Arctic Gambit

by Larry Bond

  “That leaves us with only military options, Mr. President.” Hyland did not sound happy.

  “I’ve reviewed them again, with General Schiller and some others,” Richfield reported. “They all increase our readiness in some way, either by moving more conventional forces to Europe or trying to speed up our response in case of a nuclear attack. We can’t put enough troops in Europe to stop the Russians if they want to come in. The greatest defense NATO had against a Russian invasion was the risk that it would quickly escalate into a general nuclear exchange. If that’s gone—if Fedorin is willing to accept the risk—”

  “Maybe even wants that risk,” Hardy added.

  “—then we’d need a larger standing military,” Richfield said. “This would require legislative action, if we want to radically change the number of people in uniform. And even then, it will take time to build and prepare the new brigades, ships, and squadrons.”

  “And this doesn’t change the fact that we cannot block a Russian sneak attack should Fedorin give the order,” Hardy concluded.

  “Mr. President,” pleaded Bill Hyland, “if none of these options are effective, what should we do?”

  “Actually, I like the economic sanctions a lot,” Hardy announced brightly. He turned to Lloyd. “Have your people put together a plan for implementing these as soon as possible. We may have some NATO members join us, and some may balk, but tie them to things the Russians have already done, not what we’re worried about them doing.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” Lloyd acknowledged the order, but sounded a little puzzled.

  “Bill, you did a good job leading the council’s deliberations. Those are all good recommendations, but you and the council filtered the list. You missed one.”

  Hyland looked shocked. Hardy’s tone was friendly, but the president had just accused the national security advisor of not doing his job properly. “Mr. President, we spent hours searching…”

  Hardy raised his hand. “This is no reflection on you or your staff. I doubt if anyone even considered it, but I can see that if we’re playing on Fedorin’s turf, we’re going to have to use different rules. The key to the Russian offensive, and the thorn in all our strategic plans, is the Dragon and its launch facility on Bolshevik Island. That’s the new factor compared with earlier confrontations. That’s what has upset the balance.”

  Hardy paused for moment, thoughtful, then finally said, “We have to destroy the launch facility before it becomes operational; in other words, as soon as possible.”

  Patterson looked shocked. He hadn’t discussed this with her, still a little unsure if it was the only viable course. This second review had convinced him.

  Lloyd looked thoughtful. Richfield and General Schiller looked as shocked as the first lady. Hardy had been speaking to Hyland, who sputtered, clearly searching for a reply other than “Are you nuts?”

  Pausing to take a breath, Hyland finally stated firmly, “You’re right, sir. That option did not come up in the discussion. I can personally state that it did not even occur to me to suggest it, since an attack on Russian soil would be an act of war. We were trying to avoid that.” There was a subtle edge to his answer, as if Hardy should not even be talking about this.

  “Fedorin’s shaken things up, Bill, and we need to do the same. Hybrid warfare is about living near the edge, then figuring out how far to hang over the side. Andy, you’re the only one who’s not shocked.”

  “I was thinking about parallels between this and the Cuban Missile Crisis, Mr. President,” Lloyd replied calmly. “When the Russians put the ballistic missiles in Cuba, it dramatically shortened the warning time we would have, although there were other reasons for putting missiles there. President Kennedy considered it a grave threat to U.S. national security.”

  “Yes, Andy, I was thinking the same thing. I believe the Russians will put a bargaining chip labeled ‘nuclear blackmail’ on the table, asking us if Europe is worth a nuclear war that would destroy the United States.”

  “President Kennedy only ordered a quarantine,” Hyland argued, “and still, we almost had a nuclear war in 1962.”

  “I remember reading the declassified invasion plan,” Richfield remarked. “I wrote a paper on the crisis when I was at National Defense University. The Russians didn’t think we’d react, that we’d accept the missiles’ presence there.”

  “And instead he forced the Russians to put that piece back in the box,” Hardy replied. “Secretary Richfield, I don’t even have to ask you about the best method to take out the facility. Tell the CNO to give me a plan for using a submarine to covertly approach the facility and destroy it. I don’t mean to disable or damage it, either. I don’t want the Russians to be able to repair it, or make it partially operational. It needs to be obliterated.”

  Richfield, a little walleyed, acknowledged the order, but Hyland protested. “This entire discussion has been about avoiding a war with Russia! Mr. President, this gives Fedorin the excuse he needs to start one! He still has all his other nuclear forces.”

  Hardy frowned, but paused for a moment before replying, “No, Bill, I don’t think it will. Fedorin believes we’re weak, that we’ll just give in and let him take those former Soviet republics. This will give him something new and unexpected to consider. And the Bolshevik Island complex is his trump card. If we take it away, then the Russians lose the strategic cover they were depending on for this whole operation.”

  He looked over at Richfield and General Schiller. “The DNI is telling me that the Russians are running short of money, that they’re not bringing everyone to the party, just their first-line forces. I think they aren’t expecting any real opposition; they believe that they can occupy those countries while forcing us to accept the new status quo. If the U.S. backs away, and we don’t honor Article V, the NATO Alliance will collapse. Do you agree with that assessment of their military forces?”

  Richfield confirmed, “Yes, I do, Mr. President.”

  “So does the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Mr. President,” echoed Schiller.

  Turning back to Hyland, Hardy asked, “And why is attacking a remote, covert military base, whose sole purpose is a decapitation strike, more escalatory than allowing the Russians to complete it? Once it’s operational, we will be at a much higher risk of nuclear war every time the Russians cause a crisis, and this will only be the first of many.”

  “Mr. President. I cannot recommend…” he started again, protesting. “The chance of war with the Russians…” He shook his head. “Sir, we have to give this more thought.”

  Hardy sighed. “Bill, it’s time to make a decision here. Do you know who Arleigh Burke was?”

  Hyland shook his head.

  “Former chief of naval operations. He was so good, he served three tours as CNO. Destroyer skipper in World War II, but nobody’s perfect. He dealt with more than his share of crises. He said, ‘The major deterrent to war is a man’s mind.’ This launch facility is Fedorin’s baby, his vehicle for personal revenge against the U.S. It needs to go away.”

  Hyland seemed muddled. He definitely had not understood what Hardy had meant. “Mr. President, you can’t…”

  “Bill, we’re done talking about this. It’s time to act.” Hardy glanced over toward Joanna, recalling their discussion the night before. She’d been deferential and diplomatic, but she felt she had to voice her concerns about Hyland. Some of the points she’d made had just been painfully demonstrated. Hyland couldn’t handle dissention; he preferred to avoid conflict, and this had had a negative effect on the NSC staff.

  Hyland opened his mouth to reply, then closed it quickly. Deflated, he simply answered, “Yes, Mr. President.” He silently sat down in his chair.

  Hardy felt a little regret at having to run his NSA over, but he had a job to do and the younger man was getting in the way. The president turned to Richfield. “Hank, use whoever can get up there quickest and do a proper job of it. I’ll want to see the rough plan on my desk tomorrow morning. We don’t know wha
t the Russians’ timetable is, so we’ll have to go flat out until we find out otherwise, or until it’s done.”

  11

  DEEP THOUGHT

  21 July 2021

  0730 Eastern Daylight Time

  CNO Intelligence Office, The Pentagon

  Arlington, Virginia

  * * *

  “And they can’t put a cover over Shippingport,” RADM Sanders confirmed, hanging up the phone. “Their best estimate was a week to make the modifications—once they figured out how.”

  Chatham shrugged as he typed. “We had to ask, sir.” He reviewed his work, then hit the print button. “Here you go, Admiral, the draft press release for your review.” He offered the hard copy to his boss. “I put this together in a hurry, and that’s when people make mistakes.”

  Sanders carefully read the hard copy statement.

  PRESS RELEASE-THE U.S. NAVY ANNOUNCES A NEW CONTRACT WITH THE ELECTRIC BOAT CORPORATION FOR REPAIRS TO USS JIMMY CARTER’S PROPULSION SYSTEM. THIS CONTRACT DOES NOT INCLUDE WORK ON THE SUBMARINE’S NUCLEAR REACTOR OR ITS SUBSYSTEMS. THE CONTRACT IS OF UNSPECIFIED DURATION, WITH WORK TO START IMMEDIATELY. A NAVY SPOKESMAN SAID THAT THEY WOULD TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THE UNEXPECTED DRY DOCKING TO MAKE A NUMBER OF MINOR REPAIRS AND MODIFICATIONS.

  The admiral handed it back. “That looks fine, Russ. Given that the earlier release put her in dry dock for ‘propulsion repairs,’ this one definitely says ‘there’s more wrong than we thought, and EB’s going to be working on her for a while.’”

  “And one of EB’s graving docks can be covered,” Chatham remarked as he hit send. “Public Affairs will have this out shortly, but word’s already gone out to everyone from EB to the harbormaster. They’ve ordered the tugs to stand by to move Carter out of Shippingport as soon as the EB dock is ready.”

  An aviator, Chatham had only a passing knowledge of things like dry docks. “How long will it take them to cover the dock, sir? It’s not routinely covered, is it?”

  “No, but it’s pre-assembled arches. It takes about half a day to rig the frames and spread them over the entire length of the dock. They can put the frames up while they prep the keel blocks Carter will rest on. They’ll bring her in, pump the water out, and let everyone see her sitting there. Then they’ll spread the canvas over the riverside opening. To get her out, we wait for a window at night when there won’t be any satellites overhead. It takes two or three hours to flood the dock, and about another six to get her propulsion plant up and running. We get Carter headed down the Thames River, then de-ballast the dock and run the canvas out so it covers the end. Nobody will be inside, but the Russians won’t know that.”

  The admiral smiled. “I’m going to see if we can get a few ‘yard workers’ spreading tales in Groton’s bars about how ‘totally messed up’ Carter’s propulsion system is. We’ll build a legend—figure out exactly what’s supposed to be wrong, maybe even put in urgent orders for parts…”

  “But all this is actually costing the Navy real money, Admiral,” Chatham protested. “Electric Boat will charge us by the minute for using one of their graving docks…”

  “It’s money well spent if we can convince the Rooskies they ‘know’ where Carter is, when she isn’t.”

  23 July 2021

  0800 Eastern Daylight Time

  The Pentagon

  Arlington, Virginia

  * * *

  It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten an evening phone call from the Pentagon. Daniel Cavanaugh was an explosives expert, a civilian working out of the U.S. Army Explosives Laboratory in Adelphi, Maryland. He was good enough at his job that the army let him pick his own research projects, and would lend him out when his skills were needed.

  As per the phone call, the car picked him up at his home in the morning. It was early enough to be cooler, but it was high summer in the south and it was going to be hot and muggy again. He left a little earlier than he normally did for work, but it was worth it to get ahead of the Washington traffic. The driver had orders to drop him at the south entrance, where he would be met.

  “Dr. Cavanaugh?” The young civilian who met him and ushered him through security never identified himself, but led him through the passageways and down to a gray metal door labeled “PLAN 1.” After buzzing the intercom and announcing their arrival, at 0800 hours sharp, he disappeared down the hall.

  Probably not cleared into whatever was going on, Cavanaugh thought. This wasn’t his first visit to some high-security project. He was glad to be of use, and flattered to be in demand, but expected just another routine technical question-and-answer meeting.

  He was wrong, of course.

  * * *

  A crew-cut officer whose name tag read “Forest” brought Cavanaugh inside, both literally and figuratively, getting the civilian’s signature on several security forms before letting him past the entryway. Inside, he found a suite of offices, complete with its own restrooms and small kitchenette. Forest, a lieutenant commander, introduced him to Commander Gabriel, the team leader, and Petty Officer Brady, their assistant and computer specialist. The two officers both wore gold dolphins, and Gabriel a command pin. Brady’s dolphins were silver.

  “This is the entire team, Doctor,” Gabriel said, shaking Cavanaugh’s hand. It hurt, just a little. Although the two were about the same age, Gabriel had obviously worked at staying in shape. Cavanaugh’s exercise program consisted of twenty minutes on a treadmill, when he couldn’t think of an excuse.

  “Please, just Dan is fine.”

  “Fine, Dr. Dan. Everything you see and hear is Top Secret, including the existence of this planning cell,” Gabriel continued.

  “Although that will probably change,” LCDR Forest added smugly.

  Gabriel nodded and grinned. “It’s likely.” The pair led him to a small conference room. There were signs of long use, including plastic trays with the remains of breakfast. Papers lay in organized piles on one side of the table, while a detailed chart of the Arctic Ocean and the Kara Sea covered one wall.

  A carefully drawn course line came up from the south toward an island on Russia’s northern coast. The neatly lettered annotations were too far away for Dan to read, but “Top Secret” had been written in large red marker on each corner.

  Gabriel saw Cavanaugh studying the chart. “That’s our third draft of the voyage plan for USS Jimmy Carter. As soon as we can put a plan together, she will leave Groton.”

  He walked over to the chart, and tracing the track with his finger, explained, “She will sail north, pass Iceland to the west, then make as straight a course as she can for here.” He tapped the island. “It’s called Bolshevik Island. They send people from there to Siberia to warm up. And that’s why we need you.”

  LCDR Forest handed the civilian two hard copy printouts of a color photo. The first showed the original image. Taken through a periscope, it showed a large tube or cylinder suspended from a crane on some sort of ship. The second sheet had the part with the cylinder blown up to almost illegibility, and was enhanced with lines and dimensions.

  “The Russians are building an underwater launch facility at that island for the very large Dragon transoceanic torpedo that has a SS-NX-35 Shashka missile inside. That beast there is a launch tube.”

  Cavanaugh had followed the news coverage on the Shashka with interest, both professionally and personally, since he lived within four hundred miles of the Atlantic. “It’s a scary system,” he replied. “But all the reports said it’s a strategic weapon, with a nuclear warhead. If you give me the dimensional data, I can calculate what size a conventional…”

  CDR Gabriel shook his head. “That’s not it, Dr. Dan. We want to blow up the launch cylinders.”

  “Where are they located?”

  “Underwater, just off Bolshevik Island.” He offered Cavanaugh a marked-up satellite photo of the island. “This shows our best guess at the exact location.”

  Confused, the civilian didn’t take it immediately. “But this map says Bolshevik Islan
d is Russian territory.”

  “Chart,” Gabriel corrected, then added, “And it is.” The civilian saw Forest nodding agreement.

  Astonished, Cavanaugh didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure what his expression was, but Gabriel must have thought the newcomer was reluctant to participate if it meant attacking Russian territory. Truthfully, Cavanaugh’s thought processes hadn’t taken him that far.

  The commander pulled a chair up next to where Cavanaugh was, facing him. “Here’s the drill,” Gabriel explained. “The Russians are building a launch facility in secret. Its purpose is to launch weapons capable of a covert nuclear first strike on the U.S. east coast. The president has ordered that it has to be destroyed before it becomes operational.

  “Only a few hundred people in the U.S. know what the Russians are doing up there. You’re the thirteenth or fourteenth person to know about this operation, and that includes the Big Skipper, who gave the order. This is all flash priority. The operation doesn’t even have a code name yet. We’ve spent two days working on how to get Jimmy Carter up there, and we’ve got some ideas about how she could do the job, but we need a reality check.

  “You’re not only an explosives expert, which we are not, but you specialize in blast effects on complex structures—including underwater targets. We’re only going to get one shot at doing this, and the destruction has to be complete.”

  Cavanaugh absorbed the commander’s explanation easily enough, but did he agree with the conclusion? In reality, it really didn’t matter what he thought; Gabriel was merely repeating the president’s conclusion. President Hardy thought the danger was so great that he was willing to risk starting a war with Russia.

  It wasn’t his place to agree or disagree, but Cavanaugh found he did agree with the president’s call. He read the papers and watched the daily news, and the Russians were up to several kinds of no good.