Red Hammer 1994 (13 page)

Normally Jenkins, the national security advisor, played traffic cop. In his absence, the president was forced to keep the meeting on track.

“Let’s hold the questions and comments, please,” he suggested.

The director’s smile broke at being second-guessed, and he stared icily at Alexander. “Surveillance of other Russian strategic assets shows nominal deployment patterns. The number of ballistic-missile submarines at sea is five. The Strategic Rocket Forces have concluded a major exercise of both SS-24 rail-mobile and SS-25 road-mobile missiles, with most units returning to garrison. Strategic bomber and interceptor aircraft are riveted at their airdromes. In summary, gentlemen, Russian military activity is quite normal. And, I would like to add, significantly lower than five or ten years ago. Our Russian friends are a shadow of their former selves,” he said.

While the director paused to take a drink of water and let his wisdom sink in, Alexander turned to Thomas. As usual, the director had said nothing relevant.

“Excuse me, Mr. President,” said the chairman bursting through the door. He quickly took the empty chair next to Alexander. “I was tied up in the tank with the Joint Chiefs. I felt it would be worthwhile to get their gut feeling on this.” The president smiled and nodded approvingly. He trusted his general, much to the annoyance of Wilks and Genser, who frowned at the late arrival. Wilks coughed and then began again. “As to whether the Russians deceived us, we will have positive confirmation within five days at most.”

“Five days,” thought Thomas, “that’s one hell of a long wait while a Delta chock full of nuclear missiles cruises off the Mexican coast.”

Genser raised a finger but was preempted by the president.

“I’d like to hear from the chairman. This is, after all, first and foremost a military matter. General, what do the Chiefs think the Russians are up to?”

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs had a dual role—top military advisor to the president and independently, the representative of the Service Chiefs. It was his mission to champion the Chiefs’ concerns, tempered by his own judgment, before the NSC.

“Mr. President,” he said, folding his big, rough-hewed hands in front of him on the table, “I don’t think anyone can say with any certainty what the Russians are trying to prove. Laptev’s pushing, but so far the Russian military has been resisting. But I’m afraid I can’t be as sanguine as the director. If they wanted, they could catch our bombers and tankers on the ground with a few well-placed cruise missiles. Remember, we no longer have aircraft on alert.”

He paused to let all reflect on a long-past decision, unpopular with the military. “Our over-the-horizon backscatter radar would never pick those turkeys out of the sea clutter. We’d never know what hit us. Adding the ballistic missiles on that Russian Delta makes the situation intolerable. We’re vulnerable and should take immediate action while we sort out this mess.” The general locked his eyes on the president and ignored the others. He knew who mattered.

“A surprise attack?” commented Genser lightly. “Why does the military always dwell on fantasy?” A ridiculing smile curled from the corners of his mouth. The well-trained soldier held back.

“A surprise attack is an extremely unlikely event, I’ll grant you that. But, the bottom line is that we must consider all the alternatives. My job is to be prepared for any contingency, period.” His best hard-ass stare penetrated the fragile secretary of state. Genser was indignant.

“What would you do? Flush our bombers and tankers, and put the entire fleet to sea every time the Russians move submarines close to our shores?” asked Genser impatiently. “Those days are long gone.”

“That’s not what I meant,” snapped the chairman. “We’ve bent over backward these past few months trying to accommodate the Russians. The more we bend, the more Laptevrants and raves. Now they’ve restarted their missile lines, and we haven’t said a word. It’s time to say enough is enough.”

Genser cocked his head. He became composed, tacking with the wind. The secretary of state knew he would lose a shouting match with the general. “My point is that we cannot have a knee-jerk reaction every time the Russians tweak us. Two submarines do not a crisis make. We do the same thing, especially with our submarines. I suggest we protest to the Russians that we know about their submarines and insist they remove them, posthaste. We can get excellent mileage out of this. Actually, we’ve been hoping for just this sort of opportunity to embarrass Nikolai and put him in his place.”

The president held up a hand. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. What is your recommendation, General?” asked the president. Genser was wounded at the slight. He normally counted on the NSC headman for moral support. This meeting should have been postponed until Jenkins returned from Europe.

The chairman sensed an opening and eased forward on the throttles. “We should move a portion of our bombers and tankers to secondary bases, not too many or too fast. Second, the Chief of Naval Operations has recommended getting USS
Alabama
underway two weeks early from Kings Bay, Georgia. She’s working up for her next patrol, and the accelerated schedule can be accommodated. She can go to sea in two days. These actions will send a strong signal to the Russians that we’re on to them. They’ll pick them up—be sure of that. And I disagree with surfacing this issue publicly. We have nothing to gain. Laptev feeds on this sort of challenge.”

Genser glanced furtively at the less-than-happy Wilks to register his impatience with the usual Pentagon line. The meeting shaped up as usual, the director and secretary of state siding against the chairman and the secretary of defense.

“You’re overreacting,” said Wilks. “You’re suggesting a change in our force posture equivalent to a Defense Condition increase. Are we ready to increase the DEFCON level, gentleman, over two submarines? The Russians will go ballistic. Their paranoia threshold has been lowered significantly these days.” He raised his silvery-black eyebrows in challenge.

The group sat glumly, no one taking the bait. A change in DEFCON would advertise a heightened alert status for all the world to see and give a propaganda bonanza to the Russian ultranationalists.

“I’m not proposing a DEFCON change,” answered the chairman. “I’m only suggesting that we show resolve, Mr. President.” The president hid any visible response.

“Matt, what are your impressions?” he asked the secretary of defense.

Alexander was pleasantly surprised. Usually at this point he was playing catch-up, but the score was about even.

“I agree with the chairman, Mr. President. We must be pro-active. As I asked earlier, is this Delta the same one the Russians led us to believe had been lost? At this point, we know nothing. We need hard facts and in a hurry. We need to shake all the trees and see what falls out. In the meantime, we should do what the chairman has recommended. I fear we may be drifting toward a confrontation with our Russian friends.”

“Explain,” remarked Genser testily. “I certainly don’t feel we’ve experienced a breakdown in relations. The Russians are going through tremendous upheaval. My last few meetings with the foreign minister have been strained, but we have made definite progress on outstanding issues. I’m optimistic.”

“I second Jonathon,” sputtered Wilks. “All this loose talk is provocative and dangerous. We need time to gather intelligence. Right now, we’re rushing in blind.” Thomas had never seen the director so upset.

“We don’t have the luxury,” countered Alexander firmly. “Gather your intelligence after we secure our forces.”

“What’s the real issue, Matt?” scolded Genser. “It’s the same old nonsense about START and the Russian mobile missiles, isn’t it? Why do you insist on resurrecting that dead horse?”

Genser had caught Alexander off guard. The secretary of defense leaned back, biding his time while shaping a response. The president appeared puzzled. Alexander cleared his throat, his audience ready to pounce.

“START I and II screwed up by letting the Russians keep their mobile missiles. We knew it at the time but ignored the issue to get a deal. Now it’s come back to bite us.”

“Reopen the treaty?” interjected Genser, feigning shock. “You’re one hundred and eighty degrees out of synch with the policy of this administration.”

“I understand that,” replied Alexander patiently.

Thomas winced. This was not going well for his boss.

“The Russian mobile missiles are spending less time in garrison and more time deployed. In short, they’ve been very successful at mobile missile deployment. We have to be very sensitive to Russian deployment patterns that threaten our forces.

“Interesting,” admitted the director, “but your vulnerability thesis rests squarely on old Cold War thinking.” The others exchanged glances, waiting for the president. He sat passively, rubbing his chin. He straightened, having come to a decision.

“Matt, General, I’ll accept your recommendations, but I want it done discretely.” Genser and Wilks were shocked, expecting an “I’ll think about it” answer and time for them to maneuver.

“Yes, sir,” answered the chairman, pleased.

“I want to emphasize, Matt, the bomber movements should be limited, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

The president continued. “We’ll reconvene late tomorrow afternoon. By then the national security advisor and the vice president will be back in town. In the meantime, Jonathon will visit the Russian ambassador and test the waters. Any questions?”

“Mr. President, I must protest dispersal of the bomber force,” interjected Genser. “It will destroy any chance of a useful dialogue.”

“I’m convinced it’s a prudent move,” replied the president.

“Let’s hope so,” said Genser, shaking his head.

“Anything else? If not, we’ll adjourn. I want to be informed immediately of any new information.”

The president rose and quickly left the room. Following on his heels were the secretary of state and the director, huddled in conversation.

“Mr. Secretary, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get the necessary orders to STARTCOM,” said the chairman.

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs left Alexander and Thomas alone. “Bob, I need you at the National Military Command Center. Watch the bomber and tanker dispersal closely. If STARTCOM screws it up, we’re all in deep shit.”

“I understand, sir,” Thomas replied. “I’d come to the same conclusion.”

CHAPTER 12

Thomas strode into the National Military Command Center, sheltered deep beneath the Pentagon. Expertly engineered in the days of propeller-driven aircraft carrying thousand-pound bombs, it was now hopelessly obsolete in the modern era of intercontinental thermonuclear weapons deposited with pinpoint accuracy. The NMCC served as the electronic nerve center that linked the spiderweb of US military bases encircling the globe. Huge DSCS III satellite dish antennas and high-speed trunk lines funneled streams of digital message traffic and raw intelligence from distant radar sites, listening posts, overseas commanders, and even ships at sea. The all-seeing eyes of the NMCC were the far-flung assets of the North American Aerospace Defense Command’s Missile Warning Center and the CIA’s secretive photo-reconnaissance satellites, while its ears were the NSA’s eavesdropping ELINT satellites, mostly hovering over former Soviet territory. Their sensitivity was legendary, sucking up incredibly minute packets of RF energy, uncovering the slightest indiscretion or hint of hostile intent. This electronic one-two punch had created a cornucopia of data, an around-the-clock surveillance blanket that smothered the earth. Addicted US decision makers were paralyzed without their steady diet of intelligence summaries and real-time imagery fed by this creation.

The NMCC was large, the size of a gymnasium, with row upon row of state-of-the-art computer terminals. The only light bathing the floor was the soft glow emanating from bright graphics displays, subtly augmented by buzzing red fluorescents that marked one of the hundreds of phones directly linked to someone important. The front section was reserved for the battle watch. The frequent guests were relegated to a glass-enclosed balcony perched high above the floor. Plush chairs and secure phones provided the necessary comforts. This viewing cage shielded visitors from the constant commotion on the floor, which on occasion could rise in pitch to rival the Chicago Mercantile Exchange.

Thomas camped out upstairs. He stared at the “big board” as it was still called. The two errant Russian subs off the Mexican west coast stood out like a sore thumb. The display rammed home how frighteningly close those boats were to US soil. US military installations up and down the Pacific coast were within quick striking range of the Delta’s SS-N-23 ballistic missiles. Flight times would be as short as six to seven minutes. Too short to do anything but cover your head and pray. A glance toward the Atlantic showed a solo Delta III two hundred miles closer to the East Coast than normal. Most of the other Russian boats were near the Barents, close to Russian home waters. Thomas yanked the chair-mounted phone handset to his ear, triggering a flashing red light below. The Battle Watch Commander, an air force brigadier, answered promptly and politely.