Alekseyev nodded agreement. What had begun as a limited attack was fast becoming the focal point of the whole fighting front. Two more Soviet tank divisions were now near the battle area, racing to the Leine. Three NATO brigades were known to be heading the same way, along with artillery. Both sides were pulling tactical fighters from other sectors, one to smash the bridgehead, the other to support it. The terrain at the front didn't give the SAM crews enough time to discriminate friend from foe. The Russians had many more surface-to-air missiles, and so a freefire zone had been established at Alfeld. Anything that flew was automatically a target for the Russian missiles, while Soviet aircraft kept clear, working instead to locate and kill NATO artillery and reinforcements. That ran contrary to pre-war doctrine-another gamble, but a favorable one, Alekseyev judged, given his experiences at the front. That was an important lesson not stressed enough in pre-war training: senior commanders had to see what was happening with their own eyes. How did we ever forget that? Pasha wondered.
He fingered the bandage on his forehead. Alekseyev was suffering from a murderous headache, and a doctor had used twelve stitches to close the wound. Crude stitches, the doctor had told him-they would leave a scar. His father had had several such scars, all worn with pride. He'd accepted the decoration for this one.
"We have the ridge north of the town!" 20th Tanks, commander called in. "We've pushed the Americans off."
Alekseyev took the phone. "How soon on the bridges?"
"We ought to have one ready in another half hour. Their artillery support is slackening off. They blew one bridging unit to hell, but this one will be completed. I have a battalion of tanks lined up already. The SAMs are doing well. I can see the wreckage of five aircraft from where I'm standing. I see-" The General was interrupted by man-made thunder.
Alekseyev could do nothing but stare at the telephone receiver. His fist tightened in anger around the handset.
"Excuse me. That was close. The final section of bridge is rolling out now. Those engineers have taken terrible losses, Comrade General. They deserve particular attention. The major in command of the unit has been exposed for three hours now. I want the gold star for him."
"Then he'll get it."
"Good, good-the bridge section is off the truck and in the water. If they give us ten minutes to anchor the far end, I'll get those dammed tanks across for you. How long on my reinforcements?"
"The lead elements will arrive just after sunset."
"Excellent! I must leave now. I'll be back when we start rolling tanks."
Alekseyev handed the phone back to a junior officer. It was like listening to a hockey game on the radio!
"The next objective, Pasha?"
"Northwest to Hameln and beyond. We might be able to cut off NATO's northern army groups. If they start to disengage their forces around Hamburg, we go to a general attack and chase them all the way to the English Channel! I think we have the situation we've been hoping for."
BRUSSELS, BELGIUM
At NATO headquarters, staff officers looked at the same maps and reached the same conclusions with less enthusiasm. Reserves were dangerously low-yet there was no choice. Men and guns converged on Alfeld in ever increasing numbers.
It was the biggest transit of U.S. Navy ships in years. The gray hulls used both sides of each lock system, preventing westbound traffic from moving. They were in a hurry. Helicopters moved the Canal pilots to and from ships; speed restrictions were broken, regardless of the erosion problems at the Gaillard Cut. Those ships needing refueling had it done as soon as they exited the Canal at the Gatun Locks, then formed an antisubmarine barrier outside Lim?n Bay. The formation's transit from Pacific to Atlantic lasted twelve hours under ruthless security. Finished, they departed north at a fleet speed of twenty-two knots. They had to go through the Windward Passage at night.
They call it the smell of the sea, Morris thought, but really it's not. It's the smell of land It came from the tidal marshes-all the things that lived and died and rotted at the water's edge, all the smells that fermented in the marginal wetlands and when released blew out to sea. Sailors considered it a friendly odor because it meant that land, port, home, family were near. Otherwise it was something to be neutralized with Lysol.
As Morris watched, the tug Papago shortened her towline for better control in the restricted waters. Three harbor tugs came alongside, their crews throwing messenger lines to the frigate's sailors. When they were secured, Papago cast off and proceeded up the river to refuel.
"Good afternoon, Captain." The harbor pilot had come out on one of the tugs. He looked to have been bringing ships in and out of Boston for fifty years.
"And to you, Captain," Morris acknowledged.
"I see you killed three Russian subs?"
"Only one by ourselves. The others are assists."
"How much water are you drawing forward?"
"Just under twenty-five feet-no," Morris had to correct himself. The sonar dome was at the bottom of the Atlantic now.
"You did well to bring her back, Captain," the pilot said, looking forward. "My 'can didn't survive. Before you were born, I guess. Callaghan, seven ninety-two. Assistant gunnery officer, I'd just made j.g. We got twelve Jap planes, but just after midnight the thirteenth kamikaze got through on us. Forty-seven men-well." The pilot took the walkie-talkie from Ins pocket and started giving directions to the tugs. Pharris began to move sideways toward a pier. A medium-sized drydock was straight ahead, but they were not moving that way.
"Not the drydock?" Morris asked, surprised and angry that his ship was being moved to an ordinary pier.
"Mechanical problems in the dock. They're not ready for you yet. Tomorrow, day after for sure. I know how you feel, Captain. Like your kid's hurt and they won't let her in the hospital. Cheer up, I watched mine sink."
It made no sense to grumble, Morris knew. The man was right. If Pharris hadn't sunk during the tow, she was safe enough alongside the pier for a day or two. The pilot was an expert. His trained eye measured the wind and the tide, and he gave the proper orders to the tug captains. Within thirty minutes the frigate was secured to the cargo pier. Three TV news crews were waiting for them behind a screen of sailors in shore patrol livery. As soon as the brow was rigged, an officer hurried aboard and came right to the bridge.
"Captain, I'm Lieutenant Commander Anders. I have this for you, sir." He handed over an official-looking envelope.
Morris tore it open and found a standard Navy dispatch form. The message ordered him in terse Navy prose to Norfolk by the quickest available transport.
"I have a car waiting. You can catch the shuttle to D.C., then hop a short-hauler to Norfolk."
"What about my ship?"
"That's my job, Captain. I'll take good care of her for you."
Just like that, Morris thought. He nodded and went below to pack his gear. Ten minutes later he walked without speaking past the TV cameras and was taken to Logan International Airport.
STORNOWAY, SCOTLAND
Toland went over the satellite photographs of Iceland's four airfields. Strangely, the Russians were not making any use of the old Keflavik field, preferring instead to base their fighters at Reykjavik and the new NATO base. Occasionally, a Backfire or two were landing at Keflavik, bombers with mechanical problems or running short of fuel, but that was it. The northerly fighter sweeps had had their effect, too-the Russians were doing their tanking farther north and east now, which had produced a marginal but nevertheless negative effect on the Backfires' range. The experts estimated that it cut twenty minutes off the time they had to search for convoys. Despite the searching done by the Bears and satellite reconnaissance, only two-thirds of the raids actually launched attacks. Toland didn't know why. Was there a problem with Soviet communications? If so, could they find a way to exploit it?