An aide was waiting for him at the door and ushered Ritchie down the hallway to a temporary communications room he’d ordered set up a few days earlier. Running hither and yon across the scattered PACOM campus was a frustrating timewaster and he had moved quickly to consolidate his most important functions right here in the old white stone colonial building where he’d been quartered before the Disappearance.
‘Generals Musso and Franks are on line, Admiral. But I’m afraid the secure link to Brussels is out, so we can’t get General Jones in conference,’ explained his aide, a navy commander called Oakshott. ‘Also, I’m still having trouble getting Fort Lewis on line.’
‘Well, keep on it. I know we’ve got links dropping out everywhere but this system was supposed to survive a first strike. So I don’t see why it should be so goddamn flaky now.’
‘No, sir. We’re on it, but it’s not just the links, Admiral.’ Oakshott handed him a sealed envelope with a red stamp and marked,
‘What the hell now?’ grumbled Ritchie as they turned into the comms facility, which had quickly been christened ‘the Radio Shack’ by the lower ranks. ‘Just excuse me for one moment, Commander. If you’ll apologise to the generals for the delay.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Ritchie took himself off into a small alcove attached to the main communications office, shutting a soundproof door behind him. The space was cramped, not much bigger than a closet, which indeed it had once been. He tore open the brown envelope and read the few lines of text, cursing under his breath as the import of the message became clear. ‘That’s all we fucking need.’
He crumpled the communiquй before regaining control of his temper, smoothing out the paper, and placing it back in the envelope. Then he hurried out of the alcove and over to the bank of monitors where he could see video images of Musso and Franks.
‘Commander, safe-hand this back to my office, would you, and wait for me there. I’ll reply when I’m done with the conference.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Ritchie settled himself into a chair in front of the big flat screen, nodding at Musso and Franks. There were only four sysops in the small room, all of them cleared to the level of Top Secret Absolute. One of them handed him a headset, which he fitted himself before speaking.
‘Please excuse the delay, gentlemen. Unavoidable, I’m afraid.’
On screen, both men nodded. They were all dealing with the unavoidable on a daily basis.
Ritchie continued. ‘First point. This secure channel may not be secure. I’ll explain by encrypted path later, but assume it’s been compromised for now.’
He noted the immediate reaction of the two officers. They didn’t go into a flap, but there was a noticeable stiffening of the sinews.
‘Okay. We still have business to do. I’ve just come from a meeting with some of our regional allies and partners, and we now have firmed-up commitments from them to absorb any refugee flows. Some firmer than others, of course, but we can proceed with Operation Uplift.’
Musso’s relief was palpable. He appeared to exhale a long, pent-up breath.
‘General Musso, I’ll send you a schedule of receiving ports in an hour. If you could get back to me soonest with a concept for getting any US nationals who want to go, out of the SOUTHCOM area, I’ll start organising transport assets for you.’
Musso thanked him and appeared to scratch out a note to himself.
‘General Franks, Uplift doesn’t concern you as much in the immediate future, but it will when you’ve disengaged from the current operation. With a mind to my precaution about communications security, you want to update me with your latest?’
The commander of the Coalition forces in the Gulf looked as though he was chewing on nettleweed. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, obviously choosing what he could say over a possibly compromised channel. ‘I have multiple situations evolving and deteriorating, Jim. Operation Katie is reaching the limits of its effectiveness. I have the Kuwaiti Government screaming at my liaison not to pull out of the theatre and citing line and verse of our treaty obligations. The Saudis and our other allies are doing the same.’
Marvellous, Ritchie thought. Just marvellous.
‘The Kuwaiti armed forces are presently engaged along their front in the Wadi al Batin region, to the west of our lines. The British and the Marines are heavily engaged against an Iranian armoured sweep through al Basra towards their lines.’ Franks ticked those items off a sheaf of paper. ‘We are heavily attriting any force sent against us, regardless of their origin or nationality.’
Tommy Franks hadn’t said anything that wasn’t being reported by various surviving news networks. He was sticking to the public and the knowable. Ritchie wasn’t surprised.
The general continued. ‘The Iranians have contested our air supremacy over the theatre. At present, I’ve limited myself to asset defence.’
Ritchie pursed his lips and grunted an acknowledgement of Franks’s vague allusions to the fact that the Iranian air force and navy were probably doing their best to try to sink every Coalition ship in the Persian Gulf.
‘General, execute Oplan Damocles,’ Ritchie said. No one listening should know what that was. If they watched their news feeds, they’d know soon enough. But had he stepped over the line? he wondered. Hell, where was the line now?
Franks paused for a mere second before saying, ‘Copy that, Admiral.’
