Total War

by Jerry Ahern

  "Yoh," he shouted, and the knocking stopped.

  "Approaching the icepack sir!" The muffled voice on the other side of the door he recognized as that of Dan Kimberly, a chief.

  "Gotcha, Dan," Wilmer rasped, his mouth dry. "With ya' in a sec'." Feeling his face again, he decided on a quick shave. He swung his feet off his bunk and into his shoes and went into the bathroom. Five minutes later he was going along the companionway, the .45 back under his arm. On the bridge, he saw Billings, walked up behind him, and said, "You get any sleep, Pete?"

  "No, sir. Figured I would after we got under the ice."

  "You're lucky—I can never sleep worth a damn under the ice. I think I'm claustrophobic or getting that way after all these years. Hell of a thing for a submariner, isn't it?"

  "Yes, sir," Billings said.

  Turning around, Wilmer looked to the man beside the most exotic of the consoles, the ice machine with the long technical name everyone shortened to "Watchyamacallit," the machine that gave a constant readout on the thickness of the ice overhead.

  "Got the Watchyamacallit all revved up, Henderson?" Wilmer asked.

  "Aye, aye, Captain."

  "Okay," Wilmer said, then turned to Billings.

  "Take her under the ice, Pete."

  As Wilmer leaned back against the railing on the central island, he told himself again that there was no real change. You were still under tons of water—just tons of ice over that. And surfacing was possible—unless the ice was too thick. And you always rode the instruments like a mother hen looked after her chicks; only, under the ice, the instrument readings had to be more precise and their readings could change more quickly.

  An hour later, just as Wilmer was preparing to get Billings to take his promised sleep, the new sonar man called out, "Blip, approximately five hundred off the starboard bowplane."

  Five hundred what, man?" Wilmer rasped. "Sing it out!"

  "Make that five hundred—four seventy-five yards now, sir."

  Wilmer was already standing behind the sonar man, Billings off to his right behind another console operator.

  "Russian, Captain?" Billings asked.

  "Hell if it's American—unless we got submarines they haven't told me about. Yeah, Russian, all right. Looks like this is kind of a busy street, huh?" Wilmer turned to Billings, then glanced back at the scope in front of him.

  The man working the console tugged at his earphones, saying, "Captain, I'm pickin' up something. I can't be sure what it is."

  "Gimme that," Wilmer said, his words harsher than his tone. He took the earphones and twisted them around so he could hear; then looked down at the scope.

  "Did a pinch on sonar once, a long time ago," Wilmer recited, slowly.

  Turning to Billings, he rasped, "Load up number one and two with conventionals, and ready number three with—" Dropping the earphones, he shouted, "Dammit—that was a torpedo being launched!"

  "Captain! We got it on the scope here! Comm' right at—"

  "Hard starboard—all ahead three quarters. Make that all ahead full!" Wilmer shouted. The Russian torpedo slicing through the water off the port bow sounded just inches away when it made an echo along the length of the hull. Wilmer, Billings, and every man on the bridge watched along its path as if somehow they could see it.

  "Fire one! Fire two!" Wilmer snapped.

  Chapter Twelve

  "Zero deviant flux on my signal. Ten, nine, eight—"

  Mikhail Vorovoi watched the entire firing complex from the steel-railed mezzanine with a sense of satisfaction that was evident in his smile. As the technician droned off the countdown for activation of the laser charge through the particle chamber, Vorovoi could already see in his mind's eye, the Army drone aircraft being set free on auto pilot miles away toward the upper atmosphere, the warheadless missiles being launched from the Ukraine uncounted miles away.

  "How do you feel, Mikhail?" a voice said. He turned, saw the hand on his shoulder, looked into the icy blue eyes of the blonde-haired woman beside him, the white lab coat poorly concealing what he had found with her almost every night since they had first met when she'd just come to work on the project. "Your first test on multiple targets, and both missiles and planes. You should be proud, Mikhail Andreyevich, dushenko."

  "Elizabeta," he whispered, "you know what this means. If my particle beam weapon passes this test, soon it will be operational, and then nuclear war will have become obsolete. Its threat will not hang over us anymore like a plague waiting to break. In just a few years, it will be these weapons that both our country and the Americans will rely upon! No more radiation, no mass murder"'

  "You still see this as a road to peace, Mikhail, I know that," Elizabeta whispered.

  "Odyin!" The technician shouted the final number. Then "Switch on, charging, one-quarter, one-half, three-quarter, full power. Boost on number three"'

  "Myir," he found himself saying, "Peace. It is at hand, Elizabeta," he murmured, holding her small hands in his. "I must go down on the floor and fire the beam personally—I must."

  Their eyes met, and she smiled. He leaned toward her and quickly kissed her cheek, then ran toward the steel ladder that led to the firing arena. He took the ladder rungs two at a time, jumping the last three to the stone floor, then raced toward the center console.

  "Here—go, move aside," Vorovoi said to the technician. "I will take charge personally." His dark eyes focused on the instrument panel, the gauges, the indicators, the computer readout diodes.

  "Boosting ionization twelve points," he shouted, twirling one of the nearer dials. Punching the button for visual via the polar orbit satellite link he anxiously searched the screen, spotting first the low-altitude dot that he knew was the first aircraft, then the second aircraft. Soon—he watched the screen intently—he would see the missiles.

  "Capacitance function readout"' he called out.

  From behind him, a voice called back, "Ten to the fifteenth capacitance, to the sixteenth, seventeenth—" there was a long pause—"ten to the eighteenth—"

  "Hold at that," Vorovoi interrupted.

  "Ten to the eighteenth and holding capacitance, zero flux," the voice called back.

  His eyes scanning the monitor, Vorovoi saw what his instruments already confirmed—the two unarmed missiles were streaking through the sky toward the drone aircraft. "Designating targets—now! Grid 83, target alpha. Grid 19, target beta. Grid 48—correction, 49—target gamma. Grid 27, target theta—lock!"

  He leaned back, waiting, wanting desperately for manual firing mode, but knowing that the true test of his particle beam weapon system and its potential for light-speed pinpoint accuracy lay in the computer firing mechanism as well as the weapon itself.

  "Automatic target acquisition and destruction on my mark—six, five, four, three, ready, one. Mark!"

  He closed his eyes, his hands fanned in front of them a moment. Then, ignoring the dials and gauges and digital computer readouts on the console, he fixed his eyes on the monitor. Target alpha, the nearest of the low-flying bomber aircraft, exploded in a burst of light and vaporized. Almost in the blink of an eye, target beta, the second drone aircraft, vaporized. Vorovoi started to search out the first missile, third target in the firing sequence, but before he could locate it, there was a bright flash. Quickly, he spotted target theta, the last of the four. The angle was right, and he could see the knife edge of the particle beam—it looked like something from an American space movie, he thought. He had seen several American films in Stockholm years earlier when he was there for a scientific conference.

  "Deathray," he murmured. The second missile vaporized in a bright flash, the camera whiting out a moment from the light.

  There was total silence in the firing control center, except for the incessant whirling and buzzing of the computers and the climate control system which latter was needed for the proper working of the machines. Vorovoi stood up, looked toward the mezzanine, and saw Elizabeta beaming at him. Her smile was something Mikhail cou
ld never forget. Locking his fists together over his head, he jumped into the air, screaming, laughing. And, suddenly, the technicians, the military guards—everyone around him—were applauding, shouting, laughing.

  "We have entered the new age!" he cried. "Peace"'

  Chapter Thirteen

  "As you were, gentlemen," Rear Admiral Roger Corbin said absently as he entered the tiny briefing room. The dozen or so naval officers crowded together had started to rise.

  "Admiral Corbin"'

  Corbin turned around, pushed a bony hand through his graying blond hair, and said, "Yes, Commander," then, squinting to read the name plate, added, "Abramson."

  "We've just had confirmation, sir, that—"

  "I know, Commander. I'm the one who confirmed it." Then, raising his voice Corbin started toward the platform at the front of the room, saying, "All right, gentlemen, let's get this thing underway. I'm due at the White House"—and he glanced at his digital watch—"in fifteen minutes."

  He lit a cigarette and waited as the room quieted. The gathering of high-ranking Naval intelligence personnel knew him, except for a few faces, like that of Commander Abramson. Corbin began, "The Nuclear Regulatory Commission just confirmed what our own satellite infrareds and other sensing devices already showed. A large-sized nuclear device was exploded just a few miles beyond the estimated perimeter of the polar icecap—just about where the Benjamin Franklin's position should have been, according to its last radio beacon relay via satellite. Also, there's a Soviet sub—what the hell's the name of that?" He turned to the lieutenant.

  The young man consulted his notes, knit his brow a moment, then looked up. "The Volga, sir—it's a Potemkin class nuclear sub."

  "Right," Corbin continued. "The Potemkin—I mean the Volga—well, it's off our tracking plots and missing. Could have been a collision, could have been the Russians attacking. There's no way to confirm without pulling another sub off position and going in to take a look-see. Can't do that now. I'll officially label it a nuclear accident, a collision, confer with the Russians, what-have-you. But my personal assessment—and it's just a gut level reaction—is that one of them lost their nerve and opened fire, then the other one returned. I knew Wilmer, commander of the Franklin. A little edgy about his job, but a good man. He wouldn't have opened fire first. I bet on the Ruskie commander. Intelligence put him down as a David—pronounce it Dahveed—Antonyevich Kosnuyevski. Kind of a new man, on his first line command. Could be the sort of thing a guy like that would do. They're on alert status, too."

  "Sir," a lieutenant commander from the rear of the room shouted.

  "I know your questions before you ask 'em—tell me if I'm wrong." Coughing and stomping out his cigarette, then pausing to light another, Corbin said, "About seventy megatons—means at least one of the reactors went up along with nearly all the warheads on both boats. U.S. Geological Survey, our own people, Oceanographic and Atmospheric Admin people—nobody knows what's going to happen. Should hike the tides, might loose a lot of ice into shipping lanes, could make some minor short-term climatic changes. Not too much crap in the atmosphere as best as we can tell at this time. Answer your question, Commander?" Admiral Corbin smiled, glancing back at the man.

  The man only nodded.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "All right, guys, take off your coats, whatever. The president's on the hot line with the Soviet premier. Told me to get the briefing started."

  "Thurston, what the hell I hear about the Navy blowin' up a submarine?"

  Thurston Potter glared at Secretary Meeker. What the Commerce Department was doing at the intelligence briefing was beyond him, except for the fact that the president and Commerce Secretary Meeker were lifelong friends.

  "Mr. Secretary, I'll come to that." At times like this, Thurston Potter realized, he painfully felt his twenty-eight years. Two Ph.D.s didn't make any difference to the Pentagon people, or to most of the rest of the inner circle of presidential advisors. Potter looked at his watch. In twenty-five minutes he had a press briefing, and by then had to brief all the men assembled in the conference room and get everyone straight on the stories for the media people.

  "Maybe I can answer Secretary Meeker's question," Admiral Corbin said from the opposite end of the table, a cigarette waving in his left hand.

  "Why don't I?" Potter said. "But, thank you, Admiral." Then, turning toward Meeker and the others, Potter began, "The Navy didn't blow up a submarine, Mr. Secretary, gentlemen. They happened to meet a Soviet submarine. Our U.S.S. Benjamin Franklin apparently came in close proximity of the Soviet craft Volga. The Volga is of their top-of-the-line boats. We don't know for certain whether they collided or fired on one another. I think we should agree officially on a collision story, at least for the press, at least for today. If we say that in light of the current information, we may consider it a collision we'll be safe in case the facts contradict us later. Also, we might be able to use the tragic deaths of several hundred U.S. and Soviet seamen as a tool toward calming things down on the Pakistani question. And we need that. The radiation from the thing—explosion would measure at the same as about a sixty- or seventy-megaton bomb. It shouldn't pose much of a health problem. There should be some tidal aberrations—Oceanographic and Atmospheric Admin is drawing up something for the press on that now. But, basically, it looks okay. Any questions so far?"

  Potter looked around the room. Several of the men shook their heads. He continued. "Now, to bring you up to date on the Pakistani situation. Our embassy people should be flying out of there just about now—along with French, British, and West German diplomats. Others may be with them. It's a little after six A.M. their time. There's about eighteen hours left on the president's deadline for troop commitment against the Soviets. We're not planning anything terribly major—some rapid deployment strike-force personnel working in conjunction with Pakistani forces. What we are doing is honoring our defense treaty with Pakistan and showing the Russians that we mean business. It would take at least seventy-two hours to position a sizeable force over there. I'm talking about a force that could pose major opposition to the existing Soviet ground forces, and we're on alert for that—Admiral Corbin's people indicate the Soviets aren't building up terribly in the Persian Gulf, but we are. However, not so much as to force them beyond their present strength."

  "So what the hell are we doing then?" Meeker said, lighting a cigar and mumbling something that Potter didn't understand.

  ''Well, Mr. Secretary, the important thing right now isn't so much what we or the Russians are doing—that's pretty much following the patterns both nations expected at this juncture. India's position has become the important variable—and a possibly dangerous one right now. How many of you are familiar with the Indian Ultimatum?" Potter looked for nods or a show of hands. There was some indication that many of the military personnel in the room were at least aware of it.

  "Basically," Potter said, "the Indian government sent a communiqué to the U.S., the Soviets, and the Pakistanis. All were identical. If the Russians haven't begun a withdrawal to beyond the Khyber Pass by the deadline that the president set, India will introduce troops into Pakistan to secure Pakistani borders. They believe that the Soviet presence there poses a threat to Indian internal security. Now, we asked the Indians, both formally and informally, to hold off on that. The premier said she wouldn't. The Russians sent a copy of their note to us unofficially. They told her that they had no designs on Indian territory. Unofficially, we told her that we agreed with the Russians, and that in this instance they were telling her the truth. All India did was to respond with a second note—an addendum to their original ultimatum. In essence, it said not to forget India's nuclear capabilities and that were the situation to warrant nuclear intervention, it wouldn't be ruled out."

  "Oh shit," Admiral Corbin muttered, but loud enough that Potter heard him at the opposite end of the conference table.

  "Yes, Admiral. Oh shit, indeed. And then we got this," and Potter reached into a sheaf
of papers and pulled a copy of a telex from the stack, holding it up. "The People's Republic of China—which as you all realize has remained silent throughout this entire unfortunate situation—has informed the Soviet premier that, if need be, China is prepared to side openly with India and support U.S. policy in Pakistan. And, should such become necessary, with military aid. Langley—the CIA people there—they say the Chinese are massing troops on the Soviet border already."

  Potter looked around the room, then suddenly felt quite disgusted with the conference and the company. He said, "I think Admiral Corbin put it well a moment ago."

  Chapter Fifteen

  "Can't your driver make this thing move any faster?" Rourke said, leaning forward in the seat, the muscles in his face and neck taut, his eyes set.

  "You've lived on the Atlantic Seaboard too long, John. You're a southerner."

  "What? Major?" Rourke interrupted. "Oh, you mean the snow? How it ties things up?" Then, leaning back into the passenger seat beside the RCMP inspector, Rourke sighed, his voice almost a whisper. "Yeah, maybe you're right. How far are we from the airport?"

  Rourke leaned forward, rapping on the glass that separated him from the driver. The dark-suited young man slid the panel open with his right hand, without once taking his eyes off the swirling snow and knotted, unmoving traffic along the Toronto airport feeder. "Sir?"

  "Masterson, what's your guess on time and distance to the terminal?" Rourke asked in his accustomed softspoken manner.

  "Time, sir?" the chauffeur asked. "At least an hour and a half. And the terminal is right out there, sir. Less than a mile away."

  Rourke snapped his next question. "Masterson, what's that open area like? I mean, would it be heavily drifted? How high if it is?"

  "Shouldn't say more than a foot at the greatest, Mr. Rourke. I run out here quite a bit for gentlemen such as yourself. Never took particular notice of the ground, but it should be pretty level—grassy in the summer time."