WW III wi-1

by Ian Slater

  He heard a faint scratching upstairs — their cat, Alexander, clawing at the kitchen door, and Doreen getting up to let him out. Freeman preferred dogs — cats could be so damned uppity— but he and Doreen had compromised, the Persian doglike in his loyalty.

  Freeman expected loyalty, unconditionally, and it was something he and his wife had given each other. For the most part it had meant a happy marriage, with Doreen independent enough not to let the service life from here to there get her down. And now, with their two girls out of the nest and settled down, life was easier than it had been for years. But Freeman knew he would have few, if any, regrets if suddenly called upon to serve in Europe if war broke out. While other colonels he knew were planning their retirement, talking about secure portfolios with the bright young men from Harvard business school, Freeman spent most of his time in his basement, poring over his mock-ups of European battlefields, demolishing the army’s main battle tank and armored vehicle tactics. History repeated itself, and yet it did not. Like a football field, the terrain remained the same, but each match was different, no matter if you’d played the game a thousand times before. The important thing, he kept telling himself, was to keep yourself fit and ready.

  He heard the slap of the morning paper on his porch and went upstairs. Still in his robe, he glanced at the headlines and began muttering. Korea was a rout. Air strikes from the Seventh Fleet were unable to inflict any decisive damage on the Communists so long as the North Korean troops continued to mingle with the panic-stricken streams of refugees. He switched on the TV— “Good Morning America.” The NATO line was on full alert, Soviet-WP forces flexing muscle along the line but both sides informing the other of any “unusually” heavy movement above battalion or squadron strength. But the State Department spokeswoman was assuring everyone that “despite the worsening situation in the Korean peninsula,” the State Department and the White House believed “that there is no danger of an outbreak of hostilities elsewhere.” The NATO and Soviet-Warsaw Pact alert, it was explained, “is fairly standard procedure in times of such tension.”

  Freeman shook his head sardonically at the State Department’s use of the “Korean peninsula” instead of plain “Korea.” “Peninsula” made it seem not only far away and out of sight but a minor inconvenience; merely a wart on the body politic. Freeman sat there as the flickering TV images filled the darkened room like the flashes of distant artillery, more conscious now of the crashing of the sea no more than a hundred yards away, suddenly depressed by it all, wondering how many other men and women in their time had sat through their imagination’s lonely vigilance in the night and dreamed of far-off glory, of things yet undone, of leading their country out of dark hazard. He was thinking again of football, of how the “T” formation that had revolutionized the game had come directly from Coach Shaughnessy’s study of Guderian’s Panzers’ tactics during the infamous blitzkrieg of 1940 that had overrun France, thought to be the greatest military power of her day, in less than ten days. Shaughnessy was careful not to tell his players or anyone else he’d been studying the Nazis, but he started drawing “funny” diagrams on the board and then suddenly it happened. The Chicago Bears devastated the Washington Redskins’ defense. Bears seventy-three, Washington zip. Then Shaughnessy took the T formation to Stanford, derided as the all-time losers in the Pacific Coast conference. Another blitzkrieg. A lightning run which shot Stanford from the doghouse of the Pacific Coast conference to whipping Nebraska twenty-one to thirteen.

  But Freeman knew, as Shaughnessy had, that tactics are always changing. Shaughnessy’s T formations were no longer as effective in the modern world, and just as the football coach had studied the German general, it was now time, Freeman believed, for the general to look at the new game of football. Increased sophistication in communication, allowing instantaneous instructions from coach to player, was akin to the state-of-the-art electronic communications between the tank commander and his echelons. There was less time to make a decision, and the only way to counteract it was to buy time with more sophisticated deception. He had thought about it long and hard and now on impulse took out a piece of blank 8 ½ — by-11 typing paper, wrote down his assessment — a battle plan — folded it meticulously, slipped it into an envelope, and went upstairs.

  Doreen was putting on the toast. She was used to him being up so early, but this morning he was scratching his wrist. He was chafing at the bit.

  “You okay?” she asked, switching on the coffee grinder. It sounded like a loose bearing he’d once heard rattling around in an M-1’s gearshift.

  “I’m okay,” he answered. “How much extra is special delivery?”

  “Another dollar. You’re better off using fax,” she advised.

  “No,” he said. “It’s personal.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Larry Oakes. Two-star general. In the Pentagon.”

  “What’s he got that I haven’t?”

  He slapped her on the bottom with the envelope. “Clout!”

  “Can I ask what it’s about?”

  “Europe,” answered Freeman. “Possible attack plan for the Russian C in C.”

  “You’ll look a bit foolish if you’re wrong.”

  “Can’t win it—”

  “If you’re not in it,” she finished for him.

  “It’s worth a try.”

  “They won’t attack NATO,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Maybe.” He put the envelope beneath his car keys.

  “And what would happen to me?” she asked.

  “Well,” he said, kissing her on the cheek, “it’s all hypothesis.”

  Alexander was scratching at the door.

  * * *

  In Washington, D.C., it was hot and muggy, thunderstorms moving in across the river from Virginia. The president’s coffee had gone cold by the time his national security adviser, Harry Schuman, and Joint Chiefs in the White House situation room had filled him in, suggesting different plays, now waiting for his decision. Senator Leyland wasn’t there, but everyone in the United States was hearing what he thought about the situation.

  Outside the Capitol, where there were so many flashbulbs, TV lights, and microphones that it looked as if they were making a movie, Leyland’s call was for “decisive action… not a time for pussyfooting… not simply America’s honor we’re talking about here but her security.” Security was getting high marks in the polls, but Leyland wasn’t saying just where the line should be drawn: Pusan? Subic Bay? Wake Island? Midway? Honolulu?

  “How about San Diego?” said Trainor, watching the senator’s TV performance.

  “If we pull everybody out,” argued General Gray, “it can only be interpreted for what it is — a humiliating defeat. People have never forgotten the sight of us scrambling off the top of that embassy in Saigon. And I might add, Mr. President, pushing off so many who had been loyal to us. We can’t desert the ROK.”

  “General,” Mayne pointed out, his tone growing tougher by the minute, “if it’s already a ‘humiliating defeat,’ we might be wise to cut our losses.”

  “I think, Mr. President, we have to stand and fight.”

  “That’s what Cahill was supposed to do on the DMZ, not—” The president waved his hand at the crisis map, a sea of red dots spreading like measles over South Korea, a sprinkling of blue in a rough semicircle in the southeastern comer of the country, its outer perimeter an arc stretching south of Pohang on the east coast through Taegu in the center seventy miles inland and down onto Yosu on the south coast. Pusan, the vital southeastern port, was halfway between Yosu and Pohang.

  “Report from NATO?” asked Mayne.

  “No unusual movement,” reported General Gray. “My hunch is that Moscow’s as worried about this as we are, Mr. President.”

  “I think you’re right, General, but I don’t want any trigger-happy private pulling the trigger. Anyway, to be on the safe side, I’ve put a call through to Suzlov.”

  Admiral Horton’s bushy eyebrows l
ifted. “I wouldn’t trust Suzlov as far as I could kick him. Their fleet’s already off Manchuria. I don’t believe that ‘maneuvers’ line they’re giving us for a moment. There’s a lot of traffic in and out of Cam Rahn Bay.”

  “They advised us of that, Admiral,” Mayne pointed out.

  “Trojan horse,” the admiral responded. “Probably carrying enough troops aboard that battle group to reinforce Pyongyang. Three or four hours, they could be unloading at Wonsan.” He could see the president didn’t know where it was. He moved the pointer up along the east coast of North Korea. “Only sixty miles from the DMZ. They come down that coast road, we’ll have another front we have to contend with.”

  “If they turn up at Wonsan,” said Mayne, “we’ll ask them to stop.”

  Sometimes the admiral simply despaired. If the president’s advisers had kept their boss half as well informed about naval matters as they did the latest Gallup polls, the whole country would be better off. The entire Soviet order of battle was clearly evident in the satellite, and he reminded the president of this. “There’s everything in there from the nine-thousand-ton Mike subs to the Alfa and Yankee classes as well. And—”

  “Then if we can see them, Admiral, the Russians must want us to know where they are. Doesn’t that tell you something? Our satellite photos tell us they’re only proceeding at five to ten knots, Admiral. Hardly battle speed, is it?”

  “I haven’t been advised of this.”

  “We got the call before you arrived,” interjected Trainor. “From NSA.” The admiral was embarrassed, and Trainor could see there was going to be some ass kicking in Naval Intelligence when the admiral got back to the Pentagon. Then suddenly the embarrassment vanished from the admiral’s face as he cast a cold, professional eye over the chart, surveying not only Korea but the entire northeast Asian operational area, from Japan to the China Sea. He quickly calculated the Soviet Fleet’s position. Why had they slowed? Surely this would upset their amphibious maneuvers timetable, a highly complex combined-services operation that had slim time margins at the best of times. “My God,” he said, turning to the president. “That places them on the thirty-ninth parallel, one thirty-one longitude. Off Wonsan.” Mayne looked across at General Gray. “Order the reinforcements en route from Japan to disembark at Pusan as quickly as possible.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “Rescue boats all out, sir. Three returning.”

  “Very well,” answered the skipper of the USS frigate Des Moines, binoculars steadied against the flying bridge stanchion, watching through the haze as the two LAMP helos dropped vermilion marker flares about the Beaufort rafts now two miles or so from the Blaine. The crippled frigate was listing hard to starboard, white smoke still pouring from her. Now and then a crimson streak of fire could be seen erupting from deep inside her.

  The skipper of the Des Moines had to make the decision whether or not to use the choppers as additional rescue vehicles or to release them to complement his radar as part of his protective screen. All about him he could hear radio chatter between the Des Moines rescue boats, including the ship-to-shore launch.

  “Helos to resume screen,” he ordered. For the price of a few more men lost to exposure in the oil-slicked sea, the young skipper decided he would prefer to use the choppers as airborne eyes. Something had gone drastically wrong aboard his sister ship, the Blaine, and until he knew why, he’d rather be reprimanded for overcaution — protecting his ship — than have to explain to a naval board of inquiry, as Brentwood would have to if he pulled through, how it was that his men had abandoned the multimillion-dollar ship when she was still afloat. And though it was sheer chance, it wasn’t going to do Ray Brentwood, badly wounded as he was, any good to have to explain how it was that he and his second officer were the first to be pulled out of the chuck by the Des Moines. Already there’d been strict orders that upon return to port, there was to be no comment made to anyone until Admiral Horton, chief of naval operations, had directed otherwise.

  Most of the men picked up were already dead, drowned, despite their life jackets, by the oil breathed in, some asphyxiated by the lack of oxygen in the oil slick fires that were still burning around the smoking ship.

  “Sonar contact. Range three thousand yards.”

  “Bearing?” asked the skipper.

  “Zero fiveniner.”

  “Hard right rudder,” instructed the skipper. He flicked onto the CIC channel, pushing the “squelch” button, drowning out the rescue craft traffic.

  “What have we got, Tom?”

  From the CIC below the bridge there was a pause, the computer racing through engine signature matchup.

  “No match.” Which meant it might be hostile but was definitely not friendly. The young skipper was thinking fast; the signal was increasing, its echo louder. “It should be closing,” said the skipper to the electronics warfare officer down in the CIC. “How about passive mode? Any noise from it?”

  “Negative.”

  “Very well. Torpedoes ready?”

  “Ready.”

  “Standby to fire.”

  “Stand by to fire.”

  “Lookouts sharp!”

  The starboard lookout shouted an alarm, but it turned out to be one of the white igloo-shaped Beauforts, bobbing up and down.

  “Contact fading,” reported the radar operator. It was an awful decision — the damned thing was thirty fathoms below the surface. A new sub with no known signature waiting? The computers weren’t sure, absorbing a lot of clutter from the dozen or so small rescue boats and clutter from the sewn-in metal reflectors on the Beauforts.

  “Size?” asked the skipper.

  “Can’t say,” reported the EWO. “Echo returns, but it’s fuzzy.”

  The skipper decided he couldn’t take a chance.

  “Range?”

  “Twelve hundred yards.”

  “Bearing?”

  “Zero six three.”

  “Stand by to fire one and four.”

  “Ready to fire one and four.”

  “Bearing?”

  “Zero six three. Holding steady.”

  “Range?”

  “Eleven hundred yards and closing.”

  “Fire one and four.”

  Two MK-48s, the most sophisticated torpedoes yet made, were running through the chop in excess of sixty feet a second, diving, homing in on the target.

  “Contact fading.”

  “He’s hightailing,” came a voice in the background, but the target wasn’t running; it was the angle of the ship turning that only made it seem that way.

  Two miles ahead, the sea rose out of itself, shattered white and brown-speckled, the whoomp of the second torpedo quickly following the first — the sound of both reaching the frigate seconds later. The brown spots in the white mushroom were Beaufort life rafts, tumbling down into the vortex of the collapsing column, its bubbling base dirty with oil, bodies, and pieces of metal, possibly from the Blaine as well as from the target blown skyward, several of the Blaine’s crew spilling out of the falling Beauforts, disappearing along with the glints of metal.

  The contact vanished from the screen, the skipper not knowing whether he’d sunk an NKA diesel sub, though this surely would have made more noise, or whether what he had torpedoed was a hunk of metal having sunk and been suspended in the heavier salinity layers and for which he had killed over forty more of the Blaine’s already shipwrecked crew, those close to the explosions of the torpedoes having their spines and necks snapped by the concussion.

  It was his prerogative and his conscience. No board of inquiry would fault him. Parents would write and say they understood, which would be the most terrible burden of all.

  * * *

  As the Lufthansa began its descent into West Berlin’s Tempelhof Airport, Chin felt the thickening pressure growing above his eyes. He had already taken an Ornade capsule but didn’t want to use any more. He wouldn’t be driving, which the label warned against, but h
e would need a lot of concentration. Nothing less than the fate of his country hung in the balance. In the seat pocket in front of him he saw a copy of Paris Match, a headline about the Communists for Peace volunteer force. Chin was sure the force wouldn’t be composed of merely anyone who wanted to fight “U.S. imperialist aggression.” It would be the cream of the crop, special forces from the SPETSNAZ air/ marine commandos most probably, including the pith-helmeted Vietnamese, the latter particularly courted by Moscow as the outstanding brothers in the fraternity of socialist states — the ones who had “humiliated the Americans in Vietnam.” Even so, it wouldn’t be the numbers, initially only a few thousand or so, from different Communist Bloc countries that would leave East Berlin that would prove to be strategically important in the eyes of the world, but rather their entry in the war on the side of the NKA.

  Even now, as affluent young West Germans cruised down West Berlin’s neon-sparkling Kurfürstendamm less than two miles from the eastern sector which, though it had ostensibly been socially and commercially integrated with the West, retained its own political demarcation proscenium, radio and television were reporting that there were already mass rallies in East Berlin’s Alexander Platz. The vast square was jam-packed with everyone from athletes marching in from the Sportforum in the suburb of Weissensee to workers from as far away as Karl Marx Stadt in Dresden over a hundred miles south, bussed-in crowds spilling out onto the Unter den Linden and down past the reinstated statue of Frederick the Great. While bands played the national anthems of each country, from Cuba to the dozen or so African nations, hardly any of which the East Germans knew much about, the crowds kept growing and surging amid calls for socialist solidarity in the face of American aggression. The East Germans were clearly taking the idea of the Communist volunteer force much more seriously than Moscow.

  Then the “Internationale” was struck up by the band of the Bereitschafts Polizei, the blue-uniformed civil police, and enormous splotches of yellow, red, and black, the long-time colors of the GDR, and the red flags of the revolution struck a vivid contrast to the white uniforms of the athletes and the hazy blue sky.