Ian Slater: Arctic Front

Autonomous Siberian republic has disregarded Moscow’s surrender. Novosibirsk has issued orders for all Siberian armies to resist “Anglo-American-European aggression against the ‘Motherland.’ “ We are now facing forty Siberian divisions along Sino-Soviet border plus TVD air forces commanded out of Khabarovsk and entire Soviet Pacific Fleet egressing Vladivostok. Our forward units one hundred miles east of Moscow already under attack by elements of West Siberian Second and Fourth—

“Jesus Christ!” It was the first time Trainor had heard the president blaspheme, and despite Trainor’s secularity it made him wince.

“Where’s the rest of the message?” asked President Mayne, looking up at Trainor and the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

“Satellite communications were cut, Mr. President,” answered Trainor. “Or rather jammed. By the Siberians.”

“God Almighty!” said Mayne, looking down again at the message in disbelief. Brigadier Soames, Britain’s European-U.S. liaison officer, cleared his throat politely. “London’s received the same response, Mr. President,” advised Soames. “Looks rather sticky, I’m afraid. But your chap Merton is in error regarding the Siberian divisions. There aren’t forty.”

“Well, thank God for that!” said the president. The brigadier looked around, untypically nonplussed, glancing for help at the Chiefs of Staff, but found he was on his own. “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but what I mean is that there aren’t forty divisions. It’s fifty-seven to be exact. With — ah — four Mongolian divisions in reserve around Lake Baikal.”

President Mayne sat down, the message dangling from his left hand, his right unconsciously massaging his temple. “What the hell’s happened? I mean, these divisions must be reservists?”

Army Chief of Staff Grey shook his head. “Afraid not, Mr. President. The Siberian divisions have a combat, Afghanistan-trained cadre of officers and NCOs. Crack divisions trained for a Sino-Soviet conflict. Moscow used to be more scared of China than NATO. Trouble is, it’s not only the number of Siberian armies we’re faced with — the place is so damn big. Westernmost border of Siberia doesn’t even start till you get a thousand miles east beyond Moscow — then it goes on for more than three and a half thousand miles to the Pacific and, despite popular misconception, it has as varied a topography as the U.S. Far as the Siberians are concerned, Moscow’s in another country.”

Looking at the map, Mayne saw the Siberian divisions were stretched out from Siberia’s East Cape then inland behind the mountainous Kamchatka Peninsula all the way down to Vladivostok and the Manchurian border, a dark red cluster showing enemy surface vessels and submarines off the coast around Vladivostok and Nakhodka. “Thought we gave their Pacific Fleet a bloody nose off north Japan?” he asked Chief of Naval Operations Admiral Horton.

“Elements of the Pacific Fleet, yes, Mr. President,” answered the CNO. “But the hemorrhaging stopped apparently.”

“Their air forces?” Mayne asked Air Force Chief Allet.

“Fifteen hundred tactical aircraft, including MiG 29E fighters and Backfire bombers. The Fulcrums — MiG 29Es — are faster and more maneuverable than our F-18s. To qualify for Siberian station you have to have had combat experience in western Europe. Only the best, Mr. President.” General Allet indicated airfields far to the northeast, near Siberia’s East Cape. “They clearly don’t intend letting us get across the Bering Strait from Alaska.”

The president was shaking his head. The vastness of the new threat had descended like sheet lightning upon what, until only moments ago, had been the promising dawn of the Russian surrender. Blindsided by Siberia — the essence of the awful Allied blunder the assumption that all the Soviets would automatically follow Moscow’s decree. It was so obvious now that Mayne wondered why they hadn’t thought of it before. The only comparable miscalculation he could think of was the CIA’s confident report, several months before the Shah of Iran’s fall, that no such overthrow was in the offing. But men, the more he thought about it, the more he understood how the seed of the blunder had taken root; for he, too, had always lumped Soviets and Russians together. Oh yes, he’d known how dissident the Baltic republics were, and some of the Asian republics, but Siberia— so far from Moscow, a place where Moscow sent dissidents — had never been thought of as a separate entity. But now the full impact of the differences between the two Russian republics — the United Soviet Socialist Republics and the newly declared United Siberian Soviet Republics — hit him as the CIA overlay, each color representing a different ethnic group in the mix that was the Siberyaka, covered the huge expanse of Siberia which, in turn, overlaid the map of the Americas on the same scale, completely obscuring the U.S. The region of the Yakut alone was three times the size of Texas. The other Siberian regions— the Tartar, Kalmyk, Komi, Bashykur and the Karelian autonomous republic — were all united in their common determination with Novosibirsk not to surrender.

“Won’t they deal?” asked the president.

“Why should they?” proffered the brigadier, realizing at once that he’d overstepped the line of deference accorded the president of the American republic. “With all due respect, Mr. President, our Allied forces in and around Moscow are, by all accounts, battle weary — quite simply worn out. Our supply lines through western Europe are overextended to say the least.” Soames glanced at the American Joint Chiefs of Staff, their glum faces evidence enough that they agreed. Then he turned back to address Mayne. “Holding Moscow might seem a compelling victory to the general public in the West, sir, but—” He turned toward the map, his hand making a small arc across the expanse of Siberia. “Capturing Moscow, I’m afraid, is nothing geographically or strategically speaking. And now, it seems, not even politically. Our troops have, as General Grey pointed out, another thousand miles to go before they even reach the Urals, the western border of Siberia. Then there’s the rest — almost four thousand miles of mountains, taiga, rivers and plains, deep in snow — thrown in for good measure. They’ve got the Ural Mountains on their western flank and the more mountainous Kamchatka Peninsula on the east. They could give away half of it and we’d still be in enormous difficulty. No, sir, I’m afraid the Siberian chiefs of staff in Novosibirsk have thought this one out rather carefully. It’s a very sticky wicket indeed.”

The president frowned, not because he didn’t know what “sticky wicket” meant — the tone conveyed all the meaning he needed — but because the Englishman was right. What in hell could the Allies do?

“Sticky wicket means being between a rock and a hard—” began Trainor.

“I know what it means,” snapped the president. “What I want someone to tell the is what in hell are we going to do about this mess?” He looked up at his CNO, the chief of naval operations, Admiral Horton. “Can we bracket them with our boomers, Dick?” He meant the Allies’ ICBM submarines.

“Already have, sir. The Trident subs can drop an ICBM on them anywhere, but they can do the same to us even without their subs. Most of their ICBM sites are now in Siberia. Especially on the eastern flank down Kamchatka Peninsula. It would mean all-out nuclear war. And one thing the Russians — including the Siberians — were always ahead of us in, Mr. President, is civil defense for such an eventuality. We’d come out much worse than they would.”

“Yes, yes, I know that. A nuclear strike’s no option.” Next he turned to the army chief of staff.