Northern Fury- H-Hour

by Bart Gauvin

  Germany, in particular, has been balancing their imperative to remain within the Alliance with their desire to placate Soviet fears and appease leftists who have demanded an end to collective security. Accordingly, the Bundeswehr has faced more severe cuts than any other NATO military. To date these cuts have failed to elicit any softening of Moscow’s demands for a German withdrawal from NATO.

  Here a colored graph showing reductions in the numbers of each NATO members’ armed forces, broken down by troops, tanks, artillery, aircraft, and ships, highlighted Jack’s point.

  These cuts stand in stark contrast to the economic stick that Europe and America have been willing to wield to express their displeasure at the USSR’s actions in its independence-minded republics and in Eastern Europe. Sanctions have targeted many categories of Soviet exports and imports, and while they have surely hurt the USSR’s economy, they have also prompted Russia to seek a closer trading relationship with China. These measures have certainly highlighted the economic vulnerability of the USSR’s geography. It remains to be seen if western sanctions will be successful in forcing Medvedev to soften his stance against NATO and Eastern Europe. For now, they seem to have only strengthened his hand by giving him an antagonist to demonize before the Soviet people.

  This leaves western leaders to ponder how to best handle a resurgent Soviet Union. The apparent end to the east-west antipathy two years ago followed by its dramatic and rapid return have left many in NATO countries with a distinct “Cold War weariness,” hampering the efforts of those governments who would prefer a firmer military stance against Moscow. How has the balance of power shifted? Where will the pieces of the new Europe fall? How long can the Russian economy stand in opposition to and isolation from the west? Whoever occupies the Oval Office next January will need to consider carefully the answers to these questions. The future of Europe, and possibly the world, depends on it.

  After finishing his readthrough, Jack leaned back and reflected on what he’d written. He’d mentioned that the about-to-be-inaugurated president should consider the goings on in Moscow. That was obvious. But would the general public in the west care? With the economy slowing down and the distractions of everyday life, did they even need to? Jack pushed the thought aside and leaned back into his work. He had deadlines to meet himself.

  CHAPTER 4

  0845 EST, Friday 6 November 1992

  1345 Zulu

  Julian C. Smith Hall, Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, USA

  LIEUTENANT COLONEL (PROMOTABLE) Robert Buckner, United States Marine Corps, set down his copy of The Atlantic on a cheap, government-issue desk. He pulled his woodland pattern uniform shirt off of the back of his swivel chair and put it on, hoping that he had finally stopped sweating from his morning physical training in the coastal North Carolina humidity. His sweaty olive drab workout uniform still hung from the door of a gray wall locker in the corner of the small office. As he buttoned the shirt, he processed the article he’d just read. Who occupies the Oval Office indeed, he thought.

  The magazine sat next to today’s edition of the Washington Post, where subdued headlines trumpeted the tenth day of confusion following one of the closest presidential elections in U.S. history. He picked up the newspaper and began to scan the front page. There was one column analyzing how the three-way presidential race had initially seemed to hinge on domestic issues, but the re-emergence of Soviet power had brought foreign affairs back to the forefront of the electorate’s mind. Another article related how vote counts still remained in doubt in several key states.

  He flipped the paper over. One of the below-the-fold headlines even included an article detailing a wry offer by the Soviet president to provide observers to ensure the unresolved contest was adjudicated fairly. Buckner snorted. As if that guy cares about fair elections, he thought.

  In another column, a political commentator opined that regardless of which candidate eventually came out ahead, neither would have a mandate to pursue their agenda. Neither of the traditional parties had won even forty percent of the popular vote. That view was just fine with Buckner. If they don’t have the political capital to pursue a domestic agenda, they don’t have the political capital to cut defense spending any further either. Job security! he thought the last with a wry grin as he finished buttoning his battle dress uniform. Not that I’ve got to worry about job security now, he mused. He had received the news just a couple weeks earlier that he had made the list for promotion to full colonel. Those shiny eagles will look good on the old collar, he thought, now with a genuine smile. He just had to wait for news on when, or if, he reminded himself, the Corps would entrust one of its precious regiments to him to command.

  The round wall clock in his office ticked past zero-nine-hundred hours, and Buckner set the two publications aside to concentrate on his work for the day. He sat down at the desk and began reviewing training plans submitted by two of those coveted regiments, the 2nd and the 6th Marines. Buckner’s current job was the G7, training officer on the staff of the 2nd Marine Division, with its four regiments, three infantry and one artillery, and associated units based at Camp Lejeune.

  His current job title made him wince slightly and his eyes were drawn to the story of his career as told by the guidons and plaques adorning the small area of his office walls. The guidons all represented units he’d commanded as he climbed the ranks as a career Marine officer. His current staff job was the penance he had to pay to earn his next command, a coveted Marine Regiment.

  A lance corporal from his staff section walked in and lightly rapped his knuckles on the open door.

  “What is it, Billings?” he asked, looking up from the reports.

  “Call from the division commander’s office, sir. Major General De Vries wants to see you,” the young man said.

  “Did they say what it was about?” Buckner asked, standing up and grabbing his notebook off the desk.

  “No sir, just that the general himself wants to talk to you,” answered the lance corporal.

  Buckner felt his heart begin to pound. This is it. This is when I find out if my slaving away for the past two years here pays off with a command. He snatched his starched and blocked eight-pointed cover—his wife, Helen, always called it a “hat,” like the rest of the world.

  Lieutenant Colonel (promotable) Robert Buckner left his office and walked rapidly as he navigated the long corridors to the central nexus of the sprawling red brick Julian C. Smith Hall. The building was named after a hero of his. Julian Smith was the Marine general who commanded the landings on Tarawa during World War II, and the headquarters of the 2nd Marine Division and II Marine Expeditionary Force was named in his honor. As he went, each step clicking smartly down the hall, Rob could hear in his mind the gentle chiding of his wife, Helen, as she reminded him that too much of his self-worth was tied up in getting this next command. Commanding Marines is what I was made to do, it’s who I am. I’m good at it, came his internal retort. He ascended some broad steps and strode into the foyer of the general’s office suite. The aide-de-camp, a captain, stood up from his desk and gave a greeting when he saw Buckner enter. The younger man guided Rob to the open door of the general’s plush office.

  “Sir,” the captain said as he entered the division commander’s office, “Lieutenant Colonel Buckner is here.”

  “Thanks Josh,” Rob heard the gravelly voice from within the office, “send him in.”

  Buckner walked into the large office with its bank of windows overlooking the oval green of the building’s front entrance. Major General Rick De Vries was sitting behind a large executive desk to one side of the room. Bald and barrel-chested, the two-star got up and walked around the desk as his visitor entered.

  “Rob, come in,” came the gruff command, “shut the door behind you.”

  Uh oh. Rob felt his heart sink. He slowly closed the wooden door and turned back to face his commander, now perched on the corner of h
is desk, arms crossed and chin down. Then De Vries looked up and Rob could see it in the man’s face.

  After a few awkward seconds he said, “Rob, there’s no easy way to break this to you, so I’ll just be direct. You didn’t make the command select list. You won’t be getting a regiment.”

  Buckner thought that he was prepared for this news, he’d rehearsed his response to this contingency in his mind for days, but hearing it become a reality staggered him. His head spun and his throat constricted. He looked down, opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

  “I know this isn’t the news you wanted, Rob,” the general’s words were uncharacteristically gentle. “I can tell you that you were very competitive. Hell, I’d give you one of my regiments right now if it were up to me.” The comment was empty and did nothing to alleviate the disappointment that was overwhelming Rob’s senses.

  “Why not?” Rob finally managed to croak, bitterly.

  “Say again?” came the general’s response, somewhat guarded now.

  Buckner was starting to regain some of his composure, but his voice was still pinched. “Why am I not on the list, sir?” he asked.

  “You know the board doesn’t disclose how the selections are made,” answered the general, still speaking softly.

  “May I see the list?” Rob didn’t even notice that he had omitted the obligatory “sir” from the end of his request.

  De Vries paused, then uncrossed his arms and reached back to retrieve a memo from the center of his desk. He handed the sheet of paper to Buckner.

  Rob scanned the document. It contained a short list of names, and the regiments to which they would be going. All the names had one thing in common. Desert Storm. They all deployed to Desert Storm, while I sat back here at the War College. He stopped reading and looked up.

  “Sir, Tom Pile was selected ahead of me to lead 6th Marines?” Rob asked, indignation creeping into his voice.

  “Yes,” the two-star responded, taking the memo back, “what’s your point, Rob?”

  “He’s…,” Buckner was losing his cool, his dreams for higher command, maybe even a star, slipping away, “all he did in Saudi was…was get coffee at CENTCOM headquarters!”

  “He’s a good officer, Buckner.” Gone was the general’s soft tone. “The Corps only has so many regiments to hand out. You didn’t get one. I understand you’re disappointed. You wouldn’t be worth your salt if you weren’t. But lashing out at a brother officer like that is bad form. I expected better of you.”

  The younger Marine winced at the rebuke; it stung because it was warranted.

  The general continued, softening his tone again, “Rob, you’re a good Marine. You got your promotion to colonel. You’ll pin on when? January? February? You’ve had a successful career.” Buckner noticed that De Vries was already talking about his career in the past tense. “There are lots of roles for you to fill besides a regimental command. Take the weekend to sulk a little, think about it, and then I expect you back here Monday, ready to work, with a good attitude. Roger that?”

  Buckner swallowed, then gave a half-hearted, “Roger that, sir.”

  De Vries stood up from leaning against the desk and patted Buckner on the shoulder. Rob, took the cue, mumbled his thanks and exited the office, quickly walking past the aide-de-camp, not wanting the junior officer to see his face. Rob made his way back to his office, not speaking to the Marines in his section as he passed through the shop, closing the door behind him.

  Sitting, Rob allowed himself to rage against his circumstances. It’s not fair. My whole career I’ve done everything the Corps asked of me. It’s not my fault I’ve never seen combat.

  Too young for Vietnam and at the War College during the Persian Gulf War, Buckner had also missed Grenada, Lebanon, and Panama, always being in the wrong unit at the wrong time. Not that I didn’t try, he thought, but when the Corps told me to shut up and do my job, I did. And this is the reward I get.

  Lieutenant Colonel (promotable) Buckner spent the rest of the work day distractedly reviewing the training plans of regiments he now knew he would never command. He left work early and on the way home stopped by the liquor store to pick up a bottle of Jack Daniels. He usually made a point of not drinking to excess, but tonight he wanted to deaden the pain of a career that was coming to a slow, unremarkable end.

  Two days later, Rob Buckner was standing in his usual pew at the base chapel, listening to Helen at his side sing the hymns picked out for the service. Rob was in slacks and a button-up shirt. Helen wore one of her Sunday dresses she knew he liked best, trying to cheer him up. He was still moping. They had talked late into last night about their future. Should he retire? The economy wasn’t in the best place right now for someone who had been a Marine infantry officer his whole life. But serving out the rest of his career in one thankless staff position after another didn’t appeal to him either, and with no prospects for further promotion he would have to retire sooner rather than later anyway.

  Rob couldn’t concentrate on the hymnal he and Helen were sharing, and when the music ended they sat down to listen to the chaplain’s sermon. He didn’t hear a word, so consumed was he by thoughts of what he could have done differently, what decisions he could have changed to avert this ignominious end to what he had thought until Friday to be a successful career. Before he knew it they were standing up for the closing hymn. Helen’s beautiful voice again sang the verses, her comforting arm around his waist. The chaplain spoke a benediction, and everyone filed out of the chapel into the mild but sticky North Carolina fall weather.

  Rob walked with Helen behind their two teenage kids down the chapel’s front steps, but turned as he felt someone touch his elbow.

  “Colonel Buckner?” came the calm salutation. “That was some sermon. I’ve always liked Chaplain Smith.”

  “Sir?” Rob said in surprise, looking into the fatherly face of Vice Admiral Arthur Falkner, who had been standing beside the chapel’s entrance, inconspicuous in his slacks and sports coat.

  “I was hoping to see you here,” said the admiral easily, extending his hand.

  Buckner took it, still caught off guard. He and Falkner had worked closely together before, when the two were both stationed in the Mediterranean about ten years ago, but not since.

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you here, sir,” Rob responded. “Didn’t you just take over 2nd Fleet up at Norfolk?”

  “That I did, Rob. I’m down here for a conference with II MEF. Hello Helen!” Falkner greeted Rob’s wife with a smile, which she returned.

  “Hello, Admiral,” she said with genuine warmth, “so good to run into you. How’s Paige?”

  “Fine, fine,” he responded. “She’s enjoying decorating the new quarters up at Norfolk. I know she’d love to catch up with you.”

  “Give her a ‘hello’ from me,” Helen said easily. The admiral said he would, and Helen discretely guided the kids away to another knot of people on the chapel lawn.

  “You said you were looking for me, sir?” Rob asked, somewhat warily.

  “That I was, Rob,” Falkner responded in his soft-spoken mid-western accent. “I have a job offer for you.”

  “Sir…,” bitterness began to creep back into Buckner’s voice as he looked down.

  “I know you didn’t make the command list, Rob,” the older man said quickly. “The Corps is missing out on some serious talent, and I don’t intend to make the same mistake. I’d like you to come work for me as my N3 for expeditionary warfare.”

  Buckner was taken aback.

  “Sir,” he responded, “that’s…that’s a one-star billet.”

  “I’m less concerned about the rank than the person, Rob,” Falkner said. “I know you. I want you on my staff. What do you say?”

  Rob paused. He felt humiliated here at Camp Lejeune, having failed for the first time in his lif
e to achieve a career goal. Arthur Falkner was one of those once-in-a-generation leaders, someone that people would kill to work for. I’d be doing a lot more than reviewing training plans, that’s for sure. Rob’s mind got away from him. I’d have my fingers in real operations up there, planning amphibious landings, training and deploying real Marine Expeditionary Units, working with other countries’ forces. And after my behavior here in front of General De Vries on Friday…

  Rob had to shake himself, bringing his mind back to the churchyard with his family, and Falkner.

  “Sir, can I talk it over with Helen?” Rob asked. “It would mean another move for the kids and…”

  “Of course, Rob, of course. Take care of your family. Talk it over. I’m heading back up to Norfolk this afternoon. If you want the job, give my office a call.” The admiral reached inside his sports coat and handed over a business card. Buckner took it and the admiral went on. “Keep this in mind, Rob. If we’ve learned anything over the past few years it is that the world can change on a dime. I’m building my team up at Norfolk right now. I intend to be ready the next time the world takes a turn for the worse and I want you on that team. Don’t take too long making your decision.”