Red Storm Rising (1986) (102 page)

“Comrade General, if we head north—” the pilot started to say.

“I said head north! Keep low,” he added.

The heavily armed Mi-24 swooped low abruptly. Alekseyev’s gorge rose in his throat as the pilot tried to get even with him for giving the stupid, dangerous order. He sat in the back, hanging on to the seatbelt and leaning out the left-side door to see what he could. The helicopter jinked violently left and right, up and down—the pilot knew the dangers here.

“There!” Alekseyev called. “Ten o‘clock. I see—American or German? Tanks at ten o’clock.”

“I see some missile vehicles, too, Comrade General. Do you wish to see them more closely?” the pilot inquired acidly. He brought the chopper down a wooded road, barely two meters above the pavement as he dipped out of sight.

“That was at least a battalion,” the General said.

“I’d say more,” the pilot commented. He was at full power, his nose low for maximum speed, and his eyes scanned ahead for enemy aircraft.

The General fumbled with his map. He had to sit down and strap in to use both hands on it. “My God, this far south?”

“As I told you,” the pilot answered over the intercom, “they have staged a breakthrough.”

“How close can you go to Alfeld?”

“That depends on how much the General wishes to be alive tonight.” Alekseyev noted the fear and anger in the words, and reminded himself that the captain flying this helicopter was already twice a Hero of the Soviet Union for his daring over the battlefield.

“As close as you think safe, Comrade Captain. I must see for myself what the enemy is doing.”

“Understood. Hang on, it will be a very rough ride.” The Mi-24 jumped up to avoid some power lines, then dropped again like a stone. Alekseyev winced at how close to the ground they stopped. “Enemy aircraft overhead. Look like the Devil’s Cross . . . four of them heading west.”

They passed over a—not a road, Alekseyev thought, a grassy strip with tracked vehicles on it. The grass had been churned to bare dirt. He checked his map. This route led to Alfeld.

“I will cross over the Leine and approach Alfeld from the east. That way we’ll be over friendly troops if anything happens,” the pilot advised. Immediately thereafter the aircraft jumped up and down again. Alekseyev caught a glimpse of tanks on the ridge as they raced past. Many of them. A few strings of tracer bullets reached out at the chopper, but fell behind. “Quite a few tanks there, Comrade General. I’d say a regimental force. The tank-repair yard is to the south—what’s left of it—shit! Enemy helicopters to the south!”

The aircraft stopped and pivoted in the air. There was a roar as an air-to-air missile leaped off the wingtip, then the Mi-24 started moving again. It jinked up, then down hard, and the General saw a smoke trail go overhead.

“That was close.”

“Did you get him?”

“Does the General wish me to stop and see? What’s that? That wasn’t here before.”

The chopper stopped briefly. Alekseyev saw burning vehicles and running men. The tanks were old T-55s . . . this was the counterattack he’d been told about! Smashed. A minute later he saw vehicles assembling for another effort.

“I’ve seen enough. Straight to Stendal as fast as you can.” The General leaned back with his maps and tried to formulate a clear picture of what he’d seen. Half an hour later the helicopter flared and landed.

“You were right, Pasha,” CINC-West said as soon as he walked into the operations room. He held three reconnaissance photographs.

“Twenty-Sixth Motor-Rifle’s initial attack was crushed two kilometers in front of enemy lines. When I flew over, they were re-forming for another. This is a mistake,” Alekseyev said with quiet urgency. “If we want that position back, we have to attack with full preparation.”

“We must have that bridgehead back in our hands as quickly as possible.”

“Fine. Tell Beregovoy to detach two of his units and drive back east.”

“We can’t abandon the Weser crossing!”

“Comrade General, either we pull those units back or we let NATO destroy them in place. That is the only choice we have at the moment.”

“No. Once we get Alfeld back, we can reinforce. That will defeat the counterattack on their flank and allow us to continue the advance.”

“What do we have to strike Alfeld with?”

“Three divisions are en route now—”

Alekseyev scanned the unit designations on the map. “They’re all C formations!”

“Yes. I had to divert most of my B units north. NATO counterattacked at Hamburg as well. Cheer up, Pasha, we have many C units coming onto the front.”

“Wait until all three divisions are in place. Get their artillery up front first so that we can pound the NATO positions. What about Gronau?”

“The Germans crossed the Leine there, but we have them contained. Two divisions are moving to attack there also.”

Alekseyev walked over to the main map display and looked for changes in the tactical situation since he’d last been here. The battle lines in the north had not changed appreciably, and the NATO counterattack on the Alfeld-Ruhle salient was only now being posted. Blue flags were at Gronau, and Alfeld. There was the counterattack at Hamburg.

The Soviet Army had started the war with twenty A divisions based in Germany, with another ten moved in at the start, and more since. All of them had now been committed to battle, many pulled off the line due to losses. The last reserve of the full-strength formations was at Ruhle, and they were about to be trapped. Beregovoy was too good a soldier to violate orders, even though he knew his forces had to be pulled back before they were irretrievably cut off.

“We must abandon the attack. If we press on, those divisions will be trapped behind two rivers, not just one.”

“The attack is a political and military necessity,” CINC-West answered. “If they push forward, NATO will have to draw forces off this attack to defend the Ruhr. Then we’ll have them.”

Alekseyev didn’t argue further. The thought that came to him felt like a blast of cold air on exposed skin.
Have we failed?

“Admiral, I need to see somebody in the MAF.”

“Who?”

“Chuck Lowe—he’s a regimental commander. Before he took it over, we worked together on CINCLANT’s intelligence staff.”

“Why not—”

“He’s good, Admiral, very good at this stuff.”

“You think the information is that hot?” Jacobsen asked.

“I sure do, sir, but I need a second opinion. Chuck’s the best guy who’s handy.”

Jacobsen lifted his phone. “Get me General Emerson, quick . . . Billy? Scott. You have a Colonel Chuck Lowe serving with you? Where? Okay, one of my intel people needs to see him right now . . . important enough, Billy. Very well, he’ll be on his way in ten minutes.” The Admiral set the phone down. “Have you copied that tape?”

“Yes, sir. This is one of the copies. The original’s in the safe.”

“There’ll be a helo waiting for you.”

 

It was a one-hour flight to Stykkisholmur. From there a Marine chopper took him southeast. He found Chuck Lowe in a tent looking over some maps.

“You get around pretty good. I heard about
Nimitz,
Bob. Glad to see you made it. What’s up?”

“I want you to listen to this tape. It’ll take you about twenty minutes.” Toland explained who the Russian was. He handed over a small Japanese personal tape player with earphones. The two officers walked out of the tent to a relatively quiet place. Twice Lowe rewound the tape to repeat a section.

“Son of a bitch,” he said quietly when it was finished.

“He thought we already knew.”

Colonel Lowe stooped down and picked up a rock. He hefted it in his hand for a moment, then hurled it as hard as he could. “Why not? We assume the KGB is competent, why should they assume that we’re not! We had the information all along . . . and we
blew it!”
His voice was full of wonder and disgust. “You sure this isn’t a cock-and-bull story?”

“When we pulled him out of the water, he had a nasty cut on the leg. The docs sewed that up and gave him pain pills. I caught him weak from blood loss, and pretty well juiced on codeine. Kinda hard to lie well when you’re drunk, isn’t it? Chuck, I really need your opinion.”

“Trying to land me back in the intel business?” Lowe smiled briefly. “Bob, it makes a hell of a lot of sense. This should go up the ladder fast.”

“I think SACEUR should get it.”

“You can’t just call up for an appointment, Bob.”

“I can go through COMEASTLANT. The original goes to Washington. CIA will want to use a voice-stress-analysis machine on it. But I saw the man’s eyes, Chuck.”

“I agree. It should go to the top as fast as you can get it there—and SACEUR can make the fastest use of it.”

“Thanks, Colonel. How do I call the chopper back?”

“I’ll handle that. Welcome to Iceland, by the way.”

“How’s it going?” Toland followed the colonel back to the tent.

“We’re up against good troops, but they have a tough defensive problem here, and we have all the firepower we need. We got ’em by the ass!” The colonel paused. “Nice work, Squid!”

Two hours later, Toland was aboard a plane bound for Heath-row.

The briefing was given by Marshal Fyodr Borissovich Bukharin. The KGB had arrested Marshals Shavyrin and Rozhkov the day before, a move that told Minister Sergetov more than this briefing ever would.

“The attack west from Alfeld has bogged down due to poor planning and execution by Commander-in-Chief West. We need to regain the initiative. Fortunately we have the troops available, and nothing changes the fact that NATO has suffered grievous losses.

“I propose replacement of the Western Theater command staff and—”

“Wait. I wish to say something,” Sergetov interrupted.

“Make your point, Mikhail Eduardovich,” the Defense Minister said, his annoyance clear.

“Marshal Bukharin, you propose complete staff replacement?”
The practical consequences to the replacees was unspoken,
Sergetov thought,
but plain enough.

“My son is on the staff of the Deputy Commander West, General Alekseyev. This general is the one who led the breakthrough at Alfeld,
and
the one at Rühle! He’s been wounded twice and had his helicopter shot down by enemy fighters—after which he commandeered a truck and raced to the front to lead yet another successful attack. He’s the only effective general we have that I know of, and you want to replace him with someone unfamiliar with the situation—what madness is this?” he asked angrily. The Minister of the Interior leaned forward.

“Just because your son is on his staff—”

Sergetov’s face went beet-red.
“ ‘Just because my son,’
you say?
My
son is at the front, serving the State. He’s been wounded, and barely escaped death when he was shot down at his general’s side. Who else at this table can say that, Comrades? Where are your sons?” He pounded on the table in rage. Sergetov concluded in a softer voice, wounding his colleagues in a way that mattered, really mattered: “Where are the Communists here?”

There was a brief but deadly silence. Sergetov knew that he had either ended his political career or boosted it beyond measure. His fate would be decided by whoever spoke next.

“In the Great Patriotic War,” Pyotr Bromkovskiy said with an old man’s dignity, “Politburo members lived at the front. Many lost sons. Even Comrade Stalin gave his sons to the State, serving alongside the sons of ordinary workers and peasants. Mikhail Eduardovich speaks well. Comrade Marshal, your evaluation of General Alekseyev, if you please? Is Comrade Sergetov correct in his assessment?”

Bukharin looked uneasy. “Alekseyev is a young, bright officer, and, yes, he has done fairly well at his present post.”

“But you wish to replace him with one of your own people?” Bromkovskiy didn’t wait for an answer. “It is amazing, the things we learn and the things we forget. We forget that it is necessary for all Soviet citizens to share the burden together—but we
remember
the mistakes made in 1941, arresting good officers because their superiors erred, and replacing them all with political cronies who could lead us to disaster! If Alekseyev is a bright young officer who knows how to fight, why do you replace him?”

“Perhaps we were hasty,” the Defense Minister admitted, watching the mood around the table shift dramatically.
I’ll get you for this, Mikhail Eduardovich. If you wish to ally yourself with our oldest member, it is fine with me. He won’t live forever. Neither will you.

“That is decided then,” the Party Chairman said. “Next, Bukharin, what of the situation on Iceland?”

“There are reports that some enemy troops have landed, but we immediately attacked the NATO fleet. We are waiting now for an assessment of the losses we inflicted. We have to wait for satellite reconnaissance before we can be sure of that.” Bukharin knew only what Soviet losses were, and he would not reveal those until he could report favorable strike results.

They arrived just after dark, the KGB officers in battle dress. Alekseyev was working on deployments of newly arrived C divisions and didn’t see them enter CINC-West’s office. Five minutes later he was summoned.

“Comrade General Alekseyev, you are now Commander-in-Chief of the Western Theater of Military Operations,” his superior said simply. “I wish you luck.”

Alekseyev felt the hair rise up on his neck at the General’s tone. The man was flanked by a pair of KGB colonels wearing the standard KGB battle dress, camouflage cloth tailored in the pattern of a class-A uniform, the “State Security” GB emblem shoulder boards. It was an institutional form of arrogance that suited the KGB as perfectly as the look on the colonels’ faces.