“And the missiles, Admiral. Tell me about them.”
“Underground, of course.”
“I suppose you want to tell me that they arrived in little pieces and then were rebuilt underground.”
“No. By submarine.” Collier's answers were brusque and confident, and would have given the appearance of absolute authority to almost any other person but Gorenko.
“I don't believe you, of course, Admiral Collier. But you do have what my son, through American acquaintances, calls a big set of balls.” Gorenko smiled at his Americanism.
Collier smiled, but said nothing.
“As a matter of fact, I am so sure you are lying to me that we have deployed submarines around your island to ensure your ships do not land the missiles.”
“We are aware of that, but I think you will find there are no ammunition ships about to penetrate that barrier.”
"We also plan to land on that island and show the rest of the world exactly what your country has been planning.
“Admiral Gorenko.” Collier sat forward in his chair, squaring his shoulders. “That would be direct aggression on American territory. Not only would we take every step to prevent that, but I warn you that it would be a grave mistake. You would be proving to the world, the hard way; that we have completed an installation to protect the countries of the Indian Ocean, and I think perhaps you would be doing a good deal of the convincing that we had already planned.”
“As I said, you handle yourself like a diplomat. Your bluff is excellent, but I believe the world will respect us more for our willingness to sacrifice some ships and men to maintain a balance of power.”
“Admiral Gorenko, you know as well as I do that it's no longer a matter of a few ships and men. My talk with Admiral Carter established that fact.”
“I will grant you that. I have been saving these,” and he threw more photographs on the desk in place of the others, which he swept to a corner, since I'm sure you haven't seen what's been happening to your precious ships."
The new photos were no better than the others, worse, he noted in examining them, since they were taken from high-altitude spy planes in place of the inoperable satellites. Gorenko had selected the most gruesome of his collection. Collier saw American cruisers, guided-missile destroyers, frigates, all damaged, burning, or in the process of sinking. Even knowing that he would not see anything of Soviet ships in the same condition, he was shocked. It appeared worse than Carter had said.
“We, too, have suffered some damage, Admiral, but not so devastating as your own. Do you still want to continue with this charade?” No answer. “I don't think your Navy would suffer this damage to prevent us from getting to your island if those launchers were already installed and armed,” he asserted.
“The United States has as much a proprietary interest in the Indian Ocean as the Soviet Union. We have a base on Islas Piedras that has been threatened by your government. The initial attack was predicated by Russian aircraft. Our ships did not fire until they were fired upon, and I have no doubt aerial photography will substantiate that fact.”
“I appreciate your coolness, Admiral Collier, but I'm sure you will also agree with me that the last shot fired is much more important than the first.”
Collier knew enough about Gorenko to accept the fact that the man obviously had no intention of backing down. He had read everything about the man that was available and had read translations of his books. Gorenko had been the architect of the Soviet Navy, and his reputation from the days of Sevastopol and the sailor/soldier until now had been one of perseverance. He had survived the Germans against tremendous odds. He had managed to continue a steady career pattern in the face of purges from within his own government. He would not back down from this greatest challenge of all.
“As long as you do not underestimate the willingness of the U.S. Navy to protect that island to the last man, I'm sure we both value the importance of that last shot.”
Gorenko appreciated formidable opposition. He smiled widely, this time as a boxer looking across the ring at his opponent would. The smile said “Let the better man win.” The American returned1 the smile in the same manner. The feeling was mutual. So much was at stake that they would slug it out toe to toe.
“Since we seem to have come to the end of any negotiating we might have become involved in, would you answer a question for me?” Without waiting for an assent, he continued. “Your messages to your Admiral Charles refer to Task Force 58. That is no task force. It is not large enough. There has been no similar designation recently. What does it mean?”
“No doubt you are familiar with our Pacific War about forty years ago?”
“Of course.”
“Nimitz established Task Force 58 at the end of 1943 to sweep the ocean of our enemy.” He paused for dramatic effect. “They did just that.” He gazed directly at Gorenko, trying to look beneath the blank stare returned to him. The other man said nothing.
Finally, Gorenko said, “You Americans mystify me some times.” With nothing more to say, he stood up. “Our meeting must end, Admiral Collier, for there is really nothing more we have to say to each other.” He came around from behind the desk and extended his hand. '“I cannot be absolutely sure, but I think we might have been friends at a different time. I will allow you to use your connection to Washington for the next thirty minutes, in the event you would like to report this meeting to Admiral Carter.”
“I may. Thank you.”
Gorenko paused at the framed pictures on the wall of his otherwise austere office. “I don't believe I showed you these on your earlier visit.” Again not waiting for an answer, he continued. “That was taken at Stalingrad, at the worst of times. You likely don't recognize me as the one on the left, do you? That was more than forty years ago also. We were young then, but we looked very, very old, didn't we? We were half starving then, but we continued to fight the Germans. The man on the right is Admiral Kupinsky's real father.” He turned slightly to look directly at Collier. “He was also my friend. He saved my life. He died. I lived. I continue to fight on. But we Russians do not forget those sacrifices, even after so many years.”
Gorenko pointed to another picture, something in the Cyrillic alphabet. “Do you read Russian?”
“I did once, years ago in Monterey. But it's been so long that I'm afraid I couldn't begin to translate that.”
“Then, by all means, I will be happy to read it to you.” He paused for just a moment, then began, never looking at the writing, but directly at Collier.
“Russia, my country, my native land! Dear Comrade Stalin! I, a Black Sea Sailor, and a son of Lenin's Komsomol, fought as my heart told me to fight. I slew the beasts as long as my heart beat in my breast. Now I am dying, but I know we shall win. Sailors of the Black Sea Navy! Fight harder still, kill the mad fascist dogs. I have been faithful to my soldier's oath.”
He locked back at the old photograph again, then at Collier. “I used to read that to my son, Alex, until he could read it himself. Now he has a copy of that on the bulkhead in his stateroom, and he ensures that all of his people see it, too. We do not give up, Admiral.”
“Then, sir, I believe we must both come from the same sturdy stock. I thank you for your time.” As Collier stepped through the doorway, the same unspeaking, unsmiling aide was waiting to escort him to the car.
Gorenko went to the door on the other side of the room, calling in one of his aides “I want you to send this message in plain language to Admiral Kupinsky.” On a piece of paper, he scrawled in large letters: GET
NIMITZ
AT ALL COSTS.
And back in the American Embassy, before reporting to Simpson, Admiral Collier went first to his communications room to take advantage of the circuit Gorenko was allowing him to utilize for a short time. But rather than make a report for the benefit of the listening Russians, he simply informed Sam Carter that the Soviets were steadfast and brave and then he made an unusual request, “Sam, do you remember the message CINCPAC sent to Halsey, the one that enraged him, after the Battle of Leyte Gulf, when Nimitz was inquiring after Willy Lee? If not, look it up and send it in plain language to David. He'll understand.” And that had been all he had to say, for they both knew the Russians would not turn back from the path they had chosen.
When Admiral Gorenko was shown the meaningless message sent by Carter to the American task force, he lost his temper. He raged first at the communications officer, who was equally puzzled, and then at his whole staff. The message read: WHERE IS RPT WHERE IS TASK FORCE THIRTY-FOUR RR THE WORLD WONDERS.
DEAR SAM,
Since I haven't seen you for two days (almost), and I thought you were finally desk bound and my days of waiting for ships was over, I decided I'd better write you this note if you came home. Since you're always so good about turning out the lights, I knew you'd find it here.
I want you to wake me up when you come in. Maria Charles talked with me for a while today about what you're all involved in, and she's awfully worried. I know if we could talk about it for a few minutes, I'd be able to put her mind at ease. There I go again, back to being the wife of the ship's captain and taking care of the flock while the wardroom goes off across the briny.
I've heard enough on the radio and the TV this evening to know that something very big is happening halfway around the world, and Maria's afraid David's right in the middle of it. She even reminded me of that dumb promise you made to her at the wedding when you said you'd keep him out of trouble from that time on. I think you had to be flying high to make that promise, but she's sincere about it, so I said I'd talk with you. Before you fly off the handle, I didn't promise anything. I said that sometimes, as wonderful as she thinks you are, you can't control absolutely everything the Navy does and that even you might not have control over everything David does. I hope that made things a bit easier for her to take if he is there, but you better not let us down too much!
Now I didn't intend to write a letter since you're just downstairs reading it, but I got carried away since you've become a dry-land admiral and come home most every night. See, I haven't forgotten how to write. You'd get some great love letters from me if you were still at sea. As a matter of fact, once you wake me up, there's other things to do after our little talk.
All my love and kisses, Ann
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN
C
aptain Svedrov wasn't absolutely certain whether he was concerned more about the coming battle or .about the priorities Admiral Kupinsky had established. He knew of the short, simple message Gorenko had sent and realized there was nothing Alex could do but make
Nimitz
the number-one priority.
Svedrov sat before his desk in his cabin, a place he had rarely visited in the last forty-eight hours. He was tired, but he knew sleep would not come, not when contact with the American forces was imminent. He had read and reread the order of battle they had promulgated only thirty minutes before. The airwing commanders had joined in the briefing in flag plot, while the captains of the other ships had taken part by direct TV hookup. Electronic access was so simple that they were literally present.
Svedrov had to' agree with the commanding officer of the
Azov.
Admiral Kupinsky's presentation was one of the most stirring any of the senior officers had ever been privileged to witness. He had quietly begun the meeting with a moment of silence for their fallen comrades, an action with almost religious overtones that most Soviet officers wouldn't have dared do. Then he reviewed the purpose for their being in that section of the Indian Ocean, and the reason that the Americans were there. There was no doubt in his mind, he continued, that Admiral Charles and his people were probably having the same type of conference at this time and that they intended to persevere just as the Russians would. It would not be an easy day. Quite obviously, more ships and men would be lost. Then he stopped for a moment, just long enough for them to hang on to his next words.
It was a story that many of them were not familiar with, but Svedrov had heard it before. It was about a young Soviet submariner back in October of 1962, a time when most of those listening had not yet crossed the brow of their first ship. Admiral Kupinsky assured them that it was just as well, for October 1962 was one of the darkest periods for the emerging Soviet Navy. Russia had been in the process of becoming a blue-water naval power, the only way a major nation could survive as a leader in the twentieth century. But, and this was an important point, she did not then have the sophistication of the U.S. Navy. Many of the ships were not ready for the challenge, and suddenly they were facing an America with the determination to drive them out of Cuban waters. The Soviet subs had neither the fuel nor repair facilities necessary to project this power. As a result, the United States had dominated.
Then he finished with the story of the Russian submarine that had been surfaced by an old wreck of a destroyer, a relic of World War II, and the, resultant humiliation. He rose from the long table, pacing back and forth before them as he spoke, their eyes riveted attentively. He kept his hands locked behind his back, looking each man in the eye, even gazing directly into the cameras that carried this meeting to the other ships. And finally, he announced to his listeners that Admiral David Charles, the commander of this Task Force 58, had been on that destroyer that day the Soviet submarine had been humiliated before the world. And now, he explained to them both as individuals and as a group, it was their opportunity to turn the tables.
Svedrov looked over his notes of that meeting, but he didn't need them now. He had written the order of battle for his Admiral, and he had explained it at that meeting. Immediately on completing his speech, Kupinsky had turned the meeting over to Svedrov. There was nothing complex about what he had explained to them. The main objective was to sink
Nimitz.
That would curtail American airpower and allow the surface ships a better opportunity to close and engage their opposite numbers with missiles. And to everyone's surprise, he called upon three new service ships of a rather unusual design to move up with the main force. But no one felt privileged enough to ask the reason for these noncombatants to hazard themselves.
Captain Svedrov folded the papers neatly and placed them in the small desk safe, twirling the wheel a few times to make sure it was locked and secure. He changed into a clean uniform, as he knew his Admiral would be doing at this point. They would present a fine, almost urbane appearance to their staff, and the word would spread through the force that Admiral Kupinsky and his Captain Svedrov looked as though they were on holiday in Leningrad, preparing for a stroll through the Gardens of the Summer Palace.
He found Admiral Kupinsky leaning on the railing on the port-side catwalk above the flight deck, watching the launch.
Lenin
was unlike an American carrier, for the VTOL planes simply lifted off the deck vertically, pointing their noses first down slightly, then upward as their powerful single jet engines increased thrust for takeoff. It was noisy but had none of the drama of the American launch, with the planes being flung violently forward, steam hissing and catapults slamming into their stops.
But Alex Kupinsky saw drama in this event. Two mighty oceangoing forces were about to engage each other for the first time in forty years. The previous engagements by aircraft or submarines were simply softening-up exercises, feeling out the opposition. This would be truly a three-dimensional battle, air, surface, and undersea all at once. Continents were at stake. One country should emerge a victor without a land battle. Men and ships were immaterial in the face of national goals. It was sad in a way that time had brought this disregard of human life and that political ambitions overrode human consideration.
“We should be in flag plot now, Admiral. They are so close that we could be under attack at any moment.”
“Ah, Svedrov, you have found me.” He turned, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. “Stay here for a few moments with me and watch the last of the planes take off. They know I am up here, and they have waved. It will be good for them to see you, too.”
They saw the last of the Forgers and Rigas head skyward. This time the aircraft were near enough to their target so that they could stay close to their stations for awhile. This was preferable to the earlier long-distance quick run and return to avoid running out of fuel. Now half of the aircraft were armed to protect the other half. The latter would be making attacks on the surface ships. With the submarines and the surface ships in the area, the Admiral felt that the coordinated attack, would require less air-to-surface missiles, and he wanted these pilots to have a better chance than the last air group. But he feared there would be a ring of carefully guided steel surrounding
Nimitz.
“All right, my friend, let's join the others in plot. I'm sure David Charles is planning much the same things we are, and I need you to coordinate our defense today. We must save
Lenin
at all costs, and I'm sure they do not have the surprise for us that we have been saving for them. We have a superior air defense, but they have a great many more aircraft to sacrifice.”
Svedrov paused with his hand on the door leading into plot. “You may be sure I will do everything within my power, even to sacrificing the little ships if necessary, as you said.” His face was sad and serious.
“I know. That's why I picked you. We will stay close for the next few hours, for they will be the most important in our lives.” He extended his arm courteously to his aide as the other man pulled open the door, politely gesturing for him to enter the darkened room first.
“Attack and fighter aircraft launched from
Nimitz,
sir.” He saw the appropriate dots on the board in one color, the approaching submarines in another. Soon a third color would show the cruise missiles he anticipated from the surface craft leading this Task Force 58.
“Lenin
has launched aircraft, sir.” The announcement redirected David Charles's attention for a moment as he saw the dots move out from
Lenin.
Right now, however, he was more concerned about the Soviet submarines. They had to be held under by the antisubmarine groups or they would have the opportunity to fire missiles from beyond the surface force's range of detection. Once the subs got closer, the smaller ships could handle them.
“Admiral, those Russian planes are doing pretty much what we're doing ourselves. They're heading for high altitude.”
“I was fairly sure that would happen, Bill. The logical thing for the Soviets to do is wait until they can fire simultaneously from three separate geometric locations. Their weapons are designed to do the same as ours are, and their countermeasures are similar also.'We'll have less opportunity to identify individual missiles, select a weapon, and bring them down if they come from the air, the surface, and from underneath all at the same time. With each one operating on a different frequency, thank God it doesn't confuse the computer.”
The ships around
Nimitz
had been stationed with exactly that assumption in mind, and they were assigned sectors for each type of potential attack. The decision of whether to coordinate each sector defense from the master computer or to assign local control to Aegis-configured or even individual ships would come from Bill Dailey. David planned to keep as far from the individual details as possible. He had to evaluate the flow of action, planning his attack around the success of his defense, releasing a ship for total offensive capabilities only when he felt it was not needed for defensive purposes.
“Fighters in contact, sir. They're being fired on by Forgers.”
“Remind them their primary targets are the Rigas.” He knew the Rigas had been armed to attack
Nimitz,
and his Tomcats couldn't waste all their missiles on the fighters as Alex wanted them to. Charles's advantage was more aircraft in reserve to attack the Rigas once the Forgers had expended their missiles. But he couldn't ask the pilots to dodge missiles without firing. He had told them in the ready room what they had to do, and they were brave men. “Remind the group leaders to conserve their ammunition. Wait a minute, belay that. Don't tell them a thing!” They were grown men who knew their profession. He would let Bill Dailey do his job and stay out of it. “Sorry, Bill, I always get excited on first contact. Go ahead.”
“Yes, sir.” He picked up a speaker phone resting near his left arm. “Relax all EMCON. They're on top of us now. Designated ships commence radiating on enemy frequencies.” Now those ships he had just directed would begin electronic warfare procedures, emitting signals to distract enemy radar. It would show carrier-size targets in place of an actual destroyer, creating false targets. They would also jam guidance radars attempting to lock on American ships, and fire rockets filled with metal foil that would confuse acquisition radars. The first step had been to meet the attacking aircraft halfway. The second was to confuse those that got through. Now the computer would take over the air attack, assigning targets to perimeter ships, identifying missiles fired at the surface force and assigning ships to bring them down, and finally releasing a ship in extremis from computer control.
Bill Dailey's next move was to check remaining time on station of the helos assigned to hold down submarines. It was important to ensure that relief was at the site before the first helo left. Otherwise, the subs could surface, fire cruise missiles, and dive again in a short time. The responsibility for this phase was turned over to the staff ASW officer, who accepted control with the flick of a switch on the panel before him.
The surface-picture responsibility was retained by the master computer and displayed for Admiral Charles and his Chief of Staff on the huge boards before them. The Soviet force had changed little since the display had been set up more than an hour before, although it was evident that some of the ships in the flank had moved up well ahead of
Lenin.
“What are those ships moving up, Bill?”
“I'm not sure, sir. They were originally identified as service force, but they seem to be moving too fast for that, don't they?”
“Request that one of the spy planes take some pictures and relay them back here.” He looked up at the array of TV screens before them. “Put it on number-three screen.”
“Right.” Dailey pointed at a nearby officer whose job was to carry out such orders with as little noise as possible. In a moment, the picture flickered on, the screen a snowstorm. There was a change in the background as the spy plane brought its camera into focus on the force eighty thousand feet below. The automatic lens was activated to bring the Russian ships closer, though even after thirty seconds, they were still ants on a vast screen. Gradually
Lenin
swam into view as an identifying ship.
The Admiral picked up a radio phone. “Have that circuit with the pilot patched in here.” He nodded at the comm officer, who was looking over his shoulder at him, holding up the phone with one hand and pointing at it with the index finger of the other. The young officer nodded.
Lenin
was becoming clearer on the screen, her island on the starboard side identifiable, as were the circles painted on the deck for aircraft positions. The close-up lens halted when they could identify a figure on the flight deck. There was static from the earpiece of the phone David Charles was holding. “What's his call sign?”
“Spy Two, sir.”
Out of habit, he keyed the mike a couple of times, then spoke into it. “Spy Two, this is Top Dog One. Do you read me? Over.”
“Roger, Top Dog One, loud and clear. Over.”
“Spy Two, there are some large surface craft that have moved from the rear of the formation ahead of
Lenin,
probably midway between the carrier and the forward cruiser. Can you pick them up for me? Over.”
The lens was already rapidly moving from the carrier over open water. “Roger, Top Dog One. Wait.” The picture on the screen was a blur of ocean. An object appeared for a moment, left the screen, then returned as the camera centered on it. The lens brought the ship closer. “How's that Top Dog . . . One. Over.”