WW III wi-1

by Ian Slater

  Not only this, but the forty-two-mile range of the G-6 meant that the Soviet guns were reaching beyond U.S. First and Second Armored and the West German Twelfth Armored, severing their vital supply lines, allowing the bulbous-eyed Soviet Hind choppers to be whisked forward, cutting off the trapped American and West German columns, picking them off with laser and infrared antitank missiles.

  After ten days of savage fighting, the Soviet-Warsaw Pact’s thrust along the Danube was beginning to pivot northward to join up with those forces that had broken through at Fulda and were now separating out into a “breaststroke” pincer in which the left flank was to drive south to meet up with those coming via the Danube, the northern prong to meet up with those forces who had smashed through the North German plain to Bremen.

  The only real danger to the Soviet thrust remained Allied air superiority and the possibility, albeit a slim one, that Austria would throw its lot in with NATO. To thwart this, the Soviet commander of Southern Forces Europe, Marshal Gordayev, had SPETS teams ready near all river crossings from Innsbruck in Austria’s southwest through Salzberg, and from Austria’s northwestern region all the way east to the Carpathians on the Austro-Czech border.

  By now NATO intelligence was as stunned as Seoul had been by the extent of the sabotage by Soviet-trained sleepers put “in place” during the detente of the Gorbachev-Reagan-Bush years. As a result, NATO intelligence teams were, as one British Foreign Office official put it, “swarming all over the place like a plague of locusts.” With the result, he reported, “that our chaps,” by which he meant MI6, “are finding the situation terribly confusing. Amateurs are tripping all over one another during the night.” In Vienna on the Reichsbroche Bridge, U.S. and British agents even exchanged shots, each believing the others were Russian operatives about to place an explosive charge midspan. The “charge” turned out to be a “rather sturdy soapbox,” reported the Foreign Office, left by some untidy fishermen.

  “Of course,” the Foreign Office official, an under secretary, went on to explain to his vexed minister in Whitehall, “no one was hurt. Our chaps from MI6 were using revolvers which hadn’t been fired, I daresay, since World War Two — and the Americans, getting dangerously close, from all accounts, luckily heard one of our chaps swearing. So vociferously, in fact, that the American recognized him as British.”

  “There’s no need for that,” said the minister sternly. “Absolutely no call for profanity. I thought we were recruiting a little higher off the shelf than that.”

  “Quite, Minister. But I’m afraid you see Redbrick all over these days. Different class of people altogether. My God, you ought to see the written reports. Dangling participles positively litter the page.”

  The minister sighed. The trouble was that this egalitarian notion that you were as good as any other man was too entrenched. It was enough to make one yearn nostalgically for the DOM — Days of Maggie — to return.

  But while the Vienna mix-up was symptomatic of the early days of confusion, there was already a recognition by some of the Allied heads of stations in Austria that if “Chocolate Eclair,” as the Austrian president was known, did fall off the fence to the Allied side, then one of the ideal ways of sabotaging the bridges would be from one of the many barges plying the over-two-thousand-mile river. Accordingly, MI6 and CIA agents all along the east-west Vienna-Passau sector on the Austrian side were noting the large white numbers on the backs of the barge wheelhouses. Any barge that proceeded back and forth too often within a twenty-four-hour period became marked as a potential target, a potential SPETS sabotage platform. The Austrian river police, worried about offending either side, nevertheless inspected many of the barges for explosives, for, while frightened of offending the Soviet Union, Austria was equally concerned about the financial ramifications following an argument with the United States. No explosives had been found.

  “Well, of course not,” said the minister of war, dropping the MI6 report from his hand, glancing down at the traffic along Whitehall. “These days you only need a satchel of explosives, don’t you?” he asked his secretary.

  The secretary knew it wasn’t as easy as that; charges had to be placed precisely.

  “I think we’re ready in any case, Minister,” replied the secretary. “If a barge so much as pauses longer than thirty seconds under any of the crossings from Austria into Czechoslovakia, we have informed the Austrians they can expect to be fired upon.”

  “And what if our Austrian friends don’t turn to us but decide to run with Ivan? He certainly has the best of the field so far.”

  “Then of course, Minister,” said the official, smiling, “we will blow the bridges ourselves.”

  “Hmm.” The minister was still looking out his window, the first time he had done so for twenty-four hours, a camping cot having been set up in the office annex, as he’d stayed behind working hard on the problem of transporting the oil to the Continent now that the Chunnel had been blocked. He was surprised to find it was already dusk as a flock of pigeons dived and whirled in unison toward the stately Houses of Parliament. In a gloomy moment he wondered whether the mother of parliaments would survive. He suspected not.

  “I’ve only one problem with your bridge readiness plan, Hoskins.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  The minister, a cup and saucer in hand, was looking at the distant smudge marks against the sky, vapor trails crisscrossing as the Royal Air Force fought for supremacy over the channel. Perhaps it had been a strategic error to bomb Berlin, but for the moment retaliation from the Soviet-Warsaw Pact air forces seemed out of the question, at least on any large scale, the AA defenses in southern England being equipped with American radaR-1inked missile systems that some said were more sophisticated than the AEGIS system aboard the most advanced American cruisers.

  “Sir?”

  “What — oh, yes,” said the minister, taking a sip of his tea. “Don’t you think the Russians have already thought of bridge patrols, barge spotting, and all that?”

  “Unquestionably, sir, but one can only—”

  The minister lurched forward. There was a clatter of broken china, tea splashing over the desk blotter, and Hoskins’ lapel was warm, a mixture of blood and tea. Staring at the dead minister, Fitz backed away from the shattered window, the bullet hole’s spider-web radiating from its center.

  * * *

  BBC and ITN were instructed, under threat of D notice, to report the minister’s death as heart attack. Superintendent Favisham pointed out, however, that this might be a little “thin” as the minister was known as a “physical jerks man — jogging and all that. I suggest a stroke. Burst blood vessel. Can happen to any of us. Anytime.”

  “Thank you, Superintendent,” said the minister’s secretary. “A stroke will do nicely. Man under enormous pressure.” He flashed a smile. “But aren’t we all?”

  The superintendent didn’t like him — thought he was fruit.

  “Tread carefully, Superintendent,” said the secretary, “with ballistics and all that. You know what these reporters are like. There’s enough anxiety already.” He paused. “Any idea who it might be?”

  “No, sir,” said the super. “Interpol has a long list of potential head cases. Ready to pop any member.”

  “Indeed. Then I need hardly tell you, Superintendent, that this will chill every member of Cabinet. Despite the present security, they’ll want to know whether we’ve taken all the appropriate precautions. They’ll certainly be asking how it is that a minister of the Crown can be assassinated in broad daylight from government offices on the other side of the street.”

  The superintendent shook his head, unconsciously dropping his top denture at the same time, a habit the under secretary found as irritating as it was vulgar.

  “I don’t think so, sir. From across the street, I mean. Acute angle, top of his head, you see, blown right out. More like it came up from the street, I expect.”

  “In any case, I’ll need a full report by—” The telep
hone light was blinking. PM’s office.

  “Yes, Prime Minister? Yes, sir. Of course.” The secretary put the phone down slowly, trying to put on as brave a face as possible. “We’re withdrawing along the Danube. New defense line is from Regensburg south to the Black Forest.”

  The Superintendent’s geography was a little rusty. He hadn’t made it to Redbrick, let alone Oxford or Cambridge. The best he had was criminology at the Polytechnic.

  The secretary explained. “A withdrawal of some eighty miles. We’re trying to ‘consolidate’—I think that’s what we’re calling it. From Regensburg down to Switzerland. Russians have some huge bloody guns up against us apparently. Trouble is, it’s as far as we can go, I’m afraid. With the French right behind us but not behind us — if you follow my meaning.”

  The superintendent was trying to follow it on the map of Europe above the carpet stained where the minister had fallen.

  * * *

  It was foggy and nearing dawn in the Sea of Japan.

  “I’ve told the troops,” Captain Al Banks informed the general.

  “How’d they take it?” asked Freeman, who was sitting at his desk surrounded by maps of the operation Washington had called off.

  “Tell you the truth, General,” said Banks, “I think some of them were pretty relieved.”

  Freeman nodded. “Natural. But it takes the edge off of ‘em, Al. We’ve got to keep them wound up. Stop them moping about home, girlfriends, wives. Rome burns and we wait,” said Freeman disgustedly.

  “We could show them movies, sir. Got lots of them. Or go over the rehearsals again.”

  “No, not the rehearsals. Hell, we don’t know yet whether we’ve got anything to attack. No, they’ve been over it enough times. Any more, they start thinking they know it all, get stale. That’s dangerous. No, your idea about movies is a good one, Al. Keep morale up.” The general sat down, pulled out his bifocals, as discreetly as possible, and peered up at the map toward Pyongyang, several “Firebird” high-altitude photographs showing there’d been no substantive changes in the AA positions around the North Korean capital in the last twenty-four hours. “Ah, I don’t know, Al. Maybe they’re just sending us this stuff to keep us quiet while they squash the whole idea in Washington. Goddamn it, the plan’s right — all we need is the weather to hold and we could give ‘em such a kick in the ass—” He took off the glasses and dropped them on the desk map. “I ever tell you about that airplane in Canada?”

  “No, General.”

  The general rubbed his forehead and sat back. “Left Montreal for a place on the prairies. Ran out of gas halfway there at forty thousand feet. Air Canada it was — one of the best safety records in the world—”

  “Then how—”

  “Metric!” explained Freeman, smiling sardonically up at the captain. “Took off in Montreal, checked the goddamn tanks twice. Converted liters to gallons. Multiplied by the wrong conversion factor. Did it twice, once when it left Montreal, second time after it landed in Ottawa. Then bang — no gas.”

  “Jesus, what happened?”

  “Started to fall like a goddamn rock, that’s what happened,” said Freeman. “Only thing they had in their favor was the pilot—”and here the general was pointing at Al to drive home the point—”one in a million — had been trained in gliders. Was able to manhandle that brute and slide it toward an abandoned airstrip. Only problem is, he was headed for the wrong airstrip until his copilot, who happened to have lived in the area years before, knew where the right strip was. They brought it down. Undercarriage had no power, so failed to lock. That saved them — otherwise they’d have mowed down about fifty people who used the airstrip as a Sunday runaround. Only casualties occurred when they started going down the escape chutes — two rear ones were too high off the ground. Lot of people got hurt. No fatalities. And all because of metric, Al. Metric. I’ve been triple-checking all of these figures for the attack. Less gasoline we have to carry, more men and ammunition.”

  “There a problem?”

  Freeman handed him a Xerox of a logistics and supply sheet. “Some ass in Washington did a metric on us. Here — look at this. NATO liaison, you see. Liters instead of gallons. Would have put all the Chinooks into Crap City on empty. How do you like them apples?”

  “For cry in’ out loud—”

  “I’m going to stay here until all these figures are checked, just in case Washington deigns to let us know what the hell they’re doing. Are they fighting a war or are we going dancing with these bastards?”

  “I think you could do with a movie yourself, General.”

  “No, but you go ahead, Al. And Al—”

  “Yes, General?”

  “We have any movies with that Fonda dame in ‘em?”

  “I — think so, sir.”

  “Throw ‘em overboard.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “I mean it, goddamn it,” said Freeman, using his folded bifocals as a pointer, his frustration at waiting for word from Washington bubbling to the surface. “I won’t have that female on my ship in any shape or form whatsoever. That understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” Al Banks didn’t think it prudent to remind the general that though he was in command of the possible invasion force, it was not his ship to dispose of ship’s property, movies or otherwise. But it did occur to Banks that perhaps he should advise the general of something else: that females, three, in fact, had been in the audience last night as he’d delivered his salty and somewhat profane speech to the troops.

  Freeman was appalled. “My God — that’s terrible. Women! In the audience?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Freeman’s right hand ran through the graying hair, his left hand with the folded bifocals spreading out in a gesture of utter surprise. “I’d no more swear in front of ladies than—” His head shot up at Al Banks. “What the hell were they doing there?”

  “Combat roles, General. Navy choppers. MGUs.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Mixed-gender units. Supreme Court decision that—”

  “By God,” Freeman said, shaking his head, “those old farts have got a lot to answer for, Al.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The general was pacing again, hitching up his belt now and then. “What kind of woman would want to fight? I don’t understand it. Delicate creatures that—”

  “I don’t understand it either, General, but some of them aren’t so delicate.”

  “Huh — well, I suppose you and I qualify as cavemen?” He paused. “Well, as long as they’re in support roles, suppose we have to accept the fact. Long as I don’t have to put up with them in tanks.”

  There was silence, the vibrations of the ship noticeable now, the LPH’s roll increasing.

  “By God,” said Freeman, his eyes narrowing at Banks, “you’re not going to tell me we lost that one, too? The tanks? Not in the goddamned tanks?”

  “Afraid so, General. Supreme Court previously backed off on some combat roles, but they said in a time of national emergency— “

  “Good Christ!” bellowed Freeman. “I told Wexler — I don’t want my men riding around with pussy in the front seat. They’ve got enough to look after.”

  “I don’t think we have too much to worry about, General. It just came through in the last week. Armored units haven’t got-”

  “No,” said Freeman, “and I’ll tell you what. They won’t have. Now, I want you to find out who those females were that I, unknowingly, addressed last night and tell them to come to my cabin.” Freeman grabbed his cap. “On second thought, I’ll go to them. Probably a goddamned Supreme Court decision about them reporting to their commander’s cabin. I’ll be charged with molesting pussy on the high seas!”

  * * *

  “Ladies,” began Freeman, “I’ve come here this evening to apologize for any profanity I might have used — I, ah, certainly hope I never made any disparaging remarks about your — the opposite sex. Women in general.”

  All of them could ha
ve been his daughters. For the first time in years he was tongue-tied. “I — uh — that is to say, I never have, never will support the use of, uh, inappropriate language in front of, uh, women or seek to embarrass, uh — I ‘m sorry. That’s all.” With that, Freeman turned, leaving Al Banks, who barely managed to get in a wink at one of the women before he, too, was gone, trying to catch up to the general.

  Inside, the three women were looking at one another in astonishment.

  “What the fuck was that all about?” one of them asked.

  “Don’t ask me,” said another. “I think he’s just old-fashioned. A commander chauvinist pig.”

  “Oh,” put in the third chopper pilot, a young, sandy-headed girl with a bachelor of science degree out of Penn State, “I think he’s kinda cute. Besides, I prefer old-fashioned men.”

  “Cute!” said one of the other girls.” After his speech? Nothing cute about that, sweetie. He’s probably one of those guys who thinks his prick is a gun.”

  “Oh,” said the sandy one, “he’s not that type.”

  “Yeah, I know, Sandy. God, flag, the wife and kids. See the wedding band with the West Point ring?”

  “That’s what I mean. I like men who have values.”

  “It’s one way you could get promoted, I suppose. Or get the clap.”

  “Well, I’m glad he’s in command. They say he’s a stickler for details,” said Sandy, turning and looking at the barometer still falling. “And I don’t like the thought of driving through this lot with some young whiz kid directing me from back on ship. I’ll be quite happy to have Freeman up front.”

  “If we’re lucky, honey, you won’t have to drive anywhere. Washington’ll kill it before it kills us. I joined to see the world.”