by Larry Bond
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
The first reports of EurCon missile attacks woke official Washington in the predawn dark. Reporters hastily dispatched to the White House could see lights burning behind closed curtains in both the East and West wings. The lights were also coming on at the Pentagon and at the State Department. By five A.M., black government limousines were pulling up in front of the tall, graceful columns of the White House portico, depositing grim-faced men and women arriving for an emergency meeting of the National Security Council.
Despite the air of tension and grave concern pervading the basement Situation Room, Ross Huntington felt oddly detached, almost light-headed. In a strange sense, he felt as though his body and brain were separated from each other by some vast, uncrossable gulf. He made yet another mental resolution to see his doctor — a resolution that he knew he would not keep. Events were moving too fast to allow poor health to put him on the sidelines.
He pulled his chair closer to the table, listening intently while the chairman of the Joint Chiefs brought the NSC up to date.
So far, there had been three separate cruise missile attacks on three separate airfields — two in Poland and one in the Czech Republic. All had been launched at more or less the same time by planes operating from bases in Germany. All had inflicted heavy casualties and damage. That was bad enough. What was worse was that at least twenty-five American servicemen were among those killed or seriously wounded. The numbers were still climbing as more detailed reports came in.
General Galloway’s ordinarily good-humored face was brick-red with barely suppressed anger. “These attacks were clearly planned to kill as many people as possible, Mr. President. Our people included.”
“You’re sure?”
Galloway nodded abruptly. “Yes, sir. If EurCon’s only goal was to inflict damage on those base facilities, they could just as easily have attacked at night, when fewer people were on duty. In fact, from a strictly military point of view, that would have been a better time. Less risk that anyone might spot those cruise missiles visually.”
Harris Thurman put his own oar in the water. “It’s obviously intended to send a very strong message to the Poles and Czechs, Mr. President. And through them to us.”
“Message, hell! It’s a goddamned declaration of war.” Galloway was outraged. “You don’t fire twenty-plus high-explosive warheads into critical targets as part of some diplomatic game.”
“I remind you, General, that this attack came only after Polish and Czech aircraft fired on French and German planes over Hungary…”
“Gentlemen.” All heads turned toward the President. He sat alone at one end of the table. His eyes were cold and angry. “I don’t particularly care what prompted these attacks. Our policy on Hungary stands: Our allies are fully within their rights in helping the Hungarian people resist this unjust French and German aggression. And we are fully within our rights in providing those allies with technical and military assistance. Clear?”
Thurman’s face fell. “Of course, Mr. President.”
The President looked toward Galloway again. “Are they planning to retaliate?”
“Yes. We’ve had requests from the Polish Air Force HQ for updated satellite photos of German airfields. They’ve also asked for a special AWACS sortie.”
“When?”
“June 4, two days from now.” Galloway frowned. “It’ll take them at least that long to unscramble the mess at Wroclaw and their other airfields.”
“What about their air support missions over Hungary?”
“On hold, sir. Their losses were already pretty high. Close to crippling for the first squadrons committed. And with EurCon showing its teeth over their own territory now?” Galloway shrugged. “The Poles will need every plane they’ve got just to hit back and to ride out any EurCon counterpunch.”
The general’s gloomy assessment cast a pall over the room. Without friendly air cover, Hungary would fall — crushed by superior firepower and brute force. A EurCon victory over Budapest’s fledgling democracy would be an unmitigated disaster for American economic and foreign policy. In the short term, it would solidify the protectionist grip on European trade practices, prolonging the trade war ravaging the world’s economy. With the handwriting on the wall, other small countries like Denmark and the Netherlands were bound to fall into line. In the long term, letting EurCon ride roughshod over one small country would set a terrible precedent. The rule of international law and the rights of self-determination, however tenuous and often impractical, would be supplanted by an older and deadlier precept: might makes right. That could spawn a whole new cycle of war and aggression around the globe.
The President spoke into the sudden silence. “As I see it, we’ve got one last chance to stop this thing before all hell breaks loose in Europe. One last chance to shake these clowns awake. Agreed?”
Huntington nodded, and noticed others around the table do the same. But what more could they do? Trying to impose a peaceful resolution through the United Nations would go nowhere. The French Security Council veto made that impossible. So what was left? Then he saw it. “You intend to issue an ultimatum to the EurCon governments, Mr. President?”
“Yes, I do. I’ve spoken to both the Senate majority leader and the Speaker of the House and they agree that we have to act, and act now.” America’s chief executive set his jaw, plainly determined. “We’ve pussyfooted around with these people long enough. I want them to know once and for all that they’re looking right down the barrel of a mighty big gun.”
ASSOCIATED PRESS DISPATCH
WASHINGTON, D.C.
(AP) — The full text of a statement released by the White House at 7:00 P.M., Eastern Standard Time:
“At 3:30 this morning, French and German warplanes conducted a series of missile attacks on airfields inside Poland and the Czech and Slovak republics — killing and wounding several hundred people. Tragically, more than thirty American military personnel were among those who lost their lives.
“Like the invasion of Hungary itself, this latest aggression by France and Germany further demonstrates their intention to control all of Europe by threats, by violence, and by armed occupation.
“The United States cannot and will not allow these attacks to go unchallenged and unpunished. We urge the French and German governments to end their aggressions against their neighbors before it is too late — for France, for Germany, for Europe, and indeed, for the whole world.
“Accordingly, the United States, in concert with Great Britain, Poland, the Czech and Slovak republics, and Hungary, calls on the governments of both France and Germany to immediately and unconditionally withdraw all military forces from Hungary by midnight, Greenwich Mean Time, on June 3. If this demand is not met, we reserve the right to restore a just and lasting peace by any and all means necessary — up to and including the possible use of American and British military power.”
White House Press Secretary Michael Kennett has announced that the President will speak to the nation at 9:00 tonight. His address will be carried live on all major radio and television networks.
CHAPTER 18
Thunderclap
JUNE 3 — USS LEYTE GULF, NEAR ANHOLT ISLAND, IN THE KATTEGAT, BETWEEN DENMARK AND SWEDEN
Vice Admiral Jack Ward kept remembering an old movie, one of his favorites. In it, the heroes, searching for treasure in a ruined temple, had entered a room and unknowingly triggered a deadly trap. Suddenly the door slammed shut on them, walls on either side rumbled inward, and rows of poisoned, needle-sharp spikes popped out.
His ships were in a similar situation.
It was easier on film, of course. A native guide, separated from the party earlier, found them in the nick of time and disabled the trap’s mechanism — just as the intrepid, if clumsy, heroes were about to be ventilated.
Unfortunately he didn’t have any native guides right now. The door could close anytime, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
&
nbsp; Checking the computer-driven display down in the CIC wouldn’t help, either. The situation hadn’t changed in the last fifteen minutes, and if he hovered over them long enough, some of his nervousness might rub off on his staff. This was one time when he earned his admiral’s pay by trying to be the calm, laid-back “Old Man” of navy legend.
He leaned on the rail of the port bridge wing. In the fading light Kobbergrund’s flashing light marked the westernmost extension of Anholt Island, a shallow sandbar with only ten feet of water over it. Anholt itself lay just a few miles away, a dark mass already blending with the horizon.
The island marked the halfway point in their rapid trip northward through the Kattegat, a narrow body of water lying between Denmark and Sweden. The only ways in or out of the Kattegat were through exits to the north and south. His convoy was still three hours away from entering even the dubious safety of the Skagerrak.
Anholt was Danish territory, and he was sure there were observers watching with great interest as his ships steamed past. Although Denmark had declared itself neutral, the fact that Germany lay only a few short miles beyond meant he had to consider the island a hostile shore. At least Sweden was a true neutral, jealously guarding her own territorial waters and fiercely determined to avoid being drawn in on either side. Of course, that just meant only one wall of the trap had spikes.
Ward turned and paced the narrow confines of the bridge wing. Damn it, he needed sea room and deep water! The Baltic was bad enough, with shallow water and uneven salinity and lousy underwater acoustics. The Kattegat was worse — even smaller and shallower. With a water depth of twenty, sometimes only ten fathoms, you could forget towed arrays and long-range sonar detection. It was also a major shipping channel, so there were dozens of surface contacts to track and classify. The air picture was even more nightmarish. This close to Germany, enemy air bases practically sat in his back pocket, reducing warning time to nil. Right now his Task Group’s radars showed hundreds of air contacts. How many were hostile?
He couldn’t know, and hopefully wouldn’t until the American ultimatum to EurCon expired at midnight, GMT, just four hours away.
Damn Washington for issuing that twenty-four-hour ultimatum! Ward understood the reasons for it, and even approved of them — in a detached way. But it would have been nice if the politicians had checked with the Pentagon before making that demand. Some of their promises might be hard to keep.
When EurCon had fired its air-launched cruise missiles at Poland and the Czech Republic, Task Group 22.1 was not ready for a major sea battle. Three separate convoys, with two or three merchant ships apiece, were headed south for Gdansk, each loaded with essential military supplies, crude oil, or natural gas. To escort each convoy, Ward had been forced to spread his warships too thinly for comfort or sound defense. One or two frigates, destroyers, or cruisers were enough to show the flag. They weren’t enough to fend off a massive missile or torpedo attack.
The rest of Task Force 22 was spread even further afield, from the North Sea to the Atlantic. The admiral had elected to remain embarked on Leyte Gulf because the cruiser’s Aegis display systems allowed him to keep tabs on the entire region. At Washington’s urging, he had tried to keep arms and oil convoys moving through until the last possible moment. The fighting in Hungary was burning up supplies at a frightening pace. Poland and its partners needed the material aboard those ships right away, not when it was safe. Nevertheless, although no rational person could have anticipated EurCon’s apparent willingness to widen the Hungarian conflict into general war, Ward was beginning to believe he’d cut things a little too fine.
One convoy should reach Gdansk about 2300 hours, a full hour before he expected to clear Skagen, the cape at Denmark’s northernmost tip. Another was almost out of the Skagerrak, heading north up the Norwegian coast. It was already under carrier-based fighter cover. Unfortunately the four ships under his direct command, Leyte Gulf, the Perry-class frigate Simpson, and two merchantmen, were caught dead center in the bull’s-eye.
There was no way his two northernmost formations could reach Gdansk before the ultimatum expired. If the French and Germans refused to withdraw their forces from Hungary and started shooting, the two convoys would both still be hours away from safety. Even if they could fight their way to the Polish harbor, his warships would be exhausted, isolated, vulnerable, and difficult to resupply. Presented with that fact, he had made the difficult decision to have both groups turn tail and head back north at full speed.
Every move he made in the Baltic was under heavy EurCon surveillance. Since the war in Hungary erupted, all mock attacks on his ships had stopped, probably so the French and Germans could rest their forces and prepare their own plans. Instead, shore-based radars and patrol aircraft tracked his convoys. He wasn’t helpless, but he was in EurCon’s front yard, and they were holding all the high cards.
His biggest problem was the lack of support. Warships operating alone could rarely handle every threat imaginable — one lucky hit by an enemy attacker, or an unlucky malfunction, could cripple even the most powerful ship. Two or three ships can cover each other, combining strengths and canceling out weaknesses. But they’re still limited to whatever ammunition they have on board, to their own sensors, and to their own helicopters. Add replenishment ships and you gained a more powerful group that could fight a battle, rearm, and fight again. Tossing in an aircraft carrier created a powerful formation that could detect its enemies hundreds of miles further out — and fight under a protective umbrella of fighters and attack jets.
His nearest carrier, though, was George Washington, far away in the North Sea. A “bird farm” needed sea room, both for launching and recovering aircraft and to hide from enemy attack. Carriers were too valuable to risk in confined waters. Georgie’s aircraft wouldn’t be able to help him here — not at first anyway. As part of their declared neutrality, the Danes had closed their airspace to all armed planes. If and when the shooting started, that wouldn’t mean much. He doubted that the small Danish Air Force would do much to stop either side from overflying its territory. Nobody expected the armed forces of the tiny neutral country to commit suicide for the sake of a principle. So his carrier’s interceptors and attack aircraft should have a free hand. But that could very easily be too late to save his isolated ships and tired men.
And they were tired.
Once the President announced his ultimatum, the admiral had set Condition II in all units under his control. Condition I was general quarters — full battle readiness. In Condition II, half the crew manned their general-quarters stations, while the rest tried to eat, catch up on sleep, and perform the most vital maintenance tasks. You could keep it up for a lot longer than general quarters, but “port and starboard” was still hard on sailors.
Fighting a yawn himself, Ward turned to look aft at the two merchants, trailing in Leyte Gulf’s wake. He groaned inside.
Dallas Star was a tanker, loaded with jet fuel. Tartu was a container ship, carrying Patriot missiles, radar parts, and tank ammunition, all desperately needed in Poland and to the south. It still galled him to fail — to turn tail and run. But the percentages were against any other course, and the cargoes aboard two merchant ships would never reach port if they were lying on the bottom of the Baltic.
When he looked away from the ships he was supposed to protect, the sun had vanished — its passage marked only by a fading red glow in the west. The Kattegat’s choppy waters were slowly blending with the darkening sky and darkened land to either side. Stars were already visible, pale against the eastern horizon. There would be a quarter-moon tonight and clear weather.
Blacked out, his ships would soon be invisible, but only to the naked eye. Shore-based and airborne radars tracked him, and his own ships’ radars were all lit off, searching for the first signs of impending trouble.
A tall, angular officer leaned out through the open portside bridge door. Even with night falling, Ward could recognize the worried face of Captain Jerry Shapiro,
his chief of staff. “Sir, we’re getting a message from the Poles.” His tone made it clear the news was serious.
Stepping into the cruiser’s enclosed bridge, Ward heard an accented voice crackling over the radio speaker. “… listing badly. Tugs are coming, but I don’t think we can save her.”
Shapiro nodded toward the speaker. “There’s been an explosion on board Canyon. Probably a mine. No known submarines in the area.”
Ward’s chest tightened.
Canyon was a container ship loaded with air-to-air missiles, computers, and spare parts. A battery of self-propelled artillery was strapped to her deck as well. Part of the southernmost convoy, she had been under Polish naval escort, and only a few hours from safety. Her two American protectors had broken off earlier. Free of the slower merchant ships, the Kidd-class destroyer Scott and the Ferry-class frigate Aubrey Fitch were racing north at thirty-plus knots.
The voice continued. “… continuing sonar search. No contacts yet. We think this is a mine attack. Recommend you take extra precautions as well.”
As Leyte Gulf’s radio talker acknowledged and signed off, Ward thought it was past time for simple precautions. He turned to the cruiser’s commanding officer. “Put the ship at general quarters, Captain.” He had instructions for Shapiro as well. “Relay that order to the rest of the force, and pass the information on to CINCLANTFLT. Flash priority, Jerry.”
The sharp, blaring sound of Leyte’s klaxon followed Ward down to the CIC.
The electronics-packed space was filled with quiet, purposeful activity. With half the crew already at their general-quarters stations, much of the bustle associated with going to battle stations was missing. Men wearing headsets hunched over glowing screens and consoles, speaking quietly over radio and intercom circuits.
Ward slipped into his chair, followed moments later by Leyte Gulf’s skipper, sitting on his right.
The command display directly in front of him showed a map of the Kattegat and every known air, sea, and submarine unit in the immediate area. One to the left covered the entire Baltic. The electronic displays gave the impression of omniscience, of having a godlike “eye in the sky.” It was a false impression, the admiral often reminded himself. Small circles and boxes and triangles marked friendly, unknown, and known EurCon contacts.