Red Storm Rising

"CINCLANT ops talked about increasing training schedules. I got excused right after that."

"Good. We ought to have a packet of satellite shots later today. There are some questions coming in from Langley and Arlington. Nothing firm yet, but I think they might be stumbling onto some odd data. If it turns out you're right, Bob-well, you know how it works."

"Sure. Somebody closer to D.C. will make The Discovery. Shit, I don't care about that, Chuck, I want to be wrong! I want this whole friggin' thing to blow over, then I can go home and play in my garden."

"Well, maybe I got some good news for you. We got our TV tied into a new satellite receiver. I talked the communications guys into letting us tap into Russian television to catch their evening news. We won't learn anything hard, but it's a good way of catching moods. Just tried it out before you got here, and found out Ivan's running a film festival for all of Sergey Eisenstein's classics. Tonight, The Battleship Potemkin, followed by all the others, and ending on May 30 with Alexander Nevsky.

"Oh? I have Nevsky on tape."

"Yeah, well, they took the original negatives, flew them to EMI in London to make digitalized masters, and rerecorded the original Prokofiev score on a Dolby format. We'll be making tapes. Your machine VHS or Beta?"

"VHS." Toland laughed. "Maybe this job has a few bennies after all. So, what new stuff do we have?"

Lowe handed him a six-inch file of documents. Time to get back to work. Toland settled in his chair and began sorting through the papers.

KIEV, THE UKRAINE

"Things are looking better, Comrade," Alekseyev reported. "Discipline in the officer corps has improved immeasurably. The exercise with 261st Guards went very well this morning."

"And 173rd Guards?" CINC-Southwest asked.

"They too need further work, but they should be ready in time," Alekseyev said confidently. "The officers are acting like officers. Now we need to get the privates to act like soldiers. We'll see when Progress begins. We must have our officers turn away from the usual set-piece choreography and seek realistic engagement scenarios. We can use Progress to identify leaders who cannot adapt to a real combat environment and replace them with younger men who can." He sat down opposite his commander's desk. Alekseyev calculated that he was exactly one month behind in his sleep.

"You look weary, Pasha," CINC-Southwest observed.

"No, Comrade General, I haven't had the time." Alekseyev chuckled. "But if I make one more helicopter trip I think I shall sprout wings."

"Pasha, I want you to go home and not return for twenty-four hours."

"I--"

"If you were a horse," the General observed, "you would have broken down by now. This is an order from your commander-in-chief. Twenty-four hours of rest. I would prefer that you spend it all sleeping, but that is your affair. Think, Pavel Leonidovich. Were we now engaged in combat operations, you would be better rested-regulations require it, a harsh lesson from our last war with the Germans. I need your talents unhindered-and if you drive yourself too hard now, you won't be worth a damn when I really need you! I will see you at 1600 tomorrow to go over our plan for the Persian Gulf. You will be clear of eye and straight of back."

Alekseyev stood. His boss was a gruff old bear, so much like his own father had been. And a soldier's soldier. "Let the record show that I obey all orders from my commander-in-chief." Both men laughed. Both needed it.

Alekseyev left the office and walked downstairs to his official car. When it arrived at the apartment block a few kilometers away, the driver had to awaken his general.

USS CHICAGO

"Close-approach procedures," McCafferty ordered.

McCafferty had been tracking a surface ship for two hours, ever since his sonarmen had detected her at a range of forty-four miles. The approach was being made on sonar only, and under the captain's orders, sonar had not told the fire-control party what they were tracking. For the time being, every surface contact was being treated as a hostile warship.

"Range three-five hundred yards," the executive officer reported. "Bearing one-four-two, speed eighteen knots, course two-six-one."

"Up scope!" McCafferty ordered. The attack periscope slid up from its well on the starboard side of the pedestal. A quartermaster's mate got behind the instrument, dropped the handles in place, and trained it to the proper bearing. The captain sighted the crosshairs on the target's bow.

"Bearing-mark!"

The quartermaster squeezed the button on the "pickle," transmitting the bearing to the MK-117 fire-control computer.

"Angle on the bow, starboard twenty."

The fire-control technician punched the data into the computer. The microchips rapidly computed distances and angles.

"Solution set. Ready for tubes three and four!"

"Okay." McCafferty stepped back from the periscope and looked over at the exec. "You want to see what we killed?"