Show of Force

by Charles D. Taylor

  “Yes, Admiral. Only two of the forward ships have it installed, but they are radiating now.”

  Kupinsky watched the progress of the American missiles, two each fired at six targets. He noted that two of them winked out seemingly before they reached the lead ship. He turned to his Chief of Staff, who smiled and nodded before his Admiral could even ask the question. The missile had convinced itself to explode on a target that never existed. The destroyer Razitelny was not so lucky. Built in the late 1970's, her captain had been personally selected by Gorenko to command this powerful little destroyer. Capable of traveling at speeds in excess of thirty-eight knots, they had felt this ship could be the prototype answer to the American high-speed attack submarines. But two missiles easily got through all the defenses, one exploding just behind the forward launcher. It detonated the missiles just then being loaded, and blew off the front of the bridge. The second hit, amidships near the waterline, exploded in the engineering spaces. Immediately she was enveloped in flames and the damage-control parties found themselves unable to control the fires.

  Many of the ships were successful in exploding the missiles before they got to their targets. One hit the after launcher on Kupinsky's first surface command, Admiral Fokin, putting her stern weapons out of action. But she was still able to maintain her position in the screen. The only other missile to get through found Lenin and exploded in her starboard elevator. There was no fire, but the elevator, so important in bringing the remaining Rigas to the flight deck, was jammed in twisted metal.

  “How long before that elevator can be repaired, Svedrov?” Kupinsky inquired. “If we can't have it in operation by the end of the day, I want to turn away. Their reconnaissance aircraft will easily be able to spot that hit, if the satellites haven't already photographed it.”

  “Commander Kalinn has reported that his damage control people will need at least twenty-four hours, sir. The hydraulics are not damaged, but metal must be cut-away and it will take time to complete repairs to make it operational again.” He paused in his report, -then said, “But I wouldn't be overly concerned about their satellites, sir. We believe that Admiral Gorenko has seen to that. My assistant is checking now, but he believes a message we received an hour ago stated that our missile satellites may have neutralized theirs.”

  “Is there some problem with your communications?”

  “Yes, sir. We aren't sure what it is, but the last messages were badly garbled, almost as if our own satellites were malfunctioning.”

  Kupinsky leaned back in his chair, his chin resting in his left hand, waiting for Svedrov to look up again. “Captain, I suggest you have your man try to establish direct contact with Moscow right now. It is just as conceivable for them to do the same thing to our own satellites. It is important to me and our tactics over the next twenty-four hours to determine if we are alone here or not.”

  Captain Svedrov, an understanding look on his face, rose immediately to join his communications staff. Kupinsky returned his attention to the boards before him. The last of the American aircraft were disappearing to the west. He had lost two cruisers, one of which was new, and two high-speed destroyers. Admiral Fokin was badly damaged, but her forward launchers were operable. One destroyer was so badly damaged by explosion and fire he would probably sink her. His own carrier was operating with only one elevator, and that meant that he would have to move the Rigas to the other side of the hangar deck if he needed them soon.

  The Americans were not much better off, he noted, although the major victory had been the sinking of Virginia. A U.S. frigate and one attack sub had been sunk, and the Rigas had left four ships badly damaged, a cruiser, two destroyers, and a frigate, and John Paul Jones had been reported burning so badly that she, too, might have to be sunk.

  “Admiral.” It was a concerned Svedrov. “Admiral, we are unable to contact Moscow at this time. We are in the process of checking all the equipment step by step. We are not in contact with the satellites.”

  “Svedrov, you may let your officer make sure his equipment is in working order again, if you like. Then you can tell him to stop worrying about it. The trouble, I am sure, is in the sky, and there is little we can do about it. We are on our own for the time being.” He looked first at the now-blank screens in front of him, and then back at his operations officer. “You may signal the force that we are turning to the north until Lenin is fully operational again. I want a report on Admiral Fokin. If she is unable to contribute or protect herself adequately, I want to send her to the yards for repairs. If Razitelny is as bad as I think she is, sink her. You may also schedule rendezvous with the service ships. Since we have no communications with Moscow and we can see nothing by satellite, I want you to try to contact the submarines in the American area to learn what they are doing. At this point,” he grimaced, “I am operating with about the same information that our commanders had during the Great War forty years ago.”

  Captain Svedrov saluted him and left. The plot area was back to its normal operation status again. Few men were present in comparison to the recent crowd. What, he thought, did we accomplish today?

  In his stateroom on Nimitz, Admiral David Charles stretched out on his bunk, turning off the wall light. He rubbed his eyes, and yawned, hoping he might be able to sleep for a while. But his mind was still too active. He reflected on what they had seen from the new weapons that day. Many—no, most—of them had never been used in anger before, not against ships or people. It had been awesome, really a new era that they weren't prepared for. Men on a ship never saw who or what fired a weapon at them, nor were they aware of the vehicle of their destruction. Submarines now could stand off so far that they were never known to be in the area. Aircraft and most ships launched missiles well out of visual sight. And there was no noise of action or warning of impending doom, just an explosion. The power of the new warheads was so great that there was no longer as much opportunity for a damaged ship to fight again. Most were simply destroyed. The personnel casualties were the most shocking. There were few survivors. The magnitude of the warheads saw to that. Often, ships were hit so hard and went down so quickly that there was no opportunity to search for survivors. Modern sea battle was. impersonal, even more so than they had ever anticipated. He hoped the future would bring ships requiring as few people as possible.

  I wonder what great events we have accomplished today, he thought. With the wrecks we will sink, Alex and I have lost eight ships and seven more are damaged. Both of us will probably sink the wrecks. He sighed audibly. And we've lost a lot of men. He hoped that Dailey would find some way to reestablish communications, since he did not like the thought of placing more of his ships in battle without the understanding of Washington. He would maintain his present position until he knew what Alex was doing. It would give him time to reprovision.

  DEAREST MARIA,

  There's a flight taking off Nimitz shortly for land, I'm told, and I wanted to make sure this letter was on it. I've been very, very busy the last few weeks, and my letter writing has suffered a great deal. As a matter of fact, before I forget it, please tell the kids that the next plane that leaves after this one will have a letter for each of them.

  You know me well enough by now to know that I'm not a worrier. But I've decided that when I get back home we're going to have a good, long vacation and I'm going to think about retiring. I never thought I'd be CNO anyway, and now I don't think I'd want it if Sam said it could be mine for the asking someday. What I guess I really want is two vacations, one for you and me so we can get to know each other again after all this sea duty, and then one with the kids so they know they really have a father. I'm sure you will be able to convey to them better than I will how much I miss them, too.

  I'm not much of a writer, and never will be, especially letters. You've spent a lifetime, it seems, wondering when I would write the next one, which I would do only if I couldn't phone halfway round the world. Well, I'm no better now than ever. I have been reading back through my log, the one I t
old you I've been keeping since I was an ensign. There's some good things in it (the writing is awful), and I think part of what I've written over the years has affected what I'm doing now, enough so that I may want to retire and apply it outside the military. I want so much to tell you everything I have inside me right now, but I'd have trouble writing it, and I do have to go.

  You know how you and the children are in my thoughts all of the time and how much you all have my love, David

  MY DEAREST ALEX,

  Your father didn't want me to write you today, but I wanted to more than ever after talking with him. Maybe in my old age I'm getting more able to stand up to him. Please don't take me wrong. I love him almost like my own father, and you know that even fifteen years ago I didn't think I'd ever be able to say that.

  But the reason I'm writing is more important. I wanted to tell you how much I do love you. I know you'll say I never have to do that, just like you always say whenever you come home from sea. But I know something is desperately wrong wherever you are, and sometimes it's just nice to know someone far away is thinking about you and needs you. I told your father that, after he wouldn't tell me where you were (he said he really didn't know, but he can't fool me anymore) and he said you learned how to be alone a long time ago. Perhaps learning how to be alone is the first step in learning how to love someone. I was going to tell him that, but then I decided he wouldn't understand. You know what I mean.

  I planned to have your son write you also, but he went out in the fields to hunt this afternoon. Yes, that's right. He's home from his naval school. I don't know why, but your father (he brought him) said he was doing very well but studying too hard, so he thought a few days at the dacha would do him well. After Pietr comes in from hunting, I'll try to have him write you. Maybe he'll even bring back some birds for dinner, if the snow's not too deep for him to move around out there.

  And now for the exciting news! I received a letter from Maria Charles yesterday. Apparently David is also at sea, and she has decided that we should all plan to get together next summer. In London! Isn't that wonderful? She said that all of us could afford a trip like that since you're both admirals now, and she said you both have such fine contacts (your father and his Mr. Carter) that we shouldn't have any trouble getting permission if we ask soon enough. Maria said maybe it would improve the spirit of detente, since it's been dragging a bit lately, if everybody knew we were going to get together. Do you think if I ask your father now he might see if he could arrange to let us leave the country and go to London for a week without having to take one of those horrible tours with the Intourist people? And she and I both agree it would be good for the two of you to get away for awhile. She said David's responsibilities are wearing him down, and I couldn't, agree more as far as you're concerned. I know I shouldn't worry about you, like your father says, but each time you go to sea I worry a little bit more.

  If you're not going to be home to celebrate the New Year, then I've asked your father if he can arrange to let me go back to my village in Finland for a good, old-fashioned Christmas. I miss that holiday so much, and he claims he understands. He said he was very busy the last few days and didn't know how much longer he'd be tied up, but he said he'd try to make arrangements as soon as he had time, because he thought you might be away.

  There's so much more I want to say in this letter, but I don't know how many other people might read it before you do. But I don't care how many people know how much I love you and miss you, as long as you know it. I hope this letter might find you safe and on your way home.

  With my deepest love, Tasha

  CHAPTER NINE

  Not knowing quite what to say, the staff communications officer simply listened to the tirade.

  “I don't give a shit if you have to tie a long string between two tin cans. We had to talk to Admiral Collier a couple of hours ago!” Sam Carter rarely gave visible signs of losing his temper, but this time there was no doubt about it.

  “Sam, we've got to give these boys time. They can't just send up satellites on demand.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Secretary,” Carter nodded his head, grimacing. “It's just that we're losing ships and men, and our strategy's shot to hell if Collier can't lay it on the line to the Kremlin.” He looked at the Secretary of State for some support. “We can't afford to lose this one or we might as well pack our tents.”

  “First of all, Sam, enough of the formalities. It looks like we're going to spend some time together on this. I'd sure appreciate it if you'd start calling me Tom.” The older man had grown quite fond of the naval officer in front of him in a very short time. Unlike so many of the others, this one didn't mind making his own decisions. He was no politician, probably the reason he'd never be CNO. “That's what my close friends have all used, and I hope you and I will remain friends long after this is over.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Carter automatically after so many years of dealing with superiors.

  “Tom,” the Secretary corrected.

  “Right.” Carter smiled, still not quite able to use the man's first name. He would next time. He liked Jasperson also. The Secretary of State had been introduced to him a number of times since he had begun working under the Chief of Naval Operations, and he had known for quite some time why those in the know referred to this senior statesman as the “closet president” whenever things got tough. Jasperson was always there when experience was needed and a decision maker was required. He rarely attracted the headlines nor did he like publicity, but he wanted to ensure that his President mouthed the right decisions. Thomas Jasperson looked very much like the paintings of the man many compared him to—Thomas Jefferson. Jasperson was a scholar, a statesman, a framer of treaties, a painter in his own right, and an author. Now he was a military strategist since he had a real one to work with.

  Sam Carter had found himself with complete responsibility for the tactics in the Indian Ocean. His boss, the CNO, had decided that his own responsibilities were purely administrative. He felt his place was with the President, another man who was now unwilling to involve himself with a potential war, or the avoidance of that war. And Jasperson had found himself working with Carter. The President, rather than negotiating as planned, was now talking of withdrawal from the carefully planned installation at Islas Piedras. It was the last chance the Americans had to protect themselves as a world power. Now should have been the time that Admiral Collier and the Ambassador to the Kremlin presented themselves to the Russians. They should have instructions from Washington to explain the situation tactfully in an effort to avoid further bloodshed, backed up by a firm President. But it was already too late. The Russians had learned too soon of the missile installation at Islas Piedras. Quickly they determined the reasons for the U.S. strategy. World leadership was basically seesawing between Russia and the United States. The many nations in the immense Indian Ocean sphere, most of whom were either just-emerging countries or in the throes of revolution and counterrevolution, were easily swayed and looking-for leadership. The Cold War romancing by the two giant nations had lost touch with the reality of new countries caught between socialism and capitalism. Economics and protection was the name of the new game. Whichever country offered security would become the suitor. Military protection was paramount.

  The end result would be American missile control over Africa and the oil states, and an obvious shift to the United States of support from the Third and Fourth World nations. The Russians destroyed communications between the American Embassy and Washington as quickly as the U.S. had done with the Soviet communications and missile satellites, and the President was unable to carry off the supreme bluff.

  Now it was a stalemate. The Americans either had to go through with their plan, or withdraw, shamed before the world. While their leaders attempted to gain the upper hand by enforced silence, two great fleets unavoidably became engaged in a death struggle in the Indian Ocean.

  Admiral Carter resumed his instructions to the lieutenant commander in front of him
, a communications specialist on the CNO's staff. “All right, son, we won't use tin cans.” Jasperson, now standing behind Carter, smiled in the direction of the other officer. The latter gave no indication that the silver-haired Secretary had won a point with the Admiral. “First, let's consider communications with Moscow. Do we have any satellites of our own, or any owned by private companies that can provide us with secure contact with Admiral Collier?”

  “No, sir. Even if we did, it would have to be one that had a direct space/ground line to the embassy. We feel that if more than one relay is used when the scrambler is in operation, there is the possibility, even probability now, that the message would be recorded each time. That greatly increases the odds of starting to compromise our scrambler system if they have the same message recorded twice. It is communications policy, Admiral, and I would need your written orders to do otherwise.” The junior officer stopped for a moment, thinking better of his explanation. “I didn't mean that exactly the way it sounded, sir. Those are just my orders, and I thought you should be apprised of them.”

  “No, no problem,” replied Carter. “We're just trying to determine our next move.” He turned to Jasperson. “What does State have in its grab bag . . . Tom?” The use of the first name of this distinguished man didn't come easy.

  The Secretary raised his bushy white eyebrows as he often did when thinking, wrinkling his forehead. “Nothing impressive, I must admit. I guess we've always figured there'd be one more satellite at a time like this.” He nodded briefly in the direction of the younger officer and said, “I guess you wouldn't be here now if you didn't have every clearance in the book.” Then back to Carter, “We have a type of hot line to the embassy, similar to the President's hot line to the Kremlin. But it was set up primarily for direct communications between my office and the ambassador's, mostly for lesser affairs of state. I doubt it's very secure and I'm sure it's tapped right now.” He smiled. "It probably rings in the Chairman's office in the Kremlin."