when he saw they were waiting for more substance and less speech, pressed on.... “I would suggest that two major operations begin as soon as possible. The first would be designed to break down the land-based emplacements of the American rapid deployment forces by overwhelming them, then attacking and occupying their positions; the second would be to command and hold the region from the Arabian Sea to the Strait of Hormuz and control the access to the gulf....” The silence was a vacuum to be filled, though he couldn’t be sure it was because of approval or the opposite. ...

  “I also propose a cruise-missile attack on Bandar-Abbas and the forces along the Persian Gulf. This type of attack was successful on the Nimitz fleet in the past. The Americans must engage the cruise missiles with their surface-to-air and air-to-air assets. The attack should be followed immediately by heavy bomber attacks, progressively moving to lighter fighter-bomber attacks until the targets can be occupied by paratroopers. In two days, if the strike is swift and devastating enough, we should be able to reoccupy Bandar-Abbas.”

  Finally a reaction: a murmur of voices. Then Chief Marshal Yesi- mov of the air force said, “It can be done. Our older Tupolev-95 turboprop bombers, which could not survive over the heavily defended coastal areas around Bandar-Abbas itself, can be armed with cruise missiles instead of gravity bombs. The bombers can launch their missiles from well inside occupied Iranian territory, far from the American surface-to-air missile emplacements. Each Tu-95 can carry four AS-6 missiles, which have twelve-hundred-kilogram high-explosive warheads.”

  “How many Tu-95s could be made available?” Czilikov asked.

  Yesimov shrugged. “We can immediately send ten bombers to Tashkent, the largest available staging base in the region. Within a week I can dispatch our entire fleet of H-model bombers to Tashkent: forty planes, one hundred sixty cruise missiles.”

  “Forty Tu-95 bombers in Tashkent would also be immediately noticed,” Chief Marshal Rhomerdunov, commander of the troops of Soviet air defense, noted. “However, Zhukovsky Military Airfield at Tashkent can easily conceal the initial ten Tu-95 bombers.”

  “I can have the bombers at Tashkent in less than a week,” Yesimov said. “I will draft an operation plan for t
he bomber deployment right away.”

  The general secretary was visibly pleased. “Now you’re beginning to sound like the men I thought I knew.” He turned to Govorov. “What is your second operation?”

  The space defense commander looked around the conference table. “The second operation is more crucial.... It involves moving the Arkhangel battle group into the Gulf of Oman to oppose the American Nimitz battle group directly.”

  This time a loud murmur of voices, clearly not approving.

  “It’s out of the question,” Admiral Chercherovin said. “The Ark- hangel is not just an aircraft carrier. It is our newest and best. It is more than just a vessel. It is our future....”

  Czilikov took over. “Marshal Govorov refers to the new class aircraft carrier in its final year of sea trials, sir. It is now on a shakedown patrol of the South China Sea, but has been based at Cam Ranh Bay Naval Base in Vietnam for the past month. The Arkhangel is the largest naval vessel ever built, much larger than the Nimitz. She carries eighty-five aircraft, all of them Sukhoi-27 air superiority and antimissile fighters. Even more, the Arkhangel comprises her own battle group. She uses two Kiev-class short-takeoff-and-landing aircraft carriers, the Kiev and Novorossiysk, to carry the battle group’s land-and-ship attack aircraft and a number of antisubmarine warfare helicopters. All together, the Arkhangel battle group contains one hundred thirty combat aircraft and helicopters.”

  Czilikov watched the general secretary’s eyes as he listened to the description of the Arkhangel and her battle group. He stopped abruptly. “We cannot send the Arkhangel, sir. It is out of the question.”

  “Back that up, Czilikov.”

  “Sir, sending the Arkhangel battle group to the Persian Gulf area would be like... like the Americans landing a squadron of B-l bombers in Berlin or London or Norway, or sailing the Nimitz into the Black Sea. It would be an overconcentration, and it would be a major escalation—”

  “But the Americans have the Nimitz group in the Gulf of Oman,” the general secretary broke in, “and that is a major force.”

  “But, sir, the Nimitz balances the Brezhnev carrier force,” Czilikov said. “Besides, the Americans have always had a major carrier group in that area. They are, frankly, the only nation that can afford to maintain such a force to just cruise around thousands of kilometers from home.”

  “The Arkhangel would be as vulnerable as the Brezhnev is in the Persian Gulf,” Chercherovin now added.

  “With two carriers as escorts?” the general secretary asked. “If the world’s largest carrier, protected by two other carriers and twenty surface combatants, is still vulnerable to attack in the open ocean we have no business building such vessels. No, I don’t believe this Arkhangel force would be so vulnerable. This is no time for caution, Admiral. If we have the power, we should act. Immediately. I want this option explored. I want a briefing in three days, outlining all possible contingencies involved in moving the Arkhangel to the Gulf of Oman to oppose the Nimitz.” He paused, reconsidered, obviously caught up in the spectacle of what they were likely to achieve, or were trying to achieve. .. . “No, I want that report in forty-eight hours. And 1 want the Arkhangel group ready to sail one week after the plan is approved by the Politburo.”

  Admiral Chercherovin, still the voice of can’t-do, said: “It is impossible to prepare an entire twenty-five-ship fleet for an extended deployment in—”

  “Then put that in your report. But yours will not be the only opinions I rely on. You have a habit, Admiral, of telling me what is impossible. I am tired of military commanders telling me what is impossible.”

  The general secretary turned to Govorov, who had returned to his seat. He motioned at him. “Here is a young, innovative commander who does the impossible. You older officers would do well to take him as a model.”

  The general secretary glanced at Czilikov, who was usually expected to come to the aid of his senior Stavka officers at moments like this. This time he did not. Unlike the admiral, he knew when to shut up. He did, though, look at Govorov, as much as to say, “It’s all yours, hero. And welcome to it....”

  BETHESDA NAVAL HOSPITAL, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Jason Saint-Michael woke up to find a warm hand entwined in his. He tried to speak but all he could manage was a rasping croak. He squeezed the hand tight as he could, and after a moment felt a rustling near him.

  “Jason?” The sound of her voice was life itself to him. He squeezed her hand again.

  “Thank God... .”

  He opened his eyes but found his vision blurry, his eyelids heavy and oily feeling.

  “What is it?” Another female voice.

  “He’s awake. He squeezed my hand.”

  “Are you sure?” He felt a movement near him, then a cold hand in place of the warm one. “General Saint-Michael? Can you hear me?”

  He still couldn’t see anything but could feel her near him. He moved a hand up and out slowly across a warm metal railing and rested it back onto the warm hand that had been pushed out of the way.

  “I’ll get the doctor.” The cold hand went away. He was determined not to let go of the warm one again. “Don’t go.”

  “I won’t. I’m right here.”

  “My... eyes ... ?”

  “Wait.” A moment later a dry towel was being wiped across his eyelids and forehead. He blinked a few more times, and the focus began to come back.... He was in a small white... what else?... hospital room. Ann was standing over him, his hand in hers. Her small, angular face was surrounded by long, thick hair, the ponytail now wrapped back and looped over her right shoulder. He tried to squeeze her hand again but his strength had seemed to drain away. He did manage a sort of smile.

  “You look good,” he said.

  “I wish I could say the same of you,” she said, smiling too brightly.

  He ran a dry tongue across his lips. “Get me some water, will you?”

  She poured a cup of water and held it for him as he drank. The water backed up slightly in his throat, but he forced some more down and felt much better.

  “God,” she said, “now I know what it feels like to—” Ann had lost her smile and was looking past him. He studied her face, realizing it was thinner than before. The tighter she held his hand, the softer her voice sounded, and the more worried he became.

  Who knew how many things she was keeping from him, so he picked the easiest, he thought. “How long have I been out?”

  Her eyes came back to his. “What do you mean... ?” As soon as she said it, she realized how evasive it sounded.

  He held up one of his hands, touching the palm with the index finger of his other. “Smooth. I had callouses before.” He forced a bit of the old steel in his voice, which took more effort than he expected. “Ann, how longV

  “Jason, you’ve been in a coma for three weeks. Almost four.”

  It registered in his head, but he found he could dismiss it. It didn’t matter how long he had been out—the important thing was, he was awake. He experimented with moving various muscle groups in his legs, arms and shoulders and found them all responsive but weak. “All parts seem to be working. Hey, come on, I’m okay.” He put his left hand down on the bed and found he had enough strength to push himself upright a few inches. Even that slight movement cheered him. “Damn, I feel like I’ve just woken up from a long nap. I feel good, really. Four weeks racked out, huh? What else?”

  She didn’t get a chance to reply. A white-robed physician had come into the room and put himself between them.

  “Welcome back, General. I’m Captain Matsui. You’re at Bethesda Naval Hospital. How do you feel?”

  “A little weak, thirsty, hungry as hell.”

  “Good, good and good. All good signs. No stiffness, headaches, chest pains?”

  “No. Should there be?”

  Matsui hesitated.

  “Have a seat, doc. Let’s have the gory details.”

  Matsui sat down, the cheerful smile fading a bit.

  “Give i
t to me straight. I can take it.”

  “It’s not quite that dramatic, General, although you did give us a few scares. You were suffering from dysbarism on board the Enterprise”

  “I suspected it.”

  “You got hit with the worst form of it,” Matsui said. “Cerebral dysbarism. Big bubbles of nitrogen lodged in your cerebral cortex. Lucky for you, Dr. Page here got you into Enterprise's airlock and back to normal atmospheric pressure so fast. You were probably only a few minutes from complete cerebral dysfunction.”

  Saint-Michael looked at Ann. “How about her, doc? Is she all right?”

  “She was in no danger. She used her POS longer, she was in the properly inflated rescue ball long enough and stayed with you in the airlock for nearly thirty hours. She’s in good condition. You, however, are not out of the woods. As a matter of fact, it’s been touch- and-go until today. You never woke up, and you had seizures, possibly even a heart attack, as your body continued to throw off the nitrogen. You—”

  “I think that’s about all the gory details I care to hear right now, doc. Thing is I’m alive, I’m up and I’m ready to get out of here. I suppose you’re going to say that’s impossible.”

  “On the contrary, General, let’s run a few blood tests, an EKG and EEG. You may need some physical therapy—you were in space for several months and in a coma for four weeks, after all. I’d say your heart and other muscles at least need some toning up. If they all check out you’ll be clear of here in a few days. Meantime, get some rest.” Matsui looked directly at Ann, then left with the nurse.