WW III

and now on impulse took out a piece of blank 8 ? — by-11 typing paper, wrote down his assessment — a battle plan — folded it meticulously, slipped it into an envelope, and went upstairs.

Doreen was putting on the toast. She was used to him being up so early, but this morning he was scratching his wrist. He was chafing at the bit.

“You okay?” she asked, switching on the coffee grinder. It sounded like a loose bearing he’d once heard rattling around in an M-1’s gearshift.

“I’m okay,” he answered. “How much extra is special delivery?”

“Another dollar. You’re better off using fax,” she advised.

“No,” he said. “It’s personal.”

“Who is she?”

“Larry Oakes. Two-star general. In the Pentagon.”

“What’s he got that I haven’t?”

He slapped her on the bottom with the envelope. “Clout!”

“Can I ask what it’s about?”

“Europe,” answered Freeman. “Possible attack plan for the Russian C in C.”

“You’ll look a bit foolish if you’re wrong.”

“Can’t win it—”

“If you’re not in it,” she finished for him.

“It’s worth a try.”

“They won’t attack NATO,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Maybe.” He put the envelope beneath his car keys.

“And what would happen to me?” she asked.

“Well,” he said, kissing her on the cheek, “it’s all hypothesis.”

Alexander was scratching at the door.

* * *

In Washington, D.C., it was hot and muggy, thunderstorms moving in across the river from Virginia. The president’s coffee had gone cold by the time his national security adviser, Harry Schuman, and Joint Chiefs in the White House situation room had filled him in, suggesting different plays, now waiting for his decision. Senator Leyland wasn’t there, but everyone in the United States was hearing what he thought about the situation.

Outside the Capitol, where there were so many flashbulbs, TV lights, and microphones that it looked as if they were making a movie, Leyland’s call was for “decisive action… not a time for pussyfooting… not simply America’s honor we’re talking about here but her security.” Security was getting high marks in the polls, but Leyland wasn’t saying just where the line should be drawn: Pusan? Subic Bay? Wake Island? Midway? Honolulu?

“How about San Diego?” said Trainor, watching the senator’s TV performance.

“If we pull everybody out,” argued General Gray, “it can only be interpreted for what it is — a humiliating defeat. People have never forgotten the sight of us scrambling off the top of that embassy in Saigon. And I might add, Mr. President, pushing off so many who had been loyal to us. We can’t desert the ROK.”

“General,” Mayne pointed out, his tone growing tougher by the minute, “if it’s already a ‘humiliating defeat,’ we might be wise to cut our losses.”

“I think, Mr. President, we have to stand and fight.”

“That’s what Cahill was supposed to do on the DMZ, not—” The president waved his hand at the crisis map, a sea of red dots spreading like measles over South Korea, a sprinkling of blue in a rough semicircle in the southeastern comer of the country, its outer perimeter an arc stretching south of Pohang on the east coast through Taegu in the center seventy miles inland and down onto Yosu on the south coast. Pusan, the vital southeastern port, was halfway between Yosu and Pohang.

“Report from NATO?” asked Mayne.

“No unusual movement,” reported General Gray. “My hunch is that Moscow’s as worried about this as we are, Mr. President.”

“I think you’re right, General, but I don’t want any trigger-happy private pulling the trigger. Anyway, to be on the safe side, I’ve put a call through to Suzlov.”

Admiral Horton’s bushy eyebrows lifted. “I wouldn’t trust Suzlov as far as I could kick him. Their fleet’s already off Manchuria. I don’t believe that ‘maneuvers’ line they’re giving us for a moment. There’s a lot of traffic in and out of Cam Rahn Bay.”

“They advised us of that, Admiral,” Mayne pointed out.

“Trojan horse,” the admiral responded. “Probably carrying enough troops aboard that battle group to reinforce Pyongyang. Three or four hours, they could be unloading at Wonsan.” He could see the president didn’t know where it was. He moved the pointer up along the east coast of North Korea. “Only sixty miles from the DMZ. They come down that coast road, we’ll have another front we have to contend with.”

“If they turn up at Wonsan,” said Mayne, “we’ll ask them to stop.”

Sometimes the admiral simply despaired. If the president’s advisers had kept their boss half as well informed about naval matters as they did the latest Gallup polls, the whole country would be better off. The entire Soviet order of battle was clearly evident in the satellite, and he reminded the president of this. “There’s everything in there from the nine-thousand-ton Mike subs to the Alfa and Yankee classes as well. And—”

“Then if we can see them, Admiral, the Russians must want us to know where they are. Doesn’t that tell you something? Our satellite photos tell us they’re only proceeding at five to ten knots, Admiral. Hardly battle speed, is it?”

“I haven’t been advised of this.”

“We got the call before you arrived,” interjected Trainor. “From NSA.” The admiral was embarrassed, and Trainor could see there was going to be some ass kicking in Naval Intelligence when the admiral got back to the Pentagon. Then suddenly the embarrassment vanished from the admiral’s face as he cast a cold, professional eye over the chart, surveying not only Korea but the entire northeast Asian operational area, from Japan to the China Sea. He quickly calculated the Soviet Fleet’s position. Why had they slowed? Surely this would upset their amphibious maneuvers timetable, a highly complex combined-services operation that had slim time margins at the best of times. “My God,” he said, turning to the president. “That places them on the thirty-ninth parallel, one thirty-one longitude. Off Wonsan.” Mayne looked across at General Gray. “Order the reinforcements en route from Japan to disembark at Pusan as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“Rescue boats all out, sir. Three returning.”

“Very well,” answered the skipper of the USS frigate Des Moines, binoculars steadied against the flying bridge stanchion, watching through the haze as the two LAMP helos dropped vermilion marker flares about the Beaufort rafts now two miles or so from the Blaine. The crippled frigate was listing hard to starboard, white smoke still pouring from her. Now and then a crimson streak of fire could be seen erupting from deep inside her.

The skipper of the Des Moines had to make the decision whether or not to use the choppers as additional rescue vehicles or to release them to complement his radar as part of his protective screen. All about him he could hear radio chatter between the Des Moines rescue boats, including the ship-to-shore launch.

“Helos to resume screen,” he ordered. For the price of a few more men lost to exposure in the oil-slicked sea, the young skipper decided he would prefer to use the choppers as airborne eyes. Something had gone drastically wrong aboard his sister ship, the Blaine, and until he knew why, he’d rather be reprimanded for overcaution — protecting his ship — than have to explain to a naval board of inquiry, as Brentwood would have to if he pulled through, how it was that his men had abandoned the multimillion-dollar ship when she was still afloat. And though it was sheer chance, it wasn’t going to do Ray Brentwood, badly wounded as he was, any good to have to explain how it was that he and his second officer were the first to be pulled out of the chuck by