St Petersburg Port, Formerly Leningrad Port.
"So it is agreed, then? We all agree here that we will escape to Polyarnyy?"
"Yes, I think we all agree." Captain 3rd Rank Mikhail "Misha" Polenin, dragged a hand through his brown hair. The group of black uniformed officers were sitting at a table in a restaurant popular with Soviet, now Imperial Navy officers.
Polenin turned to Captain 2nd Rank, Alexei Vostrikov, the Commanding Officer of the Soviet Delta IV class ballistic missile submarine, K-410. Vostrikov had taken command of the submarine after Polenin had gotten into trouble with the Main Navel Directorate after failing to perform under the expected parameters of the missile fire drill. He'd been demoted to executive officer of the very boat he commanded, while Vostrikov, who was considered reliable on the count that his father was a navel hero and legendary veteran of the Great Patriotic Vostrikov was also alleged to have been appointed through his wife's political connections, as well as Polenin's tendency to put crew morale and safety before Soviet pride..Their relationship had been stormy and rocky at first. Vostrikov had gotten the experienced reactor officer, Lt Yashin replaced with a younger, more inexperienced officer named Vadim Radtchenko. Radtchenko was a graduate of the Nakhimov school, newly graduated, and Polenin hadn't trusted him at all.
But Vostrikov and Polenin soon got along, and the older man made himself popular with the crew. And in return, the crew had become fond of him too, so had Polenin.
"The crew are all in on it." Captain 3rd Rank Igor Suslov, Political Officer of the submarine reported. "They're young men, boys from Minsk, Kiev or Moscow. They want to serve the Soviet Union, not this Tsarist replacement that is both out of touch, and out of mind."
"Good…very good." Vostrikov said softly. "Suslov, I assume that your KGB contact was able to tell Moscow?"
"Yes, preparations are being made at Polyarnyy to make space for our submarine. I hear we will be posted to Kola afterwards."
Vostrikov nodded, satisfied with the answer. "Demichev, have the torpedo's been loaded?"
"Yes, they have been loaded, the last of them were loaded yesterday." The torpedo officer, Captain 3rd Rank Yuri Demichev speared a chunk of his Stroganoff, before popping into his mouth. His mustache bristled; weather due to trepidation, or excitement, no one could tell.
The rest of the officers, Captain 3rd Rank Viktor Gorelov, the Chief Engineer, Captain-Lieutenant Mikhail Kornilov, the Communications Officer and Captain-Lieutenant Konstantin Poliansky, Missile Officer were all there as well, nodding along to the plan. The only ones absent were Captain Third Rank Maxim Gavril, the Medical officer and Radtchenko. In the case of Gavril, he was supervising the medical drugs that had arrived today, and Radtchenko was overseeing the Reactor.
The door to the restaurant swung open, and a snooty looking young officer strode in, followed by a pretty young woman in furs. The young man had a rather anachronistic looking white dress uniform over black pants and jackboots. And a sword of all things was strapped to his right side. One of those merged Czarists alright. The men watched as the man leaped over to where a staff member stood at a lectern.
"Table for two, please." The boy's voice had a cruel, mocking yet commanding undertone to it.
"Do you have a reservation, sir." The white and black uniformed waiter inquired in a steady tone.
The boy looked surprised. "Do you know who I am?"
"Should I." the waiter replied with veiled sarcasm, something the boy didn't hear.
"I am Lieutenant Yakov Kirilovich Kaminsky. I am a Lieutenant aboard that battlecruiser of the class you Soviets refer to as the Kirov class, the one formerly known as Gorshkov, now renamed as Kolchak. I am son of Count Jean Andreyevich Kaminsky, currently a member of the Imperial Admiralty."
"Sir, I cannot let you in, you need a reservation."
"I'll have you fired." The boy regarded old Chekhov, for that was the man's name that the members of the Soviet Navy knew him by.
Chekhov sighed, nodding. "Very well, this way." He led the couple to an empty table for two. The officers of the K-410 gave them discreet, dirty looks.
"My, Isn't he full of himself, the little shit." Poliansky growled to Kornilov, bald head read with unspoken rage. "He looks like he's ready for a soiree or a tea party at the fucking court of Nicholas II!"
"Easy Mischa." Polenin soothed. "Best not start an incident."
The couple were talking loudly in excited voices. They watched as the boy's eyes appraised the interior in distaste.
"I say…one of these days I'll have papa make someone redo the décor. Do away with this…commoner decal. The hammer and sickle and the star. Replace it with something more chic no?"
The boy's woman nodded, giggling frivolously. "Yes, it is so…droll."
The little Czarist nodded, getting bolder. "And speaking of Sickles and Stars. Will you gentlemen please remove those awful pins from your caps?" the boy turned to face the officers sitting behind.
"Are you referring to me and my officers?" Vostrikov stared at the count. "May I remind you sir, that I am higher than you in rank? Captain Second Rank Alexei Vostrikov, Captain of the K-410, Delta IV class Ballistic Missile Submarine."
"I don't care, Captain." The white uniformed boy said, "Remove those illegal badges at once, or face the consequences.
"We were just leaving, anyway. Weren't we?" Polenin stood up, beckoning for the others to follow suit.
"Yes, we were indeed."
"Da, it is true." The men trooped out. Vostrikov graced the cocky man one last look, before he too rejoined the others. Chekhov gave a sigh, but what could he do?
Submarine K-410,
"This way, Katya." Vadim helped his fiancé down the ladder, she was a bit slow, but that was to be expected. Next to him, he held her suitcase in his hand.
"What's this Lieutenant?" one of the young sailors, an Estonian appraised the sight of the young blonde woman in the purplish colored coat.
"I am, taking my fiancé with me. We don't have anything left here so; I hope the captain will understand. She will be with me, in my cabin. I will explain to Captain Vostrikov and Polenin."
The sailor gave a noncommittal grunt, before stepping aside to let them through. "You better get down there then. We just received a message from the officers. They'll be back soon. Listen, it isn't good form for a lowly seaman ordering an officer, but you get your lady down to your cabin, and get going down to the reactor room, the others'll be waiting."
"Noted." Vadim said dryly. Before leading Katya deeper down to the submarine. He watched her as she looked around in dimly lit corridors of the boat as they headed down a few decks to where the officer's cabins were.
The interior was slightly better here, albeit utilitarian as always. She slid her suitcase down next to his belongings underneath the bed. Vadim removed the black overcoat he was wearing and slipping into some dark coveralls.
"I must go down now; I'll be back with food." He kissed her before leaving. He closed the door before going down deeper down to the reactor room.
In 15-to 16 hours, she would be his wife, in Polyarnyy, the USSR. And they would be free.
SHPOLA, THE UKRAINE
"You may proceed, Comrade Colonel," Alekseyev said over his radio circuit. He didn't say, Make a fool of me now and you will be counting trees! The General stood on a hill five hundred meters west of the regimental command post. With him was his aide, and Politburo member Mikhail Sergetov. As if I need that distraction, the General thought bleakly.
First the guns. They saw the flashes long before they heard the rolling thunder of the reports. Fired from behind another hill three kilometers away, the shells arced through the sky to their left, cutting through the air with a sound like the ripping of linen. The Party man cringed at the noise, Alekseyev noted, another soft civilian—
"I never did like that sound," Sergetov said shortly.
"Heard it before, Comrade Minister?" the General asked solicitously.
"I served my four years in a motor-rifle regiment," he replied. "And I never learned to trust my comrades at the artillery plotting tables. Foolish, I know. Excuse me, General."
Next came the tank guns. They watched through binoculars as the big main battle tanks emerged from the woods like something from a nightmare, their long cannon belching flame as they glided across the rolling ground of the exercise area. Interspersed with the tanks were the infantry fighting vehicles. Then came the armed helicopters, swooping at the objective from left and right, firing their guided missiles at the mockups of bunkers and armored vehicles.
By this time the hilltop objective was nearly hidden by explosions and flying dirt as the artillery fire marched back and forth across it. Alekseyev's trained eye evaluated the exercise closely. Anyone on that hilltop would be having a very hard time. Even in a small, deep, protective hole, even in a defiladed tank, that artillery fire would be terrifying, enough to distract the guided-weapons crews, enough to rattle communications men, perhaps enough to impede the officers there. Perhaps. But what of return fire from enemy artillery? What of antitank helicopters and aircraft that could sweep over the advancing tank battalions? So many unknowns in battle. So many imponderables. So many reasons to gamble, and so many reasons not to. What if there were Germans on that hill? Did the Germans get rattled-even in 1945 at the gates of Berlin, had Germans ever been rattled?
It took twelve minutes before the tanks and infantry carriers were atop the hill. The exercise was over.
"Nicely done, Comrade General." Sergetov removed his ear protectors. It was good, to be away from Moscow, he thought, even for a few hours. Why, he wondered, did he feel more at home here than in his chosen place? Was it this man? "As I recall, the standard for this particular drill is fourteen minutes. The tanks and infantry vehicles cooperated well. I've never seen the use of armed helicopters, but that too was impressive."
"The greatest improvement was the coordination of artillery fire and infantry in the final assault phase. Before, they failed miserably. This time it was done properly—a tricky procedure."
"Well I know it." Sergetov laughed. "My company never took casualties from this, but two of my friends did, fortunately none of them fatal."
"Excuse my saying so, Comrade Minister, but it is good to see that our Politburo members have also served the State in a uniformed capacity. It makes communication easier for us poor soldiers." Alekseyev knew that it never hurt to have a friend at court, and Sergetov seemed a decent chap.
"My older son just left military service last year. My younger son will also serve the Red Army when he leaves the university."
It was not often that the General was so surprised. Alekseyev lowered his binoculars to stare briefly at the Party man.
"You need not say it, Comrade General." Sergetov smiled. "I know that too few children of high Party officials do this. I have spoken against it. Those who would rule must first serve. So I have some questions for you."
"Follow me, Comrade Minister, we shall speak sitting down." The two men walked back to Alekseyev's armored command vehicle. The General's aide dismissed the vehicle's crew and himself, leaving the two senior men alone inside the converted infantry carrier. The General pulled a thermos of hot tea from a compartment and poured two metal cups of the steaming liquid.
"Your health, Comrade Minister."
"And yours, Comrade General." Sergetov sipped briefly, then set the cup down on the map table. "How ready are we for Red Storm?"
"The improvement since January is remarkable. Our men are fit. They have been drilling in their tasks continuously. I would honestly prefer another two months, but, yes, I think we are ready."
"Well said, Pavel Leonidovich. Now shall we speak the truth?"
The Politburo member said this with a smile, but Alekseyev was instantly on guard. "I am not a fool, Comrade Minister. Lying to you would be madness."
"In our country, truth is often greater madness. Let us speak frankly. I am a candidate member of the Politburo. I have power, yes, but you and I both know what the limits of that power are. Only candidate members are out with our forces now, and we are tasked with reporting back to the full members. You might also draw some meaning from the fact that I am here with you, not in Germany."
That was not entirely true, Alekseyev noted. This unit would entrain for Germany in three days, and that was why the Party man was here.
"Are we truly ready, Comrade General? Will we win?"
"If we have strategic surprise, and if the maskirovka succeeds, yes, I believe we should win," Alekseyev said cautiously.
"Not 'we will surely win'?"
"You have served in uniform, Comrade Minister. On the field of battle there are no certainties. The measure of an army is not known until it has been blooded. Ours has not. We have done everything we know how to do to make our Army ready—"
"You said you wished for two more months," Sergetov noted.
"A task like this is never truly finished. There are always improvements that need to be made. Only a month ago we initiated a program of replacing some senior officers at battalion and regimental level with younger, more vigorous subordinates. It is working very well indeed, but a number of these young captains now in majors' jobs could do with some further seasoning."
"So, you still have doubts?"
"There are always doubts, Comrade Minister. Fighting a war is not an exercise in mathematics. We deal with people, not numbers. Numbers have their own special kind of perfection. People remain people no matter what we try to do with them."
"That is good, Pavel Leonidovich. That is very good. I have found an honest man." Sergetov toasted the General with his tea. "I asked to come here. A comrade on the Politburo, Pyotr Bromkovskiy, told me of your father."
"Uncle Petya?" Alekseyev nodded. "He was commissar with my father's division on the drive to Vienna. He often visited our home when I was young. He is well?"
"No, he is old and sick. He says that the attack on the West is madness. The ramblings of an old man, perhaps, but his war record is distinguished, and because of that I want your evaluation of our chances. I will not inform on you, General. Too many people are fearful of telling us—we of the Politburo—the truth. But this is a time for that truth. I need your professional opinion. If I can trust you to give it to me, you can trust me not to harm you for it." The entreaty ended as a harsh command.
Alekseyev looked his guest hard in the eyes. The charm was gone now. The blue was the color of ice. There was danger here, danger even for a general officer, but what the man had said was true.
"Comrade, we plan on a rapid campaign. The projections are that we can reach the Rhein in two weeks. Those are actually more conservative than our plans of only five years ago. NATO has improved its readiness, particularly its antitank capabilities. I would say three weeks is more realistic, depending on the degree of tactical surprise and the many imponderables present in war."
"So the key is surprise?"
"The key is always surprise," Alekseyev answered at once. He quoted Soviet doctrine exactly. "Surprise is the greatest factor in war. There are two kinds, tactical and strategic. Tactical surprise is an operational art. A skilled unit commander can generally achieve it. Strategic surprise is attained on the political level. That is your mission, not mine, and it is far more important than anything we in the Army can do. With true strategic surprise, if our maskirovka works, yes, we will almost certainly win on the battlefield."
"And if not?"
Then we have murdered eight children for nothing, Alekseyev thought. And what part did this charming fellow have in that? "Then we might fail. Can you answer me a question? Can we split NATO politically?"
Sergetov shrugged, annoyed at being caught in one of his own traps. "As you said, Pavel Leonidovich, there are many imponderables. If it fails, then what?"
"Then the war will become a test of will and a test of reserves. We should win. It is far easier for us to reinforce our troops. We have more trained troops, more tanks, more aircraft close to the zone of action than do the NATO powers."
"And America?"
"America is on the far side of the Atlantic Ocean. We have a plan for closing the Atlantic. They can fly troops to Europe—but only troops, not their weapons, not their fuel. Those require ships, and ships are easier to sink than it is to destroy a fighting division. If full surprise is not achieved, that operational area will become quite important."
"And what of NATO surprises?"
The General leaned back. "By definition you cannot predict surprises, Comrade. That is why we have the intelligence organs, to reduce or even eliminate them. That is why our plans allow for a number of contingencies. For example, what if surprise is totally lost and NATO attacks first?" He shrugged. "They would not go far, but they would upset things. What still concerns me are nuclear responses. Again, more of a political question."
"Yes." Sergetov's worry was for his elder son. When the reserves were mobilized, Ivan would climb back into his tank, and he didn't need to be a Politburo member to know where that tank would be sent. Alekseyev had only daughters. Lucky man, Sergetov thought. "So, this unit goes to Germany?"
"The end of the week." "And you?"
"During the initial phase we are tasked to be the strategic reserve for CINC- West's operations, plus to defend the Motherland against possible incursions from the southern flank. That does not concern us greatly. To threaten us, Greece and Turkey must cooperate. They will not, unless our intelligence information is completely false. My commander and I will later execute Phase 2 of the plan, and seize the Persian Gulf. Again, this will not be a problem. The Arabs are armed to the teeth, but there are not so many of them. What is your son doing now?"
"The elder? He's ending his first year of graduate school in languages. Top of his class—Middle Eastern languages." Sergetov was surprised at himself for not thinking of this.
"I could use a few more of those. Most of our Arabic language people are Muslims themselves, and for this task I would prefer people more reliable."
"And you do not trust the followers of Allah?"
"In war I trust no one. If your son is good at these languages, I will find a use for him, be sure of that." The formal agreement was made with nods, and each wondered if the other had planned it that way.
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
"Progress hasn't ended as scheduled," Toland said. "Satellite and other reconnaissance shows that the Soviet forces in Germany and western Poland are still together in operational formations living in the field. There are indications that rail transport is being marshaled at various points in the Soviet Union—that is, at points consistent with plans to move large numbers of troops west. Soviet Northern Fleet this morning sortied six submarines. The move is ostensibly a scheduled rotation to replace their operational squadron in the Med, so for the next two weeks they'll have more subs in the North Atlantic than is normally the case."
"Tell me about the group rotating out of the Med," CINCLANT ordered.
"A Victor, an Echo, three Foxtrots, and a Juliet. They all spent the last week tied alongside their tender at Tripoli—the tender stayed put, in Libyan territorial waters. They will clear the Straits of Gibraltar about 1300 Zulu tomorrow."
"They're not waiting for the new group to relieve them on station first?"
"No, Admiral. Usually they do wait for the replacement group to enter the Med, but about a third of the time they do it this way. That gives us twelve Soviet subs in transit north and south, plus a November and three more Foxtrots that have been exercising with the Cuban Navy. At the moment they are all tied alongside also—we checked up on them this morning, that data is two hours old."
"Okay, what about Europe?"
"No further information on Mr. Falken. The NATO intelligence services have run up against a blank wall, and there's been nothing new from Moscow, not even a date for the public trial. The Germans say that they have no knowledge whatever of the guy. It's just as though he appeared fully grown at age thirty- one when he started his business. His apartment was taken apart one stick at a time. No incriminating evidence was found—"
"Okay, Commander, give us your professional gut feeling."
"Admiral, Falken is a Soviet sleeper agent who was inserted into the Federal Republic thirteen years ago and used for very few missions, or more probably none at all, until this."
"So you think this whole thing's a Soviet intelligence operation. No big surprise there. What's its objective?" CINCLANT asked sharply.
"Sir, at the very least they are trying to put enormous political pressure on West Germany, perhaps to force them out of NATO. At worst—"
"I think we already figured the worst-case scenario out. Nice job, Toland. And I owe you an apology for yesterday. Not your fault that you didn't have all the information I wanted." Toland blinked. It was not often that a four-star admiral apologized to a reserve lieutenant-commander in front of other flag officers. "What's their fleet doing?"
"Admiral, we have no satellite photos of the Murmansk area. Too much cloud cover, but we expect clear weather tomorrow afternoon. The Norwegians—I'm sorry, the Baltlandic, are running increased air patrols in the Barents Sea, and they say that, aside from submarines, the Russians have relatively few ships at sea at the moment. Of course, they've had relatively few ships at sea for a month."
"And that can change in three hours," an admiral noted. "Your evaluation of their fleet readiness?"
"The best it's been since I've been studying them," Toland replied. "As close to a hundred percent as I've ever seen it. As you just said, sir, they can put to sea at any time with almost their whole inventory."
"If they sortie, we'll know it quick. I have three subs up there keeping an eye on things," Admiral Pipes said.
"I talked with the Secretary of Defense right before I came here. He's going to meet with the President today and request a DEFCON-3 alert, global. The Germans are requesting that we keep Spiral Green in operation until the Russians show signs of easing things off. What do you think the Russians will do, Commander?" CINCLANT asked.
"Sir, we'll know more later today. The Soviet Party Secretary will be speaking at an emergency meeting of the Supreme Soviet, maybe also at the funeral tomorrow."
"Sentimental bastard," Pipes growled.
In front of the office television an hour later, Toland missed having Chuck Lowe around to back up his translation. The Chairman had an annoying tendency to speak rapidly, and Toland's Russian was barely up to it. The speech took forty minutes, three-quarters of which was standard political phraseology. At the end, however, the Chairman announced mobilization of Category-B reserve units to meet the potential German threat.