Pacific Siege

16

General Raiden Nishikawa sat in his small office in the headquarters building waiting for some new reply from the messages he had sent out. He had received preliminary responses from two of the recipients. The Russians had been sharp, demanding, insulting, and militant. The Americans had made quite clear that they would do what the Japanese government wanted them to do. He had not heard anything from the Diet.

The Japanese legislature had a strong group who thought as he did.

That Russia should return the Kuril Islands to Japan, to their historic home. Hundreds and perhaps thousands of Japanese had ancestors still on the Kurils. Many of the tombs had been desecrated by the Russians.

There had to be an accounting.

Unfortunately, the Diet had talked and talked, and argued, and even become violent at one point, but nothing had been accomplished. He had hoped that the Diet would be a strong backer of his move to regain the ancestral home of his people.

He glanced outside. The darkness was his enemy now. He had long ago decided that if any attempt was made to retake the island, it would be done at night under the cover of darkness. Yes, it would be so.

The general couldn’t rest. He walked to the door, back to the window, and at last stepped outside. He dismissed his driver, and took the Russian jeep down the poorly paved street to the schoolhouse where the playground covered the remains of his ancestors. Silently he paced to the exact spot where the tombs had been for a hundred years before the Russians bulldozed them under and leveled off the hill into the ravine.

He knelt and prayed for an hour at the spot, then rose, marched back to the jeep, and drove away. He inspected two of his sentry posts, then heard the Russian handheld radio begin to chatter.

He returned the call, and the message was clear.

“General, this is the sentry at the main pier. We see something in the bay maybe a hundred yards off shore. They look black, and humped up. We think they could be frogmen coming in, or some such invader.”

“I’ll be right there.”

He drove fast through the streets the half mile to the pier, and ran out on the long wooden dock. His two sentries at the end were looking through binoculars.

They didn’t have night-vision goggles, but the binoculars would amplify the light to a degree just as it did the distance. He took one of the binoculars, and stared at where the men pointed.

He saw them, more than a dozen ominous black humps. Some of them moved slowly. A moment later he saw a flash of white and smiled. Yes, a tusk, he was certain of it. He lowered the glasses, and gave them back to the soldier.

“Good work spotting the creatures out there. Only they aren’t frogmen or invaders. They are walruses. Odobetius rosmarus, the common walrus that can grow to twelve feet long and weigh twenty-seven hundred pounds.

“They’re resting. I’ve seen them do it before. The storm at sea must have pushed them in here. In the morning when it’s light, they’ll pick out a handy beach and take a good long nap.”

The soldiers were embarrassed.

“No, you did the right thing. We have to be ready for any kind of invasion. I think if it comes, it will be in the dark. Stay vigilant.”

He got in the jeep, and drove back to his headquarters. He found the bottle of sake, and filled a small glass. Right now his spirits needed a lift as much as his body.

He wondered what the Americans would do. They would know precisely what weapons he had and how many men. The Defense Force could tell them that quickly. But what would they do?

He was well aware that either Russia or the Americans could blast him and his men into small incinerated pieces at the touch of a button.

The Russians had given him seven days. Two of those were almost gone.

He had sensed a moderate tone in the blustering of the Russians. They had been given a serious black eye militarily, and did not enjoy that at all. But how much of a spectacle would they make of their small problem?

At least he had brought the travesty of the Kuril Islands on the world stage better than anyone had done in the past twenty years. He could remember his father shouting on street corners about the desecration of the tombs. Nothing had been done.

Now three or four billion TV watchers must have seen, and heard, about the Kuril tragedy. But the news would fade fast unless something dramatic happened.

What could be more dramatic than the Russians blasting the building he sat in into kindling wood and gravel, killing him and half of his force? That would make the world news for another few days. Maybe then the Diet would act. Perhaps they would demand from Russia that a wrong done fifty years ago be righted.

Idly, General Nishikawa wondered how he would die. He had always envisioned a pitched battle with rifle and bayonet, perhaps pistols, in the final assault. Somehow he was always the defender.

He realized that he would not like to die in the dark. No, the sunshine of a bright day would be better. That way he could chose the time and the place. If, of course, he had to die. He was not ready yet.

However, events he had set in motion, and now was living through, might very well define the conditions of his death, and he would have no say in it. He hoped that it would not be at night.

For just a moment he thought about the two samurai swords in the bottom drawer of his desk. He gently lifted out the smaller of the two blades, and slid it into the wooden scabbard. He held it a moment, then pushed it into his belt. He would carry it now, something symbolic, something to remind himself of the strict code of the samurai.

General Raiden Nishikawa looked out the dark window again, and watched a pale moon rising. This would not be the night. Nothing would happen before dawn. Dawn was a Western time to begin a great battle.

This would not be a great battle. If the dogs of war were unleashed against him, it would be a massacre, not a battle. He set his jaw, and thought of his ancestors.

This samurai would not waver in his determination.

But what would the Americans do?

Admiral Vladimir Rostow settled back in the Combat Control Center of the Russian carrier Ataman and listened to the Mig pilots reporting in after their latest run over the occupied island of Kunashir.

The Ataman was ready to fight. It was an advanced version of the Kuznetsov Orel-class carrier, type II 43.5/6 CV. It was the only carrier in the Pacific Ocean Fleet commanded by Admiral A.A. Drogin.

The Ataman had completed sea trials and aircraft landing operations in July of 1998, and been sent immediately to the Pacific Ocean Fleet.

She carried the latest SU-33 Flankers, and the SU-25 Frogfoot fixed-wing aircraft. She’d originally had only twenty-two jet fighters and seventeen helicopters of the Ka-27 Helix models. But for an attack mission, her aircraft total had been increased, and now she had sixty operational planes on board.

She was different from the American carriers in that she had a fourteen-degree ski jump on the main takeoff deck and a second angled deck of seven degrees.

Admiral Rostow knew he had the firepower to take care of this mission with ease. He had the SSM missiles, twelve Chelomey SS-N-19 Shipwrecks with Granit launchers. The missiles had internal guidance with command update, active radar homing up to 450 kilometers at a speed of Mach 1.6. The warheads could be 500-kiloton nuclear or 750-kg high explosive.

He was ready. Usually he could make thirty knots, but the weather and high seas had cut his speed.

The admiral had been surprised when two American fighters met his Migs and followed them buzzing the island. The Russian pilots had acted on impulse. There was no time to ask for instructions from their commander. Yes, the pilots had made a good move. It would lull the Americans into thinking that all the Russians were soft and friendly — just before the Americans died.

Rostow had itched for some kind of confrontation such as this. He had been passed over once for the top Admiral of the Fleet rank.

Someone in the chain of command had called him indecisive and softhearted on an evaluation report. If Rostow ever found out who it was, he would kill the bastard.

Nothing could stop a career in the Russian Navy cold like those two criticisms. Indecisive? He would show them. He had quickly rejected the American admiral’s suggestion that he hold off his aircraft and not put an observation plane over the Russian island. The Americans had no right even to hint at such an arrangement.

His own radar observation platform plane would be in place in about an hour. It had grown dark outside, and his officers had told him they had just passed the northern tip of Kunashir Island, and would soon swing directly south along the western flank of the 115-kilometer-long island. The village of Golovnino was near the southern tip of the island. He had avoided the closer route, through the Nemuro Strait between the tip of Hokkaido and the Russian island.

There would be little maneuvering room in that narrow waterway if the American fleet chose to attack his force in the strait. This was much the better plan. The other Russian islands in the chain were eighty kilometers to the east — plenty of maneuvering room here if he needed it.

He had radioed Moscow with the situation, but there was no rational word back. The satellite communications were not the best, and he had received no firm directives about what actions to take. With no specific orders, it was up to him to facilitate the return of the island to the Russian flag the best way that he could.

His second in command had once been a political officer in the old regime, and he had expressed great concerns about how it would look on the world news reports if they simply wiped out the Japanese with bombs and missiles.

The whole world would make such an uproar that nothing would save Rostow’s career. How he wished he could use all of his power, and blast the Japanese rebel’s headquarters into rubble, and splatter this general all over his ancestors’ ancient burial sites.

He saw the dispatch from Captain Natursky of the Shark. It was his ace in the hole, his counterstrike that the Americans knew little about.

They only had hazy indicators that there could be a Russian sub out there watching them. Even that much would be enough to send the combat planners on board the big American carrier into spasms of activity planning for all contingencies.

He had given the Japanese general seven days to evacuate Russian soil, even before he received any instructions from Moscow. They were used to such immediate non-lethal actions by field officers, especially those in the Naval Service so far from normal communications. What was he going to do in the meantime?

He would continue his aerial surveillance. He would keep at least two fighters over the village during daylight hours. He had talked with his staff about sending in his Ka-27 Helix helicopters at night, and surprising and capturing one and then another of the small outposts, some thirty kilometers from the small town. Possible. He could do it almost surely without firing a shot.

When the Japanese Self Defense Force soldiers, who had never fired a shot in anger and who all were unbloodied by war, heard ten large helicopters landing all around them, they would surely give up and surrender to the first Russian soldier they saw.

Admiral Rostow had five hundred seasoned Russian Marines on board his carrier. They were a new breed of fighting men, dedicated, stressed to the point of breaking, trained in the latest tactics, weapons, and equipment of a fast-deployment force. He would put them up against any combat team in the world.

But could he use them?

Better yet, how best could he use them?

A communications officer approached him with a yellow envelope. He took it with a nod, and ripped it open. The folded yellow paper held the message straight from the encrypting machine.

A radar specialist came up to him with a sheaf of papers. The admiral nodded.

“Sir. Our reports for the past five hours show no American fighter aircraft overflights of the village. That would be since dark local time, sir. Our aircraft is still monitoring the area, and can now check our own position and that of the American fleet.”

“Where is the American carrier?”

The man looked at his reports, and readouts. A moment later he glanced up.

“Sir, as of twenty minutes ago, the American task force was centered about ten kilometers off the southernmost coast of Kunashir.

Our position is a little over forty kilometers north of that.”

“How far are we from the island?”

“Fifteen kilometers to the east, sir. Our destination is some ten kilometers farther south, which would leave us about thirty kilometers from the Americans.”

The admiral nodded, dismissing the technician. He looked at his watch officer.

“Signal all ships to slow to five knots. I want the fleet to come to dead in the water in ten kilometers. All screening ships will continue to make their rounds.”

“Slow to five knots, aye, sir. Inform all captains.”

The admiral listened as the order was repeated three more times by the strata of the command in the room. A moment later, he could sense the big ship bleeding off power as she slowed.

He waved at the captain who had immediate command of the flagship.

“See that I receive any communications from Moscow at once. Also, keep me apprised of any movement of the Americans, or any activity our observers notice by the Japanese. I’ll be in my cabin.”

The admiral had less than thirty feet to walk down a companionway to his cabin. On this ship, it was three large rooms: one for planning and tactics. A second one for meetings. The third, smallest of the group, held a full double bed, bathroom, dressing area, and a sofa at one side. A bookshelf was well stocked. There were compact discs of fifty composers. A video rack held the best Russian movies, and some Western films with Russian subtitles. A seventy-two-inch TV set had been securely bolted to the floor.

Rostow dropped on the couch, and took off his shoes. Why did his feet have to hurt? His doctor told him it was arthritis, but not the kind that could be treated with drugs. This was degenerative arthritis, where the cushioning cartilage between the bones simply wears out, and gradually disintegrates, leaving the bones to grind together, creating a wide range of pain and trouble.

It was intermittent, which angered him more than anything. He couldn’t depend on his left ankle to hurt all the time. Only when he had something important to do.

He didn’t look at the framed picture on the dresser. This was not family business. After it was over he’d stare at the picture for hours, and write long letters home.

For now he had a job to do, and he’d do it. He would blast those invading Japanese off sacred Russian soil, and he would do it his way, then let the diplomats sort out the pieces. Right now he hoped that the Japanese on Kunashir ignored his seven-day warning to leave. Then they would understand the might and the power of Russia. His Russia. His battle group.