“But to do such a thing-even if such an attack is planned.
“The Soviets are intoxicated with ‘special operations’ groups, a lesson from Afghanistan. These men are highly trained, very dangerous. And it’s a cunning plan. The Jewish identification, for example. The bastards play on our sensitivity with the Jews, no? If he is stopped by a police officer, he can make a casual remark about how Germans treat Jews, and what would a young policeman do, eh? Probably apologize and send him on his way.” Weber smiled grimly. That had been a carefully thought-out touch. He had to admire it. “What they could not allow for was the unexpected. We’ve been lucky. We should now make use of this luck. Herr Kanzler, this data must go to NATO high command immediately. For the moment we have their safe house under observation. We may wish to assault it. GSG-9 is ready for the mission, but perhaps it should be a NATO operation.”
“I must meet with my cabinet first. Then I will speak with the President of the United States on the telephone and the other NATO chiefs of government.”
“Forgive me, Chancellor, but there is no time for that. With your permission, within the hour I will give a copy of the videotape to the CIA liaison officer, and also to the British and French. The Russians are going to attack us. Better to alert the intelligence services first, which will lay the groundwork for your talk with the President and others. We must move at once, Herr Kanzler. This is a life-and-death situation.”
The Chancellor stared down at his desk. “Agreed, Colonel. What do you propose to do with this Chernyavin?”
Weber had already moved on that score. “He died of injuries sustained in the auto accident. It will appear on the television news this evening, and in the newspapers. Of course he will be made available to our allies for further interrogation. I am certain the CIA and others will wish to see him before midnight.”
The Chancellor of the German Federal Republic stared out the windows of his Bonn office. He remembered his armed service forty years before: a frightened teenager with a helmet that nearly covered his eyes. “It’s happening again.” How many will die this time?
“Ja.” Dear God, what will it be like?
LENINGRAD, R.S.F.S.R.
The captain looked out over the port side of his ship from the bridge wing. Tugs pushed the last barge onto the aft elevator, then backed away. The elevator rose a few meters, and the barge settled into place on the trolleys already set on the fore-and-aft tracks. JULIUS FUCIK’s first officer supervised the loading process from the winch-control station aft, communicating by portable radio to other men scattered about the afterpart of the ship. The elevator matched levels with that of the third cargo deck, and the access door opened to expose the vast cargo deck. Crewmen strung cables onto the trolleys and bolted them rapidly into place.
Winches pulled the barge forward into the third, lowermost, cargo deck of the Seabee-for Seagoing Barge Carner-ship. As soon as the trolleys were over their painted marks, the watertight door closed and lights came on to allow the crew to secure the barge firmly in place. Neatly done, the first officer thought. The whole loading process had been completed in only eleven hours, almost a record. He supervised the process of securing the after-portion of the ship for sea.
“The last barge will be fully secured in thirty minutes,” the bosun reported to the first officer, who forwarded the information to the bridge.
Captain Kherov switched buttons on his phone to talk to the engineering spaces. “You will be ready to answer bells in thirty minutes.”
“Very well. Thirty minutes.” The engineer hung up.
On the bridge, the captain turned to his most senior passenger, a general of paratroops wearing the blue jacket of a ship’s officer. “How are your men?”
“Some are seasick already.” General Andreyev laughed. They had been brought aboard inside the sealed barges-except for the General, of course-along with tons of military cargo. “Thank you for allowing my men to walk around the lower decks.”
“I run a ship, not a prison. Just so they don’t tamper with anything.”
“They’ve been told,” Andreyev assured him.
“Good. We will have plenty of work for them to do in a few days.”
“You know, this is my first trip aboard ship.”
“Really? Fear not, Comrade General. It is much safer, and much more comfortable, than flying in an aircraft-and then jumping out of it!” The captain laughed. “He is a big ship and he rides very well even with so light a load.”
“Light load?” the General asked. “This is more than half of my division’s equipment you have aboard.”
“We can carry well over thirty-five thousand metric tons of cargo. Your equipment is bulky, but not that heavy.” This was a new thought for the General, who usually had to calculate in terms of moving equipment by air.
Below, over a thousand men of the 234th Guards Air Assault Regiment were milling about under the control of their officers and NCOs. Except for brief periods at night, they’d be stuck down there until the Fucik cleared the English Channel. They tolerated it surprisingly well. Even when crammed with barges and equipment, the cavernous cargo spaces were far larger than the military transport aircraft they were accustomed to. The ship’s crew was rigging planks from one barge top to another so that there would be more room for them to use for sleeping, and to get the soldiers off the oily workspaces that the crew needed to patrol. Soon, the regimental officers were to be briefed on shipboard systems, with special attention to the firefighting systems. A strict no-smoking rule was being enforced, but the professional seamen took no chances. The crewmen were surprised at the humble demeanor of the swaggering paratroopers. Even elite troops, they learned, could be cowed by exposure to a new environment. It was a pleasant observation for the merchant seamen.
Three tugs pulled on lines hanging from the ship’s side, drawing her slowly away from her dock. Two others joined as soon as she was clear, pushing the bow around to face out to sea from the Leningrad terminal. The General watched the ship’s captain control the procedure, as he raced from one bridge wing to another with a junior officer in tow, often giving rudder orders as he passed. Captain Kherov was nearly sixty, and more than two-thirds of his life had been spent at sea.
“Rudder amidships!” he called. “Ahead slow.”
The helmsman accomplished both commands in under a second, the General saw. Not bad, he thought, remembering the surly comments he’d heard from time to time about merchant seamen. The captain rejoined him.
“Ah, that’s the hardest part behind us.”
“But you had help for that,” the General observed.
“Some help! Damned tugboats are run by drunks. They damage ships all the time here.” The captain walked over to the chart. Good: a deep straight channel all the way to the Baltic. He could relax a bit. The captain walked over to his bridge chair and settled in. “Tea!”
A steward appeared at once with a tray of cups.
“There is no liquor aboard?” Andreyev was surprised.
“Not unless your men brought it, Comrade General. I do not tolerate alcohol on my ship.”
“That is true enough.” The first officer joined them. “All secure aft. The special sea detail is set. Lookouts posted. The deck inspection is under way.”
“Deck inspection?”
“We normally check at the turn of every watch for open hatches, Comrade General,” the first officer explained. “With your men aboard, we will check every hour.”
“You do not trust my men?” The General was mildly offended.
“Would you trust one of us aboard one of your airplanes?” the captain replied.
“You are right, of course. Please excuse me.” Andreyev knew a professional when he saw one. “Can you spare a few men to teach my junior officers and sergeants what they need to know?”
The first officer pulled a set of papers from his pocket. “The classes begin in three hours. In two weeks, your men will be proper seamen.”
“We are particularly worried about damage control,” the captain said.
“That concerns you?”
“Of course. We stand into danger, Comrade General. I would also like to see what your men can do for ship defense.”
The General hadn’t thought of that. The operation had been thrown together too quickly for his liking, without the chance to train his men in their shipboard duties. Security considerations. Well, no operation was ever fully planned, was it? “I’ll have my antiair commander meet with you as soon as you are ready.” He paused. “What sort of damage can this ship absorb and still survive?”
“He is not a warship, Comrade General.” Kherov smiled cryptically. “However, you will note that nearly all of our cargo is on steel barges. Those barges have double steel walls, with a meter of space between them, which may even be better than the compartmentalization on a warship. With luck, we will not have to learn. Fire is what concerns me most. The majority of ships lost in battle die from fire. If we can set up an effective firefighting drill, we may well be able to survive at least one, perhaps as many as three missile hits.”