by Harold Coyle
By the time he reached the head of the column, Ilvanich was feeling better about his decision to move overland in an effort to link up with the rest of the ranger battalion at the other storage site. Fitzhugh, who had been at the head of the column, was slowly picking up the pace as the shock of the morning's operation wore off and the soldiers of Company A began to regain their balance. When he came up next to Fitzhugh, Ilvanich placed his hand on Fitzhugh's shoulder. "We must not speed up too much, or the men carrying the wounded will soon be lagging behind."
Fitzhugh looked over at Ilvanich and nodded. "Oh, yeah. Sorry, Major. I guess I was getting carried away. You know, put as much distance between us and that place."
He was doing better, Ilvanich thought. The young lieutenant was overcoming the paralysis of fear, shock, and panic. Looking back at the column struggling through the dark, snow-covered landscape, Ilvanich knew that it had been a good move to get out and away from the tunnel. Smiling, Ilvanich returned Fitzhugh's nod. "Yes, I share your desire. But not at the expense of losing our wounded. We must make it all together or not at all. Now just keep heading along the base of this hill until we hit the Svalyava road. From there it will be a short march through the woods and up a hill."
Though he still had no contact with the American battalion commander, or anyone else, Ilvanich trusted that the American battalion commander would react in the same manner as a Russian commander would in the same situation. Eventually he would use the scout helicopters, or perhaps even the attack helicopters themselves, to conduct a search for survivors and attempt to assess the situation. While it was always possible that those helicopters would find them, Ilvanich could not count on that. It was important, Ilvanich knew, to do something, something positive. To have waited for someone to find them and come to their rescue was against everything that Ilvanich had been taught. All he had to do was to keep his company together and out of harm's way until they were found or they reached the other rangers.
A feeling of nausea overcame Ilvanich, causing him to slow his pace, then stop. Fitzhugh didn't notice the sweat that was beading up on Ilvanich's forehead. Nor did he stop when Ilvanich halted. Fitzhugh simply kept trudging along through the snow and into the darkness, leaving Ilvanich alone. Ilvanich managed to compose himself, fighting back the nausea that he had feared would come since it was usually the first symptom of radiation sickness that manifested itself.
A series of explosions coming from the direction of the tunnel caused Ilvanich to turn around. In the darkness he could see that the Ukrainians were laying down a barrage on the ledge in front of the tunnel they had just left. Looking about, he noticed that the entire column had stopped and turned to watch. They, as he did, realized how close this entire affair had been.
Overcoming his own concerns, Ilvanich called out to his command, "Those are 120mm mortars. The Ukrainians still believe we are at the tunnel and they are preparing to attack. So long as we do not do anything foolish, we will be safe until the helicopters find us or we reach our own lines." Looking at Fitzhugh, he ordered him to keep moving. "That fight," he reminded his men as they began to pass him, "belongs to the attack helicopters now. Our mission is almost over."
By the time Dixon rolled up in his tank, the forward command post was almost ready to move. Cerro, who had been standing out of the way, watched Dixon as he stood on top of the turret shaking the ice and snow off of his parka. After handing the parka to his gunner, who had moved up into the commander's hatch while Dixon prepared to dismount, Dixon stretched. Bringing his hands down to his hips, he looked about before he started to dismount. Behind Dixon on the horizon the sun was just beginning to make its appearance. To Cerro, Dixon, standing erect on top of his tank, hands on his hips and legs spread shoulder width, looked like a feudal lord surveying his conquests. That analogy, Cerro thought, wasn't far from the truth.
Three hours after crossing the border, the lead elements of 1st Brigade, 4th Armored Division, were about to enter the city of Mukacevo, ahead of schedule and despite predictions that they would never make it that far. The Ukrainian tank brigade from Uzlovaya, a threat that had been a major concern before the operation, had been met and turned back. Even at the moment, air strikes were going in to ensure that it would be unable to recover from the pounding that it had received at the hands of 3rd of the 3rd Infantry. And the militia units throughout the region were for the most part ineffective. Unable to coordinate their activities, resistance was minimal. Only one roadblock on the road to Mukacevo had been encountered after crossing the border. A hasty attack by 1st Battalion, 37th Armor, the brigade's lead element, had easily pushed it aside. Yeah, Cerro thought, Dixon was at the moment lord and master of all he saw.
Walking over to Dixon's tank, Cerro was greeted with a smile. "Hell of a fine day to be a tanker, Hal. How's the staff business going?"
Dixon was animated. Strange, Cerro thought, how a ride in a tank, a chance to join in on the rash against an enemy position, and the dawn of a new day can wipe away all the fears and exhaustion that seemed to grow in the darkness of night. There was nothing that could make a man feel more alive than to put one's ass on the line and survive. Strange breed we are, he thought. "You need a quick update, sir?"
Looking down from his commanding height, Dixon smiled. "Of course. You have one?"
"Well, sir, we seem to be in the middle of a lull right now. Our lead elements are on the outskirts of Mukacevo with no signs of resistance other than a few hasty roadblocks that no one seems to be interested in defending. Kozak and her crew down on the Latorica are in good shape. They haven't had any contact in a couple of hours and have managed to re-establish their blocking positions. Further to the east, the ranger company from the storage site that got trashed linked up with the rest of their battalion at the second site. According to corps, they've already started lifting out the nukes from that site. Since nothing seems to be in the wind, I thought this would be a good time to jump the CP forward to Mukacevo. I was just getting ready to jump forward to the next location when you came up. We'll be on the road in another fifteen minutes."
Slapping his hands on his chest, Dixon took a deep breath. "Well, don't let me stop you. I'll get one of your loyal minions to give me an update."
Cerro saluted. "Okay, I'll leave you here to gloat, sir."
Dixon laughed. "Do I detect, Major, some sour grapes?"
"No, sir, not at all. You're the boss and you have every right to roam about the countryside wherever you please while I keep the galley slaves in line."
Dixon, a smile lighting up his dirty face, looked at Cerro. "Don't worry, Hal. Your day will come. I assure you, after this you'll be a shoo-in for battalion command. And when you get your battalion, I hope that you get an operations officer that's just as obnoxious as the one I've been saddled with."
"Okay, sir. I get the message. I'll meet you up the road." Exchanging salutes, Cerro turned and began to walk away, then paused. "Oh, one more thing, Colonel. There's a storm brewing in the west."
Dixon's face now showed a moment of concern. "Any chance of its affecting us?"
Cerro shook his head. "Too early to tell, sir." Looking at the dark sky to the west, Dixon thought about it for a moment, then smiled again. "Well, there's nothing you or I can do to stop it if it decides to come our way. No need to worry about something that's beyond our control. We have more than enough to deal with here. Now, break's over. Back on your head."
Part Two
THE GERMAN CRISIS
CHAPTER 6
7 JANUARY
After a second review of the script her producer, Charley Mordal, had provided her for the twelve noon broadcast, Jan Fields-Dixon decided that more changes needed to be made. Although it never ceased to amaze her how little information their news program actually put out over the air, today's script, concerning what the script referred to as the American incursion into the Ukraine and the first use of a nuclear weapon since 1945, was particularly bad. With script in hand, Jan headed for the
producer's desk, which was no easy task, especially on a day when a news story like this broke. The normal well-paced and measured chaos and pandemonium of the central newsroom was intensified tenfold. Jan had once theorized to a fellow correspondent that the importance of a news story could be measured by the amount of shouting and yelling that took place behind the camera. Few in the business disagreed with her. Winding her way through and around a maze of computer desks and long consoles manned by stern-faced technicians and harried assistant editors, Jan bobbed and weaved as she attempted to keep from being knocked down or overrun by people running about with as much direction and purpose as headless chickens. It was for this reason, despite criticism from her boss, that Jan wore her sneakers most of the day. "Only a fool," she was fond of replying to his comments, "would willingly wear three-inch heels while playing stickball in heavy traffic." Besides the practical benefit, Jan enjoyed tweaking the nose of authority when in her opinion those wielding that authority were being a tad bit dumb. So Jan's sneakers served as a visible symbol of willingness to challenge stupidity that others freely accepted as "the way things are."
When he saw Jan headed his way, the first thought that entered Charley Mordal's mind was to flee. After a struggle of ten hours trying to pull together a coherent package that somehow brought all the elements of the latest crisis into focus, the last thing Mordal wanted to do was get into a pissing contest with Jan. Flight, however, would not save him. Once Jan achieved what everyone called target lock, there was no escape. That didn't keep the others who had been gathered around Mordal's desk from taking flight. Like cockroaches scattering when the light went on, the people who had been with Mordal were gone before Jan reached his desk.
Without hesitation, Jan carefully moved a stack of papers and computer printouts out of the way before sitting on the corner of Mordal's desk. Crossing her legs, Jan leaned forward, resting her left arm on her leg, leaving her left hand to dangle over her knee. Settled, she held the script in front of her with her right hand. "Charley, we really need to take a serious look at this script. It is, to use a cliché, a mile wide and an inch deep."
Exhausted from his efforts, Mordal slumped back in his chair and stared at Jan before answering. It was times like this that made him wonder if it was worth the pain that he and the rest of the editorial staff had to endure in order to work with this woman. She was by any measure attractive. Jan's long brunette hair sported soft bangs that brushed across her forehead so they fell just above her right eye, while framing her oval face with gentle waves that cascaded softly about her shoulders. Jan used little makeup, just enough to highlight her high cheekbones and big brown eyes, which were her favorite feature. Coupled with a firm, persuasive manner, Jan used her eyes like a weapon.
Looks, however, were not Jan's strongest point. Her skills as a correspondent were what made her. With more credentials to her credit than fellow correspondents with twice the time in the business, Jan had an ability to communicate the news that few came close to matching and none surpassed. It was as if, someone had said, she had been born for this. Still this didn't make dealing with her any easier, especially when she thought that she was right.
Mordal's exasperated response was not exaggerated. Lifting his right hand as if he were trying to fend her off, Mordal avoided looking into her eyes as he answered. "Jan, I've been up since one o'clock this morning. I have personally looked at every piece of information concerning our President's little tantrum—"
In a voice that sounded like a schoolteacher's, Jan interrupted Mordal. "Charley, I would hardly call the invasion of another country, an invasion that, oh by the way, resulted in the detonation of God knows how many nuclear warheads and an outcry from our European allies, a 'little tantrum.' "
Mordal was tired, harried, and in no mood to be lectured to. "Look, Jan. You have the best of what would otherwise be called a handful of shit. No one is talking. Not the White House, not the State Department, and especially not the Pentagon. All we have right now is a whole lot of bits and pieces that, unedited and strung end to end, don't come out to more than five minutes' worth of airtime."
"So," Jan retorted, "your solution is to have me chat with a bunch of pseudo-experts who know less than we do and prove it every time they open their mouths."
Looking her in the eye for the first time, Mordal nodded. "Yes. Something like that. Why, do you have a better idea?"
Mordal had no sooner said that than he regretted doing so. "As a matter of fact, Charley, I do. It seems that the Germans are being quite silent about the whole affair. In fact, except for this one short piece here from Reuters stating that German forces were placed on alert this morning within minutes after the American invasion began, we have nothing concerning Germany."
"So? What's the big deal? I mean, it's obvious that they and the rest of Europe are as embarrassed about the whole thing as we are. You know, big American operation goes haywire, radiation contaminating Swiss moo cows, fear of three-headed children being born paralyzing Central Europe, Chernobyl revisited. You know, the usual."
Jan made a face. She ignored his attempt to mock her and continued to press her point. "Charley, you don't think about your own stuff or try to put any of it together, do you? Over the last year and a half, the Germans and the Ukrainians have been building what the German Chancellor called last July, 'a new basis for both political and economic cooperation in Central Europe between our two great nations, nations that together can bring East and West together and strength and unity out of chaos.' When you consider the amount of money the Germans have invested in the Ukraine, you can't deny that politics and national interest follow. For instance, the joint proposal that the Chancellor of Germany and the President of the Ukraine put forth last spring, when the Czech and Slovakian republics threatened to resort to armed conflict to resolve their differences, that Germany and the Ukraine intervene to prevent war. With that level of cooperation, one would expect some kind of reaction from our friends the Germans."
Mordal shrugged. "Okay, granted, the Germans like the Ukrainians. But the Germans are our allies. They have been for more than fifty years. Given a choice, who do you think they're going to side with?"
Jan straightened up as she continued to look at Mordal. He really didn't understand. She was about to remind him that the Germans had been reluctant allies from the start, and had been pushing to get U.S. forces out of Central Europe since the unification of East and West, when an assistant editor came running up to Mordal's desk. "Gee, Charley, I hate to bother you and Jan, but we just got word that the President will be making an announcement at noon."
Looking over to the bank of clocks on the wall, then at his own wristwatch, Mordal mumbled, "Well, that's just great! Just outstanding! Thirty-five minutes to airtime and everything goes into the shitter." Standing up, he looked at Jan. At least, he thought, this gave him a great way to end a conversation that he really wasn't interested in. "Look, Jan dear. You may have a wonderful story line there. But right now we have thirty or so minutes to rearrange everything. We'll talk about this later." Motioning to several technicians and assistant editors, Mordal turned his attention to his new problem. "Once we got a handle on this, Jan, I'll get back to you. For now, plan on introducing your program at noon like normal. Then announce that we'll cut to the White House briefing room. Jimmy will take it from there. And hang on to that script just in case this falls through or the President's announcement is mercifully short. I'll have Debbie display any changes on the TelePrompTer."
Though she wasn't pleased that she had failed to make her point, Jan nodded and got up off of Mordal's desk. News, after all, was news. And while she truly believed that she had a good story line that needed to be pursued, this was not the time to do it. "Okay, Charley, I'll go get myself ready and leave you to deal with the alligators."
As President Wilson's entourage entered the small room off to the side of the press briefing room, a technician signaled one of the aides attending the President. Walking ove
r, the technician whispered, "The President's secretary is on the line. She says that the German Chancellor is on the line requesting to speak directly to President Wilson."
Wilson's aide frowned. "How much time do we have before we go on?"
The technician looked at his watch, then at a wall clock. "Three minutes."
Tilting his head down, the aide thought a moment. Then, making a decision that he thought was best but one which was well beyond his pay grade, the aide spoke with an assumed air of authority. "Tell the President's secretary to contact Secretary Soares's office at the State Department and have the Chancellor's call transferred over to him." Without any further thought, and not wanting to clutter the President's mind with any thoughts other than what she was about to tell the American public, the aide let the technician and in turn a secretary handle the German Chancellor's call.
The aide, unfortunately, had forgotten that Secretary Soares was in the middle of a meeting with the members of the UN Security Council in New York at the moment. Soares's secretary, knowing that the meeting at the UN was important, didn't want to forward the call to New York for fear of interfering with it. She therefore recommended that the call be transferred to the next man in Wilson's inner circle, the Secretary of Defense.
While Chancellor Ruff of Germany was being kept on hold and aides and secretaries across Washington, D.C., were passing his call about like a football, Wilson's press secretary came up to her side. "Here's the revised script as it will appear on the TelePrompTer, Madam President."