Northern Fury- H-Hour

by Bart Gauvin

  One cluster of red markers, each representing a division consisting of thousands of troops and hundreds of armored vehicles, showed a shallow advance by Soviet forces westward into the Fulda Gap area of central Germany. A larger cluster of icons occupied a deeper salient that pointed north from the Czechoslovak border towards Berlin, via Leipzig. The largest cluster of red markers, however, remained still on the Czech side of the international boundary, waiting.

  Medvedev nodded and asked, “Is NATO respecting the neutrality of our Czechoslovakian friends?”

  The issue of Czechoslovakian belligerence in the unfolding conflict was an interesting one. At the same hour that the war began, the Soviet ambassador to the Czechoslovakian government presented the country’s premier with a note containing two demands, one of them surprising, the other less so. The unexpected demand was the brainchild of Georgy Garin, Medvedev’s foreign minister. It ordered the Czechs to immediately and publicly declare their neutrality in the unfolding war, and to loudly request that all of the belligerents respect the territorial integrity of Czechoslovakia.

  The Soviets, of course, had no intention of honoring this request, what with the weight of their army already stirring in that country’s woods and hills. Nevertheless, the Soviet foreign minister had pledged in the note that Red Army forces would vacate the now neutral territory of Czechoslovakia, “As soon as the conditions of the war situation against the imperialists allowed.”

  For now, though, the Czechs would have to settle for the USSR’s public declaration of support for their neutrality, while at the same time the Red Army used the country as their staging base for the largest military operation in Europe since the last World War. Regardless, the declaration forced upon NATO the odious political decision of whether or not to willfully violate a nominally neutral country’s airspace and territory, which was a step that the Alliance seemed as yet unwilling to take.

  “Da,” Rosla responded, shaking his head ruefully. “I do not understand it myself, my President, but other than a few minor incidents, no NATO forces have crossed into Czech territory, not even air forces. Our air bases and staging areas are operating without interference.”

  Medvedev clapped the big man on the shoulder and said, “You see, Aleksandr Ivanovich, we politicians can be good for something, eh?” Then his countenance turned more serious. “It will not last, of course. NATO cannot allow us secure lines of communication for long.”

  “We only need a few days,” offered Rosla, “only until we can reopen a path through Poland. Resistance there has been almost non-existent. Warsaw is firmly in our hands and our forces from the Belorussian Military District will be closing on the German border by the end of the week. As we initiated hostilities from a ‘standing start,’ as the Americans like to say, our reserves are only now mobilizing, except for those we activated for the Poland operation. We will be able to feed our Category B and C divisions into the front over the coming weeks. Our reserves are, of course, of lower quality, but so are NATO reserve forces, and we have more depth. Add to that the forces we are transferring from Siberia,” Rosla ended on a shrug.

  Medvedev dove coldly from one subject to another. “The Chinese understand the consequences for their existence as a people if they try to take advantage of our temporary weakness in the east?”

  “Da,” answered Rosla, looking Medvedev in the eye. “They have been informed in very clear terms. We should have no trouble from them. Their army is mostly a police force, anyway,” he added dismissively. “We demonstrated that during our little spat with them back in the sixties.”

  Medvedev nodded again. “Very well,” he said, “what of the other fronts.”

  Rosla allowed the commander of the Southwestern Military Front to update the president about the progress of Plan Boyar’s southern arm.

  “Things in the south are still confused, tovarich President,” the colonel general reported. “Our attack on the Straits is still in progress. We are doing what we can to support the progressive elements who are friendly to us in Ankara, but,” the man hesitated and that allowed Medvedev to see why Rosla had deferred to his subordinate to brief this front. The general was hedging his bets. The operation in Turkey, the Soviet play to topple the Ankara government and seize the Dardanelles, must be in jeopardy. How disappointing, thought Medvedev.

  Medvedev didn’t wait for the excuses to continue. He cut in, “What do you estimate are our chances of success in the Dardanelles operation?”

  The man swallowed, looking to Rosla for help. Rosla returned the look, stony-faced, but offered him a slight nod.

  The officer swallowed again, then said, “Less than fifty percent, tovarich President.”

  Medvedev openly considered the man. The room was silent as he did so, the other commanders watching, waiting to see what potential failure would bring to them. At the very least it had taken guts for the commander to admit that his assigned part in the grand plan was not going well.

  “General,” Medvedev said coldly, “were you not given sufficient resources to accomplish your mission? How can you say that your chances of success are so low? Are you not fighting those pathetic Turks?”

  The officer licked his lips but stood his ground. “My President, the Americans and their allies are strong in the Mediterranean right now. I know they are weak in the main sector, in the north, and this was our intent, but they must be strong somewhere. That somewhere is my front. I must report, just an hour ago we experienced an American cruise missile attack against our bases in the Crimea—”

  “What?” Medvedev blurted, interrupting the commander and at the same time fixing him with a fiery look.

  Rosla cut in quickly, “Our air defenses shot down every one of the American missiles. We suffered no damage. My President, I think we may consider this attack as retaliation for our own, infrastructure attacks in North America.”

  “Were any of their missiles carrying atomic warheads?” the president asked.

  “That we cannot know,” the southern front commander responded, recovering. “Since all the missiles were destroyed.”

  “Unlikely then,” Rosla cut in. “Such an isolated attack so early in the war, no, no atomic weapons.”

  Medvedev relaxed somewhat. He trusted these men, trusted Rosla, to fight the war for him. His role, he knew, was managing the strategic situation so that NATO never felt so threatened that they would resort to the expedient of atomic weapons. His role was to ensure the ultimate political success of the war he had launched, and that the conflict did not spin out of control and into nuclear fire.

  The Soviet missile attacks against the shipping along the American eastern seaboard had been carefully choreographed months in advance so as not to directly threaten the American government in Washington. So far, the American atomic forces had remained dormant, as did the Soviets’, but Medvedev could feel that the world was on a knife’s edge now at the start of this, his war. An irrational act by the President of the United States could bring about catastrophe. Medvedev pushed the thought from his mind. He wouldn’t let that happen.

  “Very well,” the president allowed. Looking again at the southern front commander, he asked, “Do you have a plan for the failure of your assault on the Straits?”

  The colonel general looked surprised for a moment, but recovered quickly. Over the next few moments he outlined his contingencies. Satisfied, Medvedev nodded. The man was right, after all. The Americans could not be weak everywhere, and he did not seem incompetent, at least. Things were going according to plan in the Pacific and in Europe, and in truth, Medvedev required only the European theater to be ultimately successful in order to meet the war aims for the Soviet Union.

  “Very well, Defense Minister,” Medvedev said, nodding to Rosla, “please continue.”

  “Da, my President,” said Rosla, beckoning Medvedev to follow him up to the top of the map, the part that spanned from western Greenla
nd to the Kola Peninsula. “We can discuss the goings on in the Pacific later. For now, let me brief you on the main front here in the north, where we hope to secure political, if not military, victory for our country.”

  CHAPTER 93

  0025 EST, Monday 14 February 1994

  0525 Zulu

  Pier 11, Naval Station Norfolk, Virginia, USA

  A COLD, MISTING RAIN was falling on the piers at Naval Station Norfolk, and on the gray leviathans tied up to them. Water beaded on Admiral Falkner’s belted all-weather trench coat and service cap, neither of which revealed any indication of rank to the bustling sailors and dockyard workers swarming over the ships that towered on both sides. Not that they had time to take notice of their unassuming commander anyway. The white beams of arc lights lit up the black night as thousands of workers, uniformed and not, feverishly readied the ships. To Falkner’s left, sailors practically tripped over each other hauling stores up multiple gangways into the carrier Carl Vinson. To the right, workers threw cables and sparked arc welders through the glistening rain to make the Theodore Roosevelt, in the midst of a four-month refit, ready for sea. At other piers along the waterfront the scene repeated itself as cruisers, destroyers, frigates, submarines, and auxiliaries made ready for war.

  Falkner knew that this collection of warships represented perhaps the greatest combination of naval might in the world, perhaps in all of history. He also knew that despite its power, and despite the urgency with which the thousands of sailors and dockworkers were laboring, the bulk of it would not be going anywhere soon, or at least as soon as its commander would like. Even so, the admiral remained calm, watching it all, feeling his fleet gaining strength from the human beings who served it.

  He sensed rather than saw his tall N2, Ed Franklin, stride up and stand beside him. The Admiral’s staff knew he liked to be out among his sailors, and knew they could catch him at these times if they had something important to discuss.

  “Any updates, Ed?” Falkner asked without turning.

  “Yes sir, a serious one.”

  That made Falkner turn. Franklin always chose his words carefully, and he didn’t call something “serious” unless it was.

  “Go on,” Falkner ordered.

  “The situation in the Eastern Med is still up in the air. The Turks are fighting, but we just don’t know what’s going on in Ankara. CNN is showing people and troops in the streets, but no one seems to have a firm grasp on who’s actually in charge, not even our embassy.”

  “And?” Falkner prompted. Nothing Franklin had said was news, or more “serious” than anything else that had happened in the past twenty-four hours.

  Franklin visibly drew in a breath, then said, “Sir, one of the Eisenhower’s escorting destroyers, the David L. Ray, emptied a full load of Tomahawks at Soviet bases in the Crimea early last night.”

  The light rain tap-tapped on both officers’ service caps for several heartbeats before Falkner cut through the tension with a long, low whistle. Leaning towards Franklin he said, “That was a ballsy move, Ed. What was 6th Fleet hoping to achieve with that one?” Cruise missile attacks against the USSR itself marked a major strategic escalation

  Looking his chief square in the face, the N2 answered, “It wasn’t 6th Fleet’s call, sir. Apparently, the orders came down straight from the National Command Authority.”

  Falkner nodded his understanding. The admiral was too professional to voice his doubts about what Franklin had just revealed, but he and his N2 understood each other. Slinging nuclear-capable cruise missiles at the Soviet heartland was a dangerous escalation, and one that Falkner was not sure the president and his staff had fully thought through. “Okay, Ed. That is ‘serious.’ What’s it all mean for us getting Ike out of the Med?”

  “Realistically, not much, other than that the Ray is now short a bunch of missiles that need to be reloaded. There’s other rumblings out of Libya that might slow the Eisenhower down more.”

  Just then the tall, dark figure of Rear Admiral Johnson loomed out of the flood lights, his dark face streaked from the misting rain. Droplets tumbled off his service cap as he nodded a greeting to his two compatriots.

  “Evening, Xavier. Or morning, I should say.” Falkner greeted. Indicating an awning on one side of the pier, he led the group there for a little shelter from the rain, then resumed, “What sort of ‘rumblings?’”

  “The Libyans don’t bring anything to the fight that Ike can’t deal with, sir, but there’s a Soviet task force built around the Moskva in Tripoli harbor. We don’t know what they’re doing there, but those ships plus the Libyan air force and navy could pose a problem.”

  “The Eisenhower can handle them fine, if it comes to that,” rumbled Johnson. “The biggest issue with handling the Libyans will be logistics. The battle group will need to replenish before they move north to join us.”

  “What about 6th Fleet? Can they manage without Ike?” Falkner asked. He was pleased at another flattop in his fleet, but sure his counterpart in Naples was grating at losing such a powerful force.

  “They’re being backfilled by the Nimitz out of the Indian Ocean,” Johnson explained, “now that we know the Suez Canal is still open, that is. Close call, that one was.”

  “You can say that again, sir,” Franklin opined. “That’ll make quite a sea story when this is all over. Apparently, a container ship ‘just exploded’ right in the middle of the canal yesterday.” A raised eyebrow showed who Franklin thought the author of that mishap surely was. “Anyway, some quick-witted Egyptian tugboat captain saw what was going down and managed to push the hulk, still burning, right out of the channel.”

  Falkner loved a good sea story, and this sounded like it had the makings of one, but right now he was focused on getting his fleet ready for war, and that meant focusing on the things that could slow the process down.

  “Tell me what we know about the attacks here at home, Ed,” Falkner ordered.

  Switching gears, Franklin pulled a notebook out of his trench coat and used the light of the flood beams to read, droplets smeared his orderly handwriting. “Let’s see,” the N2 said. “Sir, you already know the highlights; a little after zero-nine-hundred yesterday morning, just as Soviet forces were crossing into Germany and Norway, they hit shipping and infrastructure targets here in the US and in Canada. Submarine-launched cruise missiles struck shipping off Miami, Savannah, Charleston, and New York on the east coast, as well as Long Beach and Seattle out west.” He paused, scanning his notes, then said, “Ah…here’s something new: there’s a report that a Soviet sub penetrated into San Francisco Bay, but that’s so far unconfirmed. We’re still tallying the butcher’s bill, but for now I count forty ships of various types sunk on both coasts, with at least four more damaged. Looks like there’ll be more than a thousand dead from the Queen Elizabeth 2 alone.”

  “Any indication they were deliberately targeting the cruise ship?” asked Falkner. “Doesn’t really seem to fit the pattern. Might end up being counterproductive for them, really.”

  Franklin shook his head. “Sir, I’d assess that the shipping attacks were largely opportunistic. We think the Soviets were using small, independently operated airplanes to run targeting for the missile subs. They wouldn’t have been able to distinguish between a container ship and a cruise ship.”

  “And,” Johnson’s baritone interjected, “they emptied a lot of their subs’ missile tubes in those attacks. That’ll make it easier for us to push north, especially if we can catch some of those boats as they withdraw.”

  Franklin nodded agreement and continued. “Yes sir, but right now we haven’t caught a sniff of a single one of the subs that launched the attacks.”

  Taking in the words, Admiral Falkner could visualize the dozens of P-3C Orion sub-hunting aircraft that were now scouring the waters off both coasts of the United States, their crews searching angrily for the Soviet missile submari
nes that had been so brash as to approach within striking range of the American homeland. He could even feel the presence of the French and British patrol aircraft taking off on the far side of the ocean sanitize the convoy routes across which the might of American military power would have to flow

  “Ingenious, really,” said Franklin, bringing Falkner’s thoughts back to the issue of the shipping attacks. “Sink the cargo ships before we ever have a chance to get them into convoys. Doesn’t matter if they’re carrying war materials or not. They probably did more damage in those first few minutes than they could have hoped to in weeks of trying to get at our lines of communication to Europe. That’s not even mentioning the mining of the New York Harbor. It was all done on the cheap to boot.”

  “Agreed,” Falkner said. “What about the terrorist attacks onshore?”

  Franklin continued, “A lot of targets were key infrastructure and law enforcement facilities, mostly bombs and some commando assaults. New York is definitely the hardest hit. Nearly every bridge and tunnel leading into Manhattan was attacked at about the same time with massive truck bombs. Some crazy NYPD cop managed to diffuse the bomb on the George Washington Bridge, but the Manhattan Bridge is a total write-off, and that’s closed off access to the East River and the Brooklyn Naval Yard until the Port Authority and the Army Corps of Engineers can clear the wreckage.

  “Similar story out in San Fran,” Franklin went on, referencing his notes. “A truck bomb went off mid-span of the Golden Gate. The bridge is still standing, but it’s closed to traffic while the engineers assess the damage. Besides the bridges and tunnels, targets included,” the N2 flipped a page in his notebook, “at least five different subway stations, Penn Station, the World Trade Center, the Stock Exchange, City Hall, three police stations, two fire stations, the Hillview Reservoir water distribution station and the Croton Filtration plant, along with two power plants: East River and Brooklyn. A lucky break prevented a bomb attack at Grand Central Station. Casualties are in the hundreds, at least.”