"Combat Engineers from the Brezhnev will be landed in Bandar-Abbas to make repairs," Chercherovin replied easily, bathing in the satisfied smile of approval from Minister of Defense Czilikov. "Equipment can be airlifted from the Brezhnev easily — provided your soldiers can secure the coastline. "
"One company of Seventh Shock Force can control the whole damned town," Ilanovsky told him. "Bring your ditchdiggers to repair the damage your pilots caused — my men will protect them."
"Then we're decided," Czilikov said, shooting a stern look at both generals. "The Brezhnev will be responsible for repairs to the airfield at Bandar-Abbas and for a second heavy strike on Tehran. The air force will provide air support and a second bomber strike. Communications will be maintained so that the transports are airborne and over Tehran and Bandar-Abbas when the respective airfields are secure. Those two divisions will be in Tehran and Bandar-Abbas within six hours.
"Meanwhile, sir," First Deputy Minister Khromeyev picked it up, "a full division of hand-picked Iraqi infantry led by Glavnyi Marshal Valeriy Belikov, the commander of the Southern Teatr Voennykh Deistvii will once and for all take and hold Abadan and Khorramshahr along the Iran-Iraq border, making it possible for Soviet vessels to safely dock at Al-Basrah in Iraq. With their country surrounded on all sides, the leaders of Alientar's government will have no choice but to surrender."
Czilikov scanned his battle staff. "This is the culmination of a thirty-year plan, comrades. The actions we take in the next seventy-two hours will decide the conflict — even, perhaps, the future of Soviet history. If we can subdue Iran and cause a new pro-Soviet revolution to occur in the Middle East, it will signal a new era of Soviet power and influence. Who knows how far we can go…"
It was a grandiose thought, more political than was usual for Czilikov. Why, Czilikov asked himself, had it been necessary to go against his own grain and invoke the future like some bombastic commissar? Maybe because the feeling of ultimate victory, somehow, wasn't there yet. Yes… they'd made spectacular advances, demoralized the battle-weary Iranians, caught the United States napping and unprepared to take action. But it was as if they were clinging to the pinnacle of success by a hangnail rather than standing firmly on top of it.
His generals had followed along blindly, Czilikov reminded himself. There had been no long discussion, no arguments, no turmoil, no extended planning sessions. They were fighting this war not so much because they believed in its objectives as because they believed that they would be exiled or disposed of if they refused. That was why he felt the need to remind them of their duty. Real soldiers, real Russian warriors wouldn't need such a reminder — but the general staff never behaved like real Russian warriors. Czilikov thought he saw a spark in them during the meeting, when they had argued about their forces' respective capabilities, but the arguments had quickly died away. True Russian warriors? Where were they? Not here…
That is, except for one. There was one…
"We'll meet again at precisely zero-three-hundred hours," First Deputy Minister Khromeyev said to the battle staff. "The final plans for the thrust into Bandar-Abbas and Tehran will be ready for presentation and ultimate approval by the minister of defense." Khromeyev turned to Czilikov again. "Tovarisch Chayzeyaen, pazhaloosta?"
Czilikov shook his head, still lost in thought. Cattle. Mindless cattle… "Dismissed. Pastayach."
The battle staff members shuffled to their feet and began to file out, but as the large outer doors of the conference room swung open the retreating generals and admirals abruptly stopped. Czilikov noticed it and followed Khromeyev's gaze out through the doorway.
There, standing at attention, was General Govorov. An aide stood alongside him, carrying a small pile of computer printouts. Govorov wore a dark gray military space suit that he himself had designed for the "new breed" of Soviet soldier. His boots were high-polished, his utility uniform was immaculate — overall, there was something in his bearing that suggested limitless self-confidence.
Khromeyev looked as if he were about to explode. "Govorov, I warned you to—"
"Comrade Minister," Govorov said to Czilikov, interrupting Khromeyev, "I must speak with you."
Khromeyev's face flushed. "Get out before I have you—"
"Come," Khromeyev heard behind him. Czilikov was on his feet, motioning to Govorov.
"But Comrade Minister—" Khromeyev protested.
"You may go, Khromeyev. Be sure the plans are ready for me by zero-three-hundred hours."
A final look from Czilikov sent the stunned chief of the general staff hurrying out the door.
Govorov moved quickly into the conference room and stood in front of Czilikov, feeling less sure of himself than his little performance had, he hoped, indicated. His aide carried the sheaf of computer printouts as if it was dinner on a silver tray. "Sit down, General Govorov," Czilikov said, a smile slowly forming on his lips. "We need to talk."
Govorov sat, reminding himself what steel was behind that simile.
CHAPTER 18
"Attention on the station. Shipwide message broadcast for all personnel."
Saint-Michael shifted restlessly in his seat. Colonel Walker was at his post near the master SBR display with Jefferson, continuing to reprogram the space-based radar unit for its next pass over the Persian Gulf conflict area. The command module was crowded with all of Silver Tower's crewmembers, including the two civilian scientists and Will and Sontag of the space shuttle Enterprise, now docked on one of the space station's shuttle-docking bays on a resupply mission.
"Armstrong, this is Nimitz. How copy?"
Saint-Michael checked the communications setting on his panel. "Loud and clear, Nimitz. Armstrong standing by."
"Armstrong, this is Secretary of Defense Edwards. I am in the White House with the Joint Chiefs, the chairman of the National Security Council, the House and Senate majority and minority leaders, and the chairman of the House and Senate Foreign Affairs committees. The president and the vice-president are on their way, but they directed me to start this transmission in case they hadn't arrived when your orbit brought you near North America. "
The transmission was clear but the voice was barely recognizable. A computer, synchronized with the U.S. Navy's atomic clock in Fort Collins, Colorado, scrambled and descrambled the laser-beam transmission five times a second, and the resultant secure transmission wavered like an old-style short-wave radio. "The president has directed me to inform you of his decision concerning the Soviet attack on Iran," Edwards went on. "He's decided to intervene in the conflict to prevent further Soviet advances into Iran and the Persian Gulf region."
Ann Page felt her face flush and her fingertips grow numb as she listened. Her father was down there, in the Nimitz's battle group-probably, she guessed, the spearhead of the American opposing force…
"The president, in consultation with our allies and with Congress, has ordered that steps be taken by all available forces to halt any further Soviet acts of aggression in the region. To this end he has appointed Rear Admiral Clancy, commander of the Nimitz carrier battle group, as overall theater commander of Allied forces. He has taken direct command of all service forces effective immediately… However, Brigadier General Saint-Michael, as commander of Armstrong Space Station, has superbly demonstrated the special value of his installation. Therefore, by order of the president, Jason F. Saint-Michael is hereby promoted to the rank of Space Command Lieutenant General and is of this moment deputy commander of Allied forces in the Persian Gulf region."