Our Next Great War

by Martin Archer

  ******

  The repair of Campbell Barracks was just getting underway. I was there to see the damage for myself and ask the people doing the repairs when they thought they would be finished enough so that the headquarters staff of the American army in Europe could return and once again occupy it.

  When we did move back in, the current NATO headquarters in Brussels, which was also being repaired, would return to once again being a ceremonial headquarters filled to the gills with self-important generals and politicians holding endless meetings and issuing insignificant orders and memos.

  Actually, now that our army was once again without a real enemy in Europe, the restoration of Campbell Barracks wouldn’t mean much. I’d keep an office there, of course, but I certainly would not be spending much time there. Brussels was closer and had much better food in its mess—and I didn’t intend to spend much time there either when it was restored.

  I was standing there and the building was reverberating with the sound of hammers, and filled with the smell of fresh paint, when the CBS reporter and her camera crew walked in and found me talking with the German contractor supervising the work.

  The CBS reporter promptly asked me why I had supported the new treaty with Russia. I told her I hadn’t supported it; and then I foolishly shot my mouth off by going on to say that no one had asked me about it and that it just didn’t seem right to help a vicious and undemocratic government stay in power, particularly one which was grossly incompetent and had started a war to distract its people from its economic failures.

  Well, goddamn it, that was the truth. Russia's conniving weasel-faced little shit of a former president and the self-serving sons of bitches in his government were responsible for killing and wounding many thousands of our fine young men and women and traumatizing hundreds of thousands more.

  CBS ran the interview on Sixty Minutes, the talking heads said it was important, and the proverbial shit hit the fan.

  It seems the Secretary of State and the former congressman serving as the White House’s Chief of Staff had, without the President’s knowledge, privately led key members of the Senate to believe that America’s military leaders had been consulted, and that we had agreed that using such a treaty to establish a permanent peace between the United States and Russia was the right thing to do.

  The senators were well and truly pissed when they discovered they had been lied to, thankfully not at me.

  And what I said was true. I sure as hell was not consulted and I was pretty sure Bill Hammond, my old army buddy and the soon-to-retire Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, wasn’t consulted either. At least that was what Bill told me over hamburgers and beer at his place the other night.

  But who said what hardly matters to those of us who are in the military. For better or worse, the new treaty had been ratified by a well-meaning Senate whose members didn’t want either another war with Russia or a couple of political activists as Supreme Court justices. That their ratification of a mutual defense treaty in exchange for the President withdrawing his Supreme Court nominees made it quite likely we would end up being sucked into a war with China seems to have escaped them.

  Me? I had everyone at NATO headquarters concentrating on getting our hastily mobilized troops, which had ended up including every Marine and former Marine we could find because the army was so understrength, back home from Europe.

  Even more important, I was trying to make sure our casualties got the best medical care and doing my best to see that our troops didn’t get kicked out on their asses by our politicians and military bureaucrats when the American military downsized—as it has always done when a war ends and the military’s bureaucrats can make their lives easier by getting rid of those who did the fighting.

  What were my plans? I was going to retire when my term as the NATO Commander was over and spend more time at home with Ann and the kids, and maybe do a little writing. It was time to get the upstairs bathroom fixed and I needed to go shopping for a new television set.

  Chapter Two

  The reception.

  There was quite a crowd waiting outside the new military passenger terminal on the tarmac of the airfield—and rightly so despite the fact that it was a wet and

  overcast summer morning.

  It had been about a month since the shooting stopped and American and British troops moved into Iran and some of the other Eastern Union countries. Things had settled down a bit and we were now withdrawing. At the moment I was watching Bill Hammond’s plane, a big and shiny Boeing 747 with the “United States of America” painted on its side, as it taxied up to the terminal. Literally hundreds of dignitaries and officials were on hand to greet him.

  Bill was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the German military was going all-out to welcome him. Little wonder; America’s armed forces played a big role in the defeat of the Eastern Union armies, and they had done so without much help from Germany's miniscule military. Indeed, the only contribution of the Germans had been to surround the Russian airborne division that had jumped on Patterson Barracks and wait until they surrendered when the war in Turkey was over.

  Waiting for the Russians to surrender was literally all that the once-formidable German army could manage after years of constant budget cuts undertaken in the knowledge and belief that America would both buy German cars and also defend Germany if it got attacked.

  In effect, now that we had won, the German politicians and many others were doing what politicians and fence-sitters always do—they were trying to associate themselves with a success to which most of them had not contributed.

  In any event, a German military band had been tuning up for the past ten minutes and a long red carpet was in the process of being unrolled in front a substantial honor guard as the immaculate 747 carrying Bill taxied up to the waiting crowd.

  Bill’s arrival was a sight to behold. The German Chancellor and a band and honor guard were waiting in the empty hangar at the end of a long red carpet. Waiting with them were numerous politicians and more NATO generals and admirals than I had ever known existed.

  Bill and his wife, Marjorie, came down the stairs and everyone saluted, clicked their heels, and shook hands while the band played German military marches and various national anthems. Annie and I gave Bill and Marjorie big hugs.

  I almost upset the dignity of the occasion when one of the welcoming speeches was droning on, the one by the elderly German chancellor with the absurdly dyed black hair; I leaned over and whispered in Annie’s ear.

  “I think I must have some German blood in me—when the band was playing those marches I had an irresistible urge to pick up a weapon and march eastward.”

  Annie giggled and a little old German lady with bluish hair standing behind her gave her a very stern look of disapproval. I shrugged.

  ******

  After the welcoming speeches were finally concluded, and many hurried trips to the hangar’s clean but rather spartan toilets were enjoyed by the older members of the welcoming party, a long cavalcade of black Mercedes and Cadillac limousines carried everyone to a reception and dinner at the Excelsior in downtown Bonn.

  Yes, Cadillacs. This was an important affair and, at least overseas, Cadillacs are still thought to represent the peak of American automobile elegance. At least that’s what GM’s advertising has been claiming for years, even after GM's latest bankruptcy. The State Department still seems to believe it even if no one else does.

  It was an altogether happy occasion with lots of smiling acknowledgements and mutual congratulations exchanged by high ranking officers and dignitaries of various countries. And that’s as it should be—their troops, at least the troops of some of the countries whose senior officers and political leaders were here tonight celebrating a victory that could have easily gone the other way.

  Fortunately, we had fought together and quickly won. Some of the high-ranking officers and officials present, but damn certainly not most of them, had even contributed to the victory that had been mostly wo
n by the enlisted men and junior officers of the United States and Britain.

  ******

  The reception and banquet that evening went on and on in the Kempinski Hotel’s grand ballroom. First, there was a long reception line in which Annie and I had to stand for almost an hour along with the NATO Secretary General, Bill and Marjorie, and a host of German generals, admirals, and other dignitaries. That was followed by a sit-down dinner in an ornate hotel ballroom and many warm and friendly speeches in German and English.

  As far as I’m concerned formal receptions and dinners are inevitably boring. Perhaps the most significant thing about the reception, at least so far as I was concerned, was that it was one of the few times I had ever worn my medals and decorations.

  Actually, it was the only formal dinner I’ve ever attended other than when Ann and I got married and her mother insisted on holding a big formal wedding. Being tucked away in what appeared to be a little supply detachment near Riems and forgotten all those years did have a few benefits.

  “It turns me on to see you wearing all your medals.” Ann whispered into my ear as the desert was being served.”

  “I’m so glad,” I whispered back. "I'll start wearing them on my pajamas."

  “It also turns me on when you aren’t wearing them.”

  I started to say something witty and ask her if she was talking about the medals or the pajamas. But I didn't, I merely said “I’m even gladder.”

  She took my hand and squeezed it so I leaned towards her enough so our shoulders touched and gently squeezed back. Of course I squeezed back.

  ******

  It wasn’t until much later that evening that Bill and I finally had a chance to talk privately in his hotel suite at the Kempinski, one of Berlin's many five star hotels. Ann and I were staying in the suite next to Bill and Marjorie’s. Tomorrow night it will be the American military’s turn to host a reception and dinner in the ballroom of another hotel.

  “You know, Dick,” Bill said to me, “I think one of the reasons I got such a big welcome is that the Germans are about to tell us that they have recommended to their government that it neither sign the treaty nor help in any way if the Chinese attack Russia.”

  “Unfortunately, I think you’re right. They are not in favor of Sanders’s new treaty. Not a chance. General Wagner said as much yesterday when we met to go over the provisioning of our troops who are still in Europe.

  "He’s a bit embarrassed because of all the losses we took during the war compared to the few suffered by Germany, but not enough for him to recommend that Germany join us in this Russian treaty fiasco. The message was pretty clear.”

  “What do you think the odds are?”

  After thinking about it for a moment, I replied.

  “Well, I’d say the odds are zero that the Germans will help the Russians. They hate them now more than ever; hell, they’re more likely to help the Chinese if it comes to a war between China and Russia. And I don’t blame them. I don’t know what the odds are that the Chinese will attack. I really don’t.”

  “Join the club. Neither does the CIA nor any of our other intelligence agencies.”

  “But Bill, I hope I’m wrong, and I know it had to be done if we were to win, but my gut instinct is that we ended up weakening the Russians so much that the Chinese will attack. It’s their big chance. The question is where and how soon and with what?

  And then I added, “and the even bigger question is what the hell are we going to be ordered to do then?”

  ******

  “Can we talk safely here?” Bill asked as we picked at a complimentary room service snack of cheese and crackers in the living room of his suite. It was something that neither of us needed after the big dinner at the reception. Our wives, and particularly Marjorie Hammond who had flown for hours just to attend the dinner, were absolutely bushed and already in bed.

  “Yeah,” I told him. “One of my guys ran a bug detector and left us a jammer.”

  So I turned on the jammer. It was sort of a radio-looking thing in a small grey box. It immediately began making the rising and falling buzzing noises that indicated it was okay if we talked. So we did. First we talked about what mattered most—our troops in Germany and Iran and how soon we could get them home. They all wanted to go home and I was still a bit pissed that the President had returned the commercial planes to the airlines before I could get all of them back to the States.

  Then we sat around the table in the suite’s sitting room and talked about the new treaty with the Russians. One thing we agreed immediately is that The Detachment, the little group of planners and doers which I had led for so many years should stay open—and be prepared to help the Russians fight off the Chinese in the event of a war.

  "If it was up to me," I suggested to Bill,"I’d say screw them both and let them fight it out. But it’s not up to me, and that’s probably a good thing since they’ve both got nukes."

  So now, instead of German officers helping our guys quietly plan and gather equipment and supplies to defeat a Russian invasion, we’ll probably have Russian officers helping our guys quietly plan and gather equipment and supplies to defeat a Chinese invasion of Russia. Sheesh.

  Keeping The Detachment open and functioning raised a minor and easily solved problem. My surprise appointment over hundreds of more senior officers to become the Commander of American Forces in Europe, which automatically made me the NATO commander during the war, had more than three years to go. Someone else would have to run The Detachment instead of me.

  Bill and I talked it over and it was a no-brainer. We quickly agreed that Charlie Safford was the right man for the job. Charlie was the long-time Special Forces colonel who had been my number two at The Detachment for years. He finally got promoted when I got the NATO command and took him with me to head up "special projects. Another of the long-time guys in The Detachment, Jack Flanagan, the SEAL who was passed over and almost released because he never finished his college degree, will be his number two.

  Many of the original team would probably stick around, if only because their families prefer living in France and they do not want to return to military housing and the mindless bullshit of much of the American military. As a result, our biggest operational problem would probably be the replacing the handful of German officers who had functioned as our armor experts. This time, we agreed, we’d use only Americans. Charlie and Jack were already scouting for the right guys.

  ******

  Ann and I were snuggled up in one of the hotel's big king size beds when the bomb went off in front of the hotel.

  Chapter Three

  Terrorists.

  Bill and I both jerked open our doors to the green carpeted hallway at almost the same time and looked at each other. We were both wearing pajamas and the hotel’s fire alarm bells were clanging. The security detail assigned to us to keep gawkers and reporters from bothering us, a young Marine captain and a sergeant, were standing in the hall. They looked extremely nervous. I wasn’t exactly yawning with boredom myself and neither was Bill.

  I wanted to see what was happening so I rushed back into our room and pushed the drapes open. A crowd of people was beginning to stream out of the front of the hotel and into the big open area in front of it. They were dressed so they must have been in the hotel bar or lobby. The street itself was empty except for a big garbage truck parked right in front of the hotel.

  Something didn’t feel right. Oh Shit.

  “Out into the hall,” I shouted at Ann who was struggling to get one of her arms into a bathrobe sleeve. I didn’t wait for a response—I just grabbed her much too roughly by the arm and dragged her out into the hall in her flimsy nightgown. We were both barefoot.

  “Bill,” I shouted. “Heads up. I think we’re being hit. Get Marjory out of that room. Now.” It was a command even though he ranked me. “And you two,” I shouted to the wide-eyed captain and sergeant, “stay alert. I think we’re being hit.”

  A few seconds later Bill and a ve
ry bewildered Marjorie rushed out their room. The Hammonds and the two Marines, now with their pistols drawn, were close behind us as I rapidly pulled a very confused and barefoot Ann down the hall. I was desperate to get her away from the front of the building.

  “Run,” I shouted over my shoulder at the others, “Run.”

  There was “exit” sign over a hallway door that opened on to a stairwell with metal stairs. I ripped the door open. “In here and hurry,” I shouted as I pulled Ann through the door. It was an emergency exit onto a metal staircase in a concrete block stairwell.

  The hotel lights had flickered off and its battery powered emergency lights had come on a few seconds after the explosion. The stairwell was lit by a single emergency light fixture over the door.

  “Give me your pistol,” I ordered the captain as he dashed in behind us. “And go help General Hammond get his wife down the stairs. Hurry, goddamnit, hurry.”

  Ann was standing on the landing just inside the exit door as I took the captain’s pistol, grabbed her arm, and started down the stairs. And then I stopped on the first landing below my floor. I could hear people running up the metal staircase. And they were wearing shoes. Too soon for rescuers and they were coming the wrong way.

  ******

  Leaning against the staircase wall was the best place I could find to wait to see who was coming. I crouched a bit and held Ann back around the corner with my left hand while I aimed the captain’s pistol at the landing below with my right. I put it at waist level and about three feet ahead of the turn in the stairs. Just as I aimed, a machine gun carrying figure in a ski mask bounded up the stairs and into view. I shot him twice. Two taps.

  “Stay here,” I said to Ann as he was falling.

  The gun of the man I shot clattered as it dropped on to the concrete landing. He bounced off the wall at the same time and fell flat on his back on the stairwell landing about ten steps below me.