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.
“FROM: CAPTAIN NATURSKY. CATCHING UP WITH THE AMERICAN TASK FORCE AROUND THE CARRIER MONROE. WILL STAY OUT OF ACOUSTIC TRACKING RANGE, BUT CLOSE BY, AND AWAIT YOUR ORDERS. MAINTAINING ALERT-3 STATUS.
“END.”
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.
17
In the early morning sunshine, the sixteen SEALs sweated on the flight deck on the starboard side just in back of the bow, where usually fighter aircraft and helicopters were parked. All sixteen men were hard at work. Murdock had dropped the thousand-push-up order down to 150.
Each man did his own count.
Speed was important here, to put as little continuous pressure as possible on the muscles. Some men did the exercise twice as fast as the others. When finished, each man simply dropped to the deck and gulped air into his lungs.
Murdock was not the fastest. He and Ed Dewitt did the workout right along with the men. Murdock finished in the middle of the crew, and waited for the slowest man.