Brown, Dale - Independent 01 (38 page)

           
“How many
Tu-95s could be made available?” Czilikov asked.

           
Yesimov
shrugged. “We can immediately send ten bombers to
Tashkent
,
the largest available staging base in the region. Within a week I can dispatch
our entire fleet of H-model bombers to
Tashkent
:
forty planes, one hundred sixty cruise missiles.”

           
“Forty
Tu-95 bombers in
Tashkent
would
also be immediately noticed,” Chief Marshal Rhomerdunov, commander of the
troops of Soviet air defense, noted. “However, Zhukovsky Military Airfield at
Tashkent
can easily conceal the initial ten Tu-95 bombers.”

           
“I can have
the bombers at
Tashkent
in less
than a week,” Yesimov said. “I will draft an operation plan for the bomber
deployment right away.”

           
The general
secretary was visibly pleased. “Now you’re beginning to sound like the men I
thought I knew.” He turned to Govorov. “What is your second operation?”

           
The space
defense commander looked around the conference table. “The second operation is
more crucial.... It involves moving the
Arkhangel
battle group into the
Gulf
of
Oman
to oppose the American
Nimitz
battle
group directly.”

           
This time a loud murmur of voices, clearly not approving.

           
“It’s out
of the question,” Admiral Chercherovin said. “The
Ark
-
hangel
is not just an aircraft carrier.
It is our newest and best. It is more than just a vessel. It is our future....”

           
Czilikov took
over. “Marshal Govorov refers to the new class aircraft carrier in its final
year of sea trials, sir. It is now on a shakedown patrol of the
South
China Sea
, but has been based at Cam Ranh Bay Naval Base in
Vietnam
for the past month. The
Arkhangel
is
the largest naval vessel ever built, much larger than the
Nimitz.
She carries eighty-five aircraft, all of them Sukhoi-27 air
superiority and antimissile fighters. Even more, the
Arkhangel
comprises her own battle group. She uses two Kiev-class
short-takeoff-and-landing aircraft carriers, the
Kiev
and
Novorossiysk
,
to carry the battle group’s land-and-ship attack aircraft and a number of
antisubmarine warfare helicopters. All together, the
Arkhangel
battle group contains one hundred thirty combat aircraft and
helicopters.”

           
Czilikov
watched the general secretary’s eyes as he listened to the description of the
Arkhangel
and her battle group. He
stopped abruptly. “We cannot send the
Arkhangel
,
sir. It is out of the question.”

           
“Back that
up, Czilikov.”

           
“Sir,
sending the
Arkhangel
battle group to
the
Persian Gulf
area would be like... like the
Americans landing a squadron of B-l bombers in
Berlin
or
London
or
Norway
,
or sailing the
Nimitz
into the
Black
Sea
. It would be an overconcentration, and it would be a major
escalation—”

           
“But the
Americans have the
Nimitz
group in
the
Gulf
of
Oman
,”
the general secretary broke in, “and that is a major force.”

           
“But, sir,
the
Nimitz
balances the
Brezhnev
carrier force,” Czilikov said.
“Besides, the Americans have always had a major carrier group in that area.
They are, frankly, the only nation that can afford to maintain such a force to
just cruise around thousands of kilometers from home.”

           
“The
Arkhangel
would be as vulnerable as the
Brezhnev
is in the
Persian
Gulf
,” Chercherovin now added.

           
“With
two carriers
as escorts?” the general
secretary asked. “If the world’s largest carrier, protected by two other
carriers and twenty surface combatants, is still vulnerable to attack in the
open ocean we have no business building such vessels. No, I don’t believe this
Arkhangel
force would be so vulnerable.
This is no time for caution, Admiral. If we have the power, we should
act.
Immediately. I want this option
explored. I want a briefing in three days, outlining all possible contingencies
involved in moving the
Arkhangel
to
the
Gulf
of
Oman
to oppose the
Nimitz
.” He paused,
reconsidered, obviously caught up in the spectacle of what they were likely to
achieve, or were trying to achieve. .. . “No, I want that report in forty-eight
hours. And 1 want the
Arkhangel
group
ready to sail one week after the plan is approved by the Politburo.”

           
Admiral
Chercherovin, still the voice of can’t-do, said: “It is impossible to prepare
an entire twenty-five-ship fleet for an extended deployment in—”

           
“Then put
that in your report. But yours will not be the only opinions I rely on. You
have a habit, Admiral, of telling me what is impossible. I am tired of military
commanders telling me what is impossible.”

           
The general
secretary turned to Govorov, who had returned to his seat. He motioned at him.
“Here is a young, innovative commander who
does
the impossible. You older officers would do well to take him as a model.”

           
The general
secretary glanced at Czilikov, who was usually expected to come to the aid of
his senior Stavka officers at moments like this. This time he did not. Unlike
the admiral, he knew when to shut up. He did, though, look at Govorov, as much
as to say, “It’s all yours, hero. And welcome to it....”

 
          
BETHESDA
NAVAL
HOSPITAL,
WASHINGTON
,
D.C.

 
          
Jason Saint-Michael woke up to find a
warm hand entwined in his. He tried to speak but all he could manage was a
rasping croak. He squeezed the hand tight as he could, and after a moment felt
a rustling near him.

           
“Jason?”
The sound of her voice was life itself to him. He squeezed her hand again.

           
“Thank God
... .”

           
He opened
his eyes but found his vision blurry, his eyelids heavy and oily feeling.

           
“What is
it?” Another female voice.

           
“He’s
awake. He squeezed my hand.”

           
“Are you
sure?” He felt a movement near him, then a cold hand in place of the warm one.
“General Saint-Michael? Can you hear me?”

           
He still
couldn’t see anything but could feel her near him. He moved a hand up and out
slowly across a warm metal railing and rested it back onto the warm hand that
had been pushed out of the way.

           
“I’ll get
the doctor.” The cold hand went away. He was determined not to let go of the
warm one again. “Don’t go.”

           
“I won’t.
I’m right here.”

           
“My... eyes
... ?”

           
“Wait.” A
moment later a dry towel was being wiped across his eyelids and forehead. He
blinked a few more times, and the focus began to come back.... He was in a
small white... what else?... hospital room. Ann was standing over him, his hand
in hers. Her small, angular face was surrounded by long, thick hair, the
ponytail now wrapped back and looped over her right shoulder. He tried to
squeeze her hand again but his strength had seemed to drain away. He did manage
a sort of smile.

           
“You look
good,” he said.

           
“I wish I
could say the same of you,” she said, smiling too brightly.

           
He ran a
dry tongue across his lips. “Get me some water, will you?”

           
She poured
a cup of water and held it for him as he drank. The water backed up slightly in
his throat, but he forced some more down and felt much better.

           
“God,” she
said, “now I know what it feels like to—” Ann had lost her smile and was
looking past him. He studied her face, realizing it was thinner than before.
The tighter she held his hand, the softer her voice sounded, and the more
worried he became.

           
Who knew
how many things she was keeping from him, so he picked the easiest, he thought.
“How long have I been out?”

           
Her eyes
came back to his. “What do you mean... ?” As soon as she said it, she realized
how evasive it sounded.

           
He held up
one of his hands, touching the palm with the index finger of his other.
“Smooth. I had callouses before.” He forced a bit of the old steel in his
voice, which took more effort than he expected. “Ann,
how longV

           
“Jason,
you’ve been in a coma for three weeks. Almost four.”

           
It
registered in his head, but he found he could dismiss it. It didn’t matter how
long he had been out—the important thing was, he was awake. He experimented
with moving various muscle groups in his legs, arms and shoulders and found
them all responsive but weak. “All parts seem to be working. Hey, come on, I’m
okay.” He put his left hand down on the bed and found he had enough strength to
push himself upright a few inches. Even that slight movement cheered him.
“Damn, I feel like I’ve just woken up from a long nap. I feel good, really.
Four weeks racked out, huh? What else?”

           
She didn’t
get a chance to reply. A white-robed physician had come into the room and put
himself between them.

           
“Welcome
back, General. I’m Captain Matsui. You’re at
Bethesda
Naval
Hospital
.
How do you feel?”

           
“A little weak, thirsty, hungry as hell.”

           
“Good, good
and good. All good signs. No stiffness, headaches, chest pains?”

           
“No. Should
there be?”

           
Matsui
hesitated.

 
         
“Have a seat, doc. Let’s have the gory
details.”

           
Matsui sat
down, the cheerful smile fading a bit.

           
“Give it to
me straight. I can take it.”

           
“It’s not
quite that dramatic, General, although you did give us a few scares. You were
suffering from dysbarism on board the
Enterprise
”

           
“I
suspected it.”

           
“You got
hit with the worst form of it,” Matsui said. “Cerebral dysbarism. Big bubbles
of nitrogen lodged in your cerebral cortex. Lucky for you, Dr. Page here got
you into
Enterprise
's
airlock and back to normal
atmospheric pressure so fast. You were probably only a few minutes from
complete cerebral dysfunction.”

           
Saint-Michael
looked at Ann. “How about her, doc? Is she all right?”

           
“She was in
no danger. She used her POS longer, she was in the properly inflated rescue
ball long enough and stayed with you in the airlock for nearly thirty hours.
She’s in good condition. You, however, are not out of the woods. As a matter of
fact, it’s been touch- and-go until today. You never woke up, and you had
seizures, possibly even a heart attack, as your body continued to throw off the
nitrogen. You—”

           
“I think
that’s about all the gory details I care to hear right now, doc. Thing is I’m
alive, I’m up and I’m ready to get out of here. I suppose you’re going to say
that’s impossible.”

           
“On the
contrary, General, let’s run a few blood tests, an EKG and EEG. You may need
some physical therapy—you were in space for several months and in a coma for
four weeks, after all. I’d say your heart and other muscles at least need some
toning up. If they all check out you’ll be clear of here in a few days.
Meantime, get some rest.” Matsui looked directly at Ann, then left with the
nurse.

           
“Rest,
hell,” Saint-Michael said after Matsui was out of earshot. “That’s their answer
for everything. I’ve been in a damned coma for four weeks, what do I need more
rest for?” He took Ann’s hands in his again. “I’m glad you’re here. When I
heard your voice I....” He stopped, looked at her uneasily.

           
She
pretended not to notice. “I’ve been here every day since we got back, Jason.
I—”