BRUSSELS, BELGIUM
“Are they ready?” SACEUR asked.
“Another twelve hours would be better, but they’re ready.” The operations officer checked his watch. “They go off on the hour. Ten minutes.” The hours spent getting the new division in place had been used profitably. Several additional brigades had been assembled into a pair of new polyglot divisions. The front had been almost entirely stripped of reserves to do it, while a hastily thought-out cover and deception plan had radio units all over the front, broadcasting radio messages to simulate the presence of the relocated formations. NATO had deliberately limited its own “maskirovka” until now, allowing SACEUR to bet all of Western Europe on a pair of fives.
HUNZEN, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF GERMANY
It was a stimulating exercise. Alekseyev had to move his A exploitation forces forward while a battered B motor-rifle division bled to force a crossing of the Weser. All the while the General waited nervously for news from his shaky right flank. There was none. CINC-West was as good as his word, and launched a covering attack against Hamburg to draw off NATO forces from the latest Soviet breakthrough.
That was no easy maneuver. Antiaircraft missile and gun units had been drawn from other sectors. When NATO appreciated what was in the offing, they would break every effort to prevent a Soviet advance on the Ruhr. Resistance so far had been light. Perhaps they didn’t understand what was happening, or perhaps, Alekseyev thought, they really were at the end of their personnel and logistical string.
The first A unit was 120th Motor-Rifle, the famous Rogachev Guards, whose leading elements were just now crossing at Rúhle, and right behind was 8th Guards Tank. Two more tank divisions were bunched on the roads to Rúhle, while an engineer regiment labored to erect seven bridges. Intelligence estimated two, perhaps three, NATO regiments coming to meet them. Not enough, Alekseyev thought. Not this time. Even their air power was depleted. His frontal aviation groups reported minor opposition only around Rúhle. Perhaps my superior was right after all
“Heavy enemy air activity at Salzhemmendorf,” an Air Force communications officer reported.
That’s where 40th Tanks is, Alekseyev thought. The B unit had been badly chewed up by the German spoiling attack.
“Fortieth Tanks reports a major enemy attack under way on its front.”
“What do they mean by ‘major’?”
“The report comes from the alternate command post. I can’t reach the divisional HQ. The assistant commander reports American and German tanks advancing in brigade force.”
Brigade force? Another spoiling attack?
“Enemy attack in progress at Dunsen.”
“Dunsen? That’s close to Gronau. How the hell did they get there?” Alekseyev shouted. “Confirm that report! Is it an air or ground attack?”
“Hundred twentieth Motor-Rifle has a full regiment across the Weser. They are advancing on Brökeln. Eighth Tanks, leading elements have the Weser in sight. SAM units are setting up to cover the crossing point.”
It was like having people read different parts of the paper to him simultaneously, Alekseyev thought. General Beregovoy was at the front, coordinating traffic control and setting final assignments for the post-crossing maneuver. Pasha knew that was his proper place, but, as before, he was annoyed to be far from the real action, giving orders like a Party boss instead of a fighting commander. The artillery from all the advancing divisions was well forward to protect the crossing against counterattack.
My rear areas are awfully weak . . .
“Comrade General, the attack at Dunsen is composed of enemy tank and motorized troops with heavy tactical air support. The regimental commander at Dunsen estimates brigade strength.”
A brigade at Dunsen, and a brigade at Salzhemmendorf?
Those are B unit commanders. Out of practice, inexperienced. If they were really effective officers, they’d be in A units, not shepherding out-of-shape reservists.
“Enemy ground units at Bremke, strength unknown.”
That’s only fifteen kilometers from here! Alekseyev reached for some maps. It was cramped in the command vehicle, so he went outside and spread them on the, ground with his intelligence officer beside him.
“What the hell’s going on here?” His hand moved across the map. “That’s an attack on a twenty-kilometer front.”
“The new enemy division is not supposed to be in place yet, and Theater Intelligence says it will be broken up for spot-reinforcement use all over the northern front area.”
“Headquarters at Fölziehausen reported a heavy air attack and went off the air!”
As if to emphasize this latest report, there was a massive explosion to the north in the direction of Bremke, where 24th Tanks had its main fuel and ordnance dump. Suddenly aircraft began to appear low on the horizon. The mobile command post was in woods overlooking the small town of Hunzen. The town was largely deserted, and the unit’s radio transmitters were there. NATO aircraft had so far shown a reluctance to damage civilian buildings unless they had to
Not today. Four tactical fighters leveled the center of the town, where the transmitters were, with high-explosive bombs.
“Get Alternate One going immediately,” Alekseyev ordered.
More aircraft swept overhead, heading southwest toward Highway 240, where Alekseyev’s A units were moving toward Rúhle. The General found a working radio and called CINC-West at Stand.
“We have a major enemy attack coming southeast from Springe. I would estimate at least two-division strength.”
“Impossible, Pasha-they don’t have two reserve divisions!”
“I have reports of enemy ground units at Bremke, Salzhemmendorf, and Dunsen. It is my opinion that my right flank is in jeopardy, and I must reorient my forces to meet it. I request permission to suspend the attack at Rúhle to meet this threat.”
“Request denied.”
“Comrade General, I am the commander at the scene. The situation can be managed if I have authority to handle it properly.”
“General Alekseyev, your objective is the Ruhr. If you are not able to achieve that objective, I will find a commander who is.”
Alekseyev looked at the radiotelephone receiver in disbelief. He had worked for this man-two years. They were friends. He’s always trusted my judgment.
“You order me to continue the attack regardless of enemy action?”
“Pasha, they make another spoiling attack-nothing more serious than that. Get those four divisions across the Weser,” the man said more gently. “Out.”
“Major Sergetov!” Alekseyev called. The young officer appeared a moment later. “Get yourself a vehicle and head for Dunsen. I want your personal observations on what you find. Be careful, Ivan Mikhailovich. I want you back here in less than two hours. Move.”
“You will do nothing else?” the intelligence officer asked.
Pasha watched Sergetov board a light truck. He could not face his officer. “I have my orders. The operation to cross the Weser continues. We have an antitank battalion at Holle. Tell them to move north and be alert for enemy forces on the road from Bremke. General Beregovoy knows what he’s supposed to do.”
If I warn him, he’ll change his dispositions. Then Beregovoy will be blamed for violating orders. That’s a safe move. I prudently pass on a warning, and-no! If I can’t violate orders, I cannot co-opt someone else into doing so.
What if they’re right? This could be another spoiling attack The Ruhr is a strategic objective of vast importance.
Alekseyev looked up. “The battle orders stand.”
“Yes, Comrade General.”
“The report of enemy tanks at Bremke was incorrect.” A junior officer came over. “The observer saw our tanks coming south and misidentified them!”
“And this is good news?” Alekseyev demanded.
“Of course, Comrade General,” the captain answered lamely.
“Did it occur to you to inquire why our tanks were heading south? Goddamn it, must I do all the thinking here?” He couldn’t scream at the right person. He had to scream at somebody. The captain wilted before his eyes. Part of Alekseyev was ashamed, but another part needed the release.
They had the job because they had more battle experience than anyone else. It had never occurred to anyone that they had no experience at all in this sort of operation. They were advancing. Except for local counterattacks, no NATO unit had done very much of that, but Lieutenant-he still thought like a sergeant-Mackall knew that they were best suited to it. The M-1 tank had an engine governor that limited its speed to about forty-three miles per hour. It was always the first thing the crews removed.
His M-1 was going south at fifty-seven miles per hour.
The ride was enough to rattle the brain loose inside his skull, but he’d never known such exhilaration. His life was balanced on the knife-edge of boldness and lunacy. Armed helicopters flew ahead of his company, scouting the route, and pronounced it clear all the way to Alfeld. The Russians weren’t using this route for anything. It wasn’t a road at all, but the right-of-way for an underground pipeline, a grassy strip one hundred feet wide that took a straight line through the forests. The tank’s wide treads threw off dirt like the roostertail from a speedboat as the vehicle raced south.