enter combat, I'd like to know exactly what we might be getting into.'
'Oh, I think we're all right. At least for the present,' Bouquette went on. 'I want to show you the text of an intercept we took off the Japanese earlier today. Intriguing coincidence. They were having trouble with their system, and we got some good take. By dumb luck. They didn't realize how badly the signal was bleeding, and with computer enhancement and advanced decryption, we got about an hour and a half's worth of traffic.' Bouquette looked confidently about the room, setting the rhythm at last. 'Now, this was General Noburu Kabata's private line back to Tokyo. You all recall that General Kabata is the senior Japanese officer on the ground out there. His command post is in Baku. Supposedly, of course, he's just a contract employee working for the Islamic Union. But that's merely a nicety. In fact, Kabata is running the whole show. Well, we found out that he's not entirely pleased with his Arab and Iranian charges — to say nothing of the rebel forces in Soviet Central Asia. But, then, you know the Japanese. They hate disorder. And Kabata's got a disorderly crew on his hands. But look at this…' He pointed to the nearest monitor. A bright yellow text showed on a black background:
TokGenSta/ExtDiv: Tokuru wants to know what you've decided on the other matter.
JaCom/CentAs: I have no need of it at present Everything is going well, and, in my personal opinion, the Scrambler is needlessly provocative.
TokGenSta/ExtDiv: But Tokuru wants to be certain that the Scrambler is ready. Should it be needed.
JaCom/CentAs: Of course, it's ready. But we will not need it
'Now, gentlemen,' Bouquette said, 'the first station is the voice of the Japanese General Staff's External Division in Tokyo. The respondent from the Japanese Command in Central Asia — something of a misnomer, since the actual location is Baku, on the western shore of the Caspian Sea — is none other than General Kabata himself.'
'That's all well and good, Cliff,' the secretary of defense said, 'but what does it tell us? That's raw intelligence, not finished product.'
Bouquette shrugged. 'Unfortunately, it's all we've got. Of course, we've made this Scrambler a top collection priority. But, at least this intercept seems to indicate that whatever it is, it's not an immediate concern.'
President Waters was not convinced. Here was yet another unexpected element in a situation the complexity of which he already found unnerving. He looked to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs for reassurance yet again. The chairman had a tough old-soldier quality that had acquired new appeal for Waters as of late. But the chairman was already speaking.
'Now, goddamnit, you intel guys had better find out just what's going on over there. We can't play guessing games when the nation's premier military formation is about to go into battle. You assured us that, and I quote, 'We have the most complete picture of the battlefield of any army in history.' ' The chairman tapped his pen on the tabletop.
'And we do,' Bouquette said. 'This is only one single element. When the Seventh Cavalry enters combat, their on-board computers will even know how much fuel the enemy has in his tanks—'
'Mr. President?' the communications officer spoke up from the bank of consoles at the back of the room. 'I've got Colonel Taylor, the Seventh Cavalry commander, coming in. He's back from his meeting with the Soviets. You said you wanted to talk to him when he returned, sir.'
Taylor? Oh, yes, President Waters remembered, the colonel with the Halloween face. He had forgotten exactly what it was he wanted to talk to the man about. More reassurances. Are you ready? Really? You aren't going to let me down, are you? Waters could not explain it in so many words, but, in their brief exchanges, he had found this fright-mask colonel, with his blunt answers, far more reassuring than any of the Bouquettes of the world.
'Mr. President,' the chairman of the Joint Chiefs said, leaning confidentially toward him, as though Taylor's face had already appeared on the monitors, as though the distant man were already listening in, 'I don't think we should mention this Scrambler business to Colonel Taylor. Until we have a little more information. He's got enough on his mind.'
President Waters spent the moment in which he should have been thinking in a state of blankness. Then he nodded his assent. Surely, the generals of the world knew what was best for the colonels of the world.
'All right,' he said. 'Put Colonel Taylor through.'
Taylor did not want to talk to the President. Nor did he want to speak to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, as much as he liked the old man. He did not want any communications now with anyone who might interfere with the operations plan that was rapidly being developed into an operations order for the commitment of his regiment. Besides, he was very tired. He had not yet taken his 'wide-awakes,' the pills that would keep a man alert and capable of fighting without sleep for up to five days without permanently damaging his health. He had hoped to steal a few hours of sleep before popping his pills, so that he would be in the best possible condition and have the longest possible stretch of combat capability in front of him. Now he sat wearily in the communications bubble in the bowels of an old Soviet warehouse, waiting.
Just let me fight, damnit, Taylor thought. There's nothing more to be done.
Sleep was out of the question now. By the time this nonsense was finished, it would be time to start the final command and staff meeting with the officers and key NCOs of the regiment. Then there would be countless last-minute things to do before the first M-100 lifted off.
'Colonel Taylor,' he heard the voice in his earpiece. 'I'm about to put you through to the President.'
The central monitor in the communications panel fuzzed, then a superbly clear picture filled the screen. The President of the United States, looking slightly disheveled, elbows on a massive table.
The poor bastard looks tired, Taylor thought. Then he tried to perk himself up. His past exchanges with the President had taught him to be prepared for the most unexpected questions, and it was difficult not to be impatient with the President's naivete. For Christ's sake, Taylor told himself, the man's the President of the United States. Don't forget it.
'Good morning, Mr. President.'
For a moment, the President looked confused. Then he brightened and said, 'Good evening, Colonel Taylor. I almost forgot our time difference. How is everything?'
'Fine, Mr. President.'
'Everything's all right with the Soviets?'
'As good as we have any right to expect, sir.'
'And your planning session? That went well, I take it?'
'Just fine, Mr. President.'
'And you've got a good plan, then?'
Here it comes, Taylor thought.
'Yes, sir. I believe we have the best possible plan under the circumstances.'
The President paused, considering.
'You're going to attack the enemy?'
'Yes, Mr. President.'
'And you're happy with the plan?'
Something in the man's tone of voice, or in his weariness of manner, suddenly painted the situation for Taylor. The President of the United States was not trying to interfere. He was simply asking for reassurance. The obviousness of it, as well as the unexpected quality, startled Taylor.
'Mr. President, no plan is ever perfect. And every plan begins to change the moment men start to implement it. But I harbor no doubts — none — about the plan we've just hammered out with the Soviets. As the combat commander on the ground, I would not want to change one single detail.'
Taylor heard a laugh from the other end, but the sound was disembodied. The President's face remained earnest, worn beyond laughter. Then Taylor heard the unmistakable voice of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of
