Silver Tower

CHAPTER 25

Minister of Defense Czilikov refused — or was unable — to look directly at his assembled battle staff as First Deputy Minister of Defense Khromeyev rose to give the daily briefing on Operation Feather, this time before the entire Stavka. Czilikov could feel the eyes of the Soviet general secretary bearing down on him as, area by area, the situation in Iran and the Persian Gulf was described. "The region has been roughly divided in half, along the fifty-four-degree east longitude line," Khromeyev reported in a flat voice. "The Americans control the Strait of Hormuz, the Gulf of Oman, and all Iranian territory east of Yazd in central Iran." The general secretary's eyes now darted toward Czilikov as he heard the news about the strait, the essential choke-point for the whole region. "Our forces control the Persian Gulf north of Bahrain, as well as every major Iranian city except for Bandar-Abbas along the strait. Our flag flies from the Mediterranean Sea to China—"

"Never mind the grandiose symbolism, Marshal Khromeyev, " the general secretary said. "Such flowery speech doesn't hide our badly worsening position." He swiveled toward Czilikov. "I don't want your dog-and-pony show, Marshal Czilikov. I want details. The Brezhnev is no longer east of Qatar — it is almost as far north as Kuwait. Yet we no longer control the Strait of Hormuz. Why?"

"The Americans have mined the deep-water channel between Iran and Qatar in the gulf, General Secretary—"

"Then destroy those mines. Retake the channel. We have the firepower, don't we?"

"We don't have the resources, sir," Admiral Chercherovin put in. "The Americans control the skies during daytime. A squadron of B-52 bombers from Diego Garcia can sow mines for ten thousand square kilometers in one pass. We can sweep perhaps half that area at night, but the bombers return with more mines—"

"You are saying we do not control the airspace over the Persian Guff?"

"Not… entirely, sir. We can protect the Brezhnev and her escorts with our forward units at Al-Basrah and Abadan, but the fighters from the Brezhnev have only a seven-hundred-kilometer combat radius. That places them near Bandar-Abbas, where the Americans and Iranians have deployed surface-to-air missile sites, fighters and bombers to defend the strait. Shipborne fighters, which must expend almost half their fuel just to get to a fight, are no match for ground-based fighters…"

The general secretary ran a hand across the top of his bald head in exasperation. "You are talking riddles, Admiral. The Brezhnev was in a position to defend our forces at Bandar-Abbas. How could we have lost our advantage?"

"The Brezhnev's resources were stretched to the limit, sir," Czilikov said, figuring he'd better say something fast. "The Brezhnev carried forty-five tactical fighter aircraft. Ten were used as escorts for the raids on Mehrabad and ten were airborne in support of the attacks on Abadan. Ten were launched to pursue what we thought were American F-15s attacking from Saudi Arabia. When the American drones evaded the first patrol, all the Brezhnev's fighters except five reserve alert aircraft were sent after the drones. This left nothing to assist the shock troops at Bandar-Abbas except our old Yak-38 VTOL fighter-bombers, and they were no match for the British Rapier and American Patriot surface-to-air missile sites the Marines brought with them. Five hundred American Marines and two hundred Iranian soldiers landed ashore in three hours. There really was nothing we could do—"

"But what about our ground-based long-range bombers?" the general secretary pressed him. "Certainly we could have attacked those positions with something besides fighters from the Brezhnev? Those Yak-38s should have been escorting the bombers, not attacking."

"A bomber attack was considered and rejected. If a bomber attack had been attempted immediately when the American Marines attacked Bandar-Abbas, a smaller-scale bomber force might have succeeded. But the area was secured by the Marines in only three hours. It would take one full Tupolev-26 squadron, perhaps two, or a full Tupolev-146 bomber squadron to uproot the American Marines now. Also, the Americans are moving at least one full squadron of F-15 fighters to Bandar-Abbas — they control the skies of the southern gulf."

"Then attack. Use an entire squadron. Whatever is necessary to retake Bandar-Abbas—"

"With twenty supersonic bombers?" Czilikov interrupted. "Not only would our losses be heavy, but the Americans might think the launch represented a possible threat to the Nimitz carrier battle group or to the American airbase in Saudi Arabia. They might counter with considerable force, even threaten to use nuclear weapons against our forces—"

"I don't believe that," the general secretary said. "They're not crazy. They couldn't hope to control such a drastic escalation…"

"If they lost the Nimitz carrier group, sir, their only tactical response to avoid losing their foothold in the region would be an all-out attack. From our point of view, it's a huge risk to take. We have no conclusive evidence that the Americans would not attack with nuclear weapons. Remember Kennedy at the Bay of Pigs? And ever since, they've refused to say what they wouldn't do."

"Rationalizations for doing nothing, Czilikov. The Politburo is already demanding an explanation, and we've got to give them one. The Americans are threatening to mobilize for a general war. We've lost the element of surprise. There is even a rumor that the Americans have captured a member of the KGB who participated in the initial attack on our own vessels in the Persian Gulf—"

"That is impossible," Marshal Lichizev, the commander of the KGB, said. "All of our operatives are accounted for. It's an obvious bluff."

"No matter. Denials do no good." The general secretary looked at each of the Stavka members seated in front of him. "Feather had to be a swift, decisive, massive blow to occupy and dominate the region. It had to be a coordinated, precision strike at the major strategic choke-points. Instead, we're caught on unsteady, indefensible ground. Rather than a swift victory, I'm left with a damn stalemate. Worse than a stalemate: our clumsy lies are exposed, naked before the entire world. The great bear with its nose caught in the mousetrap…

"Heroes of the Soviet Union." The general secretary's voice was laced with irony. "In eight hours I go before the Politburo and tell them how I plan to proceed. As I see it we have three possible options: retreat in disgrace, hold our unsteady and embarrassing position, or attack." He turned again to Czilikov. "Do you have an answer? Is Operation Feather a failure? Do we turn and run? Will I be the first leader of the Soviet Union to order a retreat in the face of vastly inferior forces?"

"What you want, I cannot give you—"

"What? What did you say?"

"You don't want recommendations. You want to dictate. I will not be dictated to, nor will I be insulted."

The general secretary leaned toward Czilikov and in a low voice said, "Be careful what you say, old man."

"Sir, you can insult the title of Hero of the Soviet Union if YOU like, but you cannot ignore its implications. Nor can you ignore the consequences if your senior military staff should resign or retire during an operation of the magnitude of Feather…" Czilikov's face was flushed as he spoke.

The general secretary looked around the conference table. All faces were turned toward him.

"What do you see, comrade?" Czilikov went on, encouraged by the silence. "Are you perhaps trying to compute how many would follow if I leave or am removed?"

"I am always computing that, Marshal Czilikov." It was an uneasy reply.

"Sir, I am your ally," Czilikov said, his voice more conciliatory. "I believe in Operation Feather. But it's a military operation, not a political one. Occupation and control of the Transcaucasus and Persia can only be brought about with the use of military force. And it cannot happen instantly. The advances we have made in the past twenty-four hours are, I believe, nearly miraculous. Our forces have taken control of over a million square kilometers of territory in mere hours. Our objective is close at hand. But we cannot proceed rashly, or all our efforts will be for nothing."

The general secretary paused, knowing he was, at the moment, outmaneuvered and not knowing precisely what to do about it. "Well, then, Czilikov, I put it to you. I have a meeting in eight hours. What is the new military plan?"

Czilikov, nearly preened. He had, it seemed, made the general secretary back off. "The forces in Iraq, Iran and the Persian Gulf must stay in place. It is absolutely essential. They must be able to defend themselves against any attack or intrusion, but without increasing their ranks."

"No reinforcements?" the general secretary said. "If we stop hostilities, isn't that the time to enhance our forces?"

"Not immediately… sir. We must appear as if we are prepared to pull out of the area, to release our newly acquired territory. We must not, of course, retreat or give away an inch of ground."

"So we are reverting to a defensive war? I don't understand, Czilikov. If we stand still we will eventually be pushed back — if not by the Americans then by world opinion and its condemnation. Or by both."

"We will be fighting a defensive war on one front only," Czilikov said, and turned toward Marshal Rhomerdunov, the commander of aerospace forces. His old foxhole compatriot allowed a reassuring smile.

"On an entirely different front," Czilikov went on, "we will take command. And, sir, when that happens we will win much, much more than Persia and the Transcaucasus…"

He tried to be patient and gentle in his lovemaking, but he was too keyed up, too mindful of what the next day might bring. Alesander Govorov resisted his young wife's spirited foreplay and took her quickly-almost savagely. She strived to match his intensity, to counter with a frenzy of her own, but she couldn't fake her orgasm fast enough. He withdrew from her, wrapped his powerful arms around her chest as he lay behind her on his left side, then kissed the back of her neck as an unspoken apology for his clumsiness. In less than a minute he fell asleep. She pulled his arms around her tighter, accepting his apology. There would be other nights. She remembered the good ones. They were worth waiting for…

The ringing telephone jarred his eyes open. He swung his feet to the carpeted floor and stood, feeling not at all fatigued despite the few short hours of sleep. He picked up the phone and began speaking to Gulaev. "Yes. Yes, I see… Have the report ready for me. I'll be there immediately."

Govorov's wife did not get out of bed, although she was wide awake as he dressed, getting into his dark gray flight suit. She did not want to see him hurrying off to Glowing Star. If for any reason he did not return, she wanted to remember him the way he had been the night before — strong but vulnerable, impatient but sensitive, a loving, caring husband, an imperfect man. Much more than a soldier, though she was careful not to let him know such thoughts. They would have embarrassed him…

General Govorov came into the Space Combat operations center at Tyuratam. at a pace that would have left most men short of breath. Gulaev had to rush to keep up with him as they hurried into the general's office. Govorov was already holding out his hand for the Operation Alpha report as his subordinate closed the door. "It appears the Sary Shagan laser has been even more effective than we hoped, sir," Gulaev said as he passed the space defense commander a sheet of computer printouts bound in a notebook. "The station's orbit is much more erratic than before, which suggests a guidance or propulsion malfunction. Also, just a few hours ago we detected several objects near the station. Small in size, no propulsion, very hot."

Govorov studied the printouts, looked up at Gulaev. "Debris?"

"That's my guess, sir." Govorov looked down at the printout again, nodding in approval as his eyes scanned the columns of numbers. It seemed they'd managed to cripple the vaunted Armstrong Space Station, after all. It wasn't out of control yet — he would have received a report about a rescue mission — but it was damaged. Vulnerable.

A quick look at the rest of Gulaev's report brought no pleasure. "Our attacks have stopped?"

"Temporarily, sir. For safety's sake, Colonel Sokilev at Sary Shagan has limited the laser firing schedule to a five-burst volley every eight hours—"

"But my orders were to fire continuously. Why were they countermanded?"

"The pulses generated by the facility are tremendously powerful. There was a problem with some of the computer circuits shorting. The circuits are reportedly fixed, but Sokilev feels continuous firing carries too great a risk—"

"I should have been consulted. Tell Sokilev that if he goes against my command again, he will be replaced. Also tell him that I expect Operation Beta to be put into effect within the hour. Armstrong is about to pass below the horizon. If we can destroy the Americans' only other eye on the region, NORAD's launch-detection satellite, we will be able to get very close to the space station without ever being detected."

"But what about Armstrong's Thor missiles, sir? Even if the Americans only have minutes to react, they'll be able to target the spaceplanes."

"Yes, the Thors would be a problem… if we didn't have the means to get Armstrong to expend its arsenal."

"You mean the Gorgons?"

"Why not? It doesn't matter if they are all destroyed. The point is, they will draw off Armstrong's fire and allow Voloshin and me to get within range of the station."

Gulaev nodded. "I'll see to the Gorgons immediately, sir."

"Have a firing disposition report ready for me in half an hour." Gulaev saluted and turned to leave the office. "And Gulaev… "

The younger officer turned around. "Sir?"

"I'll be leaving for the launch pad in fifteen minutes. See that I'm not disturbed until then. "

Gulaev nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him. As he did Govorov got up from his desk and stood by a large window overlooking the launch site. From there he could see the maintenance crews completing the final checks on the SL-16s. It was a beautiful day, the general thought to himself, a perfect day to ride a fireball into the sky. He couldn't wait to get started.